The Stricken Field - A Handful of Men Book 3

by Dave Duncan

  “Was agreed, two.” Death Bird spoke in goblin. He could manage fair impish when he chose, although he still had the jotunn accent he had picked up years ago from Thane Kalkor’s crew.

  “But first I want to hear from Queen Inosolan,” Karax said.

  The goblin shrugged his enormous shoulders. “Speak, woman. Why here?”

  Inos drew a deep breath. She decided to stick to the truth as far as she could. If she tried lying and was disbelieved, then her later efforts to save Shandie would be made more difficult. “Your Majesty . . . your Excellency . . . I thought I was here by accident, but now I suspect otherwise.” She could address only one at a time, and watch only one face at a time.

  “Tell where Rap!” Death Bird demanded, in no mood to listen to speeches.

  “He went to Hub.”

  “When?”

  “Three months ago, or more.”

  “Why?”

  Inos turned to the dwarf. “My husband is a sorcerer.”

  “I know.”

  “He spoke with a God. He was given a warning to pass on to the Impire. And he himself foresaw a great disaster.” Death Bird chuckled coarsely and switched to impish. “His warning was not believed then.”

  “Not you. Not this. The danger is occult, and it threatens goblins and dwarves just as much as the Impire.”

  The goblin grunted skeptically. “He told me. This is old news, Inosolan.”

  “But perhaps still timely. The millennium has not come yet.”

  “Never mind the sorcerer,” Karax rumbled. “Stop evading the question. Why are you here?”

  “There is a magic portal between my kingdom and the house at Kinvale. I came through and was captured by Death Bird’s troops.”

  The Dwarf cleared his throat harshly and spat toward the fire. “That’s all? Then you are a blundering fool. Your loyalty is to the Impire. You are spies, or will be if you get the chance. We should kill the boy now, then give you and your daughter to the troops.”

  Inos hoped that was merely an initial bargaining position, although dwarves were notoriously suspicious and untrusting. She turned her head to study Death Bird’s reaction. “My husband was a good friend to you once.”

  “Long ago. For him I spared your town many times, when my young men wanted it for sport. What happened to Quiet Stalker?” His angular eyes glinted with cold anger.

  “He tried to rape my daughter. A sorcerer’s daughter. That was unwise.”

  The goblin showed his white tusks, but he did not seem to be smiling. ”No, he didn’t. Your son gave him the girl for the night to seal a treaty. So it was not rape! Your son knew she bore an occult sword, one that cannot be seen unless she wishes it to be seen. He is a cheat and a murderer.” Inos’s heart was beating much too fast now. She could feel sweat streaming down her face, and that was not all due to the heat of the fire. “He did not promise she would submit. The condition was that your nephew could subdue the girl. He failed.”

  “Against an unmentioned sorcery. Perhaps we should try another man or two, without the sword?”

  She faced the threat as defiantly as she could manage, clenching her fists. ”Rap is a sorcerer, as you well know. If any of us comes to harm he will hold you responsible, Death Bird. Dare you risk the vengeance of a sorcerer?”

  “Yes.” The goblin scratched the bristly hairs around his mouth, peering across her at the dwarf. “General, I give you the choice. Tonight one of us will take the daughter and one the mother. Which do you want? All three of them can amuse the troops afterward.”

  Karax’s permanent scowl deepened. “There is more to this than we have heard yet, I think.”

  “Yes, there is,” Inos said quickly. “Bring in your entertainment, your Majesty.” For a moment the gruesome assembly seemed to swim before her eyes and she feared she would faint. “I . . . I have a surprise for you.”

  If Gath was wrong, it would be she who got the nasty surprise.

  Death Bird studied her for a moment, then turned to bark an order. He had known about the sword. He was not frightened of Rap. There could be only one conclusion—he had sorcerers of his own in attendance. Suddenly things began to seem a great deal clearer, and a great deal worse, were that possible. If this ravaging horde was occultly aided, then it might itself be the great evil that Rap had foreseen. Could the Gods Themselves imagine anything worse?

  “And summon my son,” Inos added.

  For a moment she thought the goblin would refuse, but he gave the order.

  She heard laughter, then Gath came around the fire, stumbling barefoot on the rough debris, clad only in one of the goblins’ skimpy breechclouts. He looked absurdly skinny and pale pink in this company, far taller than anyone else present. His appearance had united dwarf and goblin for the first time that night. They were all laughing.

  “Sit here,” Inos said, but he stepped around to stand behind her and huddled close against her furs. He might freeze there, but he probably felt safer. His hand grasped her shoulder and squeezed. She hoped that was meant as a sign of encouragement.

  There was a brief disturbance beyond the fire, then two burly goblins appeared, dragging an unwilling captive between them. He seemed tall in this company, but he was not big for an imp. His hands were bound behind him, his clothes hung in tatters. Several days’ growth of beard obscured his face, matted with old blood and dirt. He was pitched forward at Death Bird’s feet. He twisted slightly to take the impact with a shoulder, but then he lay still.

  Inos thought her heart would explode, it was beating so hard. This human refuse could not be the man she had expected. Two, the goblin king had said—so this might not be the one she wanted.

  “Well?” Death Bird demanded. “What surprise? Will you offer to begin the sport?”

  With a mouth almost too dry for speech, she said, “Lift him up.”

  The goblin gestured, the prisoner was hauled to his knees.

  He saw Gath first. His eyes widened in disbelief and he uttered a cry. Then he looked to Inos. She saw mortal despair flicker into unbearable hope.

  They had not met since he was ten years old. She would never have recognized him. But he knew her.

  She did not trust herself to rise and stand erect. She could hardly curtsey to a man on his knees, anyway. So she just smiled to assure him that she knew who he was.

  “Royal cousin . . . your Excellency . . . This is his Imperial Majesty, Emshandar V, Imperor of Pandemia.”

  Death Bird looked to his right and bellowed. “Long Runner!”

  An elderly goblin four or five places along had been picking his teeth with a twig. He spat. “So it is.” He stayed where he was and continued poking his teeth.

  Karax muttered something under his breath, but he had been exchanging glances with one of the dwarves to his left. There were at least two sorcerers present, then.

  Shandie lurched to his feet, awkward in his bonds. His eyes were as wild as his hair, but he seemed to have himself under control. “We meet again, Death Bird. You had another name when last we met—and sometimes another face, also.”

  The great goblin tusks were showing again. Under his tattoos, Death Bird’s cheeks were turquoise with fury. He had been caught off guard in the presence of his allies and senior deputies.

  His voice came out as a dangerous low growl. “Explain, imp!”

  Inos marveled at the prisoner’s courage. A moment ago he must have been steeling himself to die in long agony. Now a glimmer of a chance for life had put his shoulders back and lifted his chin. He smiled grotesquely down at his seated captors and shook his head.

  “A private conference—you . . . and the general. And Queen Inos, of course. I bring news you should hear.”

  “You make conditions?” The goblin was shivering, his fingers hooked like claws. He could tear the prisoner in pieces with his bare hands.

  “I know you are not a fool, goblin.” Shandie glanced around at the puzzled company. Very few of them seemed to have realized what was happening. Then
those dark imperious eyes came back to Death Bird and Karax. “You can’t trust everyone here.”

  “By the Gods, I will skin you myself!”

  “Maybe. But not just yet you won’t.” Filthy and tattered, bound and maltreated, the impish scarecrow was dominating the contest. He repeated his gruesome smile. “I am the imperor. You know that the Council of Four actually has a fifth member, who must be mundane. You know who that one is. I repeat that I bring you news you both must hear and consider carefully. Whatever you decide to do with me afterward, you must first listen to me. And you must make sure that I am telling the truth.”

  For a moment Gath’s teeth stopped chattering and he sighed softly at Inos’s back. Things were going to be all right—for the next hour, or even two.

  3

  A thousand leagues to the south, the moon had set over the foothills of the great Mosweeps Range. Dawn was already turning the sky to pearl, but the light was poor for riding. The trail up the Frelket Valley wound through pine woods, staying close to the chattering river. It was reasonably flat but rarely used and badly overgrown. The horses stumbled on rocks, flinching at the touch of saplings and thorn bushes.

  Somewhere behind was the Covin, the greatest concentration of sorcerers Pandemia had ever known. Somewhere ahead were the mountains. Most of the time their impossible barrier was mercifully concealed by the trees, but now and again Rap would glimpse the spectral glitter of starlight on rock and ice, a wall that seemed to obscure half the sky.

  He could sense the shivering fear of his mount, and hated the need to force it. If he was thrown and broke his neck it would serve him right, he thought. He dared not use power to soothe the horses or spy out the way, for it would reveal his location to the Covin. Fortunately Thrugg had a troll’s ability to see in the dark, and every now and again he would calm the animals. It was a necessary risk if the fugitives were to make any speed, and his occult strength was so great that even at such close quarters Rap would catch barely a glimpse of him in the ambience.

  The troll was running along ahead at Norp’s side, giving the impression that he could keep up the pace indefinitely. Young Norp was doing amazingly well. Almost certainly she had never been on a horse in her life. Horses disliked trolls—their musky scent, most likely, or just their grotesquely ugly faces. Perhaps they feared such hulking people might try to ride them. No horse ever foaled could have carried Thrugg’s weight for very long, or even Urg’s, who was running at her husband’s back.

  Andor brought up the rear, cursing continuously under his breath. Andor was a fine horseman but no hero. His mount was scenting his terror and giving more trouble than either Rap’s or Norp’s.

  Slowly the eastern sky blushed pink. The trail became more visible.

  Then it dipped to a shadowy ford where a frothing tributary clattered over pebbles on its way to join the Frelket. Thrugg halted in the middle, calf-deep in the icy water. The others pulled up also, and the horses dipped their heads to drink. They were too hot for much of that, of course, but to use sorcery to dissuade them would be utter folly and the only alternative was to overrule the troll, who must have some reason for stopping there.

  He was a massive bulk in his all-enveloping sackcloth, panting hard like a dog, long tongue hanging out over huge teeth, but for a moment his image showed in the ambience, a solid mass of muscle, grinning ferociously.

  “Turn off here, sir.”

  “I thought the trail went a lot farther,” Rap said aloud. “It does. We don’t. There’s a shortcut.”

  A troll shortcut through the Mosweeps was a concept to chill the blood, but it would be better than falling into the hands of the Covin. Furthermore, sorcery was not the only danger. There would certainly be mundane pursuit by morning. Dogs would lose the scent in the water, and hopefully the legionaries would follow the horses’ tracks, at least for a while. Abandoning the road made good sense, therefore.

  “I’ll send the ponies on, ” Thrugg added. All three horses stood at least sixteen hands high, but they did look like ponies beside him. He lifted Norp easily to the ground. Rap did not think he could have done that, child though she was.

  But if the three barefoot trolls could stand in the stream, then he could. He slid out of the saddle. Icy water surged over his knees and filled his boots with a rush of agony. He shuddered.

  “Now will you take this Evil-begotten sorcery off me?” Andor shouted, making no effort to dismount. He had been demanding that release even before the fugitives left Casfrel. He wanted to disappear out of this hardship and danger. For the first time in more than a century he could not call one of his sequential companions to take his place, for he could not invoke the ancient spell while cloaked in Ainopple’s shielding.

  “I can’t risk it,” Rap said.

  “If you’re leaving the horses, you don’t need me! Darad’ll do better on foot than I will.”

  Andor did not add that Darad also had a lot more courage. To be exact, Rap thought, Darad was just too stupid and too much a jotunn to be afraid of anything.

  “I know that, but if I free you I’ll rattle the ambience. I’m not even sure I can.”

  “Thrugg then?”

  “He’s better, but it’s still a risk.”

  “He freed you!”

  “But that was hours ago. The Covin must have arrived by now. They must be looking for us.”

  It was very strange that Zinixo’s minions had not arrived already. Perhaps they were secretly watching and laughing and biding their time, but there had been no sign of sorcery back at Casfrel since the fugitives departed. Ainopple must be still asleep, unaware that her prisoners had escaped and unaware of the other danger, which threatened her just as much as it did them.

  Thrugg waded over to Andor’s horse and grinned up at him. As a threat that grin would make a notable nightmare, yet it was completely misleading. Despite his monstrous jaws and bovine muscle, the big man was as gentle as a rabbit.

  “You . . . want us . . . to leave you, sir?” If a horse could speak, it might produce something like that slurred trollish mumble.

  Andor flinched. “No.” He slid from the saddle and stumbled on the pebbles. Thrugg’s huge paw shot out and steadied him.

  Rap had eased his horse’s girths and tied the reins back out of harm’s way. Shivering as his legs froze, he splashed over to Norp’s mount and did the same for it.

  The ambience flickered. He swung around instinctively to stare back down the valley, but of course mundane senses could detect nothing.

  Thrugg chortled like a feeding lion.

  “What’s happening?” Andor demanded shrilly.

  “There’s a fight going on,” Rap said. He could not make out the details. “Thrugg?”

  “The mistress was awake. She’s giving them something to think about! Oo! See that?”

  “Some.” Rap turned to Andor. “The Covin’s trying to subdue Ainopple. She’s playing for keeps.”

  Andor wailed. “But she’ll lose?”

  “Certain to, in the end. But it’s a standoff at the moment. Like men with ropes trying to capture a man with a sword . . .” He shifted as the din increased. “She’s a real fireball, though, no matter what she looks like.”

  “Then they’ll turn her, of course? She’ll lead them to us?”

  “It’s possible,” Rap said. Indeed, it was highly probable that the Covin would transfer the sorceress’ loyalty from Olybino to Zinixo, for then she would cooperate. “Maybe not right away, though. They may just subdue her and take her back to their master.” She was very old, so the usurper might choose to force her words of power out of her for someone else’s benefit, and then kill her. Rap was more worried that the Covin already knew about the other sorcerers in the area, Thrugg and himself. There was a very slim chance Zinixo’s press gang would be satisfied with Ainopple, if their watchers had not been close to Casfrel.

  “Shall I release your friend, sir? ” Thrugg asked. “Should be safe right now, with all that going on. ” ”Good
idea,” Rap said.

  With a faint occult pop, Andor’s shielding vanished. He said, “Ah!” and disappeared in another faint flicker of sorcery. His clothes rent noisily as Darad’s mighty form materialized within them. The jotunn roared in disgust at the icy bath around his legs. The horses shied and the two female trolls cried out in alarm.

  “Rap!” Even for a jotunn, Darad was big—a scarred, tattooed, flaxen-haired giant. Although Rap had replaced his front teeth once, at some point in the last twenty years he had lost them again. Now he grinned like a hungry wolf and lurched forward through the water, hairy hide exposed under his rags, huge arms outstretched to embrace his old friend. Nobody could ever make Thrugg seem goodlooking, but Darad came about as close as possible.

  “You old villain!” Rap gasped as he was lifted bodily in that crushing bear hug. Heavy with water, his left boot fell off, and the other tried to.

  “Old times!” Darad chortled. “You got trouble so you send for me, right? Bash some heads, right?”

  “Put me down! Thank you! Now, meet Master Thrugg, and Mistress Urg, and . . . ”

  God of Fools! Darad was glowering at the troll. Rap had never considered that the warrior might have the same sort of racial prejudice as the slave-owning imps of Casfrel, but brains were not his strong point. If he was going to treat the sorcerer as subhuman, then there might be very considerable trouble in store.

  “Not as big as Mord was,” Darad growled. “Can he fight or is he one of those sissy ones?”

  Thrugg’s muzzle opened hugely. “Try me.” He spread his arms and drooped into a wrestler’s crouch.

  “Hold it!” Rap shouted. He had retrieved his boot, but both his legs were going to fall off at the knees soon. The battle in the ambience was flaring brighter and noisier, obviously headed for a climax as the Covin brought its stupendous power to bear. “Roughhousing can wait until later. Let’s get going before I freeze. Urg, Norp, this is Darad. Now come on, all of you. Shoo those ponies, Thrugg. Then lead the way.”

  Darad was a sadistic killer with the brains of a crocodile and the loyalty of a pit bull—just the sort of companion a man needed in a tight spot. He would be useless against sorcery, of course, but very functional if the legionaries came in pursuit.