Thraxas - The Complete Series (201 page)

“Why not? Tanrose won’t mind.”

“It’s not empty.”

“I thought Tanrose was—”

I stop, not wishing to complete the sentence in front of Dandelion.

“Sleeping with Gurd,” says Makri, who has no delicacy about her at all.

“She is. But Chiaraxi is in Tanrose’s room.”

“What do you mean?”

“She got sick.”

I gape at Dandelion, as does Makri.

“Dandelion, don’t babble. She can’t get sick, she’s the healer.”

“Well she did,” replies Dandelion, placidly. “This afternoon. Just fell over when she was making potions. So we had to put her in Tanrose’s room. I’m going to make up potions for everyone later, she gave me the recipe. We’ll all have to work extra hard to look after people now the healer is sick.”

I’m practically speechless and Makri isn’t looking too pleased either.

“Well, this seems bad,” she says. “Rather shakes my confidence in Chiaraxi.”

“Mine too. The least you could expect from a healer is not to get ill.”

“Damn them all! Can’t they get sick somewhere else?” says Makri.

“You were the one who encouraged them all to hang around.”

“I did not,” retorts Makri. “Apart from Lisutaris. And maybe Hanama. I don’t like this at all, Thraxas. Everyone’s getting sick. Is it some sort of spell?”

Makri seems quite disconcerted by the whole thing. It’s unusual for her to show signs of nervousness in any circumstances. I guess she really doesn’t like the idea of becoming ill.

“Relax. If you catch it you’ll get better.”

“I’m not taking potions to anyone,” she says.

“We all have to pull together,” says Dandelion.

“Damn them all,” says Makri again.

All thoughts of the winter malady are banished next moment when Captain Rallee, accompanied by four excited-looking Civil Guards, rushes into the tavern. He bangs his fist on the table for silence then shouts out to everyone in the room.

“There’s a report of Orcs in Twelve Seas! Down by the church. Everyone with a sword follow me!”

There’s a mass scramble for weapons. Viriggax and his mercenaries leap to their feet, hastily grab their swords and make for the door. Gurd appears from behind the bar, axe in hand, and runs after them. Meanwhile I’m moving as fast as I can in the same direction. If the Orcs have somehow arrived in Twelve Seas undetected the city might be about to fall a lot sooner than anyone expected. Makri disappears up the stairs to fetch her weapons and is so quick that’s she’s coming down the steps from my office to the street outside by the time I get there. We hurry along after the mercenaries and the Captain, towards the church. Unfortunately, by this time the wind has dropped and the mist that came in earlier has now enveloped Twelve Seas in thick white gloom. The Captain and his men have already disappeared from view, and those who are trying to keep up with him find themselves crashing into passers-by attempting to make their way home through the gloom. The city’s lamplighters have already lit the torches that stand on most street corners, but their light barely cuts through the mist, making it almost impossible to see where I’m going.

Thick winter fogs are not that uncommon in Turai but I’m not certain whether this is completely natural. If the Orcs are indeed attacking, then sending in a sorcerous blanket of freezing mist as cover wouldn’t be a bad idea. Controlling the weather by means of magic is extremely difficult, but everything we’ve learned about the Orcish Sorcerers in the past few years seems to indicate that they’re growing stronger.

By the time I’m close to the church I’ve lost sight of everyone, including Makri. Somewhere ahead of me I can hear Viriggax bellowing at his mercenary company, ordering them to form up and advance behind him. I can’t hear the clash of weapons but there’s a lot of shouting coming from all directions, and several people crash into me from behind, rushing to the scene as word spreads that the Orcs are in the city. Suddenly the great bell at the harbour starts booming out a warning.

“Orcish ships!” screams someone, though from where we are, we can’t see the sea. But the cry is taken up and soon the whole area around the church is a mass of people rushing blindly about in the mist, brandishing weapons and screaming that the Orcs are coming. I can’t see more than a sword’s length in front of me, and the way things are going I’m expecting to be run through by an overexcited mercenary before I come to grips with the enemy. I actually bump into Captain Rallee between the church and the harbour. He’s lost all his men and he’s sweating with the exertion of running around Twelve Seas.

“Have you seen anything?” he barks at me. I shake my head and he hurries off, blowing a whistle to rally his men, which isn’t going to work in this confusion. Bells, whistles, shouts and screams rend the air from every direction. Having failed to locate any Orcs around the church, I’m making my way down towards the harbour, ready to repel invaders. It’s slow progress. I’ve giving up running and pick my way carefully along. I know every inch of these streets but the torches haven’t carried away any of the mist and visibility is almost zero. Inevitably, I find myself trampling over beggars and comatose dwa addicts, lying in front of alleyways, impervious to the excitement. I’m continually jostled by soldiers, Civil Guards, mercenaries, not to mention Twelve Seas civilians carrying whatever weapons they can find. I march round a corner with a sword in my hand and nearly decapitate a funeral party, two men in black cloaks and hoods, and a veiled woman, all treading slowly homewards, heads solemnly bowed. I cast a swift suspicious glance at their concealed faces—you wouldn’t expect Orcs to invade the city disguised as a funeral party, but who knows what they might be up to these days—but they’re Human, not Orcs. I can always sense the presence of Orcs. A useful talent that’s stayed with me from my days as a Sorcerer’s apprentice. As it happens, I do see one of their faces, when I tread on someone’s toes and he lifts his hood to give me an angry scowl.

“Watch where you’re going,” he barks.

“Possible Orcish invasion,” I mutter back, by way of explanation, and plunge back into the mist.

When I’m almost at the harbour I bump right into Makri. She’s carrying her black Orcish sword in one hand and a medium-sized axe in the other. Her Elvish sword is slung over her back.

“Have you seen the Orcs?” she cries.

“No. Have you?”

She shakes her head.

“No sign of them. Though I’ve bumped into most other people in Twelve Seas.”

“Me too.”

We stand in silence for a moment, as the chaos continues all around.

“We must have covered a fair bit of ground between us,” says Makri. “You think we’d have come across an Orc by now.”

She looks disappointed.

“You think it might be a false alarm?”

I nod.

“It’s starting to look that way.”

The great bell at the harbour has stopped ringing, though there’s still a lot of confused shouting in the distance. Makri shivers. She ran out of the Avenging Axe wearing only her chainmail bikini, and now that the excitement is wearing off she’s noticing that it’s not an appropriate garment for walking around in a freezing fog.

“I need a beer. I’m going back to the Axe.”

Makri hesitates. She likes to fight and she likes to kill Orcs. She’s disappointed not to get the chance.

“Maybe they’re hiding somewhere.”

By now other people are starting to leave the area, looming in twos and threes out of the mist, muttering to each other about being called from the warmth of their homes to fight enemies that weren’t there.

“I doubt it. Orcs aren’t that good at hiding. We’d have found them by now. It’s a false alarm.”

We walk on up the street, through the mist. I pause, then walk on, then pause again.

“What’s wrong?” says Makri.

“Nothing,” I reply, but as we carry on along the road I lean over to whisper in her ear.

“I think someone’s following us.”

Makri raises her eyebrows, but carries on walking, careful not to let whoever might be behind us know that we’ve noticed. I whisper to her again.

“We better sort this out before we reach the tavern. Don’t want to lead anyone to Lisutaris.”

Makri nods. The mist is now thicker than ever. I can’t see more than a few feet in front of my face, but every so often I’m certain I can hear a soft footfall behind us. As we pass the next alleyway Makri disappears into it completely silently, while I carry on.

I keep talking, as if she’s still beside me.

“You’re right, Makri. I was heroic on the battlefield last month. I expect the city will erect a statue in my honour. This city’s been looking for a good man to lead it for a long time now. I wouldn’t be surprised if they drafted me into the senate. Just fit me into a toga and I’d sort things out.”

If our pursuer hasn’t noticed that Makri went into the alleyway, he should now be between us. I turn round and retrace my steps.

“Makri,” says a voice, quite clearly through the fog. I can’t see anything. I walk quicker. I hear Makri’s voice replying.

“Marizaz.”

At the sound of the Orcish name I start to run, fearing that Makri has encountered an invasion force, but when I arrive on the scene I find her face to face with a lone Orc. Not tall, by Orcish standards, but very broad. He’s carrying a sword in each hand and wearing a cloak and hood which might have got him through the foggy streets undetected. The Orc glances at me as I arrive.

“Who is this?”

“A friend of mine,” says Makri.

“You have Human friends now?”

“Yes.”

The Orc looks at me contemptuously. It’s obvious I haven’t made a great impression on him. I take out my sword. Perhaps that will help.

“We heard tales you’d joined the Humans,” says the Orc. “But I didn’t believe it till now.”

They’re talking in common Orcish, which I can also speak.

“Are you old friends?” I ask Makri, who’s sheathed her axe and now holds a sword in each hand.

“This is Marizaz,” replies Makri. “Number two gladiator in the Orcish arena.”

“Now number one.”

“Only because I left.”

“I’d have killed you soon enough,” says Marizaz.

“What are you doing here?” asks Makri.

“I’m here to kill your Sorcerer chief.”

“That’s not likely to happen,” I say.

“I’d have killed her already had she not fled her household.”

At the news that this Orcish Assassin has already visited Lisutaris’s villa, I start to worry. I’m presuming he didn’t just walk into Turai and wander round Thamlin without some help.

“How did you get into the city?” I demand.

“As easily as Amrag will, very soon,” he replies, which isn’t a lot of help really.

From the way Marizaz and Makri are staring at each other, I’d say they’d never been friends in the arena.

“You should have remained a gladiator,” says Makri. “Assassination doesn’t suit you.”

“It suits me well enough. Killing you will be a fine bonus.”

“Maybe you’ve forgotten the way I fight?”

Marizaz sneers.

“They gave you easy opponents because you were a woman.”

Makri’s expression is grim. I’ve rarely seen her so offended, and I’ve insulted her plenty of times. She turns her head towards me.

“Thraxas. Don’t interfere.”

Back when Makri was training a young Elf to fight on Avula, she once explained to me two different modes of combat she’d learned in the gladiator pits. One, the Way of the Gaxeen, seemed to involve being as insanely aggressive as possible and hacking your opponent to death no matter what the cost. The other, the Way of Sarazu, was more contemplative. Something to do with being at one with the water and the sky. I never quite understood it. It seemed like an overcomplicated way of thinking about fighting, though as the end result was killing your opponent, and Makri is always very good at that, I’m not going to criticise her for it. As she confronts Marizaz, I’d say there is more Sarazu going on than Gaxeen. She doesn’t charge in aggressively; in fact they don’t engage at all at first, but circle round each other warily looking for an opening. Finally Makri halts, and stands quite motionless, her eyes fixed on her opponent, her swords raised, not moving a muscle. Marizaz does the same. Makri withdraws her twin swords, holding one above her head with the point facing her opponent, and the other in front of her body, slanted sideways. It’s an unusual posture, not one I’ve ever seen before. Marizaz does something similar, and stands in front of her as solidly as an oak tree.

For the first time in a long time, I feel a flicker of worry about Makri’s skills. I was never a gladiator, but I’ve fought all over the world, and in my younger days I won the sword-fighting championship in far-off Samsarina. You get to recognise a good opponent by the way he carries himself. I’d say that Marizaz is a very good opponent. He has to be, to have survived the Orcish gladiator pits. He’s got a lot of weight advantage, and studying his posture, I don’t see any flaws in his defence. He’s a little taller than Makri and he has a longer reach. I leave my hand on my sword pommel, ready to help out if necessary.

They stare at each other for a long time. Far too long for my liking. I’m not used to contemplating an opponent. I’ve never seen Makri take such a long time to get down to business. Usually when confronted by an enemy she just charges in and kills him.

Finally Marizaz moves, and he attacks so quickly it’s hard to tell exactly what happens. He leaps forward in one smooth but explosive movement, his twin swords flashing towards Makri faster than the eye can follow. Makri, nimble as she is, doesn’t move her feet. Her own swords descend, there’s a clash of steel on steel, and a sudden sharp cry. Marizaz falls to the ground, still clutching his swords, blood pumping from a fatal wound in his neck. Makri watches him carefully, her swords now back in their defensive guard. As far as I could see she deflected both of his blades with her black Orcish sword then slashed his neck with her silver Elvish blade, although to be honest it all happened so quickly it’s hard to be sure.

Marizaz dies quickly, expiring in seconds from his fatal wound. Makri regards his body quite calmly, finally lowering her guard.