The Stricken Field - A Handful of Men Book 3

by Dave Duncan

  The crew slept in the hold, on top of the cargo. Vork could have had the floor in his father’s cabin, and the imperor had offered Gath the spare bed in his, but bunking down with the sailors had a lot more appeal. There was something manly about it, even if a load of shovels and picks was not the most comfortable mattress in the world. The talk at night was manly stuff, too, all about sailoring, and being a raider, and women. Gath had learned a lot of new things and confirmed some things he had suspected but not been sure of. Very educational.

  Then he saw what the morning had in store for him and woke up with a rush. Holy Balance! God of Madness! Wow!

  For three weeks, Gurx had been riding the spring flood on the Dark River. She was a wallowy old tub. Most of the officers were dwarves, because that was the law in Dwanish, but Thumug the bosun was the real captain, and the hands were all jotnar. The ambassador regarded them with downright contempt, calling them discards and freshwater fish, and of course Vork did, too, although he was careful not to let the men hear him. The crew’s ability or lack of it had mattered little on this trip. The current had carried her like a leaf in a gutter, whirling past the dirty, dismal Dwanishian towns. Today she arrived at Urgaxox. All sorts of things were going to happen at Urgaxox.

  Gath emerged on deck and looked around, shivering. He dressed like a sailor now, in leather breeches and nothing else. He did sailor things when he was allowed to—pulled on ropes and scrubbed decks, and it was a lot of fun. He’d developed some good calluses and he thought he had a little more muscle in his arms, or at least his biceps felt harder. Of course it took rowing to make real sailors’ arms, and Gurx was no longship. Unlike Vork, he wouldn’t want it to be, but any ship was better than a dwarf wagon. A jotunn was a jotunn. Even half a jotunn.

  There was frost on the deck. The sun was just over the horizon. The Zogon Mountains had disappeared two days ago, and now the Kalip Range was in sight to starboard. At Urgaxox the river turned east in its final rush to the sea, and this was the end of Dwanish. Urgaxox was a frontier post of the Impire and the start of Guwush, gnome country. It was where Gurx would unload her cargo, and her passengers.

  Vork was forward, just tipping a bucket of water over himself. For a moment Gath stood and studied him, sizing him up in view of the very surprising things that were going to happen in the next couple of hours. After three months away from Krasnegar, Gath pined for some friends of his own age. A girl or two would be especially welcome because it was time he got some practice in talking with girls, but Vork could have been an acceptable fellow traveler. So far he had been anything but.

  He was Ambassador Kragthong’s son, the youngest of Jarga’s six half brothers and the only one still living with his father. He was a year older than Gath, but not as tall.

  He still had his puppy fat and he still spoke soprano. He was one of those freakish jotnar with red hair and green eyes. His nose was well flattened already—and he seemed to think all these misfortunes were Gath’s fault.

  Vork had three aims in life and would talk of nothing else. On a scale of years, he planned to be a great raider like his unlamented cousin Kalkor. More immediately, he longed to go home to Nordland and especially to visit the great midsummer moot at Nintor. Gath could agree with him on that one, although he had some reservations about watching men chop each other to bits with axes. Once, maybe, just so he could say he’d seen a reckoning.

  Vork’s short-term ambition was to smash Gath to jelly. He missed no chance to pick a fight, and Gath’s refusal to cooperate riled him frantic. Traditionally, fighting must be done ashore. Gurx had tied up only twice in the last three weeks, and both times Gath had stayed on board. Vork called him a coward and Gath didn’t care—much. He knew he could beat Vork if he wanted to.

  Clenching himself up to hide his shivering, he stalked over to Vork, then stepped back quickly as Vork tried to drop the bucket on his toes.

  “Know what happens today?” Gath said, snatching the bucket.

  Vork paid no attention, squeezing water out of his red hair.

  “Clean your ears out, you’ve got fish in them.”

  “I don’t talk to cowards.”

  “I’ll tell you what happens today, then. We tie up at Urgaxox.”

  Vork swung around with a gleam in his blue-green eyes. “And?” The bruise on his cheek was a great pinky-yellow lump already.

  “Time you came ashore with me,” Gath said, blandly giving the sailors’ challenge in shrill falsetto.

  Vork flushed scarlet. “Time? . . . I’ve been trying to get you ashore for weeks, you jelly-boned half-breed!”

  Gath smiled. “And the other thing that happens today is that I rub your face in the dirt.” He put a foot on the line and tossed the bucket overboard.

  It wasn’t quite certain. He had a very faint foresight of Vork kneeling on his chest and pounding with both fists, but he wasn’t going to mention that.

  “You’re a seer!” Vork said, suddenly wary.

  “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I mean, if you’re scared.”

  Vork was jotunn. That settled that.

  There wasn’t much time. Gath sluiced himself off sailor fashion and rushed down to the galley to grab some breakfast and turn from blue back to pink. Then he hurried up on deck again, still dripping, still gnawing on a hunk of gritty black bread.

  Already Gurx was approaching the docks. Urgaxox was even larger than he’d expected, but the river was so high that much of it was hidden behind the shipping. He saw sunlight flashing off metal on the quays and guessed it came from legionaries’s helmets. There would be gnomes, of course, and dwarves, and jotnar, because this was one of the greatest ports in the world. But he wasn’t interested in the people at the moment. There were more ships in sight than he’d ever seen in his life—river craft like this one, and oceangoing galleys. They clustered along the piers like suckling piglets. Here and there he saw longships, low and sinister. Not the longship, though—not quite yet.

  Ambassador Kragthong was leaning on the rail with the imperor at his starboard side, a bull and a pony. Gath hurried over. This was the bit he was looking forward to least of all, but it had to be done. He just managed to beat Jarga to her father’s port side. He was taller than she was now, and he didn’t think that had been the case three weeks ago. He hoped she wasn’t reading minds this morning, but he knew she was not going to stop him.

  “Anything happening?” the thane rumbled, speaking over Gath’s head to his daughter.

  “Much the same. Just have to be careful.”

  She meant the level of magic, of course. Ever since the warlock’s appearance before the Directorate, a week ago, the sorcerers had been reporting Covin activity all over Dwanish. There was a hunt in progress.

  The imperor had shaved off his beard in the night and looked surprisingly younger. “Smell that mud?” he said. “The river must be falling.”

  The thane grunted. “Place always stinks. It’s the gnomes.”

  “It would probably be a lot worse without the gnomes.” The big man grunted. “Depends. Uh? . . .”

  He had seen the longship. Then Gurx swept by the end of that pier and it was out of sight.

  “Something wrong?” the imperor asked sharply.

  “No. No, nothing.” Kragthong shot a side glance at his daughter.

  “Saw no details,” she said softly. “I’d better not look now.”

  “No, for Gods’ sake don’t do anything to give us away.” They were alarmed, though.

  “Do we have to find billets ashore?” the imperor inquired. “Or can you line up a ship right away?”

  “You’d best all stay aboard,” Kragthong said. “I’ve got men here I can talk with.” He mostly meant he wanted to check on that longship, but the imperor probably didn’t know that. Gath did.

  The imperor thumped a fist on the rail. “I wish I knew what had happened to Rap! It’s not like him not to report. If they got him, then Nintor’s a deathtrap for us. On the other hand, if
he’s been turned, he would probably have tried to string us along. I’m very much afraid he . . .” He had just noticed Gath, concealed by the thane’s great bulk.

  “I would rather he had died than been enslaved, sir. He would, I’m sure.”

  “Perhaps,” Shandie said icily. “He may just have been robbed and lost the scrolls, of course. I’m assuming that he’s all right.”

  Gath ignored that obvious lie. Dad would never be so careless as to lose his magic scrolls. Would never have been so careless. Oh, Dad, Dad! “But even if Nintor is dangerous for us, sir, it’s very important to get your message to all the thanes, isn’t it, sir?”

  “Yes!” The imperor’s tone was even icier. “Have you seen your mother around?”

  “I think she’s having something to eat, sir.”

  “Thanks.” The imperor walked away.

  “Good idea, that,” Jarga said, and followed him.

  The ambassador remained, still frowning at the shipping. Odious Vork slid into the place his sister had left. He scowled hideously at Gath, obviously suspecting that he was up to no good.

  Which Gath was, of course. “Er, Excellency?” The big man did not look around. “Mm?”

  “At the Nintor Moot, it’s only thanes get challenged, isn’t it?” Gath knew the answer perfectly well. Only thanes or thanes’ sons could go to the moot. Only thanes could vote. Only thanes could be challenged to reckonings. He just wanted to be sure that Kragthong knew he knew. “Right.”

  “Sir, would you please lend me some money?”

  That got the ambassador’s attention. He blinked down at Gath with wintery disapproval. “Money? You’re not supposed to leave the ship. What d’you need money for?”

  “Er, Vork and I were just going to go ashore for a few minutes to settle something. Winner buys the beer, sir.” The silvery beard quivered into a smile. Kragthong seemed to swell even larger, and he looked thoughtfully past Gath to his son. Then his approval faded. “Looks like you started on him already.”

  “No, sir. Not me. He slipped on the companionway.”

  “Did not!” Vork squeaked, although Gath could not imagine what explanation he would prefer to offer.

  “I’d ask my mother, sir, but I don’t think she would understand.”

  “Of course not.” Kragthong chortled. “But I ought to give the money to him, surely?”

  “Certainly not!” Gath said, faking the anger that would be expected. “He hasn’t a hope. I know he’s only a kid, but he gives me no peace and I just can’t take his crap any longer.”

  The thane beamed with pride. “Suppose I hand you both a crown and the loser gives his back?”

  “That’s very generous of you, sir. I’ll see he does.”

  “He talks big for a half-man!” Vork trilled. “He doesn’t know what real Nordlanders are made of.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Kragthong said jovially, fishing in his pouch. ”Make a good match out of it, lads. Men shed blood and women tears, remember. Wish I could come and watch, but I’ve got some business to attend to.”

  Gurx was just tying up.

  3

  “Come on!” Gath said, and ran down the plank with Vork at his heels. He almost fell on his nose, because the plank was much steeper than he had expected. With the crest of the spring flood in town, Gurx was riding high. The pier was almost awash. There was a longship tied up ahead, and a squad of legionaries keeping watch on it. They paid no attention to two barefoot jotunn youths running by.

  Beyond the levee, the streets were knee deep in dirty water and the stench would have stunned a troll. There were some very unhappy dogs. There were dwarves, but Gath was sick of dwarves. There were horses, some of them huge, bigger than anything Krasnegar had ever seen, plodding along with their great feet splashing and wakes behind their carts. Seeing horses made him think of Dad.

  There were jotnar galore, mostly dressed like him, just in breeches. The sailors had big silvery mustaches. The ones with beards as well were probably raiders when they were farther from Imperial authority—to paint an orca on a sail was the work of a few minutes. Many of both types were so smothered in tattoos that they looked like the chintz chairs Mom had imported last summer. There were imps, both civilian and military. Urgaxox was unofficially a free port, the imperor said. It was so valuable to Dwanish and Nordland and the Impire—and to Guwush when Guwush wasn’t part of the Impire—that whoever happened to be holding it never closed it. Even with a war on, dwarves were going about their business under the legionaries’ noses. Under their armpits, too.

  There were gnomes, and they were finding the water especially troublesome. It came up to their waists, and higher than that when a wagon went by. Gath had only ever met six gnomes in his life, the royal ratcatchers in Krasnegar: Pish, Tush, Heug, Phewf, and their two tiny babies, who could lie on his hands. He had never seen gnomes out in daylight. He had never seen them taking a bath, either, he thought with a chuckle. Then he noticed that they were eating things they picked out of the floating muck. He lost interest in gnomes.

  “Where’re we going?” Vork demanded at his back.

  “T’find a dry place. I don’t want to drown you.”

  “Drown me? I’m going to give you the thrashing of your life. I’m going to teach a mongrel to watch his tongue around his betters . . .” Vork had started talking himself up. Lots of jotnar had to do that. Some could flash into fighting madness right away, but most needed to work on it. Gath had to get Vork on his back while he could still listen to reason.

  Then he saw the archway and turned into it. Vork said, “Hey!” and came after.

  The courtyard beyond was deserted, as Gath had known it would be. There was ample mud on the ground, juicy black mud, but not much free water.

  He swung around. “This’ll do, Carrots. Prepare to meet thy doom!” That faint image of Vork systematically reorganizing Gath’s face was more solid than it had been earlier. The one with Gath on top was still stronger.

  Vork was paler than usual, his green eyes wider. The odds were not on his side. His opponent was taller, and a seer. Such things wouldn’t matter to him in a few minutes, but he wasn’t quite there yet. He was insulting Mom now.

  “Oh, shut up!” Gath said, and swung a feint. Yes, attack was the secret. He poked a few more, and Vork kept blocking and backing away, still gabbling nonsense.

  Gath swung a slow right; Vork blocked; Gath caught his wrist and heaved, thrusting out a leg to tip him over. That was all it took. He threw himself on top, twisted Vork’s arm up out of the way, and grabbed red hair with his other hand. Vork’s nose was right on the mud and Gath’s teeth were at his ear.

  “Give up?”

  “I’ll kill you. I swear it. I will kill you!”

  “If you won’t give up, I am going to rub your face in the mud.”

  “I will k—”

  Gath rubbed his face in the mud, then pulled it out again. “I can keep this up for hours. I can rub all the skin off, so you’ll have a red beard to match your hair, and everyone will know how you got it—”

  Vork squirmed helplessly, scrabbling with his free hand to find something to hurt. “I don’t care what you do to me, I’ll kill you afterward. I will kill you kill you kill you!”

  Any wriggle he made, Gath could counter before he even tried, and yet the image of him winning grew stronger. The kid was about to lose his temper and then Gath lost the battle. More ruthless! He pushed Vork’s face hard in the mud and held it there. He bit his ear to get his attention.

  “Listen to me! I’m bigger’n you, and I’m a seer. You never had a hope. I could probably beat your father, even, given enough time. He could never lay a boot on me, and I’d wear him out. D’ you hear me?” He let the kid take a breath.

  “Kill you!”

  Back in the mud. “I’m a seer. You can’t ever beat me. You are not going to Nintor. Your dad is not going to Nintor.” Gath gave him a moment to think about it, and the possibility that Vork would win suddenly faded
away to nothing,

  Gath let him breathe again.

  He choked out a jugful of mud and said, “Truth?”

  “Swear it by God of. I’m the better fighter?” Reluctantly Vork muttered, ”Yes.”

  Gath stood up. He offered a hand. He was a mess, but when Vork scrambled to his feet also, he was an awesome apparition, and it was too soon to laugh.

  Then came the strangest moment in the whole strange day, at least as far as Gath’s prescience reached. Vork grabbed his hand, squeezed it, pumped it. He grinned, showing white teeth in mud, and his green eyes were shining in mud. ”You won! Thought you would. Glad that’s over. Buddies?”

  And that was when Gath said, “Buddies. This is what you wanted?”

  And Vork would explain that of course he’d wanted to be buddies all along, but jotnar couldn’t be buddies until they’d found out which one was the better fighter.

  Crazy! “Then let’s clean up and go have that beer.” Vork hesitated, impressed. “Serious?”

  “Dead serious,” Gath said. “I want your help, kinsman-buddy.”

  They found a pump and cleaned up. The water was even browner than the stuff in the streets, but it took most of the mud off. Then Gath set off as fast as he could stride, with Vork almost trotting to keep up and babbling questions by the score, as if he’d been bottling them up for weeks. He wanted to know all about Krasnegar and howcum the jotnar there would accept a queen ruling over them, or failing her a faun. He wanted to hear about the goblins. He was a different boy altogether. It was weird.

  “There’s a place,” he said. “What’s wrong with that one? Where’re we going?”

  “We’re going to the True Men and we haven’t got much time.”

  “Where? Why? What’re you planning?”

  “Just wait and see. Do what I tell you to do and you’re going to learn why you’re not going to go to Nintor.” Except he almost certainly was.