Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  Makri works here as a barmaid. She used to be a gladiator, in the Orcish slave pits. She’s a skilful woman with a sword. She has Orcish blood, as well as Human and Elvish. She’s also the half-sister of Prince Amrag, leader of the Orcish forces. I’m the only person in Turai who knows that. I’m not about to pass the information along. The population of Turai hates Orcs. Recently Makri’s had more than her usual share of comments and insults in the street, from anyone who feels like noticing her reddish skin, and pointed ears. If it was known that she was actually related to Prince Amrag she’d be in danger of being thrown from the city walls.

  Gurd’s also been spending time on military duty. Almost everyone has. Every tavern owner, Investigator, shoemaker, warehouseman, wagon driver, docker, and even those who never seem to have any sort of job that you can define, is obliged to report every day, sword in hand, ready to repel the Orcs.

  I watch as Dandelion draws a tankard of ale for a mercenary who’s still clapping his hands together for warmth and brushing snow from his tunic. She manages the operation reasonably competently, which is something of a surprise. Dandelion, our idiotic barmaid, talks to dolphins and has signs of the zodiac embroidered on her skirt. No one is quite sure how she ended up working in the Avenging Axe. She’s not your average sort of barmaid, particularly not in Twelve Seas. This is the bad part of town and anyone working in a tavern has to be tough. Dandelion is not tough. When she first started, her incompetence was staggering, but she’s more or less mastered the beer taps now. And while she doesn’t have Makri’s way of dealing with awkward customers—violence—she seems to get by all right by not exactly realising what’s happening around her, and smiling sweetly at even the most hostile mercenary.

  Tanrose emerges from the kitchen with a fresh pot of stew. I beat back several rivals in the food queue and take a healthy bowlful off her hands.

  “Few more yams if you please, Tanrose.”

  Tanrose shakes her head.

  “Can’t give you them, Thraxas. No yams at the market today. There’s a shortage.”

  “Already?”

  Tanrose nods. Much of our supply of yams for the winter was burned in the warehouse fires. Immediately I’m depressed. Yams running out, and winter not even halfway through.

  “I’ll kill those Orcs for that,” I mutter darkly, and I mean it. I’m a man with a healthy appetite, and a lot of girth to maintain. Interfere with my food supply and you’re going to find yourself in trouble.

  Chapter Two

  Perturbed by the yam situation, I take a beer upstairs to my office and check my supply of klee. I’ve only three bottles of the fiery spirit left. Maybe I should go easy. I’ve been fortifying myself with a few glasses before heading for the ramparts, but if it’s going to be a winter of shortages, perhaps I should cut back. Though how a man is meant to sit in a cold guard post staring out into the snow without a warming glass of klee inside him I really don’t know. Living in a city under siege is hell at the best of times. Living in a city under siege without a plentiful supply of alcohol doesn’t bear thinking about. A month ago I expected the Orcs to smash their way into Turai. Now, I’m not so sure. Gurd may be right. Perhaps Prince Amrag has decided they missed their opportunity. We don’t even know how many Orcs are still out there. Some are billeted in the Stadium Superbius, outside the city walls to the east, but apart from that, we can’t tell. Their forces have withdrawn from sight. Our Sorcerers have scanned the area but the Orcish Sorcerers cast their own spells of hiding and it’s hard for anyone to be certain. Lisutaris thinks that there are still Orcish forces guarding every exit from the city, but the main bulk of their troops may have retired southwards towards the forests, where it’s not so exposed to the elements. Unfortunately for us, this winter is not as fierce as the last few have been. The Turanian winter can be bitingly cold, but after the first severe snowstorms, this one has turned unusually mild. No aqueducts have frozen up and the alleyways of Twelve Seas, usually clogged with thick drifts of snow, remain clear and passable. It might have been better for us had the weather been worse. The Orcs would have been less likely to remain.

  After a glass or two of klee I find myself slightly more optimistic. We’ll hold them off till the spring. The armies will arrive from Simnia and the Elves will sail up and we’ll survive, just like we did fifteen years ago, last time the Orcs attacked.

  The memory makes me frown. Last time we threw them back after a desperate struggle but we wouldn’t have if the Elves hadn’t arrived at the last moment. I was on the eastern wall when it collapsed and I was a second away from being mowed down by an Orcish squadron when we were rescued. No amount of klee, or passage of time, can make these grim memories fade. I get the uncomfortable feeling that if my life ends right here, then I haven’t made that much of a success of it. Failed Sorcerer now scratching a living as an Investigator in the poor part of town, working for impecunious clients on cases so hopeless no one else will take them on. I curse, throw another log on the fire, and wish I’d studied more when I was an apprentice. If I hadn’t discovered beer at such a young age, I might have been a real Sorcerer instead of a man who knows a few tricks. I’d be up in the Palace, living in luxury, with enough yams and klee to get me through any shortage.

  Possibly the Palace isn’t such a great place to be these days. The King is infirm and practically bedridden. The heir to the throne, Prince Frisen-Akan, is so far gone on wine and dwa that he’s no longer allowed out in public. Young Prince Dees-Akan was killed when the Orcs attacked. Consul Kalius is wounded, traumatised, and out of action after the Orcish attack, leaving the administration in the hands of Deputy Consul Cicerius. A good man in his way, but not a warrior. All military planning is in the hands of General Pomius. He at least is an experienced soldier. He might just get us through, particularly as he has a proper respect for Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, head of the Sorcerers Guild and one of the most powerful people in the west. With someone like that on our side, there’s always a chance of holding off the Orcs, and she’s not the only strong Sorcerer in the Guild.

  Makri walks into my office.

  “Will you never learn to knock?”

  She shrugs.

  “Why?”

  “It’s civilised.”

  “We’re under siege.”

  “No reason to abandon all standards. I thought you were spending the whole day with Lisutaris?”

  Makri scowls. She takes off her heavy winter cloak then sits down on the chair nearest the fire.

  “Lisutaris had to go to the Palace to meet the King. I couldn’t go along.”

  Her eyes flash.

  “Isn’t that ridiculous? I can’t attend a private meeting with the King because I’ve got Orcish blood. Who was it that saved Lisutaris from the Orcs?”

  Makri is angry, though she knew what she was in for when she took the job. No one hates Orcs more than Makri and she’s butchered a lot of them in her time. Nonetheless, she does have one quarter Orcish blood and that’s never going to allow her access to the most refined places in the city.

  I notice Makri’s looking a little skinnier these days. She’s still filling out the chainmail bikini well enough to earn a bundle of tips from the mercenaries in the tavern, but between her shifts as a barmaid and working for Lisutaris, I don’t think she’s been eating properly.

  “I hate the way the library shuts in winter,” she says. “I need to study.”

  Makri works here to earn money to pay for her education at the Guild College. I can’t believe she’s still thinking about education at a time like this.

  “The Orcs are about to storm the walls. Can’t you ever take a break?”

  Makri shrugs.

  “I like it. Samanatius isn’t taking a break.”

  Samanatius is a prominent philosopher in Turai. Makri holds him in great respect. I regard him as a fool because he teaches for free. Obviously the man has no knowledge worth selling. To be fair to him, he was on the field of battle when the Orcs attacked, even
though he could have been excused military duty because of his age.

  Makri runs her hand through her great mane of dark hair. She looks dissatisfied.

  “I wanted to dye it blond.”

  This takes me by surprise. Makri was champion gladiator by the time she was thirteen. She’s such a brutal fighter I always think of her with a sword in her hand. Outside the city walls she stood over the unconscious body of Lisutaris and defended it with an astonishing display of savage determination, unflinching in the face of impossible odds. Hearing her come out with anything concerning personal vanity is strange, though since arriving in Turai she has taken on board a few of our feminine fashions, mainly low-class ones like a pierced nose and painted toenails.

  “It’ll make you look like a whore.”

  “No it won’t. Senator Lodius’s daughter has blond hair.”

  True. Turanian women are generally dark-haired. Blond hair is usually only sported by prostitutes, but the style is also affected by senators’ daughters, and sometimes their wives. Why only rich women and prostitutes do this, I don’t know.

  “No one is going to mistake you for a senator’s daughter. But what do you care? You’ve already managed to outrage the city. What’s a little more public opprobrium?”

  “I’m not worried about the public,” says Makri. “I just don’t have time. I have to work and study and be a bodyguard and then the Orcs are going to take the city and I’ll be killed which I don’t exactly mind but I wish I’d had time to see what I looked like with blond hair.”

  This is beyond me. My own hair hangs down in a long ponytail like the rest of the humble citizens of Twelve Seas and I never think about it from one day to the next. I ask Makri what news there is from Lisutaris.

  “Nothing much. She can’t tell how many Orcs are outside the city and General Pomius doesn’t want to risk sending men to find out. But the Sorcerers have been busy with the messages. Everyone is making ready to help us in the spring.”

  Makri doesn’t sound convinced. Our neighbours to the west, Simnia, might decide they’d rather hold the line against the Orcs on their own borders, and so might Nioj to our north. Everyone says they’ll march to our aid but whether they will or not remains to be seen.

  Makri’s talk of Lisutaris worsens my mood. For one thing I’m annoyed that I’m reduced to learning news of the war from Makri. I used to be a Senior Investigator at the Palace, abreast of all the city state’s affairs. I was a man with contacts. A man who knew what was happening. Now I’m a man who’s dependent on rumour and gossip. It’s irritating. What’s more irritating is that I have to speak a spell every morning on behalf of Lisutaris. Unbelievable as it may sound, this spell is to help conceal Herminis, a senator’s wife whom Makri, Lisutaris and several other criminally minded women broke out of jail just before the Orcs attacked. Herminis had been sentenced to death for the murder of her husband, a senator. The Association of Gentlewomen decided to intervene. As a result of this, Herminis ended up at the Avenging Axe and Lisutaris prevailed on me to help hide her from the authorities. It’s not a task I welcome, and had Lisutaris not bribed, cajoled and blackmailed me in the most shocking manner, I’d have refused to have anything to do with it.

  “It’s not right,” I say, quite forcibly.

  “What isn’t right?”

  “Me having to help hide Herminis. If the Abode of Justice finds out I’m involved, they’ll be down on me like a bad spell. I blame you.”

  “Why me?” protests Makri.

  “Because you messed up your rescue operation. Not that there should have been any rescue operation in the first place. And then Lisutaris has the nerve to rope me into covering for her. Talk about ingratitude. I picked that woman up and carried her off the battlefield. I saved her life. And did she exhibit the slightest sign of gratitude?”

  “Yes. She gave you a new magic warm cloak.”

  I wave this away.

  “A magic warm cloak? Lisutaris can make a magic cloak by snapping her fingers. Not the sort of gift that really says ‘thank you for saving my life.’ Especially from a woman as rich as Lisutaris. You think it would have harmed her to open up her coffers once in a while? I tell you, these aristocrats are all the same, not a shred of decency among the lot of them.”

  “Thraxas, is there any chance of you shutting up?”

  “Absolutely none. I tell you, next time Lisutaris finds herself on the wrong end of an Orcish phalanx, she can look for someone else to rescue her. The woman’s lack of gratitude is a scandal.”

  “She sent you a gift. It’s downstairs.”

  “What?”

  “I brought it down in a wagon. She said to tell you it was for saving her life.”

  I pause.

  “Possibly I spoke harshly. What is it?”

  Makri shrugs.

  “I lost interest a while ago.”

  I’m deflated. I wasn’t ready to stop complaining yet.

  “This doesn’t excuse her getting me involved with Herminis.”

  Makri curses me for a fool, yawns, and departs to her room. I hurry downstairs to take a look at my gift. I can’t remember when anyone last sent me a present. Maybe my wife, on my wedding day. That was more years ago than I care to remember. My wife, wherever she is now, probably wouldn’t want to remember it either.

  The tavern is full of drinkers. There’s a very large crate behind the bar. Gurd is curious as to the contents, as are Viriggax and his squadron of northern mercenaries. I ignore them all and drag the box upstairs. If Lisutaris has sent me anything good, I’m not going to share it with a bunch of drunken mercenaries.

  I wrench the lid off, drag out some padding, then start emptying the contents on to the table. There’s a layer of bottles, and the very first one I take out makes me stop and stare. It’s a bottle of klee with three golden moons painted on the side. I know what that means. It’s the Abbot’s Special Distillation, a brand of klee so rare and fine as to never be seen in Turai outside the Imperial Palace and a few exclusive residences in Thamlin. Compared to the klee I normally drink it’s like … like … well, there’s no comparison. The only time in my life I drank this was at a banquet at the Palace, and even then I had to sneak it off the Consul’s table. I place the bottle reverently on my table and find there are three more in the box. Four bottles of the Abbot’s Special Distillation, made with love and care by the most talented monks in the mountains. Already I can feel my worries fading away.

  I burrow further into the box and drag out another bottle, this one being thicker, of brown glass, with fancy calligraphy on the label. As I recognise what it is, my legs go slightly weak. The Grand Abbot’s Dark Ale, a brew so precious, so fine in every way, as to be the only beer ever deemed fit for the King. Beer is not normally imbibed by the city’s wine-quaffing elite, but an exception is made for the Grand Abbot’s Dark Ale. I doubt if the monastery that produces it brews more than fifty barrels a year, and every one of them goes to the Palace. So famous is the Grand Abbot’s Dark Ale that a barrel of it was once used as part of a treaty with the Simnians. This beer is the finest beverage in the known world, and I haven’t had a drop for more than ten years. Lisutaris, a woman I have always held in the highest regard, has sent me eight bottles. I dab a little moisture from my eyes. Beer like this just doesn’t come to a man more than once in a lifetime.

  Underneath the beer is a small sack of thazis, but not the dried brown leaves we normally have to put up with in Twelve Seas. This is moist, green, and pungent. Thazis grown by Lisutaris herself. Again, I’m amazed. The sorceress is devoted to thazis. Not only does she have a house in her garden with walls made of glass, specially for growing the plants—an unheard-of extravagance—she has actually developed a spell for making the plants grow faster. There is no finer thazis anywhere, and she’s sent me enough to get through the winter, and more.

  Underneath the thazis are six bottles of Elvish wine. I’m not a connoisseur of wine but I know, from the standard of the other goods, that this wil
l be from the finest vineyard on the finest grape-growing Elvish isle. At the bottom of the box is an enormous joint of venison, wrapped in an unusual fold of muslin. It doesn’t seem to be dried, or salted, as venison usually is in winter. There’s a note pinned to it.

  From the King’s own forest. Will stay fresh till you want to eat it.

  My senses pick up the tiniest flicker of sorcery. The joint is magically protected against ageing. I place it with the other goods on my table then sit down to stare in wonder. Four bottles of klee, eight bottles of ale, six bottles of wine, a bag of thazis and a joint of venison. All of a quality never seen in this part of town. It’s an outstanding gift. I’m man enough to admit that I was wrong about the Mistress of the Sky. She’s a fine woman and a credit to the city. A powerful Sorcerer and sharp as an Elf’s ear. I’ve always said so. Long may she lead the Sorcerers Guild to greater glory.

  Before retiring for the night I carefully place locking spells on both my doors. No disreputable inhabitant of Twelve Seas is going to get his hands on my excellent present.

  Chapter Three

  Next morning I wake feeling more cheerful than I have for weeks. Even the prospect of food shortages can’t dim the enthusiasm of a man who’s got eight bottles of the Grand Abbot’s Dark Ale waiting for his attention. I’m tempted to open one for breakfast but I restrain myself, with an effort. I should wait till I return from guard duty and savour the brew when I’m warm and comfortable. I decide to make do with a little of Lisutaris’s thazis instead, and construct a stick of modest size. As I inhale, the world, already not looking so bad, improves considerably.

  There are some strange noises outside my inner door, the one that leads down to the bar. Normally I’d be annoyed at such an early interruption to my day but I wander over genially and drag the door open. Out in the corridor I find Palax and Kaby, two young street musicians. There was a time when I’d have been displeased to see them because the young couple are not what you’d call your standard citizens of Turai. They affect the strangest clothes and hairstyles and have facial piercings never seen before in the city, and they live in a caravan which they park behind the tavern. Not the sort of behaviour to endear themselves to the average Turanian, including me. However, I’ve grown used to them these days, and I’ve enjoyed some good nights in the Avenging Axe when they’ve been playing their lute and fiddle.