Thraxas - The Complete Series

by Martin Scott

  My cards are still on the table. I flip them over: 7, 8, bishop, queen, all black. I turn over Horm the Dead’s cards: four kings. It’s a better hand than mine. He would have won. Of course, technically, the game hasn’t finished yet. We never got round to declaring our hands. But he’s no longer at the table, while I’m still here, which makes me the winner. Thraxas, number one chariot at the card table. I toss the cards in a heap then scoop all the money into my bag.

  I walk past the bar and into the rooms beyond. Gurd’s room is empty. No sign of him or Tanrose. I check the store rooms. Also empty. I hurry upstairs. I have a feeling there’s something badly wrong but I can’t quite put my finger on it. My office is empty and so is my bedroom. There seems to be a lot of noise outside. I hurry along to Makri’s room. Makri is lying on the floor, drenched in sweat, barely conscious. Lisutaris is beside her, unconscious. I kneel down beside them. Makri opens her eyes.

  “Are you confused?” I ask.

  “Compared to you, no,” says Makri. “What happened?”

  “Deeziz. Enemy Sorcerer. Cast a powerful spell downstairs.”

  “I heard a bang,” whispers Makri. “I found Lisutaris wandering in the corridor. I dragged her in here.”

  “You see anyone else?”

  Makri shakes her head.

  The noises outside get louder.

  “What’s happening?”

  “I think the city has just fallen to the Orcs.”

  “What?”

  Makri attempts to sit up, but fails. She’s very weak, and the effort of dragging Lisutaris into her room has taken the last of her energy. I tell her to wait while I check on events outside. I walk along the corridor and go into the small cupboard which contains a ladder leading to the roof. It’s an awkward climb, not one that I’ve made for a while. By the time I struggle on to the roof the noises outside are deafening. People are screaming in panic and confusion. I look north. Dragons are swooping over the city and smoke and flames curl over the Palace. Lord Rezaz the Butcher has taken the city and the population is fleeing as best they can. I struggle back down the ladder, and head for my office. I put on my magic warm cloak, take my sword, my illuminated staff and my grimoire of spells. I put a bottle of the Abbot’s klee in my bag, along with thazis and the large joint of venison Lisutaris sent me. It’s a heavy load, though not much to be taking away from the city I’ve lived in all my life.

  I now have to get myself, Makri and Lisutaris to safety. I’m concerned about Gurd, but he’s not around and I’ve no way of locating him. It’s possible Tanrose has taken him off somewhere. Or it’s possible he’s just wandered off and has been killed by the Orcs.

  Back in Makri’s room I ask Makri if she can stand. She shakes her head.

  “The Orcs have taken the city. We have to get away.”

  Makri scowls.

  “Orcs? In the city? We have to fight.”

  She attempts to rise, but fails.

  I pick her up.

  “My swords,” says Makri.

  I pick up her swords and her favourite axe and head downstairs to the back of the building. Luckily the cart is still in the stables. Everyone in the tavern must have been too confused to take it. I dump Makri in the cart and run back upstairs. I don’t know how much time I have. The Orcs will be sweeping through the city. If resistance has completely crumbled it won’t take them long to reach Twelve Seas. I pick up Lisutaris and carry her downstairs. I throw her in the cart then set about getting the horse affixed to the reins.

  When I make it out into Quintessence Street I’m greeted by a scene of terrible panic. People are running everywhere, screaming that the Orcs are here and we’re all going to be slaughtered. It’s quite likely. But I’ve encountered Orcs many times, and I haven’t been slaughtered yet, so I’m not about to give up now. I drive the horse forward through the crowd, all heading south towards the harbour in a desperate effort to escape from the invaders.

  I have no thoughts of staying and fighting. With dragons swooping over the Palace, and Lord Rezaz’s army inside the walls, we’re already beaten. I don’t intend to lose my life in a dark street in Twelve Seas for no reason. I spur the horse on.

  Makri emerges from her stupor.

  “What’s happening?”

  “We’re leaving Turai.”

  “Why?”

  “It seems like a good time for a fresh start.”

  Makri opens her mouth to protest, but lacks the strength, and she sinks back into unconsciousness. Our progress is interrupted when the wagon becomes hemmed in by people and we come to a halt. I look around impatiently for some means of escape but there’s nowhere to go. If the Orcs arrive now we’re finished. Neither Makri nor Lisutaris are in a fit state to be of any help.

  At this moment a dragon flies overhead and a troop of heavily armed Orcs advances into Quintessence Street, sending the crowds fleeing in terror. There is a terrible panic as people dive through windows into houses, climb walls, anything to escape. For a moment I consider just picking up my sword and confronting the Orcs. I can kill three with my sword and another four or five with a spell before I die. That’s not too bad. I notice the alleyway on the right looks familiar. I once climbed out of the sewers into that alleyway. There’s a manhole cover there. I take Lisutaris in one hand, Makri in the other and drag them over the side of the wagon. It’s fortunate that neither of them are heavy women or I’d never make it. When I reach the manhole cover the Orcs are no more than fifty yards away. I open the cover, drop Makri and Lisutaris through it, clamber inside, and pull the cover over my head. Then I descend the ladder as quickly as I can, because if the water level in the sewer is high, Makri and Lisutaris will be drowning by now.

  The water is several feet deep. Makri is struggling to stand but Lisutaris is floating face down. Praying that I haven’t actually killed Turai’s leading Sorcerer, I drag her out of the water.

  “What are you doing?” croaks Makri, slightly more animated after being dumped in the sewer.

  “Escaping. The Orcs are right overhead. Can you walk?”

  Makri nods, and then falls over.

  “No, seriously,” I say, dragging her to her feet. “Can you walk?”

  “I’m strong,” says Makri, and falls over again. For a moment I wish I’d just stayed and fought the Orcs, but I grit my teeth and start dragging Makri and Lisutaris through the sewer. It’s a tough job but at least I know where I’m going. I’ve been here before. I was once chased through this sewer by Glixius Dragon Killer, curse his name. I wonder if he had something to do with the appearance of Deeziz in the Avenging Axe. I wouldn’t put it past him.

  My illuminated staff lights the way but progress is painfully slow. The last time I was here it wasn’t only Glixius I had to worry about. I encountered an alligator as well. Damn these sewers. And damn Makri and Lisutaris for being too ill to walk. If an alligator arrives I’ll feed them to it and make an escape myself.

  After what seems like hours Lisutaris grunts, and starts to come round.

  “What’s happening?”

  “You got hit by a spell of confusion and the Orcs have taken the city. We’re escaping through the sewers.”

  “We have to fight!” cries Lisutaris.

  “It’s too late to fight.”

  “We can’t run away!”

  “Can you remember any spells?”

  Lisutaris looks blank.

  “Spells?”

  “The things you do sorcery with.”

  The Sorcerer looks puzzled.

  “Oh yes. Spells. No, I can’t seem to remember any.”

  “Then we’d better keep moving. We’re not far from the outlet on the shore. If we’re lucky we’ll be far enough away from the Orcs. I don’t expect they’ll scour the coastline tonight.”

  Now that Lisutaris is conscious again, the going is a little easier. I sling Makri over my shoulder. Even though she seems to be unconscious she keeps hold of her bag containing her two swords and her axe. At least she’s not leaving
the city empty-handed.

  When we arrive at the outlet on the shore the beach is lit up with explosions. Some Sorcerers at the harbour are putting up resistance and the last ships are leaving the dock, crammed with refugees. People who couldn’t make it on to a ship are streaming along the rocks towards the beach, fleeing through the winter night in all directions. Fire and smoke hang over the city although there doesn’t seem to be a general conflagration. I’d guess that the Orcs won’t burn Turai; they want it as a base to gather strength during the winter.

  We’re too far from the harbour to reach any of the ships. I don’t see anything to do except start walking.

  “No good,” gasps Lisutaris. “I’m too weak.”

  The lingering effects of the malady, followed by Deeziz’s spell, have taken all of the Sorcerer’s strength.

  Makri comes awake and slides off my shoulder.

  “There’s an empty boat out there,” she says.

  I can’t see any boat. Nor can Lisutaris.

  “I can see it,” says Makri. “I have Elvish eyes.”

  Makri looks at me.

  “I’ve got the malady,” she says, and sounds quite unhappy.

  “You’ll recover. Lisutaris, can you bring the boat in?”

  Lisutaris shakes her head.

  “I can’t remember any spells.”

  I drag my old, out-of-date grimoire from my bag. Most of the spells in it I could never use and the few that I could are no good in the circumstances. Maybe the head of the Sorcerers Guild can make something of it. I thrust the book at her. Lisutaris looks at it hopelessly.

  “I can’t read it.”

  I explode with exasperation.

  “Could you make an effort? I’ve just dragged you from the Avenging Axe to the beach via a sewer. The least you could do is remember a simple spell. Here.”

  I take out some thazis from my bag. It’s still fresh and green. Lisutaris’s eyes light up and she rolls a thazis stick with nimble dexterity. Without even thinking about it she mutters a word, causing the stick to light, and inhales deeply.

  “Of course,” she says. “I’m a Sorcerer. I do spells. Let me see that book.”

  The Mistress of the Sky flips over the pages while I light the book with my illuminated staff, trying not to make it to bright for fear of attracting attention. There’s no saying that a dragon won’t suddenly decide to practise its fire-breathing technique on the hopeless survivors who throng the beach.

  Lisutaris snaps the book shut, and utters a few words, a spell of bringing.

  “The boat is coming.”

  “Good. So is a dragon.”

  The dragon, flapping its wings languidly, appears over the city walls, heading our way. A small boat heaves into view. A tiny fisherman’s craft, with one sail. I sling Makri over my shoulder again and splash through the water towards it, flinging her over the side then climbing in myself. Lisutaris can’t make it over the edge and I have to haul her in. The dragon is getting ominously close.

  “Use a spell,” I scream. “Get us out of here.”

  Lisutaris snaps her fingers and we begin to drift out to sea. The dragon turns its head towards us but doesn’t follow. Dragons are not keen on flying over water.

  Lisutaris lies down on the deck.

  “More thazis,” she mutters. “I want more thazis.”

  I hand the sorceress my thazis pouch. She rolls herself another stick.

  “When I get my strength back,” she says grimly, “I’ll come back and chase those Orcs all the way to the mountains.”

  I gaze towards the shore. Maybe I’ll come back with her, and help chase the Orcs. Or maybe I’ll just keep going till I reach the furthest west, and see if anyone there needs an Investigator. The way I’ve been feeling about Turai recently, just keeping going doesn’t seem like such a bad option.

  What with the malady, Deeziz’s spell and the thazis, the greatest Sorcerer in the west is once more out of commission. She falls asleep as we drift away from the shore. I haul both Lisutaris and Makri into the small cabin, cover them with their cloaks, and go back on deck, looking towards Turai. Flames and smoke tower over the Palace and dragons still swoop down from the sky. I let the boat drift with the current, and I wonder if I’ll ever see the city again.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Martin Scott is the pseudonym under which Martin Millar writes his humorous fantasy adventures about Thraxas, the overweight, beer-loving private eye and man of action in a fantasy world of elves, Orcs, and mean streets. On his first outing Thraxas won the World Fantasy Award, and has continued his exploits through eight novels. Thraxas’ adventures are an international hit, having been published in France, Japan, Russia, the Netherlands, Germany, the Czech Republic and Poland. Now Americans are finding out what they’ve been missing.

  Martin Millar, under his own name, has written several mainstream novels, such as The Good Fairies of New York, Love and Peace with Melody Paradise, and his newest novel, Suzy, Led Zeppelin and Me, which The Guardian called “brilliant” and the London Times praised as one of the few “great rock novels.” He has been compared to Kurt Vonnegut and Armistead Maupin, and The Edinburgh Times calls him “one of Britain’s most gifted underground writers.” Originally from Glasgow, Scotland, he lives in London, England in a flat filled with videos of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.