Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Elvish Isles

I admit that I don’t, but I’m still working on it. It’s something of a relief to find an aristocratic Elf who doesn’t seem to hold me responsible for everything that’s been going on around here. Now that Lasas has got over the immediate shock of his brother’s death, he’s proving to be a calm and responsible Elf. I ask him again if there’s anything he might have forgotten to tell me.

“No strange goings-on? No hint of who might have been in the vicinity with dwa?”

“Nothing, I am afraid. I have been keeping my ear to the ground, but really since my brother was killed I have been too busy with preparations for the funeral and with taking up the reins of the Priesthood.”

At least we seem to have got to the root of the bad dreams the Avulans have been suffering from. Lasas is firmly of the opinion that a powerful alien drug, contained in the water that feeds the Hesuni Tree, would be more than enough to give the Elves nightmares.

“All Avulans communicate with the Tree. As it was ingesting poison, so it produced nightmares. We must be grateful to you for finding it. I am now attempting to cleanse the area by means of ritual.”

Tramping back across the clearing, I’m frustrated. Everyone knows that something strange has been going on but no one quite knows what. And no one can suggest a motive for Elith killing Gulas. Even Elith, who admits to doing it, can’t think of a motive. Before I leave I ask Lasas if he has encountered Gorith-ar-Del yet.

“Should I have?”

“Probably not. It’s just I keep noticing him hanging round the area. Would you let me know if he contacts you in any way?”

Lasas says that he will, and I depart. I find Harmon Half-Elf and Lanius Suncatcher in the enclave of houses next to the Turanian Ambassador’s residence. I know that Harmon Half-Elf has seen the prisoner and I want his opinion on whether she has been attacked or bemused by sorcery.

“I did not get that impression,” he tells me. “Although with the Hesuni Tree in the vicinity, it is impossible to be certain. However, I think that if she had had her memory wiped or been victim of some spell that overpowered her will, forcing her to kill the priest, there would be some trace of it remaining. I know that Jir- ar-Eth has searched very thoroughly for any sign of this and has been unable to locate anything.”

“And congratulations on getting out of jail,” adds Lanius Suncatcher.

The two Sorcerers are not entirely unsympathetic to my cause.

“If only because you are refusing to give up. Despite the fact that everyone knows Elith is guilty, I think the Avulans are starting to respect you for the way you keep on trying to help Vas-ar-Methet. They value friendship. But really, Thraxas, what can you hope to achieve now? Elith-ir-Methet is guilty. People saw her kill Gulas. She admits it.”

They offer me some wine. I drain the goblet and rise to my feet.

“If I find some reasonable motive, she might not be executed.”

Stuck for inspiration, I seek out Makri. My horse is in the paddock where I left it, so I saddle up and ride round the island. Every clearing is now filled with choirs, actors, jugglers, all practising for the festival. As the path narrows between the encroaching trees I keep a keen eye out for masked Elves with spears who might be about to attack me, but none appear. So far I have not managed to gather the slightest clue as to who they are or who they might be working for. As far as I know, the Elves have nothing that is equivalent to the Assassins in Turai, but someone is certainly out to get me. Someone with powerful sorcerous backing. Once more I’m grateful for my excellent spell protection charm. It will protect me from most magical attacks, though not from invisible Elves suddenly appearing and gutting me with their spears.

I dismount near the private clearing and again advance cautiously. I’m wondering if Isuas has given up. Before long I hear Makri’s voice raised in anger.

“Fight, you cusux! If you trip over your feet one more time I swear I’ll kill you. You want to see my Orcish blade? I’ll let you see it, you useless brat, I’ll pin you to that tree with it.”

This is followed by the sound of a wooden sword cracking over a young Elf’s head, and some wailing.

I peer into the clearing. Isuas has shown some spirit in returning for more lessons, but Makri doesn’t seem to appreciate it. The young Elf is struggling to her feet under a rain of blows, while Makri continues to scream abuse at her.

“Didn’t I show you how to parry? Well, parry this!”

Makri hits Isuas with a stroke that must come close to breaking her shoulder. Isuas yells in pain. This annoys Makri even more.

“I didn’t say cry like a girl, I said parry. Now do it.”

Makri slashes at the young Elf. Isuas makes a reasonable attempt at deflecting the blow, but Makri simply uses her other blade to whack Isuas on the side of the head, sending her once more thumping to the ground.

I’m fairly aghast at this. The sight of Makri using her full fighting skills against the weak little Elf would distress the hardest of hearts. Isuas lies on the ground sobbing, where she is in receipt of a further torrent of abuse.

“You useless exin miserable zutha pathetic cusux,” screams Makri, using a string of vile Orcish epithets, some of them unintelligible to me and some quite possibly never heard in the western world before.

Makri drops her swords and yanks Isuas to her feet.

“Are all Elves as pitiful as you? God help you if the Orcs ever sail down to Avula. Pah! You’re so pathetic I don’t even need a weapon.”

Isuas suddenly looks angry. The insults are getting to her. She leaps to attack Makri, showing a surprising turn of speed. Makri stands her ground, merely twisting her body to avoid the blades before stepping lightly to one side. Isuas tries to turn and face her, but Makri, displaying new heights of savagery, actually kicks her in the head. Isuas crumples, which doesn’t prevent Makri from getting in another two kicks before she hits the ground. This time the young Elf lies still. I hurry forward, alarmed.

“Goddammit, Makri, you’ve killed her.”

Makri looks round, unconcerned.

“No I haven’t. She’s just dazed. What are you doing here?”

“I came to talk to you. If you can spare a moment in between tormenting that unfortunate youth.”

“Unfortunate?” says Makri, puzzled. “She’s being taught to fight by the undefeated champion gladiator of all the Orc Lands. I’d call that a privilege.”

Isuas groans. Makri, who possesses surprising strength despite her slender frame, hoists her into the air and tosses her in the direction of a water bottle under a tree.

“Take a drink,” she says. “And stop crying.”

“Is it really necessary to be this brutal?”

Makri shrugs. “I’m trying to teach her a lot in a hurry. Anyway, we’re using wooden swords. How brutal can you be with a wooden sword?”

“Pretty brutal, from what I saw. When Lady Yestar gave her permission for this I doubt very much if she quite foresaw that you would be kicking her daughter in the head. Shouldn’t you be doing something about the bleeding?”

“The island is full of healers. They’ll sort her out later. What are you here for?”

“To talk. I’m still baffled by this case and I’m running out of time. I figured I might get some inspiration if we talked it out.”

“I can’t spare the time right now. I’ll be back at Camith’s after dark—can it wait till then?”

I suppose it can.

“Try not to kill Isuas.”

“Death in training isn’t so bad,” states Makri, firmly. “Better than disgracing yourself in the arena. Which,” she adds, turning menacingly back to the young Elf, “no pupil of mine is going to do. So get up and fight.”