Martin Scott - Thraxas at War

'Harmon? Coranus?'

Harmon Half Elf and Coranus the Grinder stride out of the white gloom.

'Lisutaris. I thought you were dead.'

'Still here.'

'We brought down many dragons,' says Harmon. 'But we couldn't save our troops.'

Both of the powerful Sorcerers are unharmed. A small blessing for Turai. When the Sorcerers responded to Lisutaris's urgent alarm, most of them arrived without their bodyguards. Their continuing survival is probably the only chance for Turai, but it's not going to be easy getting them back into the city. They've expended their magic and the Orcish army stands between us and the gates.

Only two or three dragons remain in the sky. Some have fallen to our Sorcerers. Others may just have flown off to rest, away from the battle. Dragons are never as efficient in winter and can't match the endless intensity they're capable of in warmer weather. By now the great beasts that remain will be running low on fire. The Sorcerers they bear may well have run out of spells. If the city can just prevent the Orcish army from entering, we might still be able to defend the walls.

'We should head south,' I advise. Avoid the Ores and make it to the gate on the shore.'

And avoid the battle?' protests Makri.

'We have to get the Sorcerers back inside so they can recharge their spells.'

It's possible we might creep past, hidden by the bad weather. It means abandoning the men defending the East Gate, but I don't see what we can do for them anyway. Lisutaris considers our options. She doesn't like the thought of ignoring the plight of the Turanian soldiers at the gate. I shrug, and draw my sword.

'Okay,' I say. 'Then we'll attack.'

I start marshalling my forty men, ready to advance on the thousands of Ores that stand between us and the city walls.

'Walk behind me,' says Lisutaris. We follow her towards the battle. Several hundred Turanians are trapped beneath the city walls, fighting a hopeless rearguard action. They're using overturned wagons for shelter. Up on the walls, men are hurling missiles towards the Ores, and other Sorcerers on the ramparts send down spells. But the Ores have Sorcerers of their own, who protect their forces, and send back fire. Meanwhile the Orcish troops pour arrows into the huddle of men.

An Orcish phalanx swings into view. Fresh troops, from the look of them, making ready to mop up the Human survivors. After which they'll attempt to force the gate. The Orcish army isn't equipped with siege engines but after destroying the Turanian forces on the field, and making our Sorcerers expend all of their power, they might not need siege engines to force their way into the city. A battering ram and a few spells will probably do it.

We walk behind Lisutaris, who's limping. Makri supports her. Makri has removed her helmet. Her neck is caked with blood and her hair is streaked with the congealing liquid. When we're about one hundred yards from the Ores, Lisutaris halts.

Any spells?' she asks, turning to Harmon Half Elf and Coranus the Grinder. They shake their heads. Neither they nor Anumaris have so much as a single spell left between them. Lisutaris nods. She's weary and in pain from her wounds. Being struck by a dragon's tail is no light matter. She fishes around in her tunic and pulls out a rather crumpled thazis stick, igniting it with a word. She inhales deeply. Above our heads two dragons swoop towards the battle, ready to burn the defenders outside the gate. As the same time, the Orcish phalanx lower their long spears and break into a run.

Lisutaris hands the thazis stick to Makri. Then the Sorcerer raises her arms in the air, one hand pointing at each dragon, and starts to intone a spell. It's not one I'm familiar with. Though I've a reasonable knowledge of most magical lore, it's not even a language I'm familiar with. It's a harsh, guttural incantation, and as she recites it Harmon Half Elf looks very uncomfortable and

Anumaris Thunderbolt seems surprised. Coranus the Grinder nods in approval. I'd guess that this spell is something particularly unpleasant that the Sorcerers Guild would normally leave in the vaults. Something that Lisutaris would only dredge up in the direst emergency.

It's already as cold as the Ice Queen's grave. As Lisutaris chants the spell, it somehow becomes colder. The Ice Queen's grave seems to open up and engulf us in a freezing void. There's a great roar of rushing wind, and two shafts of dark purple light fly from Lisutaris's hands up into the sky, one striking each dragon. Their cries of rage and pain are terrible to hear, drowning out even the roar of battle. The dragons halt in mid air, writhing, before Lisutaris draws her hands downwards, pulling them from the sky. As she does this, several bolts of light fly through the air towards her. The dragons are carrying Sorcerers and they're fighting back. Their bolts strike Lisutaris, shaking her, but she remains upright, still supported by Makri. For a moment time stands still. The dragons are motionless in the sky as Lisutaris strives against their own colossal strength and the sorcery of their Orcish riders. Then something gives, and the dragons cease to beat their wings. They plummet towards the earth, heading straight for the Orcish phalanx. As they hit the ground, both dragons explode in flames.

'That's not something you see every day,' mutters Makri.

The Orcish phalanx is destroyed by the force of the explosion. The remaining Orcish troops scatter before the flames. Lisutaris falls to the ground. I pick her up, sling her over my shoulder, and order my men forward.

Chapter Twenty-One

The Ores have scattered in confusion. I lead my company directly between the flaming corpses of the dragons. Thick oily smoke pours from the bodies of the beasts, now burning with some evil sorcerous fire conjured up by Lisutaris. We're no more than fifty yards from the gates and I'm praying that someone inside the city will seize the opportunity of opening them and letting us in before the Ores can regroup.

Lisutaris weighs heavily on my shoulder but I keep going. If we miss this chance we're not going to get another. The gates open. The trapped Turanian troops leave the shelter of their wagons and run towards the city. We follow on. We're still some way from the walls when I sense a hostile spell on its way. The ground shakes beneath my feet. I'm hit by what feels like a hammer to the back of the head. My protection charm keeps me alive but it doesn't stop the pain. I sag to my knees, dropping Lisutaris. It's a terrible struggle getting up again. Even Makri is slow to rise.

'What the . . .?'

Harmon, Coranus and Anumaris help each other to their feet. The Sorcerers are wearing spell protection charms, as are Makri and I. They're rare items. My troops didn't have them. None of them are rising to their feet. As my head slowly clears I find that we're not alone. We're faced by twelve Ores. Three Sorcerers, seven warriors and two who look like they might be officers. One of the Sorcerers is Horm the Dead. Lisutaris stirs at my feet. Horm glares down at her.

'You killed my dragon,' he says, sounding pained. 'It was my favourite.'

He shifts his gaze to Makri. Rather longingly, I think. If he offers her flowers again I'll kill him with my bare hands. But if Horm is about to speak further, he halts himself as one of the officers steps forward. A tall Ore, not bulky, but strong-looking, with fine black armour, long black hair, and a small circlet of gold on his brow. Not quite as craggy as his followers. I realise that it's Prince Amrag himself.

He regards us for a few seconds. Then he looks curiously at Makri. Lisutaris hauls herself upright. Prince Amrag's guards step forward anxiously, to protect their leader from the Human Sorcerer. Amrag glances ques-tioningly towards Horm.

'They have no sorcery left,' says Horm.