The Stricken Field - A Handful of Men Book 3

by Dave Duncan

  “When Rap spoke with the Gods, They told him he would have to lose one of the children.”

  Shandie eased himself to a more comfortable position on the load and adjusted his fur cover. He frowned. “You didn’t tell me that!”

  She almost asked why she should have, when he kept secrets from her. Discretion prevailed, and she restrained her temper. “Then I forgot. That’s all, really, typical divine vagueness. They wouldn’t say which child, or how. They implied that all this mess was Rap’s fault.”

  “It’s not his fault, but he caused it without meaning to.”

  “He doesn’t know how.”

  “He does now.”

  “Well, you didn’t tell me that!” She had discovered that Shandie was a very taciturn man. He asked a lot of questions and volunteered very few answers. He had not yet told her about the magic scrolls. Raspnex had, and she was grateful to the warlock for that—it was wonderful to know that Rap had been in good health as recently as a few days ago—but the imperor had not seen fit to trust her with that information. In a week, she had not penetrated his shell, and he still refused to say exactly where Rap had gone. She could understand the reasoning, but it rankled.

  He grunted. “Sorry. The warlock explained to us, that night in Hub. There used to be an unlimited supply of magic. Rap cut it off somehow. Apparently he thought he was doing a good deed, but he had made it impossible for the wardens to counter Zinixo’s Covin. It had something to do with Faerie. I don’t know the details—do you?”

  She shook her head. “It hurts him to talk about sorcery.” For a few minutes neither spoke. The wagon lurched and jangled over rocks and hummocks. This was the least uncomfortable of the wagons, laden mostly with the party’s tents and a mountain of leather. Dwarves had curious ideas about loot. Several wagons carried gold and silver and were unbearably knobby and noisy to ride in. Others were full of rope, canvas, alum, and fuller’s earth. Given the same chances, jotnar would have taken spices and dyes, works of art and fine fabrics. Dwarves spurned those as impractical conceits.

  “But the God’s message is interesting,” the imperor said. “Did They say that Rap must lose a child, or you yourself must, or both of you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They can be very cruel, Inos, but They rarely add to Their punishments by foretelling them. Perhaps They meant only one child? They may have intended Their words as a comfort for you.”

  “Perhaps They meant he would lose one and I another? As I recall, They implied that one child was a minimum. Frankly, I think we are all doomed!”

  “Don’t ever give up hope!” Shandie said sternly. “If They specified one child, then They had reason to do so, and They gave the message to Rap, not to you. If They foresaw these events happening and being important, then the circumstances must be ordained and therefore not your fault. I think you have cause for hope there, Inos. Trust in the Good!”

  There was just enough difference in their ages for him to seem young to her. Pomposity and youth were an unpleasant blend. He was imperor by right of birth and he could claim to be on a diplomatic mission at the moment, but in truth he was a penniless refugee and more or less a prisoner of war. He had blundered into an ambush and almost died because of it; he had even lost a letter Rap had written to her, which she resented unreasonably. Again she suppressed a snippy reply.

  “I expect you’re right. And I am not the only one with loved ones in danger. I think you were doing some brooding yourself.”

  He smiled weakly. “Perhaps a little. I have had several hundred predecessors on the Opal Throne, and not one of them was ever overthrown by a dwarf!” He had evaded the question.

  “Who knows? Your subjects believe you still reign. Who can say what hoaxes may have been carried out in the past?”

  “Perhaps. But I am the first imperor ever captured by goblins!”

  There was no denying that humiliation. “I meant to ask you,” Inos said, making a digression more tactical than tactful. “You had a companion who escaped?”

  “A man by the name of Ylo, a superb horseman. I think he escaped.”

  “So where will he have gone?” Shandie grimaced.

  “Well?” she demanded, shutting the trap.

  “I think he will have gone back to tell my wife.” Shandie would lecture for hours about his dreams for the Impire, about justice and equitable taxation and the rule of law, but in the last week he had not once mentioned his wife.

  “Tell me about her.”

  He sighed. “Eshiala? She is the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  “You love her deeply?” “Beyond words.” “What’s she like?”

  He shrugged. “Tall,. . . Not as tall as you, but she’s pure imp, of course—no offense meant. Dark coloring, naturally. Face, figure . . . How can I describe perfection?”

  “Well, apart from that?” Inos persisted. “What does she enjoy?”

  “Enjoy?”

  “Yes. Does she like music? Dancing? Riding?”

  “I . . . I’m not . . . She’s a marvelous dancer now. I mean, she was always naturally graceful but . . . ” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Three years—but we’ve been apart a lot of that time, you understand. We were only together a few weeks after the wedding and . . . And I was terribly busy after I got back to Hub last summer.”

  “Too busy, you mean?” she inquired, wielding her best harpoon smile, spoiling the effect with a sudden grunt as the wagon lurched into an especially bad pothole.

  “Much too busy—my grandfather was in his dotage and had almost let the Impire fall apart. Ylo helped me stick it back together again.”

  Friend Shandie was very good at manipulating conversation. Perhaps it was a military thing—feints, diversions, attacks deflected. Inos thought of several pertinent comments and discarded all of them. Instead she asked, “How old is she, the impress?”

  “Er, twenty.”

  “It must be very hard for her.” Married at seventeen to a man who disappeared after a few weeks and left her with child? Married to a man so busy that he didn’t have time to entertain her when he got back? Inos had a vague memory that the prince imperial had married a commoner. To be promoted to the highest rank of the aristocracy at seventeen would be a shattering experience for a girl who had any sensitivity at all. Inos also suspected that the imperor did not know his wife nearly as well as he thought he did, or should.

  “Tell me about this Ylo man.”

  “My signifer. A soldier, an aristocrat. He was quite a hero in the army.”

  “Young? Old?” “Young.”

  After a long pause, the imperor added, “A bit of a rogue. Good-looking.”

  “So that’s why you were brooding!”

  The imperial eyes flashed angrily. “What do you mean by that?”

  “He thinks the goblins killed you?”

  “It would be a reasonable assumption.”

  Inos sighed and then smiled sympathetically at the troubled young man beside her. “We were both brooding and we both have much to brood about.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid we do. I trust my wife absolutely, you understand, but if she believes she is a widow, then she will have to consider our child’s welfare.” For a while the imperor stared blankly out at the rolling moorland, doubtless imagining his wife married to the handsome signifer.

  “She is physically safe, though,” Inos said. “Or I assume she is. That’s one comfort.”

  “True. Whereas your lambs are not.”

  “And few women are as fickle as most men fear. She will be very unusual if she forgets her love for you and throws herself into another man’s arms right away. Two years is a normal mourning period—I don’t mean legally, I mean it takes that long to recover from a bereavement. You will just have to hurry back to her as soon as you can.”

  Shandie did not reply to that. He scratched his stubble thoughtfully, as if planning a speech, and
then changed the subject.

  “Inos, even here we are in some danger, you and I and Gath. When we get to Gwurkiarg the risks will become much worse. I’ve been talking with the warlock, and we agree that there is no need for you to come all the way to Dwanish with us.”

  “I understood that we were prisoners of war?”

  “In theory. But Raspnex is still warlock of the north. Dwarves don’t argue with him. Tomorrow we should arrive at Throgg. I visited it once. It’s a mean little hamlet, one of those sorry border places that gets destroyed whenever it grows big enough to be worth fighting over. The buildings are a bedraggled collection and the people are a hard lot. However, this war isn’t going to come its way. It’s relatively secure this time. We’ll leave you there, and you can hide out in safety, if not comfort. By summer the way should be clear for you to make a dash back to the coast and catch a ship. Maybe the summer after, even.”

  “The prospect does not exactly fill me with rapture.” Shandie chuckled cheerfully. “But any port in a storm, right? Take up weaving or bird watching! You must think of your kingdom, and war is no place for a woman.” If he noted her reaction, he gave no sign of it. “You have children to consider,” he added. “I think the snow’s passing, don’t you?”

  Nothing ever roused Inos’s temper faster than a suspicion that she was being patronized. “Mmm. Spell out the Dwanishian danger for me,” she said sweetly.

  He shrugged. “Just that the warlock and I plan to appear before the Directorate to spread the news about the new protocol. The meeting will be private, but word of our presence in Gwurkiarg may get around.”

  She donned an expression of candied innocence. “Dwanish was Zinixo’s home ground, right? He went back there after Rap destroyed his sorcery, and he spent almost twenty years there. He built his power base there. Surely all the sorcerers in Dwanish were coerced into the Covin long ago?” Am I understanding correctly? Can a mere woman grasp such convoluted concepts?

  Shandie shrugged. “Raspnex does not think so. Dwarves are such a suspicious breed that they’re not easily trapped, although he doesn’t put it in quite those terms, of course.”

  “Let me guess,” she said, still being all virginal and dulcet. ”You and the warlock go before the Directorate and make your little speeches, appealing for help. But Zinixo would not have left his home base unguarded, so he has a spy or two on the Directorate itself. The spy sends an occult message to the Covin, and in a flash the hall is stiff with sorcerers. Am I getting close?”

  The imperor gave her a calculating look. His beard was salted with snowflakes, which were flying thicker than ever. “You’ve been talking with the warlock, too?”

  “Not about this.”

  “WeII, I’m impressed! Queens learn to think strategically, I suppose. Yes, you’re exactly right! Zinixo must know by now what we’re up to, and he has hundreds of smart people utterly devoted to his cause. The Directorate will certainly be under surveillance, at the least.”

  His attitude made Inos’ fingernails itch, but admittedly he was making sense. Although it was many years since she had seen Zinixo, the thought of him could still pucker her skin. If half of what she had been told was true, then the vindictive dwarf would dearly love to get his hands on Rap’s wife and son. She would prefer to deny him the satisfaction, if possible. A year of concealment in the odious-sounding Throgg might be preferable, and she did have a responsibility to her realm. She shuddered to think what might be happening back there now, with no one to keep peace between the factions.

  “If I had only myself to consider,” she said reluctantly, “I’d probably come along just for the fun of it. I’m sure Raspnex has something up his sleeve, probably a sharp knife. But I must think of Gath. Perhaps he and I should stay behind and study decorum and social graces at the knees of the nobility of Throgg.”

  Shandie cleared his throat and avoided her eye. “Actually, we were thinking just of you, Inos. I realize that he is very young, and I promised Rap that I would be bound by your wishes where Gath was concerned—but that was when we thought he was safe in Krasnegar. Now he’s caught in the mill like the rest of us, so I don’t think my promise is valid anymore.”

  Inos took a very deep breath and the feathery snowflakes tickled her nose. ”Oh? You were planning to leave me and take my son?”

  “Well, yes. The warlock seems to think he might be useful, although I’m not sure exactly how.”

  God of Murder!

  “Emshandar?” Inos said in an excessively gentle tone. Shandie looked around at her in surprise. His eyes widened at what he saw.

  “Don’t you remember,” she continued softly, “when you were a skinny little boy, one night you went to the Rotunda? You saw Warlock Zinixo try to kill the man who is now my husband.”

  “Rap bursting into flames? I had nightmares for months.”

  “And then what happened? Do you remember, Emshandar?”

  “I . . . You ran to him and . . . and hugged him.”

  “Yes, I did,” Inos said, smiling. “Fire and all. My aunt always told me I was impulsive. And you think I will desert my son?” she roared.

  The dwarf driver turned around to see what the noise was all about. The imperor flinched. “Be sensible, Inos!”

  “No, you be sensible! That is the most insulting suggestion I have ever heard! Gath is only a child. If Warlock Raspnex thinks he can use him, then he comes and asks me, is that clear? And I decide! And you can take your thriving metropolis of Throgg and shove it up your Imperial toga! Is that absolutely clear, your Majesty?”

  “There is no need to be offensive.”

  “You started it! There is no need for you to patronize me!”

  A small smile twisted Shandie’s stubble. “Why not? You were trying to mother me!”

  “I . . . Well, that’s different!” She returned his grin. “No woman ever believes any man understands marriage. I suppose no man ever believes any woman understands warfare. Truce?”

  “Truce!”

  “How about a treaty of cooperation?”

  “What does that mean?” he asked warily.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you could communicate with my husband?”

  Shandie looked out over the moor for a moment, hiding his expression. When he turned back to her, his face was unreadable again. “Lord Umpily has been captured. Right at the beginning, Raspnex warned us that the scrolls might not be secure once the Covin learned about them. Our messages may be intercepted, or even traced back to their source.”

  “And you thought I was a flighty, feather-headed woman? You thought that once I knew about them, I would jeopardize security by pestering Rap with innumerable love letters?”

  “Not that bad. Something on those lines, I suppose”

  “Well, I didn’t,” she said miserably. “I can’t torture him by telling him what I’ve done. I sent him three words on the warlock’s scroll: “I love you!’ That’s all. He’ll know my handwriting. He’ll know I’ve been warned.” He’ll think everything is all right. He’ll be deceived. Lying by omission is still lying.”

  “I’m sorry, Inos.” Shandie sounded as if he meant it.

  “Apology accepted.” She sighed. “Now, how can my son possibly help the warlock when we get to Dwanish?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think Raspnex does, either, but he’s got some sort of vague idea, or hunch, maybe.”

  “Gath has prescience, but it’s very weak. The warlock himself must be much more powerful.”

  “Yes.” Still, Shandie was giving nothing away.

  Inos studied him for a moment. “The only way I can think of that Gath might be useful is as bait.”

  The imperor sighed. “That had occurred to me, too.”

  2

  “Lifted to saddle!” Kadie said. “Jumped up in back! Put arms around. Dug spurs in horse. Galloped toward sunset. Kissed warmly.”

  “Kissed horse?” Blood Beak demanded with open disbelief.

  “Oh, of course not! He kiss
ed Princess Taol’dor!”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s romantic for princes—”

  “Must not speak impish!”

  Kadie snorted. “Wanted to kiss her,” she said sulkily.

  “Kiss in bed, when lodge fire banked. Is obscene other times.”

  Really! Feeling her cheeks burning, she nudged her pony to a canter. Goblins had absolutely no idea of romance! Blood Beak did not seem to know the difference between a kiss and, er, more intimate behavior.

  Kadie was astride a pert little gray, now named Allena the Mare. Her companion was running alongside. He had been doing so all day, burdened with a bow and a quiver and a sword, and yet he matched her new pace with no apparent strain. Behind them, their twenty-four-man guard would keep up just as easily.

  “Tell more!” Blood Beak demanded.

  It was understandable that he would want her to do most of the talking; she could not imagine how he had breath to speak at all. She must have told him fifty stories in the last few days, all the great classics. Yet somehow romances lost something when translated into goblin, and she thought it would be far more appropriate for her to be teaching him impish than for her to be talking goblin all the time. His insistence upon that was ominous and best not thought about.

  The sun was shining warmly and a blustery wind smelled of spring. It also made the farmhouses and haystacks burn well. The eastern sky was muddy with smoke, the landscape in all directions heavily populated with columns of goblins. To spare her mount she was allowed to use the lanes and roads, but the horde itself traveled in a straight line, across the country. The vanguard ran down all the fugitives, even those on horses. The rearguard set fire to anything that would burn. Every few hours the army would reach another town and sack it, raping and killing all who remained there—like trained acrobats, goblins built human pyramids against the walls and were usually over the top before the defenders had notched their first arrow.