Thraxas - The Complete Series (72 page)

T
he rain continues. Some areas of Turai are now under three feet of water. Parts of Twelve Seas can only be reached by raft. Whole communities have to be evacuated to higher ground and across the city miserable groups of refugees are huddled in warehouses, sick, wet and hungry. The death toll from accidental drowning is the highest ever recorded and food is now unavailable in many districts.

Everyone is suffering. Even the sophisticated drainage engineered in Thamlin can no longer cope and the gardens of the rich have turned into swampland. Prayers are being said for an end to the deluge. Even I have added my voice to them. If this keeps up, the Turas Memorial Race will be cancelled. The races are due to begin in two days’ time but the chariots can’t run in this.

We form a strange company as we troop to my office. One large-sized Investigator and three mysterious hooded figures. Melus walks between Lothian and Azgiz for fear that the natural antipathy between Orcs and Elves may make them forget our mission and start fighting. Lothian has already intimated that he finds it difficult to walk down the same street as an Orc, and Azgiz has let it be known that personally he’d rather descend to the fiery pits of Orcish hell than cooperate with an Elf. I am now obliged to be on my best behaviour because Melus promised that if I started any trouble she’d ban me from the Stadium Superbius. As we enter my office, Makri is scrabbling under the couch.

“I was just looking for—” she begins.

“Forget it. You’re needed.”

“What for?”

“We’re looking for the prayer mat. You already know Melus the Fair, I believe. Allow me to introduce Lothian the Elf and Azgiz the Orc. Don’t make a fuss, there isn’t time.”

Makri is horrified as the Orc and the Elf draw back their hoods.

“You can’t be serious,” she says.

To make matters worse, Azgiz greets her in a friendly manner while Lothian the Elf regards her with suspicion.

“I saw you fight in the arena,” says the Orc swordsman.

He addresses me. “She was undefeated. She was regarded as one of the finest gladiators in history.” He bows to her.

Makri doesn’t know how to react to this so she falls back on what she knows and hurries to her room to find a few weapons.

Lothian’s Elvish senses detect Makri’s background. He looks displeased. “Orc and Elf and Human?” he says. “That is meant to be impossible.”

“Yeah, she’s a marvel.”

Makri reappears with a fierce scowl, a sword at each hip, an axe at her belt and knives stuck into her waistband and boots. Round her neck she carries a bag of throwing stars.

“What were you doing under my couch?” I enquire as we make our way through the muddy street.

“Needed money.”

“Don’t you learn any morals at these ethics classes?”

“Never mind that. What’s the idea of bringing Orcs to the Avenging Axe?”

I fill her in on the details.

“It’s outrageous. Cicerius better get me into the University,” says Makri. “Did you see the way that stupid Elf ignored me?”

I nod. “At least the Orc was polite. He said you were number one gladiator.”

Makri makes a face. She’s none too pleased to encounter anyone who saw her fight in the arena. Too much of a reminder of her days as a slave.

We arrive at Saint Volinius’s Church.

“I tracked the prayer mat to the Pontifex’s house.”

“What now?” asks Melus the Fair.

I admit I’ve no idea.

“Then why did you bring us here?”

“Where else would I bring you? I never claimed to know where the mat is now. It was you and Cicerius who demanded we all troop off and look for it. This is its last known resting place. Now it’s up to you.”

Melus turns enquiringly to Lothian.

“I seem to have misunderstood the role of an Investigator,” says the Elf, dryly. He starts to sniff the air, trying to detect any sign of Orcish artefacts. “It’s no use,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t sense anything. Too much Orcish smell around here already.” He looks pointedly at Azgiz.

“The stench of Elves fills my nostrils,” retorts the Orc.

“Quiet,” demands Melus the Fair. She concentrates for a long time. The distant sound of thunder reaches our ears. Another storm heading in. “This way,” she says finally. She sets off towards the harbour.

I trudge along behind with Makri at my side.

“This is the worst thing you’ve ever got me into, Thraxas.”

I offer my flask of klee. Only Makri accepts. Melus strides through the mud and the rain with the Orc and the Elf on either side, while we tag along behind. I warn Makri that she’d better not lose control and attack Azgiz.

“Melus has threatened to ban me from the Stadium if I step out of line. I’m worried she might mean it. How’s a man supposed to concentrate on his betting with all this going on?” I drink some more klee. “Not that I can concentrate anyway,” I continue, warming to the subject. “Not with half the people in the city trying to fix the races. It’s scandalous. Some things in life should be sacred, beyond interference, and the Turas Memorial is one of them. When I was young no one would’ve dreamed of tampering with it. I tell you, Makri, things are getting out of hand. If I suspect any cheating I’m going straight to the Consul to tell him what’s what. I will demand he calls a special meeting of the Senate.”

Makri is looking at me with something approaching awe. “I’ve never heard you get so worked up before.”

“Well, there’s some things in life a man has to care about.”

“Beer and chariot racing?”

“That’s right. Beer and chariot racing made me what I am today. And I’m proud of it!”

Melus has led us right down to the waterfront, to some warehouses just west of the harbour. She asks Lothian if he can sense anything, but he shakes his head. Melus looks around doubtfully.

“I thought I could sense something Orcish. But it was so faint… I’ve lost it.”

The door of the warehouse opens and four large Orc warriors march out.

“How faint did you say the traces were?”

More Orcs start pouring out waving scimitars and axes.

“Good,” says Makri, who couldn’t take much more sneaking about in this company. I grope for my sleep spell and realise that I’m not carrying it. I’m still using all my magic to keep my cloak dry. This is a tactical error. A dry corpse is not such a great thing to be. I have to discard my cloak anyway to free my arms for fighting.

Melus the Fair reacts quickly, raising her hand and blasting the Orcs with a spell. The front row falls down but there’s a tangible jolt as the spell runs against something and dissipates into the air. The warehouse door opens again and an Orc in a plain black cloak steps out. Around his head is a small black band holding a black jewel in place on his forehead. I haven’t seen that for fifteen years. The black band is the mark of an Orcish Sorcerer, and the black jewel denotes mastery of his art. This Orc can bring down city walls. My spell protection charm is about to be severely tested.

The Orcish Sorcerer barks out a spell. The air turns red and I’m thrown backwards, but my protection charm holds. Melus has placed a barrier between us and the Orcish Sorcerer, preventing his magic from harming our party. It doesn’t hold back the Orcish warriors though. They charge through the crackling, red-tinged air, and Makri, Lothian and myself find ourselves in the middle of a desperate battle for survival.

I’m surprised to see Azgiz at our side. Something wrong there, surely. He should be fighting with the Orcs. I’m glad he’s not, though the odds are bad enough as it is. He has a sword in each hand, a manner of fighting rare in the west. Makri is a master of this style, though on this occasion she is using a sword and an axe, to deadly effect. Both Lothian and myself use a sword and a knife. I’d be better off with a shield but it’s not the sort of thing you carry around the city. We’re hard pressed. We have our backs to the warehouse wall but although we repel the first assailants we’re soon in trouble as the Orcs swarm round our flanks.

I parry a sword thrust from an Orc then stick my knife in him. As I do so he lands a painful cut on my shoulder and I’m only saved from going under by Lothian who brings his sword down on the Orc’s arm then kicks him out of the way.

Suddenly there’s a flash of light. Melus has used a spell to give us an escape route. Part of the wall caves in behind us, and we flee back into the warehouse. Melus is unable to bring her full power into play because she’s already occupied with keeping the Orcish Sorcerer at bay, but she manages to place a stream of fire behind us, giving us enough time to make it to the door at the far side. It opens. More Orcs pour in.

“Isn’t this meant to be a Human city?” I snarl.

“The wagons,” yells Lothian.

In one corner of the warehouse are four or five empty carriages, waiting to be loaded. We charge over and drag one of them out.

“Look,” cries Azgiz. “The prayer mat.”

The prayer mat indeed. We’ve found it, but it doesn’t seem likely we’re ever going to return it.

With our backs to the corner and the wagon in front of us we at least have some sort of cover against the superior numbers. I ask Melus to send for assistance and she gasps that she has already sorcerously contacted her Apprentice, telling her to bring help. Twenty or so Orcs remain. As they advance Melus releases a powerful attack and an explosion sends five Orcs hurtling into the air. Unfortunately this gives their Sorcerer an opening. Without warning, the wagon we’re using as a barricade bursts into flames.

Makri screams an utterly savage war cry and charges out to make her death stand. The flames are licking round us, and there’s no choice but to follow her. I see her whirling into the fray, hacking down Orcs left and right, and I plunge after her. Azgiz is at my side and between us we deal with a couple of them, but there are far too many. Azgiz goes down and I find myself desperately trying to protect him. I see Lothian sliding his sword elegantly into a huge Orcish warrior, but then he too falls under a blow from an axe. Makri leaps to his side and wards off his attackers but then she is surrounded. We’re still on our feet, but we’re seconds from death. I take a blow from a mace and sink to my knees.

At that moment whistles sound and a squadron of the King’s soldiers flood into the warehouse followed by Civil Guards. Melus’s message to her Apprentice reached its destination. I struggle to my feet.

“Thraxas, are you all right?”

It’s Makri, cut and bruised, but still in one piece.

I nod. I notice I smell strongly of klee. “They broke my flask.”

Both Lothian and Azgiz are lying on the ground. Melus is kneeling over the Orc, protecting him from the soldiers and Civil Guards who are mopping up. I suddenly feel faint from the blow I received, and sit down heavily next to a wagon. There’s something uncomfortable underneath me. I drag it out. It’s a small silver statue of a Mermaid, a strange thing to find in a deserted warehouse.

Down on all fours I crawl under the wagon.

“Look, Makri,” I say, emerging with another small statue and a painting. “I just found the rest of Mursius’s stolen artwork.”

“You just can’t stop investigating, can you?”

“I know. I amaze myself sometimes.”

“Careful,” says Makri. “You’re bleeding over them.”

She’s right. We both are. I shout to Melus. “How about a little medical attention round here?”

There is a great deal of confusion as the Guards send out patrols in pursuit of the Orcs who escaped, and messages are sent to dignitaries all over the city. Some time later I find myself comfortably seated in a large reception room in Prefect Drinius’s official residence in Twelve Seas, drinking wine. I am here as his guest, which makes a change. After our desperate battle we are all heroes. Makri and I are in fairly good shape, having been attended to by both Melus the Fair and Chiaraxi the healer. Lothian and Azgiz were more seriously wounded and will take a few days to recover fully.

“My superior street-fighting skills,” I tell Captain Rallee, by way of explanation. “The Elf is not a bad fighter. No doubt in a forest he’d be hard to beat. But when it comes to slugging it out in the slums, I’m number one chariot. Incidentally, what were all the Orcs doing there?”

The Captain doesn’t know. “You’re a busy man these days. If you keep up the hero act they might let you off with murdering Senator Mursius.”

“Very funny. I didn’t kill him.”

“Then who did?”

“Glixius Dragon Killer.”

“Have you got any evidence?”

I shake my head. “But I’ll find it. He’s not getting away from me this time.”

Drinius’s residence is full of senior Guard Captains, Army officers, Sorcerers from the Palace and various other important city officials. The mysterious appearance of so many Orcs in the city has stirred the government into action. As I’m talking to Captain Rallee, the Consul and the Deputy Consul arrive. Cicerius acknowledges me but immediately goes into conference with Melus the Fair and Old Hasius the Brilliant.

The Captain doesn’t know what the Orcs were doing there. I guess I’ll find out soon enough. I summon a servant and ask him for some beer. He tells me there is none and offers me some wine.

“I need beer. Send out for some. Remember, I just saved you from a load of Orcs.”

Lord Lisith-ar-Moh walks majestically into the room, flanked by his tall Elvish attendants. He walks right past the Consul and comes over to Makri and me.

“Lothian has told me of the battle,” he says to us. “I understand that you stood over him when he fell. He would certainly have been killed had it not been for you. He has asked me to thank you, which I now do. And you have my personal thanks as well.”

He bows lightly to me, and then, with the sort of courteous gesture you find among important Elves, he takes Makri’s hand and kisses it. She gapes at him in surprise and stammers out a thank you. Lisith walks off to confer with Kalius and Cicerius, leaving me and Makri with our social status greatly improved. Not everyone in this city gets personally thanked by an Elf Lord. Everyone looks impressed.

A young Elf, who may be the one that stared in surprise at Makri when the ship was being unloaded, also walks over to thank us. His salutation to me is brief and formal. I suspect the real reason is that he has suddenly had a desire to kiss Makri’s hand as well, which he does, though formal Elvish etiquette doesn’t absolutely demand it. Makri blushes. I’ve never see her do that before. The Elf hopes he’ll see her at the Turas Memorial, then departs after his Lord.