Thraxas Under Siege (ARC) Page 9

  Makri hesitates. She likes to fight and she likes to kill Orcs. She's disappointed not to get the chance.

  "Maybe they're hiding somewhere."

  By now other people are starting to leave the area, looming in twos and threes out of the mist, muttering to each other about being called from the warmth of their homes to fight enemies that weren't there.

  "I doubt it. Orcs aren't that good at hiding. We'd have found them by now. It's a false alarm."

  We walk on up the street, through the mist. I pause, then walk on, then pause again.

  "What's wrong?" says Makri.

  "Nothing," I reply, but as we carry on along the road I lean over to whisper in her ear.

  "I think someone's following us."

  Makri raises her eyebrows, but carries on walking, careful not to let whoever might be behind us know that we've noticed. I whisper to her again.

  "We better sort this out before we reach the tavern. Don't want to lead anyone to Lisutaris."

  Makri nods. The mist is now thicker than ever. I can't see more than a few feet in front of my face, but every so often I'm certain I can hear a soft footfall behind us. As we pass the next alleyway Makri disappears into it completely silently, while I carry on.

  I keep talking, as if she's still beside me.

  "You're right, Makri. I was heroic on the battlefield last month. I expect the city will erect a statue in my honour. This city's been looking for a good man to lead it for a long time now. I wouldn't be surprised if they drafted me into the senate. Just fit me into a toga and I'd sort things out."

  If our pursuer hasn't noticed that Makri went into the alleyway, he should now be between us. I turn round and retrace my steps.

  "Makri," says a voice, quite clearly through the fog. I can't see anything. I walk quicker. I hear Makri's voice replying.

  "Marizaz."

  At the sound of the Orcish name I start to run, fearing that Makri has encountered an invasion force, but when I arrive on the scene I find her face to face with a lone Orc. Not tall, by Orcish standards, but very broad. He's carrying a sword in each hand and wearing a cloak and hood which might have got him through the foggy streets undetected. The Orc glances at me as I arrive.

  "Who is this?"

  "A friend of mine," says Makri.

  "You have Human friends now?"

  "Yes."

  The Orc looks at me contemptuously. It's obvious I haven't made a great impression on him. I take out my sword. Perhaps that will help.

  "We heard tales you'd joined the Humans," says the Orc. "But I didn't believe it till now."

  They're talking in common Orcish, which I can also speak.

  "Are you old friends?" I ask Makri, who's sheathed her axe and now holds a sword in each hand.

  "This is Marizaz," replies Makri. "Number two gladiator in the Orcish arena."

  "Now number one."

  "Only because I left."

  "I'd have killed you soon enough," says Marizaz.

  "What are you doing here?" asks Makri.

  "I'm here to kill your Sorcerer chief."

  "That's not likely to happen," I say.

  "I'd have killed her already had she not fled her household."

  At the news that this Orcish Assassin has already visited Lisutaris's villa, I start to worry. I'm presuming he didn't just walk into Turai and wander round Thamlin without some help.

  "How did you get into the city?" I demand.

  "As easily as Amrag will, very soon," he replies, which isn't a lot of help really.

  From the way Marizaz and Makri are staring at each other, I'd say they'd never been friends in the arena.

  "You should have remained a gladiator," says Makri. "Assassination doesn't suit you."

  "It suits me well enough. Killing you will be a fine bonus."

  "Maybe you've forgotten the way I fight?"

  Marizaz sneers.

  "They gave you easy opponents because you were a woman."

  Makri's expression is grim. I've rarely seen her so offended, and I've insulted her plenty of times. She turns her head towards me.

  "Thraxas. Don't interfere."

  Back when Makri was training a young Elf to fight on Avula, she once explained to me two different modes of combat she'd learned in the gladiator pits. One, the Way of the Gaxeen, seemed to involve being as insanely aggressive as possible and hacking your opponent to death no matter what the cost. The other, the Way of Sarazu, was more contemplative. Something to do with being at one with the water and the sky. I never quite understood it. It seemed like an overcomplicated way of thinking about fighting, though as the end result was killing your opponent, and Makri is always very good at that, I'm not going to criticise her for it. As she confronts Marizaz, I'd say there is more Sarazu going on than Gaxeen. She doesn't charge in aggressively; in fact they don't engage at all at first, but circle round each other warily looking for an opening. Finally Makri halts, and stands quite motionless, her eyes fixed on her opponent, her swords raised, not moving a muscle. Marizaz does the same. Makri withdraws her twin swords, holding one above her head with the point facing her opponent, and the other in front of her body, slanted sideways. It's an unusual posture, not one I've ever seen before. Marizaz does something similar, and stands in front of her as solidly as an oak tree.

  For the first time in a long time, I feel a flicker of worry about Makri's skills. I was never a gladiator, but I've fought all over the world, and in my younger days I won the sword-fighting championship in far-off Samsarina. You get to recognise a good opponent by the way he carries himself. I'd say that Marizaz is a very good opponent. He has to be, to have survived the Orcish gladiator pits. He's got a lot of weight advantage, and studying his posture, I don't see any flaws in his defence. He's a little taller than Makri and he has a longer reach. I leave my hand on my sword pommel, ready to help out if necessary.

  They stare at each other for a long time. Far too long for my liking. I'm not used to contemplating an opponent. I've never seen Makri take such a long time to get down to business. Usually when confronted by an enemy she just charges in and kills him.

  Finally Marizaz moves, and he attacks so quickly it's hard to tell exactly what happens. He leaps forward in one smooth but explosive movement, his twin swords flashing towards Makri faster than the eye can follow. Makri, nimble as she is, doesn't move her feet. Her own swords descend, there's a clash of steel on steel, and a sudden sharp cry. Marizaz falls to the ground, still clutching his swords, blood pumping from a fatal wound in his neck. Makri watches him carefully, her swords now back in their defensive guard. As far as I could see she deflected both of his blades with her black Orcish sword then slashed his neck with her silver Elvish blade, although to be honest it all happened so quickly it's hard to be sure.

  Marizaz dies quickly, expiring in seconds from his fatal wound. Makri regards his body quite calmly, finally lowering her guard.

  "Congratulations," I say.

  Makri nods.

  "He was a good fighter. He should have stayed at home."

  I drag the body into a an alleyway and pull some tattered fragments of sailcloth over it.

  "I'll send a message to the Guards when we reach the Axe."

  We start to walk away.

  "I hate Orcs," says Makri.

  She shivers.

  "Give me your cloak," she says.

  "My cloak? I need it."

  "I'm only wearing this bikini."

  "You should have put more clothes on before you came out. You don't catch me chasing Orcs in a bikini."

  "Thank the gods for that. I'm freezing, give me your cloak."

  Makri curses me in Orcish.

  "Will you stop cursing in Orcish? Goddamn, between that and the pointy ears and the Orcish sword you're lucky people don't mistake you for the enemy."

  Makri curses me further, using some quite obscene pidgin-Orcish words probably never heard before outside the gladiator pits. I shake my head, and take off my cloak, though I
'm none too pleased about it. The freezing mist quickly penetrates my tunic.

  Makri tells me to stop scowling.

  "I can't believe how unhelpful you are sometimes. I've just killed the deadliest Orc swordsman this side of Gzak and you're complaining about lending me your cloak. Anyone would think you wanted me to catch the malady."

  "If you do, you're on your own. I'm not feeding you any of that foul potion."

  Makri halts, and looks at me quite sternly.

  "You mean you wouldn't look after me?"

  "Not a chance. I've had it with sick people."

  "I saved your life."

  "When?"

  "Hundreds of times."

  "Okay you've helped me out occasionally."

  "So?" demands Makri.

  I sigh.

  "Fine. If you get sick, I'll feed you potion."

  "You'd better."

  We advance a few paces. Makri halts again.

  "Will you mop my brow?"

  "Not a chance."

  "What do you mean, not a chance? You'd do it for Lisutaris."

  "She's the head of the Sorcerers Guild."

  "So that's the way it is," says Makri, raising her voice. "You'll spend endless time mopping someone's brow if they're important, but when it comes to me, a woman without whose help you'd have been dead and buried long ago, you're just going to leave me to die in the gutter?"

  I make an exasperated gesture.

  "How did gutters enter into this? Who said anything about you dying in a gutter?"

  "Well, obviously I'd be just as well off lying in a gutter as being looked after by you. You probably wouldn't feed me any potion at all, you'd just get drunk and forget about it. Don't worry about Makri, she's an Orc with pointy ears, she can just get the malady and die for all anybody cares."

  "Will you shut up? Did I ever let you die?"

  "You can't wait to let me die. You're probably looking forward to it."

  I stop, and look at Makri suspiciously. Is she becoming feverish?

  "Are you feeling all right?"

  "I'm fine," declares Makri.

  "Then what's this about?"

  Makri looks awkward.

  "Nothing," she mumbles.

  "Are you scared of getting sick?"

  "I'm not scared of anything," says Makri, fiercely.

  "Yes, I know you're not scared of anything. But apart from that, are you scared of getting sick?"

  "A little," admits Makri. "I've never been sick. I hate the way these people are all sweating and tossing and turning. I don't want it to happen to me."

  I try and speak reassuringly; not something I'm very good at.

  "You probably won't get sick. You've lasted this long. And if you do, I'll feed you potion."

  Makri looks placated.

  "Well you'd better, or there'll be trouble."

  "If I have to stand out here like a frozen pixie any longer there's going to be more trouble."

  We make our way home.

  "It's been a strange winter so far," muses Makri. "The Orcs defeat Turai in battle, we all get stuck inside the city and catch this disease, and now we're just waiting for the Orcs to force their way in. Plus Orcish Assassins are now in the city. How did that happen?"

  I admit I don't know.

  "Our Sorcerers should have detected any Orcish incursions."

  "We shouldn't wait around to be picked off," says Makri. "We should do something."

  "What?"

  "Round up everyone that's healthy and attack."

  "The city's too weak."

  Makri doesn't like hanging round waiting for the Orcs. She'd rather gather up everyone in Turai who can carry a sword and go out and confront them. I point out that we don't even know where they are, but Makri thinks she'd find them if she had to. And she doesn't care how many of them there are. I don't scoff at her idea. I've been in campaigns which have been won by the smaller force taking swift decisive action. But General Pomius, head of the Turanian army, is quite a cautious man. Far too cautious to march out and confront an enemy of unknown size.

  "Amrag doesn't have that big a force," says Makri. "He beat us because he took us by surprise. We ought to try doing the same to him."

  "We don't know what's going on out there. He might have a larger army by now."

  "More reason to attack him quickly," says Makri. "I'd get in a chariot and head right for him. Cut off Amrag's head and his army would melt away."

  "We'll make it through all right till reinforcements arrive in the spring."

  Makri doubts that they will. The gossip round the markets is that the western forces will hold the line on the Simnian border, leaving Turai to its fate. It might be true.

  "Fine," says Makri. "We just wait here till the Orcs overwhelm us. I never get my diploma from college. I never get to go to the university. I never see what my hair looks like yellow and I never hear from my Elf again."

  "Are you still going on about that Elf?"

  "No."

  Makri scowls. She had a brief romance with an Elf when we visited the southern islands. It's a continual disappointment to her that he hasn't been in touch since.

  "You're lucky," she says.

  "Lucky? How?"

  "You don't have any ambitions left."

  It's true enough. Though I did always feel I might one day go through the card at the Turai memorial chariot races and pick every winner.

  Turai's morale isn't helped by the fruitless hunt in Twelve Seas. Next day the story is all over the city that Orcs were inside the walls and somehow escaped. In fact, Makri and I were the only people who did meet an Orc, and he was a lone Assassin, not an invasion force. I inform Lisutaris, but she's still so sick I'm not certain that she takes it in properly. I sent a message to Cicerius outlining what happened, and another message to Captain Rallee. The Captain picked up the body before anyone found it, preventing the city's population from panicking even more.

  The citizenry are in a bad enough state of mind already, struggling under siege and illness. It isn't helped by news of the Ocean Storm leaking out. Soon the whole of Turai is aware that there's a sorcerous weapon capable of battering down our sea walls and letting the Orcish fleet sail in, and no one knows where it is. The Renowned and Truthful Chronicle runs an article on the affair; questions are asked in the senate. Deputy Consul Cicerius is forced to assure the senators that he has matters in hand. He sends more troops to the south of the city, along with Sorcerers to strengthen our protection. This carries some risk as it means leaving the other parts of the city less well guarded than they should be, though we still have enough Sorcerers in Turai to maintain our defensive spells. In reply to some harsh questioning from Senator Lodius, Cicerius assures him that Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, has our defences well in hand. As Lisutaris is currently lying ill in the Avenging Axe, this is not strictly true.

  Lisutaris seems to be making a very slow recovery. She's taken the malady badly. I'm quite certain I got over it a lot quicker than our head of the Sorcerers Guild. Of course, I've always been strong. "Thraxas the Ox," they used to call me in my younger days. I was famous for my feats of strength. Ask anyone, they'll remember.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hanama, third in command in the Assassins Guild, slumbers on my couch. I look at her with distaste, and for the fiftieth time contemplate picking her up and slinging her out. Whoever made it taboo to abuse a sick house guest never had to put up with this sort of thing. I'm still not entirely convinced it isn't all some plot on her part. If she were to suddenly leap up and assassinate someone, I wouldn't be all that surprised.

  I settle down at my desk and open a book about Turai's naval history which I borrowed without asking from Makri's room. She has a lot more books and scrolls in her room these days. They're expensive items, mostly out of her budget, but she's managed to fool Samanatius and his cronies into thinking she's a worthwhile student and they've been lending her more.

  I peer at the book, frowning at the smallness of the
writing and the dullness of the text. The historian manages to make some epic battles sound like very dull affairs indeed, and he has an annoying habit of quoting sources from all over the place, as if anyone really cares. I'm wading through the chapter on the Battle of Dead Dragon Island, hoping to pick up something which might help me locate Tanrose's mother's buried gold. I'm now fairly certain there's nothing in the vicinity of the harbour which could be referred to as a whale, but who knows, maybe these sailors used "whale" as a name for something else.

  There's an oil lamp on the desk and I've got my illuminated staff cranked up to full power, but it's still not easy reading the endless pages of tedious facts. I realise why I never read a history book before. They're dreadfully dull. Soon I hate everyone involved, and I'm hoping they're all dead by the end of the chapter.

  There's a knock at the door. Before I can answer it Makri strolls in. I glare at her.

  "What?" she says. "I knocked."

  "You're supposed to wait till I answer it."

  "You're never satisfied, are you? Maybe I should send a message saying I'm coming."

  Makri glances at the book on my desk and looks surprised.

  "You're reading?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Just broadening my knowledge."

  Makri looks suspicious.

  "You don't have any knowledge to broaden. What is it?"

  She lifts the cover to see the title.

  "That's my book. Did you take it from my room?"

  "Of course I took it from your room. Why, do you need it?"

  Makri admits she doesn't at this moment, but she's displeased that I've taken it. I get the impression she doesn't trust me with it.

  "It's only a book. What can happen?"

  "Plenty of things. You might spill beer on it. Who can forget the incident at the library?"

  I nudge my tankard away from the book.

  "Preposterous. And why are you complaining anyway? You should be pleased I'm gathering a little knowledge."

  Makri looks dubious.

  "You're up to something. Tell me what it is."

  "I'm not up to anything. Can't a man read a book without people making a fuss? What do you want anyway?"

  "It's potion time," says Makri, and right on cue, Dandelion walks into the room with a steaming bowl of herbal medicine.