Thraxas and the Ice Dragon - By Martin Scott Page 0,47

her sword towards her opponents throat. I'm on the point of cheering her victory when something odd happens. Makri is visibly jolted, as if by some unseen force. Her blade sails past Muxilos's throat. Makri is now out of position and Muxilos deals her a heavy blow on the shoulder.

"Half point to Muxilos!" cries the Marshal. The crowd roar.

"What's going on?" I yell. "They're cheating! Someone's using magic!"

Lisutaris has risen to her feet, knowing as well as I do that something untoward just happened. She scans the crowd, then looks towards the Tournament Sorcerer on his tower. The fight re-commences. Makri, for no visible reason, loses her footing. She's forced to defend desperately, down on one knee, while Muxilos presses his advantage. She's on the point of regaining her stance when the Marshal stops the fight again.

"Blow to the ribs!" he cries. "Half point to Muxilos!"

The crowd erupt. So do I. "There was no blow to the ribs! Cheats! They've bribed the Marshal!"

Makri is now really up against it. She has two half-points against her, a Marshal who's apparently biased, and a mysterious attack of sorcery to deal with.

"Do something!" I yell at Lisutaris. She doesn't reply. Her lips are compressed as she scans the crowd. Suddenly there's another great roar. Makri suffers another jolt, freezes for a fraction of a second, and Muxilos's sword comes down on her shoulder again. The Marshal waves his flag, signalling a third-half point. One more and Makri will lose the fight. I yell at Lisutaris again. "Do something!"

"Stop shouting," says Lisutaris. "You're not helping." She turns her left hand palm upwards, clenches her fist, then murmurs something I can't make out. I turn back to the fight, hoping that whatever Lisutaris did, it will end the attacks on Makri. Muxilos, now very confident, moves in quickly. Makri's sword and shield seem to be hanging too low. It's difficult to see exactly what happens next, but Makri, with some combination of sword and leg, sweeps his feet from under him. He crashes to the ground and his helmet flies off. Makri stands over him, her foot pinning down his sword-arm and her own sword at his throat. There's a huge cheer from the crowd. The Marshal looks surprised. It seems to take him forever to make a decision, but really he has no choice.

"Lethal stroke," he calls. "Victory to Makri."

Immediately the fight ends I sprint towards the Marshal. "What was that about?" I scream. "None of these hits made contact! And there was sorcery! What sort of crooked operation are you running here?"

The Marshal turns on his heel and walks off without replying. I'm about to pursue him when Lisutaris grabs my collar.

"We have to go."

"Go? We have to sort this out."

"We don't have time. We're due at the meeting. I'll have words with the Tournament Sorcerer later. Makri, are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Makri winces as she takes off her helmet. She rubs her injured shoulder. "But the sorcery made it difficult. Didn't everyone see it?"

"It was subtly done," says Lisutaris. "And it came from a powerful source. It took me a while to deflect it."

As always, Makri is wearing a spell-protection necklace, made from Red Elvish Cloth. I wear one exactly the same. They protect us from the worst excesses of sorcery, which probably helped Makri resist the attack as well as she did. General Hemistos is waiting for us at the edge of the field.

"Fantastic performance Makri!" he enthuses. "Touch and go for a while, but you did it." The General falls into step with her. "Going to the Ambassadors' meeting? Splendid."

Kublinos appears, and sidles his way up to Lisutaris. I find myself walking on my own, while the General and Kublinos do their best to fascinate Makri and Lisutaris. I don't mind. I'm not in the mood for casual conversation. I'm troubled by what just happened. Now that's she's qualified, Makri has a lot of fights ahead of her. She can't afford to lose a single one. The main tournament is a straight knockout competition. The winner goes through to the next round, the loser goes home.

We pass the Bathing Houses on our way to the Royal Samsarinan Assembly Hall. By this time I'm in the midst of a long, loose straggle of Barons, Sorcerers, Generals and Ambassadors, all making their way to the meeting. It's not officially a War Council, as representatives from all nations aren't here yet, but it might as well be. Important matters of strategy have