Martin Scott - Thraxas Under Siege (ARC)

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.