'Get back, you scum!' I yell, picking up a chair and brandishing it fiercely. 'The first man to move gets—'
A shuddering assault on my left flank prevents me from completing the sentence. I wince, then hit my attacker with the chair.
'Ah!' yells Gurd, with relish. 'Like the old days!' Gurd is brawling with such enthusiasm that's he's forgotten it's his furniture that's being reduced to matchwood. He disappears under three mercenaries. There's a moment's heaving, then, like a volcano suddenly erupting, the three northerners find themselves tossed into the air as Gurd wrenches himself free and weighs in again with his fists.
After this, things get worse. I find myself next to a mercenary from the south who's decided to take our side and we use our combined body weight to good effect until three northerners drive a wedge between us with the remains of a table and I'm forced back against the wall, punching furiously in every direction. Makri, at something of a disadvantage in the close struggle due to her lack of weight, nonetheless proves her worth, leaping, twisting and turning to keep herself out of trouble while lashing out with the sort of blows she learned during her years as a gladiator. Undefeated champion between the ages of thirteen and nineteen, as she's fond of saying. Unfortunately she finds herself trapped in a corner, and when I see her hand flicker towards her boot, where she generally keeps a knife, I know that things are about to go too far. It's against the unwritten rules to use weapons in a bar-room brawl such as this, but Makri has little regard for rules when it comes to fighting. She'll quite certainly kill her opponent before conceding defeat. I'm considering using my sleep spell to settle things, though this does go against the grain. A good bar-room brawl shouldn't be settled by magic. The decision is taken out of my hands as shrill whistles sound outside and the Civil Guards start pouring into the room.
The fight gradually subsides as the uniformed men fill up the bar, separating the combatants and waving their batons.
Captain Rallee steps forward. He briefly survey the wreckage. All over the room bodies lie groaning on the floor and there's hardly a person standing who's not bruised and bleeding.
'What's this all about?' demands the Captain, looking towards Gurd. Gurd shrugs. Though he's normally on good terms with the Captain, he's not going to start complaining to the Civil Guards about a fight in his tavern, not when the fight could be classified as a small dispute among friends. The Captain turns his gaze towards me. We also used to be on good terms, though it's waned in recent years.
'Did you start this?'
'Me? I was hardly involved at all.'
Captain Rallee looks uncertain. He doesn't like trouble on his beat but the Avenging Axe isn't an establishment that generally causes him trouble. He's not sure whether to let it go or start rounding us all up.
Suddenly Viriggax steps forward, grinning effusively.
A small dispute among friends, Captain,' he says, loudly. 'Nothing more.'
'What sort of small dispute?'
'We were discussing flowers.'
As Viriggax says this, his companions burst into raucous laughter, and Viriggax himself howls with delight. Northern mercenaries are not entirely lacking a sense of the ridiculous. Makri is looking on suspiciously from the side of the room. Viriggax strides over to her, throws one extremely brawny arm around her shoulders and turns towards the Captain.
'This young woman and I were simply discussing the merits of various floral arrangements when things got out of hand.'
The enormous northerner, towering over Makri, beams down at her. Obviously, having been kicked across the room by her, he now considers her a worthy companion.
Captain Rallee glares at Makri.
'I might have known you'd be involved. If you want to stay in the city, keep out of trouble.'
He turns to Gurd.
And if you want to keep your licence, no more fights. We've got enough to do round here without you making it worse.'
Captain Rallee signals to his men and they depart as abruptly as they arrived. It's true that the Captain does have a lot to do. With the huge increase in crime in the past few years, the Guards are stretched, particularly in a bad area like Twelve Seas. As the city is now full of mercenaries, things are worse than ever.
Having had a good fight, Viriggax is now as happy as a drunken mercenary. Which, of course, he is. He pulls out a fat purse from his tunic.
'Drinks for everyone!' he yells. 'Now we've shaken the dust from our feet, we'll show those Orcish dogs a thing or two if they dare to attack this city!'
Chapter Eleven
The Text day I wake with the sort of hangover that makes a man realise the foolishness of all alcoholic beverages. I stumble from my bedroom to my office and grope for my supply of lesada leaves, which are carefully wrapped in silk in the bottom drawer of my desk. I place one of the small leaves in my mouth, wash it down with water and sit motionless, waiting for it to do its work.
The lesada plant grows only on the Elvish Isles. The Elves use it as a healing herb. Since I discovered its properties for curing hangovers I've had reason to bless its existence. It's possibly the finest thing ever to come from the Elvish Isles. Certainly more useful than their epic poetry.
My head is still pounding and it takes me a little while to realise there's a feeble sort of scratching noise at my door. I make my way gingerly over and pull it open. It all seems like a lot of effort and makes me nauseous, a feeling which isn't improved by the sight of Makri trying to crawl into my room, groaning and whimpering pathetically as she inches her way blindly forward. I shake my head sadly. She's not a great drinker. Last night's celebrations were very extensive, and she shouldn't have tried to keep up. By now the lesada leaf
I swallowed is doing its work, allowing me to regard Makri with some pity.
'It's strange really,' I say, looking down at the back of her head as she crawls past. 'Your peculiar mixture of Orcish, Elvish and Human blood seems to let you do most things well. Fine swordswoman, clever student, excellent with languages. And you're not bad with your axe either, though I've seen better. But for some reason it just doesn't seem to let you drink very much.'
'Shut up and give me a lesada leaf, you cusux,' croaks Makri.
'Of course, you're far too skinny, which probably explains some of it. Even so, with all your other attributes it's strange you're such a lightweight. Probably it would be best if you stuck to the weaker brews the women and children drink at public celebrations.'
Makri promises to kill me if I don't stop talking and give her a leaf. Fearing that she's about to vomit on my floor - something about which she would have no qualms -1 make with the leaf. Makri swallows it whole, then lies on the floor groaning and trembling. All in all, it's a shameful performance.
As the leaf does its work, her colour returns to normal.
'I thought I was going to die,' she says. 'What happened last night?'
'Last night? Not a great deal. A drinking competition between myself and some of the more optimistic members of Viriggax's troop. I put them soundly in their place, naturally.'
'Did I participate?'
I laugh, rather mockingly.
'You? In a drinking contest? That's hardly likely. You passed out the fourth time the klee went round. If Gurd hadn't hauled you up to your room you'd still be lying there like a sack of yams.'
Makri scowls, but rises to her feet gracefully. The lesada leaf works quickly on her athletic frame, and after splashing water from my sink over her face and shoulders she declares herself fit for action.