Thraxas and the Elvish Isles

Chapter Nineteen

On the first day of the festival Elves from all over Avula stream towards the tournament field. Singers and lute players serenade the crowds. Isuas is due to fight in the afternoon and Makri confesses to feeling tense.

“If she lets me down I’ll kill her.”

She still won’t say whether or not we should bet on her pupil.

“Wait till I see what the other fighters are like.”

After packing a spare wooden sword in a bag for Isuas, she complains about not being able to bring a real blade, but it’s calanith to take weapons to the festival.

“Who knows what might happen at the tournament? If some of these fifteen-year-olds get out of hand we’ll regret not having swords with us.”

Makri is still wearing the floppy pointed hat she got from Isuas. Only Elvish children wear them, but Makri likes it. She’s painted her toenails gold and is wearing a short green tunic borrowed from Camith. Through her nose she has a new gold ring with a small jewel in it, borrowed from Camith’s wife. All in all, it’s a notable get-up and even though the Elves are getting used to her it doesn’t prevent them from staring as we pass.

Some stands have been set up for the convenience of important guests such as Prince Dees-Akan, but the great mass of the audience just perches on the grass round the clearing, which, dipping slightly towards the centre, acts as a natural amphitheatre. Makri is politely accosted by one of the Elves who showed such an interest in her at the funeral. I slip away and look for Voluth the shield-maker, who has promised to introduce me to the local bookmaker. Whilst searching I meet the young poet Droo, who beams at me in a friendly manner and tells me I’m just the man she’s been looking for.

“I want to do you a favour, large Human,” she says.

I frown. I thought she’d got over the “large Human” bit.

“Okay, I could do with a favour. What is it?”

“Last night at the clearing I heard you talking about making a bet.”

I start to get more interested. I had feared that the favour might turn out to be a poem in my honour. Droo informs me that while it is a surprise to her that betting goes on at the festival, she thinks she might be able to give me a hint.

“What do you mean, a hint?”

“On a winner.”

“You mean a tip?”

“That’s right. A tip.” Droo beams. “Do you gamble much in Turai?”

“All the time.”

“And you get drunk?”

“Every minute I’m not gambling.”

Droo looks wistful.

“I wish I could visit a Human city. It sounds like fun. You know my father won’t even let me smoke thazis? It’s not fair.”

“You were saying something about a tip?”

“That’s right. You should bet on Shuthan-ir-Hemas to win the juggling.”

I make a face. That’s not much of a tip.

“What about her dwa addiction?”

“That’s the point,” says Droo, brightly. “She hasn’t had any dwa for three days. I know, because she’s been staying at Lithias’s house since her parents kicked her out of the family tree. She says she’s determined to make a new start and has renounced dwa and she’s been practising her juggling like mad, and really, last night I saw her give a sensational performance when no one else was around. And I heard the armourers say how no one will be betting on her because everyone thinks she’ll be useless. So won’t that mean you get good odds?” Droo looks doubtful. “Unless I’ve got that wrong. I don’t really understand gambling.”

“No, you’ve got it exactly right. The odds on her will be high. You’re sure she’s going to put on a good performance?”

Droo is sure. I’m still not certain, because it takes a lot longer than three days to kick a dwa habit. Still, if she’s determined to do well, it might be worth a wager. I thank Droo, and hurry off to find Voluth. I’ve got a bag of gurans plus some Elvish currency. Makri has entrusted me to place bets for her.

Voluth introduces me to a bookmaker who’s situated himself in the hollow of a large tree just far enough from the clearing to avoid giving offence to Lord Kalith and the Council of Elders. The bookmaker—an elderly Elf, and a very wise-looking one at that—is offering twenty to one on Shuthan, with few takers. It’s a bit of a risk, but at these odds I take it.

With so many of Avula’s lower-class Elves in attendance, there is more than one stall selling beer, so I pick up several flagons and hunt for Makri. I find her on a slight hillock, a good position to view the event. Her Elvish admirer is not that pleased to find me barging in, but he’s not making much progress with Makri anyway. She’s too preoccupied with Isuas’s fate.

I inform Makri that I’ve bet on Shuthan-ir-Hemas.

“Bit of a risk, isn’t it?”

“Good tip from Droo the poet.”

Makri is less confident, but too busy thinking about the tournament to give me a hard time. Personally, I’m starting to feel more alive. Things in the case of Elith-ir-Methet may be disastrous, but any time I get round to gambling I find my problems just fading away.

Singers and tumblers are strolling through the crowd as the jugglers take the field. As this competition serves merely to introduce the festival, and is not considered to be on the same artistic plane as the later dramatic events, it gets underway with very little ceremony. Jugglers, mainly young, march into the centre of the arena and do their act while the audience cheers on their favourites. I’m impressed with the performances. I’ve seen a lot of this sort of thing in Turai, but the Elves seem to have taken the art further. Usath, the juggler whom we saw practising earlier, has the crowd roaring as she keeps seven balls looping through the air, an incredible performance in my opinion, though Makri professes herself to be uninterested.

“Wake me up when something cultural happens,” she says.

Despite her protestations Makri is all attention when Shuthan-ir-Hemas takes the field. We have a hefty bet on this young Elf, although the opinion of the crowd is still that Shuthan will certainly trip over her own feet and embarrass the whole island.

Shuthan does exactly the opposite. She comes on in her bright yellow costume with a determined air, hopping and tumbling for all she’s worth and, despite a shaky start and a little trouble with her early rhythm, she goes on to give a performance that thrills the audience. Great cheers go up when she equals Usath’s tally of seven balls in the air at once and when she adds an eighth and keeps it going for a full minute the crowd are up on their feet shouting their approval.

No one is shouting louder than me. I rush to pick up my winnings. An excellent start to the festival. And it is at this moment, while I am re-energised by a substantial win, that it suddenly becomes clear to me what has been going on with regard to Elith-ir-Methet and the shocking murder of the Tree Priest. Two Elves, complaining about some early gambling losses, are saying to each other that Shuthan’s unexpectedly good juggling has cost them the cloaks off their backs. I get to thinking about cloaks and it strikes me that firstly I may well be able to save Elith’s life, and secondly I am still number one chariot when it comes to investigating.

I hurry back to Makri with our winnings. She’s about to meet up with Isuas and accompany her to the field of combat. I wish her good luck.

“I’d still like to know if Isuas is worth a bet.”

Makri motions for me to go along with her. When we near the centre of the field where the combatants are gathering, Makri halts and points out one of the fighters to a nearby Elf.

“That one. How does he rate?”

“One of the best,” the Elf informs her. “The under-fifteens champion of Corinthal.”

Makri takes the wooden sword from her bag, strides up to the Corinthalian youth and without warning makes a cut at him. The Corinthalian, taken by surprise, still manages to parry the blow. Makri backs away, leaving the young Elf looking puzzled.

“Bet your cloak on Isuas,” says Makri.

“What?”

“If he’s one of the favourites, then bet everything we have on Isuas.”

I can’t see how Makri can possibly have made such a judgement after only one stroke, but I trust her when it comes to fighting. I retrace my steps to the bookmaker’s, stopping on the way to tell Osath the cook that, in the opinion of her esteemed trainer, Isuas stands not only an excellent chance of winning her first bout but will do well in the rest of the tournament. The cook and his companions are sceptical.

“Well, that’s what Makri says, and when it comes to single combat she’s an excellent judge.”

By this time the entrants for the tournament have been announced. I’m too far away from the field to see Lord Kalith’s face when he learns for the first time that his youngest daughter has made a late entry into the lists, but I can imagine his surprise. I can foresee some heated domestic arguments in the near future between him and Lady Yestar, but what is done is done, and family honour will not allow him to withdraw his daughter once the announcement has been made.

I arrive back at the clearing with a slip of paper in my pocket acknowledging that I have a large wager on Isuas at the excellent odds of five hundred to one to win the tournament outright, with another bet on her winning her first fight. Normally, for an event like this I’d have a large-scale plan of campaign worked out and I’d be betting on several of the contestants to cover myself, but I haven’t really had time to organise such a strategy, nor the opportunity to study every entrant’s form. I’ll just have to cope with any emergencies as we go along.

There are sixty-four entrants, eight of them female. It’s a straight knockout competition, so to win the tournament a fighter will have to defeat six opponents. The first bout is already under way. I watch with interest as the two young contestants engage rather tentatively with their wooden swords. The fighters are meant to hold back slightly and not deliver blows that might severely damage their opponent. An experienced Elf judges each fight. The first fighter to inflict what would be lethal damage, were a real weapon being used, is declared the winner. The spectacle takes place right in front of Lord Kalith and Lady Yestar, and I can tell from Kalith’s face that he was not pleased to learn of his daughter’s entry. Around me the crowd are still talking of little else, and the common opinion is that their ruler has lost his senses in inflicting such an ordeal on his notoriously weak daughter.

The first bout comes to an end when the fighter from Ven delivers a neat cut to the throat of the Avulan and the judge waves a small red flag indicating that the affair is over. The winner departs to generous applause. For all their fondness for poetry and trees, Elves are keen swordsmen, and appreciate any display of martial skills.

Makri and Isuas are sitting on the grass at the front. I use my body weight to force my way through till I’m close enough to lend assistance if necessary. Makri, lone bearer of Orcish blood in a huge crowd of Elves, might possibly find herself in some trouble if anything goes badly wrong. Isuas looks nervous but doesn’t have long to wait. Her opponent is a fellow Avulan, a tall lad of fourteen who advances with a grin on his face that implies that he knows he has easy passage into the next round. He has a wooden sword in one hand and a wooden dagger in the other. From the way he holds them I can tell that he’s thinking that while he had better not seriously damage the daughter of Lord Kalith, he isn’t going to have to try too hard to defeat her. The crowd crane their necks in anticipation, but as it turns out there is little to see. Isuas’s opponent makes a lazy attack and Isuas quickly and confidently parries the blow and runs her sword up his arm to his neck. The lad looks surprised, the judge holds up his red flag, and the fight is over. Isuas trots back to Makri an easy winner with the crowd wondering if Isuas just got lucky or whether her opponent let her win.

“Daughter of Lord Kalith or not,” says the Elf next to me, “she won’t get it so easy in the next round.”

I collect up my winnings, place another bet on Isuas for the next round, then cut through the crowd in the direction of Lady Yestar. I have some trouble reaching her and am obliged to elbow a few attendants out of the way. Yestar smiles as I arrive.

“An excellent victory. Who would have thought Makri could do so much in such a short time?”

Beside us Kalith is being congratulated by the Turanian Ambassador. He acknowledges the compliment but he sounds like an Elf Lord who’s suffered a severe shock. I lower my voice to a whisper.

“Lady Yestar, I need a favour. It concerns Elith-ir-Methet. And whoever is in charge of Lord Kalith’s wardrobe. . . .”

Lady Yestar leans forward, and listens to what I have to say.

The sixty-four entrants are whittled down to thirty-two. I see quite a lot of good fighters, and several excellent ones. Each island has sent their junior champions and the combat is of a very high standard. Best by far is Firees-ar-Key, the son of Yulis-ar-Key, finest warrior on Avula. Firees is large for his age and wouldn’t look out of place on the battlefield. His first opponent is swept away in seconds and the crowd bays in appreciation. Firees is the firm favourite and is being offered at odds of just two to one, by no means a generous price in a competition of this nature.

The second round gets under way. Firees skilfully dispatches one of the favourites from Ven and another bright hope from Avula is defeated in a long struggle by a girl from Corinthal. The sun shines down on the arena and the watching Elves burst into applause each time they see a skilful manoeuvre. Makri sits quietly with Isuas, offering a few words of encouragement. Soon it’s her turn again and there is some collective intaking of breath from the crowd when it is seen that her next opponent is Vardis, a youth of striking size from Ven who carries a wooden sword that appears to have been made from the branch of a particularly large tree. He towers over Isuas and looks like an Elf who does not intend to show any mercy to his opponent, daughter of a Lord or not.

He leaps at Isuas and beats her back with a series of heavy blows. Isuas gives ground, retreating step after step till it seems like she must soon run out of room. However, as Vardis thrusts forward with a stroke that would gut an ox, Isuas calmly takes the sword on the edge of her dagger and uses Vardis’s momentum to turn him round, an advanced technique of which Makri is a master. Vardis finds himself looking in the wrong direction and Isuas wastes no time in stamping viciously on the back of his leg, which brings him down on one knee. She smashes her forearm into the back of his neck, sending him slumping to the ground, and then runs her sword over his back in a motion that, if performed with a real weapon, would let daylight into his vital organs.

There is pandemonium in the crowd. The Avulans cheer with delight and the Venians complain about the brutal manner in which Isuas has won the fight. Nothing she did was against the rules, however, and the judge declares her the winner. Lord Kalith’s mouth is hanging open in shock. Beside him Lady Yestar has a broad smile, and applauds along with the other dignitaries.

As the second round continues I consider what else needs to be done, and go in search of Gorith-ar-Del. I find him close to the bookmaker’s.

“Making a bet?” I enquire politely.

“No.”

“You should. I’ve picked up a bundle. I’m starting to enjoy life on Avula. And I’m soon going to enjoy it more. After the tournament, I’m going to unmask the killer of Gulas-ar-Thetos.”

“The killer is already known,” says Gorith.

“Wrong. The killer is not known. But if you want to be one of the first to know, stick close to me.”

Gorith tells me sharply that if I have any information regarding crime on Avula I should inform Lord Kalith immediately.

“It can wait till after the tournament. Makri’s student is putting up a fine performance, don’t you think?”

I return to the wise old Elf in charge of the book to relieve him of a little more cash. Osath is there, and he’s mighty pleased with me. Despite Isuas’s good showing so far, few other Elves are backing her and we still manage to get twenty to one on the third round. No one else can really believe that Isuas can possibly make any further progress.

Isuas, however, is making an excellent attempt. With Makri keeping her calm between bouts, she dispatches her next two opponents in a skilful if somewhat brutal manner. The trainer of a Corinthalian fighter actually complains in public to Lord Kalith after Isuas leaves him rolling round in agony with a series of wicked blows to the shins and ankles, followed by a sword pommel full in the face. The fighter from Corinthal has to be carried from the field and there are some fairly aghast expressions on the faces of the onlookers, the Corinthalian supporters howling their disapproval. Makri is unperturbed. Anything not actually illegal is fine in her eyes. The Avulans don’t seem to mind either. They may be astonished at the sight of gentle young Isuas dealing out destruction on all sides, but they’re with her all the way.

Isuas progresses without too much difficulty through her next fight and is now in the final. I am reliably informed by those close to me that there has never been such excitement here before. It’s unprecedented for a rank outsider like Isuas to make such a showing. As the final bout between Isuas and Firees-ar-Key approaches, the crowd is in a state of extreme animation. The only person still sitting is Lord Kalith, who remains motionless, unable to believe that the Orc woman has trained his daughter to fight like this in just over a week.

Firees himself has shown excellent form. In the semi-final he faced a youth from Ven who was favourite with many of the crowd and a fighter of unusual skill. The adroitness that Firees showed in overcoming him leaves the majority of Elves still certain that he must be the winner. The bookmaker has Firees as favourite at eight to eleven but is now only offering five to four on Isuas. I’ve already picked up plenty on Kalith’s daughter and I back her again in the final, but I also bet against her to cover myself, which is the prudent thing to do in the circumstances.

Right now I’m about as happy as an Elf in a tree. In fact I’m happier than most of the Elves in the trees. Successful gambling and a solution to the mystery, all in one day. I shouldn’t have succumbed to depression, really, but I don’t blame myself. If you put a man in a strange land, deprive him of beer and give his client a really hard time, you can’t expect him to remain cheerful in all circumstances.

The fighters walk out. The crowd bellows in anticipation. Lady Yestar has long ago abandoned all aristocratic reserve and is up on her feet cheering. The Council of Elders show every sign of equally enjoying the event. I’d say that Kalith’s daughter’s performance can only raise his status with his subjects. Even our Turanian Prince, not well disposed towards Makri, cheers as Isuas, thin, puny but determined, raises her sword against the formidable Firees-ar-Key.

Both fighters make a cautious start. Having got this far, neither wishes to make a foolish mistake early on. Makri, who up till now has remained impassively on the sidelines, finally gives in to the tension and rises to her feet to yell encouragement to her pupil. Beside her is a man who, from the family resemblance, I take to be Yulis-ar-Key himself, the mighty warrior.

The fight quickly heats up, with Firees having slightly the best of it. He gradually forces Isuas back, always searching for an opening. Isuas defends stoutly, but at no time does she have the opportunity to attack. After several minutes of fighting I can see that if it goes on like this, Isuas will tire long before her stronger opponent.

Misfortune strikes. Isuas drops her dagger when she mistimes a parry and suddenly finds herself at a disadvantage. Firees senses victory and moves in with renewed vigour. He forces Isuas back to the edge of the crowd, but just as it seems that he must soon overwhelm her, something seems to go off inside the younger Elf and she abruptly mounts one of the most furious attacks ever seen on the tournament field. She flies at Firees with a fury that whips the crowd into a frenzy, a frenzy that becomes even greater when she lands a stroke on Firees’s sword hilt, which causes him to drop his guard for a fraction of a second. In one fluid movement Isuas kicks him in the ribs, sending him flying backwards, and she takes the opportunity to quickly retrieve her dagger from the grass. The fighters again hurl themselves at each other. It seems to me that the fight has in fact got rather out of hand, though neither the judge nor the audience seems to mind.

The fighters tire, but neither of them loses spirit. No longer moving so freely, they stand facing each other, thrusting and parrying. Isuas looks close to exhaustion. Under a furious barrage of blows her legs start to give way. Firees rains blow after blow down on her till Isuas is on her knees. Finally Firees brings his sword down in a tremendous cut that shatters Isuas’s sword. He tries to follow up, but Isuas twists her body to avoid the strike, leaps to her feet and sprints towards the stands. Firees, momentarily puzzled at her flight, sets off in pursuit.

The crowd, thinking that Isuas is fleeing the field, cheer and clap in anticipation of Firees’s victory, but Isuas is not leaving. Rather she reaches the stands, grabs an elderly member of the Council of Elders by his tunic and hauls him off his chair. She then picks up the chair, whirls round and lands a crushing blow on the head of the advancing Firees-ar-Key. The chair splinters into tiny pieces. Firees is stunned. His arms drop to his sides.

“Die, cusux!” roars Isuas, then kicks him in the groin, stamps on his knee, and manages to chop him in the throat and claw his eyes as he falls unconscious to the ground.

For a second or two the only noise to be head is Makri whooping in triumph from the sidelines. Then chaos erupts in the crowd. Isuas has set new standards in foul play. She’s destroyed her opponent by the use of practically every illegal tactic in the book, and she’s roundly condemned for her tactics. On the other hand, no one can deny that she showed a lot of spirit.

Firees’s father is outraged. He rushes on to the field and in his haste to reach his son he bats Isuas out of the way. Makri cries in protest and races after him. I’m already on my way, fearing the worst, but the next thing anyone knows Makri and Yulis are facing up to each other, wooden swords in hands, and trading blows. Fortunately the Elves in attendance bring it to a swift halt, rushing on to the field to drag them apart.

I keep close to Makri, who throws off the Elves who try to hold her, and pushes her way through to Isuas. When she reaches the young Elf she picks her up and hugs her.

“Well done,” she says.

Isuas looks happier than I’ve ever seen her. Neither she nor Makri seems at all concerned that she will be disqualified, and Firees proclaimed the winner.

“Who cares?” says Makri. “He’s unconscious and Isuas is still on her feet.”

Makri turns to me.

“You remember the Elf who attacked us in the clearing? It was him, the father, Yulis-ar-Key.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. As soon as we traded blows again I recognised his style.”

Lady Yestar appears, smiling broadly. She sweeps Isuas up in her arms and congratulates her.

“I’ll see you both at the reception at the Palace,” she says to us, before taking Isuas off to have her cuts and bruises treated by a healer.

The whole day has been so exciting that it only now strikes me that Isuas’s disqualification has cost me a great deal of money.

“A shame,” agrees Makri. “But it had to be done. Did we win anything?”

“Sure. I bet on her for the previous five fights. We won plenty. I’m back on top form. When we get to the Tree Palace, I’m going to unmask a murderer.”

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