A Handful of Men: The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  Ever since the Almighty had stopped the standing ovation with a single gesture, the Rotunda had been eerily silent. Everyone but Umpily had remained locked in a trance. Once in a while an involuntary sigh or murmur would rustle through the great hall, but that was all. He felt like a blind man watching a gladiatorial contest with his head in a bag. At first most of the Covin had looked south, then northeast. Then their faces had swung around to the southeast, but every eye had stared blankly at things he could not see.

  To begin with, he had stared where the others were staring, but eventually his neck grew agonizingly stiff and he just crouched down low, as if somehow that position might hide him from so many sorcerers. Once in a while one of the congregation would cry out, and sometimes one of the older ones would crumple as if overcome by too much effort; most of them revived in due course and joined in the struggle again. He had wondered often whether he might try to slip out unnoticed, but he had never found the courage to try.

  Besides, in his humble fashion he was one of the players, so he may as well stay and see the ending. He might be saved if Shandie won. Otherwise he would die forgotten, but that was any soldier’s duty.

  In the center, the Almighty sat motionless, glaring southeastward. Apart from that one change of direction, he had not moved for an hour. The vast bulk of the Opal Throne could make even an imperor seem small; Zinixo looked like a child in it.

  Suddenly he came alive. He jumped down and raised his arms overhead, waving his fists in triumph. The audience recovered at the same instant — it surged to its feet and roared.

  They were back into standing ovation again.

  * * *

  That one probably did not last more than fifteen minutes. Of course Umpily knew then who had won and who had lost, but he banged his bruised hands together and screamed with the worst of them. Why? he wondered. Why bother to hide any longer? Why not just cock a snoot at the little horror and die with honor?

  Again the Almighty gestured for silence. Again it came instantly. His votaries resumed their seats, grinning and panting with excitement.

  Three seats away, the young faun turned to Umpily, smirking and raising an eyebrow. Asking a question?

  “Oh, yes! Marvelous!” Umpily said, forcing his mouth into a rictus of smile.

  The rustic frowned, puzzled. Then threateningly. His gray eyes widened in astonishment. Power had nothing to do with age or employment — quite likely the kid was capable of analyzing the fat imp’s enchantment and seeing that it was not a loyalty spell, that the man inside it was not a sorcerer…

  Then everyone’s attention flicked back to the center. Zinixo had risen, and now he spoke for the first time all night.

  “Bring them in! Welcome your new associates!” His voice was the deepest Umpily had ever heard.

  The floor of the Rotunda shimmered and was suddenly crowded. Towering blond jotnar, hulking trolls, dozens of tiny gnomes, elegant elves. In sorcerous wars the losers were not necessarily destroyed. Sometimes they joined the ranks of the victors, and this must be Shandie’s army.

  He had done very well, Umpily decided. There were hundreds of them. But in the end the odds had been impossible — Zinixo had gathered four or five times as many. So now the rebels were kneeling to him. Probably every sorcerer in all Pandemia was here, loyal to the Almighty. The war was over. Never in the history of the world had anything like this happened before.

  Who in the Name of Evil were those pointy-eared people?

  Umpily shot a nervous sideways glance at the young faun, but he was entranced by the spectacle unfolding on the floor and had apparently forgotten the mysterious mundane. How long until he remembered? The three dwarvish women were muttering excitedly together.

  A rustle of movement… The defeated sorcerers had risen to their feet. They bowed once to the throne and were dismissed. They vanished from the floor. The seats between Umpily and the faun groaned in protest as two enormous half-naked jotnar appeared on them; a pair of silken-garbed elves flickered in on his left. All over the Rotunda, places that had been empty were now filled.

  And down on the floor their departure had revealed —

  Warlock Raspnex and an elf, who must surely be Warlock Lith’rian. Those two were kneeling. A group of others stood nearby — Shandie! Impress Eshiala and the child. And King Rap, with a blond woman who must be his wife — Umpily could recall seeing her at court many years ago, back in Ythbane’s time. And a gangly jotunn youth in sailor breeches. Was that the boy Shandie had seen in the pool? Umpily did not know and probably never would.

  A slight disturbance amid the seats at the far side and Witch Grunth appeared on the floor alongside the other two wardens. She knelt, also.

  Ex-wardens.

  Zinixo had resumed his seat and was leering joyfully at this ragtag collection of captives. An eager hush settled over the Rotunda.

  “We are merciful toward those who were misguided.” The usurper rubbed his massive hands. “But We draw the line at wardens. You three We shall deal with at Our leisure! We wish to be entertained. You will devise the program yourselves. You will propose for Our consideration the longest, most painful deaths you can imagine!”

  Lith’rian bent over in obeisance. “We shall be honored,” he announced in an elf’s sweet tones, “to provide Your Godhood with any amusement we can.”

  Raspnex and Grunth proclaimed their agreement together.

  Umpily shivered. They meant it! As votaries they would cooperate fully in their own executions if ordered to do so.

  “Stand aside now!” Zinixo commanded with a wave. “Let us see what other fish we have caught in our net.”

  The wardens scrambled to their feet and moved away. They chose a location beyond the Gold Throne, where Umpily could not see them very well. But that did not matter, because the dwarf had turned his smirk on the mundanes.

  “Welcome back to Hub, Emshandar!”

  “May the Gods rot your guts!”

  Zinixo was too triumphant to be displeased. He probably welcomed Shandie’s show of resistance. “And your wife’s beauty was not exaggerated! I shall enjoy making her acquaintance.”

  Shandie opened his mouth again and was apparently struck dumb.

  “Your understudies have begun to find their tasks onerous,” the dwarf continued teasingly. “But we can dispense with understudies from now on, can’t we? Come and pay homage, Emshandar!”

  Umpily could not suppress a whimper when the rightful imperor hurried forward and mounted the two steps to his own throne. As Shandie knelt to the usurper occupying it, Umpily closed his eyes.

  Utter disaster!

  * * *

  “And dear Rap!” the hateful, sepulchral voice said.

  Umpily opened his eyes. Shandie had finished his public apologies and protestations of future obedience. He had returned to the floor and was gazing up at the Almighty with starry adoration.

  Zinixo had lost interest in the imperor. His manner implied that he had left the best till last.

  “Will you plead with Us, King Rap? Plead for mercy? Plead for a quick death, relatively speaking?”

  “It would be a waste of breath!” The faun did not seem to speak loudly, but his voice filled the hall. He was not dressed like a king. His garments were commonplace workman’s garb, bedraggled and muddy; his hair was a tangle. He had his feet apart and his arms folded; he held his chin high. He looked like a king.

  His wife, in a white blouse and a green skirt, was a queen born. Her haughty gaze dismissed that upstart on the throne as unworthy of serious consideration. Consciously or not, the youth at her other side had adopted the same defiant, folded-arm stance as his father.

  Again Zinixo rubbed his hands. “Will you plead then for your wife or the people of Krasnegar?”

  “Never.”

  Umpily shivered. How long could a prisoner defy a captor as ruthless as Zinixo? What price would the king be willing to pay for his pride?

  “Indeed? Then let Us see how your son moves you.
Come here, brat.”

  The jotunn boy began to walk forward. He shot a look of horror back at his father, but he did not stop walking until he stood before the Opal Throne. There he spread his feet, folded his arms again, and raised his head to stare up at the dwarf.

  The Almighty leaned forward. “We are going to kill you. Slowly.”

  There was a moment’s pause. Then the boy said, “With the throne. Go ahead, toad.” And he spat on the steps.

  The Rotunda buzzed with anger.

  Umpily was speechless. He was speechless mostly because his mouth was as dry as a mummy and his tongue had shriveled to ashes. There was an excellent reason why spitting was a sign of contempt — only a very brave man could spit in the face of danger.

  “You have foresight!” the dwarf exclaimed.

  “A little,” the kid admitted. “Prescience.” The husky adolescent voice was almost as steady as his father’s had been.

  “And what do you foresee?”

  “About five minutes left now. After that — I don’t know.”

  Zinixo chortled. “Well, you will find out! This morning you predicted that your father would squash Us like a bug. Now you are going to plead with him to beg Us for your life.”

  “Never!” But the word lacked the conviction his father had given it.

  The boy’s legs collapsed under him. He sprawled to the floor and rolled over on his back. After a moment, he turned his head to look to his parents. The king and queen of Krasnegar each had an arm around the other and were watching the drama in silence.

  The Opal Throne floated off its dais, carrying the Almighty. When it was directly over the young jotunn, it stopped. A dozen trolls could not have lifted that great monolith, but it hung rock steady in midair, less than an arm’s length above its spread-eagled victim.

  It began to settle downward. Slowly, very slowly. Inexorably. Gradually the boy disappeared from Umpily’s view.

  A minute.

  Umpily could hear himself whimpering. He knew his tears would surely betray him, but he was past caring.

  Two minutes.

  The throne must be almost on the boy’s chest — it was hard to believe that there was still room for a living body in that gap. Only one hand and a wrist showed now. The boy himself had said five minutes. He had overestimated.

  “Well, dear Rap?” The dwarf’s soft question seemed as loud as trumpets in that dread silence. “You still have your powers, such as they are. Will you stop his heart to spare him an agonizing death?”

  The king of Krasnegar said nothing.

  “You had better start pleading soon!” The dwarf seemed annoyed, as if his enjoyment was less than he had hoped.

  “I shall never ask favor of you!”

  “Inosolan, then? Will you not try to persuade your son to plead with his father to plead with Us?”

  The queen said nothing, but she glanced sideways at her husband as if puzzled by his silence.

  “Oh, well!” Zinixo growled. “Juice time.”

  The throne sagged down another inch. A faint gasp came from under it…

  “Stop!” a shrill voice screamed. All eyes swung around in astonishment. “Monsters! Do you not see that you serve the Evil?”

  To his unspeakable horror, Umpily realized that he was on his feet, waving his arms, and that was himself he could hear yelling hysterically. “To crush an innocent boy? You are all guilty! Atrocity! Throw off his foul compulsion! He is evil, evil, evil…”

  Something lifted him bodily, sucked him through the air, and dropped him stunningly on the floor in front of the throne. He sprawled helplessly, winded, dazed. Zinixo peered down at him in furious disbelief.

  “Who… ? Well, well, well! It is the blubber man himself! Who removed your loyalty spell, worm?”

  Umpily raised his face from the stone. His nose hurt like the torments of the cursed and was probably bleeding. Under the throne, the boy was trying to twist his head around to see what was happening.

  “Well?” the dwarf thundered.

  “Olybino,” Umpily mumbled. Oh, his nose! And his knees! And what crazy impulse of honor had ever moved him to try to be a hero? He struggled to rise and only managed to get his elbows under him.

  “Olybino!” Zinixo screeched. “You have been spying on Us all these last three weeks? Foul slug! We shall devise an especially lingering… Or were you volunteering to take the brat’s place? You have left it too late! There is no room for one of your size!”

  He smiled, showing his pebbly dwarvish teeth all around the Rotunda. His massed minions roared with obedient laughter at their leader’s wit.

  A quiet whisper came from under the throne: “Thanks for trying, sir.”

  Umpily gulped. “Couldn’t let you steal all the heroism, lad. You’re doing great!” Funny — he felt better. He really did. Clean again. He glanced around and saw Shandie staring at him with a very perplexed expression. He knew what it was like to be under a votary spell…

  The laughter had faded away.

  “We shall leave the mundane snoop for later,” the dwarf announced. “It would be a shame to waste so much tallow — turn him into a candle for the coronation, perhaps? But now… King Rap? Your last chance to save the brat!”

  Umpily looked in horror at the faun. Everyone looked to the faun.

  In silence, he sank to his knees. His wife joined him as calmly as if they were in a chapel service.

  From under the deadly throne a muffled voice shouted, “Dad, no! Mom! Don’t!”

  “We do not plead with the madman, Gath,” the king said. He raised clasped hands. “I direct my prayers to the Gods! Unworthy as I am, and acknowledging my past sins against Them, I call on Them now. God of Rescues, save us, I beg You!”

  Zinixo seemed disconcerted. He frowned. “There is no God of Rescues!”

  “There is now!” said a new voice.

  The sun dimmed. Three thousand voices screamed in pain, six thousand hands covered eyes to shut out the wondrous glare.

  A real God stood within the Rotunda.

  God at War:

  There saw she direst strife; the supreme God

  At war with all the frailty of grief,

  Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge,

  Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all despair.

  Keats, Hyperion II, 1 92

  THIRTEEN

  The game again

  1

  Zinixo had shriveled into a knot in the depths of the Opal Throne, leaving nothing of himself visible except boots and shins and forearms. The king and queen of Krasnegar were already on their knees; the little princess imperial buried her face in her mother’s skirt. Everyone else tried to kneel to the God.

  The seating had been built for imps. Even they had trouble finding room for kneeling. So did djinns and merfolk. Jotnar and trolls just made room, and sounds of splintering timber exploded through the Rotunda. Then there was only the child weeping and Zinixo’s shrill screaming.

  “Let there be silence!” the God said, and there was silence. The voice of a God was not especially loud, yet it rolled like thunder.

  Sounding muffled, Gath said, “KADIE? Is that you, Kadie?”

  “No longer,” the God said. “Come out from under that throne, silly!”

  Gath squirmed and wriggled until he got his arms free and could gain leverage on the base of the throne. Then he hauled himself out, began to rise… He choked, averting his face away from the incandescent glory. He settled on his knees beside Lord Umpily and bowed his head in reverence.

  Slowly, all over the Rotunda, hands were rising to cover eyes as people peered over seats and bent shoulders. The God was a figure of roiling white flame, too bright to look upon, although They cast no shadow.

  The Opal Throne crashed to the paving with a bang that shook the Rotunda and could be felt through the bones. Zinixo bounced. Ears rang.

  “Rap?” the God said, and Their voice, although still tuneful and feminine, was subtly different. “Why do you weep?”
<
br />   “For the loss of…” His voice broke. “Loss of my daughter!”

  “But she is not lost. Rather do We weep for you, who are mortal and transient! This glory We know should by rights have been yours. Do you understand now?”

  “I understand. Forgive my lack of faith, God.”

  “You see now why you had to be warned?”

  “I do. There would not have been time, else.”

  “Gods are made of love, but there is more than one kind of love! And Inosolan? Do you also accept?”

  There was a long pause, then the queen said, “The Gods’ will be done.”

  There was another pause before the God continued, still in the second voice. “It will suffice. We are the God of Rescues, for in our mortal form We prayed for rescue and We did rescue, each to each. It is traditional for a new God to announce Their presence by a public miracle, so that Their name may be added to the lists. All now present bear witness! We hereby decree, as token of Our Godhead, that this chamber and this place shall be for all time proof against the use of sorcery.”

  “Great!” Gath said. He was closest of all — it seemed amazing that the white radiance did not scorch him. “What happens with the merfolk?”

  “That, too, of course!” the God said snappily, in Their first voice. “We’d thought of that, stupid.”

  “Sorry,” Gath muttered.

  “Now, Sorcerers, We shall see what good you can find in the evil of this day.”

  With those dread words, the God vanished.

  * * *

  The first to recover was the dwarf.

  Zinixo leaped from the throne and sprinted toward the eastern exit. Dwarves were not built for sprinting, and several male jotnar were sitting next to the passageway he had chosen. They sprang over the edge and plunged into the canyon as he passed beneath them. Whether any of them actually landed on him is unknown, but he was caught before he reached the door. He screamed once.