Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  The one aspect of the case I’ve made progress on is the matter of Galwinius’s law suit against Lodius over the matter of the forged will. Officials at the Abode of Justice weren’t shy about handing over details of that and it looks bad for Lodius. Statements taken in Abelasi and a Sorcerer’s report on the will both suggest that there was an attempt to defraud Galwinius. Given that the beneficiary of the fraud was Lodius, he would have had a hard time explaining the matter to a judge. But again, the Traditionals had it in for Lodius. Who’s to say Galwinius wasn’t participating in some plot cooked up in the Palace to discredit him? Till I’ve made more investigations, I’m keeping an open mind on the matter.

  One straw I’ve succeeded in clutching is that there are several other people in Turai who might well have been pleased to see Prefect Galwinius dead. The Society of Friends, for instance. They control all organised crime in the north of the city and Galwinius had just closed down two houses of ill repute which bordered on Thamlin. It’s possible the Society might have taken revenge. Organised crime hasn’t previously dared to assassinate such a senior politician but as their wealth has grown, so has their ruthlessness. I don’t really think that they’d risk murdering a Prefect, but it’s a sign of the confusion in the city that there are people who are prepared to believe it might be true. Just like there are people prepared to believe that the Association of Gentlewoman organised Galwinius’s murder because he refused to commute Herminis’s death sentence…

  Whilst mulling this over with a beer in one hand and a venison pie in the other, I’m suddenly struck on the back by a blow which sends me thudding into the bar and causes me to drop my pie. I turn round angrily with my hand on the hilt of my sword to find myself confronted by a huge man with long blond hair, a bushy grey beard and a scar on his face from temple to chin.

  “Viriggax!”

  “Thraxas, you dog! Come to sign up for the fight?”

  “Worse. I live here.”

  “You live here?”

  “That’s not all,” I add. “Gurd’s the landlord!”

  “The landlord?”

  Viriggax howls with laughter and pounds me another friendly blow on the shoulder. I pound him back.

  “It’s good to see you!”

  Viriggax is a mercenary from some godforsaken island in the frozen north. I’ve fought many a battle in his company. I haven’t seen him for twelve years or so but he doesn’t seem to have changed, apart from maybe growing a little in every direction. He’s got an axe strapped to his back that could chop a horse in half and a great iron shield slung casually over his shoulder. When he spots Gurd he lets out a roar that can be heard over the din in the tavern. Gurd looks round. His face breaks into a joyous, craggy smile and he hurries over.

  “You run this hostelry?” demands Viriggax.

  “I do,” replies Gurd.

  “Then where’s the beer?” roars Viriggax, who, I remember, never likes to talk quietly.

  Viriggax looks towards the bar. His brow wrinkles as he sights Dandelion, who today has chosen to weave a circlet of leaves in her hair, defying both fashion and common sense.

  “What is that?”

  “One of my barmaids,” admits Gurd, apologetically, and winces as Dandelion steps out from the bar, revealing her lack of foot attire. Before Viriggax can comment, Makri waltzes past in her tiny chainmail bikini with a tray of drinks on her arm. Viriggax’s jaw sags as he takes in her copper-coloured skin and pointed ears.

  “Have the Orcs got here already?”

  “Just another of my staff,” explains Gurd, uncomfortably.

  “By the northern Gods, this is an odd place you have here, Gurd. Girls with no shoes and Orcs with no clothes!”

  Viriggax slaps his thigh and laughs mightily.

  “That’s what you get for living in the city! No life for a man! Now where’s the beer, I’ve got a powerful thirst from travelling!”

  Gurd calls for beer from Dandelion, clears us a table and we sit down to talk about the war and catch up on old times. Three or four ales later we’re deep into a series of reminiscences.

  “You remember those Juvalians who tried to cheat us at cards? We showed them a thing or two!”

  “Or what about the time Thraxas fell into a ravine and we couldn’t find him for two days?”

  “He didn’t want to shout for help because he had all the food with him. I swear he was happy to stay in that hole till the supplies ran out!”

  “It was safer down there than up at the front with you! Viriggax, you’re lagging behind. You northerners never could hold your ale.”

  “What?” bawls Viriggax, emptying his tankard and banging it down on the table. “I’ll show you how a northerner can drink! More ale!”

  Some hours later I’ve forgotten all about Senator Lodius. In fact I’ve forgotten about most things and am as happy as an Elf in a tree. I launch into a powerful rendition of the Turanian bowmen’s drinking song—not that I was ever a bowman, but it’s a fine song with a strong melody, and a chorus that requires a lot of banging of tankards on tables. I’m just getting to the verse where the enemy dragons are brought crashing from the sky, cut down by our mighty arrows, when the door of the tavern swings open and a messenger enters with an even more extravagant bunch of flowers than was previously delivered.

  “Makri? Delivery for Makri?”

  Makri is at the bar getting her tray loaded up so Gurd calls the messenger over and takes the flowers on to our table, something which I can sense is a bad mistake.

  Gurd has a lot of ale inside him and may not be thinking that clearly.

  “What’s this?” demands Viriggax, who’s looking rather bloated around the face after consuming enough beer to float a trireme. He fingers the card that accompanies the enormous bunch of flowers.

  “Orcish writing?”

  “From Horm, I expect,” sighs Gurd.

  Viriggax looks puzzled as he tries to work out exactly what this means. Makri, meanwhile, having been alerted by Dandelion, is hurrying over. She arrives just as it dawns on Viriggax who Makri is, and who Horm is.

  “Your barmaid receives flowers from an Orc lord?” he cries, and stands up abruptly, pushing back his chair. “What sort of traitorous establishment are you running here?”

  “Traitorous?” yells Gurd, and leaps to his feet, or tries to. Actually his legs get tangled under the table and he’s a little slow from alcohol so it takes him a while to get vertical. But once he’s up, he’s a formidable sight.

  “That’s what I think of Orcish flowers!” bellows Viriggax, sweeping them on to the floor.

  “Hey, those were mine!” yells Makri.

  “How dare you abuse my barmaid’s flowers!” shouts Gurd.

  “I’m getting completely fed up with Horm sending you flowers,” I tell Makri. “It’s really starting to get on my nerves.”

  “I never asked for them!” protests Makri, before turning swiftly back to Viriggax and abusing him roundly for daring to touch her property.

  A band of northern mercenaries are gathering behind Viriggax in case he needs some assistance. Viriggax is temporarily stunned by the ferocity of Makri’s abuse but it doesn’t take long for him to recover his voice. In no time a series of grim mercenary and Orcish curses are flying over the table.

  “Excuse me,” says Dandelion, arriving at this moment and dropping to her knees to scramble round on the floor. “I think I can still rescue the flowers if I get them into a vase of water.”

  “I don’t want them rescued!” screams Makri. “I hate the flowers!”

  “Sure, that’s what you say now,” I shout. “But I’m starting to think you’re quite pleased to be getting them.”

  “I am not!”

  “The woman is a traitor!” roars Viriggax.

  “Don’t you call my barmaid a traitor!” roars back Gurd.

  “I never thought I’d see the day when Gurd of the North took the side of an Orcish bitch!”

  There’s only about half a second be
fore the tavern explodes but in that half a second I have time to mentally sigh, clap my hand to my forehead and wonder why it is that my life has brought me to this. Now I have to fight my old comrade Viriggax, just because Makri has an unreasonable dislike of being called an Orcish bitch.

  As soon as the words are out of Viriggax’s mouth Makri leaps on the table and kicks him in the chest with such force that Viriggax is sent sprawling back into his companions. After that, the tavern erupts into a bar-room brawl the like of which I haven’t seen since the Brotherhood and the Society of Friends went head to head for control of the Blind Horse in Kushni. Viriggax’s companions pile in on top of Makri, I pile in on top of them, Gurd joins in, and the rest of the mercenaries in the tavern, not wishing to miss a good fight, pick sides at random and weigh in with their fists.

  Shouts, screams, battle-cries and oaths come from every direction as the bar degenerates into a heaving mass of struggling bodies. Chairs and tables are picked up as weapons and splinters of wood fly over our heads. I pound my fist on the back of some monstrous mercenary who’s attempting to attack Makri from behind and am immediately brought down by a blow from a table leg that causes me to sag at the knees. My assailant attempts to bring the lump of wood down on my head but is halted by Makri, who spins round and strikes him a blow on the temple that drops him to the floor. Gurd uses his mighty fists to beat a path through to us and the next thing we find ourselves surrounded by a solid circle of angry-looking northerners, all long blond hair, beards, and muscular arms.

  “Get back, you scum!” I yell, picking up a chair and brandishing it fiercely. “The first man to move gets—”

  A shuddering assault on my left flank prevents me from completing the sentence. I wince, then hit my attacker with the chair.

  “Ah!” yells Gurd, with relish. “Like the old days!” Gurd is brawling with such enthusiasm that he’s forgotten it’s his furniture that’s being reduced to matchwood. He disappears under three mercenaries. There’s a moment’s heaving, then, like a volcano suddenly erupting, the three northerners find themselves tossed into the air as Gurd wrenches himself free and weighs in again with his fists.

  After this, things get worse. I find myself next to a mercenary from the south who’s decided to take our side and we use our combined body weight to good effect until three northerners drive a wedge between us with the remains of a table and I’m forced back against the wall, punching furiously in every direction. Makri, at something of a disadvantage in the close struggle due to her lack of weight, nonetheless proves her worth, leaping, twisting and turning to keep herself out of trouble while lashing out with the sort of blows she learned during her years as a gladiator. Undefeated champion between the ages of thirteen and nineteen, as she’s fond of saying. Unfortunately she finds herself trapped in a corner, and when I see her hand flicker towards her boot, where she generally keeps a knife, I know that things are about to go too far. It’s against the unwritten rules to use weapons in a bar-room brawl such as this, but Makri has little regard for rules when it comes to fighting. She’ll quite certainly kill her opponent before conceding defeat. I’m considering using my sleep spell to settle things, though this does go against the grain. A good bar-room brawl shouldn’t be settled by magic. The decision is taken out of my hands as shrill whistles sound outside and the Civil Guards start pouring into the room.

  The fight gradually subsides as the uniformed men fill up the bar, separating the combatants and waving their batons.

  Captain Rallee steps forward. He briefly survey the wreckage. All over the room bodies lie groaning on the floor and there’s hardly a person standing who’s not bruised and bleeding.

  “What’s this all about?” demands the Captain, looking towards Gurd. Gurd shrugs. Though he’s normally on good terms with the Captain, he’s not going to start complaining to the Civil Guards about a fight in his tavern, not when the fight could be classified as a small dispute among friends. The Captain turns his gaze towards me. We also used to be on good terms, though it’s waned in recent years.

  “Did you start this?”

  “Me? I was hardly involved at all.”

  Captain Rallee looks uncertain. He doesn’t like trouble on his beat but the Avenging Axe isn’t an establishment that generally causes him trouble. He’s not sure whether to let it go or start rounding us all up.

  Suddenly Viriggax steps forward, grinning effusively.

  “A small dispute among friends, Captain,” he says, loudly. “Nothing more.”

  “What sort of small dispute?”

  “We were discussing flowers.”

  As Viriggax says this, his companions burst into raucous laughter, and Viriggax himself howls with delight. Northern mercenaries are not entirely lacking a sense of the ridiculous. Makri is looking on suspiciously from the side of the room. Viriggax strides over to her, throws one extremely brawny arm around her shoulders and turns towards the Captain.

  “This young woman and I were simply discussing the merits of various floral arrangements when things got out of hand.”

  The enormous northerner, towering over Makri, beams down at her. Obviously, having been kicked across the room by her, he now considers her a worthy companion.

  Captain Rallee glares at Makri.

  “I might have known you’d be involved. If you want to stay in the city, keep out of trouble.”

  He turns to Gurd.

  “And if you want to keep your licence, no more fights. We’ve got enough to do round here without you making it worse.”

  Captain Rallee signals to his men and they depart as abruptly as they arrived. It’s true that the Captain does have a lot to do. With the huge increase in crime in the past few years, the Guards are stretched, particularly in a bad area like Twelve Seas. As the city is now full of mercenaries, things are worse than ever.

  Having had a good fight, Viriggax is now as happy as a drunken mercenary. Which, of course, he is. He pulls out a fat purse from his tunic.

  “Drinks for everyone!” he yells. “Now we’ve shaken the dust from our feet, we’ll show those Orcish dogs a thing or two if they dare to attack this city!”

  Chapter Eleven

  The next day I wake with the sort of hangover that makes a man realise the foolishness of all alcoholic beverages. I stumble from my bedroom to my office and grope for my supply of lesada leaves, which are carefully wrapped in silk in the bottom drawer of my desk. I place one of the small leaves in my mouth, wash it down with water and sit motionless, waiting for it to do its work.

  The lesada plant grows only on the Elvish Isles. The Elves use it as a healing herb. Since I discovered its properties for curing hangovers I’ve had reason to bless its existence. It’s possibly the finest thing ever to come from the Elvish Isles. Certainly more useful than their epic poetry.

  My head is still pounding and it takes me a little while to realise there’s a feeble sort of scratching noise at my door. I make my way gingerly over and pull it open. It all seems like a lot of effort and makes me nauseous, a feeling which isn’t improved by the sight of Makri trying to crawl into my room, groaning and whimpering pathetically as she inches her way blindly forward. I shake my head sadly. She’s not a great drinker. Last night’s celebrations were very extensive, and she shouldn’t have tried to keep up. By now the lesada leaf I swallowed is doing its work, allowing me to regard Makri with some pity.

  “It’s strange really,” I say, looking down at the back of her head as she crawls past. “Your peculiar mixture of Orcish, Elvish and Human blood seems to let you do most things well. Fine swordswoman, clever student, excellent with languages. And you’re not bad with your axe either, though I’ve seen better. But for some reason it just doesn’t seem to let you drink very much.”

  “Shut up and give me a lesada leaf, you cusux,” croaks Makri.

  “Of course, you’re far too skinny, which probably explains some of it. Even so, with all your other attributes it’s strange you’re such a lightweight. Probab
ly it would be best if you stuck to the weaker brews the women and children drink at public celebrations.”

  Makri promises to kill me if I don’t stop talking and give her a leaf. Fearing that she’s about to vomit on my floor—something about which she would have no qualms—I make with the leaf. Makri swallows it whole, then lies on the floor groaning and trembling. All in all, it’s a shameful performance.

  As the leaf does its work, her colour returns to normal.

  “I thought I was going to die,” she says. “What happened last night?”

  “Last night? Not a great deal. A drinking competition between myself and some of the more optimistic members of Viriggax’s troop. I put them soundly in their place, naturally.”

  “Did I participate?”

  I laugh, rather mockingly.

  “You? In a drinking contest? That’s hardly likely. You passed out the fourth time the klee went round. If Gurd hadn’t hauled you up to your room you’d still be lying there like a sack of yams.”

  Makri scowls, but rises to her feet gracefully. The lesada leaf works quickly on her athletic frame, and after splashing water from my sink over her face and shoulders she declares herself fit for action.

  “Another day serving the mercenary hordes. I’m making more money than I have done all year. Are you investigating?”

  I shake my head.

  “I can’t. Today is the first day of troop practice. Weather permitting, my phalanx will be doing manoeuvres.”

  “You have a phalanx?”

  “Yes. Turanian phalanx number seven. We haven’t met each other yet. Me and four hundred and ninety-nine others are going to be drilled in close formation work.”

  Makri is interested, as she always is when it comes to fighting.

  “Are these all experienced men? You don’t have a lot of time to learn manoeuvres.”

  “About half will be experienced. The young men won’t be. It’s up to us to show them the ropes. And you’re right, we don’t have a lot of time.”

  Up till about ten years ago the whole male population used to do this sort of thing every year, but the city has let it slide recently.