Grunts (2 page)

“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.

They retreated into darker alleys opposite the tavern.

“FIRE!”

Raw-throated screaming started.

The tavern emptied a crowd into the winding street.

Shouts filled the air, Men and a few elven-kind and dwarves calling for water, buckets, billhooks, and sand. Invisible in the firelight, the brothers slipped past them into the echoing, empty tavern, sprinting upstairs to their room.

“Let’s move it!”

Will ripped his dress over his head. His short, stocky frame glowed in the light from the burning buildings. Fingers fumbling, he pulled on shirt, trunk-hose, fine mail-shirt, and doublet. He buckled on his sword, checked the placement of throwing-daggers and poison needles, and ran over to join Ned, who was throwing every piece of gear from dark lanterns to heavy-duty crossbows into the brass-bound chests.

“Lower ’em down from the back window with the rope,” Ned said. “We’ll go out and round the tavern—”

Will darted across the room and laid the palm of his small hand on the door. He frowned, opened the door a crack, and looked into roaring flames. All the tavern’s stairs blazed.

Burning thatch floats.

“We’ll jump down after,” he corrected, shutting the door and coughing. “It’s only one floor.”

“One floor in a Man-building!”

“If you’d rather roast, Ned—!”

Grinning at the expression on his brother’s face, Will opened the back window and hefted the first chest up onto the sill. Braced, he lowered it by the rope, then lowered the second chest and scrambled up onto the windowsill. He took careful aim and jumped.

“
Arrhhh!
You little turd!”

In a tangle of knees and elbows, Will got himself together
and found the innyard empty except for the Man he’d landed on. The fat human ostler, still sprawling, opened his mouth to yell again, and Will hit him on the temple with the hilt of his dagger. The Man fell backward.

Ned Brandiman’s feet hit square on the Man’s chest, cushioning his jump also. The Man choked, lips turning blue. The halfling pulled the last pink ribbons from his hair and shook out the braids. He chuckled.

“Fast work, Will.”

“No problem, Ned.”

A Man’s voice bawled,
“Oi! You two!”

Will spun round and ran towards the burly Man in working clothes at the yard entrance.

“Help! Sir, help us! The tavern’s on fire, we were only saved by the heroism of this Man—and I think he’s injured; please, help!”

The stranger, a brawling-looking redheaded Man, loped across the innyard and knelt down by the ostler. While he prodded the recumbent form, Will took a swift look around. No sign of Ned, but the stable doors were open…

Will palmed a knife as he came up behind the redheaded Man, and sliced neatly through the jugular vein with the Man facing away from him, so that the gout of blood sprayed across the unconscious ostler. He stared thoughtfully up at the tavern. Smoke coiled out between the eaves. He bent and put the red knife in the ostler’s hand.

“Will! Here!”

Straining to lead a sweating pony, Ned Brandiman staggered out of the stables. Will grabbed a couple of empty boxes and, climbing on them, fixed the brass-bound chests either side of the saddle, and finally leaped up behind Ned as his brother flailed a horse-crop nearly as tall as himself, cracking it against the pony’s flanks.

The hot wind from the fire flew in his face, and Will grinned widely. The poor quarter’s houses and low dives flashed by, lost in the dung kicked up by the pony’s hooves. He shook Ned’s small but muscular shoulder.

“Slow down!”

His brother heaved on the reins. The pony reluctantly fell into a walk. Ned soothed it until the flattened ears relaxed, and Will sat straight-backed in the saddle as they paced with dignity through the merchants’ quarter and the night that
here was quiet, towards the sleepy guards on Ruxminster’s city gate.

The orc encampment steamed gently in the sunshine.

Barashkukor, leaning scabby elbows on the parapet of the Nin-Edin fort, gazed down from the mountainside at a wilderness that only the vultures could love. He tilted his dented helm back on his head. “So what
do
you get if you cut the legs off a warrior?”

Marukka gave a baritone chuckle, waving her jagged sword in the air for emphasis. “A low-down bum!”

Barashkukor groaned, but quietly in case she should hear him. The young female orc towered over him by a twenty inches.

“And what,” she pursued, “do you get if you cut the arms off a low-down bum?”

Barashkukor leaned his poleaxe up against the stone parapet, abandoning all pretence of sentry-duty. He scratched at the scabs on his scaly chest and pulled his scruffy brigandine open—the metal plates sewn into the jacket poked through the worn lining, pinching his tough hide. The hot air sang with emptiness, and the mountain fort glowed like an oven.

“What
do
you get if you cut the arms off a low-down bum?” he repeated.

“An ’armless low-down bum!”

Barashkukor giggled sycophantically. The female orc planted her bow-legs wide, fists on her hips, and bellowed. Her bright orange hair, caught up into a horse-tail on top of her skull, shook wildly. The rusty mail and plate-armour in which she clad herself jingled, as did the knives and maces hanging from her wide leather belt. Her vast breasts strained the buckles of her brigandine.

“And
what
—”

Barashkukor sidled along the parapet towards the steps. The rest of the orc band sprawled in the bailey, in the noon heat, around the cooking-pit. Only a few roofless buildings and the outer defences remained of this fort. Barashkukor found it rather homely.

Marukka’s sword-point slammed against the wall an inch in front of his face. He halted and assumed an expression of extreme attentiveness.

“—what do you get,” she demanded, “if you cut the
head
off an ’armless, low-down bum?”

He considered it in proportion to the nearness of her jagged weapon. “Ya got me. What do you get?”

“A headless chicken.”

Barashkukor said incredulously, “A headless chicken?”

“Well—would
you
stand and fight, with no arms and legs?”

Marukka slapped her bulging green thigh. Her jaw dropped, and she wheezed. Tears leaked out of the corners of her beetle-browed eyes.

“That’s good! Isn’t that good? I made that one up myself!”

Barashkukor showed all his fangs and tusks in a grin. “Real good, Marukka. You slay ’em.”

“Sure do.” She stroked the sword complacently and tucked it back under her belt. “Shouldn’t be surprised if I was good enough to be paid. Stinkin’
Men
get paid for jokes. I seen that once. I was in a city, once, you know—”

I know, Barashkukor thought. “How about a game of Orcball?” he suggested hastily.

“Good idea! Aww…We ain’t got a ball.” Marukka sniffed. She stomped down the steps into the bailey. “’Ere! Whose idea was it to
cook
the dinner?”

The largest orc, who was (it need hardly be said) the band’s leader, pointed silently at one of the smaller orcs. Marukka advanced, drawing her sword. The small orc backed away.

“I didn’t! It wasn’t my idea! I wasn’t even here—
urp!
”

Marukka’s jagged blade whistled through the air. There was a
whup!
and something relatively round bounced and landed at Barashkukor’s feet, still blinking. The orc-band scrambled to their feet with enthusiasm.

“We got a ball,” Marukka announced. “Let’s
play
!”

A voice through his nightmare said: “What’s that smell?”

Will Brandiman moved his head fractionally and winced. A blaze of pain subsided. It was no nightmare. He tested his wrists and found them cord-bound. His lock-picks, by the feel of it, were still sewn into his cuffs. His ankles throbbed, tied much too tightly.

“Roasting pony?” he guessed thickly.

“One day you’re going to wake up to the smell of roasting brother,” Ned grumbled.

The ground was hard and damp under his face. Will
strained to lift his head. The brilliant moon blazed in his eyes, and he flinched. There was no locating the source of the pain as yet, but he had a small bet that it would be a head-wound, and an unprofessional one at that.

“Orcs,” he concluded, sniffing.

A bare foot, hard as the hardest leather boot, kicked him in the ribs. The force of the blow threw him over onto his back. He stared up at a broad-shouldered, squat-legged orc in shining black plate harness. The orc opened its tusked mouth and spat accurately into Will’s eye. The saliva stung.