by Martin Scott
“So she claims. She’s probably still sucking it up in private. Anyway, you wouldn’t catch me and Gurd going into battle without a few ales inside us. Ale is the bedrock of a good phalanx. Not that there’s any chance of me being in a good phalanx while I’m shepherding these untrained youths around the place. She’s sent me this sorcerer called Rinderan from the Southern Hills and he’s never even been in combat. Probably flee at the first sign of a dragon.”
“We’ve all got to make sacrifices. We’re engaged in important business.”
I glower at Makri. “Since when did you become the voice of wisdom?”
“Since I became Ensign Makri in the Sorcerers Auxiliary Regiment, bodyguard to our War Leader, Commander Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky. I’ve put aside all frivolities for the duration of the war. Nothing will affect my concentration on the job in hand and I advise you to adopt the same attitude.”
Makri draws herself up, looks serious, and opens the door. “I’ll see you on the march, Captain Thraxas.”
Makri can be hard to take at the best of times. This new, responsible version is worse than most. She departs. I head for the couch. Before I can reach it the door bursts open and Makri flies into the room.
“Hide me!” she cries, before slamming the door shut and diving behind the makeshift couch.
Rather puzzled, I look down at her crouching figure. “What’s the matter?”
“See-ath!”
“What?”
“See-ath! The Elf from Avula. he’s outside in the corridor. I can’t let him see me.”
“Is See-ath the one - “
“Yes!” hisses Makri.
Poor Makri. She’s strongly attracted to Elves. Elves, unfortunately, tend to be suspicious of her because of her Orcish blood. That’s not to say they don’t find her attractive. Most people find Makri attractive, particularly in the chainmail bikini she wore as a barmaid. But when she did finally get her chance, and embarked on a brief fling with a young Elf on the Isle of Avula, it didn’t end well. So I understand, anyway. She’s never volunteered many details of the affair.
I look at her with interest. “What happened to 'I’ve put aside all frivolities for the duration of the war?'”
“That was before I knew See-ath was here.”
“You can’t spend the whole war hiding behind my couch.”
“Why not?”
“We have to march north tomorrow, for one thing. Is it really so bad seeing him again?”
“Yes.”
“Come on Makri, people have unfortunate relationships all the time. So it didn’t work out. That’s not so bad. Maybe a little embarrassing, nothing more.”
“It’s a lot more.”
“Why? What happened on Avula?”
Makri, still hiding behind the couch, screws up her face. “Avula wasn’t so bad. It was afterwards.”
“Afterwards? But you didn’t see him afterwards.”
“I know. I was upset that he didn’t get in touch. I sent him some messages.”
“Messages? How?”
“By ship. And by sorcerer. Once by carrier pigeon.”
“I see. What did these messages say?”
“They started off saying I missed him and why hadn’t he got in touch? Then I got a little upset, and I... well... ”
“You threatened him with violence?”
“By the ninth message I told him I was going to chop his head off and feed it to a dragon. Maybe that was the tenth, I forget exactly.”
“I can see why things have become awkward. That’s not really normal behaviour.”
“I’m not very experienced at these things.”
I shake my head. Poor Makri.
“What’ll I do?” she wails.
“How about facing him manfully, or womanfully, if there is such a word, and discussing it?”
“Out of the question. I can never see him again.”
“Then what’s your plan?”
“Didn’t you once mention some place in the furthest west? I could flee there.”
“For goodness sake, Makri.” I drag her out from behind the couch. “You can’t hide forever. You might not even see him again. He’s young, isn’t he? That means he’s not a senior figure in the Elvish military. He probably just arrived at headquarters to deliver a message or something like that. Once the armies march tomorrow you’ll have thousands of men between you and him.”
Makri considers this. “You might be right. Could you check the corridor for me?”
I open the door and stick my head out. There’s no one there, Elvish or otherwise. “The coast is clear. Do you need me to walk you back to Lisutaris?”
Makri peers out into the corridor. “I’m all right. But don’t lock your door in case I need to run back here.”
With that, Makri, champion gladiator of the Orcish lands, undefeated in combat since she arrived in the West, winner of the great sword-fighting competition in Samsarina, and now personal bodyguard to the Commander of the Western Army, creeps furtively out into the corridor like a guilty schoolgirl returning late from her holidays. It’s a pathetic sight. I shake my head sadly, and finally mange to return to my couch for my long-delayed afternoon sleep.
Chapter Seven
Despite their inexperience, my security unit proves to be adept at the tasks I’ve given them. The previously intoxicated and irresponsible Droo seems like a reformed character. She hurries around, gathering information, writing things down, and generally doing everything that’s asked of her. She appears to be enjoying herself. It’s the first time she’s left the Elvish islands, so I suppose it’s all quite exciting for her. As for Anumaris and Rinderan, the young sorcerers manage to be both tactful and efficient while carrying out their security checks. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find myself confronted by angry senior officers, furious at the suggestion that their backgrounds needed looking in to, but so far it hasn’t happened. Anumaris and Rinderan mange to establish a coherent and uninterrupted timeline for both Bishop-General Ritari and General Hemistos. Neither of them have gone missing recently, or suffered any unexpected interruptions to their normal routines. For the past few months neither of them have been alone for any length of time. That, along with some sorcerous investigation, seems to rule out the possibility of either of them being an impostor. I’m keenly aware of Deeziz’s power, but I’m now reasonably certain that neither our infantry Commander nor our cavalry Commander are fakes. As they’re the closest people to Lisutaris, that’s a relief. I instruct Anumaris and Rinderan to look into the background of their immediate subordinates.
“Pay special attention to Bishop-General Ritari’s second-in-command, Legate Apiroi. I’m suspicious of him.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s been complaining about Lisutaris filling her staff with low-class Turanians. Sounds like a trouble-maker to me. Could be an Orcish spy.”
We’re still checking up on Lord Kalith-ar-Yil, something Droo takes to with great enthusiasm. She finds it funny that’s she’s investigating an Elf Lord, who, back in his own realm, would be immune from any sort of enquiry.
Anumaris and Rinderan share some similarities in character, and even in appearance. They’re both young sorcerers with good reputations, they both have long dark hair and always wear their sorcerers' cloaks. Each is rather methodical, not a bad trait in the circumstances. Neither are what you’d call gregarious, but Rinderan does hold one big advantage over Anumaris. The sorcerer from the Southern Hills is an unexpected authority on beer. His family own a brewery. I’m impressed.
“A whole brewery? They own it?”
“It’s the largest of its kind in the Southern Hills. We supply all the taverns in the region. I was meant to go into the family business until I turned out to have a talent for sorcery. I went to sorcerers college instead. My father was disappointed but my mother was proud. We’ve never had a sorcerer in the family before.”
“What do you brew?”
“Dark ale mainly, but we make
a good mild ale too. We use hops and barley from our own farms.”
“I’ve never heard anything more interesting from a sorcerer. Tell me more.”
At this moment we’re loading equipment onto our wagon. I’d expected to be marching, but as an integral part of Lisutaris’s command, we’ve been given a covered wagon. We’ll be riding along not far behind our War Leader. I dump my armour in the back, though I take more care with my sword, a new Elvish blade given to me by Makri. It was part of her prize for winning the great sword-fighting tournament. It was a good prize, and a fine gift. So good that I didn’t know how to thank her properly, leading to an awkward silence, as I recall. Rinderan is just describing the brewing process when Anumaris bustles up and interrupts us with some footling enquiry about provisions. I attempt to brush her off but Anumaris is persistent, and difficult to brush off.
“We’re leaving in three hours,” she insists. “I need to make sure this check-list of provision is complete.”
I glance at the list. “You forgot the beer.”
“We’re not bringing any beer.”
I’m really starting to dislike her. I send Droo off to find beer and get back to my conversation with Rinderan. The scene all around is chaotic as the army prepares to march. Orders are being shouted from all directions. Trumpets sound as officers struggle to get their men in order. Huge dust clouds billow from the north where the cavalry are manoeuvring into position. Getting an army moving is no easy task. The fact that we’re still on schedule is further testament to Lisutaris’s powers of organisation.
I haven’t had much further opportunity of talking with Gurd, though I did meet him briefly. Gurd had joined up with the Turanian phalanx, but to his dismay, he was immediately seconded to the Sorcerers Auxiliary regiment, the same as me. He’s not particularly happy about it. He wanted to be in the front lines, and worries that he won’t see any fighting.
“Protecting sorcerers? That’s no task for a warrior.”
Gurd is older than me, and I’m in my mid-forties. You might say that a position in a leading phalanx is no task for a man that age either. You wouldn’t actually say that out loud to Gurd, obviously, or he’d knock you unconscious, but it might be the reason for his secondment. Or he might be there by request of whichever Turanian officer was responsible for assigning duties. Gurd is known in the city as a man you can trust. If he turned out to be the only person between a vulnerable sorcerer and a horde of Orcs, he’s not going to flee. I’m still heartened by his reappearance, and wonder if any of my other old friends escaped from the city. Captain Rallee, for instance. Old friend might not be quite the right term for Rallee. We seemed to find ourselves on opposing sides more often than not, him being a civil guard and me being a private investigator, Even so, I’ve known him a long time, and I hope he survived. I’m loading my last bag of supplies into the wagon when Droo trots into view with a crate of beer cradled in her arms and a grin on her face.
“I’ve got the beer, enormous human.”
“Captain Thraxas would be the correct form of address.”
“Also, Lord Kalith-ar-Yil wants to see you.”
“What for?”
“Something about 'Young elves who ought to be thrown in prison for insubordination and wait till he gets his hands on that damned rogue Thraxas who probably put her up to it.'”
“I take it he didn’t appreciate your security checks?”
“Not much. He objected quite violently when I asked him what he had for breakfast for the past thirty days. You know he was missing from the island for a day? He claims it was his standard religious duty as Lord of Avula but it could be suspicious.” Young Sendroo looks quite happy at the thought. She’s enjoying the opportunity of disconcerting her Elf Lord. I warm to her insubordinate spirit.
“Good work,” I tell her. “Keep it up. I want you to check every Elf who’s anywhere near Lisutaris. Any complaints, inform them that Captain Thraxas, Chief Security Officer of the Commander’s Personal Security Unit, has given you full authorisation to make their lives uncomfortable.”
Droo departs upstairs to collect her belongings.
“You don’t really think Lord Kalith-ar-Yil could be Deeziz the Unseen, do you?” asks Anumaris.
“Not really. But he gave me a hard time when I was on his island. I don’t mind seeing him discomfited.”
“Do we even know that Deeziz can impersonate a man? Or a male Elf?”
“No, we don’t. In Turai she appeared as a female singer. But before that we thought she was male. There doesn’t seem to be any firm evidence either way. Given her powers, it’s best to assume she could impersonate anyone.”
When our wagon is fully loaded with provisions, arms and sundry equipment, we have a very long wait as the units of the army still within the walls of the city trundle slowly through the great gates to join those assembled outside. Rinderan takes the reigns with Anumaris beside him while Droo and I sit in the back. We’re just on the point of passing through the gate when Makri unexpectedly clambers into the wagon and lies on the floor. I look down at her. Despite her fervour for war, she hasn’t cut her hair, which is extremely long and thick, and now covers quite a large part of the wagon’s wooden, slatted flooring.
“Shouldn’t you be guarding our War Leader?”
“Top secret conference,” she explains. “Only Lisutaris, Hemistos, Ritari and Kalith allowed. I’ve been excused. I thought I’d see how you were.”
“I see.”
We move slowly through the gate into the fields outside.
“Is that the only reason you’re here?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re lying on the floor looking like a woman who’s hiding from someone.”
“Why is Makri hiding?” ask Droo.
“Because she has the emotional maturity of a five-year-old and can’t face her Elvish ex-lover.”
Makri looks anguished. “They’ve made him an Liaison Officer! Why did they do that? He’s always bringing messages to Lisutaris. I have to keep ducking out of sight.”
“Makri, this is pitiful. You can’t spend the entire war hiding from an Elf. We’re meant to be on the same side.”
“Maybe I’ll get lucky,” says Makri. “I might get killed quickly.”
Throughout this, young Droo has been listening. “What’s this about? What happened?”
“Makri had a brief affair when we visited your island. Apparently it didn’t finish well. He never contacted her afterwards.”
“Ooh!” Droo is very interested in this. “Who was it? Maybe I know him.”
“His name was See-ath,” mumbles Makri, still taking care to keep herself out of sight.
Droo laughs, rather tactlessly. “See-ath? That explains it.”
“What do you mean?”
“See-ath has hundreds of lovers. He’s famous for it.”
“No he isn’t,” says Makri, angrily. “He told me he was shy and hardly talks to women.”
At this, Droo positively explodes with mirth. Makri flushes an angry shade of red.
“Stop laughing!”
“Sorry. But it’s funny. Really, See-ath isn’t shy with women. He’s had lots of lovers.”
“How many?”
“Probably one a week. No, that’s an exaggeration. One a month. No, that’s not quite right either. Say one every two weeks or so. Two a month. Maybe little more.”
Makri’s face is grim. “He told me I was special.”
“You sent him a sorcerous message threatening to cut his head off.” I point out. “That probably counts as special. Not in a good way, obviously.”
“Oh God.” Makri buries her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I sent him all these messages. I’ll have to flee. Tell Lisutaris I caught the plague and you had to bury me quickly.”
At that moment Lisutaris hauls herself into the wagon, quite athletically. “Why is Makri pretending to die of the plague? I thought you were keen to go to war? Makri, I expected better of you.
”
“It’s private,” says Makri, hopelessly.
“Not that private,” says Droo. “Thraxas knows about it. So do I. See-ath probably told a few people as well, especially if you’ve been threatening to chop his head off.”
Makri cringes. I struggle not to laugh. There’s something engaging about Droo’s lack of tact.
“What’s this?” demands Lisutaris. She looks pointedly at Makri. Makri unwillingly explains her situation again. Lisutaris seems interested, then frowns. “Last year I remember asking the communications sorcerer Jurias if he could send an important message to the Elvish Isles. He said it would have to wait, as he’d used up all his magic for another client. He needed time to recover. Was that your doing?”
“It might have been,” says Makri, gloomily. “I did send a lot of messages.”
“Fascinating,” I say. “Who’d have thought that Makri’s hopeless romance would end up destroying the war effort?”
“Could we stop talking about this?” demands Makri. “I’m over it now anyway.” She rises to her feet, looking quite fierce.
“I’d no idea you had a history with See-ath,” says Lisutaris. “It does sound embarrassing. But perhaps he won’t remember you?”
“Not much chance of that,” I say. “Makri was the only person with Orcish blood ever to land on Avula. She made quite an impression. After she fell in a ceremonial pool they had to perform a special ritual to cleanse it.”
“Could we talk about something else?” says Makri. She scowls. “I’ve had enough of Elves.”
Lisutaris brings the conversation to an end by telling Ensign Droo that she’s here to discuss a private matter with her Chief Security Officer, meaning me.
“I’ll see if I can find more beer,” says Droo cheerfully, as she hops out of the wagon.
“I see she’s fitting in well with your unit,” says Lisutaris, as the young Elf departs. “I’m here to talk about our visit to the oracle. We’ll be leaving the night after tomorrow. Be ready to meet outside the camp after midnight.”
“Commander, I’m still worried about this excursion. If Deeziz the Unseen has infiltrated our forces already then she might know about it. It would be the perfect opportunity for an ambush. I don’t think you should go.”