A Handful of Men: The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  Wirax and Frazkr were standing watch on deck when the land party trooped down the ladder from the quay. Even allowing for dwarvish solemnity, their greetings were subdued and curt. They scowled mightily as they observed Raspnex’s shielding and realized that the most powerful sorcerer of the group had been nullified. He marched past them without a word and disappeared belowdecks. As Jarga had foreseen, he was chafing within his occult imprisonment. He had hardly spoken for two days.

  “I think we must be about to hold a council,” Shandie said. “After you, ma'am.”

  Inos clambered down the companionway and went into the dingy, cramped cabin. Raspnex was already sitting at the far end, his head barely visible above the tabletop. Without speaking, she sat down on the bench and hotched herself along it until she was sitting beside him. Then she watched the others enter and repeat the process.

  No dwarf could ever appear frail, but old Wirax was silver-haired and stooped. Frazkr was younger, soft-spoken and at times almost polite. He could never go so far as to be cheerful or optimistic, though. At least those two were predictably stolid and durable.

  The continuing ordeal was starting to tell on the goblins. They were farther from home than any goblins had ever been, stranded in a culture utterly foreign to their simple forest upbringing. The sea voyage would have been a trial in itself, and in port they must stay hidden at all times. Moreover, they must know of the disaster that had befallen their king and comrades. No official news of the great occult battles at Bandor had yet reached the mundane population, although rumors were rife in the alleys of Old Town, but sorcerers knew of it.

  Pool Leaper was as jumpy as a cricket; his face had taken on an unhealthy turquoise tinge. He was quite young, around twenty, and only a mage, not a full sorcerer. Once or twice in the past Inos had detected a genuine sense of humor in Pool Leaper, a hint that someday his people might outgrow their barbarism and develop a civilization based on something more rewarding than torture. He was not jesting now.

  Moon Baiter was considerably older. At first sight Inos thought he was in better shape, but then she noticed that he had chewed his fingernails to the quick, so that they had bled. Both men must be mourning brothers and friends lost to the Almighty’s sorcery; they must be wondering how their homeland fared. If they could ever find their ways back to the taiga, they would encounter a blighted society of women and children with few males and no babies for many years to come.

  Jarga and Shandie arrived, also, to complete the company. Jarga sat, having trouble fitting her knees under the table, as always. Shandie leaned back against the door, folding his arms. For a moment there was glum silence.

  Two mundanes — three in fact, for the crippled Raspnex must now be counted as a mundane — four sorcerers, and a young mage. Against them, the all-powerful Covin. They could not be sure that they had any allies left, anywhere in the world.

  The crusade was leaving its mark on Shandie, also. He was gaunt now instead of slim; his dark hair hung lankly, often flopping over his face like a youth's. He seemed to burn too bright, a lantern in winter’s blast, his eyes shining with a dangerous zeal. For a mundane to take charge at a conference of sorcerers was paradoxical. He did not even ask the others’ consent, but then leadership was his business.

  “First the bad news,” he said. “Warlock?”

  Gruffly Raspnex explained what had happened.

  Shandie barely let him finish. “The good news is that we may have found some sympathizers. We talked with Oshpoo. He promised to tell his sorcerers — and he may have a lot more than we expected — but he would make no commitment beyond that.”

  He was being modest, Inos thought, making no mention of his own promises to the rebels. But that was Shandie. He would want to talk about the future, not the past. He surprised her.

  “The winter before last,” he said quietly, “I cornered the Ilranian army on Nefer Moor. I outmarched them, outthought them, outmaneuvered them. I brought them to bay and laid my blade at their throats. I had all seven thousand of them totally at my mercy. Then I offered them the most generous terms I could conceive of, in direct breach of my orders. My grandfather would have called my actions treason.

  “They turned me down. They said they would rather die where they stood than accept their lives at the cost of their principles. I cursed them for a gang of illogical nitwits. I derided their infantile elvish fancies.

  “And now I understand. Now I sympathize.”

  His voice grew even softer. “Now the tables have been turned. My enemy has harried me from my capital to Julgistro, from Julgistro to Dwanish, from Dwanish to the shores of the Morning Sea. Beyond that water stands my deadliest mundane foe, the caliph. Soon, very soon, I must turn at bay, for I have nowhere left to run. My strongest ally, Warlock Raspnex, has been effectively removed from the battle, at least for now. Our chosen leader. King Rap of Krasnegar, may very well have suffered the same fate or worse; Witch Grunth and Warlock Lith’rian likewise. My wife and child may be taken — I have no way of knowing. Every day the enemy grows stronger and we grow weaker. We have no intelligence, no reserves, and no viable plan.”

  He unfolded his arms and slammed a fist against the door. Inos jumped.

  “And I will be damned to the Evil for Eternity if I will give up!” He glared bleakly around the faces, seeking agreement or argument.

  “How’s a man to get any sleep if you make so much noise?” The satirical reply came from the youngest of them all, Pool Leaper.

  It was the most ungoblinish remark imaginable. Shandie blinked, and small patches on his cheekbones flushed against his pallor. Then he saw that everyone else was smiling or chuckling.

  He relaxed, and laughed. “Well spoken, lad. I got carried away. I take it you agree with me, then?”

  “I got nothing to lose, Imperor.” The goblin showed his fangs in a nervy grin.

  “We all have something to lose,” Inos said. “We can lose our freedom to be ourselves. I would rather die than be a tool of Zinixo’s evil.”

  Nobody disagreed.

  Shandie nodded, satisfied. “Then where do we go from here?”

  “Longday,” old Wirax said in his raspy voice. “The Evil comes at midsummer.”

  “You, too? Raspnex said the same.”

  Everyone looked to the warlock, who shrugged angrily. He was a blind, deaf sorcerer, who could add nothing new.

  Wirax scratched his white beard. “Two weeks until Longday. We have two weeks.”

  “Can you tell how it comes?” the imperor asked. “In what form? Or where?”

  “No. It’s just everywhere.”

  “Can you see beyond it, then? Can you say if the Evil prevails or is thrown back?”

  The old man shook his head. Shandie interrogated the other sorcerers with his eyes and they all shook their heads — Jarga, Moon Baiter, Frazkr.

  “So what do we do in the meantime? Do we go fishing? Do we cross to Zark and throw ourselves on the minuscule mercy of the caliph? Or do we try to throw in our lot with Oshpoo and his rebels?”

  That Shandie would even utter such words was incredible — he certainly could not mean them. Inos opened her mouth and he caught her eye, stopping her words unspoken.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Raspnex growled, “and what the woman was about to say — that we should take the chance to sail over to the Accursed Land and investigate Thume.”

  The other sorcerers looked shocked, amused, bewildered.

  “I reacted that way, too,” he said, “when she first suggested it. Now I think she may just have a point. Something Evilish odd’s going on over there, and has been going on for a very long time.”

  “A thousand years?” scoffed another dwarvish voice.

  “There is nothing going on in Thume!” Jarga protested from the doorway.

  “That’s what you’re meant to think.”

  “Tell us about this Accursed Land,” Moon Baiter said. “We have no history of it in the woods.”

  So Shan
die began to describe the War of the Five Warlocks and Inos remained silent. Obviously he was steering the meeting the way he wanted. Obviously Northern Vengeance would set course for Thume, simply because there was nowhere else to go. However thin the hope of finding a miracle in Thume, it was the only hope they had left, the only port in the storm.

  It was Inos’ idea, she should be pleased.

  The Morning Sea was a notoriously fickle stretch of water and Inos was the world’s poorest sailor. Yet far worse than the prospect of seasickness was the memory of the last time she had visited Thume. She had come within minutes of being raped by four men. She and Aunt Kade and Azak had almost died there. One thing she could not expect to find in Thume was a welcome.

  3

  “Do you believe in destiny?” Eshiala asked with a gleam in her eye.

  “Of course. Why?” Ylo already had an arm around her, so he just squeezed it a little tighter. He carried a blanket over the other.

  “Mm. Saw something. Come this way.”

  The wood was eerily still in summer heat, as if all the birds and insects were sleeping or had flown away, the afternoon heavy with mingled scents of wild flowers. Leaving the path, Eshiala began pushing through the trailing branches and tall weeds. Ylo was forced to release her and follow behind, watching the play of sunlight and shadow on her blouse. She had pinned up her hair again with the tortoiseshell combs he had given her. A few fragments of dead leaves were caught in it, but he was not about to tell her so.

  “Where in the world are you going, wench?” Twigs swung back at his eyes. “Ouch!”

  “Through here. I thought I saw — yes. See? Yellow iris!”

  “Very lovely. You want to pick some?”

  “Ylo!” she said in mocking reproach. “You’re not concentrating on important matters!”

  Trouble is, he was. He was drowsy and content from making love, and yet his previous worries were returning stronger than ever from their temporary banishment. He ought to be sharing them with her, but he hated to spoil the romantic perfection of this wonderful summer day. He ought to be saddling the horses and leading his love and her child out of the path of danger posthaste. He had already wasted half the afternoon and should not… No, those hours had emphatically not been wasted. They had been two of the most precious hours of his life. Perhaps the knowledge that they were foolish hours, stolen hours, had made them all the sweeter.

  He put his arm around her again and glanced around the glade of golden iris with a smile only skin deep. “Are you implying that I can’t tell an iris from a daffodil?”

  “Oh, no, darling, never! But perhaps the preflecting pool was a little vague on details? And you must admit that you might have been distracted by the rest of the vision you saw.”

  “Distracted? I was driven insane. I still am insane.”

  “Good! Spread out the blanket then.”

  He laughed. “Eshiala, Love of my Life, I will do anything for you — anything you wish, anything mortal man can do. But what you are asking for right now is a miracle.” In fact, I thought the last time was a miracle. He tried to kiss her, and she slipped away.

  “A destiny.” She took the blanket and spread it out, ruthlessly crushing irises. “Naked, I believe you said? Naked, on a blanket, smiling?”

  Gods! “Listen,” he said. “Nettles…” he said. “Er, wasps?”

  She was unbuttoning her blouse.

  “Maya will be awake now,” he protested. “She will be upset to find you not there.”

  “It’s a cruel world,” Eshiala said airily, stepping out of her skirt. “Mistress Ingipune promised to feed her candy cakes. I have been waiting for months for some serious lessons in outdoor lovemaking and that callous little brat has perversely frustrated me every time.”

  “Lessons? Serious? You’re an instant expert! And you do not think your lovely daughter is a brat. And…”

  His lady tossed away the skirt and began removing lesser garments. Gods! He moaned. No, it wasn’t possible, not so soon.

  “Now,” Eshiala said. “How do I look?”

  “Perfect! But…”

  But perfect. The proud line of her breasts, slender limbs, the sweeping curves of hip and belly — never had the Gods made such a woman. Not a mole, not a freckle.

  “How was my hair in the vision?” Without waiting for a reply, she pulled out combs she had so painstakingly replaced not twenty minutes before. She shook loose a torrent of black tresses. Dark eyes gleamed at him, appraising his reaction as he stood and gaped.

  Drooled. Time was short if they were to make their escape today. He hadn’t told her the news. How could he tell her now?

  “There!” She sank down and stretched out on the blanket. “What posture, my lord? On one elbow, like this? On my back, like this? Legs together? Apart? How wide a smile? Come here, you big lummox.”

  The vision!

  He dropped to his knees at her side, and his hand moved unbidden to caress her. Soldiers had been asking questions in the village…

  “The man is half-witted,” Eshiala muttered, and raised a hand to unbutton his shirt.

  His hand stroked her arm, her shoulder. Her breast. Firm, heavy, smooth. Oh, God of Love! He had expected to be safe, here in the east, but now he had learned that the XIVth Legion had been withdrawn from Qoble and the XIIth was everywhere, even in Angot, so he dare not go there now.

  With no recollection of moving, he was kneeling over her, tongue stroking nipple. When had that happened?

  He could no longer trust their hostess. Mistress Ingipune, because a reward had been posted. Neighbors would talk in a little place like this. Eshiala had pulled off his shirt and was struggling one-handed with his belt buckle.

  They must saddle up and leave, and head up into the foothills…

  “Do take off those stupid breeches,” Eshiala said crossly. “You will manage much better without them.”

  Shock! He released her breast and ran his hand over the firm cream-smoothness of her belly. Then he turned his head to stare into her eyes incredulously. He made a gibbering noise.

  A marvel of dimples appeared beside her mouth. “I was wondering when you were going to notice. I understood you were an expert on the feminine body.” Despite the banter, there was concern in the deep blackness of her eyes.

  “Oh, my beloved!” he said, choking. “My dove! My darling! My love!”

  He might have kept maundering like that for hours, had she not said, “Then you’re pleased?”

  “Pleased?” He grabbed her face with both hands and kissed her wildly. His child! She was going to give him a child!

  What legions? There were hours of daylight left yet. His child, too.

  Somewhat later he paused breathlessly. “It still isn’t possible!”

  Her hand slid around from his back and down to more intimate places. She knew all the tricks now. “Of course it is, see? And we are not leaving here until you do it.”

  If she had loved Shandie like this, she would never have been his.

  But she was his, all his. And it was possible. His love, his child. Anything was possible, even miracles.

  4

  Before Northern Vengeance cleared the bar at Randport, Inos arranged a spare sail on the forward deck as a makeshift tent. She had furnished it with a water bottle and a straw-filled mattress and prepared to make the best of things. The spot lacked privacy, but it did have plenty of fresh air, and the rail was within reach when she needed it. Saying he preferred to suffer out of sight, Shandie had gone below.

  Two days later she was still in her tent, ignoring the voices and activities of the others. The sun was hot and the wind fair. Gulls crying, ropes creaking, the ketch rose and fell over the green hills of ocean. Perhaps the swell was barely visible to the eye, but it felt like mountains to Inos. Until she arrived at Thume she would be useless; she could do nothing but endure life and curse the impish side of her inheritance. Her jotunn ancestors might be ashamed of her, but the other half would all sympathize. S
handie would be in no better condition than she was.

  Dwarves did not admit to feeling seasick and apparently the trait was a personal thing in goblins, for Pool Leaper had been felled, but Moon Baiter had not.

  When she could ignore the rolling, yawing, and pitching, her thoughts were mostly of Rap and the children. She had no hope now of ever being reunited with any of them. She could not even believe that she would ever know what had happened to them, far away in this cruel world, and that ignorance proclaimed her failure like a blast of trumpets. Kadie dead; Rap dead or taken; Holi and Eva perhaps destroyed in a ruin of all Krasnegar. Only Gath, she thought, might still have a chance. She had been furious and bitter when he slipped his leash and took off adventuring on his own. Now she was profoundly grateful that he had. At least he was not here with her, sailing to the Accursed Land.

  Perhaps Gath would survive somehow in Nordland, provided he was not betrayed to Thane Drakkor — or betrayed himself to Thane Drakkor. Was Gath aware of the blood feud? She thought so, but could not be sure. And what sort of a life was she wishing on him there? At least he would never become a bloody-handed raider like his grandfather Grossnuk. She had shared Rap’s doubts that Gath would ever become assertive enough even to rule Krasnegar — Gath as a raider was an idea that would never float. At best he would be a lowly churl, a slave. At worst…

  “My lady!” That was Jarga’s voice.

  Inos opened one bleary eye. As long as she kept her head still, she might be able to hold a conversation. “Mmph?”

  The sorceress dropped to one knee. “We have problems.”

  “My husband always says that every problem is an opportunity.”

  The big sailor rarely appreciated humor. “First, the Covin is scanning the area. We are agreed — Wirax, Frazkr, and Pool Leaper.”

  Inos opened both eyes. “Searching for whom?”

  “No one special, we think. Just watching, and especially watching for magic. We can sense the attention. I dare not try to ease your suffering.” The jotunn’s face was against the sky, so that her expression was not very clear. Sunlight and blond hair painted golden glory around her head.