Thraxas and the Oracle (23 page)

“That’s because Deeziz was making you sick,” I say.

Tirini Snake Smiter turns to me. Her eyes narrow. “If I ever hear you repeating that ridiculous story about me being the daughter of a sewer inspector, I’ll fry your insides. Magic shoes hiding my background? Absolute nonsense.”

Anumaris Thunderbolt picks up a pair of orange slippers from the floor, beneath the spot where Deeziz disappeared. “Are these yours?”

Tirini snatches them. “My normal slippers. What of it? Now if you’d all get out of here and leave me alone, I have some hair and make-up to attend to.”

We withdraw. Makri helps Droo to her feet. Outside the tent, Lisutaris examines the wound in her shoulder. She apologises to the young Elf that she lacks the power to heal her, having used up all her sorcery in the struggle, and sends a messenger to bring a healer. Droo manages to put on a brave face, though I can tell she’s quite shocked to have received her first real war wound. Makri and Anumaris are bruised but healthy. I’m feeling healthy enough, though I could do with a beer.

“I need to get back to the battlefield,” says Lisutaris.

“Of course. The Generals need you. Congratulations on a fantastic victory. You’ve probably saved the West. I’ll just wait here and - ”

“You’re coming too, Captain Thraxas. Anumaris, find us some horses. I don’t have the strength to get us through the magic space again.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

It’s a long time till I’m free to drink beer. The combined armies of the West have just won a notable victory, but they’re in a chaotic state after the battle. Regiments, phalanxes and battalions are mixed together in confusion. Skirmishers and pursuit troops are still harassing the scattered Orcs, while our baggage and supplies are unprotected in the rear. Lisutaris won’t allow this to continue, and issues a stream of orders to her subordinates, bringing things back into order. She could have sent a portion of the army in immediate pursuit of the Orcs but we’d have risked spreading our forces too thinly, probably without dealing another substantial blow. We’ve won an important victory but we haven’t yet won the war. Prince Amrag has plenty of troops at his command. He’ll rally his forces. Whether they’ll retreat to Turai to fight us there, or regroup to engage with us as we advance, we don’t know. We’ll find out soon enough. Lisutaris is allowing the army to rest for a day, after which we’ll continue our journey east.

“It took courage to march blindly into the clouds like that,” says Gurd, around twelve hours later, when I finally get the chance to sit down at a campfire and fill myself up with stew and beer. “How did Lisutaris know we’d take the Orcs by surprise?”

“Good judgement. We discussed it. She was hesitant, but I persuaded her.”

I’m sure that Lisutaris won’t be telling anyone that she advanced on the advice of the High Priestess of the Vitin Oracle. People will assume that she gained knowledge of the Orcish position due to some clever piece of magic. It’s best to let them think that. Makri appears, looking weary. She’s been all over the battlefield and the army camp with Lisutaris. Tanrose ladles food into a bowl and hands it to her.

“A good day,” says Makri. “Even if I didn’t get to fight much.”

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “We can’t all be heroes.”

“You never saw any action either!”

“Makes no difference,” I say. “I’ve been a vital part of the war effort. Tracked down Deeziz, protected our War Leader, and generally served as an inspiration to the army.”

“An inspiration?” Makri raises her eyebrows.

“Of course. When Lisutaris was dithering, wondering if she should advance with a bunch of raw, untested troops behind her, she looks at me and thinks
'If a warrior like Thraxas is on our side what can go wrong? There’s a man who won’t let you down.”

Makri shakes her head, and laughs.

“Are all the generals supporting Lisutaris now?” asks Gurd. He was close to the front lines when we mowed down the Orcs, and emerged without a scratch. “Yes. No one’s questioning her leadership.”

We took very few casualties in the battle. The Samsarinans, the Simnians, the Niojans, the Elves, the collected troops from the smaller nations - they all came through almost completely unscathed. It was one of most comprehensive victories ever recorded against the Orcish armies.

“It will make things easier now Lisutaris is secure in her command,” I say.

Makri nods. “Especially now that Legate Apiroi’s out the way.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was killed in the battle.”

“What?” I’m startled by this piece of news. “Apiroi? Killed? Are you sure?”

“I saw his body.”

I can hardly believe the Legate is dead. We took very few casualties, and he didn’t seem like the sort of man to fling himself into danger unnecessarily.

“Surely he wasn’t leading the Niojans into combat?”

Makri shrugs. She doesn’t know how he met his end, but she’s quite certain he’s dead.

“Some people always die, even when you win,” says Gurd. “Just bad luck if it happens to be you.”

I drink some beer and take another helping of Tanrose’s excellent stew. I’m still startled by the news of Legate Apiroi’s untimely demise. We sit round the fire talking till Tanrose yawns and announces that she needs to sleep. It’s now close to dawn and there are faint streaks of daylight on the horizon. I’m tired too. I feel like I’ve been walking, running or fighting for days on end. My joints ache as I haul myself to my feet. Makri accompanies me on the walk back to my wagon.

“It was smart of you to identify Deeziz.”

“Maybe Lisutaris will give me a medal.”

“I doubt it.”

“It’s just as well you believed me,” I say to Makri. “No one else did.” If Makri hadn’t made the instant decision to attack Saabril, thereby causing her to reveal herself as Deeziz, I don’t know if I’d ever have managed to convince Lisutaris. “She should know to trust me by now.”

“She does trust you, more or less.”

I come to a halt.

“What is it?”

“I don’t like it that Legate Apiroi is dead.”

“You don’t?” says Makri. “I thought it was excellent news. He was practically blackmailing Lisutaris. Threatened to tell people she went to the oracle if he didn’t get a place on the command council.”

“Remember when Lisutaris told us about that? In my wagon? Didn’t you think it was strange that she didn’t seem very worried about it?”

“I didn’t notice she wasn’t worried. I think she was.”

“She wasn’t as worried as she should have been.”

“What are you getting at?” asks Makri. “You said you saw the Legate’s body. Where is it?”

“Laid out with the other Niojan casualties. There weren’t many of them. They’ll be buried tomorrow.”

“Show me where they are.”

“Have you suddenly lost your reason? We’ve been running through the magic space fighting trolls, Orcs and sorcerers, and now you want to look at bodies?”

“Yes.”

Makri shrugs. “I don’t like to sleep too much anyway.”

She leads me through the encampment. Though dawn is approaching no one is yet stirring. The troops will be sleeping late today, a rare luxury.

“In that tent.” Makri points towards a large, square canvas construction.

The tent is unguarded. No one sees us as we enter. Inside there are ten bodies laid out carefully on the ground. They’re all wrapped in their black cloaks, distinctive garment of the Niojan army. Each has their hands clasped in front of them, resting in death. The Niojans are treating their casualties with respect before they’re buried. There’s one long table on the room. Lying on the table is Legate Apiroi. He looks peaceful. I stride forward to examine him. There’s a deep wound in his throat.

Makri peers at the body. “That would have killed him instantly.”

“I suppose it would.” I grab the body and turn it over. Doing this requires a lot of strength, and wouldn’t count as treating the corpse with due respect.

“What are you doing?”

I study the back of the Legate’s brown leather tunic. When he went into battle, he’d have been wearing a solid breastplate, with chainmail covering his back. High-quality chainmail, probably, enough to offer good protection. I bend down to examine him.

“There,” I say, pointing.

“What am I meant to be looking at?”

“That tiny hole in the tunic.”

“What about it?”

I pull the tunic up. Half way up the Legate’s spine is a tiny mark, very hard to make out unless you’re looking for it.

“You know what that is?”

“No,” says Makri. From the tone of her voice I’m not certain she’s telling the truth. Makri is generally a poor liar.

“It’s the mark made by an assassin’s dart. Small enough to penetrate chainmail, if used by an expert. Poisoned, no doubt. Fired into him under cover of the confusion of battle.”

“An assassin’s dart? This is sounding ridiculous.”

I haul the Legate back into his original position. “Hanama killed him. Presumably on Lisutaris’s orders. She brought him down with a dart, removed it, then cut his throat to make it look like he was killed in battle. Smart move by Lisutaris, I suppose. Got rid of the problem.”

“I don’t believe it,” says Makri.

“You probably knew about it already.”

“No I didn’t! I still don’t believe it anyway.”

I stare at Makri. “I hate assassins. Legate Apiroi was an annoying, power-seeking fool but he didn’t deserve to be murdered by Hanama.”

“You have no proof he was. Who cares, anyway? We’re better off without him.”

“You think so? If Lisutaris did send Hanama to kill him, she probably used sorcery to cover it up. That has a tendency to go wrong. Other people have sorcery too. The Niojans for instance. If they find out about this the trouble will be ten times worse.”

We leave the tent. I’m tired, and feel a strong desire to go to sleep for a long time. A few Niojan sentries cast unfriendly glances at Makri as we pass through their area of the encampment.

“Lisutaris isn’t Queen of the West, you know. She doesn’t get to decide who lives or dies.”

“She has to do what’s right for the army,” says Makri, stubbornly.

“Assassinating a Niojan diplomat isn’t right for the army.”

“I’d say it was.”

“That’s hardly a surprise, given your past record.”

Makri halts, and stares at me. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean you’re no stranger to executing people when you feel like it. Without bothering about the niceties of the law.”

“When did I ever do that?”

“Back in Turai. You killed Rittius, Head of Palace Security.”

“He was a traitor!”

“I
suspected
him of being a traitor. I was about to arrest him when you decided that was too much trouble, and stabbed him instead.”

“I can’t believe you’re complaining about that! Have you forgotten how many Turanians died outside the city walls when the Orcs attacked? Rittius betrayed the city. You said he poisoned Galwinius as well.”

“I said I
suspected
he poisoned Galwinius. I’d have liked to see him stand trial for it. But you just decided you’d execute him. No wonder Lisutaris likes you as her bodyguard, you’re as bad as each other.”

Makri is furious. She’s not a woman who takes criticism well. “Rittius deserved to die! Turai was besieged, there was never going to be a trial and you know it. And I don’t remember you being so upset at the time that I’d got rid of him.”

“I had other things on my mind. Like doing my duty and protecting the city. Not running around killing fellow citizens. Not that you’ve ever actually been a citizen.”

That’s quite a wounding remark. Makri wasn’t an official citizen of Turai, though she’d made her home there. I feel like wounding her. I’m tired. I’m angry. I’m feeling a strange sense of depression after the elation of defeating the Orcs. I don’t like it that Lisutaris sent Hanama to kill Legate Apiroi. It’s illegal, and I believe in the law.

Makri regards me with loathing. “I’d never want to be a citizen of any place you lived.”

“Fine. We weren’t looking to recruit homicidal pointy-eared Orcs anyway.”

Makri’s hand flies to the pommel of her sword. She controls herself, with an effort. “I hate you. Never speak to me again.” Makri turns on her heel and marches off.

A few Niojans in the distance are laughing. I catch a snippet of their conversation. Something about a fat Turanian and a crazy Orc woman. Fair enough. I trudge on, heading back to my place in the camp. On the way I pass by the parked wagons under the command of the Simnian Quartermaster Calbeshi. He laughs when he sees me.

“Thraxas, you look worse than usual, and that’s saying something. Where have you been? Hiding from the action again?”

“Just give me a beer, Calbeshi.”

The quartermaster fills up a leather tankard and hands it over. The sun is rising in the sky and it’s a warm morning. I sit down, rest my back against the quartermaster’s wagon, drink my beer, then fall asleep.

Chapter Twenty-Three

A few hours later I wake up feeling refreshed. Calbeshi and his men are nowhere to be seen. Lazing around somewhere, I suppose. Indolent Simnians. I head back towards my unit’s wagon. It’s a warm afternoon and I might get the chance for some more sleep before we set off tomorrow. I should make sure we’re ready to go, but Anumaris will probably take care of it. With the warm sun overhead, I’m feeling almost jovial as I stroll through our encampment. There’s not much activity. A few soldiers can be seen, checking their equipment, but most people are taking the opportunity to rest.

As I’m walking past the end of the Turanian section I find myself confronted by Tanrose. She appears to be annoyed. I’ve no idea why.

“What did you say to Makri?” she demands.

“What?”

“What did you say to her? Why did you upset her?”

“A minor disagreement. Nothing important.”

“Nothing important? I’ve never seen her so upset.”

“That’s hard to believe. She’s always upset.”

“Why did you tell her she wasn’t welcome in Turai?”

“That’s not really an accurate - ”

“Didn’t she stick up for you when everyone thought you were wrong about Deeziz?”