Thraxas and the Oracle

Chapter Fourteen

I’ve soldiered all over the world. It’s therefore not that much of a surprise to find that I know the Simian Quartermaster. Not a good surprise, unfortunately. It must have been twenty years ago that I encountered Calbeshi, campaigning down south in Mattesh. As a young man he was a loudmouthed braggart and a hopeless soldier. I don’t expect he’s improved any with the passing of the years.

“What the hell?” he exclaims, as I approach. “Is that Thraxas? Haven’t they hanged you for cowardice yet?”

“Calbeshi, I might have known you’d find an easy job, far away from the fighting. How much beer have you stolen since you’ve been quartermaster?”

“Not as much as you’ve drunk, from the looks of you,” growls Calbeshi. He’s large, paunchy, bald and ugly. Much the same as he was when he was young.

“I thought you’d be dead years ago,” he says. “Probably from an arrow in the back, fleeing from battle.”

“Lucky for you soft Simnians I’m not. I’ve been fighting Orcs while you’ve been tucked up safely in bed.”

“And not making a very good job of it. Shame Turai was destroyed. I hear you didn’t put up much of a fight.”

“I put up more of a fight than you ever will. It’s taken you long enough to get here.”

“I was in no rush. Your army’s led by women.” Calbeshi looks at Droo. “And you’ve got an Elf. Very sweet. Mind you, she’s probably tougher than most Turanians.”

“If you insult my city again I’ll run you through.”

Calbeshi laughs. “Your sword’s been rusted in its scabbard for the last ten years, from the looks of you.”

The Quartermaster’s platoon have been unloading barrels of beer, prior to distributing them to their regiments, but I notice they’ve opened one already, tapping it and laying it on the ground where they’ve been helping themselves. Much as I imagined they would. I glare at Calbeshi. “Are you going to stand there like the useless Simnian dog you are, or are you going to give me a beer?”

The Simnian raises his eyebrows. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I saved your hide down in Mattesh. Without me you’d never have got out of the jungle.”

“Without you we’d never have been trapped there in the first place.” Calbeshi takes a leather tankard from a crate. It’s a familiar soldier’s item - tough and lightweight, impossible to break. He fills it from the open cask and hands it to me.

“Turanian scum,” he says, handing it over.

“Simnian dog,” I reply, raising the tankard. I notice Droo already has a full tankard of her own. I’m not sure how she managed that. Possibly she went and asked for it politely. That would have been another possible approach, I suppose.

Calbeshi draws himself a beer. “So, how are things looking?”

“Not that great. The Orcs are better organised than last time, and our army is smaller.”

“What’s Lisutaris like as War Leader?”

“Good. She’s made us better organised too, which is something. What do the Simnians think of her?”

“Most didn’t like it when they heard they’d picked a woman, but there were some that said she can bring down dragons. That’s a point in her favour. Can she really do that?”

“She can. Just as well, because the Orcs are controlling them better than ever. They got them flying in winter. I saw her bring down two right in front of the walls.”

“Didn’t save your city though, did it?”

“It didn’t. But I wouldn’t give anyone else much chance of leading us back there.”

I look at my tankard, which is empty. “I need a refill.”

“We didn’t bring this beer all the way here just to fill up fat Turanian bellies.”

“Just give me a refill, Calbeshi, and I won’t tell your men about your dishonourable behaviour in Mattesh.”

“Dishonourable behaviour? I was the only man who knew how to fight.”

“For a Simnian, maybe. That’s not saying much. Are you ever going to fill this tankard?”

“You ought to take care. This is proper Simnian beer, not that cheap swill you brew in Turai.”

“Simnian beer? You don’t know what the word means.”

Calbeshi fills up my tankard, and his. We drink. For a lying, cheating Simnian, I suppose he’s not such a bad person.

Droo is perched on the beer wagon with a large flagon in her small hands. “I met this fool when I was down in Mattesh,” I tell her. “The other Simnians fled like rabbits, but he managed to hang around, as far as I recall. Once Gurd and I had saved his life four or five times, he almost learned how to use a sword properly.”

Calbeshi roars with laughter. “Gurd? Now he wasn’t bad, for a northerner. Couldn’t figure out why he was wasting his time hanging round with Turanians. Me and Gurd must have saved Thraxas eight or nine times, him being a fat, useless drunk even when he was young.”

We drink a fourth flagon.

“Who was that other Turanian fool you were with?” asks Calbeshi. “The tall, stupid man with an axe?”

“Poldax. Good man. Survived the war, I remember.”

We get down to swapping war stories. Around us, Calbeshi’s men, more industrious than their boss, unload beer and send it off to the Simnian units which now make up the left flank of the army. Droo sits on the wagon, observing everything, looking quite cheerful in her unfamiliar environment. She has a long knife at her hip. I wonder if she can use it in combat. I can’t quite imagine Droo going into combat. It might happen sooner than she imagines. We’ll be meeting up with the Niojans any time now. After that, we’ll be marching East. We don’t have any intelligence about the whereabouts of the Orcish army, but we’ll encounter them somewhere.

I drink a few more beers and exchange another round of insults with Calbeshi. Having done my bit for Turanian-Simnian relations, I head off back to my wagon. Droo walks at my side, a little unsteadily. She’s quite a small Elf. Doesn’t have the capacity of a mighty imbiber like myself. She stumbles. I reach out to steady her. She manages a few more paces then trips over her own feet and sprawls on the ground. Once horizontal, she shows no inclination to rise.

“Damn it, Droo, get up.”

“It’s comfy here.”

“No doubt. But you have to get up and walk.”

“Why?”

“People are watching. You’re destroying the reputation of my Security Unit.”

Droo finds this amusing, and starts to laugh. I’m perplexed, and unsure how to proceed. I can’t have members of my unit rolling around drunk on duty. That’s a privilege reserved for me. I can hear some sarcastic comments aimed in our direction from a group of Simnian infantry not far away. Something about the Sorcerers Auxiliary regiment being full of overweight buffoons and puny Elves. My mood starts to worsen.

“Dammit Droo, will you - ”

“Captain Thraxas. I need to talk to you in private.”

It’s Captain Hanama. That doesn’t improve my mood.

“Can it wait?”

“No. Commander Lisutaris instructs that I inform you of developments.” Hanama looks down at the intoxicated young Elf at her feet. “I see your security unit is performing as expected.”

I grab Droo by her tunic and haul her upright. She falls down again. I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder. She starts singing an Elvish song, then goes quiet.

“You are aware that drunkenness on duty is against regulations?” says Hanama.

“Just tell me the news, Captain Hanama.”

She casts a disapproving glance at Droo. “It’s confidential.”

“My security unit is completely trustworthy. Anyway, she’s sleeping.”

We set off, heading towards my wagon. Captain Hanama lowers her voice as she passes on her news. “My intelligence unit has uncovered evidence suggesting that the Orcs are attempting to prepare a grand hiding spell, capable of concealing their entire army.”

“That’s impossible.”

“So one would have thought. However Lisutaris is taking it seriously. My operative Megleth brought news that the Elvish Ambassador’s house in Abelasi was burgled last year. Certain books were stolen from the library. These included an ancient magical tome concerned with hiding an island from the enemy.”

“Hiding an island? That’s impossible too.”

“Are you going to continually interrupt by saying everything is impossible? I repeat, Lisutaris is taking this seriously. Intelligence reports also indicate a flow of rare blue quartz crystals from the north to the east over the past year. Someone has been buying them up. These crystals are commonly used in advanced spells of hiding. This, along with certain communications intercepted in the past month, leads me to believe that the Orcish Sorcerers Guild may be attempting to hide their entire army, prior to attack.”

“And our Commander believes this?”

“Yes.”

“Then our Commander isn’t thinking clearly. No one can hide an entire army. It’s too big and there’s too many people. It can’t be done. If it could be it would have been done by now.”

Captain Hanama purses her lips. “I believe you were ejected from sorcerers' college after your rudimentary attempts to learn magic came to nothing?”

“You could put it like that.”

“Then you’ll forgive me for valuing Lisutaris’s opinion over yours. Our Commander is concerned that Deeziz might be able to work such a spell and wanted me to let you know. That I have now done.”

By this time we’re close to Lisutaris’s command tent. As we approach, we can hear raised voices. Moments later we walk right into the middle of an almighty row. Bishop-General Ritari and Legate Apiroi are engaged in a heated exchange with our War Leader. The Samsarinan General Hemistos and the Elvish Lord Kalith-ar-Yil are standing nearby, looking uncomfortable, as are various other senior officers, including General Mexes and Admiral Arith. Makri is standing close to Lisutaris, glowering at the Niojans.

Legate Apiroi pushes himself forward. “I insist you tell us the truth about these rumours, Commander Lisutaris. Is there an Orcish sorcerer in our midst?”

“No,” declares Lisutaris. “And people shouldn’t listen to wild rumours.”

“Wild rumours?” cries the Legate. “More than rumours, I’d say. A sorcerer has been killed, a storm comes out of nowhere, and who knows what else? Are we expected to march under these circumstances? I won’t allow the Niojan army to be betrayed before we’ve even encountered the Orcs.”

At this, Lisutaris looks so furious I’m half-expecting her to blast the Legate with a spell for his insubordination. She restrains herself, probably because Bishop-General Ritari is at his side. Ritari is head of the Niojan contingent, and can’t be blasted with a spell. Not unless we want the army to fall apart.

Lisutaris looks Legate Apiroi in the eye. “I am War Leader,” she says. “And I don’t answer to you.”

“But I answer to King Lamachus of Nioj.”

I take a step forward. I feel a small tugging at my sleeve.

“Don’t start abusing everyone,” whispers Droo. “It won’t help.”

I suppose she’s right. I take a step back, though I don’t like the way this is shaping up. In the interests of cohesion and co-operation, Lisutaris has purposely given out senior posts to her allies, rather than fellow Turanians, but if things go wrong, it could leave her isolated. She’s looking isolated at the moment. Captain Julius, her aide-de-camp, isn’t the sort of forceful personality who can fend off irate generals.

“King Lamachus supports me as War Leader.”

“Provisionally supports you,” says Legate Apiroi. “Depending on my official reports.”

This is an outrageous piece of effrontery, even by the Legate’s standards. General Hemistos and Lord Kalith-ar-Yil both look towards Lisutaris, wondering how she’s going to react. The Legate’s intransigence is putting her in a difficult position. She can’t let herself be seen to be back down, but neither can she do anything which might give the Niojans an excuse to withdraw. I step forward. Droo tugs at my sleeve again. “Don’t worry,” I mutter. “I’ll be tactful.”

“Legate Apiroi,” I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. “There are no Orcish sorcerers within fifty miles of us. But if you’re terrified by a few wild rumours, maybe you should scuttle back to Nioj, while real warriors like myself and Commander Lisutaris go and chase the Orcs back east. No one will miss you.”

Droo laughs. Makri almost smiles. For the rest, there’s a frozen silence, soon broken by the outraged protests of Legate Apiroi, Bishop-General Ritari, and the various junior Niojan officers behind them. The perimeter guards edge forward, wondering if they’re going to have to prevent a fight breaking out among the ranks of their commanders. That would be unusual, though not unheard of. The scene quickly degenerates, with the Niojan high-command yelling at me and me yelling at them, while General Hemistos and the Elvish Lord seek some clarification from Lisutaris about what’s been going on. It’s an ugly scene, but you might say it’s better than having Lisutaris face a barrage of questions and accusations to which she has no easy answer.

Lisutaris raises her hand and yells for silence. The shouting dies down.

“Bishop-General,” she says, ignoring the Legate. “Is the Cavalry ready to advance?”

“Yes, but - ”

“Then return to them and prepare to advance.” Lisutaris turns to General Hemistos. “The infantry?”

“All units ready, Commander.”

“Good. Make ready to advance, Lord Kalith, return to your Elvish units and prepare to move forward. Everyone return to your units. It’s time to move. Senior officers will convene for our normal meeting in the evening.”

The War Leader glares at them all, daring any of them to defy her. Hemistos nods briefly then hurries off, pleased to be away from the argument. Lord Kalith-ar-Yil hesitates for a few seconds, before he too departs. The Niojans are still reluctant. Bishop-General Ritari stares at Lisutaris, clearly dissatisfied, before finally turning to leave, taking the Legate with him. I watch them go.

“Legate Apiroi certainly thinks well of himself. I’d say Bishop-General Ritari should watch his back.”

“Captain Thraxas,” says Lisutaris. “Why are you carrying Ensign Sendroo?”

That’s a difficult question to answer.

“Has she been drinking?”

Again that’s not a question I’m keen to answer.

“Captain Thraxas, in my tent, now. Captain Hanama, you also. Captain Julius, send for Sorcerer Irith Victorious. I want him here immediately.”

Captain Julius hurries off. I place Ensign Sendroo on the ground then follow warily behind Lisutaris into the command tent. I have the vague feeling that she’s not very pleased with me.