Thraxas - The Complete Series (39 page)

Cries of anger and pain ring out from all sides as the monks surge this way and that. While some knives are in view most of the fighting is done empty-handed. Everyone seems to be doing their best to maintain the warrior monks’ reputation as masters of unarmed combat. I wince as a pile-driving blow sends another young novice crashing into the bushes to lie unconscious at our feet.

“Should have kept your guard up,” murmurs Makri who, I suspect, is enjoying the spectacle.

“Should we join in?” she asks.

“Of course not. Why would we?”

“I don’t know. I just thought maybe we should.”

“Just because there’s a fight doesn’t mean you have to get involved, Makri.”

“I suppose not. It just doesn’t seem natural not to.”

The yellow-robed monks of the Cloud Temple seem to have the upper hand, mainly because of the presence of the Venerable Tresius who carries everyone before him. None of the young monks in red can stand up to his furious fighting technique. Bodies literally fly into the air in front of him as he smashes one young novice after another out of the way. He fights his way to the edge of Ixial’s bodyguard and keeps right on going. His followers fan out and start to attack from all directions.

The healer, the herbalist and the apothecarist have wisely fled the scene but I think Calia is still by Ixial’s side, ready to defend him to the last. The power of love, I reflect. I have to admire her for it.

The brothers of the Star Temple put up a desperate defence. They’re brave and unflinching but Tresius is just too much for them, brushing them out of the way like a dragon going through a squadron of poorly paid mercenaries. I wonder if he intends to kill Ixial? As an Investigator, sworn to uphold the law, I should act to prevent such a serious crime being committed right under my nose, but it’s not really my affair when it comes right down to it.

Suddenly I sense someone close to us in the bushes. So does Makri. We turn round as one to the place where a dark-shadowed figure has moved in silence. The figure notes our presence but pays us no more attention. He raises something I can’t quite discern. There’s a sharp twang and a brief humming sound and the next thing I know one of the yellow monks cries out in pain and slumps to the ground. I recognise the humming sound. A crossbow. I don’t need an introduction to know who the figure in the shadows is.

“Sarin the Merciless,” I whisper to Makri.

The crossbow is both powerful and unwieldy. It’s good for defending a city or launching an assault from cover but not much used on the battlefield because of its slowness to load. But in less time than I’ve ever seen it done before, Sarin has another deadly bolt in the groove. She fires it off, killing another of the Cloud Temple monks. As their second man goes down the yellow monks start to realise that something is wrong and pause slightly in their attack, unsure of what’s happening. Another bolt flies from the crossbow. Another monk goes down.

“In the bushes,” yells the Venerable Tresius, gesturing with his hand.

The interruption helps the Star Temple regroup and they re-form a solid defence around Ixial. Monks of the Cloud Temple are now running towards the bushes. I watch as Sarin the Merciless coolly loads another bolt into her weapon. This time she takes more careful aim. She fires at Tresius.

Tresius does something that is not humanly possible. He seizes the bolt out of the air before it hits him. I gasp in astonishment. A bolt from a crossbow has enough power at close range to go in through one wall and out through another. It’s not possible to grab it out of the air in mid-flight. You can’t even see it. And yet Tresius just did.

His followers reach the bushes. I step further back into the shadows. Sarin calmly fires a final bolt into the nearest of her attackers then engages the rest with an unarmed combat technique which matches theirs. Her boast that she’d spent four years studying in a monastery must have been true. She’s up against three opponents and acquitting herself well, sending one spinning backwards, then circling round the other two, denying them an opportunity to attack.

Whistles sound in the distance. The Civil Guard has been alerted. You can’t stage a large battle in Thamlin without the neighbours complaining, and when the neighbours complain in Thamlin, the Guards take notice. There are screams and yells and whistles and the sounds of horse-drawn wagons arriving at the front of the house. Seconds later men wearing the black tunics of the Civil Guard are swarming into the garden.

“Time to go.”

We depart swiftly, finding ourselves running towards the far wall in the company of various monks. I think I notice another figure in the shadows, a small figure, not a monk. Reminds me of someone, but I can’t think who. By the time we’re across the wall and into the park we’re on our own.

“That was quite a night.”

“Great fight.”

We hurry away from the scene. Having once lived here I know my way around even in the dark. I lead us down a little-used lane between two villas till the sound of the uproar fades away. We now face a long walk home. Horse travel is forbidden in Turai at night. The night is still too hot to walk comfortably, and I realise I haven’t eaten or drunk for some time.

“Did you learn enough to clear Grosex?” Makri enquires.

“I’m not sure. I’ll need a while to sort it all out. Right now I need a beer. Why don’t they have more taverns up here? First one we reach, I’m going in.”

It’s well past midnight. As nightlife in this district is not particularly raucous, we don’t find a tavern open until we’re almost out of Thamlin and into Jade Temple Fields, which is a fraction more lively. Jade Temple Fields takes its name, naturally enough, from the old temple with jade columns built as a present from the Elves three hundred years ago after we helped them in a war with the Orcs. Turai sent the biggest contingent of ships with the fleet of the League of City-States and we crushed the Orcish Armada at the famous Battle of Dead Dragon Island. That put an end to Orcish sea power for a long time. Turai’s great Navy was formidable in those days, despite our relatively small size. Not any more. We used to be an important member of the League of City-States. We still are in theory, but everyone knows the Army and Navy are not what they were.

The League isn’t what it was, either. It’s protected smaller city-states from the aggression of our larger neighbours like Nioj for the last four centuries but it’s been falling apart for the past twenty years. Now we’re in a permanent state of alert over the silver mines that border on our supposed ally Mattesh in the south. If we end up at war with them the League will disintegrate and Nioj will eat us all for breakfast.

Jade Temple Fields is home to government workers, lesser civil servants and the like. We finally find a tavern where the lights are still on. Makri looks at it suspiciously.

“It’ll be fine,” I reassure her, and march in.

We’re confronted at the door by a large individual wearing a green tunic signifying him as a member of the Securitus Guild, hired to keep out undesirables. Not like the Avenging Axe. Gurd will let anyone in.

The doorway is illuminated by a flaming torch. In the flickering firelight Makri’s skin looks even redder than usual. The Guard is a mountainous individual. He stretches his arm out, preventing us from entering.

“No swords in here,” he grunts, looking at Makri. “And no Orcs.”

So Makri, without any hesitation whatsoever, hauls off and punches him in the face. He crumples to the ground.

I stare at her. “Couldn’t we even have discussed it first?”

“What’s to discuss? He insulted me.”

True enough. But I badly wanted a beer.

“We’ll find another tavern,” says Makri.

The Guard is lying unconscious in the doorway. I’m tempted to hurdle the body and rush inside for a quick flagon of ale anyway, but decide against it. It’ll only lead to trouble if he wakes up while I’m at the bar.

We trudge on through the hot night.

“I really think you ought to work on controlling your temper, Makri.”

“I’ll start on it tomorrow. Good punch, wasn’t it?”

Makri has cheered up and is no longer looking as miserable as a Niojan whore, which she has been ever since the monk kicked her. Which is quite probably why she punched the doorman. Just keen to have some unarmed combat practice in case she meets them again.

N
ext day I sleep late and wake up with sore legs and a nasty hangover. I struggle out of bed and make straight for my small store of lesada leaves. These come from the Elvish Islands and are very effective against hangovers. I acquired them from an Elf who hired me a couple of months ago. He turned out to be a treacherous criminal and ended up dead, but at least he left something useful behind.

Hanama the Assassin killed him and his companion, and the thought jogs my memory. That small dark figure I glimpsed in the gardens last night reminded me of Hanama. That would be all I need, the Assassins Guild mixing itself up in things.

The lesada leaf quickly starts to take effect. As the hangover recedes I realise I’m stiff all over. It was a long walk home last night, interrupted by a lengthy stay in a tavern in Kushni. No problems for Makri there. The tavern was so disreputable I doubt they’d have turned away the King of the Orcs provided he had a few gurans in his pocket.

The Kushni quarter in the centre of town is a crime-ridden, dwa-soaked collection of taverns, brothels and gambling dens run by and fought over by the Brotherhood and the Society of Friends and habituated by the assembled lowlife of Turai. I come here often in the course of my work. Makri, who doesn’t have much spare time for socialising, isn’t quite so familiar with it. I suspect she was taken by surprise by the potency of the alcohol served. She claimed she wasn’t drunk but I swear it took her fifteen minutes to climb the outside stairs when we arrived home and she wouldn’t have made it at all if I hadn’t hauled her up the last flight myself.

So I’m slightly gratified when Makri crawls into my room about lunchtime and begs a lesada leaf from me. She’s wrapped in an old blanket and looks like she has a bad dose of the plague. I don’t mind Makri being number one chariot when it comes to fighting and she can be as sharp as an Elf’s ear with her studies in philosophy and rhetoric, but I’d really take offence if she started outdrinking me.

Her hand shakes as she raises a goblet of water to her lips.

“You’re looking as green as the leaf,” I comment cheerfully. “I told you that mountain klee was too powerful for you. Needs a strong stomach like mine to take that beverage in.”

“What the hell was it made of?” groans Makri.

“Oh, grapes, yams, corn… Who knows? Up in the mountains they just distil whatever comes to hand.”

She shudders. “Don’t you feel bad?”

“Of course not. Take more than a couple of bottles of mountain klee to affect me. I was up bright and early for morning prayers.”

“Nonsense,” says Makri, wincing with the effort of speaking. “You just got to the lesada leaves first.”

Makri washes her leaf down with some difficulty then lies back on the couch with her arm covering her eyes.

“I don’t think I can make that morning theology class.”

I clear some junk off my table. Makri uncovers her eyes and looks at me with some ire.

“Stop bustling around. I know you’re just trying to show the drink didn’t affect you. I’m going to kill Dandelion.”

“What?”

“I’m going to kill her. As soon as I feel better I’ll run her through with my Orcish blade.”

Dandelion has apparently been droning on about the dolphins again. Makri, normally sympathetic, found it hard to take in her weakened state.

“Though I could do with the healing stone right now. I’m never going drinking in Kushni again.”

She lapses into mordant silence and waits for the leaf to do its work. Despite the heat of the morning she huddles miserably in her blanket and continues to look green. Poor Makri. I decide not to remind her that she actually sat on the lap of a young dwa dealer and attempted to kiss him before being thrown out the tavern. I’ll save that one till she’s stronger.

Downstairs Gurd and Tanrose are already at work. I study Tanrose’s menu, selecting a few items for a hearty breakfast. I choose the fish. Tanrose cooks a fine plate of fish. I notice Gurd stiffening slightly as I order. Fish always puts him in a bad mood. The local fishmonger, quite a prosperous man by the standards of the neighbourhood, has had his eye on Tanrose for some time, and always gives her a good deal when it comes to buying his wares. This makes Gurd jealous. Poor old Barbarian. Having spent most of his life marching round the world fighting for anyone willing to pay him, he still can’t get to grips with the idea of romance. He has got a crush on Tanrose that isn’t getting any better. She doesn’t mind this at all, but Gurd unfortunately can’t quite bring himself to do anything about it. Too used to being a bachelor. Meanwhile he suffers like crazy whenever the fishmonger comes around and starts giving Tanrose big discounts.

By the time I’ve finished my breakfast Makri has appeared downstairs, bright-eyed and healthy.