Grunts by Mary Gentle Page A

out from where he stood behind Ashnak, and bowed, and smiled.
    “No,” The Named said. “Elinturanbar, the nameless shall not be subject to the inquisition. I say he shall not. He has proven himself our friend here today. Brother, come.”
    One of the tall Men said, “Lady, you must use Guthranc’s power first, to send out the war-summons to the Northern Kingdoms—”
    “Later.” Her green, luminous eyes on his beautiful face, The Named held out her hand. “Come, brother. I would speak with you of the changing of shapes.”
    “Let me first instruct this scum.”
    Ashnak, the edges of his vision foggy now, watched the pale bare feet of the nameless necromancer treading thegrass towards him. He coughed thickly. Pale fingers touched his skull, between his peaked ears.
    A blackly warm and resurrecting touch.
    He coughed again, more strongly, and showed all his fangs. In the tongue of the Agaku, which is private between themselves and their masters, and in the idiom of Dagurashibanipal’s hoard, he said, “Fuck, man. Even when I’m
dead
I can’t get out of this chickenshit outfit.”
    “
You
,” the nameless necromancer said, “my creature Ashnak. Give orders for the fighting to cease. Now, do you hear me!”
    His bonds parted. Ashnak studiously failed to catch the eye of any of the company standing near him. He rose to his feet, healed, and looked at the nameless.
    “She is merciful,” the nameless explains.
    Recalling a village and a church, of which the nameless necromancer has been told, Ashnak searches his pale features. One of the nameless necromancer’s eyelids flickers. Ashnak glimpses, very briefly, a hidden laughter.
    The nameless necromancer says in that unknown tongue, “May not I submit myself as you did?
Exactly
as you did—and do—my Ashnak.”
    In rueful acknowledgement, and for the last time, Ashnak fell to his knees and prostrated himself, banging his forehead on the trampled grass. Frost-blighted poppies bloomed scarlet in the corners of his vision.
    “Yes, master! At once, master!”
    Cowering in a practised fashion, head still bent, Ashnak swivelled his eyes up to watch the Men, Elves, and Dwarves depart. The nameless necromancer bowed gracefully, gesturing for his sister to precede him.
    In the nameless necromancer’s eyes Ashnak sees the look of one who is sizing up yellow hair, grey-white skin, and fresh bones for domestic utility.
    A last whistle of incoming fire brought him to his belly, rolling into concealment behind a section of broken wall and reaching for his helmet RT. “CEASE FIRE, MARINES! Fall back! Emergency rendezvous at Nin-Edin—
bug out!
NOW!”
    “
Acknowledged
—”
    “—
I copy—
”
    The few voices cease.
    Craters steamed in the westering sun. Smoke, cordite, and the sparkling fog of magic began to clear. Vapours driftedover slumped bodies, charred DPM combats, abandoned heavy weapons, and minced flesh. The dead lay in clumps and rows.
    Because it is our flesh, it seems it should be different. Ashnak shook his head at the thought. Knobs of bone, shining joints, slick muscle tissue; all no different from a shambles or abattoir.
    Even looking at the nearest area of the battlefield he can see recognisable corpses.
Three companies: practically a battalion
. The orc marines of Nin-Edin…Kusaritku and Azarluhi together, and several with them burned beyond identification. Duranki, Tukurash, Kazadhuron. And, ahead of the rest, as always leading the charge as a commander should, lies Captain Imhullu. The sun shines down on his blind face.
    But The Named will not ride at Samhain. Ashnak will bet on it. For whatever her absence is worth.
    Not much, as ever, to the dead.
    Ashnak stood, the black fire of the necromancer’s rough and ready healing coursing through him. He wiped pus and blood from his remaining burns and straightened, sniffing, pulling deep breaths down into his broad chest. The air stank of shit and blood.
    He took out his forage cap and put it on,