A Handful of Men: The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

“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 XIIIth 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 had 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.

  Shandie climbed the plank—and dodged. A huge airborne mass hurtled toward him, with two brawny blond giants clinging underneath, slithering across the deck, sweating and cursing. How much they were guiding it and how much it was towing them was not clear. They crashed into the side and their dangerous burden swung free, out over the pier and the wagon waiting. They rushed off, bare feet drumming on the planks. The cargo was being unloaded. Jotnar worked as fiercely as they fought, hurling the ironware into nets, running instead of walking, hauling ropes, all in a frenzy as if every second counted. The dwarvish officers watched in saturnine silence, doing nothing to help.

  The hatch covers had been piled near the bow. Inos and the warlock were using them as a bench, sitting side by side in the morning sun. They were an ill-matched pair. The dwarf was garbed in black mineworker clothes, shabby and well-worn. Only his broad nose and gray-agate eyes showed between his bristly beard and the brim of his hat. He had his boots planted on the deck and his troll-size hands on his knees, and he gave the impression he was going to stay there until the mountains washed to the sea.

  The seat was too low to be comfortable for Inos. Her knees stuck up and she was leaning back on her arms, but she was laughing at something and sunlight lit gold highlights on her honey-blond hair. No longer young yet still a striking woman, neither imp nor jotunn. Such mixtures were usually awkward misfits, but in Inos a man could see possibilities the Gods had overlooked when They made the standard races. A very remarkable woman, Queen Inosolan! She was accustomed to getting her own way and did not see why she must change her habits just because she no longer ruled all she surveyed. She could flash from guile to fury in seconds; stab to the heart of a problem like a rapier; juggle humor and flattery with logic and a line of invective that would embarrass a centurion. Her arms and legs protruded from sailors’ breeches and jerkin. Such garb for a lady was utterly bizarre, and yet she was obviously a woman to be reckoned with. Shandie had learned at last not to underestimate her.

  Her smile of welcome flashed emerald and ivory. He knelt down in front of her and sat back on his heels. That made his eyes about level with the dwarf’s.

  “Any news?” he demanded.

  Raspnex scratched at his beard. He had been staying out of sight for the past few days, holed up in his cabin as if sulking. “Nope. Too slaggy much power around, is all. This place is giving me the shivers.”

  “It’s natural they would watch for us here. It’s the front door to Dwanish.”

  “You didn’t see Gath anywhere, did you?” Inos asked, sitting up.

  Shandie shook his head.

  She frowned. “Apparently he went off with Vork. I hope they’re not getting into mischief.”

  “He’s fourteen!” Raspnex snorted. “At fourteen mischief is an obligation.”

  “Vork’s fifteen.”

  “Worse.”

  “How about sixteen?” Shandie asked.

  “Sixteen is better. By then at least you know what sort of mischief they’re after.”

  Inos and Shandie exchanged winks. The dwarf’s dry humor was rare as raw diamonds, but equally worth collecting.

  With oaths, cracking of whip, and much squeaking from axles, the loaded wagon moved away. The shirtless giants drooped for a moment in sweaty silence and the dwarves tallied their records. Then another, empty, wagon rolled up and the whole noisy business started again.

  Shandie got down to specifics. “How do you two feel about the Nintor Moot? Inos?”

  Green eyes studied him carefully for a moment. “Crazy. If Rap’s been taken, he’ll have told them he suggested it to you. Even if he hasn’t, it’s just too obvious.”

  “I agree,” the warlock growled.

  “So do I,” Shandie admitted, surprised that there was to be no argument.

  Inos said, “The trick we pulled on the Directorate won’t work twice.”

  Pause. “No, it wouldn’t,” Raspnex said.

  “What would happen,” Sha
ndie asked, “if you did try the same trick again and they caught you? I mean, if you projected yourself into the future and they were waiting for you there?—Then, I mean? However you put it.”

  “Sizzle!” the little man said. “I’d come back fried. Anyone stands up at the moot and starts to talk about sorcery, he’s going to be blasted by thunderbolts. None of us three’d set foot on the island before being nabbed. Even if we hadn’t sapped the Directorate, the Nintor Moot’s just too high grade for my nephew not to keep an eye on it. Now he knows where we are, roughly, and what we’re up to—now he’ll have pits dug. I say we forget the thanes and head south.”

  Inos sighed, and smiled. “I wanted to say so sooner, but I thought you’d call me a nervous old maid.”

  “Me, too!” Shandie chuckled. “I’m not suicidal yet! Besides… how many sorcerers are there in Nordland anyway?”

  “Damn few, I think,” Raspnex growled. “Jarga doesn’t know of any.”

  “Thane Kalkor was a sorcerer,” Inos said. “The one Rap killed.”

  The dwarf shrugged his thick shoulders. “Well, he was an exception, then. Jotnar have no truck with sorcery as a rule.”

  “So the game isn’t worth the candle,” Shandie said. “We’ll forget about Nintor. I just hate the thought of breaking the news to old Kragthong. He’s relishing the thought of setting the moot by its ears. He’s going to be very disappointed, to say the least.”

  “Bloodthirsty old killer,” Raspnex snorted. “We can tell him to go ahead by himself, but I’m sure he won’t get five words out before his beard goes on fire.”

  After a moment Inos said, “If not Nordland, then Guwush?”

  Mm! Shandie shivered. Zinixo might be keeping less of a watch on the gnomes, but the mundane dangers would be even greater. Rebellion still festered in the hills and forests. Shandie himself had earned great hatred when he helped put down the gnomes’ last-but-one revolt. He had slaughtered thousands of the little horrors at Highscarp. Moreover, it was hard to imagine asking gnomes for help in anything, they were such inconspicuous, secretive people. Yet they could be implacable fighters when they wanted, like rats.

  “I think we should split up here,” Inos said. “Some of us go overland across Guwush, and the rest sail around it by ship. We can join up somewhere on the Morning Sea. Maybe even Ollion itself.”

  “Goblins.” Apparently the warlock meant the word to convey agreement. The two goblins would have to be smuggled off Gurx by night, or in sacks maybe. They were probably the first goblins ever to venture near Guwush since the coming of the Gods.

  “We can ask the thane to find us a ship,” Inos suggested. “We may as well charter our own vessel. Here he comes now.”

  “The old villain will despise us for a clutch of cowards,” Shandie warned. “Who wants to break the news that we’re not going to Nintor with him?”

  Kragthong’s great bulk had been rising into view like a surfacing whale. He stepped off the plank and headed ponderously across the deck toward the conspirators, totally ignoring the crew, which had just raised yet another iron-filled net from the hold. Free of the hatch, it began to swing on its cable. Sailors screamed warnings, which he did not heed. A dozen men scrambled to catch the deadly mass, jotnar and dwarves both. Inos and Shandie and Raspnex sprang to their feet with cries of alarm. For a moment disaster seemed inevitable. Then the squirming heap came to a screaming, cursing halt just inches away from the ambassador, who strode on by it as if it did not exist

  Inos and Shandie remained where they were, the warlock stepped up on the bench. The thane stopped and looked down at them all, his battered face flushed and his forked white beard sparkling like ice in the sunlight.

  “I have bad news!”

  “Namely?” Shandie asked.

  “This is in confidence. You’re not to tattle to the imps!”

  Shandie almost said. But I am an imp! I am the chief imp! That wasn’t true, though. Much as he hated it, he was an outlaw now, a rebel against his own impire, an enemy of his people. He felt his fresh-shaven face flush, “In confidence, then.”

  “Blood Wave II’s in port.”

  God of Murder! Shandie wondered which of the longships he had passed was the notorious raider. They had all looked equally lethal. Drakkor! Shandie himself had put a price on that man’s head, a huge price, although he had known it was an empty gesture. Even the semicivilized, Impire-born jotnar would sooner die under torment than ever betray a thane.

  Inos said, “Pardon my ignorance?”

  “The thane of Gark!” Kragthong barked. “Drakkor, son of Kalkor. Another of your kinsmen.”

  “Ah!” She nodded, her green eyes glinting cold like pack ice. “Indeed he must be, for his father was. I thought… After my husband ended that monster’s career, I understood that one of his brothers succeeded to the thanedom?”

  “Three of them held it, in turn. Then Kalkor’s sons began to come on the scene. The latest is Drakkor, who won it two years ago. Four Reckonings in one day! No one is likely to dispute his claim now. He is cast in the same mold as his father, although he must be too young to remember him.”

  “A bad mold. Why is this bad news, that he is in town?”

  The weathered old face glowered down at her. “Because he is on his way to the moot. I understood he had gone south. His father almost circumnavigated Pandemia, and Drakkor was thought to have the same ambition. But he is back, breathing fire as usual.” The old man hesitated, then added, “A ruthless and very dangerous killer.”

  If a Nordland thane described another in those terms, then he was talking of someone worth watching. Were the notion not so absurd, Shandie might have supposed that Kragthong was nervous.

  “His father laid claim to my kingdom,” Inos said furiously. “The issue was settled at a Reckoning in Hub. You are saying that Drakkor might reopen the matter?”

  The big man took his beard in both hands and tugged, as he did in moments of stress. Perhaps that was why it was so forked. “If you go to the moot, he will feel compelled to do so. The Reckoning in Hub was suspect—so he would claim. There was some doubt, was there not, whether your husband killed him in fair combat or by sorcery?”

  “Kalkor himself was a sorcerer!”

  “That statement alone would be enough to provoke a challenge!” The thane continued before Inos could answer, his voice growing louder. “Even an orthodox Reckoning—held at Nintor in proper fashion, witnessed by the assembled thanes… even an orthodox Reckoning may be set aside by another. His father’s failure would not stop him challenging you. He would plead a blood feud, and no one would argue.”

  A very odd gleam showed in the queen’s green eyes. “Well, we cannot let a boor like this Drakkor fellow keep us away from the Nintor Moot, can we? I am thane of Krasnegar, after all!”

  Imperor and ambassador opened their mouths simultaneously, but this time it was Inos who brooked no interruption.

  “A noble thanedom! If I wanted to, I could probably outfit more longships than almost any of them. I thought an ambassador’s guests were protected by his diplomatic status?”

  The big man harrumphed, looking quite abashed now. “The challenge would be improper and could be refused. That would not look, ah, seem…”

  “Quite!” Inos said crossly, “In practice one cannot hide behind points of law without casting doubts on one’s courage. So we must accept the challenge, right? I certainly cannot lift one of those axes the boys fight with, so I shall have to find a champion. Some husky young… But it’s usually a relative, isn’t it? Of course! I should have realized. Honor will compel you, as host and kinsman, to waive your immunity and take up my cause!” She smiled gratefully.

  The ambassador stiffened. “My pleasure, ma’am. But I shall see that Drakkor is warned of the danger in advance. That should give him second thoughts.” He turned quickly to Shandie. “You are aware that Hub has pulled four legions out of Guwush to fight the goblins?”

  “Four?” Shandie recoiled. “Pulled
four… You are joking!”

  Obviously he wasn’t joking, though. What in the Name of Evil was Zinixo thinking of? The gnomes would explode instantly. It was amazing they had not poured down out of the hills already. A generation of warfare had not completely pacified Guwush, and now it would be all thrown away. Surely the crazy dwarf was not letting idiot Emthoro actually run the Impire?

  He wanted to scream.

  There was worse to come…

  “Ever since he won his thanedom,” the ambassador said grimly, “Drakkor has been preaching fire and sword against the Impire! He claims his father was betrayed in Hub. Again, a blood feud.”

  “A blood feud against the whole Impire?”

  “It is a good excuse. He almost carried it last year. Now, with Guwush and Urgaxox lying naked, not a voice will rise against it.”

  Shandie sat down on the hatchcovers, feeling ill. My people! Goblins, dwarves—and now gnomes and jotnar, also? The millennium come in blood? He tried to speak, cleared his throat and tried again. “I don’t suppose that slime-brained cousin of mine weakened the garrison at Ollion by any unlucky chance?”

  “I’m told he did,” the thane said.

  So the caliph had his chance, also? Goblins, dwarves, gnomes, jotnar, and then djinns? And could the elves and fauns ever turn down the chance to join in?

  “What is Zinixo doing?” Shandie howled. “He has stolen the Impire—will he now destroy it?”

  No one answered.

  Finally it was Inos who spoke. “Ambassador, you are saying that none of us should go to the moot?”

  He flushed scarlet above the edges of his beard. “That is my view, ma’am. Not because of the danger, you understand! Please believe that! I should be your champion most willingly, and honored to serve a noble kinswoman so. But you see, Drakkor will have the votes for war. I saw a war moot once, when I was young. It was as if the very air reeked of blood. Not a man but was shouting at the top of his lungs. Your message will not be heard!”

  Jotunn bloodlust was notorious. Shandie could imagine what it would do to an assembly of thanes, the killers’ killers—or at least he thought he could imagine it. He could imagine it as much as he wanted to.