Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Dance of Death

“Everyone can go to hell. If I run into Vadinex I still might kill him. Otherwise it’s business as usual. I’m going to rescue Lisutaris. And I’m going to clear Makri. Even if I have to kill her afterwards, which I might.”

“What will I do about Tanrose?”

“Go and visit her. Take flowers. Apologise for criticising her bookkeeping. And make sure Makri doesn’t interfere. She’s not qualified to advise normal people about how to run their lives.”

“Do you think I should ask her to marry me?”

My own marriage was such a disaster, I’m loath to answer this.

“Gurd, you know I’m about as much use as a one-legged gladiator when it comes to relationships.”

Unfortunately Gurd is unwilling to let me off the hook. He demands to know what I think. I seem to owe him a proper answer.

“Yes, Get married. After all, you’re paying taxes. It’s probably the next step.”

Gurd pours himself a glass of klee. Probably he’s thinking that the prospect of marriage is more frightening than facing an enemy force who outnumber you twenty to one. Which we’ve done, of course. More than once.

Gurd realises that he’s left Makri to look after a busy tavern and goes off to assist her. Makri’s coping well with the situation, aided by Dandelion, who’s decided to help and is currently fumbling with a beer tap, wondering how it works. Several recently arrived regulars are looking puzzled at the sight of the bar at the Avenging Axe being run by the odd pairing of Makri and Dandelion. As a respectable local drinking establishment, the Avenging Axe doesn’t generally go in for novelty attractions.

“Is this something to do with it raining frogs outside?” asks a docker, a regular customer not noted for drunkenness.

“Raining frogs?”

We all troop outside to look. It is indeed raining frogs. They bounce on the dusty road then hop off sharply. After a minute or so it stops, and the frogs disappear.

“I’ve never seen that before,” says another dock worker.

“Yesterday I saw a unicorn,” says his companion. “But I didn’t like to tell anyone.”

No one can explain the downpour of frogs. The general consensus is that it’s a bad sign and the city is doomed, which makes for a swift rush to the bar and a lot of purchases of beer and klee. I shake my head. Unicorns, centaurs, frogs. Let someone else sort it out. I’m still livid about the accusation of cowardice. I head up to my office, ready to make someone suffer for the indignity which has been inflicted upon me. You can’t expect to accuse a man like Thraxas of deserting the battlefield and not suffer some consequences. The next person who gives me so much as an unfriendly look is going to find himself at the wrong end of a hefty beating, and maybe worse.

Unfortunately, the next person I encounter is Horm the Dead, and he’s not a man to whom you can just hand out a beating. He is in fact one of the most malevolent and powerful Sorcerers in the world, an insane half-Orc from the wastelands who almost destroyed the entire city a year ago. He’s strong, he’s evil, he hates Turai and he hates me. It’s a surprise to find him sitting in my office.

“Make yourself comfortable, why don’t you?” I growl at him.

Powerful Sorcerer or not, I’ll have a good attempt at plunging my sword into his ribs before he can utter a spell. I demand to know what he’s doing here.

Horm the Dead is a Sorcerer of striking appearance. Black clothes, pale skin, long dark hair, high cheekbones, eagle feathers in his hair and a fistful of silver rings, most of them bearing impressions of skulls. His long black cloak trails over the chair like a great pair of bat’s wings.

“Are you always so uncivil to your guests?” he asks, and laughs. His laugh sounds like it comes from somewhere on the other side of the grave. The last time I heard it he was riding a dragon over the city, having just intoned a spell which drove the entire population insane. Turai would have consumed itself in a bloody orgy of fire and violence had Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky, not managed to neutralise the spell at the very last moment. Even so, the destruction was widespread, severe enough to make Horm an eternal enemy of Turai.

“I’m famous for my incivility. Now get out of my office.”

Horm ignores the suggestion.

“I am not impressed with this city,” he says.

“We’re not impressed with you.”

“I really thought my eight-mile destruction spell would wipe you out. I was terribly disappointed when it didn’t.”

“So you decided to bombard us with frogs?”

“Frogs? The unusual downpour? Nothing to do with me.”

Despite being half Orcish, Horm speaks very elegant Turanian. Coupled with his languid malevolence, it has an unsettling effect. As there seems to be no prospect of banishing him from my office without using violence, I ask him again why he’s here.

“I thought I might hire you, Investigator. Perhaps to find a certain pendant for me?”

“I’m busy,” I reply curtly, and don’t let it show that I’m perturbed. With Horm the Dead now in Turai looking for the pendant, the stakes have moved up a notch, and they were already far too high.

“You know that Prince Amrag will destroy you soon?” says Horm.

I’m thrown by the sudden change of subject.

“He will?”

“Oh yes. The young Prince is proving to be a surprisingly powerful leader. He’s uniting the Orcish lands. No doubt your city is already aware of this. I imagine that before too long he will be in a position to lead an army from the east.”

“Then there will be a lot of dead Orcs for burning.”

Horm shrugs.

“No doubt. But he’ll wipe you off the map, and every other Human nation. You’re not as strong as you used to be, and neither are the Elves. How strange that they should now be starting to suffer from the ravages of dwa.”

Horm seems to have some very up-to-date information. It’s not too many months ago that I was far down south on the Elvish Isles. It’s true that dwa had found a foothold among the Elves, but I would not have thought that news of this could have travelled to the Wastelands. Unless Horm had something to do with dwa reaching the Elves in the first place. He’s a user and purveyor of the drug himself, and makes money by supplying it to the Human lands, including Turai. We’re all conspiring in our own downfall and seem unable to do anything about it.

“Turai has few allies. There is very little cohesion left in the League of City States. And the larger countries will look to protect their own borders. No one will help Turai when the Orcs next attack.”

“Did you just come here to lecture me on politics? Because I’m a busy man.”

“Of course,” continues Horm, “I am not under the sway of Prince Amrag. My kingdom in the Wastelands has never been subject to rule by any of the eastern Orcish nations, and so it shall remain. But I will add my might to their forces. One gets so bored sometimes. In truth, I’ve been looking forward to the emergence of a new warlord.”

He sits forward in his chair.

“But I digress. Turai still has a year or so left. And it also has something I want, namely the pendant.”

“So you can hand it over to Prince Amrag? If you think I’d help you with that, you’re madder than you look.”

Horm leans forward.

“Perhaps I should just kill you now.”

“Perhaps you should just bounce a spell off my fine protection charm while I stick my sword in your guts.”

Horm sits back, perfectly relaxed.

“You’re really not scared of me, are you? It’s foolish, but admirable in a way. Tell me, why do you wish to protect this city?”

“I live here.”

“You could live anywhere. Turai doesn’t like you. I was concealed downstairs when that unpleasant official arrived carrying the allegation that you had once fled from the field of battle. An allegation I would judge unlikely to be true. In my kingdom I would not allow such an accusation to be made. Of course, such things are commonplace in these lands you call civilised. A true warrior will always be brought down by his cowardly enemies.”