The Stricken Field - A Handful of Men Book 3

by Dave Duncan

  “What’s it like to have prescience, Gath?”

  Now that was an impossible one! “It’s like memory, except it works forward, not backward.” It was harder to describe how sometimes he could see more than one future, and he couldn’t possibly explain that Vork’s witless chatter was welcome in the sense that he didn’t quite know what to expect because it was trivial. Important things he knew in advance but not trivial things, just as he remembered important things in the past and forgot unimportant things. How could he possibly put into words the fact that sometimes he had to go places and do things to learn things, even when he knew in advance what he was going to learn, because if he didn’t, he would set up a paradox that even he couldn’t handle? And he wasn’t going to explain how sometimes the really important things—

  Then it happened, right there in the street. Prescience became present and suddenly he was lying under the table, looking at the boots. He staggered and said, “Where am I?”

  “Gath! What’s wrong?”

  “Where am I?” Gath whispered, in case the owner of those boots heard him.

  “You’re in Urgaxox. In the street! What’s wrong?” Gath shuddered, and found his way back to the present, shaking and sweating. Yes, he was in the street, leaning against a door. A group of gnomes stood at the far side, staring at him with their beady black eyes. He hadn’t pulled that trick since the night he saved the imperor! And he remembered what the warlock had said in Gwurkiarg about foresight driving people mad. He wished Raspnex hadn’t said that, because he’d often wondered if he was going mad and it didn’t help much to know that it could happen.

  All right! Concentrate. You’re still going to the True Men. You’re not there yet. Don’t think about the important things that are going to happen. Think about what’s happening now.

  “Come on!” he said grimly, and began walking again. Vork was quieter after that. But soon he wanted to know why the True Men, and how Gath knew about the True Men, and what was so special . . .

  “There it is,” Gath said.

  There were no words on the sign, of course, just three crudely painted male faces, all heavily forested with golden beard and mustache. Any nonjotunn who walked in under a sign like that could expect to come out in pieces. Gath pushed open the door and marched in, wondering whether he would have had the courage to do that if he were by himself. He was showing off to his new friend. New follower, really—that was what Vork was. He said he wanted a buddy, but he really wanted a leader, even if he was a year older. He wanted a better fighter to follow.

  Gath had been in saloons in Krasnegar a couple of times, so the scene was vaguely familiar. Once he’d been sent to fetch Krath, the smith. Twice he’d been tagging along with Dad when Dad was on business. Oh, Dad, Dada

  Even so early in the morning, the big room was crowded and noisy. The air was thick enough to drink. There was not one dark head to be seen, and Gath felt small, suddenly. Along one side were three rows of plank tables, where men were eating fish soup. Along another was a bar. He headed for the bar. Getting close was tricky. One didn’t jostle jotnar, especially drunk jotnar. Eventually he squirmed his way through, though.

  The bartender was massive and shirtless, all fat and hair and tattoos. His face had been taken apart and put back together so many times that it wasn’t quite a face anymore. He turned it sideways and inspected his two new customers out of the corner of one eye.

  “Don’t serve milk,” he said.

  Gath produced the ambassador’s coin and clinked it on the bar. “Two beers. The small beer.” His insides were dancing a gavotte with excitement.

  The bartender turned away, dipped two mugs in a bucket, and slopped them down in front of the customers.

  “The small beer, I said.” Gath knew what happened if he drank that stuff. Nintor didn’t happen, for one thing.

  The bartender’s face twisted as if in pain, but it might have been a smile. He removed the mugs, tipped their contents back in the bucket, and filled them from another bucket. Then he reached for the coin, and Gath let him have it. He grabbed his drink and began edging back out through the knots of shouting men.

  “He cheated you!” Vork squealed behind him. “You ought to get change. Or a meal. Or something.”

  So go wrestle him for it? “Be quiet and follow me!” The center of the room was fairly empty. Gath hurried across to the tables and went round behind the first one, carefully not jostling any of the men on the stools. Some were slurping up the soup—it smelled good—and others had passed out. Some were red-faced and arguing. It was hard to think straight in so much noise. He found the stool he wanted, facing the door.

  Vork flopped down beside him, green eyes big as eggs. “Kinsman!” Gath said, raising his tankard. “Kinsman!” Vork beamed. He drank. He choked.

  It was awful stuff compared to Krasnegar beer, and Gath didn’t even like that. He forced himself. “Drink up,” he commanded, but his eyes were on the door. He could tell when it opened and closed, because of the light, but it was hard to see who was coming in because of all the men standing in the way.

  “Gath?” Vork whispered, worried now. “What happens?”

  “You won’t believe me.”

  “Yes, I will!”

  “No, you won’t! Just do what I say, and—”

  It happened again. He was marching up the plank, holding his hand out and trying to smile and saying “Kinsman!” Seagulls cried overhead and the deck moved under his feet and a hundred blue eyes . . .

  “Gath!”

  Gath had his eyes shut and his fists clenched. “I’m in the True Men, right?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong?”

  Thane Drakkor had a very babyish face, and yet there was something chilling in his brilliantly blue gaze. Gath stepped off the gangplank and felt the thane’s horny hand take his and he braced himself for the crushing grip . . .

  It passed again. Back to the present, and the True Men. Madness! He wiped his forehead, which was streaming wet. “Nothing. Just a big day, you see. I live things too often when . . . Ah!”

  There was no mistaking who had come in now. He gripped Vork’s pudgy arm. ”Now! Down on the floor!” In a moment they were both under the table. If Vork’s eyes had been eggs before, now they were poached eggs. But no one had noticed. No one laughed or came to peek. “Lie down,” Gath whispered. ”If anyone sees us, pretend you’ve passed out. Keep quiet, and listen!”

  Staring at him as if at a madman, Vork sank back on one elbow. Gath stretched out, rolled over on his belly, and laid his head on his arm to keep his face off the floor, which was almost as filthy as the streets.

  Feet went by. A real drunk was snoring under the table not far away.

  A very small voice— “Gath?” Gath said nothing.

  “Gath. I need to go pee!”

  “Pee then!” Who’d notice in here? And why did he have to mention that? Gath said nothing, cursing the beer. He hadn’t drunk that much of it! Vork whimpered.

  Then a pair of very large boots came into view, one of them hooking a stool back so their owner could sit down. They had been very fine boots once, with silver buckles and fancy stitching around the tops. They were wet and muddy now. Gath had never seen them before, but he risked a look at Vork. His face was paler than a fresh snowdrift—York recognized those boots, obviously. A tankard clumped down on the table.

  A pair of dirty feet and bare shins joined the boots and another stool scraped. A second tankard thumped down beside the first.

  “What’s going on?” Ambassador Kragthong demanded in a low voice. ”Why so many in town?”

  “On their way to the moot,” the other man said. “I know that, fool. But why come to Urgaxox?” The other man chuckled. “To see if it’s true.”

  “If what’s true?”

  “The Impire’s pulled the legions out of Guwush. Four of them.”

  “Gods’ ballocks!” the thane said. There was a sound of gulping, and then a tankard thumped again on the table. Beer s
lopped through the planks onto Gath’s shoulder.

  “The XIIIth’s still here in town, and the XXVIIth’s inland, but that’s all. They’re jumpy as fleas, too. Hardly got enough men to watch all those longships.”

  “God of Slaughter!” Kragthong muttered. “It’s an open door! It’s money on trees!”

  “That’s it. And Drakkor’s here.”

  A grunt. “Thought I recognized his outfit. Heard he’d gone south this year?”

  “He came back. You can guess what he’s going to say at the moot!”

  “They’ll follow him now! War!”

  “You bet they will! Chances like this don’t come in a hundred years.”

  There was a powerful silence, then, as the thane digested the news. More beer dripped coldly on Gath. In the end it was the other man who spoke, but much less surely than before.

  “The imps suspect. They’ve got half a cohort on Pier Twelve. If they knew for certain that was Drakkor’s longship, things might—”

  A crash of thunder made both eavesdroppers jerk in alarm. Apparently someone had banged a large fist on the table.

  “If you’re hinting that I would—” The ambassador’s hairy hand had closed on the hilt of his dagger.

  “No! No!” the other man said hastily. “Thinking of selling him yourself?”

  “No, no, no! Of course not!” The other man was keeping his hands under the table, and they were shaking.

  “Then don’t even dream it,” Kragthong growled. “Men have seen their own lungs for less.”

  He released his dagger. Hands disappeared and there was another pause for drinking . . .

  “You heading to the moot, Thane?” the other man asked. ”Course.”

  “He’s been bragging about adding Spithfrith to his collection.”

  “Ha! I’m not scared of that pipsqueak,” the big man growled. “Drakkor gives me one crooked look I may just waive ambassadorial immunity and do the world a favor.” The words seemed oddly unconvincing to Gath, although he could not tell why.

  “They may strip it off you anyway. He’ll have the votes this year, with everyone breathing fire like that.”

  There was a pause. A long pause.

  “You might be right,” Kragthong muttered. “God of Blood! I got some important news for them. Was going to take some guests along.”

  “Your decision,” the other man said cheerfully. “Been nice working for you. Get the chance, be sure and mention my name to your successor.”

  The thane rumbled a few obscenities and made more swallowing noises. ”Anything else to report?” The tankard thumped down again, sounding empty.

  “Rumor has it the legions have gone from Ollion, too. The caliph’s bidding high on shipping.”

  “Fire and blood!” The old man belched thunderously and moved his boots back, preparing to rise. His hands came into view, taking a small bag from a pocket. It clinked as the spy’s hand accepted it.

  “I’ll also give you some free advice,” the ambassador said. ”Get out of town and stay out.”

  “Thanks. Kinda thought o’that myself, though.”

  Thane Kragthong half snorted a laugh. “You know, I’m afraid it might prejudice my standing in Dwanish if I was present at a war moot. Just remembered an important engagement!”

  “Wise,” the other man said softly.

  “You’d best keep reporting to the same address. Gwurkiarg’s not so bad a fleapit after all!”

  The other man laughed dutifully, both rose. Boots and bare feet moved away together.

  Gath sat up, feeling very shaky. He’d known every word in advance, and yet the real thing was terrifying. He knew what he did next—was he truly as crazy as that?

  Vork looked as if he’d died, painfully. He licked his lips and said nothing.

  “You’re not going to Nintor, kinsman,” Gath said hoarsely.

  Vork shook his head. “You knew?” he muttered.

  “I knew.”

  “Gath . . . You don’t think Dad’s scared, do you?” Vork’s world had just been shaken to its roots. “Scared of Drakkor?”

  “Course he’s not scared, he’s a thane. You heard—important business. Come on.”

  No one noticed as they emerged from under the table. Neither suggested finishing the beer. They headed for the door.

  The streets outside were muddy and smelly, but the cool air was a blessing. Gath drew in great gulps of it. His heart was thudding painfully around in his chest and his throat hurt. There was no sign of the ambassador. Pigeons strutted on the street, and a pair of gnome children were stalking them like cats.

  “Back to the ship?” Vork said.

  Gath shook his head. “I said I needed your help, right? Want you to do something for me, a favor.”

  Vork nodded agreement, but he wasn’t going to do it when he heard what it was, of course.

  “Wait an hour?” Gath said confidently. “Then go back. When they ask you where I am, tell them—but not before!”

  “What?” Vork shouted. “Where are you going?”

  “It’s important that the message gets to the thanes,” Gath said. ”Your dad isn’t going. If he doesn’t, then the imperor daren’t, and probably not any of them. Mom can’t, obviously.”

  Vork somehow managed to produce two red patches on his cheeks while the rest of his face stayed chalky white, except for the bruise, which was purple now. ”You can’t!”

  “I’ve got to!” Gath said, wishing he didn’t more than he had ever wished anything. “It’s my duty.” It was hard on Mom—first Kadie, now him—but he thought Dad would have approved, and that was all that mattered now. Dad had given his life for the cause, so he could risk his.

  “You can’t!” Vork said again.

  They both moved aside as a wagon went by, and neither of them even noticed it.

  “Yes, I can. I’m a thane’s son! I can go to the moot!”

  “How? You’ve got no money!”

  “Drakkor’s in town,” Gath said, and already he knew what Drakkor looked like. “You heard. He’s a thane of Gark, and he’s another kinsman, and he’s going to the moot. I’m going to go to his ship and ask him to take me with him.”

  “He won’t!” Vork squealed.

  “He does,” Gath said sadly, wishing it wasn’t so. “He laughs a lot, but he does. He’s leaving very, shortly.”

  The redness spread all over Vork’s baby face. “I’m coming with you!”

  Yes, he was. “It may be dangerous,” Gath warned. “Didn’t sound like your dad’s friends with Drakkor.”

  “He’s my kinsman, too! Besides, only thanes get challenged.”

  “I know that. You’re sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure!”

  Gath grinned. There was no use arguing, because this was how it happened. ”All right. Come on then. Pier Twelve! Let’s go, kinsman!”

  4

  The worst part of war was the waiting. No one should know that better than Emshandar the Fifth, by the grace of the Gods rightful imperor of Pandemia, lord of the four oceans et cetera et cetera, former proconsul, former legate, former tribune. Yet, while waiting to do something was bad enough, as he knew from a score of battles, waiting to do nothing was even worse.

  Shandie had taken a brief stroll along the levee and was now heading back to the ship. Half the town was underwater, and he was familiar enough with the dreary place that he had no desires to investigate it further. It breathed unhappy memories. Just to be back in the Impire, his Impire, was a strangely unwelcome sensation. Even the sight of legionaries brought a lump to his throat. They should be springing to attention and saluting, and instead they ignored him totally. They all bore the hourglass symbol of the XIVth Legion, which was both curious and infuriating. The XIIIth had been stationed at Fort Agraine. Someone had moved the XIIIth into Urgaxox, the IVth and VIIIth out. Somebody was tampering with his army, and if it wasn’t the odious dwarf it must be Cousin Emthoro, who was almost as odious and an idiot besides.

  Shandie h
ad worked with the XIIIth during his days in Guwush. He passed a tribune he thought he knew, but no one would recognize him. Anyone who saw the imperor walking around the docks of Urgaxox dressed as an artisan would assume he was a hallucination.

  Besides, every man was busy keeping watch on the Nordland longships. As well they might! Even civilized jotnar on trading ships were unpredictable and dangerous. The undomesticated variety was about as trustworthy as hungry white bears, and uncommonly evident in town at the moment. Fifty men to a longship . . . the army’s records showed that one longship was at least equal to a maniple, two hundred men, odds of four to one. More than once a single longship crew had bested a whole cohort, ten to one. Those records were locked in a vault in Hub, as secret as fear of death could make them.

  The sight of so many blond heads naturally brought Shandie’s thoughts back to the Nintor Moot. According to the ambassador, as many as fifty thanes might attend, although only a score or so were of much importance, meaning they could outfit more than one longship. The longships drawn up on the beaches might number over a hundred—five thousand men, the equivalent to a legion. No, thank you. Were Shandie ever to take on the men of Nordland, he would want much better odds than even. When the war horns sounded; there were plenty more where those came from, too.

  The Nintor Moot was an experience he would give a hand for. Very rarely in history had foreign visitors been invited to the moot and even more rarely admitted. A couple of his remote predecessors had attended, although not as reigning imperors. For an outsider to be invited was incredible good fortune, and especially when the invitation came from an ambassador, who could provide the diplomatic immunity other thanes could not. Heading along the pier, back to Gurx, Shandie slavered at the thought of going to Nintor.

  Alas, Nintor would be suicide, not just for him, but for any of his companions, also. He had come to that conclusion days ago, and it became more obvious every time he thought about it. Whoever went to the thanes’ moot would be snatched by the Covin. He had not said so yet; no one had, but he was sure they were all just waiting for someone else to break the ice. They all dreaded the reaction such prudence would provoke from Thane Kragthong. Despite his peaceable retirement occupation as Nordland’s ambassador to Dwanish, the big man was still a fearless, bloodthirsty raider at heart. He had enough battle stories to freeze a salamander. The old rogue must be relishing the thought of the thunderbolt he would release when he asked the moot’s indulgence to hear the imperor, or even the female thane of Krasnegar: Outrage! Uproar! He would spurn the danger, and spurn those who considered danger.