Thraxas and the Oracle

by Martin Scott

  Our first two journeys through the magic space were bad enough. The third is worse, though mercifully brief. As Lisutaris leads us through it’s cold, frightening, and I feel like I’m about to die. I see unpleasant shapes and hear dreadful noises that I could never describe again. When we emerge back at our camp, none of us look in good shape.

  “I didn’t know you could travel so fast in the magic space,” mutters Anumaris, sinking to her knees. Makri is shivering. Even the effervescent Droo looks like she might be sick. Lisutaris, no longer as elegant and upright, turns to me.

  “Well?”

  “This way.”

  Anumaris needs time to recover. We leave her where she is. I lead the others behind Lisutaris’s command tent. A few non-combatants, unaware of events on the battlefield, bombard us with questions.

  “What happened?” cries a young woman, a Samsarinan cook.

  “We won,” replies Droo, but doesn’t manage to sound very happy about it. It’ll take a while for the effects of our emergency journey through the magic space to wear off. I halt outside the tent housing the ailing Tirini Snake Smiter.

  “In here.”

  I march in, and almost bump into Saabril Clearwater, Medical Sorcerer, First Class. We come to an abrupt halt, face to face. I take a step back. Saabril nods to me politely, and greets Lisutaris.

  “You can drop the fake Kamaran accent,” I tell her. “And the fake appearance too. I know you’re Deeziz the Unseen.”

  I turn to my companions with an expression of triumph on my face. There’s nothing like a dramatic revelation to make an investigator feel good. It always impresses the clients. Facing me in a semi-circle are Lisutaris, Makri and Droo. I can’t help noticing none of them are looking impressed.

  “Saabril Clearwater is Deeziz the Unseen?” Lisutaris sounds sceptical.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think she is. I can’t see any trace of identity concealment.”

  “That’s because she’s really good at it.”

  “But I’m the greatest sorcerer in the West.”

  “And she’s the greatest sorcerer in the East!”

  “We did check her out carefully,” says Droo. “We didn’t find anything suspicious.”

  “Of course you didn’t. She’s the Head of the Orcish Sorcerer’s Guild! She fooled us.”

  Anumaris Thunderbolt arrives, still looking pale. “What’s happening?”

  “Thraxas thinks Saabril Clearwater is Deeziz the Unseen.”

  “But we checked her out,” says Anumaris. “We didn’t find anything suspicious.”

  “Then maybe you didn’t check her carefully enough!” I cry, becoming frustrated.

  Tirini Snake Smiter is lying on a camp bed in the corner, apparently sleeping. Saabril glances at her before addressing Lisutaris. “I’m sure Captain Thraxas has good reasons for what he’s saying. But really, I’m not Deeziz. I’m sorry to have caused any confusion.”

  “It’s no use standing there being polite! I know you’re Deeziz! You were about to flee!”

  “No I wasn’t.”

  There seem to be no signs of imminent flight. She isn’t carrying a bag or anything like that. There’s a half-drunk goblet of wine on the small wooden table, and an open scroll.

  “All right, I may have been wrong about the fleeing part. But only because she thinks she’s too smart for us. She’s still Deeziz.” Somehow this isn’t sounding as convincing as I imagined it would. Lisutaris taps her foot on the ground impatiently. “Captain Thraxas, I do have a war to fight...”

  “She’s Deeziz and I can prove it!”

  “How?”

  “With language! Her name is Deeziz. When she appeared in Turai she called herself Moolifi. And now she’s called Saabril. You see the connection?”

  Lisutaris, Droo and Anumaris look blank, but Makri nods. “You mean the double vowels, with an 'I' coming later?”

  “Yes. Deeziz, Moolifi, Saabril. Names all constructed the same way.”

  “Not exactly the same way,” says Lisutaris.

  “Well they’re very similar!”

  Lisutaris turns to Makri. “Is this significant?”

  “The vowel digraphs? I don’t know. I suppose it could be. Some sub-conscious connection while choosing a new identity.”

  Lisutaris stares hard at Saabril, trying to pick up any sign that she might not be who she says she is. The young Kamaran sorcerer looks back at her quite calmly. With her fair skin and long fair hair, she looks to be exactly what she says she is.

  “Captain Thraxas,” says Lisutaris. “I’m not convinced. Is that the only evidence you have?”

  “There’s more. She stole Tirini’s shoes.”

  Anumaris raises her eyebrows. “Tirini’s shoes?”

  Lisutaris sighs. “Thraxas has become obsessed with them.” You can tell her faith in me is rapidly declining, and I’m not sure it was ever that high in the first place.

  “Tirini’s shoes have a special sorcerous power! They can hide a person’s past. That’s what the High Priestess meant when she said 'New shoes can hide old shoes.'”

  “You don’t believe in the High Priestess,” objects Lisutaris.

  “She may not be the total fool I imagined. Tirini wasn’t called Tirini when she was born, she was called Tirina. She was the daughter of a sewer inspector. Somehow she got hold of a pair of magic shoes which were specially designed to hide a person’s background. She used them to hide her poor origins when she went to the Sorcerer’s College. She’s kept them ever since because she doesn’t want anyone to know about her family.”

  At this, Tirini opens her eyes. She glares at me. “None of this is true.”

  “It is true! That’s why we could never find Deeziz! She added the power of Tirini’s shoes to her own sorcery. It was enough to hide her background, and baffle any sort of spell or enquiry. Meanwhile she’s been making Tirini sicker so she won’t ask for her shoes back.”

  “Thraxas is talking nonsense,” says Tirini. “Daughter of a sewer inspector indeed.”

  Saabril Clearwater holds up her hands, protesting her innocence. “I really don’t know what Captain Thraxas is talking about.”

  “She’s probably wearing the shoes right now!” I cry. “Orange slippers, I believe.” I point triumphantly at Saabril’s feet. Unfortunately she’s wearing a pair of standard issue Sorcerer’s Regiment army boots. Our War Leader glares at me with a face like thunder.

  “She could have hidden them with a spell,” I protest.

  There’s quite a long pause.

  “Lisutaris, this woman just followed us through the magic space and back again. You must have some sort of spell for verifying that?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You don’t have any means of telling if someone’s just been in the magic space?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “There isn’t a spell for everything.”

  “We really did research Saabril Clearwater’s background very carefully,” says Anumaris.

  I’m struggling to think what to say next when Makri steps forward. “It’s strange,” she says.

  “What’s strange?” asks Lisutaris.

  “It’s strange that Thraxas is usually right about this sort of thing. Because he’s such a fool about everything else.”

  With that, Makri unsheathes her silver Elvish sword at lightning speed and aims a scything stroke at Saabril’s neck. The sorcerer reacts instantly. There’s a flash of light and Makri is thrown back against the side of the tent. Saabril is no longer here. Instead we find ourselves facing a familiar figure; Deeziz the Unseen, looking exactly the same as the last time we encountered her in Turai, moments before she brought down the north wall and let in the Orcish army. She raises her arm but before she can utter a spell Lisutaris leaps forward and catches her hand. They stand, face to face, hands locked, purple sparks flying from their fingers as they strive for dominance.

  When an enemy sorcerer is engaged in magic, di
stracted by an opponent, it’s often possible to deal them a lot of damage in a conventional manner. I attempt to do just that, taking out my sword and thrusting it towards Deeziz’s ribs. As I fly back against the side of the tent, howling in pain from the agonising shockwave that surges up my arm, I reflect that this tactic obviously doesn’t work against a sorcerer as powerful as Deeziz. I find myself sprawled next to Makri. We watch as the two most powerful sorcerers in the world struggle to gain an advantage. They’re still locked together, their brows knitted in concentration, sparks and flames leaking from their fingers as they battle for supremacy. There’s every chance that the tent will catch fire but at the moment, I can’t move. As I watch, Anumaris attempts to join in, but the spell she casts rebounds straight back on her. She wails in pain, and ends up on the ground beside us. Droo is notching an arrow in her bow. I could tell her that it’s not going to help, but the pain in my arm makes it difficult to speak.

  Lisutaris’s face is only inches from Deeziz’s. “I know you now. You’ll never hide from me again.”

  “You won’t survive to search for me.”

  The light around them intensifies. Droo fires her arrow at Deeziz. It doesn’t even graze her. Instead it turns round, flies back towards the young Elf, and buries itself in her shoulder. Droo winces in pain, then sits down, looking disappointed, and quite unwell.

  The flames and sparks intensify. I really think the tent might catch fire. I attempt to haul myself to my feet. Maybe if I just hurl myself at Deeziz my bulk might put her off for a second, allowing Lisutaris a brief advantage. We need to do something, because Lisutaris, while holding her own, isn’t showing any signs of winning. In fact, I’d say that Deeziz is looking stronger. To my surprise, Tirini raises herself in her sick bed. She looks desperately ill, but I do notice a determined expression settle over her features. She raises one hand in the air, pointing towards Deeziz. A blast of purple light catches the Orcish sorcerer right in the back, causing her to stagger. Lisutaris immediately takes advantage. The light around her hands intensifies and sparks flow into Deeziz. Her hair flows outwards as if caught in a strong breeze as she’s battered by Lisutaris from one side and Tirini from the other. Even so, they can’t finish her off. The Head of the Orcish Sorcerers Guild rises a few inches in the air. A large orange oval of light appears beside her. When she speaks, she manages to sound calm, despite being under furious assault.

  “Until next time, Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky.”

  With that, Deeziz the Unseen moves through the air, entering the oval of orange light. Just before she vanishes, she turns her head towards me. “Thraxas,” she says. “You’ve proved to be rather annoying. I’ll see you again, too.”

  With that, she vanishes. The orange portal fades, leaving no trace. Our War Leader sits down heavily.

  “That woman is impossible to kill,” she gasps. She looks towards her fellow sorcerer, now reclining on her bed. “Thanks Tirini.”

  “You’re welcome.” Tirini sits up. “I feel better.”

  “That’s because Deeziz was making you sick,” I say.

  Tirini Snake Smiter turns to me. Her eyes narrow. “If I ever hear you repeating that ridiculous story about me being the daughter of a sewer inspector, I’ll fry your insides. Magic shoes hiding my background? Absolute nonsense.”

  Anumaris Thunderbolt picks up a pair of orange slippers from the floor, beneath the spot where Deeziz disappeared. “Are these yours?”

  Tirini snatches them. “My normal slippers. What of it? Now if you’d all get out of here and leave me alone, I have some hair and make-up to attend to.”

  We withdraw. Makri helps Droo to her feet. Outside the tent, Lisutaris examines the wound in her shoulder. She apologises to the young Elf that she lacks the power to heal her, having used up all her sorcery in the struggle, and sends a messenger to bring a healer. Droo manages to put on a brave face, though I can tell she’s quite shocked to have received her first real war wound. Makri and Anumaris are bruised but healthy. I’m feeling healthy enough, though I could do with a beer.

  “I need to get back to the battlefield,” says Lisutaris.

  “Of course. The Generals need you. Congratulations on a fantastic victory. You’ve probably saved the West. I’ll just wait here and - ”

  “You’re coming too, Captain Thraxas. Anumaris, find us some horses. I don’t have the strength to get us through the magic space again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It’s a long time till I’m free to drink beer. The combined armies of the West have just won a notable victory, but they’re in a chaotic state after the battle. Regiments, phalanxes and battalions are mixed together in confusion. Skirmishers and pursuit troops are still harassing the scattered Orcs, while our baggage and supplies are unprotected in the rear. Lisutaris won’t allow this to continue, and issues a stream of orders to her subordinates, bringing things back into order. She could have sent a portion of the army in immediate pursuit of the Orcs but we’d have risked spreading our forces too thinly, probably without dealing another substantial blow. We’ve won an important victory but we haven’t yet won the war. Prince Amrag has plenty of troops at his command. He’ll rally his forces. Whether they’ll retreat to Turai to fight us there, or regroup to engage with us as we advance, we don’t know. We’ll find out soon enough. Lisutaris is allowing the army to rest for a day, after which we’ll continue our journey east.

  “It took courage to march blindly into the clouds like that,” says Gurd, around twelve hours later, when I finally get the chance to sit down at a campfire and fill myself up with stew and beer. “How did Lisutaris know we’d take the Orcs by surprise?”

  “Good judgement. We discussed it. She was hesitant, but I persuaded her.”

  I’m sure that Lisutaris won’t be telling anyone that she advanced on the advice of the High Priestess of the Vitin Oracle. People will assume that she gained knowledge of the Orcish position due to some clever piece of magic. It’s best to let them think that. Makri appears, looking weary. She’s been all over the battlefield and the army camp with Lisutaris. Tanrose ladles food into a bowl and hands it to her.

  “A good day,” says Makri. “Even if I didn’t get to fight much.”

  “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “We can’t all be heroes.”

  “You never saw any action either!”

  “Makes no difference,” I say. “I’ve been a vital part of the war effort. Tracked down Deeziz, protected our War Leader, and generally served as an inspiration to the army.”

  “An inspiration?” Makri raises her eyebrows.

  “Of course. When Lisutaris was dithering, wondering if she should advance with a bunch of raw, untested troops behind her, she looks at me and thinks 'If a warrior like Thraxas is on our side what can go wrong? There’s a man who won’t let you down.”

  Makri shakes her head, and laughs.

  “Are all the generals supporting Lisutaris now?” asks Gurd. He was close to the front lines when we mowed down the Orcs, and emerged without a scratch. “Yes. No one’s questioning her leadership.”

  We took very few casualties in the battle. The Samsarinans, the Simnians, the Niojans, the Elves, the collected troops from the smaller nations - they all came through almost completely unscathed. It was one of most comprehensive victories ever recorded against the Orcish armies.

  “It will make things easier now Lisutaris is secure in her command,” I say.

  Makri nods. “Especially now that Legate Apiroi’s out the way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was killed in the battle.”

  “What?” I’m startled by this piece of news. “Apiroi? Killed? Are you sure?”

  “I saw his body.”

  I can hardly believe the Legate is dead. We took very few casualties, and he didn’t seem like the sort of man to fling himself into danger unnecessarily.

  “Surely he wasn’t leading the Niojans into combat?”

  Makri shrugs. She doesn’t kno
w how he met his end, but she’s quite certain he’s dead.

  “Some people always die, even when you win,” says Gurd. “Just bad luck if it happens to be you.”

  I drink some beer and take another helping of Tanrose’s excellent stew. I’m still startled by the news of Legate Apiroi’s untimely demise. We sit round the fire talking till Tanrose yawns and announces that she needs to sleep. It’s now close to dawn and there are faint streaks of daylight on the horizon. I’m tired too. I feel like I’ve been walking, running or fighting for days on end. My joints ache as I haul myself to my feet. Makri accompanies me on the walk back to my wagon.

  “It was smart of you to identify Deeziz.”

  “Maybe Lisutaris will give me a medal.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “It’s just as well you believed me,” I say to Makri. “No one else did.” If Makri hadn’t made the instant decision to attack Saabril, thereby causing her to reveal herself as Deeziz, I don’t know if I’d ever have managed to convince Lisutaris. “She should know to trust me by now.”

  “She does trust you, more or less.”

  I come to a halt.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t like it that Legate Apiroi is dead.”

  “You don’t?” says Makri. “I thought it was excellent news. He was practically blackmailing Lisutaris. Threatened to tell people she went to the oracle if he didn’t get a place on the command council.”

  “Remember when Lisutaris told us about that? In my wagon? Didn’t you think it was strange that she didn’t seem very worried about it?”

  “I didn’t notice she wasn’t worried. I think she was.”

  “She wasn’t as worried as she should have been.”

  “What are you getting at?” asks Makri. “You said you saw the Legate’s body. Where is it?”

  “Laid out with the other Niojan casualties. There weren’t many of them. They’ll be buried tomorrow.”

  “Show me where they are.”

  “Have you suddenly lost your reason? We’ve been running through the magic space fighting trolls, Orcs and sorcerers, and now you want to look at bodies?”