Martin Scott - Thraxas at War

I stop myself. Now that the Ores are on their way I don't like my own war stories as much as I used to. Makri gathers up her scrolls and picks up a hefty-looking book.

'What's that?'

Architecture. Advances in vaulted-arch construction in the last century. I'm learning it at college.'

'What for?'

'What do you mean, what for?'

'Seems like a reasonable question, with the city about to be attacked by a vast Orcish horde. Who cares about vaulted-arch construction?'

'I do,' says Makri. And if the city gets destroyed and needs some new vaulted arches built, I'll be in a good position to help.'

We head downstairs, me for some ale and Makri for her shift as barmaid. We're immediately confronted by Dandelion, who hurries out from behind the bar. She advances towards Makri, something which causes Makri to flinch, possibly fearing that she's about to be told all about today's encounter with the dolphins. Dandelion wears a long skirt embroidered with signs of the zodiac, and wanders around in bare feet. Possibly as a result of this, she seems unable to talk about anything sensible. To be fair to the young woman, she has, after a struggle, learned how to operate the beer taps. Apart from that, she's as bad as ever. It's largely Makri's fault that she's here. Any reasonable person would have thrown Dandelion out on her ear shortly after she arrived but Makri, showing a hitherto unsuspected soft streak, let her hang around till she became something of a fixture in the tavern, ending up eventually as a waitress and barmaid.

'You've got flowers!' blurts Dandelion, merrily. 'I put them in water. Look, they're behind the bar!'

There are indeed flowers behind the bar. A very large bunch, well presented in a blue vase. I glance at Makri's face and I can tell she's thinking that perhaps her Elf has finally got in touch. Pretending not to care, she strolls casually over.

'There's a card,' says Dandelion. 'But I can't read it. It must be Elvish!'

Makri almost smiles. She picks up the card and the moment she reads it her expression hardens.

'Is this someone's idea of a joke?' she snarls, looking round angrily.

'What's wrong?'

'This isn't Elvish. It's Orcish.'

I hurry over to look.

'Orcish?'

Very few people in Turai speak any Orcish and even fewer can read it. Both Makri and I are fluent in the common Ore tongue. I gaze at the neatly written card.

'To Turai's finest flower. From Horm, Ruler of the Kingdom of Yal.'

Makri looks baffled. I look baffled.

'Horm the Dead sent you flowers?'

'So it seems.'

'Filthy Ore lord,' snarls Makri, and sweeps the flowers on to the floor, vase and all.

'But they were nice,' protests Dandelion.

'I don't take gifts from Ores,' says Makri, and storms off.

Horm, Lord of the Kingdom of Yal, or Horm the Dead as he's more commonly known, is actually half Ore, half Human, as far as I know. But he's an Ore lord all the same, as well as a fairly insane Sorcerer who's rumoured to have brought himself back from the dead in some ghastly ritual, thereby increasing his powers. A few months back he appeared in Turai, trying to steal a valuable item from Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky. On encountering Makri, he was frankly impressed. Impressed enough to offer to save her life if Orcish troops happened to be sacking the city any time in the near future. Makri punched him in the face, which was quite a sight, and something that was long overdue. Horm has tried to destroy Turai and deserves a lot worse. He hates us bitterly. Why he was so attracted to Makri I couldn't quite fathom.

I'm glad his flowers met with a poor reception. For a fraction of a second I was worried Makri might have been pleased, because although few people would guess it, she is peculiarly susceptible to small gifts, particularly flowers. At various times in the past I've smoothed over some difficulties with a similar gift. Not something I'd have thought of myself of course, Makri being the mad axewoman she is, and me not being the sort of man who goes around buying flowers, but Tanrose suggested it, and it worked well. Something to do with Makri growing up in a gladiator slave pit, and never getting any presents, or so Tanrose believes.

Thinking of Tanrose brings the painful realisation that I haven't eaten for hours. I purchase a large bowl of stew, which is again really not up to standard. This has gone on long enough. If I'm to fall on the battlefield I don't intend to meet my death looking like a man who hasn't had a proper meal for months. I rise to my feet.

'It's time to bring Tanrose back, and I'm not taking no for an answer!' I declare. I'm practically skin and bone.'

'You're slightly smaller than an elephant,' says Makri.

'Exactly. I'm fading away. I'm getting Tanrose.'

As I leave the tavern, I run into a small figure, dark-haired, pale-skinned, clad in the common grey garb of a market trader. It's Hanama, third in command of the Assassins Guild. A loathsome woman with a loathsome trade. I step back sharply, hand already on the hilt of my sword.

'What do you want?' I demand.

'Nothing that concerns you,' replies Hanama.

As always, I find it hard to believe that this small, innocent and youthful-looking woman is such a notoriously efficient Assassin. She looks like she should be in school, not out killing people. But killing people she does, for the highest bidder. Even though I fought beside her one occasion, she's not a person I'm ever pleased to see.

'Everything around here concerns me. I'm the local Tribune.'

Manama almost smiles, though her eyes remain cold.

An honorary appointment, I understand. And not one that ever had the power of preventing a free citizen from going about their business. Step aside. I'm here to visit Makri.'

Makri does have some sort of friendship with this unpleasant woman. I scowl at her and walk on by, shaking my head at the deplorable state of affairs in the Avenging Axe these days,. Time was when it was an honest tavern where a hardworking man like myself could drink beer without interruption from undesirables. Look at it now. Makri, Dandelion, Hanama. A collection of women from hell. They should all go and live with Horm the Dead and pick flowers together.

Since leaving the Avenging Axe, Tanrose has been living with her elderly mother in a tenement in Pashish, just north of Twelve Seas. I make my way through the busy streets, then climb the stairs with a determined look on my face. Tanrose herself opens the door. She's pleased to see me and welcomes me in. Her mother doesn't seem to be around, so I get straight down to business.

'Tanrose, you have to—'

'Would you like something to eat?' says the kindly woman.

I nod eagerly. Business can wait. Tanrose leaves the room and bustles around in the kitchen for a while before returning with a large tray of food. After the unsatisfactory fare at the Avenging Axe, I attack the venison pie, yams and assorted vegetables like a dragon descending on a juicy flock of sheep.

'Would you like—'

I nod vigorously. Whatever it is, I want it. Tanrose brings me a second helping. When I'm finished I sigh with contentment. I feel ready for action. I haven't felt this good for months.

'Tanrose, you have to come back to the Avenging Axe. I know things are awkward between you and Gurd, but maybe you can sort it out, and if you can't sort it out, what the hell, you can just be mad at each other, I mean, who really cares? There are more important things in life. Should some slight personal difficulties keep you from your rightful place? You belong in the Avenging Axe. Personally I'm prepared to put up with any amount of bad feeling as long as you're back where you belong, dishing up the stew.'

Tanrose frowns.

'Thraxas, is your stomach more important than my peace of mind?'