Free Grunts by Mary Gentle Page B

resolved themselves into three of the fighting Agaku. The second company of marines began to pass Ashnak, and he saluted the ranking officer at its head. The moonlight cast his shadow heavy and sloping on the wet earth.
    Others shadows joined it: squat Imhullu, hulking Shazgurim, and Zarkingu’s shadow skipping from foot to foot.
    “The artillery are in position!” Zarkingu unfurled a scroll of paper, spreading it out. Her eyes and fangs gleamed in the moonlight. Ashnak and his sub-commanders squatted to study the map.
    “This is the Tower of Guthranc. That’s cultivated land. This is the edge of the forest, here, and this is the main road from Sarderis.” Ashnak pointed.
    Imhullu untied the camouflage-neckerchief from his brow, wiped his weeping empty eye-socket, and replaced the cloth. The squat orc punched Ashnak’s bandoleer-covered chest. “Nine platoons—we’re taking three whole
companies
in. Practically a small battalion. Against what, less than a hundred of the Man-filth? Armed with swords and bows…?”
    “Seven to one,” Ashnak said. “Reasonable odds.”
    “They’ll have a few spells. Some damned magic-user or other.” Shazgurim squatted, forearms resting on horny knees, her helmet off—watching the third column begin to pass them. “But, bullets baffle bullshit. We’ve got these hard bastards at our backs—no horse-buggering Man is going to kick
our
asses!”
    “Brief your squad leaders. It’s essential we target the mages, if there are any. Take them out.” Ashnak took the map and rolled it up. “We can’t stop them starting to spellcast—but sorcery will be no defence against theseweapons. We’ll take a few casualties while we’re wasting the mages, but at acceptable casualty levels.”
    Zarkingu rubbed her horny hands together. “No protection! No magic! They’ll be cut to pieces…”
    She paused.
    “Are we too good? Will the orc marines worry
him
?”
    Above Ashnak the stars are drowned by moonlight. On the horizon, mountains glimmer with early snow.
    “The nameless?” Ashnak hawked and spat a gob of phlegm. He felt a laugh building deep in his chest. “He’s like any of the lesser Lords of Evil—jockeying for position among the rest. Hoping that the Dark Lord’s going to notice him. He’ll do anything for that, rot him. As for
too good
—I tell you exactly what our reward will be for this. We’ll get to stand on the right of the line at the Fields of Destruction, and take the brunt of the battle.”
    “Fighting Agaku!” Imhullu shook his crop-eared head. “
That’s
the war for which we were bred.”
    “Poor bastards,” Shazgurim snorted. “I can even be sorry for the Man-filth in the Tower. They don’t know what’s going to hit them.”
    Zarkingu giggled hysterically.
    Ashnak tightened his web-belt, re-laced one boot, and straightened his shambling bulk. The RT whispered in his helmet. He bared fangs to the cold moonlight.
    “Those Men in the Tower?” Ashnak said. “They’re soldiers, the same as we are—except that they’re not marines. Honour them, Agaku. They’re close kin to us, although they deny it. And we’re going to kill them. All warriors are brothers in arms, whether they fight for the Light or the Dark. We are fated always to make war on our own kind.”

7

    The Named rides for Guthranc.
    With her ride an ill-assorted company. There are Men in it, who seem uneasy in the brigandines and burgonets they wear. Some are slender enough to be of the elven-kind. They carry weapons as if they are not used to them. Some of the smaller breeds are there, too, bouncing along in the saddles behind the taller riders.
    The Dark-touched moon sinks over fields left unharvested, among villages deserted, in a countryside breathing out the relief that comes with the promise of a final accounting with evil.
    Under a blue sky, the countryside of the Northern Kingdom shone red and gold. Heavy-headed golden grain swayed and fell forward, flattened under the metal