Thraxas - The Complete Series (188 page)

T
he Orcs have scattered in confusion. I lead my company directly between the flaming corpses of the dragons. Thick oily smoke pours from the bodies of the beasts, now burning with some evil sorcerous fire conjured up by Lisutaris. We’re no more than fifty yards from the gates and I’m praying that someone inside the city will seize the opportunity of opening them and letting us in before the Orcs can regroup.

Lisutaris weighs heavily on my shoulder but I keep going. If we miss this chance we’re not going to get another. The gates open. The trapped Turanian troops leave the shelter of their wagons and run towards the city. We follow on. We’re still some way from the walls when I sense a hostile spell on its way. The ground shakes beneath my feet. I’m hit by what feels like a hammer to the back of the head. My protection charm keeps me alive but it doesn’t stop the pain. I sag to my knees, dropping Lisutaris. It’s a terrible struggle getting up again. Even Makri is slow to rise.

“What the…?”

Harmon, Coranus and Anumaris help each other to their feet. The Sorcerers are wearing spell protection charms, as are Makri and I. They’re rare items. My troops didn’t have them. None of them are rising to their feet. As my head slowly clears I find that we’re not alone. We’re faced by twelve Orcs. Three Sorcerers, seven warriors and two who look like they might be officers. One of the Sorcerers is Horm the Dead. Lisutaris stirs at my feet. Horm glares down at her.

“You killed my dragon,” he says, sounding pained. “It was my favourite.”

He shifts his gaze to Makri. Rather longingly, I think. If he offers her flowers again I’ll kill him with my bare hands. But if Horm is about to speak further, he halts himself as one of the officers steps forward. A tall Orc, not bulky, but strong-looking, with fine black armour, long black hair, and a small circlet of gold on his brow. Not quite as craggy as his followers. I realise that it’s Prince Amrag himself.

He regards us for a few seconds. Then he looks curiously at Makri. Lisutaris hauls herself upright. Prince Amrag’s guards step forward anxiously, to protect their leader from the Human Sorcerer. Amrag glances questioningly towards Horm.

“They have no sorcery left,” says Horm.

“And neither have you,” responds Lisutaris.

“Regrettably, no,” admits Horm. “We were obliged to expend all our efforts in saving our lives when you brought us down from the sky.”

Even here on the battlefield, Horm, with his pale skin, languid manners and long cloak, cuts an unusual figure.

“But we do have an army,” adds Horm, and gestures behind him to where around a thousand Orcish warriors are charging towards us. I push Lisutaris in the direction of the city wall.

“Go,” I say, “now,” and gesture for the Sorcerers to flee.

Harmon and Anumaris need no encouragement. Lisutaris hesitates, but Coranus the Grinder grabs her tattered cloak and drags her off. Makri and I draw our swords, planning to sell our lives gaining the Sorcerers the few seconds they need to reach the city. The thick smoke from the flaming dragons is still billowing around our heads. I’m expecting Prince Amrag to order his bodyguards to set off in pursuit. Seven warriors. Makri and I can hold them till the rest of the army arrives. The Prince, however, issues no orders. He looks at Makri again, then speaks, this time in the common Human tongue, which few Orcs know.

“Hello, sister.”

“Hello, brother.”

“I admired your progress. Champion gladiator.”

“You left me in the slave pits to die,” says Makri.

Prince Amrag shrugs.

“And now you fight for Turai?”

“I do.”

“Would you wish to join my army?”

Makri spits on the ground.

A small chuckle escapes from the Prince’s lips.

“The unclean Elvish blood. It always caused problems.”

He glances over our shoulders.

“They’re closing the gates. If you wish to re-enter your city, you had better leave now. I’ll be joining you inside soon enough.”

Makri dithers, as if about to say something more. I grab her and drag her after me, through the thick smoke, through the still falling snow, towards the great East Gate. It’s swinging shut as we arrive. I let out a series of the foulest and loudest curses. Mercifully someone takes heed. The gate opens a few inches, we squeeze though, and then it’s closed. Heavy bolts are drawn and huge metal bars descend to reinforce it. We’re the last people back in Turai. I turn to Makri.

“Hello, sister? Sister? Prince Amrag is your brother?”

“Half-brother. Same father, different mother. He has no Elvish blood.”

“Have you known this all along?”

Makri shakes her head.

“I never knew what became of him after he escaped from the slave pits.”

All around us is confusion. There’s no sign of Lisutaris.

“What do we do now?” asks Makri. “Man the walls?”

“A good question.”

I don’t really know what to do. No one has prepared for this eventuality. There’s no designated meeting point for defeated soldiers straggling back into the city. I’ve no idea where to go. Some battalions of soldiers, still intact, are already on the walls. Others are rushing up the steps to take up positions. I should join them somewhere but I don’t know where.

“I should find Lisutaris,” says Makri.

I walk along after Makri. It’s a long time since I’ve felt quite so unsure of myself. Perhaps I should head back to Twelve Seas, climb on to the nearest bit of the wall, and wait for the Orcs to attack. Or maybe I should wait nearer the East Gate in case the Orcs break through here first. I don’t know.

Just inside the eastern wall lie the pleasure gardens. The ponds are frozen over and the trees are covered in snow. The frozen ground is littered with dead and wounded, soldiers who’ve been helped back into the city by their comrades. Turai has not made provision for so many casualties. Doctors, herbalists and apothecaries were not yet prepared for this. Wounded men lie in the trampled snow, unattended.

“You were right about being in battle,” said Makri. “From the moment it started I had no idea what was going on.”

“Me neither. Except we were taking a beating.”

“Is Gurd still alive?”

I shake my head. I don’t know.

We come across a familiar figure, kneeling on the ground. It’s Erisox, the Consul’s cook. The poor guy was caught outside the city walls. He must have scuttled back inside quickly enough, because he’s still got his little cart with him, and the portable oven. He’s got an arrow in his calf and is trying to draw it out. I bend down to help. The arrow isn’t embedded very deeply and won’t cause too much damage when it comes out. I yank it free. Erisox screams and faints.

“Didn’t do too much damage,” I say.

I look at the little oven. I haven’t eaten for a while. I prise open the door, just in case there’s anything left. There’s a pastry inside. I take it out and offer half of it to Makri. She refuses and I swallow the pastry in a single bite.

“Erisox. He’s a master of the art. I doubt there’s a finer cook in the whole city. That pastry was superb.”

“Really,” says Makri.

“Yes. Perfect. And think of the difficult circumstances it was made in. Portable oven, snow falling, Orcs attacking, dragons flying overhead. Still the man makes a perfect pastry. Nothing seems to put him off.”

I halt. It’s just dawned on me that Erisox has been lying to me. He moans. I help him sit upright. The wound in his calf isn’t so bad.

“Erisox. The whole time I was investigating Galwinius’s murder the one person I trusted was you. Because you’re such a great cook. But you were lying, weren’t you? You told me no one entered your kitchen, and you were there all the time. That wasn’t true, was it?”

Erisox immediately looks forlorn. Having just come off a battlefield with an arrow in his leg, he’s not in the mood to put up too much resistance.

“No. Bevarius came in with Rittius. Then I went to the storeroom with my assistant and Bevarius.”

“What for?”

“To make bets on the races. The whole kitchen staff at the Consul’s offices usually give their money to Bevarius’s cook and he places our bets.”

“So why did Bevarius take the money instead?”

“He said his cook was sick. We thought it was strange, a Senator taking bets instead of his cook, but who knows, these Senators all like to bet anyway.”

I nod. Bevarius just found a convenient excuse to get the chef and his assistant out of the way for a few moments.

“Why did you need to go into the storeroom?” I ask.

“Just being discreet. The Consul doesn’t like it if his staff are placing bets during work time.”

“So where was Rittius all this time?”

“He was on his own in the kitchen.”

Rittius was alone in the kitchen. Using a little poison, no doubt. I was so busy thinking about why the Consul came back along the corridor on his own, I never checked where Rittius and Bevarius went. They went into the kitchen. Erisox lied to me. I help him bandage his calf. His lies made my investigation difficult but I can’t really hate a man who has such a command of the pastry oven.

The Orcs are at the gate. I should be doing something warlike.

“How did you know I was lying?” asks Erisox.

“From the excellence of your cooking. I’ve eaten pastries made by you in the Consul’s office, on the military training grounds, and I just ate one you made while the Orcs were attacking. Each one perfect. You can cook a perfect pastry no matter how difficult the circumstances. But I just remembered that on the day Galwinius was murdered, I bit into one which was slightly undercooked. The only explanation for that is that you’d left the oven unattended.”

Erisox casts his eyes down.

“A whole batch, too soft in the middle. I should never have left the kitchen.”

“Don’t feel too bad. A man needs to get his bets down while he can.”

“Thraxas!” bellows the loudest voice in the west. It’s Viriggax, not looking in such bad shape.

“Hell of an affair, that! Since when could dragons fly here in winter? Half my troop were killed before we got near the Orcs.”

Viriggax and his remaining mercenaries have carried their wounded companions inside and are now searching for some medical help before heading back to the walls. Some of the men they’ve carried in are badly wounded and a few have died.

“Is that Toraggax?”

Viriggax nods.

“Poor boy. First battle and he gets killed.”

Makri steps over to the body. It’s quite badly mutilated. She looks at it expressionlessly. Not even a frown.

“You know your Prince is dead?” says Viriggax.

“I didn’t.”

“He was a bad leader.”

He was. It wasn’t entirely his fault that the Orcs took us by surprise but he should have trusted in Lisutaris’s warnings.

Makri moves away from Toraggax’s body.

“Was someone responsible for this? I mean, the Orc Sorcerer in Turai, the surprise attack? Did someone betray the city?”

“Rittius, I think,” I mutter, softly, so no one else can hear. Makri nods.

Horses sweep into the pleasure gardens. It’s General Pomius, Lisutaris and various other officials. There’s no sign of the Consul. I wonder if he’s dead. Officers, taking orders from the General, hurry this way and that around the gardens, issuing commands, organising the scattered troops.

“Is that Rittius’s carriage?” Makri asks, indicating a vehicle to the rear of the General’s.

“Looks like it.”

Makri sets off. I follow on after her. In the aftermath of the catastrophic battle, it’s not a time to be investigating a murder, but I’d like words with Rittius anyway.

I force my way through the crowds of soldiers and officials that surround the General’s carriage. No one pays me much notice. There are a lot of soldiers wandering aimlessly around the field, shocked by their experiences. Makri pulls open the door of Rittius’s carriage and leaps inside. I hurry after her, closing the door behind me. Rittius is sitting on his upholstered seat, looking at Makri in surprise.

“Rittius, you dog,” I begin. “I know you’re a traitor—”

I stop. There’s more I want to say but Makri chooses this moment to stick a dagger in Rittius’s heart. I stare at Makri, then back to Rittius.

“…and after due process of law you’ll answer for your crimes in court.”

Rittius slumps forward, dead from his wound. I turn to Makri.

“You couldn’t even wait till I made a speech?”

“What for?”

“I had things to say.”

Makri shrugs.

“Nothing important.”

“You know I only suspected Rittius? I haven’t gathered any proof. We generally don’t execute people merely on my suspicions. We wait till after the trial.”

“There’s never going to be another trial in this city,” says Makri.

“You’re probably right. We should get out of here.”

We slip out of the door on the far side. In the confusion, no one takes any notice of us. I’m not exactly sorry that Makri killed Rittius. He’s been my enemy for a long time and I’m sure enough he betrayed the city, not to mention poisoning Galwinius. And he was probably responsible for the death of Galwinius’s informer, and Bevarius too, to cover his tracks. But I do have a feeling of dissatisfaction. There were things I wanted to say. Makri might have waited till I’d got a few sentences out.