Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  At the foot of the terraces there’s another row of bookmakers’ stalls. People stand in line waiting to place bets and there, of all people, is Hanama the Assassin. I’m astonished. I didn’t really believe she was actually going to be here gambling but there she is. She’s wearing a cheap blue robe, the sort of thing worn by your average not-so-well-off Turanian woman on a day out, and she is completely indistinguishable from the rest of the crowd. In fact, with her thin, pale body she looks rather like a schoolgirl who’s bunked off for the day to place a bet.

  I can’t understand it. It’s completely unheard of. Assassins dedicate their lives to not having fun. I wonder if she might be here in disguise to assassinate someone. The chariot owners with any luck. I’d be happy to see the owner of Warrior Chief carried out of the Stadium with a knife in his back.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Find out anything?” asks Makri as I return to my seat.

  I’ve never seen her so cheerful. It’s really irritating.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I expect there’s nothing to find out,” says Makri. “It’s just one of those days when the favourites don’t come in. Didn’t you tell me that happens sometimes? Statistically it’s bound to.”

  I have twenty gurans on Demon Killer. Makri has thirty on Joyous Sunrise. Joyous Sunrise wins by a length and a half and Makri collects another sixty gurans. Next race I back Venomous Death Adder, the favourite. Makri backs Fairy Rainbow, a rank outsider at twenty-five to one. Fairy Rainbow records its first ever win. Even the charioteer looks surprised. The crowd rises to its feet to protest. The Guards are again obliged to fan out to keep them from invading the track. Bottles and broken chairs rain down on them. I’ve lost another twenty gurans.

  Makri picks up five hundred gurans for her twenty-guran stake and now has the incredible total of one thousand, one hundred and nineteen gurans.

  “Easy as bribing a Senator,” she says.

  I can’t understand it. I’ve never known anyone be so successful at the race track simply by backing every chariot with a nice-sounding name.

  Honest Mox’s son looks glum as he hands over her winnings, though in truth he’s doing well. The way the favourites keep losing means he’s raking in the public’s money. The public is not amused. Only the appearance of the Orcish and Elvish chariots keeps the crowd from staging an uprising. The race officials wisely usher the alien chariots out early knowing that the interest in them will quieten the crowd. It works. As Lord Lisith’s chariot appears there is great cheering but when the Orcish chariot rolls out after it there is a tremendous wave of booing and jeering. Frustrations are put to one side as the major race of the day approaches. The Orcish charioteer has long black hair, plaited and tied in a black ribbon. Despite the hostility around him he rides with an air of assurance. I expect he’s feeling confident now he has his prayer mat back.

  Storm the Citadel comes out next, with Sarija and Kemlath walking behind it. The crowd cheer again. Popular support has brought the odds on Storm the Citadel down to two to one, the same price as the Elvish Moonlit River. The Orcish chariot, Destroyer, is quoted at four to one. Certain astute punters have been backing it, feeling that a sensible bet is more important than patriotism. Nothing else figures much, the five other chariots in the race being quoted at prices between sixteen to one and eighty to one.

  I’m still undecided how to bet. I fancy the Elves to win but I’m not convinced the Orcs won’t pull it off. I could do with a nice piece of four to one. I’m down to thirty-two gurans and facing ruin. I delay my bet. The Orcish chariot drifts out to five to one. I’m tempted. I get a strange feeling. It’s similar to the one I had down at the warehouse when the Orcs appeared. Nothing strange about that. After all, there are Orcs here.

  My senses are picking up something else. A man walks past, a very normal-looking man in a plain tunic and sandals. I notice a slight scar on his forehead. I’ve never seen him before. Without quite knowing why, I follow him.

  He heads up through the terraces. He seems to be in a hurry and I have to use my weight again to keep up. He pays no attention to either the bookmakers or the punters. At the top of the terraces he turns left and makes his way towards the Senators’ box. I’m close behind him, still with no idea of why my senses are detecting something unusual.

  As he halts in front of the Senators’ box I glance at his face. Am I imagining it, or is the scar on his forehead beginning to glow? Cicerius is standing near the front of the box. Right beside him is Lord Rezaz Caseg. I suddenly realise what’s happening and make a dive for the stranger. I land on him with all my weight and as we go down a terrific bolt of energy flies straight up in the air. Next second I find myself grappling hand to hand with Makeza the Thunderer. This Orcish Sorcerer is way out of my league in every way, apart from girth. I’ve prevented the assassination of Rezaz the Butcher, but I might not live to tell the tale.

  I have my hands around his neck and I am desperately trying to keep out of the way of the jewel on his forehead. He manages to turn his head enough to send a piercing bolt into my shoulder and I cry out in pain. My spell protection charm has kept me alive, but it’s not strong enough to resist a close-range blast of Orcish sorcery.

  I yell for help, but the Guards at the Senators’ enclosure are slow to react. I remember that I’m carrying my sleep spell. I use it, charging it with as much power as I can. This spell can knock a company of men unconscious, but it has little effect on the powerful Orcish Sorcerer, other than to make him loosen his grip a fraction. I break free, kick him in the ribs, then hurdle the wall into the Senators’ enclosure.

  “You expect me to do everything?” I gasp, and get myself behind Melus the Fair. Let someone with a bit of power take over.

  Makeza the Thunderer, now back in his true form as an Orc Sorcerer, springs to his feet. His eyes are smouldering with fury as he advances. Three Civil Guards leap at him but he brushes them away with a word and they fly through the air. When he comes to the low wall, Makeza doesn’t bother to climb. He barks at it and it crumbles before him. Melus the Fair steps in front of him and I’m relieved to notice several other Turanian Sorcerers hurrying to the scene. Makeza isn’t going to be easy to beat.

  Meanwhile Rezaz the Butcher has drawn his sword in readiness, and so have his attendants. This creates further confusion as the Senators find themselves standing among a group of armed Orcs and aren’t quite sure what’s going on. The Civil Guards present don’t seem to know who they’re meant to be protecting. Rezaz steps forward to confront Makeza and the Thunderer immediately releases a powerful blasting spell. The Orc Lord is thrown backwards and slumps to the ground.

  Melus spreads her arms and directs all her power against Makeza. She is enveloped by a great burst of yellow light and struggles to free herself. She emerges unscathed and directs a counter-spell at the Thunderer. Again he seems unshaken, and continues to advance towards the prone figure of Rezaz. Two of the Butcher’s guards fling themselves in front of the Sorcerer but they too are brushed aside like flies. Another powerful Turanian Sorcerer, Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, arrives, but Makeza the Thunderer keeps on coming.

  I’ve seen these Orcish Sorcerers in action before. I know how powerful they can be. Even when Harmon Half-Elf rushes up (with several losing betting tickets sticking out of his pockets, incidentally) and adds his power to that of Melus and Lisutaris, the issue still seems to be in the balance. Fire crackles through the air and great bolts of lightning strike sparks from the metal railings.

  My shoulder hurts. None of my chariots have won. I’ve lost a lot of gurans. I’m in a really bad mood. If Makeza the Thunderer succeeds in killing Lord Rezaz the Turas Memorial race will be cancelled and I’ll never win my money back. I’m completely fed up with this continual disruption at the races. I grab a glass of klee from the hands of a Senator’s wife, toss it back, then pick up a heavy chair and start circling around the back of the warring Sorcerers.

  A huge maelstrom of fiery colour
now envelops most of the Senators’ enclosure. I step into the middle of it, offering up a prayer that my charm will protect me. Inside the maelstrom I can’t breathe. I grit my teeth and struggle on. Space seems to be warped. I can see Makeza, but he’s a long way away. As I struggle forward he takes on the aspect of a huge Orcish war dragon. The dragon turns his long neck towards me, baring its fangs. Through its nose it wears a great ring of power, with a dazzling blue jewel sending out poisonous rays. It reminds me of something, I don’t know what. I crash the chair down with all my might on the dragon’s head. It disappears with a deafening explosion, and I find myself back in the Senators’ enclosure with a broken chair in my hands and an unconscious Orcish Sorcerer at my feet. In front of me Melus the Fair, Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, and Harmon Half-Elf are standing in a line looking exhausted. Melus the Fair wipes sweat from her brow.

  “It’s a long time since I fought an Orc,” she says, breathing heavily. “For a moment there I thought I was going to be handing in my toga. Nicely done, Thraxas. How did you know that would work?”

  “A trick I remembered from the war. When an enemy Sorcerer is fully engaged in sorcerous combat he’s often vulnerable to being beaten over the head with a heavy object. Incidentally, I thought that Old Hasius the Brilliant was supposed to be keeping an eye out for Makeza.”

  “He’s at home with a cold—it’s his age,” explains Melus.

  Lord Rezaz Caseg struggles to his feet. He thanks the Sorcerers, and me too. It is commonly admitted that it was smart work on my part to recognise Makeza the Thunderer as he walked through the crowd in Human guise.

  The congratulations pass me by. I’m a little dazed. Not so much by the battle—the three Sorcerers bore the brunt of Makeza’s attack—but by the sudden inspiration that hit me when I walked into the magical maelstrom. I’ve often found that close involvement with sorcery gets my intuition working. As soon as I saw the dragon with its ring of power I realised who killed Senator Mursius. Foolish of me not to have realised before.

  The Senators and their wives troop back into the enclosure. Consul Kalius looks as if he might be about to shake my hand, but he thinks better of it and offers me a stiff thank you instead.

  “Don’t mention it. Do they sell beer in this enclosure?”

  They don’t. It’s wine only for Senators.

  Kalius takes control and issues orders for the races to resume as quickly as possible, so that the crowd does not become restive. Makeza the Thunderer is bound and taken off under heavy sorcerous guard.

  I shake my head to clear it, then walk out of the enclosure, very thoughtful. I find a messenger and hand him over a small coin to take a note to Captain Rallee.

  Chapter Twenty

  “What happened up there?” asks Makri.

  “Thraxas once more saves the day for Rezaz the Butcher. I may now be the greatest friend of the Orcs in the west.”

  The chariots are lining up behind the tape. I still haven’t placed my bet. I can’t make up my mind. I notice Hanama in the queue and sneak up behind her. As she reaches the front I strain to hear what she says. It’s difficult to make out her soft voice above the noise of the crowd. I think I hear her say Peaceful Dreams of Heaven.

  Peaceful Dreams of Heaven is the most useless chariot ever seen in Turai. It was brought in to make up the numbers after a late withdrawal. It was eighty to one at the start of the day and has come in to fifty to one, so a little money must have been placed on it. Not much though. Why would it? It doesn’t have a chance.

  Hanama disappears into the crowd, gliding easily through the mass of bodies. The trumpets sound for the start of the race. I swallow hard. This goes against the grain.

  “Eighteen gurans on Peaceful Dreams of Heaven.”

  I rush back to my seat.

  “What did you back?” I ask Makri.

  “Peaceful Dreams of Heaven,”

  “I thought you might,” I say. “It has a very nice name.”

  I glare hard at her. She glares right back at me. The race starts. As the long-awaited contest between the champion chariots of the Orcs and the Elves gets under way the Stadium Superbius explodes with excitement. By the time the chariots reach the first corner not a person is left in their seat. Everyone is up on their feet, screaming encouragement. Not only the ill-behaved masses are carried away. Up in the private enclosure the Senators, Sorcerers and city officials are caught up in the excitement. The Elvish supporters of Lord Lisith are up on their feet waving green banners and the Orcs are standing on their chairs shouting out encouragement in their jagged, guttural language.

  For the first time Makri and I have backed the same chariot. Unfortunately it’s the worst vehicle in the city. Round the first lap things don’t look good. The Elvish Moonlit River has taken an early lead with Sarija’s Storm the Citadel close behind. The Orcish Destroyer is going along easily in fourth place. Peaceful Dreams of Heaven is last. Things don’t improve much in the second. I scream some abuse at the charioteer. Two chariots collide and another pulls up with a lamed leading horse, leaving Peaceful Dreams fifth out of five going into the third lap.

  I can see the Elvish charioteer speaking to his horses, giving them encouragement. The Orcish rider uses his whip. Less kind, but effective, as he moves easily up into third place to lie in wait just behind Storm the Citadel.

  The chariot behind the Orcish Destroyer tries to overtake but gets the worst of it when the Orcish charioteer lashes his whip into his opponent’s face, sending him crashing into the central barrier. You have to hand it to the Orc, that’s good technique. The crowd erupts in a frenzy. As the last lap begins, Moonlit River, Storm the Citadel and Destroyer are nose to tail and going well. The only other remaining chariot, Peaceful Dreams of Heaven, is almost a whole lap behind. I curse myself. I can’t believe I put money on this collection of rusted metal and broken-down nags.

  “Please send a mighty collision,” I say, raising my eyes briefly to heaven.

  Makri is gripped by the madness and seems close to losing control. She’s screaming encouragement to Peaceful Dreams and waving her sword in the air, which is illegal in the Stadium, even when your chariot loses.

  On the final straight Destroyer makes its move and glides past Storm the Citadel like it was standing still. It draws level with the Elf and they start jostling each other as they come round the bend. The Orcish charioteer lashes his whip at the Elf, who starts lashing him back. Sparks fly as their wheels grind together and the horses hurtle onwards at speeds never before seen in the Stadium. The volume is deafening. I’ve never seen such madness in a race crowd. Young Sorcerers’ Apprentices with whole months’ wages staked on the Elf wave their staffs in the air. I see Gurd up on his seat with sweat pouring in torrents down his mighty neck, screaming encouragement.

  In the final straight the Elf is ahead by a nose but it seems to me that the Orc is finishing stronger.

  “It’s all over,” I cry, and hang my head in despair. Suddenly their wheels lock. There is a spectacular collision and both chariots leave the ground. They land in a terrible jumble of Orcs, Elves, wood, metal and horses. Storm the Citadel, racing into the final straight, has no chance. The charioteer tries to pull up but there is no time and he too is thrown into the air as his chariot hits the wreckage and slews across the track.

  Peaceful Dreams of Heaven, a long way behind, has plenty of time to slow down and pick its way carefully past the carnage. It trots over the line, the only chariot to complete the race, and the winner. There’s a huge collective groan of despair from the crowd. Not in our corner of the crowd, however. Makri goes berserk, and so do I. I practically dance my way down to Honest Mox’s to pick up my winnings. I’m as happy as a drunken mercenary. In fact, I’m happier. Eighteen gurans at fifty to one. Nine hundred gurans.

  Near Mox’s stall an irate mercenary is bemoaning his fate. He’s lost all his money and is complaining that the race was fixed.

  “Nonsense,” I tell him brusquely. “Just one of those thing
s. Take it like a man.”

  There are some more complaints about the way things have gone but after the incredible excitement of the final race the crowd seems stunned. Most people sit quietly as the race attendants clear away the ruined chariots and give the charioteers some medical attention.

  Makri’s winnings are almost beyond belief. She has thousands of gurans and has to buy a new bag to carry them. She pulls the coins out in handfuls just to look at them.

  I ask her if she’ll put it in the track vault for a while.

  “What for?”

  “I need your help before we go home.”

  Captain Rallee taps me on the shoulder. “Got your message. What’s happening?” The Captain has lost all his money and isn’t very pleased. “I’m not convinced this was all fair and square,” he says. “What do you want?”

  “More Civil Guards and a couple of powerful Sorcerers.”

  We walk down to the race track. Standing there are Lord Lisith-ar-Moh and Lord Rezaz Caseg, examining the remains of their chariots and checking on the health of their riders and horses. While not exactly friendly, they appear to have reached a truce.

  “A fine race.”

  “A fine race indeed.”

  Sarija is also there. The Elf Lord compliments her politely on the form showed by Storm the Citadel. She replies politely in return, both to Lisith and Rezaz. Melus the Fair appears, along with Kalius and Cicerius. Everyone is polite to everyone else. If the outcome of the race left much to be desired for your average Turanian gambler, in diplomatic terms it was just fine. No one is about to declare war on Turai.

  It’s a rare moment of peace between Orcs, Elves and Humans. I hate to be the one to spoil the mood but I don’t like to drag it out. I walk up to Kemlath Orc Slayer.