Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Dance of Death

“How did my drinking get dragged into this?”

Horm the Dead rises to his feet.

“Please stop this argument,” he says. “It’s making my head ache.”

I point my sword at him and Makri raises her knife. Horm motions with his hand and the room cools slightly as a spell takes effect.

“Very careless of me to neglect my personal protection spell,” he says, almost apologetically. “But I was not expecting to meet such a fierce warrior in this tavern. You really are magnificent.”

“Stop saying that,” says Makri, and shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. Makri is clad in her chainmail bikini, one of the smallest garments ever seen in the civilised world. It seems to be having an effect on Horm.

“And stop staring,” says Makri.

“Forgive me.”

Horm regards her for a few moments more. As a skilled practitioner of sorcery, he can learn much from the study of a person’s aura.

“Orc, Elf and Human? A very rare mixture indeed. Impossible, according to some authorities. It accounts, I suppose, for your unusual rapidity of action. Though not necessarily your beauty. How can it be I have never heard of you before?”

“We did meet,” answers Makri. “In the Fairy Glade. You were on a dragon and I killed the commander of your troops. I’d have killed you too but you flew away.”

“That was you? In the heat of battle, I’m afraid I failed to register you properly. I believed you to be one of the magical characters who inhabit the glade.”

He bows formally.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Horm the Dead, Lord of the Kingdom of Yall. And you are—?”

“Makri.”

Horm raises his eyebrows.

“Makri? The champion gladiator?”

“Yes.”

Horm laughs, quite heartily by his standards.

“But this is splendid. The tale of the carnage you wreaked when you escaped the slave pits is known all over the east. You killed an Orc Lord and his entire entourage in a savage fury that has become legendary. Only last month I heard a minstrel sing of it. And of course your exploits in the arena were already legendary. I am honoured to meet you.”

Makri looks confused. Horm himself looks puzzled.

“How can it be that such a woman as yourself is reduced to working in a tavern?”

Not having a good answer to hand Makri remains silent, regarding Horm with suspicion, wondering if he’s still trying to baffle her with a persuasion spell. As far as I can tell Horm is no longer using magic and has switched to standard flattery, something I wouldn’t have guessed him to be so proficient at.

“A strange city indeed,” continues Horm. “That makes the greatest swordsman it has ever seen work in a tavern.”

“It’s my choice.”

“Come with me to my kingdom. I’ll make you a general.”

Makri shakes her head.

“Captain of all my armies.”

I’d better interrupt before he offers her the position of Queen.

“We’re not helping you find the pendant, Horm. You’d best be on your way. Sarin the Merciless is probably missing you.”

“Sarin. Another interesting woman. Were I in the mood for bragging I could tell you much of value that she has brought to me from Turai and other cities, all unsuspected by your authorities.

“But,” he continues, drawing his cloak around him, “I am not in the mood for bragging. I am in the mood for finding the pendant which Lisutaris, Mistress of the Sky—”

He breaks off.

“Not that she deserves such a title. Lisutaris has no great mastery over the sky. Personally I count myself as a far greater practitioner of the flying arts.”

Sorcerers are always jealous of each other. I once heard Harmon Half Elf going on at length about the injustice of Tirini Snake Smiter claiming such a title when she’d never smited a snake in her life, or at the most one snake, and only a small harmless specimen at that. But Tirini is very beautiful and she’d just rejected Harmon’s advances, so that probably accounts for it.

“I have a low opinion of Lisutaris,” continues Horm. “Her dependence on thazis sickens me. A very poor drug for a Sorcerer.”

Horm the Dead presumably regards dwa as an acceptable drug for a Sorcerer. He wouldn’t be the only one.

“I have no doubt that her masked ball will be a dreary affair.”

“I’m sure she hasn’t invited you.”

“True,” admits Horm. “She has neglected to send me an invitation. But as I am already in Turai, and so adept at disguises, I am intending to attend the function. In the Wastelands, one rarely finds the opportunity to dance. I regret that you, Thraxas, are not among those deemed worthy to attend.”

I don’t catch any flicker of emotion on Makri’s face but Horm does.

“You are going? Excellent. Perhaps we may converse more regarding my offer of employment.”

He turns to me.

“I see that you have nothing to tell me regarding the pendant, so I will now depart. I had intended to kill you, because I’ve always resented the role you played in the failure of my spell to destroy this city. I worked long and hard on that incantation. But I have now changed my mind. I do not wish to do anything that may upset your companion Makri, who I judge to be the finest flower in all of Turai.”

He studies her for a while more.

“Your hair. So extremely luxurious yet not sorcerously enhanced. I have never seen its like. Who, may I ask, were your parents?”

Makri’s face sets into an expression of malign hostility and she raises her knife a fraction.

“Forgive me,” says Horm. “I did not mean to intrude. Thraxas, we shall no doubt meet again. Till then, farewell.”

Horm steps lightly towards the outside door, but he hasn’t finished yet. He pauses and turns his head, causing his long dark hair to sway quite dramatically. He may have worked on the effect.

“Your trouble at the College. Have you looked into the role of Barius?”

“Barius. Professor Toarius’s son. I was about to look for him before I was interrupted by Consul Kalius. What about him?”

“A dwa addict. So I understand from my business contacts.”

Horm makes a formal little bow, then slips quietly out of the door.

“That was unexpected,” says Makri.

“It was. At least he didn’t destroy my room this time.”

“Shouldn’t we follow him?” asks Makri, eager for action.

“I can’t believe he’s going to Lisutaris’s ball. Everyone is going except me.”

“Stop complaining about the ball, Thraxas. We have to get busy.”

I hunt around for a beer.

“It’s just so annoying. Horm’s going. Cicerius is going. You’re going.”

I stare at Makri balefully.

“I mean, what did you really do for Lisutaris? All right, you were her bodyguard, but who did all the work? Me. She would never have been elected head of the Sorcerers Guild without me.”

I take a heavy slug of beer. Makri is regarding me with a curious expression.

“Thraxas. Every time I think I’ve discovered the true shallowness of your character, you manage to surprise me with some further outrageous lack of depth. Have you forgotten what’s going on around you? Lisutaris is missing one important pendant and most of the bad guys in the world are after it at this moment, including several powerful Sorcerers and a killer who once put a crossbow bolt through my chest. Not only is this bad for Turai, it’s also bad for your client, because Kalius will be down on her like a bad spell when he gets proof of the loss, if he doesn’t have that already. Apart from this, I’ve been expelled from college and you’ve sworn to put that right, and apart from that, you’ve been accused of cowardice at a battle that took place seventeen years ago and are consequently no longer allowed to investigate pending a Senate inquiry. Also, it’s raining frogs.”