Thraxas - The Complete Series (22 page)

“You seem to be having trouble holding on to it.”

“I was not expecting such treachery from Sarin the Merciless.”

I turn to Sarin. “So what are you going to do now? I doubt if your warrior monk training is going to enable you to fend off me, Makri and Glixius.”

Sarin sneers. I haven’t impressed her.

“As representatives of the honourable politicians in this city, you make a sorry pair. An obese, drunken Investigator and a treacherous criminal Sorcerer.” She holds up the letter. “For blackmailing a Prince. The opening price is ten thousand gurans. Who’d like to make an offer?”

Glixius Dragon Killer has no intention of bidding. He raises his hand to fire a spell at her. Seconds later he is tossed to the ground and lies stunned. His spell has rebounded on him. Another rainbow-clad figure floats gently down from the top of the arch.

“Who’s that?” says Makri.

“Tas of the Eastern Lightning,” I reply. “Looks like Palace Security are getting in on the act at last.”

I’m expecting Tas to wrest the letter from Sarin and possibly send her crashing into a wall with a spell for good measure. What he actually does is stroll over and kiss her lightly on the cheek. Makri and I look on in amazement as she kisses him back.

“No wonder he said he couldn’t find her. They’re in league now.”

“Indeed we are,” booms Tas, a tall man with long brown hair tumbling down over his rainbow cloak.

“What’s the matter with these Sorcerers in Turai?” I snarl, cursing them all. “If they’re not dwa addicts or drunks, then they’re psychotic criminals.”

“Lucky you never finished your studies,” whispers Makri, eyeing the pair warily. “Is Tas more powerful than you?”

“Like a tiger compared to a rat. Try not to upset him. Remember what happened to Mirius Eagle Rider.”

“Do I hear a bid?” calls Sarin the Merciless.

I offer her the ten thousand gurans. Glixius Dragon Killer hauls himself to his feet and swears a savage oath. He fires up another spell and Tas bounces it right back, sending Glixius thudding to the ground again. It’s a sight I enjoy. I’d kick him while he’s down but I haven’t the time.

“It seems you are the only bidder, Thraxas,” says Sarin. “Very well, ten thousand gurans to you.”

Sarin holds out the letter. I hold out the bag of gold. The transaction is interrupted by a bolt of lightning which sears into the ground between us, sending everyone flying. I land on my back, staring stupidly at the sky. Just discernible in the darkness is the vast shape of a war dragon, something not seen this far west since the war ended fifteen years ago. Its nostrils are red with fire and riding atop the beast is the crazed figure of Horm the Dead, long black hair and feather jewellery flying in the wind. His shrill voice cuts through the night.

“The letter is rightfully mine, I believe.”

Tas of the Eastern Lightning climbs calmly to his feet. “Not yours, Horm the Dead.”

With that Tas unleashes a spell that sends the dragon spinning through the sky, screaming with rage and bafflement.

“Wow,” says Makri.

We’re impressed. Horm the Dead and a war dragon obviously hold no terrors for Tas of the Eastern Lightning. Horm regains control and flies back overhead.

“Save your energy, Tas of the Eastern Lightning,” shouts Horm. “I haven’t come for the letter, or the gold, or to fight with you, though one day I will kill you at my leisure.”

“At your leisure,” shouts Tas. “Then why have you come?”

“To destroy your city, and all the Humans in it who I have found so annoying of late. Humans such as yourself, Thraxas.”

Horm the Dead starts to intone a spell. A very long spell, in Orcish, never before heard in the world. He completes his incantation, waves us a mocking farewell, then wheels his dragon up and away into the night. We all stare at each other. Nothing seems to be happening.

“What was that all about?”

Tas of the Eastern Lightning looks very grim. He takes Sarin’s hand. “Get the gold. It’s time to go. That was the city-devouring spell. The Eight-Mile Terror. Horm has remade it. Madness will now grip the population. Turai is going to be destroyed.”

I should know better than to aggravate these mad half-Orc Sorcerers. You never know when they might come and destroy your city.

“I don’t feel anything,” protests Sarin.

“You’re wearing a protective necklace,” says Tas. “So am I. But the population isn’t.”

Outside a low murmuring is growing in intensity. We run from the Stadium Superbius and are confronted with the terrible sight of the city starting to burn. Yellow flames leap into the sky to meet the first rays of dawn. Sarin holds out the letter.

“The gold,” she snaps.

I make the transaction, though what use it’ll be once Turai succumbs to the flames of madness I don’t know. Glixius Dragon Killer runs up behind me and tries to snatch the letter out of my hand. Sarin the Merciless executes a faultless kick to his head, worthy indeed of a trained warrior monk, and Glixius slumps unconscious to the ground.

“A bad mistake to double-cross me,” she mutters. She takes out a knife and bends over him. I think she’s going to finish him off but instead, with a malicious grin, she slits his protective charm and takes it from his neck.

“Happy awakenings,” she says, putting her arm round Tas’s waist. Tas mutters a spell and they rise into the air.

“You can’t just leave Turai to be destroyed!”

“I believe Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, was working on a counterspell to Horm’s Eight-Mile Terror,” calls Tas, now high above us. “She might be able to save you all, if she can stay awake long enough.”

They disappear into the blackness.

“Why wouldn’t Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, be able to stay awake?”

“She’s always stoned. Smokes her thazis through a big water pipe.”

Glixius stirs.

“We better get out of here.”

We run. Behind us Glixius screams like a maniac and starts bellowing out spell after spell, far more than he could possibly retain in his memory in normal circumstances. Statues start falling from plinths and walls explode in flame as the now insane sorcerer vents his wrath on the world.

“That Sarin is a mean woman!” I gasp, as we dive for the safety of the nearest buildings. “I don’t give much for Tas’s chances once he’s outlived his usefulness.”

All of a sudden we’re surrounded by demented citizens waving clubs and swords and attacking anything that moves. An old woman with a stick charges at Makri. Makri boots her out the way but is obliged to gut a huge northern mercenary who flies at her with a battle axe. We flee into an alleyway and leap the wall at the end, seeking safety, though nowhere is safe. Between us and every city gate is a crowd driven mad by Horm the Dead’s evil spell.

A hand appears from nowhere and grabs Makri. She disappears with a yelp into a doorway. I plunge after her and find her in the grip of a small dark figure. It’s Hanama, Master Assassin.

“Oh God, not a mad Assassin,” I cry, and leap at her throat. Hanama side-steps neatly and I thump against the wall.

“Not a mad Assassin,” says Hanama coolly, and fingers her own protective necklace, made from the same Red Elvish Cloth as mine.

I don’t know if this meeting is a coincidence or if Hanama has been following us. With the city starting to self-destruct there is no time to think about it.

The Assassin scans the crowd with distaste. “My guild dislikes too much social unrest,” she says. “Some discontent is good for business, but too much always spoils things.”

“True, Hanama. No one needs Assassins when everyone’s killing everyone else anyway. I guess the investigating business will go downhill as well.”

“We’d better try and reach Lisutaris’ house,” says Makri, and explains to Hanama that the Sorcerer may have a countermanding spell to the Eight-Mile Terror. Hanama agrees. I look at her with suspicion. Her behaviour of late has been strange, out of character for an Assassin. They usually keep themselves to themselves, apart from when they’re killing people.

I have no great hopes of Lisutaris being able to end the riot but I don’t have any better idea. Besides, it’s possible that the Sorcerers up in Truth is Beauty Lane will be able to hold off the maddened crowds so it seems as good a destination as any. I can’t say I’m pleased to throw in my lot with an Assassin though, and I tell her to depart.

Twenty or so soldiers, fully armed and fully maddened, charge up the street towards us. We flee, and I find myself keeping company with Hanama anyway, much against my will.

Unfortunately, Truth is Beauty Lane is a popular destination for the crazed inhabitants of the city. Even in their madness they see that it will be a fine place to burn. Everyone has gone violently insane. Apart from the Royal Family, only Sorcerers, senior officials and a few wealthy merchants have protective necklaces, and I wouldn’t give much for their chances against the demented mob.

Makri and Hanama’s fighting skills and my enormous body weight get us close. The resident Sorcerers are making a desperate effort to keep the crazed citizens at bay. The air crackles with magical energy as the barrier they’ve erected is subjected to a continual barrage of flaming torches and missiles. Not all of the Sorcerers in Truth is Beauty Lane are as powerful as Tas of the Eastern Lightning or Harmon Half Elf. Many of them are little better than astrologers, with few more resources than myself, and the effort is starting to tell on them. Gorsius Starfinder, and Old Hasius the Brilliant, Chief Sorcerer at the Abode of Justice, both powerful Sorcerers, stand firmly in the street repelling all comers, but several of their companions are starting to retreat, forced back by the weight of incoming missiles. A few firebrands penetrate the magical barrier and the houses at the end of the street start to burn. Of Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, there is no sign.

The crowd are fully occupied with the attack and make no attempt to prevent us drawing near. When we reach the end of the street I bellow at Gorsius Starfinder at the top of my voice, straining to make myself heard above the roar of the mob. Gorsius hears me. He stares at me dubiously. I hold up my protective necklace, screaming for him to let me in. He motions with his staff. The barrier flickers. Hanama, Makri and I plunge through.

“Bad place to come for refuge,” gasps Gorsius Starfinder, who’s standing flinging spells in his underwear, having not even had time to don his rainbow cloak. “We can’t hold them off much longer.”

“Where’s Lisutaris?”

“Stoned, I expect,” says Gorsius, ducking as a rock flies overhead.

“Tas of the Eastern Lightning told me she was working on a counterspell to the Eight-Mile Terror.”

“The Eight-Mile Terror?” screams Gorsius. “Is that what has caused this?”

“What did you think it was? Something in the water?”

Gorsius groans. “Then there is no chance of it ending. Where is Tas? We need his help.”

“He’s not coming, I’m afraid.”

In the distance flames are rising from the Imperial Palace. Another rock penetrates the barrier. Gorsius Starfinder crumples to the ground. His Apprentice runs up and drags him to safety but the Sorcerers are now harder pressed than ever. Some of the junior ones who’ve never been to war are losing their nerve. We sprint up the road to Lisutaris’ mansion. Around it lie the bodies of her servants, subdued in their madness by the Sorcerers. The door is locked.

“The crowd just advanced,” says Makri.

I charge like an elephant and the door splinters. Hanama, fleetest of foot, is the first to find the Mistress of the Sky, Sorcerer of vast power, and hopeless thazis abuser. She’s lying beside her water pipe with a faraway look on her face. The room is thick with smoke, thicker than the Avenging Axe after an all-night celebration. The woman really does smoke far too much of this stuff. Once more I curse the degeneracy of our Palace Sorcerers.

“Try and rouse her, Makri. I’ll look for the spell.”

Makri starts shaking Lisutaris, while Hanama and I tear the house apart looking for the counterspell to the Eight-Mile Terror. From outside the roar of the crowd intensifies as more and more of the demented citizens break through the Sorcerers’ barrier.

As I plunge into Lisutaris’ workroom a crazed servant appears from somewhere waving a carving knife. I dodge the strike and slug him. He’s too mad to feel it and comes at me again so I trip him up and break a chair over his head. If we survive Lisutaris can patch him up later. I start rummaging through the Sorcerer’s books.

“Is this it?” asks Hanama, appearing with a freshly written parchment. I study it quickly.

“Afraid not, this is a spell for making thazis plants grow quicker.” Hanama tosses it away in disgust and we carry on searching. A rock crashes through the window. The crowd are closing in. Gorsius Starfinder and his Apprentice stumble in through a back door, dragging Old Hasius the Brilliant with them. All three are cut and bleeding.

“The crowd’s breaking through!”

Hasius the Brilliant is reputed to be a hundred and ten years old. He’ll be lucky to reach a hundred and eleven if the counterspell doesn’t turn up soon. I drag open another drawer, and uncover various newly worked parchments, which I scan frantically.

“Yes!” I scream in triumph. “A counterspell to the Eight-Mile Terror!”

Gorsius hobbles over to study it with me. As he reads through it quickly, he wipes blood from his face. More rocks crash through the windows. His face falls.

“She hasn’t finished it.”

I quit the room immediately and tell Makri to stop trying to revive Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky.

“She hasn’t finished the spell. There’s nothing to do now but get out of here before the whole city goes up in flames.”

“Well, so much for civilisation,” says Makri, and makes to leave with me.

“Where are you going?” demands Gorsius Starfinder, appearing beside us.

“Anywhere. We’re going to fight our way out before the city burns.”

“You can’t just run away,” protests the Sorcerer.

“Only thing to do,” says Makri, matter-of-factly. “We can’t fight the whole population.”

“Just buy us some time. Lisutaris can complete the spell.”