Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  The instant they appear I know we’re doomed. Whatever we might have believed about the Orcish army’s lack of organisation was wrong. This phalanx is fearsomely well organised. As soon as they see us, horns blow and the long spears that point to the sky are lowered towards us, forming a sharp and deadly wall. The Orcish phalanx breaks into a slow run, picking up speed as they advance. Each man around me grasps his short spear, preparing to hurl it at the enemy, hoping to break their ranks. This doesn’t work as well as it should. The whole of my phalanx should toss their spears in unison, raining a blizzard of steel on to the enemy. Men all over the line, unable to hear their orders and forgetting their training, let go of their spears far too early. Most of the missiles fall short. Meanwhile the disciplined Orcs have held their fire. Without pausing in their stride, they let go with their own short spears. A lethal barrage of pointed metal rains down around our heads. All our Sorcerers are engaged with the dragons and we have no protection from the enemy spears. Every man here wears a breastplate and helmet, but a sharp, heavy spear, falling from above, can penetrate the sort of armour worn by a common soldier. Even if your armour turns the spear away, the next one is as likely to hit an arm or a leg, causing terrible, incapacitating wounds. Men on either side of me crumple to the ground. I’ve raised my shield over my head. A spear catches it, piercing it, and scraping my helmet. Fortunately it doesn’t penetrate far enough to wound me.

  By now the front line of my phalanx has yawning gaps which grow larger as a supporting unit of light Orcish infantry, running alongside their phalanx, pelts us with spears and arrows. I scream at the men behind me to advance, to fill in the gaps, but it’s useless. Panic is setting in. Many of the long spears, which should bristle from the front of our formation, are either lying on the ground or pointing at the sky as men struggle to keep some sort of shape in the face of the onslaught. The man in front of me falls to the ground with an arrow in his eye. I step forward into his place. I’m now in the ragged front line. The Orcs are forty feet away, running towards us at great speed. Their long spears are held rigidly in line as they charge. I grab the lance that’s waving above my shoulder, held there unsteadily by the man behind me, point it firmly at the Orcs, and wait for their phalanx to strike. As I do so I mutter a prayer which, I’m quite certain, will be the last words I ever say.

  The dark Orcish phalanx crashes into us. My spear goes through the throat of an Orc but few others do. Our front line crumples on impact and the Orcs mow us down. I’m on the ground with bodies piling on top of me, feet trampling us into the snow, my face covered, unable to breathe. I use my strength to fight my way to my knees. My helmet is gone, I can’t free my arms and an Orc from the middle of their phalanx draws back his sword to cut my head off. I yell out the spell I’ve been keeping in reserve, a spell for killing Orcs I learned a long time ago. My assailant falls silently to the ground, slain by magic. Three or four Orcs around us fall with him. By now I’ve freed my arms and drawn my sword but my situation remains hopeless. My phalanx is broken, I’m isolated from my troops and I’m surrounded by hundreds of Orcs. I can use my spell one more time before it vanishes from my memory. I do so. The three closest Orcs fall dead. That’s it. My magic is used up. I’ve killed eight Orcs. Not so bad for a death stand. I raise my shield as they come in swiftly from all sides.

  Suddenly there’s a violent flash and the air around goes green. I’m thrown down and find myself once more lying in the trampled snow. When I hoist myself to my feet I’m the only one that does so. All around me, dead Orcs lie in twisted heaps. Somewhere a Human Sorcerer has come to our aid. Needing no more encouragement, I sling my shield over my shoulder and set off at a run, hurdling bodies and weapons as I rush through the falling snow, looking for any company of armed Humans. As generally happens in battle, I have little idea of what’s happening. I’m guessing things aren’t going so well for Turai.

  About a hundred yards on I run into the remains of my phalanx. They’re hurrying along under the protection of young Anumaris Thunderbolt, recent recruit to the Sorcerers Guild. She’s lost her horse and her rainbow cloak is in tatters but whatever she’s suffered she’s managed to rescue a group of men from my phalanx.

  “Good spell,” I say; “Any left?”

  “Just one,” she replies.

  There are around forty or so men here, many of them wounded. No sign of Senator Marius, or any of his centurions. Not even a corporal. I take command, ordering the men into four lines of ten. We set off towards the city walls, though they are now invisible, hidden by snow and smoke from the Sorcerers’ spells.

  Above us dragons are still raging in the sky, though some have been killed, and some have landed to set down more troops and Sorcerers to press their attack. I’m quite clear as to the Orcs’ intentions. Prince Amrag wants to seize Turai to use it as a bridgehead against the west. He’s taken the risk of attacking us in winter before our allies arrive, and the risk might pay off. Knowing that the battle is lost, it’s the duty of all Turanians to get back inside the city to defend it. I lead my men towards the gates. The main body of Orcish forces has passed on by. If the slaughter of Turanian troops has been everywhere as bad as on this part of the field, we’ll have little chance of reaching the city in safety.

  I urge my small squadron onwards. Anumaris jogs alongside us. Her face is deathly white and I can tell that she’s profoundly shocked. She’s never seen rows of corpses before, never had to run over a carpet of dead men and blood-spattered Orcs. I check on her as we progress. The young Sorcerer saved my life and if necessary I’ll carry her back to Turai.

  The Stadium Superbius looms large on our right, a huge building covered in snow. All around the entrance are the bodies of slaughtered fighters, killed by the dragons and Sorcerers as they rushed from the stadium to join in the fray. I wonder if Viriggax is among the dead.

  Through the blanket of snow, I catch sight of a large body of Orcs. I hold my hand up, halting my troop. I hesitate, uncertain what to do. If I was with Gurd and a trusty group of warriors, I’d charge. My companions are mostly young recruits, some of them wounded, most of them scared. I don’t give them much chance of hacking their way through any sort of opposition. A gust of wind clears the snow, allowing me to make out the shapes in front of us. There, on a small knoll, Makri is standing with her weapons raised. Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, lies dead or unconscious at her feet. Makri is protecting the body from a force of around one hundred Orcs. Makri’s face is covered by her helmet but she’s easily recognisable from the hair which billows from underneath, and from the weapons she bears: one dark Orcish sword and one hefty silver axe. The Orcs close in on her from all sides.

  I order my men forward. My orders are met by some very hesitant faces. I’ve no time to persuade and no time even to threaten. Makri will be dead in a few seconds. I set off at a run towards her and hope my men follow me. As I sprint for the raised mound I get the curious feeling that time is passing extremely slowly, and everything around me is unusually clear. I run past the body of a huge dragon, dead on the ground, and it seems to take for ever. I can see Makri engage her assailants but though my feet are moving I don’t seem to be getting any closer. I watch as the Orcs attack. Their swords and spears come at her from every direction at once. I’ve seen Makri fight on many occasions, and I’ve seen her fight in difficult circumstances. But I’ve never seen Makri, or anyone else, engage in combat in the way she does now. She spins and weaves in a manner which seems impossible, and as she does so she cuts, thrusts, and deflects oncoming blades with a speed which is barely credible. She cuts down an opponent in front of her while another thrusts a spear directly at her back. Somehow she manages to block the blow, deflecting the spear without even looking at it, sliding out of range of another two blades, spinning round to thrust her blade into the face of the spear carrier then back again to hack off the sword arm of another Orc. She leaps over a sword that hacks at her legs and before she lands, her axe has severed the head of her assailant. I�
��m still running towards her and the thought goes through my mind that if these few seconds were the only time I ever saw Makri in combat, I’d still know for certain that she was the greatest sword fighter who ever lived.

  My heart is pounding. I can’t run any faster. It’s taking me too long to get there. Makri can’t hold off the Orcs for much longer, no matter how skilful she is. Not with a hundred opponents and nowhere to seek cover. Already her chainmail is in tatters and several arrows project from her leather leggings. Bodies are piled up around her feet but the Orcs fly in relentlessly. I’m no more than twenty feet away when she takes a blow to the head and stumbles. There are four rows of Orcs between me and Makri. I’m on my own, I’ve outdistanced my companions. I crash into the rear of the Orcs like a one-man phalanx, breaking through their ranks and scattering them. Makri is on her knees, still fighting. I kill an Orc who’s about to stab her, then slash wildly at his companions. The Orcs, temporarily surprised, fall back a few paces. Makri is already on her feet, weapons raised, blood seeping from under her helmet.

  “It’s good to see you again, Thraxas,” she says.

  “And you,” I reply.

  The Orcs, realising that I’m a lone rescuer, hesitate no longer. They rush us from all directions. Makri stands on one side of Lisutaris’s body and I stand on the other and we prepare to meet our fate. Suddenly the air flashes with green flame and the Orcs crumple to the ground. Once more I’ve been saved by Anumaris. She’s finally caught up, and unleashed her last spell. I should feel grateful: I wish she’d got here earlier. I sink to my knees. I’ve run too far, too fast, and I’m wounded in the shoulder. I need to catch my breath.

  “Have a nice rest,” says Makri. “Why don’t you have a beer while you’re down there?”

  I draw a small flask of klee from inside my breastplate.

  “Next best thing.”

  I take a slug and pass the flask to Makri, who does the same. Anumaris Thunderbolt is bending over Lisutaris.

  “She’s still alive.”

  “Of course I’m still alive,” snaps Lisutaris, opening her eyes. “What the hell happened?”

  “You got hit by a dragon’s tail,” says Makri.

  “What happened to the dragon?”

  “You killed it.”

  “Good.”

  Lisutaris looks around the frozen battlefield.

  “We must get back inside the city.”

  We set off, a force now of forty soldiers, two Sorcerers and one Sorcerer’s bodyguard. As we near the city the wind blows fiercely from the east, again clearing the air of snow. The gates are closed. There’s a battle going on in front of them as the victorious Orcs press their assault on the last remnants of Turai’s army, no longer a force in any sort of order but a ragged band of soldiers and mercenaries desperate to escape, with nowhere to go.

  Lisutaris suddenly halts, takes stock of her surroundings, then calls out.

  “Harmon? Coranus?”

  Harmon Half Elf and Coranus the Grinder stride out of the white gloom.

  “Lisutaris. I thought you were dead.”

  “Still here.”

  “We brought down many dragons,” says Harmon. “But we couldn’t save our troops.”

  Both of the powerful Sorcerers are unharmed. A small blessing for Turai. When the Sorcerers responded to Lisutaris’s urgent alarm, most of them arrived without their bodyguards. Their continuing survival is probably the only chance for Turai, but it’s not going to be easy getting them back into the city. They’ve expended their magic and the Orcish army stands between us and the gates.

  Only two or three dragons remain in the sky. Some have fallen to our Sorcerers. Others may just have flown off to rest, away from the battle. Dragons are never as efficient in winter and can’t match the endless intensity they’re capable of in warmer weather. By now the great beasts that remain will be running low on fire. The Sorcerers they bear may well have run out of spells. If the city can just prevent the Orcish army from entering, we might still be able to defend the walls.

  “We should head south,” I advise. “Avoid the Orcs and make it to the gate on the shore.”

  “And avoid the battle?” protests Makri.

  “We have to get the Sorcerers back inside so they can recharge their spells.”

  It’s possible we might creep past, hidden by the bad weather. It means abandoning the men defending the East Gate, but I don’t see what we can do for them anyway. Lisutaris considers our options. She doesn’t like the thought of ignoring the plight of the Turanian soldiers at the gate. I shrug, and draw my sword.

  “Okay,” I say. “Then we’ll attack.”

  I start marshalling my forty men, ready to advance on the thousands of Orcs that stand between us and the city walls.

  “Walk behind me,” says Lisutaris. We follow her towards the battle. Several hundred Turanians are trapped beneath the city walls, fighting a hopeless rearguard action. They’re using overturned wagons for shelter. Up on the walls, men are hurling missiles towards the Orcs, and other Sorcerers on the ramparts send down spells. But the Orcs have Sorcerers of their own, who protect their forces, and send back fire. Meanwhile the Orcish troops pour arrows into the huddle of men.

  An Orcish phalanx swings into view. Fresh troops, from the look of them, making ready to mop up the Human survivors. After which they’ll attempt to force the gate. The Orcish army isn’t equipped with siege engines but after destroying the Turanian forces on the field, and making our Sorcerers expend all of their power, they might not need siege engines to force their way into the city. A battering ram and a few spells will probably do it.

  We walk behind Lisutaris, who’s limping. Makri supports her. Makri has removed her helmet. Her neck is caked with blood and her hair is streaked with the congealing liquid. When we’re about one hundred yards from the Orcs, Lisutaris halts.

  “Any spells?” she asks, turning to Harmon Half Elf and Coranus the Grinder. They shake their heads. Neither they nor Anumaris have so much as a single spell left between them. Lisutaris nods. She’s weary and in pain from her wounds. Being struck by a dragon’s tail is no light matter. She fishes around in her tunic and pulls out a rather crumpled thazis stick, igniting it with a word. She inhales deeply. Above our heads two dragons swoop towards the battle, ready to burn the defenders outside the gate. As the same time, the Orcish phalanx lower their long spears and break into a run.

  Lisutaris hands the thazis stick to Makri. Then the Sorcerer raises her arms in the air, one hand pointing at each dragon, and starts to intone a spell. It’s not one I’m familiar with. Though I’ve a reasonable knowledge of most magical lore, it’s not even a language I’m familiar with. It’s a harsh, guttural incantation, and as she recites it Harmon Half Elf looks very uncomfortable and Anumaris Thunderbolt seems surprised. Coranus the Grinder nods in approval. I’d guess that this spell is something particularly unpleasant that the Sorcerers Guild would normally leave in the vaults. Something that Lisutaris would only dredge up in the direst emergency.

  It’s already as cold as the Ice Queen’s grave. As Lisutaris chants the spell, it somehow becomes colder. The Ice Queen’s grave seems to open up and engulf us in a freezing void. There’s a great roar of rushing wind, and two shafts of dark purple light fly from Lisutaris’s hands up into the sky, one striking each dragon. Their cries of rage and pain are terrible to hear, drowning out even the roar of battle. The dragons halt in mid air, writhing, before Lisutaris draws her hands downwards, pulling them from the sky. As she does this, several bolts of light fly through the air towards her. The dragons are carrying Sorcerers and they’re fighting back. Their bolts strike Lisutaris, shaking her, but she remains upright, still supported by Makri. For a moment time stands still. The dragons are motionless in the sky as Lisutaris strives against their own colossal strength and the sorcery of their Orcish riders. Then something gives, and the dragons cease to beat their wings. They plummet towards the earth, heading straight for the Orcish phalanx. As they
hit the ground, both dragons explode in flames.

  “That’s not something you see every day,” mutters Makri.

  The Orcish phalanx is destroyed by the force of the explosion. The remaining Orcish troops scatter before the flames. Lisutaris falls to the ground. I pick her up, sling her over my shoulder, and order my men forward.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Orcs have scattered in confusion. I lead my company directly between the flaming corpses of the dragons. Thick oily smoke pours from the bodies of the beasts, now burning with some evil sorcerous fire conjured up by Lisutaris. We’re no more than fifty yards from the gates and I’m praying that someone inside the city will seize the opportunity of opening them and letting us in before the Orcs can regroup.

  Lisutaris weighs heavily on my shoulder but I keep going. If we miss this chance we’re not going to get another. The gates open. The trapped Turanian troops leave the shelter of their wagons and run towards the city. We follow on. We’re still some way from the walls when I sense a hostile spell on its way. The ground shakes beneath my feet. I’m hit by what feels like a hammer to the back of the head. My protection charm keeps me alive but it doesn’t stop the pain. I sag to my knees, dropping Lisutaris. It’s a terrible struggle getting up again. Even Makri is slow to rise.