crowding the walls to either side of the doors, past the zwarth's claws. The Tarantula Fleet admiral's policy of letting common orcs into the ground legions only fed the problem. Orcs had boundless hatred for elves, but they also had equally violent hatreds for almost every other sort of humanoid, including orcs of rival tribes and cults and even the ore-descended scro. Other humanoids were like that, but few as much as the orcs.
In their favor, the orcs and minor humanoids were useful for assaults on the gigantic, space-going dwarven citadels, where they could absorb the initial losses from traps and ambushes before the highbred scro and their allies took over and battered their ways through to the forges and redoubts. Rabble could be spared for rooting out survivors on conquered worlds like Spiral, settling down in the meanwhile to create their own colonies. Otherwise, they were just a nuisance.
Whether he liked it or not, Vorr knew that Admiral Halker and the admirals of all other fleets now at war with the elves were doing what had to be done, following the words and plans of the Almighty Dukagsh, the Scro Father. Only by uniting all humanoids into the War of Revenge could the elves be driven from wildspace like sparrows in the claws of a gale- and driven they now were. In the year that the war had been underway, the general had seen the Imperial Fleet forces in two crystal spheres destroyed; elven worlds and fleets in other spheres were rumored by scouts and spies to be under attack or to have fallen as well. The war was vast, and Vorr knew he saw only a small part of it. Few elves had escaped the butcher's cleaver, and little word had spread so far to alert other spheres of the coming of the blade. Spiral itself had fallen so rapidly that it was unlikely any other elves in this sphere knew of it yet. The elves, who had once ground the humanoids under their silver heel, had grown careless and lazy. They paid for it now with their lifeblood.
Still, Vorr reflected, if orcs and lesser vermin were to come along for the elf slaying, they'd have to pull their own weight. General Vorr carefully bled off his supply of naive orcish auxiliaries with every opportunity, sending them without qualm into deathtraps and ambushes. If Halker noticed the high losses among Vorr's orcs and goblins, he said nothing. Halker was a full-blooded scro himself, and it was likely that he understood and approved. Vorr never saw the need to bring the topic into the open and risk finding out differently.
A low knock sounded at the double doors, interrupting his thoughts. General Vorr's left hand casually dropped beneath the stone desktop, blunt fingers fitting into the leather grip of the weapon there. He'd been fooled once by a half-elven rogue on a suicide mission; he'd not be fooled twice. 'Enter!' he called briskly, his voice booming through the room.
A lock clicked, and one of the half-ton doors swung silently open. The still air stirred to brief life. The door was held by the steel-armored arm of an ogre elite guard. The ogre, named Gargon, was unusually big, a head taller than the general himself, and he made a fine wrestling and sparring partner. Gargon never spoke, thanks to an arrow through his voice box, but Vorr considered that an asset.
A scro platoon officer strode with efficient precision through the doorway and into the broad office, his black leather armor squeaking pleasantly. Stopping well across the room from the desk, the only piece of furniture present aside from the general's thick wooden chair, the sergeant raised a black-gloved fist, forearm vertical and upper arm straight forward, the back of his fist directed at the general. A thick red spider emblem was clearly visible on the back of his glove.
'The Tarantulas remember!' the sergeant shouted, his flat, porcine snout raised with pride. He spoke in perfect Elvish. 'Almighty Dukagsh hail my general!'
General Vorr grunted. 'Speak.' Tell me something different and new, he added mentally. It was time for a change. Fate would be his guide.
'Sit,' said the sergeant crisply, switching to the scro's Orcish dialect. 'Sergeant Hagroth bears news from Admiral Halker, who reports the sighting of a large flying vessel of unknown type approaching the camp along Victory Highway. The ship has signaled a desire to talk. We have scorpion-ship escorts with it now. The base is being brought to half alert. Admiral Halker requests your attention within the hour to meet with representatives of the intruders, dealing with them as is deemed best.'
Fate actually listens to me, General Vorr thought with mild surprise. Tell Fate that you are weary with boredom, and it sends a cure. Was I better off being bored?
Vorr let his hand drop from the grip of his concealed weapon and looked down at the green-skinned humanoid standing at attention across the room. Sergeant Hagroth's black armor was cleaned and polished; the steel studs on the leather gleamed in the orange light from the tall windows. A scro marine's marine. The armored scro showed nothing but supreme confidence.
Far away, the elven voice arose to a shriek-then silence filled the room instead.
'Describe the intruder, Sergeant.' Vorr had seen more than his share of unknown ships; it couldn't be too weird.
'Sir, the ship is built of stone blocks in the shape of a ziggurat. There are no visible doors or openings. It has four triangular sides and a square bottom, which it keeps facing the ground as it flies.'
Fate was being too generous. The description fit the design of the pyramid ships used by certain undead human wizards, the sort that brought nothing but trouble. General Vorr abruptly shoved back his chair and stood to his full eight-foot height; Sergeant Hagroth barely reached past his chest. He carefully sorted and put away his papers, his well-oiled armor making no sound.
'Sergeant Hagroth,' he said, 'tell my staff to bring all the marines to full alert, but in secret. Show no outward sign of our preparations. I want the Fifth Leg Battalion in assault gear at once, war priests in the lead. Attach two wall-breaker ogres to each company.' He paused, considering. 'Battle bonuses and honors to the first company to get inside the pyramid, if it comes to that. No attacks are to be made unless I give the order. Death to anyone who fires before then. Inform Admiral Halker of my plans. Anything more?'
Sergeant Hagroth's face twitched as he fought to contain his excitement. He, too, must have felt the lash of boredom for far too long. 'Sir, nothing more,' he said, then stepped back one pace and raised his black-gloved fist in a final salute. 'Vengeance is ours!' he shouted in Elvish.
'Get on it,' returned the general in Elvish, looking down again at the stacks of paper on his desk. He heard the door shut and the faint sounds of someone hurrying away, then silence. He hesitated for a moment, wondering what was wrong. Oh, he thought, no screaming. The elf must have died already. That was odd because they usually lasted much longer than that. Vorr wondered what the elves thought when the scro administering the ritual tortures spoke to them in fluent Elvish; it must be torture all the more. The orcs and scro had remembered the victors of the Unhuman War too well for the victors' own good.
General Vorr had just finished stacking his reports and was preparing to leave when another knock sounded. He looked up, wondering what Fate could possibly be cooking up for him now. His hand again fell below the desktop and clutched the weapon's grip. 'Enter!' he barked.
One of the steel-and-oak doors across the room opened gently. An emaciated Oriental human in flowery silken robes stepped through, a serene smile half hidden behind wisps of a white beard. A withered hand covered by paper-thin skin carelessly pushed the weighty door shut behind him. The old man appeared relaxed and calm.
'Greetings, General,' said the old man in a strong voice, bowing once. His dark, almond-shaped eyes gleamed. 'I pray that I am not disturbing your work.'
Vorr eyed the intruder speculatively as his hands relaxed and let go of the weapon's grip. 'We have visitors, Usso. I trust you've heard.'
'Yes. When the gates open, the flood comes through.' Without explaining the remark, the old man approached and raised his right hand as he reached the desk. Where his hand had been empty, a sheaf of papers now soundlessly appeared as if by magic-which, of course, it was.
'My spies have been busy,' Usso said, almost cheerfully, setting the papers in a neat stack on the desk and turning them around to face the general. 'I trust their reports will make entertaining reading.' The old man's hands pulled back, then began to fingerspell words rapidly against the desk's surface. The general appeared to study the new reports while reading Usso's message.
General Vorr considered the news soberly. 'Nothing interesting here,' he growled, thumbing a report page absently. He kept up the charade in case the guerrillas had the ability to scry on their meeting with spells, magical mirrors, or crystal balls. 'Any other news?'
'The pyramid ship has halted two miles outside the base's northern gate. It shows no sign of hostility. It is also invulnerable to scrying, so I cannot say more about it.' The frail old man looked toward the windows and grinned
