by Martin Scott
“Are you really suspicious of this Elvish woman? Or are you just looking for an excuse to criticise Hanama?”
“Both. She shouldn’t be introducing strange Elves into our ranks. And she deserves criticism. She’s an assassin. I don’t believe she has any loyalty to anyone except the Assassins' Guild. If Lisutaris thinks she can really trust her she’s making a mistake.”
“I trust Hanama,” says Makri.
“She’d kill you without a second thought if her Guild accepted a commission for the job.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
As we arrive, Hanama is sitting cross-legged on her own, in front of her tent. She regards me with no apparent emotion but she smiles when she sees Makri. The assassin’s smile doesn’t light up her face, though it does make her look even younger.
“Hello Makri, I’ve been meditating. Would you like some food?”
Makri politely declines. She never has much of an appetite. Hanama seems disappointed. I’m mildly offended that she didn’t offer me any food, not that I’d have taken it from an assassin anyway.
“Who is this Elvish woman you’ve employed?” I demand, getting straight to the point.
Hanama rises smoothly to her feet. She’s a small woman, several inches shorter than me, and about one quarter as wide.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because anyone working close to Lisutaris needs to be checked out. She might be a security risk.”
“She isn’t.”
“That’s for me to decide.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Yes it is, Captain Hanama. Kindly provide me with full details so I can do my job.”
“Her name is Megleth and she’s an Elf,” says Hanama. “That’s all I can tell you.”
We stare at each other.
“I demand to know more.”
“That’s all I’m saying.”
“I outrank you.”
“No you don’t, we’re both Captains.”
“I outrank you in this. I’m Captain in charge of security.”
“You don’t outrank me in anything,” says Hanama, coldly. “Commander Lisutaris is already aware of Megleth.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I have no interest in what you believe.”
As always, when faced with Hanama, I feel a mixture of annoyance and distaste. I loathe assassins.
“So where is this mysterious Elf?”
“With Commander Lisutaris.”
“She’s with Lisutaris?” I turn to Makri. “Why have you left Lisutaris alone? Hanama’s Elf is probably assassinating her at this moment.”
“Lisutaris told me to leave. She had private sorcerers' business to discuss.” Makri wrinkles her brow. “I don’t like when she does that.”
“Neither do I. We should check she’s safe.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” says Hanama. “There is no danger.”
At that moment the sky goes dark, there’s a flash of lightening and an enormous peal of thunder. Rain begins to pour down in torrents from a sky which was clear only seconds before. A gale-force wind blows through the camp, driving the rain before it, picking up debris from the ground and tossing it around. So unexpected is the storm, and so violent, that for a second or two I’m disorientated, not sure what to do. I snap out of it quickly as another deafening clap of thunder explodes overhead.
“Makri!” I scream to make myself heard. “This storm isn’t natural! We need to get to Lisutaris.”
This storm can only have been conjured up by a hostile sorcerer. It came out of nowhere, and it’s the wrong season for bad weather in Samsarina. Makri and I hurry towards the command tent. Though it’s been raining for only a few minutes the ground is already treacherous. So heavy is the rain that the earth turns to mud beneath our feet, and water laps up over our ankles. With the wind howling in our faces, progress is slow. By the time we’re close to Lisutaris’s tent we’re wading through several inches of mud. My face is sore from the pounding rain, some of which is now turning to hailstones.
All around us, tent pegs are torn out of the ground by the wind. Soldiers struggle to hold on to their tents which threaten to fly away in the gale. Items of clothing, food, even weapons, are picked up by the storm and whirl around our heads. It’s a chaotic scene. A horse gallops past, panicked by the ferocity of the storm, knocking down a centurion who ends up in a pool of muddy water. His soldiers drag him out of the pool and look for cover, but there’s no cover to be had. We’re stuck on an open plain in the middle of a storm as bad as any I’ve ever encountered.
Outside Lisutaris’s tent, the sentries are still at their posts though they’re struggling to stay on their feet. One soldier’s helmets blows off and he falls over in the mud trying to catch it. I’m finding it difficult to advance. My weight - which I refuse to admit is a handicap in most circumstances -does make it difficult to pass quickly over the cloying mud. Makri sprints ahead of me, reaching Lisutaris' tent just in time to see it collapse. The large, square edifice tumbles in on itself, engulfing its contents and anyone who was inside. As I reach the tent Makri is attempting to lift it, a hopeless endeavour given the size of the canvas, which is now water-logged and extremely heavy. With the wind and hailstones battering us we make no progress at all. While we’re still puzzling about how to proceed, the tent begins to rise in the air. Not flapping furiously, like all the other tents currently careering all over the place, but serenely. I take a step back. The tent continues to rise, coming to a halt about ten feet in the air. Standing beneath it is Lisutaris. She moves one of her fingers slightly, causing the tent to descend gently and land behind her.
“What is happening?” she asks.
“Sudden severe storm probably of sorcerous origin,” I reply.
The Head of the Sorcerers Guild scowls. She looks up. Lightning flashes in the sky, producing more deafening thunder. “This is irritating,” she says. “So much for my afternoon nap.”
The driving rain has already reduced Lisutaris’s nicely-coiffured hair to a stringy mass dripping over her shoulders. Her sodden cloak flaps around her ankles. Becoming annoyed with this, she snaps her fingers. A faint purple light appears above her head, acting as an umbrella, diverting the rainwater to each side of her. That’s a useful spell. Makri and I both step into the dry patch.
“Can you stop the storm? I yell. “It’s going to wash the army way at this rate.”
“I have sorcerers to prevent this sort of thing happening,” declares Lisutaris. “Where are they?”
A bedraggled sorcerer hoves into view, struggling against the elements, mud and water splashing round his feet as he approaches. He stumbles up to Lisutaris and makes an attempt to salute.
“Habintenat Cloud-Controller, Senior Storm Class Sorcerer, Weather Unit, Sorcerer’s regiment, Samsarinan Division,” he says. Which, in the circumstances, is quite a lengthy introduction.
“Well, Habintenat Cloud-Controller, what happened? You’re supposed to look after the weather.”
“We were overwhelmed by a sudden hostile spell, Commander. It’s like nothing we’ve encountered before. We couldn’t fight it. The rest of the Weather Unit is still trying.”
Lisutaris seems very displeased by the news. “You should be ready for anything. You’re meant to save me from wasting power on this sort of thing.”
“Sorry Commander. The spell is extremely potent.”
The unfortunate Habintenat, completely drenched and looking very sorry for himself, isn’t exaggerating. Whatever spell has caused this storm is certainly potent. A sudden gust of wind sends Makri careering into me, and she looks embarrassed to have lost her footing. She draws her sword and tries to pretend it didn’t happen.
“Take a few steps back,” says Lisutaris. We step back into the driving rain. I drag my sodden cloak over my head to protect myself from a barrage of hailstones. Lisutaris holds one hand in the air, but pauses, frowning. She hesitates for a few seconds, as if judging the correct response. She’s still frowning sli
ghtly as she holds up her other arm. Her eyes turn purple and purple light begins to flicker around her hands, both signs that she’s using a major piece of sorcery. She chants something in one of the arcane languages beloved by the Sorcerers Guild. The chant goes on for around ten seconds, which is longer than most of the spells I’ve heard Lisutaris use. As she finishes chanting, the rain begins to ease off. I risk emerging from beneath my cloak. The hailstones have stopped, and the wind is dropping. There are no more flashes of lightning. The rain drops to a light drizzle, then halts completely.
Our War Leader is looking thoughtful. “That was indeed a potent storm spell. Sorcerer Habintenat, return to your unit and assist with drying operations. When you’ve done that bring your unit back here so I can teach them how to look after the weather properly.”
Senior Storm Class Sorcerer Habintenat salutes, then departs, squelching his way through thick mud and puddles. Where only half an hour ago there were rows of neatly laid out tents, there are now nothing but fields of ruined, drenched canvas. Wagons have sunk up to their axles in the mud. Horses whinny as they try to shake themselves dry, and soldiers wander around looking confused. By this time Lisutaris’s young aide-de-camp Julius has arrived and an array of junior officers and young sorcerers are gathering round the wreckage of the command tent. Lisutaris barks out instructions to her messengers, telling them to summon her commanding officers and her senior sorcerers. They depart as quickly as they can, which is not all that quickly, given the mud, water and general chaos. There’s a moment of silence. I shiver as water runs down my neck.
“I’m as wet as a mermaid’s blanket.”
“We all are, Captain Thraxas.” Lisutaris looks down at her rainbow cloak with some disgust. “This is ruined. I really should have put a waterproofing spell on it. I wasn’t expecting a storm. No one was. Our weather unit is meant to prevent enemy sorcerers from attacking us this way.”
“Are you sure it was sorcery?” asks Makri.
“Quite sure. Not only was it sorcery, it was a weather spell more powerful than I’ve ever encountered this far inland. Producing so much rain without easy access to the sea or a nearby lake is very difficult.”
All three of us, Lisutaris, Makri and I, have our hair hanging round our frames as if we’ve just been dragged from the ocean. It’s a funny sight, in a way, though I decide not to mention it.
“Captain Thraxas. This simply cannot go on. Look at the chaos everywhere. This storm will delay our march for a day or more and may well make us late for our rendezvous with the Niojans. Deeziz the Unseen is somewhere nearby and I want her found. You’re my Personal Chief of Security, so find her. Find her quickly or I’ll appoint someone else who can.
“I’m doing my best.” That sounds limp as soon as I say it.
“Then your best isn’t good enough. I’ve heard you bragging about your investigating prowess often enough. It’s time to show some results.”
“I’ve been - ”
“Drinking mainly, from what I hear,” growls Lisutaris, who’s too wet and angry to listen to anything I have to say. “I’d have replaced you already if I wasn’t trying to keep it secret that Deeziz is here.”
“We came here looking for Megleth, Commander,” says Makri, something I’d almost forgotten.
“The Elf? Why?”
“Captain Thraxas thought she might be assassinating you.”
“Captain Thraxas should spend more time on his own duties.”
“Captain Hanama refuses to give me any information about her, Commander. I need to know more, for security reasons.”
“Megleth does not require checking,” says Lisutaris.
“Who is she and what’s she doing?”
“Forget Megleth. Find Deeziz. If the army learns we’re in danger from an Orcish sorcerer it will be a disaster.”
A loud splashing noise nearby alerts us to the arrival of Legate Apiroi. He arrives looking surprisingly dry, though his boots are covered in mud.
“Commander Lisutaris,” he says, loudly. “What’s this I hear about an Orcish sorcerer? Rumours are spreading that Deeziz the Unseen is among is! Is this true?”
“Absolute nonsense!” says Lisutaris.
“People are saying she caused the storm!”
“Then people are mistaken. Weather anomalies will happen, Legate.”
Lisutaris shoots me a murderous look, the meaning of which is quite clear. Find Deeziz the Unseen or say goodbye to my position as Chief Security Officer. I withdraw swiftly. Makri follows me a little way through the mud.
“Shouldn’t you be looking after our War Leader?”
“I’m keeping her in sight,” says Makri. “I’m just withdrawing a few yards till her temper cools.”
“Has she been criticising you too?”
Makri nods, and looks glum “Yesterday she criticised me for making too much noise when she was trying to think. I was only practising with my swords. I need to do that every day.”
Makri has one Elvish sword, bright silver, beautifully made. The other is her black Orcish blade, a foul-looking weapon which seems to suck in light rather than reflect it. Most people would regard it as an ill-omened weapon. The Niojan Bishop-General would probably regard it as sacrilegious even to draw it from its scabbard in his presence.
“I’ve been working hard on this investigation,” I tell Makri. “Not that Lisutaris appreciates it. It’s outrageous for her to insult me. I rescued her from Turai!”
“As you never tire of pointing out.”
“The stress is getting to her. She can’t cope. A good War Leader doesn’t let her temper blind her to the fine qualities of her staff, particularly Captain Thraxas, warrior of Turai.”
“Did you know Kublinos has been walking around with a pretty Elvish sorcerer?”
I’m confused by the sudden change of topic. “Kublinos?”
“The Harbour Sorcerer from the Port of Orosis.”
“I know who you mean. What about him?”
“He was courting Lisutaris quite strongly back in Elath.”
“So what? Lisutaris wasn’t interested in him.”
“I know. But now he’s met this Elf from the Elvish Sorcerers regiment and he’s been going round everywhere with her, and bringing her to sorcerers' meetings.”
“So what?”
“I think it might have contributed to Lisutaris being in a bad mood.”
I stare blankly at Makri. “Why would that put her in a bad mood?”
“Because Kublinos is walking around with a pretty Elvish sorcerer.”
“But Lisutaris wasn’t interested in him.”
“That doesn’t mean she wants to see him just forget about her immediately and meet up with someone else. It’s insulting.”
“Why is it insulting?”
“He should have been sad for longer after Lisutaris rejected him.”
“That doesn’t make sense!”
“Yes it does,” insists Makri. “He should have been sad for longer, instead of grabbing hold of the first pretty Elf woman who came along. Now it looks like being rejected by Lisutaris didn’t mean anything.”
I feel a desperate urge for beer. I look around, just in case a bottle or two might be floating past in the rivers of mud, but there’s none in sight.
“I don’t think she likes Kublinos flaunting his new woman at sorcerers' meetings,” says Makri.
I’m convinced she’s talking nonsense. “How could you know this? Aren’t you, by your own admission, completely hopeless at everything to do with romance?”
“Only my own romances. I can see what’s going on with other people.”
“And you’re saying this is contributing to Lisutaris’s bad mood?”
“I think so.”
“Well that’s great. Now we’re really doomed. Not only is our War Leader bested at every turn by a superior Orcish Sorcerer, she’s also sulking like a schoolgirl because her boyfriend doesn’t like her anymore. I tell you Makri, this is what happens when you put wo
men in charge. I knew it was a mistake. Lisutaris probably can’t cope with Deeziz because she’s too busy fashioning love charms to make Kublinos jealous. The West is going down in flames because Lisutaris is sulking about a man she didn’t even like in the first place. We should never have made her War Leader. She’d be better off looking after Tirini. They could talk about shoes together.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous. And I don’t like you insulting women.”
“Really? You’re no better. How many vital messages from the Elves have we missed because you’ve been skulking around, hiding from See-ath?”
“None.”
“That’s what you say. It wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve destroyed the entire line of communication between Lisutaris and the Elvish command. It’s a scandal that brave warriors like myself should be brought to ruin by a bunch of women who can’t think about anything else except lovers and shoes. I’m going to see Gurd for some proper wartime discussion about killing Orcs.”
“And drinking beer?”
“Some beer may be drunk.”
“If you get drunk Lisutaris will hear about it and you’ll be in trouble.”
“Lisutaris will be too busy sobbing in her tent about Kublinos to notice.”
Makri returns to her position as bodyguard. I trudge off through the mud in search of Gurd, beer, and some manly conversation. I find him and a few other Turanian soldiers re-erecting their tents. They’ve almost accomplished this, working quickly and efficiently. The sun has emerged and steam rises from the sodden canvas, as it does on various items of clothing that are laid over tent ropes to dry.
I clap my old companion on the shoulder. “Reminds me of the time these Simnians attacked us in the marshlands. We showed them how to fight, wet or dry.”
I pause, waiting for Gurd to take up the story. It’s one of our favourites. We must have told and re-told it hundreds of times in the Avenging Axe. Gurd doesn’t oblige. He seems distracted. He walks over to the remnants of his cooking fire. I follow him, and try again.
“You remember we were holding them off and suddenly our centurion shouted 'There’s an alligator behind us?' That made everyone jump!”
I roar with laughter. Gurd doesn’t laugh.