Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  Everyone is pleased about that. We all like Elves here. The only thing wrong is that the Elvish chariot has more or less finished the Turas Memorial as a serious competition. We don’t breed horses up here the way the Elves do in the Southern Islands.

  And yet … like any gambler I’m always interested when someone gives me a tip. I stood beside Senator Mursius when the east wall of the city was breached and watched him fight hand to hand with the savage Orcish force swarming over the debris and into the city. If Mursius hadn’t been there to lead us we’d never have held out till the Elves arrived.

  “He’s not the sort of man to place his faith in a no-hoper,” I point out to Gurd, who was there that day as well.

  “True. But chariot-owners always think they’re going to win,” replies Gurd. “You’ve lost plenty at the races already. No point throwing more away.”

  Gurd and I reminisce about the war. We’ve done that often recently. The imminent arrival of Lord Lisith has certainly stirred up the memories. Orcs, dragons, walls tumbling to the ground under sorcerous attack, buildings on fire, the desperate battle, the sound of trumpets and the sudden unexpected arrival of the Elves. Even when they arrived it was no easy matter to defeat the Orcs. The fight continued all day and all night and all of the next day as well. It was quite an experience. So I figure Gurd and I are fully justified in bragging about our part in it, no matter what anyone might say when we wheel out our war stories for another airing.

  Gurd is right about the race of course. And yet… Mursius is sharp as an Elf’s ear when it comes to chariot racing. He’s had a lot of success. I can feel myself being tempted. I banish it from my mind and get back to the task in hand, namely recovering Senator Mursius’s lost works of art. Gurd has a couple of good horses out the back and I ask the stable lad to saddle one of them up for me while Tanrose, the tavern cook and object of Gurd’s Barbarian affections, fills me a basket of provisions for the journey. I tie back my long hair and tuck it inside my tunic, then wrap myself in my cloak.

  Just as I’m leaving Makri enters the tavern.

  “I’m wet as a Mermaid’s blanket,” she states. “What a stupid climate this city has. If it isn’t too hot, it’s too wet. Now it’s both.”

  I have to agree. The weather in Turai is often unpleasant. We have four months of blazing sun, one month of hot rain, about one month of a fairly temperate autumn, then four months of extreme, biting cold. After that there’s another rainy season, cold this time, lasting a month, before the month-long spring, which is pleasant.

  “Which makes only two reasonable months a year,” growls Makri.

  “At least it’s regular.”

  “Why the hell did anyone ever build a city here?”

  “Good harbour. And we’re on the main trade routes.”

  Makri curses in archaic Elvish. She’s been learning the Royal Elvish language at her Guild classes and wants to practise.

  “Not that the Elves ever curse the rain, or so I’m told,” continues Makri. Apparently they all sit around in their trees thinking it’s yet another fine part of nature. Stupid Elves.”

  Makri was already fluent in Common Elvish when she arrived in Turai. Presumably that was from her Elvish grandparent, but who that was I’ve never asked, and Makri has never exactly explained. Nor has she talked about her Orcish grandparent. I wouldn’t dare ask. Anyway, both my Elvish and Orcish have improved a lot since she’s been around.

  I ask her what she was doing wandering around in the rain. She tells me she was looking for plants.

  “What for?”

  “Natural history class at the Guild College. The Professor wants us all to study some interesting local plants.”

  “That might be difficult in Twelve Seas. There aren’t any.”

  “I know. I went to look in that small park behind Saint Rominius’s Lane. Unfortunately the park’s disappeared. Someone built a block of tenements right over it.”

  King Reeth-Akan lays down strict regulations concerning the number of parks for his subjects. Even the poorest of areas should have open spaces for the citizenry to take their exercise and forget their cares for a while. Unfortunately the Prefects who control planning in each district are very amenable to looking the other way if bribed by property developers. It’s reached the stage now where there’s hardly an open space left in Twelve Seas. The last Prefect, Tholius, was as corrupt as they come. He was recently forced to flee the city after being caught out trying to divert some of the King’s gold into his own coffers. Obviously Drinius, his replacement, hasn’t wasted any time in lining his own pockets. You can tell a man of aristocratic birth because his name ends in “ius.” But you could work it out anyway by his amazing willingness to take money for favours. “Easy as bribing a Senator,” as they say. Not like the solid working-class citizens, who tend to have “ox” or “ax” in their names. Like Thraxas, for instance. They’re as honest as they come.

  “I’m just heading off into the country,” I tell Makri. “Come along and study the plant life.”

  Makri considers it. She has got the rest of the day free and she thinks she could use some exercise.

  “Okay, I’ll come along if I can share the magic dry cloak,” she says, cunningly. “I need some interesting kind of plant. If I fail on this assignment Professor Toarius will be down on me like a bad spell.”

  Makri scowls. From her frequent complaints I know that Professor Toarius is high on the long list of people associated with the Guild College who think it would be a far better place if it didn’t include Makri. It was him who forbade her to attend classes in her chainmail bikini because of the disturbance she was creating. Even the man’s tunic she put over it didn’t satisfy him.

  “He said it showed too much of my thighs. Is that taboo in Turai?”

  “No. Just distracting for young men trying to study philosophy.”

  As a result of which she now has to wrap herself up in a voluminous cloak before going to college, even when the sun is beating down and it’s hot as Orcish hell, which it was all summer.

  “Professor Toarius is as cold as an Orc’s heart,” grumbles Makri, and goes upstairs to get her axe.

  Makri sticks at it though. She works hard, at the tavern and at the Guild College for the Education of the Sons of the Lower Classes. It’s her ambition to go to the Imperial University. This, as I have frequently pointed out, is impossible. The University doesn’t accept female students, especially ones with Orc blood in their veins. The Imperial University is such an exclusive institution, catering only for the offspring of aristocrats, that even our richest merchants have trouble getting their children in. It is a symbol of the complete control exercised by the ruling elite, which makes it even more impossible for Makri ever to attend. She refuses to be put off. “The Guild College didn’t take female students either before I insisted,” she points out. You have to admire her persistence.

  She arrives back with her axe, two swords, a knife in her boot and a bag of throwing stars, an Assassins Guild weapon she’s been experimenting with recently.

  “Makri, you’re only looking for a few plants. What the hell are you expecting to meet out there?”

  “You never know. Any time I’m helping you on a case it always turns out worse than we expect. I still haven’t forgotten the time we went looking for that missing dog and ended up fighting pirates. And look what happened the last time you made me go out without my axe. I ended up with a crossbow bolt in the chest and nearly died.”

  “And we’d have missed you terribly. Let’s go.”

  “I found this envelope addressed to you on the stairs.”

  I rip it open.

  You’ll never make it past the Hot Rainy Season, says the message.

  “Another death threat?”

  I nod. I should have killed Glixius Dragon Killer when I had the chance.

  Outside it’s still hot. The rain has intensified and my old cloak keeps me dry for about thirty seconds. Meanwhile Makri is comfortably wrapped
up in the magic dry cloak.

  “The rain doesn’t seem so bad when you get used to it,” she says. “Where are we going?”

  “Ferias. An exclusive little resort further down the coast.”

  “Then why aren’t we heading for the west gate?”

  “I’m calling in at Mox’s. I have a hot tip.”

  Makri nods. She might not approve of betting but she was impressed when she saw me come home with a twenty-guran profit.

  Mox’s small, dingy premises is full of punters in the damp and grubby tunics and cloaks worn by the common Turanian masses. Most of the lower classes, including myself, wear grey. A few of the more adventurous youngsters might burst into colour occasionally but exotic clothes are beyond the budget of most people. Only the upper classes wear white.

  A messenger arrives every now and then with the latest news from the Sorcerer at the track, hundreds of miles away in Juval. I’m here to bet on the first race tomorrow, just in case I don’t make it back to the city tonight. Though I’m careful not to reveal anything I’m practically beside myself with glee. I’ve been looking forward to this race for a long time. It’s my insurance policy.

  The odds on the four chariots in the race are even money, six to four, six to one and eight to one. As a serious gambler I am not a man to throw away his cash on outsiders but I happen to know that Troll Mangler at six to one has a particularly good chance in this race. I whisper in Makri’s ear.

  “I know the owner, I was drinking with him just before he went south. He’s been keeping this chariot in reserve, well out of sight. He told me he’s never trained a better team of horses. That’s why he’s gone down to Juval, where he isn’t known. He’s going to make a bundle at six to one, and so am I.”

  Mox is slightly surprised when I confidently place forty gurans on Troll Mangler. Outside I do a little jig in the rain.

  “Two hundred and forty gurans to Thraxas, thank you very much.”

  “What if it loses?” says Makri as she swings herself on to her horse.

  “No chance. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  The thunderstorm has passed but there will be plenty more of them in the month to come. It’s a two-hour ride down the coast to Ferias. By the time we reach the city walls my good humour at placing the bet has disappeared and I’m starting to regret taking this case. When we’re halfway there I seriously consider turning back.

  “This is grim,” I splutter. “I’m about as miserable as a Niojan whore. I haven’t been this wet since Gurd and I swam underneath an enemy raft in the war against the Niojans and attacked them by surprise. And I was a lot younger then.”

  We stop for something to eat, sheltering under a tree. Makri looks around for some interesting plant life.

  “I have to turn up with something really special. All I can see here is grass and bushes.”

  “They’ll probably have some unusual plants in the grounds at Mursius’s villa. Steal one of them.”

  We ride on.

  “What are you meant to do when you get there? Isn’t his wife going to find it rather offensive if you just march in and demand to know what she did with the loot?”

  I look at Makri with interest. When she arrived in Turai I don’t think she understood the concept of being offensive. The classes must be civilising her.

  “Maybe. But Mursius doesn’t care. Their relationship has passed the point of being polite. He just wants his paintings back.”

  The rain lashes down. I swear a few curses at Rittius. If he hadn’t dragged me through the courts I wouldn’t have to be doing this. Thank God he’s not Deputy Consul any more. That post is now occupied by Cicerius, who belongs to the Traditionals, the party that supports the King. They’d been losing ground to the opposition Populares but Cicerius’s victory stemmed the tide. I had a hand in the victory. Thanks to some smart work on my part Cicerius avoided losing his reputation. Not that I particularly support the Traditionals. The Populares have some things in their favour. The common people could do with a little more of the city’s wealth. Unfortunately the Populares are led by Senator Lodius, as nakedly ambitious a tyrant as ever put on a toga.

  “How come Cicerius didn’t use his influence to protect you in court?” asks Makri. “After all, he’s Deputy Consul now, and he owes you a favour.”

  That’s a very sore point. First thing I did when the trouble arose was visit Cicerius but he would have to be the one man in Turai who is both absolutely incorruptible and a sworn upholder of the law. He expressed sympathy for my plight, but refused to use his influence to get the charges thrown out. Because, as he pointed out in his beautifully modulated orator’s voice, I was actually guilty. I had dragged the King’s representative from his landus and bludgeoned him to the ground. The fact that I needed the vehicle urgently was not, in Cicerius’s considered legal opinion, a valid defence for roughing up a fellow citizen.

  “Trust you to gain influence with the one official too honest to bend the rules in your favour.”

  We’re now approaching the loose collection of large country dwellings that make up Ferias. Progress is slow. The ground is churned up and muddy and several streams have swollen, so it’s difficult to get across. It’s a long time since I’ve been here. When I was Senior Investigator at the Palace I visited regularly as the guest of various Senators, Praetors and wealthy Sorcerers. Now I’m about as welcome as an Orc at an Elvish wedding.

  It’s now well into the afternoon. My mood gets worse. The rain comes down in huge drops. After two hours it feels like rocks pounding on my head. I tell Makri it’s my turn for the cloak and we swap over.

  “If you were any good as a Sorcerer you could make two of them.”

  “If I was any good as a Sorcerer I wouldn’t be here. I’d be safe in a big villa in Thamlin casting horoscopes for Princesses and courtiers and generally having an easy time of it. I should have studied more when I was an Apprentice.”

  We mount a small hill and there in the distance is Mursius’s villa. Suddenly my horse whinnies and rears up. I struggle to regain control but the wet reins fly from my hands and I plunge to the ground. I struggle to my feet, sliding in the mud and cursing freely at the ignorant beast. Without warning three large Orcs with swords step out from behind the nearest tree.

  Chapter Four

  This doesn’t make sense. You don’t find Orcs in the Human Lands. Especially not in the excessively wealthy settlement of Ferias.

  Orcs are larger than Humans, and generally a little stronger. I never met one that wasn’t fierce, though as I’ve only met them on the battlefield, I suppose some might not be. Maybe the Orc poets all stay at home. I doubt it. Most Humans regard them as dumb animals but I haven’t found that to be true. Their Ambassadors, for instance, have often proved to be shrewd negotiators, and Bhergaz the Fierce, the Great Orc leader of fifteen years ago who united all the Orcish nations and led them into the west, was a brilliant general. Only through a combination of luck, sorcery and desperation were the combined forces of Elves and Humans able to defeat him.

  Makri hates them more fiercely than anyone. Despite this she refuses to acknowledge that Human civilisation is more advanced. She claims that contrary to what is believed in the west, Orcs do have music, literature and even a theatre of sorts, with extended performances of various religious rituals. If this is true, it’s completely unknown to us, apart from the savage martial tunes they play when advancing into battle and the weird, shrieking pipe music they play from the backs of their dragons. Orcs can breed and control dragons, Humans can’t. They’re dark-skinned and wear their hair long, a style favoured by only the lower classes in Turai, and they dress in shaggy, tasselled black clothes. They’re fond of silver jewellery. They make good weapons. They hate all Humans. And they can fight. So can I, which is fortunate as I’m not carrying any spells. I whip out my sword and my dagger and sink into my fighting stance.

  The three Orcs are in the garb of young warriors, with black helmets and tunics and weapons at their h
ips. But they haven’t attacked us yet. Strange. Orcs and Humans are implacable enemies. We waste no time when we meet. We just kill each other. I wonder if it might be worth asking them what they’re doing here.

  I don’t get the chance. Makri’s hatred of Orcs doesn’t allow for conversation. With a decisive movement she rides one of them down and leaps off her horse to confront the others. Her axe and her sword are in her hands as she hits the ground and the first Orc’s head flies from his shoulders before he has time to move. The second tries to draw his sword but Makri guts him and he slumps dead to the ground. I’m not the sort of man to let my companion fight on her own but I don’t have the chance to join in. As the third Orc climbs to his feet Makri whips out a throwing star from her bag and tosses it with deadly accuracy right into his throat.

  It’s all over in seconds. Three dead Orcs lie sprawled at our feet. Seven years in the Orc gladiator pits, five of them as Supreme Champion, make a woman hard to beat.

  Makri stalks around suspiciously, peering through the rain and sniffing the air for other Orcs.

  There don’t seem to be any more. There shouldn’t have been any here in the first place. The Orcish nations are far away to the east. They don’t wander around at will in the Human Lands. Any movement by a force of Orcs across the Wastelands that separate us would be detected by Human Sorcerers who scan continuously for just this sort of thing.

  I wonder what they were doing here. There was something odd about their behaviour. We mount up and hurry on. A long white wall surrounds Mursius’s villa. A heavy iron gate guards the front, behind which sits a bored-looking member of the Securitus Guild. I tell him my name and he nods as if expecting me. He opens the gate, and we ride in. When I tell him about the Orcs he looks at me with utter disbelief. I assure him it’s true.