Duncan,Dave - A Hand Full of Men 3 - The Stricken Fields

The Stricken Field

Book 3 of A Handful of Men

By Dave Duncan

ISBN: 0-345-38874-7

PROLOGUE

A blustery wind ripped and buffeted at the old house, making roof creak and casements rattle.

Clouds streamed through the night sky and played tag with the moon. The air smelled of rain

now, not snow; spring lurked outside in the damp woods.

The old woman wandered the empty galleries, clutching a dancing candle in knotted fingers.

She listened to the whisper of the Voices and cackled at their amusement and their joy.

"Coming, is he?" she said. "Well, you said he would." She paused, thinking she had heard a

living sound, but there was nothing more. It might have been the child, restless with a new

tooth, perhaps. It might have been the soldier. She had forgotten his name, they all just

called him Centurion. He prowled at night, sometimes, but the Voices warned her where he

was and she avoided him. Dangerous, that one.

The Voices were joyful tonight. The duke was coming, they said, coming to claim his lady,

coming to fulfill his destiny as they had known he would, these many years.

She wasn't aware of it yet, the lady- didn't know he was coming. Pretty, she was. Lovely as a

dream, even if she was mother to the brat. And cold. The old couple had a name for her, but

they called her Ma'am when they thought they weren't overheard. They were a count and

countess, so what did that make the lady, that they would be so respectful toward her? She

had a husband somewhere. Not the duke. Husbands had never stopped lovers much, now, had

they?

The old folk wouldn't either. Nor the centurion. The Voices knew that.

Cold, she was, but a lover would soon melt the ice. He was on his way at last, the duke.

Coming to claim his lady, his destiny. And hers. The Voices knew.

Wind rattled the casements.

ONE

Auld acquaintances

1

Lord Umpily had never experienced anything in his life as bad as the dungeon. He did not

know how long he had been lying there, alone in the cold, stinking darkness, but when he

heard the clatter of chains and locks and saw the flicker of light through the peephole in the

door and could guess that they had come to take him away ... well, then he did not want to

leave.

Probably he had been there for no more than a week, although it felt like at least a month.

In the darkness and silence he would have welcomed even a rat or two for company, but the

only other residents were the tiny, manylegged kind. He itched all over; there was a lot of

him to itch. He had developed sores from lying on the hard stone, for the straw provided was

rotten and scanty. He had lost count of meals, but they seemed to come only every second

day, or perhaps twice a week. He had passed the time mostly in thinking of some of the great

banquets he had attended in his time, mulling them over in his mind, dish by dish. When he

had exhausted even that fund of entertainment, he began reviewing all his favorite recipes,

planning the perfect meal, the one he would arrange in celebration were he ever to be

restored to court and a normal existence again.

The mental torment was much worse than the physical. He was no stranger to hardship. As

advisor to the prince imperial, he had journeyed with Shandie to almost every corner of the

Impire, living in the saddle for weeks on end, bedding in army camp or hedgerow hostel. He

had survived forests and deserts, blizzards and breakers-he had never tasted anything worse

than this prison gruel, though. At least on those expeditions he had understood why he was

there and what he was doing. Life had made sense then, and even if warfare itself sometimes

seemed nonsensical, there had always been the consolation that he was helping a future

imperor learn his trade.

He wondered how Shandie was managing now, deposed and dispossessed within minutes of his

accession, a hunted outlaw battling omnipotent sorcery. Ironically, when Legate Ugoatho

arrested Umpily, he had not ordered him searched, and the magic scroll still nestled safely in

the inside pocket of his doublet. Writing in the dark was trickier than he had expected, but he

had scrawled a warning that his spying days were ended. Disregard future communications! He

could not tell if Shandie had received the message or had replied.

Always Umpily's thoughts would return to the dread vision he had seen in the preflecting

pool. That prophecy had been fulfilled. A dwarf now sat on the Opal Throne. After more

than three thousand years the Impire had fallen, and almost no one knew it. With its

immense occult power, the Covin had overthrown the Protocol, deposed the wardens,

replaced the imperor, and yet had managed to hide the truth from the world. The sorcerous

would know the secret, of course, or most of it-practically all of them had been conscripted

into the Covin anyway-but no mundanes did, except for a tiny handful. Zinixo undoubtedly

intended to keep his triumph secret indefinitely. What would he do to those who knew it?

Umpily was about to find out. Light flickered outside the spy hole, chains rattled, the lock

squeaked.

Blinded by the lanterns, he was dragged along a corridor and up a flight of stairs. When the

cruel hands were removed, he toppled limply to a bare plank floor.

"Oh, you needn't be so formal," said an odious, familiar voice.

Umpily forced himself to his hands and knees. Squinting, he made out a pair of smart

military sandals in front of him, and shiny greaves above them. "How long?" he croaked.

"How long have I been in there?"

"A little more than a day."

Aghast, Umpily registered the reflection on the polished bronze before him. Thinned down

by the curvature until it seemed narrow and bony, his own face stared back at him. It wore no

beard. He felt his chin and found only stubble. One day?

"The imperor wants to see you," Ugoatho said. "Can you stand?"

Grimly, grunting with the. effort, Umpily heaved his bulk upright. His eyes were adjusting,

even if his mind would not. Swaying, he stared at the hard, hateful face of Legate . . . no, not

Legate. His cuirass was set with gems and gold inlay. The horsehair crest on the helmet was

scarlet. Legate Ugoatho had been promoted.

"Congratulations. Was I responsible for that?"

The new marshal of the armies had a grim chuckle. "Partly. I was told to bring you at once,

but nobody said anything about passengers."

"Passengers?"

Ugoatho wrinkled his nose. "Wash him!" he snapped. He spun around and headed for the

door.

The court was still in mourning for Emshandar IV Statues and pictures were draped in black

crepe. The corridors and halls were almost deserted, and spooky in scanty candlelight. Apart

from that, the palace seemed eerily normal. There were no dwarves in sight. Guards,

secretaries, footmen ... mercifully few spectators saw Lord Umpily being conducted to the

imperial presence.

The clothes that had been found for him were absurdly tight. He could not fasten the doublet,

and he was certain things would rip if he tried to sit down. His escort of Praetorian Guards

could have no inkling that they served an imposter. Umpily would be dismissed as a raving

lunatic if he ever tried to explain that the imperor he was being taken to see was not Shandie,

but his cousin Prince Emthoro, sorcerously disguised.

In silence the prisoner was conducted across the great expanse of the Throne Room, deserted

and huge. There was no sign of Marshal Ugoatho. The usual challenges and responses were

proclaimed, all very normal, and then the big door swung open, and Umpily was ushered

through into the Cabinet.

This part of the palace dated from the XVth Dynasty. The Throne Room was for show, the

Cabinet was the inner sanctum. A score of imperors had ruled the world from this room.

Emshandar had sat at that great desk for half a century, and his grandson had ruled there for

half a year as unofficial regent in the old man's last decline. He had never had a chance to sit

there in his own right as Emshandar V.

Defiance! Umpily thought. I know he is a fraud, and he knows I know it. I will be true to my

loyalties. I will not concede.

The door closed. The big room was scented by the beeswax candles burning over the desk.

Heavy, soft shadows outside their oasis of golden light could not conceal the opulence of the

chamber-fine carved woods, fabrics of silk. Peat smoldered in the hearth, adding its friendly

odor to the candles'. The fake imperor was alone, sitting at the desk, head resting on a hand,

studying one of the endless papers that flowed into this center of power. In a moment he

marked his place with a finger and looked up.

It was Shandie!

For a moment he seemed tired, and worried. Then a slow, familiar smile of welcome spread

over the nondescript features. He sprang to his feet.

"Umpy!"

Umpily's heart twisted in his chest. His eyelids prickled. Shandie-the real Shandie, Umpily

reminded himself-the real Shandie had not used that foolish diminutive in ten years. Back

when he had been an awkward, friendless adolescent, yes. Never since then.

Umpily hinted a bow. "Your Maj-Highness."

The fake Shandie winced. "Lord Umpily, then. What in the Name of Evil have they told

you?" He strode over, with Shandie's urgent walk. He spread his arms, as if to embrace his

visitor, then peered anxiously at him. "You're all right? Believe me, it was a mistake! I had

no idea the idiots would put you in a cell! `Find him,' I said. I meant that you needed help! I

never intended that you should be thrown in jail, old friend!"

"I am as well as could be expected, your Highness!" The imposter shook his head sadly,

disbelievingly. "Come and sit down."

He led the way over to a green kidskin sofa. Umpily eased himself onto it circumspectly.

Fabric strained, but held. His waistband tightened like a tourniquet. The disguised Emthoro

settled at his side, studying his visitor with obvious concern.

"Perhaps you'd better tell me exactly what you believe." Gods! It was Shandie to the life-an

ordinary-looking, serious young man, with nothing remarkable about him except a burning

intensity in his dark imp eyes.

"Believe?" Umpily said. "What I know of the truth, you mean?"

The imposter nodded. Shandie never wasted words, either.

"You were ... his Majesty was sitting on the Opal Throne when word came of your, er, his

grandfather's death. We were rehearsing the enthronement. The warden of the north

appeared and warned you, him . . ." Umpily went through the story, struggling to believe that

even sorcery could produce so perfect a likeness. Eyes, mouth, voice ... The telling was

unnecessary, but he kept talking, describing how North and West had acknowledged the new

imperor, but South and East had not appeared at all. The destruction of the four thrones, the

meeting with King Rap of Krasnegar and with Warlock Raspnex again, the escape to the Red

Palace and then to the boat ... It was old history, months old. The enemy must already know

far more than he did.

As he talked, Umpily was surprised to realize that he had another listener, back in the

shadows. Someone was sitting in the blue silk armchair to his left, although he had been

certain that there was no one else present when he came in. He glanced quickly that way, but

the chair was empty. He was quite alone with the incredibly convincing imposter. An odd

trick of the light ...

When the tale was done, the fake Shandie shook his head sadly.

"I knew it must be something like that. Shall I tell you what really happened?"

"Er ... Please do." The vague half-seen shape was back in the comer of Umpily's vision again.

If he looked directly at the blue armchair, it was empty.

The imperor sprang up and began to pace. "Ever since Emine set up the Protocol, three

thousand years ago, the wardens have ruled the world. Witches and warlocks, the Four have

been the power behind the Imperial throne, correct?"

Umpily nodded. The real Shandie would not move around like that when he talked. He sat

still always, inhumanly still.

"It is a terrible evil!"

"Evil, your Maj ... your Highness?"

The imposter paused to look at him with a raised eyebrow, then shrugged and continued his

restless pacing. "Yes, evil. If it is not evil, why does the Impire rule only part of Pandemia

and not all of it? We have a stable, prosperous civilization. The outlying races are for the

most part primitive, or even barbarous. They fight among themselves and between

themselves, constantly. Time and again we have tried to take the benefits of enlightened rule

to the lesser breeds. At some times and in some places we have succeeded-but only for a

while. Always we have been driven out again, although we have the greatest mundane

military power, and the greatest occult resources, also, in the Four. This does not make

sense, does it? Do you not see? Ostensibly the Four's job is to control the political use of

sorcery. But who controls them, mm? No one, of course! They play with us, Umpy!"

Again that long-discarded incivility! "Play with us?" "We are tokens in the longest-running

game in the universe. The Four amuse themselves by playing war games with mundane

mankind."

The only warden Umpily could claim to know even slightly was Warlock Olybino. As ruler

of the Imperial Army, East had certainly enjoyed playing at war. Umpily had not thought

the others did, though. He said nothing.

"At last one man arose who saw the terrible truth," Shandie continued. He paused and for a

moment seemed to be studying that mysterious blue chair in the shadows. "Twenty years ago,

a clear-thinking, peace-loving, wellmeaning young man succeeded to the Red Throne. You

know to whom I refer?"

"Warlock Zinixo?" Umpily did not recall the dwarf as clear-thinking, peace-loving, or

well-meaning. More like crazy, deluded, and murderous.

"Zinixo, correct. He became warden of the west, and resolved to stop this evil senseless

slaughter." ShandieEmthoro-resumed his restless movement to and fro. "He was very young.

Perhaps the others tolerated him at first because they thought he would grow out of what

they regarded as juvenile idealism. When they realized that he was serious in his intent, they

closed ranks against him. They ganged up on him. He was overthrown."

"I understood-"

Shandie nodded sadly. "They had help, yes. Even all together, the other three were not

strong enough to prevail against him, for he had the Good on his side, and the Gods. They

enlisted to their misbegotten cause a sinister, perverted accomplice-a sorcerer of frightful

capacity, a faun mongrel who went by the name of Rap." He spat the word, scowling.

"But he cured your grandfa-"

"A sadist!" Shandie shouted. "An evil, power-crazy barbarian, who mocked at law and flouted

the Protocol! With his help, the other three wardens overturned and dispossessed the rightful

warden of the west!" He paused and then smiled almost bashfully, as if ashamed of his strange

show of anger.

"Fortunately," he continued more softly, "the Blessed One survived. He was driven from

Hub, out into the darkness, but he did survive. For many years he gathered strength in secret,

never flagging in his dream of bringing justice and peace to all of Pandemia. Eventually, of

course, the Four learned of their danger. The events you witnessed in the Rotunda were a

frantic effort to impose their ancient evil system on yet another imperor-me!"

Umpily licked his lips and said nothing. This man might look exactly like Shandie, and his

voice might sound like Shandie's, but Shandie would never talk with such vehemence.

Neither, for that matter, would the foppish, languorous Emthoro, who had never been known

to work up a passion over anything or anyone: masculine, feminine, or neuter. Whoever this

Shandie-figure was, real or fake, he was not his own master.

"Hoping to forestall the reformer," the imperor continued, pausing for a moment by the

fireplace to adjust the Kerithian figurines on the mantel, "the Four chose to preempt the

enthronement ceremony. Two of them would be enough to confirm my accession, of course,

and even one of them could bind me to their will."

"But--"

"But you thought the imperor was sacrosanct? You thought the Protocol defended him

against all use of sorcery? Oh, you poor dupe! And yet millions of others have believed that

lie, for thousands of years. No, the imperor has always been a puppet of the Four. That was

why Raspnex and Grunth appeared in the Rotunda, as you saw. South and East were

elsewhere, attempting to hold off the Godly One long enough for the dwarf and troll to

complete the rite. When they failed, when they saw that they were not strong enough to

prevail, then they destroyed the four thrones. It was an act of desperation, and of

desecration."

The dwarf Raspnex had admitted doing that, or at least the faun had said he admitted ...

"My wife and I escaped in time," Shandie said, walking faster now. "You and a few others

were not so fortunate. One of those who fell into their clutches was my poor cousin, Prince

Emthoro. Do you understand? The dwarf sorcerer who stole you away cast an occult glamour

on him so that he appeared to be the rightful imperor! He believed it himself, of course, and

so did you, but neither of you is at fault. Whatever Warlock Raspnex may have told you, he

sought only to uphold an ancient evil, whose time has now-thank the Gods!-has now passed.

The man you thought to be me was actually Emthoro." The burning eyes turned back to

Umpily. "I do not blame you, old friend. You were deluded by a hideous evil."

Shandie? Umpily's heart had started to pound. He could feel sweat trickling down his ribs.

Which of the two was the real one? Had he been misled all this time? Had he betrayed his

best friend, his liege lord?

"Fortunately," Shandie said, smiling grimly, "there is little harm done. Their mischief was of

no avail, except to deceive you and a few who were with you. I reign, as you see. The Four

are all still at large, but we shall run them down in time, and they will suffer for their own sins

and the sins of all their uncounted predecessors, back for three thousand years. The Almighty

is with us."

Umpily shot a quick glance at that blue chair. It was empty. When he looked back at Shandie

again, it wasn't. "But you did have an enthronement . . ."

"You were there?" Shandie looked surprised, annoyed, and then amused, in fast succession.

"My, you are a dedicated old snoop, aren't you? Well, yes, we did. And yes, it was a total

fake. It seemed wisest to follow the ancient practices until the people can be educated in the

new ways. That's all. Why not?"

"S-s-sire?"

Shandie's smile broadened at the word. "After all, what they don't know won't worry them.

Not everyone will understand the truth at first. People can be misled so easily ... even

yourself. What you thought you knew was not very probable, now was it?"

"No, Sire!" Gods, what a fool he had been! What a witless, misguided, idiot!

Shandie waved his fists overhead in triumph. "And we shall prevail! The Almighty is with us,

and we are his chosen vessels! Can you see the glorious future that awaits us, Umpy? No

more will the evil Four crouch in their webs and roll dice with human lives. We are blessed

among all generations! We shall see the Impire spread out to the four oceans and all men

shall know the benefits of universal peace and tranquility. Did you meet the faun?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Did he .. ." Shandie was suddenly very intent. "Did he display his powers at all?"

"Very little. He made some garments. He claims that he is only a very weak sorcerer now,

Sire."

The imperor nodded, as if that were a satisfying piece of confirmation. "Mm? But do we

believe him, eh? Well, no matter. Time will tell."

With difficulty, Umpily heaved himself to his feet. He had been cut almost in half by his belt

and it was wonderful to breathe again.

Shandie threw an arm around his shoulders. "I shall be the first imperor to rule all the world!

And you are my first and truest friend!"

Umpily was blinded by tears. He had never known Shandie to display such emotion-but

justifiably, of course! No more wars? Universal justice and prosperity! It was a staggering,

awe-inspiring concept.

"Sire, Sire! I have been a fool!"

"But no real harm done. You have missed a few good meals, I expect."

"Worse! I have been tattling all this time to the imposter!" Hurriedly he pulled the little roll

from his pocket. "This is a magic scroll, Sire. The imposter has its companion--"

Shandie snatched the parchment and opened it. His face darkened. "He limns a fair version of

my hand, doesn't he?"

Umpily had often found his ability to read upside down to be a useful knack. In the brief

moment before Shandie rolled up the scroll again, he had made out the message: I am

grateful. The Good be with you.

Insolence! That the evil charlatan should have the gall to invoke the Good! The scroll

always managed a superb forgery of Shandie's handwriting, of course.

"I shall hang on to this," Shandie said thoughtfully. "Have you any idea where we might find

him?"

"None, Sire. I left them all on the boat. I suspected that they were heading for the north

shore."

"And long since departed elsewhere! Well, no matter. They can cause little trouble ... Can

they? I wonder what they think they can accomplish. Did you hear any of their vile

plotting?"

"Oh, yes! They talk of setting up a new protocol."

"A what?" Shandie almost never showed his feelings, but now he turned quite pale with shock.

"A new protocol, Sire! They hope to bribe all the, er, unattached sorcerers in the world to

rally to their cause by promising a new order."

The imperor spun around and stared for a long moment at that ominous blue chair. He licked

his lips. "New order? Was this the faun's idea?"

"Yes, sir."

"Of course! And what exactly is he promising?" Umpily tried to remember all the crazy ideas

that had been tossed around on the ferryboat. "They will outlaw votarism, Sire. No sorcerer,

even a warden, will be allowed to bind another to his will. They hope to establish sorcery as a

force for good in the world . . ."

Shandie laughed, rather shrilly. "Well, I wish them luck! The attempt should keep them out

of any real mischief, and we shall catch them soon enough. I feel sorry for my poor cousin.

When we catch him, he will be restored to his wits and given full pardon. The Four will meet

their just deserts. And that faun . . ." He stared again at the blue chair. He did not complete

the thought, but Umpily shivered.

"It is good to have you back in our councils, old friend," the imperor said. "I have convinced

you? No qualms now?"

"None, Sire! None at all." Oh, what a fool he had been to trust a dwarf and a faun!

"That's good. And should you, in your dallying around the court, hear of any others voicing

doubts, or criticism ... of course you will inform us at once." Again Shandie put an arm

around Umpily, a most unusual gesture for him. The audience was over, they were heading

for the door. "You will not speak of the Almighty One." That sounded like a statement of

fact. "And your old quarters at Oak House are still as they were. We must find somewhere for

you in the palace itself-and I don't mean a dungeon! Now I shall let you go. If I know you, a

small repast will be uppermost in your thoughts after that unfortunate misunderstanding."

With Shandie's familiar quiet chuckle, the imperor bade his old friend farewell.

2

Far to the north, near the eastern end of the Pondague Range, a galaxy of twinkling

campfires nestled within the Kribur Valley. The winter dark was raucous with guttural male

voices; the crackle of firewood blended with horses' whinnies and the scream of dying

captives.

The goblin horde under Death Bird had met up with the dwarvish army led by General Karax.

Now the leaders were planning a combined advance southward, into the heart of the Impire.

Four legions had been slaughtered in the last two weeks and there were no more in the

vicinity. The road to Hub was unguarded; the capital lay naked and vulnerable as it had not

been in centuries.

The dwarvish end of the combined camp was an untidy city of tents, but goblins would sleep

under the sky, spurning this puny southern cold. The junction between the territories was an

uneasy border, for the two races had never worked together before and their ways were

different. Goblins sneered at the mailed dwarves and wondered aloud how fast those little legs

could run. Dwarvish nerves were strained by the noise of the goblins' barbarous amusement.

The alliance was fragile.

Near the frontier dividing the two forces, but within one of the dwarves' tents, Queen

Inosolan of Krasnegar was attending to her toilet with the aid of a bucket of icy water. As

she had lived in the same clothes for a week and had no clean garments to replace them, she

had little hope of doing much about her disgusting condition. She could do nothing about her

crushing exhaustion, either. She ached as she had never ached in her life. At fourteen, Gath

and Kadie were withstanding the rigors of fatigue better than their mother, but all three were

close to the breaking point.

The tent was shabby and well patched, typically dwarvish. It smelled bad, but it was roomy

enough. The floor was muddy grass, and there was no bedding. At least it was shelter-there

would be snow tonight, likely-and there was even a dreary little lantern, which qualified as a

luxury by dwarvish standards.

"Mom!" Kadie squealed, peering at something she held pinched between her finger and

thumb. "What's this?"

"If it's what I think it is, darling, it's a louse."

Kadie screamed and hurled the offending parasite from her.

Then she burst into tears.

Stripped to the waist, her twin brother Gath shivered over another bucket. He looked around

briefly, before remembering that he was supposed to keep his back turned.

"I've got fleas, as well," he remarked wryly. "Want to trade?"

Duncan, Dave - A Hand Full of Men 3 - The Stricken Fields

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