Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  I spin round, not pleased to be taken unawares. Standing there, grinning at me, is a slender young female Elf of eighteen or so. Her hood is thrown back and her hair is cut unusually short for an Elf.

  “How do you do?” she greets me. “Are you looking for beer, enormous Human?”

  I scowl at her. “The name’s Thraxas.”

  “I know,” she says, smiling pleasantly. “Everyone on Avula knows that there is an Investigator called Thraxas going around asking questions. Are you going to the three oaks to ask questions, enormous Human?”

  “No. I’m going for a beer. And will you stop calling me enormous? Is that a polite way to address a guest?”

  “Sorry. I was being poetic. But I suppose ‘enormous’ isn’t a very poetic word, when applied to a Human. Would ‘impressively girthed’ be better?”

  “No, it would still be lousy,” I reply.

  “Kingly proportioned?”

  “Could we just forget my weight for a moment? What do you want?”

  “The same as you. Beer.”

  She falls in at my side and we walk on.

  “I take it you are a poet rather than an armourer?”

  “Definitely. I’m Sendroo-ir-Vallis. You can call me Droo.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Droo.”

  Having got over my surprise, I don’t mind a little company. Droo, obviously an Elf who has no problems in talking to strangers, tells me that she comes to the three oaks most nights to meet other poets.

  “And drink beer.”

  “I thought Elvish poets would drink wine.”

  “Only the older ones,” Droo informs me. “And I daresay it was fine for composing epics. But poetry moves on, you know. Look, there’s the clearing. There’s a hill where you can look at the stars through the fine mist from the waterfall. It’s very inspiring. Poets have always loved the spot.”

  “What about the armourers?”

  “They use the fast-flowing water for their forges. I’ve never found that very poetic, but we get on well with them. Is it true that you travel with a woman with Orc blood and a ring through her nose?”

  I see that Makri’s reputation has spread as swiftly as my own. “I never go anywhere without her. Apart from tonight. She’s home resting.”

  Droo seems disappointed, though she owns that she’s pleased to meet a detective.

  “I need new experiences, and there are so few opportunities for a young Elf to get off the island. I wanted to sail on the ship to Turai but my father wouldn’t let me. Are you going to ask everyone questions?”

  “Maybe a few. But mainly I’m looking for beer.”

  We arrive at the clearing and I’ve rarely seen a more welcoming sight. Benches are laid out under the three mighty oaks and from inside the hollow stump of a huge dead tree an Elf is handing out tankards. Two large tables are occupied by brawny Elves in leather aprons whom I take to be armourers, and a further table nearer to the stream is surrounded by younger, thinner Elves, presumably poets. They wave to Sendroo as she appears, and some of the weapon-makers also shout greetings. The atmosphere is convivial, sufficiently so that my arrival, while provoking some comment, doesn’t cast any sort of shadow over the place.

  I march up to the Elf in the hollow tree, take out some small pieces of Elvish currency, and request a beer. He hands it over in a black leather tankard. I drink it down in one, hand back the tankard, and request another. He fills the tankard from a barrel at the back and hands it over. I down it in one and give him back the tankard.

  “More beer.”

  I take the third tankard, empty it straight down and hand it back. By this time the Elf is looking slightly surprised.

  “Would you like to try—”

  “More beer.”

  As I’m draining the fourth tankard there is some good-natured laughter from the armourers behind me.

  “He is a mighty drinker,” says one of them.

  I finish off a fifth tankard, and take a six and seventh over to their table.

  “Better bring me a couple more,” I say to the barkeeper, and hand him a few more coins. “Make that three. Four. Well, just keep them coming till I tell you to stop.”

  “Any room for a thirsty man at that table?” I ask.

  I figure that while the poets might be interesting in their own way, the armourers will make for better company while I’m in such desperate need of beer. They look like the sort of Elves who enjoy a few tankards themselves after a hard day at the forge. They’re brawny, as Elves go. Not as brawny as me, but at least they don’t make me feel quite as oversized as most of the Elves do.

  The weapon-makers move up, letting me in at the bench. I drink down one of my tankards, make a start on another, and look round to check that the barkeeper is on his way with more.

  “A hard day?” enquires the nearest Elf jovially.

  “A hard month. I ran out of ale on Kalith’s ship and I’ve been searching ever since.”

  When the barkeeper arrives I order a round of drinks for the entire table, which goes down well.

  “He’s trying to bribe us with drinks,” cry the Elves, laughing. “Are you here to ask the armourers questions, Investigator?”

  “No, just to drink beer. And isn’t it time someone was calling that barkeeper over? Anyone know any good drinking songs?”

  You can’t ask an Elvish weapon-maker if he knows any good drinking songs without getting a hearty response. I know that. I remember these Elves, or Elves very much like them, from the war. I feel on much firmer territory than I have been with Lord Kalith-ar-Yil and his retinue. A drinking song starts up, and after it’s gone round a few times one of the Elves further down the table actually shouts that now he remembers me.

  “I was up in Turai during the War! You used to fight with that Barbarian—what was his name?”

  “Gurd.”

  “Gurd! Bless the old Barbarian!”

  The Elf slams his tankard cheerfully on the table.

  “Thraxas! When I heard we had a Human Investigator heading our way, I never realised it was you.”

  He turns to his companions.

  “I know this man. Fought well and never let us run out of drink!”

  It’s true. I raided the cellars after the Orcish dragons burned down the taverns.

  “Is that you, Voluth? You didn’t have a beard back then.”

  “And you didn’t have such a belly!”

  Voluth roars with laughter. I remember him well—a shield-maker by trade, and a doughty warrior. He calls for more beer, and starts telling war stories, stories in which I’m pleased to see I feature well. I smile at everyone genially. This is more the sort of thing I had in mind when an expedition to the Elvish Isles was mooted. Beer, drinking songs and convivial company.

  Which is not to say I’m not alert for anything that may be helpful. Talk naturally swings round to the matter of Elith-ir-Methet’s killing of Gulas. If they were having an affair, word of it hasn’t reached the armourers, though several of them do say that Gulas was very young to be Tree Priest. His brother is younger, and, I gather, less popular.

  The poets are meanwhile sprawled over the ground at the foot of the small hill, looking at the moons and reciting lines to each other. Droo is talking animatedly with another Elvish youth. In fact they seem to be arguing. I can’t hear their conversation, but it seems to be growing more heated. Suddenly the sound of singing fills the glade.

  “Choirs are practising late,” say the armourers, and listen with the air of Elves who have a fine judgement of such things.

  “Sounds like the choir from Ven. Not bad, though I fancy Corinthal may have the edge this year.”

  “Is competition fierce in all the events?” I enquire, reasoning that if it is I may well find out if there’s any gambling in these parts.

  “Very fierce,” says Voluth. “With the festival only taking place every five years, these choirs spend years practising and no one wants to put up a bad performance on the day. It’s even worse wit
h the dramatic companies. It’s an immense honour winning the first prize. Ten years ago the Avulans won with a spectacular rendition of the famous episode where Queen Leeuven goes to war against her stepbrother. Lord Kalith made the director an Honoured Knight of Avula, an award previously only given to Elves who distinguished themselves on the battlefield. He’s never had to buy himself a goblet of wine or haunch of venison to this day.”

  “We didn’t do so well last time though,” another Elf puts in. “Staid performance. No emotion. The whole island was disappointed.”

  “What happened to the director?”

  “He sailed off in a bad mood, saying the judges wouldn’t know a good play if Queen Leeuven herself handed it down from heaven. We haven’t seen him since.”

  This leads to a lot of talk about the relative merits of the three entrants in this year’s competition. As far as I can gather there is no clear favourite, but public opinion slightly favours the Corinthalians.

  “But Ven will put up a good show too. Some singers from Avula went over there earlier this year and they came back with some very impressive reports of a rehearsal they’d seen.”

  “What about Avula this year?” I ask.

  All around the table there are pursed lips, and a general air of disgruntlement.

  “Not giving yourselves much chance?”

  “Not much. We’ve got some fine performers, but who ever heard of a Sorcerer for a director? I don’t know what Lord Kalith was thinking of, appointing Sofius-ar-Eth to the post.”

  The Elvish armourers are unanimous on this point.

  “Not a bad Sorcerer, we admit, but a director? He’s had no experience. No chance of winning the prize with him at the helm. There’s been dissatisfaction in Avula ever since it was announced. There’s talk of some fierce arguments in the Council of Elders over the affair. No one wants to see our play turning into a shambles, and from what we hear that’s what’s going to happen.”

  It’s odd. No one can explain why Lord Kalith made such an unexpected appointment.

  “It’s said that Lady Yestar was far from pleased. But they’re always arguing, everyone knows that.”

  I turn the conversation round to the question of juggling, and this produces some furious debate. The merits of various jugglers from Avula, Ven and Corinthal are discussed at length, with no clear favourite emerging. The best Avulan juggler is apparently a young woman called Shuthan-ir-Hemas, but opinion is divided as to whether she can defeat some of the more experienced practitioners from the other islands.

  I lower my voice, and mutter a few words in Voluth’s ear. He grins. “Well, you might be able to place a bet though Lord Kalith doesn’t approve of anyone gambling on events at the festival.”

  “Is it calanith?”

  “No, he just doesn’t like it. But it’s been known to happen. I can’t really recommend anyone for the juggling, but if you want a safe bet on the junior tournament, go for Firees-ar-Key. Son of Yulis-ar-Key, finest warrior on the island, and a chip off the old block. Firees won the tournament for under-twelves when he was only nine, and he’s practically fully grown now, though he’s only fourteen years of age.”

  I file that away as a useful piece of information. I’m about to cast around for some more betting tips when Droo interrupts by squeezing in beside me at the table. She’s looking rather unhappy but her expression brightens as the armourers greet her genially.

  “It’s young Droo! Up to no good, no doubt.”

  “Do your parents know you’re out writing poems and drinking ale, youngster?”

  Droo returns their greetings, equally genially. They all seem to know her and like her. I try to think of anywhere in Turai where weapon-makers and poets mingle happily together. I can’t. The race track, maybe, except poets never have any money to place a bet.

  “You’ve met Thraxas already? Are you writing a poem about him?”

  “Certainly,” grins Droo.

  “Better make it an epic,” calls Voluth. “There’s a lot of him to write about.”

  They all laugh. I call for more beer.

  “I came over so I could be questioned too,” says Droo. “I didn’t want to miss out.”

  “He hasn’t been questioning us,” the armourers tell her.

  “Why not?”

  Everyone looks at me. I tell them frankly that as this is the first time I’ve been able to relax with a beer for weeks, I can’t be bothered doing any investigating. This seems to disappoint them. In fact, as the ale keeps flowing, almost everyone seems to be keen to express an opinion about the case, and I find myself drawn into some investigating anyway, pretty much against my will. A chainmail-maker at the end of the table knows Vas-ar-Methet well and refuses to believe that his daughter is responsible for any crime. A blacksmith’s apprentice beside him is of the opinion that some odd things have been happening around the Hesuni Tree for some time, and everyone knows that this is why the Elves have been having bad dreams. Maybe, he suggests, it was bad dreams that drove Elith to commit the crimes?

  There is some sympathy for Elith, mainly because of the high opinion in which her father is held, but the general view is that she must be guilty as charged. Indeed, a blacksmith, who is, incidentally, the largest Elf I have ever seen, tells us that he knows Elith is guilty of the murder because his sister was close to the Hesuni Tree at the time and she was certain she’d seen the fatal blow being struck.

  “You should talk to her, Thraxas. She’ll tell you what she saw.”

  I learn something of note about Gorith-ar-Del. As a maker of longbows he’s known to the armourers but he isn’t making fine longbows any more. He’s given up the business. No one knows why, or what he does with himself these days when he’s not sailing with Lord Kalith-ar-Yil.

  Some white-robed actors appear in the clearing, leading to more general good-natured greetings. I recognise them as members of the Avulan cast I saw earlier close to the Tree Palace. They’ve been rehearsing in the vicinity.

  “How is the tale of Queen Leeuven coming on?” call the weapon-makers.

  “Badly. We need ale,” reply the actors, making comic faces and hurrying to the hollow tree for refreshment. They mingle with the poets and, from the fragments of their conversation I can catch, they’re feeling no happier with their director.

  I turn to Droo, and notice that she has a rather sad expression on her face.

  “Bad time with the boyfriend?” I say sympathetically.

  She nods.

  “He left after we argued.”

  “What were you arguing about?”

  “Are you investigating me?” says Droo, brightening at the prospect.

  “No. Well, not unless you or your boyfriend defaced the Hesuni Tree and murdered the priest.”

  “He didn’t,” says Droo, and looks gloomy again. “But his behaviour is so erratic these days, it wouldn’t surprise me if he did something equally stupid. And he was really mean about my new poem.”

  I sympathise, which just goes to show how mellow this evening’s gathering has made me. Under normal circumstances, I don’t have much time to spare for the problems of teenage poets.

  Elves start drifting away as the night wears on. Droo departs with her friends and I decide that it’s time to go. I have drunk a great amount of beer, and it’s a fair walk back to Camith’s house. I ask at the bar if they have any beer in flasks or bottles I can take away with me.

  “We can let you have a wineskin full, if you like.”

  “That’ll do fine.”

  I pay for my drink, say goodbye to my fellow drinkers, and start off on the journey home. I don’t want to admit that I can’t see as well as the Elves at night so I wait till I’m some way along the path before lighting up my illuminated staff. On the way home I’m merry. The forest no longer feels threatening.

  “Well, of course, that was the problem,” I say out loud. “How’s a man meant to relate to an Elvish forest without a few beers inside him? Now I’m in the right state of mind, it’s
quite a cheery place.”

  I greet a few of the trees as I pass. I’m quite close to home. I remember that I have to climb up a long ladder to get there. Damn. I’m not looking forward to that. The path becomes narrow. I’m humming a bright ditty as I turn the next corner. There, in front of me, are four masked Elves with spears. They let out a battle cry, and sprint towards me, weapons lowered for action.

  I’m startled. I’d forgotten all about the hostile spear-carrying Elves. Once more I’m at a severe disadvantage on the narrow path. I mutter the word and my illuminated staff goes out and I hurl myself sideways into the trees. Here in the forest, they won’t be able to attack me in formation. I scramble some way into the depths, then halt and listen. There is no sound.

  I’m not in the mood for skulking. I’m not in the mood for struggling through the trees either. I had enough of that on the first occasion they forced me off the walkway. I get angry. A man should be able to walk around Avula without being chased by spearmen everywhere he goes. I decide to risk creeping back towards the path. I go as quietly as I can, which is very quietly. When I’m close to the path, I stop, hardly even breathing for fear of making a sound. The moonlight illuminates the path in front of me. There, easily visible, are the four Elves, standing silently, waiting.

  I’m unsure what to do. Attacking them would be rash. I’m scared of no one in a fight but back on the path they would have the opportunity to form their phalanx against me. Besides, even if I hurled myself on them and managed to cut them down, Lord Kalith isn’t going to be too pleased with me. I wasn’t invited here to kill Elves.

  All of a sudden the Elves vanish. Just like that. They disappear into thin air. I’m stunned. I’ve seen plenty of sorcery in my time, but it was the last thing I was expecting. I’m seriously perturbed. If four invisible Elves start hunting for me in this forest I’m doomed. I strain my senses, trying to catch any scent of them. I can’t pick up anything but get the faint impression of voices receding into the distance.

  After a while I venture back on to the path. Nothing there. I light up my staff and bend down to examine the grass. It looks to me as if the Elves just went on their way after becoming invisible. I don’t understand any of this, but I’m not going to hang around and wait for them to come back. I set off homewards rapidly, not stopping till I reach the welcoming sight of the ladder that leads up to Camith’s treehouse, which I ascend a good deal more briskly than I had anticipated.