Thraxas and the Ice Dragon - By Martin Scott Page 0,22

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