Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Dance of Death

By this time I’ve walked clear down to the southern wall of the city. I pass through a small gate that leads on to the shore, a rocky stretch of coastline some way from the harbour. Further along the coast there are some stretches of golden sands, but this close to the city the sea washes up against a barren patch of rocky pools. The area stinks from the sewage which flows out of Turai, making it a place which few people visit. Even the fishermen who take crabs from the pools tend to stay clear of this polluted part of the landscape, particularly in the heat of summer. The offensive odour makes me wrinkle my nose. I wonder why I’ve walked here. I should have made for the harbour and checked out the ships. I might have found a trireme heading south and asked for passage.

I spot a figure in the distance, half hidden behind a tall spur of rock. I’m about to leave when something about his movements strikes me as familiar. My curiosity piqued, I stroll over, taking care not to slip on the slime that clings to the rocks. When I reach the spur I find Horm the Dead scrabbling around in a small pool.

“Looking for crabs?”

He looks up, surprised at the interruption.

“I sent the pendant here for safekeeping after I took it from Glixius,” he announces. “But it’s gone.”

Before I can deny any involvement, Horm states that he already knows I haven’t taken it.

“I’ve long since stopped worrying about your investigative powers. It is part of your fate to always be too late. But who can have found the pendant here?”

Horm withdraws his hand from the water, shaking off the dark liquid with some disgust.

“It really is too bad,” he proclaims. “I am now heartily sick of this whole affair.”

“Everyone is sick of it.”

“And yet I must have the pendant.”

“Why not give it up?” I suggest. “You probably don’t really need it.”

“I am afraid I do,” says Horm. Unexpectedly he smiles. “I have promised it to Prince Amrag. Rash perhaps, but true. Our new Orcish warlord seems to have taken offence at some comments I made that were reported to him by his spies. Comments which were taken out of context, of course. . . . Still . . . I really must have the pendant.”

“You mean your neck is in danger if you don’t deliver the goods?”

“I would not go as far as that,” says Horm. “But it will certainly help to smooth out the misunderstanding.”

I’m gathering from this that Horm the Dead has managed to get himself quite seriously on the wrong side of Prince Amrag. A sorcerous lord like Horm doesn’t go around dipping his hands into polluted pools of water unless he has a lot of smoothing-over to do.

“Yes, Horm, it’s a problem. You offend someone in authority and they make your life hell. Happens to me all the time.”

“Prince Amrag has no authority over me.”

“True. But he’s soon going to have the biggest army in the east.”

We walk up the beach together. By his standards Horm the Dead is being positively convivial, and he’s not even using a spell of persuasion. He simply regards me as so little threat he is unconcerned about how much I know of his affairs. In fact he seems eager to discuss them.

“I presume, as you are still wandering vacantly around the city, that Lisutaris has not recovered the pendant?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“And Glixius Dragon Killer certainly does not have it. As for the criminal gangs of Turai, I feel that neither of them has it either. I have enough contacts in your Turanian underworld to have learned by now if they had. Do you think your Turanian Sorcerers Guild might have recovered the green jewel?”

I shrug. I’ve no idea.

“I find this all very unsatisfactory,” complains the Sorcerer. “In a matter such as this I would have expected a little discretion. In some ways it is amusing that so many people know of the theft, but it’s hardly convenient.”

“I thought it might have been you that spread the word, Horm. You must be enjoying seeing Lisutaris heading for a fall.”

“I am indeed. But it was not me that spread word throughout the city that she had lost the pendant.”

Some melodious singing interrupts our conversation. Close to the shore, mermaids are forming a chorus.

“Are you responsible for this?” I ask.

Again Horm the Dead denies it.

“Of course I am not responsible. Why would I waste my time on such matters? Yesterday I was almost knocked over by a centaur. I presumed it was some sort of Turanian custom till some children started screaming in alarm. I suspect the magic space may be breaking through into the real world.”

“I thought the same. Any idea how that might be happening?”

“None whatsoever. If it happens, it will certainly hasten your destruction.”

“If it keeps spreading it might hasten yours.”

The mermaids disappear. I’m not entirely certain where mermaids live, or if they really live anywhere. Unlike unicorns, centaurs, dryads and naiads, I’ve never actually met any.

Horm frowns.

“This should all have been simple. Sarin the Merciless receives the pendant and passes it to me. I leave the city bearing a mighty gift for Prince Amrag. I’m still not certain what went wrong. Glixius, possibly. He knows Sarin the Merciless. He may have learned of the affair earlier than I imagined.”

“Possibly Sarin thought she might get more money from Glixius.”

“Possibly. She is an efficient woman, but I have had occasion to criticise her for her venality.”

“Who was Sarin meant to receive the pendant from?”

“That, I imagine, is the crux of your investigation,” says Horm. “So I would not wish to spoil it for you by telling.”

We’ve now walked back to the outskirts of the city, to the small gate in the walls, which is manned by a bored-looking guard.

“People are dying all over Turai, I believe,” muses Horm. “Which is also puzzling. When I learned of the first deaths I presumed that they were connected to the pendant. It would certainly have that effect on the untrained mind. Yet the deaths are now so widespread that the jewel cannot be causing them all. It may be a sorcerous item but it can’t be in more than one place at the same time.”

“Yes, Horm, it’s a mystery. And you saying you know nothing of the matter doesn’t convince me.”

Horm raises his eyebrows, just the slightest bit perturbed by me implying he may be lying.

“Tell me, Investigator, if you had by any chance stumbled across the jewel, what makes you think it would not have driven you mad?”

“Strong will power.”

“You think so? I had not noticed. Sarin’s description of you rolling around drunk in the gutter would not seem to fit a man of strong will power.”

“Sarin is a liar.”

Horm stares back down towards the sea. He points over to some rocks further along the coast.

“Another three bodies.”

“Really?”

“From the Society of Friends, I believe. Probably followed Glixius and ended up killing each other.

“Glixius Dragon Killer,” muses Horm. “Three times I have defeated him in combat, yet he seems undeterred. I suppose one should admire that, but really I find it tedious. Next time we meet I will certainly have to kill him.”

“You’re fond of promising to kill people, Horm.”

Horm looks surprised. At the foot of the city walls a slight breeze makes his cloak wave in the air. I’m sweating in the heat but the half-Orc Sorcerer seems unaffected.

“Am I? Who else have I threatened to kill?”

“Me, for one.”

“I hardly think that likely,” says Horm. “Why would I threaten to kill you? There is not, and has never been, the slightest chance of you preventing me from carrying out my plans. You are beneath me, Thraxas, beneath me by a distance you cannot comprehend, Investigator who failed his sorcerous apprenticeship.”