Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Elvish Isles

“Sorry. I was being poetic. But I suppose ‘enormous’ isn’t a very poetic word, when applied to a Human. Would ‘impressively girthed’ be better?”

“No, it would still be lousy,” I reply.

“Kingly proportioned?”

“Could we just forget my weight for a moment? What do you want?”

“The same as you. Beer.”

She falls in at my side and we walk on.

“I take it you are a poet rather than an armourer?”

“Definitely. I’m Sendroo-ir-Vallis. You can call me Droo.”

“Pleased to meet you, Droo.”

Having got over my surprise, I don’t mind a little company. Droo, obviously an Elf who has no problems in talking to strangers, tells me that she comes to the three oaks most nights to meet other poets.

“And drink beer.”

“I thought Elvish poets would drink wine.”

“Only the older ones,” Droo informs me. “And I daresay it was fine for composing epics. But poetry moves on, you know. Look, there’s the clearing. There’s a hill where you can look at the stars through the fine mist from the waterfall. It’s very inspiring. Poets have always loved the spot.”

“What about the armourers?”

“They use the fast-flowing water for their forges. I’ve never found that very poetic, but we get on well with them. Is it true that you travel with a woman with Orc blood and a ring through her nose?”

I see that Makri’s reputation has spread as swiftly as my own. “I never go anywhere without her. Apart from tonight. She’s home resting.”

Droo seems disappointed, though she owns that she’s pleased to meet a detective.

“I need new experiences, and there are so few opportunities for a young Elf to get off the island. I wanted to sail on the ship to Turai but my father wouldn’t let me. Are you going to ask everyone questions?”

“Maybe a few. But mainly I’m looking for beer.”

We arrive at the clearing and I’ve rarely seen a more welcoming sight. Benches are laid out under the three mighty oaks and from inside the hollow stump of a huge dead tree an Elf is handing out tankards. Two large tables are occupied by brawny Elves in leather aprons whom I take to be armourers, and a further table nearer to the stream is surrounded by younger, thinner Elves, presumably poets. They wave to Sendroo as she appears, and some of the weapon-makers also shout greetings. The atmosphere is convivial, sufficiently so that my arrival, while provoking some comment, doesn’t cast any sort of shadow over the place.

I march up to the Elf in the hollow tree, take out some small pieces of Elvish currency, and request a beer. He hands it over in a black leather tankard. I drink it down in one, hand back the tankard, and request another. He fills the tankard from a barrel at the back and hands it over. I down it in one and give him back the tankard.

“More beer.”

I take the third tankard, empty it straight down and hand it back. By this time the Elf is looking slightly surprised.

“Would you like to try—”

“More beer.”

As I’m draining the fourth tankard there is some good-natured laughter from the armourers behind me.

“He is a mighty drinker,” says one of them.

I finish off a fifth tankard, and take a six and seventh over to their table.

“Better bring me a couple more,” I say to the barkeeper, and hand him a few more coins. “Make that three. Four. Well, just keep them coming till I tell you to stop.”

“Any room for a thirsty man at that table?” I ask.

I figure that while the poets might be interesting in their own way, the armourers will make for better company while I’m in such desperate need of beer. They look like the sort of Elves who enjoy a few tankards themselves after a hard day at the forge. They’re brawny, as Elves go. Not as brawny as me, but at least they don’t make me feel quite as oversized as most of the Elves do.

The weapon-makers move up, letting me in at the bench. I drink down one of my tankards, make a start on another, and look round to check that the barkeeper is on his way with more.

“A hard day?” enquires the nearest Elf jovially.

“A hard month. I ran out of ale on Kalith’s ship and I’ve been searching ever since.”

When the barkeeper arrives I order a round of drinks for the entire table, which goes down well.

“He’s trying to bribe us with drinks,” cry the Elves, laughing. “Are you here to ask the armourers questions, Investigator?”

“No, just to drink beer. And isn’t it time someone was calling that barkeeper over? Anyone know any good drinking songs?”

You can’t ask an Elvish weapon-maker if he knows any good drinking songs without getting a hearty response. I know that. I remember these Elves, or Elves very much like them, from the war. I feel on much firmer territory than I have been with Lord Kalith-ar-Yil and his retinue. A drinking song starts up, and after it’s gone round a few times one of the Elves further down the table actually shouts that now he remembers me.

“I was up in Turai during the War! You used to fight with that Barbarian—what was his name?”

“Gurd.”

“Gurd! Bless the old Barbarian!”

The Elf slams his tankard cheerfully on the table.

“Thraxas! When I heard we had a Human Investigator heading our way, I never realised it was you.”

He turns to his companions.

“I know this man. Fought well and never let us run out of drink!”

It’s true. I raided the cellars after the Orcish dragons burned down the taverns.

“Is that you, Voluth? You didn’t have a beard back then.”

“And you didn’t have such a belly!”

Voluth roars with laughter. I remember him well—a shield-maker by trade, and a doughty warrior. He calls for more beer, and starts telling war stories, stories in which I’m pleased to see I feature well. I smile at everyone genially. This is more the sort of thing I had in mind when an expedition to the Elvish Isles was mooted. Beer, drinking songs and convivial company.

Which is not to say I’m not alert for anything that may be helpful. Talk naturally swings round to the matter of Elith-ir-Methet’s killing of Gulas. If they were having an affair, word of it hasn’t reached the armourers, though several of them do say that Gulas was very young to be Tree Priest. His brother is younger, and, I gather, less popular.

The poets are meanwhile sprawled over the ground at the foot of the small hill, looking at the moons and reciting lines to each other. Droo is talking animatedly with another Elvish youth. In fact they seem to be arguing. I can’t hear their conversation, but it seems to be growing more heated. Suddenly the sound of singing fills the glade.

“Choirs are practising late,” say the armourers, and listen with the air of Elves who have a fine judgement of such things.

“Sounds like the choir from Ven. Not bad, though I fancy Corinthal may have the edge this year.”

“Is competition fierce in all the events?” I enquire, reasoning that if it is I may well find out if there’s any gambling in these parts.

“Very fierce,” says Voluth. “With the festival only taking place every five years, these choirs spend years practising and no one wants to put up a bad performance on the day. It’s even worse with the dramatic companies. It’s an immense honour winning the first prize. Ten years ago the Avulans won with a spectacular rendition of the famous episode where Queen Leeuven goes to war against her stepbrother. Lord Kalith made the director an Honoured Knight of Avula, an award previously only given to Elves who distinguished themselves on the battlefield. He’s never had to buy himself a goblet of wine or haunch of venison to this day.”

“We didn’t do so well last time though,” another Elf puts in. “Staid performance. No emotion. The whole island was disappointed.”