Thraxas - The Complete Series (173 page)

“I’m getting completely fed up with Horm sending you flowers,” I tell Makri. “It’s really starting to get on my nerves.”

“I never asked for them!” protests Makri, before turning swiftly back to Viriggax and abusing him roundly for daring to touch her property.

A band of northern mercenaries are gathering behind Viriggax in case he needs some assistance. Viriggax is temporarily stunned by the ferocity of Makri’s abuse but it doesn’t take long for him to recover his voice. In no time a series of grim mercenary and Orcish curses are flying over the table.

“Excuse me,” says Dandelion, arriving at this moment and dropping to her knees to scramble round on the floor. “I think I can still rescue the flowers if I get them into a vase of water.”

“I don’t want them rescued!” screams Makri. “I hate the flowers!”

“Sure, that’s what you say now,” I shout. “But I’m starting to think you’re quite pleased to be getting them.”

“I am not!”

“The woman is a traitor!” roars Viriggax.

“Don’t you call my barmaid a traitor!” roars back Gurd.

“I never thought I’d see the day when Gurd of the North took the side of an Orcish bitch!”

There’s only about half a second before the tavern explodes but in that half a second I have time to mentally sigh, clap my hand to my forehead and wonder why it is that my life has brought me to this. Now I have to fight my old comrade Viriggax, just because Makri has an unreasonable dislike of being called an Orcish bitch.

As soon as the words are out of Viriggax’s mouth Makri leaps on the table and kicks him in the chest with such force that Viriggax is sent sprawling back into his companions. After that, the tavern erupts into a bar-room brawl the like of which I haven’t seen since the Brotherhood and the Society of Friends went head to head for control of the Blind Horse in Kushni. Viriggax’s companions pile in on top of Makri, I pile in on top of them, Gurd joins in, and the rest of the mercenaries in the tavern, not wishing to miss a good fight, pick sides at random and weigh in with their fists.

Shouts, screams, battle-cries and oaths come from every direction as the bar degenerates into a heaving mass of struggling bodies. Chairs and tables are picked up as weapons and splinters of wood fly over our heads. I pound my fist on the back of some monstrous mercenary who’s attempting to attack Makri from behind and am immediately brought down by a blow from a table leg that causes me to sag at the knees. My assailant attempts to bring the lump of wood down on my head but is halted by Makri, who spins round and strikes him a blow on the temple that drops him to the floor. Gurd uses his mighty fists to beat a path through to us and the next thing we find ourselves surrounded by a solid circle of angry-looking northerners, all long blond hair, beards, and muscular arms.

“Get back, you scum!” I yell, picking up a chair and brandishing it fiercely. “The first man to move gets—”

A shuddering assault on my left flank prevents me from completing the sentence. I wince, then hit my attacker with the chair.

“Ah!” yells Gurd, with relish. “Like the old days!” Gurd is brawling with such enthusiasm that he’s forgotten it’s his furniture that’s being reduced to matchwood. He disappears under three mercenaries. There’s a moment’s heaving, then, like a volcano suddenly erupting, the three northerners find themselves tossed into the air as Gurd wrenches himself free and weighs in again with his fists.

After this, things get worse. I find myself next to a mercenary from the south who’s decided to take our side and we use our combined body weight to good effect until three northerners drive a wedge between us with the remains of a table and I’m forced back against the wall, punching furiously in every direction. Makri, at something of a disadvantage in the close struggle due to her lack of weight, nonetheless proves her worth, leaping, twisting and turning to keep herself out of trouble while lashing out with the sort of blows she learned during her years as a gladiator. Undefeated champion between the ages of thirteen and nineteen, as she’s fond of saying. Unfortunately she finds herself trapped in a corner, and when I see her hand flicker towards her boot, where she generally keeps a knife, I know that things are about to go too far. It’s against the unwritten rules to use weapons in a bar-room brawl such as this, but Makri has little regard for rules when it comes to fighting. She’ll quite certainly kill her opponent before conceding defeat. I’m considering using my sleep spell to settle things, though this does go against the grain. A good bar-room brawl shouldn’t be settled by magic. The decision is taken out of my hands as shrill whistles sound outside and the Civil Guards start pouring into the room.

The fight gradually subsides as the uniformed men fill up the bar, separating the combatants and waving their batons.

Captain Rallee steps forward. He briefly survey the wreckage. All over the room bodies lie groaning on the floor and there’s hardly a person standing who’s not bruised and bleeding.

“What’s this all about?” demands the Captain, looking towards Gurd. Gurd shrugs. Though he’s normally on good terms with the Captain, he’s not going to start complaining to the Civil Guards about a fight in his tavern, not when the fight could be classified as a small dispute among friends. The Captain turns his gaze towards me. We also used to be on good terms, though it’s waned in recent years.

“Did you start this?”

“Me? I was hardly involved at all.”

Captain Rallee looks uncertain. He doesn’t like trouble on his beat but the Avenging Axe isn’t an establishment that generally causes him trouble. He’s not sure whether to let it go or start rounding us all up.

Suddenly Viriggax steps forward, grinning effusively.

“A small dispute among friends, Captain,” he says, loudly. “Nothing more.”

“What sort of small dispute?”

“We were discussing flowers.”

As Viriggax says this, his companions burst into raucous laughter, and Viriggax himself howls with delight. Northern mercenaries are not entirely lacking a sense of the ridiculous. Makri is looking on suspiciously from the side of the room. Viriggax strides over to her, throws one extremely brawny arm around her shoulders and turns towards the Captain.

“This young woman and I were simply discussing the merits of various floral arrangements when things got out of hand.”

The enormous northerner, towering over Makri, beams down at her. Obviously, having been kicked across the room by her, he now considers her a worthy companion.

Captain Rallee glares at Makri.

“I might have known you’d be involved. If you want to stay in the city, keep out of trouble.”

He turns to Gurd.

“And if you want to keep your licence, no more fights. We’ve got enough to do round here without you making it worse.”

Captain Rallee signals to his men and they depart as abruptly as they arrived. It’s true that the Captain does have a lot to do. With the huge increase in crime in the past few years, the Guards are stretched, particularly in a bad area like Twelve Seas. As the city is now full of mercenaries, things are worse than ever.

Having had a good fight, Viriggax is now as happy as a drunken mercenary. Which, of course, he is. He pulls out a fat purse from his tunic.

“Drinks for everyone!” he yells. “Now we’ve shaken the dust from our feet, we’ll show those Orcish dogs a thing or two if they dare to attack this city!”

T
he next day I wake with the sort of hangover that makes a man realise the foolishness of all alcoholic beverages. I stumble from my bedroom to my office and grope for my supply of lesada leaves, which are carefully wrapped in silk in the bottom drawer of my desk. I place one of the small leaves in my mouth, wash it down with water and sit motionless, waiting for it to do its work.

The lesada plant grows only on the Elvish Isles. The Elves use it as a healing herb. Since I discovered its properties for curing hangovers I’ve had reason to bless its existence. It’s possibly the finest thing ever to come from the Elvish Isles. Certainly more useful than their epic poetry.

My head is still pounding and it takes me a little while to realise there’s a feeble sort of scratching noise at my door. I make my way gingerly over and pull it open. It all seems like a lot of effort and makes me nauseous, a feeling which isn’t improved by the sight of Makri trying to crawl into my room, groaning and whimpering pathetically as she inches her way blindly forward. I shake my head sadly. She’s not a great drinker. Last night’s celebrations were very extensive, and she shouldn’t have tried to keep up. By now the lesada leaf I swallowed is doing its work, allowing me to regard Makri with some pity.

“It’s strange really,” I say, looking down at the back of her head as she crawls past. “Your peculiar mixture of Orcish, Elvish and Human blood seems to let you do most things well. Fine swordswoman, clever student, excellent with languages. And you’re not bad with your axe either, though I’ve seen better. But for some reason it just doesn’t seem to let you drink very much.”

“Shut up and give me a lesada leaf, you cusux,” croaks Makri.

“Of course, you’re far too skinny, which probably explains some of it. Even so, with all your other attributes it’s strange you’re such a lightweight. Probably it would be best if you stuck to the weaker brews the women and children drink at public celebrations.”

Makri promises to kill me if I don’t stop talking and give her a leaf. Fearing that she’s about to vomit on my floor—something about which she would have no qualms—I make with the leaf. Makri swallows it whole, then lies on the floor groaning and trembling. All in all, it’s a shameful performance.

As the leaf does its work, her colour returns to normal.

“I thought I was going to die,” she says. “What happened last night?”

“Last night? Not a great deal. A drinking competition between myself and some of the more optimistic members of Viriggax’s troop. I put them soundly in their place, naturally.”

“Did I participate?”

I laugh, rather mockingly.

“You? In a drinking contest? That’s hardly likely. You passed out the fourth time the klee went round. If Gurd hadn’t hauled you up to your room you’d still be lying there like a sack of yams.”

Makri scowls, but rises to her feet gracefully. The lesada leaf works quickly on her athletic frame, and after splashing water from my sink over her face and shoulders she declares herself fit for action.

“Another day serving the mercenary hordes. I’m making more money than I have done all year. Are you investigating?”

I shake my head.

“I can’t. Today is the first day of troop practice. Weather permitting, my phalanx will be doing manoeuvres.”

“You have a phalanx?”

“Yes. Turanian phalanx number seven. We haven’t met each other yet. Me and four hundred and ninety-nine others are going to be drilled in close formation work.”

Makri is interested, as she always is when it comes to fighting.

“Are these all experienced men? You don’t have a lot of time to learn manoeuvres.”

“About half will be experienced. The young men won’t be. It’s up to us to show them the ropes. And you’re right, we don’t have a lot of time.”

Up till about ten years ago the whole male population used to do this sort of thing every year, but the city has let it slide recently.

“I think it was Consul Sebernius who stopped the regular drills, after the Honourable Merchants Association complained it was taking men away from their work and costing them money. It’s a few years since I’ve even held a long spear in my hand. I expect it will come back soon enough.”

I pick up a long candle and start brandishing it enthusiastically, demonstrating to Makri how I held back the Orcs at the Battle of Gorox River.

“Forced them into the river then slaughtered every one of them.”

“You outnumbered them two to one,” says Makri, who’s been reading up on her military history.

“So? You don’t stop to count heads when the Orcs are coming at you in a phalanx with thirty-foot spears pointing in every direction. My phalanx did a fine job that day. Stayed rock solid, pushed them back and broke their ranks in two.”

I advance across the office with some gusto. The candle slips from my grasp and falls to the floor. I look at it rather ruefully.

“I expect it will all come back with practice.”

I hope it does. It’s no easy task manoeuvring a phalanx of five hundred men, keeping everybody in the correct position during advance or retreat. You have to be able to run over rough terrain without breaking formation. A good phalanx will crash into the enemy in an unstoppable wave, or repulse an attack like an immovable wall, but it takes a lot of practice. I’m hoping that we have a competent commander. If it turns out to be some Senator’s son who’s never seen action, we’ll be in trouble.

“What am I going to do in the war?” asks Makri. “They’re not going to let me join the army. You know I’m going to fight anyway. Will I just have to walk out there on my own?”

“Difficult, Makri. Apart from Sorcerers, no Turanian women fight. Not officially anyway. I remember one woman joined up last time the Orcs attacked. She dressed in men’s clothes and fought in the light infantry and no one knew till she was killed and it was time to bury her.”