Mary Gentle - Grunts

A linguistic slur has it that Orcish is a monosyllabic language because orcs have difficulty memorising more than one syllable at a time. This is not true. Many Orcish names consist of as many as three, or even four, syllables. They are pronounced as follows:

Ashnak — ASH -nak

Barashkukor — BA -rash- KU -kor

Chahkamnit — Chah- KAM -nit

Dakashnit — Da- KASH -nit

Imhullu — Im- HUL -lu

Lugashaldim — LU -gash- AL -dim

Marukka — Ma- RUK -ka

Razitshakra — RA -zit- SHAK -ra

Shazgurim — Shaz- GUR -im

Varimnak — VA -rim-nak

Zarkingu — Zar- KING -u

In the tower of the nameless necromancer it is always cold.

The big orc’s breath smoked odourously on the air. He pulled the buckles of his breastplate tighter around his muscled body. Frost sparkled on the laminated black armour sheathing his shoulders, arms, and bowed thighs. The sorcerous cold bites into orc-flesh as no ordinary winter can.

“I come,” he rumbled.

He slung the war-axe and warhammer from his broad, hairy shoulders and pulled the winged iron helm with its nasal spike more firmly down on his misshapen skull. Even standing to attention he slouches forward; his knuckles hang down beside his knees.

“Hurry,” the familiar whimpered. “Master calls: hurry-hurry-hurry!”

The orc drew his knobbly foot back, aimed, and kicked the familiar’s lean, hairy buttocks. The familiar shot down the corridor, bouncing off the walls several times.

“Don’t give orders to Ashnak of the fighting Agaku!” The big orc guffawed, striding up the nine hundred and ninety-nine steps to the tower’s top chamber.

Ice congealed on the onyx walls. A sorcerous frost snapped at his clawed fingers. He slapped at dirt and dung on his plate-armor, shook his tusked head, and raised a great fist to hammer on the oaken doors. Before he could, they drifted silently open. Light from the tower’s single high window slanted down.

The nameless necromancer sprawls in a chair made from the bones of his enemies.

His patchwork robes glittered with the silver thread that sewed together their many disquietingly shaped small pieces of leather. At his feet his staff glowed, quiescently, with the light of dark stars. His head was bowed. Ashnak judged him old—as Man-flesh ages, two or more centuries—but still with the disgusting smoothness of human youth.

“Master!” The orc fell to his knees in the darkened tower. His plate harness and weapons clashed loudly in the sorcerous silence.

“Lord Necromancer!” he shouted.

The nameless necromancer started violently. Wine spilled from his bone cup down his black robes. His virulent green eyes opened.

“Um… who…?”

The necromancer rubbed a pale, slender hand across his mouth. The skull wine-cup slipped from his other hand, soaking his robe of skins and bouncing off across the flagstones.

“Wha’…?”

“Ashnak,” the big orc reminded him. “Ashnak of the warriors! Ashnak of the fighting Agaku!”

“Uhnnnn… Ashnash… Now wha’ did I…”

Ashnak, as patiently as is possible for an orc (and a Man-smart Agaku who is facing sorcery can be very patient indeed) said, “You summoned me, master. Ashnak of the—”

“—fighting Agaku, yes, I know . Don’t shout , scum.”

The nameless necromancer leaned his head over the side of the bone chair and was noisily sick. Another of the lean brown familiars shot out from under the dais and began to lap up the vomit.

Something else scurried in the distant shadows. Ashnak stiffened.

“Damnation!” The wizard hiccuped, and pointed an unsteady finger. Golden forked lightning spiked from his hand to the corner of the chamber.

The blast rattled even Ashnak’s eardrums. Stone-chips flew from the black masonry. The offending rat, missed by three yards, scuttled off into the dark.

“I have a task for you, Ashnak.”

As always after the operation of sorcery, the nameless necromancer’s voice sharpened and became alert.

“You may take three other warriors with you. No more than three. You are to go in secrecy to where my agent awaits you. I will give you a talisman for recognition. Then you are to be guards while a task is performed for me. After that, you will be told what to do.”

“Yes, master!”

Ashnak prostrated himself, iron weapons clanging on the flagstones, and banged his forehead three or four times against the stone floor. It was not something that particularly hurt him, and it tended to placate the nameless necromancer.

“At once, master!”

“You give me a headache, Ashnak,” the nameless necromancer said, reaching for a bottle spun from the silicon bones of a foe stranger than is easily comprehended. “Go away .”

Two pairs of eyes surveyed the outside of the tavern from slightly less than three feet six inches above ground-level.

“We’re never going to get our gear out of our room,” Will Brandiman said.

“Not without running into the Assassins’ Guild,” Ned Brandiman concluded. “They’re bound to have got back here before we did, right, Will?”

Will Brandiman picked up his trailing skirts and faded back from the alley entrance. The laced bodice was uncomfortably tight, restricting his access to the throwing knives strapped under his arms. He coiled the child’s skipping-rope and stuffed it into a pocket.

“‘Fraid so, Ned.”

He glanced at his brother. Ned’s pink-frilled frock had become stained with town-dirt, and his brown hair (too short really to plait) was coming out of its braids. He didn’t suppose he looked much better. He rubbed his hand over his chin and reflected on the odd advantages that not having to shave more than twice a month can give.

“I wouldn’t trust this disguise at close quarters,” the halfling said, “though it has served us well enough today. We got the job done. Now let me see…”

“We have to get that crowd out of the tavern room, right?” his brother halfling asked.

“Right. And in such a way that the Assassins’ Guild people have to come out with them. So…”

“So it’s simple.” Ned pointed above his head at the thatched roof. “Set fire to one of the houses over here. Everyone’ll come rushing out—the Guild too, because you can’t refuse firefighting duty. Not publicly. We go in, get our stuff, and leave.”

Will raised his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised. “What would I do without you, brother? Very well. Let’s find some dry thatch. And, for preference, an occupied building.”

“Why—oh.” Ned grinned. “Cries for help’ll bring ’em out running.”

“Exactly.”

The last of a long summer twilight shone in the west. The flint and steel bristled sparks onto tinder. Will carefully set fire to three strips of cloth ripped from his dress and poked them up under the low eaves with a stick.