Martin Scott - Thraxas and the Elvish Isles

I stare at the corpse, puzzled. The whole affair lasted only a few seconds. I pull back his hood, study the man’s bronzed face, look through his pockets for some identification, but I can find nothing. Just a mysterious horseman who tried to kill me, and wasn’t very good at it. He looks like any common thug from any city in the west.

I ride off, leaving the corpse where it lies. Someone else can sort out the formalities. I’m not far from where Makri is training Isuas. I dismount before the clearing and advance softly. Makri is in the centre of the clearing facing Isuas and if she hasn’t actually got round to killing her yet it sounds like it might not be far away. Her face is grim and her voice is venomous.

“You stinking little Elf cusux,” she sneers. “This is where it ends. You wanted to try out my Orc blade? Here—” Makri takes it from the scabbard at her back and tosses it to Isuas, who catches it by the hilt and stands awkwardly with the evil-looking black metal blade pointed at the ground.

“Now I’m going to kill you,” says Makri, drawing her second sword.

“What?” stammers Isuas, and starts to tremble.

“You heard, brat. I’m going to kill you. You think I’m here because I’m a friend of the Elves?”

Makri spits in Isuas’s face. Isuas shudders like she’s been touched by a plague carrier.

“Think again, cusux,” sneers Makri. “My allegiance is to the Orcish Lands. I was sent to wreak havoc on their enemies and everything I’ve done since that day has been for the sole purpose of spreading destruction on the Elvish Isles. You will be the first to die. After I’ve set your head up on a spike I’m going to gut your mother like the Elvish pig she is and then I’m going to burn the Palace.”

Makri, now wearing a hideous expression of rage and loathing, leaps forward. Isuas jumps backwards to avoid the murderous blow.

I watch with interest. I have no fear of Makri killing Isuas—if she’d meant to do that, she would have connected with the stroke—but I’m impressed with her performance. Young Isuas, innocent of the ways of the wicked world outside her island, firmly believes that her head is about to be cut off and takes action to prevent it. She appears to forget how to be clumsy or weak or awkward, and actually parries Makri’s blow and counters it with an assault of her own.

Makri, without appearing to fake it, starts trading thrusts with her young opponent, all the while continuing to taunt her with the foulest of insults, which further enrage Isuas so that she finally screams out the ancestral battle cry of her family and hurls herself upon Makri with a rain of blows that, though not delivered all that skilfully, are not lacking in spirit.

Makri traps Isuas’s blade with the hilt of her own and flips it away. She delivers a cruel kick into the young Elf’s midriff. Isuas crumples on to the grass.

“Die, cusux,” roars Makri, raising her blade. Isuas, shaking off the effects of the kick, rolls out of the way, leaps to her feet, picks up a fallen branch and actually flings herself at Makri in an attempt to batter her senseless. Makri catches hold of the Elf’s wrist, puts the point of her sword at Isuas’s neck and stares at her coldly. Isuas, unable to move, stares defiantly back at her.

“Orc pig cusux,” she says, and spits in Makri’s face.

Makri nods meditatively, and grabs Isuas by the throat. Again displaying her surprising strength, she hoists her into the air with one hand and pulls her forward so that their noses almost touch.

“That’s a little better,” says Makri, calmly. She lets go of Isuas and turns away.

Isuas, still not understanding what’s going on, swiftly gathers up the Orc sword and leaps at Makri’s retreating figure, at which Makri, displaying the sort of skill and precision that sometimes startles even me, whirls round and deflects the blow with the metal band she wears round her wrist. She knocks the sword from Isuas’s grasp and again lifts her off the ground.

“Good,” she says to the discomfited Elf. “Never hesitate to stab your opponent in the back. You’re learning. You’ve got five minutes to rest.”

She tosses Isuas into a nearby bush then picks up her Orcish blade. I advance into the clearing.

“Nice going, Makri. If we are fortunate she might get over her hysterics some time next year.”

Makri shrugs. “She’s all right. Good progress in fact, by her standards anyway. What are you doing here?”

“I was just attacked by a mysterious mounted swordsman. Human rather than Elf. I had to kill him. Anything happened here?”

Makri shakes her head.

“It sounds like you’re getting close to something, Thraxas.”

“Seems like it. For all the good it will do.”

I tell Makri that after talking to Elith there just doesn’t seem any way out for her.

“She did it. End of case.”

“What now?”

“I guess I’ll keep ferreting around. Maybe if I can take details of what’s been going on to Lord Kalith he might show some mercy. After all, Elith was under the influence of dwa when she killed Gulas, and under a lot of stress.”

I’m not sounding very convincing here. I need a beer. Or maybe some good news. “You know we can get fifty to one on her making it past the first round of the tournament?”

“Who from? She isn’t officially entered yet, it’s meant to be a secret.”

I inform Makri that I have been making discreet enquiries of the Elvish betting fraternity. “Don’t worry, I couched my enquiry in the most cautious terms. So, is it worth a bet?”

Makri shakes her head. “No. Not yet anyway.”

I’m disappointed.

“Has it occurred to you,” says Makri, “that I’m actually taking this training seriously? I have a reputation to protect, not to mention a gladiators’ code to live up to. And all you’re interested in is gambling.”

“Who wouldn’t be at fifty to one? I’ve got to make a profit somewhere; the juggling contest is too close to call.”

Makri promises to let me know if Isuas makes it to the point where she’s worth backing. I remind her that Gulas’s funeral is to be held this evening near the Hesuni Tree.

“I’ve never heard you mention the gladiators’ code before.”

“There wasn’t one,” admits Makri. “I made it up. I was just trying to remind you that fighting involves more important things than betting.”

“Okay, I’ll believe you. You’re the philosophy student. If you get her up to scratch, how much do you want to bet?”

“Everything I have,” says Makri. “You can’t turn your nose up at odds of fifty to one. That would just be foolish.”

The slightest of sounds makes us turn towards the trees. A green-cloaked masked and hooded Elf steps out with a sword in his hands. I sigh. I’m getting fed up with this.

“Is he going to disappear?” says Makri.

“Who knows? If he can’t fight any better than the last one he might as well.”

I saunter forward, sword in hand, and am instantly beaten back by one of the most skilful and lethal assaults I’ve ever encountered. I’m forced to give ground immediately and am frankly relieved when Makri hurls herself into the fray and distracts our assailant’s attention by attacking him from the flank. He parries her blade and even though I’m not slow to join in, again I can’t find an opening. We trade blows for a while and though the superior forces of myself and Makri drive him backwards we can’t succeed in landing a telling stroke. I’ve rarely seen the like of this warrior. Our assailant keeps us both at bay till, realising that he has encountered rather more than he bargained for, he spins round and sprints for the trees. We watch him go.

“Who was that?” demands Makri.