A Handful of Men: The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  His prescience showed it happening — very faintly, but clear enough to keep him mindful of the danger. The chances that Vork would do it were clearer, quite scarily possible. Still, Gath would not say anything. To mention prescience or sorcery on board this ship brought an automatic whipping, as he’d learned the first day.

  The cape was Killer’s Head and on the other side of it lay Gark, Blood Wave’s home port. Thane Drakkor’s thanedom. The island itself was Narp; part of it was Gark and part was Spithfrith, but the division varied from time to time, depending on the respective thanes’ skill at denting and perforating neighbors. At the moment almost the whole island was Spithfrith, and Blood Wave’s crew had given young Vork a very rough voyage because of that. Gark was the little town that would be coming into view shortly. For the last hour Gath had known what it would look like, and he was not much impressed. He would not say so.

  He washed down Grablor and moved to Red, the biggest man aboard, who amply deserved his nickname now. His hair was even redder than Vork’s, and today his face matched it His eyes bulged like onions. Gath wanted to ask why Blood Wave’s crew would be so utterly and eternally disgraced if Thane Trakrog’s Seadragon reached Drakkor’s home port first. It made no sense, because they’d sighted Trakrog hull-down two hours ago and made up all that distance already, but apparently it did matter. It mattered greatly.

  He gave Red his third squirt, doused his head as it went forward, and then moved to the next man, Gismak, sneaking a glance at the opposition.

  Oh, Gods!

  He forgot about Gismak, whose open mouth went by unwetted. Seadragon was drawing ahead, half a length already — Blood Wave was going to be cut off! They were almost under that beetling Killer’s Head and the surf was very near. With Seadragon’s blades on one side and leaping froth on the other, there was just not going to be room. Positively not. How could this be? Gath had not foreseen this!

  For a moment he wanted to shout at the world to correct the mistake. Nothing could happen that he had not foreseen! Nothing must be allowed to. He was accustomed to having life unroll itself in predictable fashion. He depended on it! Now, suddenly, the future was changing itself? His vision of Blood Wave riding up on the shingle had vanished; he could barely recall what Gark itself looked like. Had looked like. Would have… had been going to look like. Unless Vork jostled a rower. Blood Wave was going to win — had been going to win — but that was apparently no longer true. What sort of sorcery was going on here? Variable future?

  “Awrk!” croaked Gismak as another stroke went by and the waterboy still stood like a dead tree, neglecting his duties. Gath spasmed into action, but between squirts he continued to sneak looks at Seadragon, relentlessly edging ahead to larboard, and the pounding fury on the reef to starboard. If the two ships fouled oars, then Seadragon might escape, but Blood Wave would be out of control long enough for the current to throw her on the rocks. Positively! This was suicide, plain suicide. As he gave Gismak his final douse he glanced back at Drakkor, grim as death, holding the helm.

  The thane beckoned him. Gath had not foreseen that, either, but he moved, fast, hurrying along between the two lines of oars, still being careful, stepping warily over bundles, not jostling. The thane did not like to be kept waiting. The thane would like it even less if a dolt waterboy lost the race for him. It seemed lost already to Gath. One thing Drakkor certainly could not do was increase the stroke.

  Even as Gath thought that, the thane said something, and the coxswain blew a double pip, indicating a coming increase in stroke. God of Mercy! Their hearts would burst!

  A moment later, Seadragon matched the new pace.

  Panting, Gath reached coxswain and helmsman.

  Drakkor was not especially tall, twenty-three years old, looking about fourteen; but he was thick, with arms and shoulders noteworthy even on a jotunn sailor. He rowed a watch every day to keep them so. His baby face was clean-shaven and he bore no tattoos — reputedly in imitation of his father, Kalkor. His ash-blond hair hung to his shoulders. His eyes were as brilliant a blue as eyes could be, and as cold. He had killed six thanes in Reckonings; how many lesser men he might have slain was never thought worth mention. At the moment he wore only the customary sailor breeches and an expression of implacable fury.

  He was studying the opposition. Then he turned that boyish face with its blood-freezing blue gaze on Gath and snapped, “Watch the rocks, lad!”

  Gath said, “Aye, sir,” automatically and looked at the rocks, close off the starboard bow now. He could see Seadragon at the same time, and she was frighteningly close, closing in so there was less than an oar’s length between the two ships’ blades. He did not ask why he was supposed to watch the rocks. He had been taught not to ask questions on this ship. If he had to stand there until he died of old age he would not ask. He muttered a prayer. He was sweating like the rowers. Gods, Gods! Images of catastrophe began to grow clearer and clearer.

  They were going to hit! His hands started to shake despite all he could do to stop them. Blood Wave was going to hit the rocks! Her oars would foul, the current would spin her around, and then the strakes would buckle in near the bows… He could see the surf blasting up pink, see seaweed, see bodies being pounded on shell-coated rocks that would rip them to shreds in seconds. Gods! He knew it! He knew he was about to die. His prescience left no doubt. Terror won over discipline.

  “Sir!” he screamed, and looked around.

  Drakkor smiled grimly. “Keep watching!”

  Oh! Gath watched again. The image of destruction faded suddenly. Then it returned. “Too far!” he yelled, wiping his streaming face.

  Again the threat diminished as the thane eased the steering oar back. Bastard! Filthy, barnacled bastard! He was using Gath’s prescience! He’d deliberately set course closer and closer until Gath had told him —

  “Say when, boy!”

  “Clear now, sir,” Gath said hoarsely. “Larboard — too far! A little more…”

  Suddenly Blood Wave was within rocks. Foam rushed past, its edges barely beyond the tips of the oars on either hand. The longship swayed uneasily, but her draft was so shallow that the currents hardly moved her. Death reached out, and then withdrew — and reached again.

  “Starboard now!” Gath screamed.

  Then the danger was past. Blood Wave hurtled through the reefs and came around the headland. Safe!… for now.

  Gath felt as if he’d been washed and hung out to dry, wet and limp. He was shaking like a cook’s flour sieve. The nerve of the man! The first day, the thane had personally taken a rope’s end to Gath’s hide just for mentioning that he had prescience — and now he’d used that prescience to win a race! Drakkor had cheated in a race with another thane! Well, perhaps that was not too surprising, but why hadn’t Gath foreseen that sneaky little piece of deception?

  Then he saw the reason for the insanity. Seadragon was still crowding, but Blood Wave had gained ground with that suicidal shortcut. Neck and neck the two longships raced toward a massive seastack, its top leaning over as if to touch the cliff, almost an arch. Side by side they bore down on the channel between. Just maybe it was just barely wide enough for one, but it certainly would not take two abreast. Now it was Blood Wave that was crowding out Seadragon, hurtled straight for that tiny gap. The enemy had the rocks this time. At the last possible moment, Seadragon backed water, her crew’s roars of fury quite audible. Drakkor bellowed. His men shipped oars, the swell caught the longship and lifted her. She surged forward like a startled horse, out of the sunlight into cold, windy shadow, rank with the tang of seaweed. Rocky walls rushed past on either hand, with blue sky high above and white birds circling. The sailors howled in simultaneous triumph, raising echoes, cheering their thane for that superlative piece of seamanship — and for almost killing the lot of them.

  Gath had not foreseen any of this. He grinned weakly at Vork, who was in the bows, leaping up and down in his excitement, almost as red as Red.

  A moment later the ti
de vomited Blood Wave out into the calm of a wide bay, enclosed by steep green hills. On shore lay the thorp of Gark itself. Seadragon would be delayed by having to detour around the seastack and the rocks beyond, or double back and make another run at the gauntlet… she went around, Gath foresaw. She’d take it easy, too, in tribute to the winner, so that Thane Drakkor could be home to welcome his visitors.

  Gath’s prescience had returned. Obviously there was a shielding on that headland, just like the castle at home in Krasnegar. He couldn’t foresee what happened inside shieldings; he hadn’t foreseen the seastack or Drakkor’s devious ploy. Once inside, he hadn’t been able to foresee events outside. Why would a sorcerer put a shielding on a cliff? To discourage visitors coming by night, of course, or in fog. If their pilot had more than mundane vision, he would not be able to use it to find that shortcut.

  The rowers ran out their oars again and picked up the stroke, which was fast but not murderous. Gath found the water skin and went back to where he’d finished before. But now he could relax a little and contemplate the immediate future — the thane’s tumultuous welcome from his subjects, and his own walk up through the village to…

  Oops!

  There was shielding in Gark, also. The future ended before he reached the end of that walk.

  2

  Gark was not much of a place, even compared to Krasnegar. It might be better living than Dwanish, though. The surrounding hills were grass and rock, bereft of trees. The houses had low walls of stone and roofs of sod, so that from the bay the thorp hardly showed up at all, just chimneys growing out of grass. Gath decided that either Nordlanders walked around on their knees indoors or their dwellings lay half underground. For warmth in winter, maybe? There were goats cropping those shaggy roofs, although they weren’t visible from the sea, either. The only large building stood on a slight rise, and it was a timbered hall with a roof of copper, a paler green than the sod. That would be the thane’s palace.

  Considering that the men of Nordland had been raiding everywhere else for thousands of years, Gath wondered what they had done with all their loot, apart from putting that copper sheeting on the palace roof. Furthermore, Gark was supposed to be a very strategic thanedom, controlling the south approaches. Garkians pillaged other jotnar on their way home. What did they do with it all?

  Squandered it in the bars and brothels of the Impire, dummy! What else would it be good for?

  The beach was coming up fast and the population was streaming down to the strand to meet the returning thane. The cheering was drifting out over the swell already.

  Vork jabbed an elbow in Gath’s ribs. Gath jerked around and saw that he was wanted astern. Already! He’d been day-dreaming. Again he hurried aft. It was time for the death threats.

  Still holding the steering oar, Drakkor had a quizzical look in his inhumanly blue eyes. “Boy?”

  “Aye, sir?” Gath said. You’ll keep your mouth shut about that.

  “You’ll keep your mouth shut about that.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  Drakkor nodded, with perhaps a hint of a trace of a suggestion of a smile on his baby face. “Keep it shut ashore, too.”

  “Aye, sir.” Gath wasn’t sure what was meant yet, but here came the threat —

  “You say the wrong thing, I’ll have to kill you. That goes for your copper-haired friend, too.”

  “Aye, sir. I understand,” Gath said.

  You’re a good lad and I’d rather not, but I will if I must.

  “You’re a good lad,” Drakkor said with a smile, “and I’d rather not, but I will if I must”

  Was Vork not a good lad, then? Still, praise from Thane Drakkor was unexpectedly chest-puffing. He was a bloodthirsty killer, but Gath had spent the last month in the company of fifty men who worshipped their thane’s toenails and would cut off their ears to hear those words from him. Good lad, huh?

  “Aye, sir.” Now came: I’ll have someone explain.

  “I’ll have someone explain.” The thane turned his attention to the beach.

  Twist.

  Beaching a longship was a ceremony and a celebration and a job that must be left to the crew. The population of the thorp stood back and watched, cheering. Gath and Vork leaped into the water with the rest of the men, although their puny strength would make no difference. Blood Wave went up on the shingle with the rush of the next wave, but she was almost being carried by all those brawny arms.

  Thane Drakkor leaped ashore dry shod and glanced around. “Gismak? Grablor?”

  The two men waded forward, glowering.

  “I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

  “I’m ready to do it now!” Grablor snarled. He stood a head taller than the thane, but the betting on board had been that his careless backtalk was going to cost him dearly.

  “So am I,” Drakkor said, “but I’ve got visitors coming. Tomorrow. Unless you want to grovel now?”

  “No!” both men said at the same moment.

  “Tomorrow around noon, then.” Drakkor turned away to look at the sea. It was a captain’s duty to discipline his crew, and a jotunn captain must do it with his own fists. The thane’s hands were twisted and scarred by a thousand such fights. There was not a mark on his face. His nose and ears were their proper shape, most unusual for a jotunn.

  Far out in the bay, Seadragon was approaching at a tactfully gentle pace. Thane Trakrog coming to call in at Gark on his way to the Nintor Moot.

  Drakkor spun around and headed landward. That was the signal. Screaming welcome to the returning sailors, the townsfolk came rushing forward through the upturned dories and the lobster pots, between racks of fishnets and heaps of drying whale bones. Wives dashed to husbands, children to fathers, parents to sons. The men wore breeches and some had boots, as well. The women were in simple gowns of bright homespun. Smaller children ran naked. There was not a dark head among them, and the sight of so much fair hair made Gath feel homesick for the docks at Krasnegar. Half the queen’s subjects were impish, but the docks were the domain of the jotunn half.

  Vork was looking at him with green eyes wide, wanting guidance. He thought he was Gath’s buddy, but he was really his follower.

  “We stick close,” Gath said. Until Twist comes.

  Sticking close to Drakkor was not as easy as he had made it sound. Half the population of the thanedom seemed to want to speak to the ruler. He was in a hurry to reach his hall before Trakrog beached, and the result was a mob scene. Only two things were important enough to slow him down. One was a presentation ceremony — every new baby born since he had left was held up by its mother for his approval and blessing. He patted heads and smiled, nodding as he was told the names of his new thralls. The other delay was caused by a limber maiden in a brightly woven gown. She was granted a lingering embrace and a kiss. The noisy onlookers shouted encouragement and lewd predictions.

  With an odd sense of unreality, Gath realized that he was actually in Nordland, the home of half of his ancestors. Through his mother he was related to the thane himself, but very distantly. Grandfather Grossnuk had been a humble raider who must have come from some village like this. Even Dad had not known which island he had hailed from, though, nor any more about him, not even the name of his longship. Some of these people might be Gath’s first cousins, and that was a very strange notion. He would ask while he was here.

  Moving in the midst of clamoring chaos, Drakkor headed up the gentle slope toward his hall. About halfway there, he seemed to remember his two young guests. He stopped and looked around. Before he could speak, Gath elbowed through the mob with Vork at his heels.

  Drakkor’s blue eyes twinkled briefly as he recognized prescience at work. He scanned the crowd.

  “Twist?” he shouted. “Where is that misshapen mongrel?”

  People then backed out of the way to make an opening. A strange figure came hurrying forward in a lurching, awkward gait, leaning on a crutch. Children screamed in derision, and not a few adults, also.

  He was a h
unchback; he dragged a withered leg. He was as jotunn as anyone, but among the horde of healthy golden giants this puny scarecrow was a sorry excuse for a man. His limbs were thin as poles, his hair hung lank, and every bone seemed twisted out of shape. His age was hard to assess because of his thinness, but he was probably not much older than Gath, for his beard was a straggly silver fuzz. He leered up at his thane with teeth that seemed to stick out of his mouth at a dozen different angles.

  “There you are, you runt!” Drakkor said, looking down contemptuously. “I thought I told you to grow up while I was gone?”

  Everyone laughed.

  “You are welcome back, lord!” the cripple said, whining.

  “One look at you and I wish I’d stayed away.”

  More cruel laughter. Twist cringed back, as if expecting a blow.

  “See these two?” Drakkor snapped.

  The hunchback glanced at Gath and Vork with eyes of a pale gray like sea fog. “I am seeing them.”

  “Explain things to them. Now!” Drakkor cuffed him across the face. The cripple staggered on his crutch and almost fell. A foot snaked out of the onlookers and caught him behind his good knee. Down he went in the mud, and the crowd hooted with raucous mirth.

  Drakkor departed and the mob streamed after him, leaving three youths, one prostrate on the dirt. To mock cripples was perfectly normal. It happened in Krasnegar, too, although Gath’s parents disapproved of it. Vork was sniggering, probably to hide his disgust at being assigned to the attention of this runt. Gath stepped forward and helped Twist to his feet.

  “I’m Gath, sir, son of Rap. This is Vork, son of Kragthong.”