Thraxas and the Ice Dragon

Chapter Ten

Makri stares at me suspiciously. "I can't believe you had an affair with a Baroness."

"She wasn't a Baroness at the time. She was a barmaid."

"I can't believe you had an affair with a barmaid."

"What's so strange about it? I'd just won the sword-fighting tournament. There were barmaids all over Samsarina keen to have an affair with me. Just because I don't boast about these things doesn't mean I wasn't a man for the ladies in my younger days."

Makri shakes her head. "Are you sure you're not imagining it?"

I tap the purse I'm carrying. "You should be grateful the Baroness liked me so much. Otherwise we wouldn't have money for your armour." I shake the purse, making the coins jangle. "I expect she's remembered me very fondly over the years."

"You're loving this, aren't you?" says Makri, who, for some reason, seems unnecessarily scathing about the whole thing.

"I suppose it does say something about the vigorous love-making of the youthful Thraxas that she still remembers me so kindly. But I'm not bragging."

"If Baron Mabados ever finds out he'll throw you back in the ocean." Makri doesn't sound too displeased at the prospect.

We're walking through Elath, on our way to buy armour and weapons. Makri's preferred method of combat is to use two swords, but tournament rules stipulate that each fighter must enter the arena carrying a sword and a shield.

"A blunted sword," mutters Makri. "What use is that?"

Weapons have to have the edge taken off before they can be used. Makri keeps grumbling about it. We walk eastwards through the town till we reach the outskirts, where tents have been set up selling all sorts of goods. Makri becomes more interested as we approach. She does like weapons, and can't help but be interested in the rows of swords, shields, helmets and so on. We're studying a display of daggers when someone claps me heartily on the back.

"Saxarth? Is that you? You old dog!"

I turn round to find myself confronted by a man a few inches shorter than me, grey haired, but wiry and vigorous.

"Combius?"

"Saxarth!" He claps me on the shoulder again. "Good to see you!"

"Saxarth?" says Makri.

"It's the name I used when I won the tournament. I was absent without leave from the army at the time. Had to disguise my identity. Makri, this is Combius of Juval. Champion the year before me, and as good a fighter as I've met."

"I'd have been champion next year too if I hadn't been injured," roars Combius, cheerfully. A quite untrue statement, but I let it pass.

"Saxarth is just Thraxas backwards," says Makri. "Couldn't you come up with something better?"

"What are you doing here, Combius?"

"Selling weapons. Set myself up as an armourer after I retired from fighting."

"Then you're just the man I've been looking for. This is Makri. She needs weapons for the tournament."

Combius looks at Makri in surprise. "You're entering the tournament?"

"Couldn't you think of anything better than Saxarth?" asks Makri.

I purse my lips. "Could you drop the inquisition about my name? Yes, Combius, Makri is entering the tournament. She's currently bodyguard to the Head of the Sorcerers Guild and I give her every chance of doing well."

Combius doesn't look especially convinced, but he's not going to turn away our business. "I've got the full range here. What do you need?"

"Everything. Sword, shield, mail shirt, gorget, mail gloves, helmet, boots, leggings. At a generous discount for an old companion, I trust."

Combius leads us behind his table and signals to a young assistant to help him find suitable armour for Makri.

"She's a good deal thinner than anyone else I'm outfitting," he muses. "Going to need some adjustments."

Makri has picked up a sword from the table and makes a few practice thrusts. As she walks down the row of merchandise, examining the various pieces of armour, Combius lowers his voice. "What's the idea, Saxarth? She's not really entering the tournament is she?"

"She is."

"Did you lose your mind when Turai fell to the Orcs? People die in this tournament. Why risk the girl's life?"

"She's not risking her life."

"Really? Orc blood isn't too popular around here. It's madness letting her enter."

By now Makri is trying on some of Combius's chainmail shirts, all of which are too large for her. She complains about the weight, comparing them unfavourably to the Orcish armour she left in Turai, something that doesn't go down well with Combius.

"The Orcs can't make armour."

"Yes they can. Good armour."

Neither Combius nor his assistants look pleased. No western armourer will acknowledge that Orcish smiths have any skill.

"How about that small shirt at the back?" I suggest, to move things along.

"Might do," says Combius. "It's a youth's size. Made if for a Baron's son. Killed in a horse riding accident before he could wear it, poor lad. I might be able to adjust it for her."

By the time we leave Combius's weapons tent Makri has purchased a sword, a shield, and chainmail gloves. We have to call back for the rest later, after alterations. Makri scowls at her sword.

"It's blunt."

"Of course it's blunt. Can't you get it through your head that you're not meant to kill anyone?'

"No. And I still think Saxarth was a poor choice of name. I'd have seen through it right away."

"Yes Makri, that's fascinating. Fortunately no one in Elath at the time had your mighty intellect. Now I have to eat. Which I should be able to do at that tent with the flag on top."

"The flag with a meat pie on it?'

"That's the one. Lets go."

By now the fields are crowded, but it takes a good man to prevent Thraxas from advancing towards a meat pie. I clear a path, enter the tent, plant myself on an available bench and beckon a serving girl in our direction.

"Three pies, a tankard of ale and whatever side dishes you have. And quickly, if you can, I haven't eaten for a long time."

The waitress looks towards Makri. Makri shakes her head, not wanting anything.

"You should keep your strength up, Makri. You've got a tournament to win."

Makri's lips twist in a faint sneer. "I could win this tournament in my sleep. What do any of these people know about fighting? I slaughtered the entire honour guard of an Orc Lord on my own so I'm not about to start worrying about any tournament fighter."

"There will be a lot of good swordsmen here."

"None of them are any good."

I don't like Makri's over-confidence. "I'm telling you, there will be good fighters. Elupus, for instance."

Makri scoffs. "Elupus? He can't fight."

"How do you know that? You've never seen him in combat."

Makri shrugs. "I can tell. I wasn't impressed when I met him. I'll beat him. Easy as bribing a Senator. I'm more interested in Arichdamis and his inventions. Do you know he's making a special sort of huge crossbow for bringing down dragons? He showed me the plans."

It's my turn to be sceptical. "It will never work. People have tried before. You can't build anything big enough to fire an arrow tough enough to pierce a dragon's hide. The machine would be too cumbersome."

"Arichdamis doesn't think it's impossible. He's got a new swivel mounting which will allow for fast manoeuvrability. And he's invented this new sort of sight for aiming, it's got this little mirror in it, it was one of the cleverest things I've ever seen."

I'm about to pass an unfavourable opinion on the intellect of anyone foolish enough to think he can bring down a war-dragon with a crossbow when Makri unexpectedly looks sad.

"I really wish Arichdamis could visit Samanatius," she says. "But I expect Samanatius is dead."

There's not much to say to that. Samanatius is almost certainly dead. I doubt very much if the elderly philosopher escaped from the wreckage of Turai. Makri's gloom quickly transfers itself to me and I eat my pies rather quietly, thinking all the while about Gurd, Captain Rallee, Tanrose, and the other people I knew in Turai.

"We should be marching back there right now, not sitting here," declares Makri.

"I know. But it takes time to get these things organised. Once Lisutaris has re-established her control over the Sorcerers Guild, we'll see some action."

Though the food marquee is busy, a small space has cleared around us. No one wants to sit next to Makri. If she notices, she doesn't let it show. I'm expecting some awkwardness when we enter her for the tournament. There's a smaller marquee where entrants put their name down for the competition. It's a bustling scene as contestants call out to each other, and swap friendly insults, while their supporters eye up the opposition and exchange information on the fighters' recent form. Here, even more than elsewhere, the Samsarinan class system has relaxed. Barons and their retinues mingle with their favourite sword fighters, trainers and armourers. As we approach, the banter subsides. The officials don't make any objections as Makri gives her name - the Samsarinan tournament prides itself on being open to anyone - but they're far from welcoming. I register Makri in an atmosphere of hostile silence.

"I'm as welcome as an Orc at an Elvish wedding," mutters Makri, as we emerge from the marquee.

"True."

"Do you think Elves will ever invite me to a wedding?"

"Probably not."

Now that Makri has entered the tournament, I'm keen to place some bets as soon as possible. There are several bookmakers taking bets on the tournament, all of them operating out of tents close to the fighting arena. The largest operation is run by Big Bixo. As far as I can learn, he's honest enough, if only because the whole operation is overseen by Baron Mabados himself, who, as presiding noble in the area, has a hand in most profitable business arising from the tournament. He'll have to hand over a good share of that profit to the King, of course, but it's still a good earner for the Baron.

I ask Makri is she wants to accompany while I place my bets, but she declines. She has to accompany Lisutaris to a meeting. The first of the Elvish ambassadors have arrived, as well as military officials from Hadassa, Kamara, and other countries to the south and west. It's now several weeks since Turai fell, and it was several weeks before that the Orcs marched out of the East. Even so, the forces of the West still aren't ready to face them.

"Lack of leadership," says Makri. "Simnia and Samsarina are the largest states but they can't agree about anything. Nioj doesn't get along with anyone, and the League of City States is a shambles. What it needs is someone to take matters in hand."

"It wouldn't be so bad if the Elves had a decent warlord," I say. "But even they seem to be disorganised at the moment. There's no natural War Leader. General Acarius is probably the only decent soldier we have left."

"But he's Juvalian," says Makri, who has apparently become an expert on world politics. "Juval's a small place and Simnia and Samsarina won't follow a Juvalian. There's only one candidate - Lisutaris."

"Well maybe," I say. "But there are a lot of soldiers who don't like having a Sorcerer as commander."

"The Head of the Sorcerers Guild has led the West to war before."

"That was a long time ago, and the Head of the Guild wasn't a woman then. I'm not sure the Simnians and the Samsarinans will follow Lisutaris. Where is she now?"

Makri looks troubled. "Preparing a spell."

"For what?"

"Making her new thazis plants grow faster. I'd better go. I need to make sure she's in a fit state for the meeting."

Makri hurries off, carrying her new armour. I shake my head, and carry on towards Big Bixo's tent. I need to acquaint myself with the odds on offer, and prepare my betting strategy. With limited resources, I have to plan carefully. When the tournament gets going properly, there are thirty-two fighters involved. However, to reach this stage, Makri will have to qualify. Of the thirty-two places, sixteen are available only by invitation. Some of these invitations go out to internationally renowned swordsmen. Others go to local champions, mainly sponsored by the Samsarinan Barons, and a few more to fighters backed by aristocrats from neighbouring countries. The remaining sixteen places are up for grabs, but it takes a good swordsman to win through. I had to qualify myself, and it was tough. Some of the fighters were highly skilled, even if they weren't well known. I'm gripped by a momentary worry that Makri isn't taking it seriously enough. I'm not certain she appreciates the standard of the opposition.

I shake off the worry. Makri is the best fighter I've ever seen, and I've seen plenty. She'll win the competition. I enter Big Bixo's tent with an air of quiet determination. It's time to begin the process of reducing the Samsarinan bookmakers to despair.