Martin Scott: Thraxas and the Elvish Isles

“It never has happened before. And it was not completely burned, though it suffered considerable damage. The tree-tenders of our tribe have saved it, though it will be some time before it is strong again. This is not public knowledge. I know that Lord Kalith will have informed your Royal Family of the occurrence, but we would not wish for people to know the true state of affairs.”

I light up a thazis stick. Vas frowns.

“These narcotic substances are bad for a man, Thraxas.”

I shrug this off. Thazis is a very mild drug, calms the nerves, nothing more. Compared to the plague of dwa that has recently gripped the city, its effects are negligible. Since dwa started flooding in from the south, Turai has advanced several giant steps on its way to hell, damnation and destruction. Crime has mushroomed on all fronts, which is good for my business, I suppose.

“Tell me about the Tree.”

“Someone attacked it with an axe, and then with fire. It took the greatest efforts of our tribe to save it.”

He pauses to sip some klee.

“No Elvish tribe has ever suffered such an attack. The Hesuni Tree of the Uratha Clan was struck by lightning and killed three hundred years ago, and this calamity has ever since plagued the Uratha. That, however, was an act of God. It is without precedent for a Hesuni Tree to be attacked. You have been among the Elves, Thraxas; you may have some idea of what the Hesuni means to the clan.”

I nod. I know enough to realise the seeming impossibility of any Elf harming it.

“Coming before our Festival it is particularly unfortunate. Many Elves from the neighbouring islands visit Avula and it has cast a shadow over the occasion.”

“Who was responsible? Has Orcish sorcery extended its arm so far south?”

Vas’s eyes mist over. “My daughter stands accused of the crime.”

Unexpectedly, a tear rolls down the face of Vas-ar-Methet.

I see too much misery on the streets every day to be much affected by it, but I’m greatly touched by the sight of my old companion-in-arms reduced to tears.

He tells me that his daughter is currently under lock and key on the island, accused of the terrible and unprecedented crime.

“I swear she is innocent, Thraxas. My daughter is not capable of such a terrible act. I need someone to help her but there is no one on the islands who can do what you do. No one has any experience of investigating . . . we have no crime to investigate . . . till this. . . .”

I finish off my klee and bang my fist on the table in a reassuring manner. “Don’t worry, Vas. I’ll sort it out. When do we sail?”

You can trust me in a crisis. Thraxas will always come to your aid. What’s more, it will get me away from the terrible Turanian winter, which is all to the good.

“We sail with the evening tide. The winter storms will soon be here and we must be well clear of your coast before then.”

The thought of winter storms makes me wonder if I might have leaped in too hastily here. I’ve sailed enough to take another long voyage in my stride, but even under the fine seamanship of Lord Kalith and his Elvish crew I don’t relish the prospect of battling though the icy winter gales. Vas reassures me: Avula is one of the closest of the Elvish Isles, about three or four weeks’ journey due south, and we should be able to pass through the most dangerous waters before they become too troubled.

“I appreciate this more than I can say, Thraxas. It is no light thing for a man to drop everything at a moment’s notice to travel far, even in answer to a call for help from an old friend.”

“Think nothing of it, Vas. I owe you. Anyway, who wants to sit through another Turanian winter? You ever been here in winter? It’s hell. Last year I had to spend three weeks at the harbour sorting out some shipping fraud. I was colder than a frozen pixie and you couldn’t move without tripping over some poor beggar’s corpse. Anyway, I’ve a little personal trouble at the moment I wouldn’t mind being far away from.”

“Personal trouble? What sort of. . . .”

An almighty crash comes at my inside door. It’s still protected by my locking spell but this minor incantation isn’t going to hold out for long against such a determined assault.

“An angry woman,” I grunt. “If you can call her that.”

I grab my sword and bark a few ancient words at the door, removing the spell. It bursts open and Makri practically flies into the room. She has an axe in one hand and is trying to fend off Gurd with the other. She makes good progress towards me before Gurd manages to get his arms round her and bring her to a grinding halt.

“Let go of me, damn you,” yells Makri. “I don’t care what you say, I’m going to kill him.”

Gurd hangs on, using his extra body weight to his advantage. Makri struggles furiously. Normally in this sort of situation she would produce a dagger from somewhere around her body and stab whoever was unwise enough to be hanging on to her but she has the disadvantage of not actually wishing to kill Gurd, who is her employer and has always treated her rather kindly.

Vas has stood up in astonishment at the sight of Makri and Gurd struggling at the door. Like any Elf, he can sense Orc blood, and Elves hate Orcs even more than Humans do. But of course he can also sense Makri’s Elf blood. Elves are always confused by Makri, while Makri herself finds relating to Elves troubling, so troubling that, at the sight of the dignified presence of the healer, she stops struggling and eyes him coldly.

“Who the hell are you?” she demands, in fluent Elvish.

“A friend of Thraxas,” replies Vas.

“Well you better say your goodbyes,” grunts Makri. “I’m about to send him to hell. No one calls me a pointy-eared Orc bitch and lives.”

Vas walks up to her, bows politely, then looks her in the eye. “I have rarely heard our language spoken so gracefully by someone not born on the islands,” he says. “You speak it quite beautifully.”

Makri is not placated. She spits out an Orcish curse at him. I wince. I myself am fluent in the Common Elvish tongue and since Makri arrived my Orcish has greatly improved. I can’t believe that she just said that to a well-bred Elf. I hope he didn’t understand. It’s about the rudest thing you can do to an Elf to speak Orcish in front of him.

Vas does the last thing I’m expecting, which is to put his head back and laugh heartily.

“You speak Orcish very well also. I picked up quite a lot during the war. Please tell me, young lady, who are you that you live here in a tavern in Twelve Seas and have such command of three languages?”

“Four,” says Makri. “I’ve been learning the Royal Elvish language as well.”

“Really? That is unheard of. You must be a person of unusual intelligence.”

Makri has now stopped struggling. Having this cultured Elf compliment her on her high intelligence puts her in a quandary. Makri is not short of compliments on her looks, her figure, her spectacular hair. She hardly notices them any more, unless they are accompanied by a hefty tip. The main reason she stays around here is to attend the Guild College. Makri is a budding intellectual of a serious nature and an Elf complimenting her intelligence can’t fail to have some effect.

“Well, I’ve been reading the scrolls at the library . . . you know. . . .”

“Have you read the tale of Queen Leeuven?”

“Yes,” replies Makri. “I loved it.”

Vas is delighted. “Our finest epic. So fine that it has never been translated from the Royal language for fear of spoiling its beauty. You know it originated on Avula, my island? It is one of the glories of my tribe. I am indeed pleased to meet you.”

He bows to her again. Makri bows back. Gurd lets her go. Makri frowns, realising that she can’t really hit me with her axe. It would completely spoil the good impression she just made.