Dave Duncan – The Living God – A Handful of Men. Book 4

In sudden alarm, Gath quickened his pace, eyes scanning the green slopes ahead, squinting against the low sun. Where were his guides? He had no idea what the Commonplace looked like-Thewsome had just said he couldn’t miss it. If he did miss it, he was going to seem like a complete idiot. Worse! He would look like a coward! There was nobody else in sight. He was completely alone.

He began to run.

Then he forced himself to drop back to a fast walk again. Panic would not help, and he certainly did not want to arrive panting and sweating. Peek again—Yes! He was going to find it!

And there it was. Couldn’t have missed it, even without prescience. He’d mistaken it for a hillock, but it was too regular to be natural, a flattish dome with grass growing over it. In a few minutes he was going to notice that the turf had been trampled by many feet, converging into a path. Recently, too. The entrance was a low cave mouth in the south side. The Commonplace looked very much like some ancient, forgotten tomb.

The future inside it was a blank, meaning it was shielded, so there was no mistake, this must be the Commonplace. The first danger, Twist-Thewsome had said, was that he might not be allowed in, for he was not a sorcerer.

Horribly conscious of his pounding heart, Gath raised his chin and strode toward the doorway. Dad would approve, wouldn’t he? He could hear nothing except the wind in the grass. He could see nothing within except darkness.

He stumbled down a gritty slope and stopped when the passage widened into a chamber. Not even a sound of breathing broke the age-old silence. A quick peek of prescience told him there were people there, though. They were probably all looking at him. He was against the light of the door, and sorcerers could see in the dark anyway. He could see nothing of them. He waited. The air was icy cold and earthy-smelling, the ceiling oppressively low.

Dazzled from staring into the sun, his eyes took a moment to adapt. Then he began to make out a spectral shape glimmering before him, a glowing outline of a head . . . Argh!

Sorcery? No, trickery! It was only a man, lit from behind by a single beam of sunlight. His hair and beard and bare shoulders burned with golden fire and the rest was darkness. He must be even bigger than Thewsome.

“Who comes?” he demanded

Gath jumped and clenched his fists. There was no echo. Why not even the sound of breathing from the onlookers? “Who comes?” demanded that voice again, louder, more threatening. It was a deep, very male voice.

Never in his life, Gath thought, had he ever been really scared before. Not like this.

“Gath.” Twist must have told them he was coming.

“Who?”

God of Courage! Why had Twist not given him more instructions? Gath took a deep breath. Might as well be hung for a horse as a pony, Dad always said.

“I am Atheling Gathmor of Krasnegar, son of Thane . . . son of Rap Thaneslayer.” Was that stupid or smart? He swallowed with difficulty and added, “I come in peace.”

“You’d surely scare the piss out of me if you didn’t!” Sniggers ran off into the darkness.

That had been another voice, a youth’s voice, or a woman’s.

Gath’s eyes were adjusting to the gloom. The circular chamber was about ten paces across. He could see the shapes of people—vaguely, just indications of pale jotunn chests, silver hair. They were sitting all around the walls, on a bench, perhaps, tightly packed together. Some were smaller and darker than others, more covered—women?

“Gods’ bullocks!” roared the very large man—a very angry one, too—standing in the center. “Stripling, you blunder in where you are not invited. State your business or pay the penalty!”

Where in the Name of the Good was Twist? He had not warned Gath of any of this. Perhaps he had not known what to expect, because of the shielding. He had certainly not suggested having a speech ready.

Wiser not to. Would have scared him away completely. The sheep and the wolves. The herd and the pack. The pack was united, loyal to Zinixo and the Covin. The free sorcerers had no leader, Twist had said. Being jotnar, they would take hours to choose one, if they could ever agree, and by then it might be too late.

That was why Gath was here. He was to be a rallying point, a symbol. Bait.

Faces were becoming visible-unfriendly faces. Yes, some women. Some very old men. One or two hale warriors. Several cripples, but still Gath’s frantic searching had not located Twist. Not a smile in the place.

“Come here!” demanded the man in the middle of the chamber. He was standing on a low slab, of course. Even without that, he was big, his flaxen head almost touching the stones of the ceiiing. His glare was visible now. Gath had often seen its like in Krasnegar, and blood had always flowed right after.

A few firm strides put him directly in front of the speaker, and his eyes were lower than the giant’s furry chest. The sunlight was shining in through a shaft in the roof, and now it stabbed over the man’s shoulders into Gath’s eyes.

“Say what you expect of me, son of Rap Thaneslayer!” Gath breathed a silent prayer. This was going to be suicide! He looked up defiantly. “I want you to do homage.”

“To you?” roared the jotunn.

“To my da— I will accept your homage to, er, for my father, who is leader of the battle against the Alm . . . the dwarf . . .” Gath swallowed again and wiped sweat out of his eyes. Why was he so wet outside and dry inside? He desperately wanted to peek at the future, but his prescience would be detected and might seem like cowardice.

The jotunn raised a fist the size of a small anvil, right in front of Gath’s nose. “Tell me why I should kneel to you, boy!”

Speech!

Gath put his hands on his hips and shouted up at him. “Would you sooner kneel to a dwarf? You know the war that hangs over us! Some of you here are votaries of the usurper and are planning to enslave all the rest of you. Your only hope of remaining free people is to join the army my dad leads. Him and the imperor and the wardens against the dwarf.” Gods, this was coming out all muddled! He should never have mentioned the imperor! “The Protocol doesn’t protect the jotn . . . us . . . anymore. If the thanes go to war this time, they’ll be fighting against sorcery. My dad has promised a new protocol, which will stop votarism. You can trust him. I want you to help. He’s fighting for freedom. Your freedom, too.”

Gods, that had sounded really awful! He’d fouled it all up! Why hadn’t Twist warned him he would have to make a speech?

“That’s it?” the big man snarled, his breath reeking of fish and sour beer.

“That’s it!” Gath said, and braced himself to be knocked senseless.

“Sounds like a smart move.” The big man stepped back, off the plinth. “Get up there.”

Bewildered, fighting not to use his prescience, Gath stepped up on the flat rock. The sunbeam dazzled him. He felt shamefully shaky and his eyes were still not level with the sorcerer’s, but then the big man dropped to his knees and raised his great hands, palms together as if in prayer.

“I am Drugfarg son of Karjiarg and I am your father’s man,” he said loudly.

For a heart-stopping moment Gath stared down at those huge hands, while his mind whirled in search of the correct response. He found it in a faint memory of one of the fairy-tale plays that Kadie wrote and made all her friends perform at Winterfest. The words he would have to invent, but he recalled the gesture. Kadie knew all that sort of stuff.

He clasped Drugfarg’s hands between his own. His were colder.

“In the name of my father, Rap Thaneslayer, I accept your homage, Drugfarg son of Karjiarg.”

The giant waited.

There was more? Oh, yes. Gath bent to grip the sorcerer’s meaty elbow and raise him. Of course he could no more have truly lifted Drugfarg than he could have drunk the Winter Ocean, but that was the correct gesture. Drugfarg rose smoothly to his feet and stepped back without a smile or a word. He turned his back and walked away. Another man rose and came forward to take his place. Older and smaller, he also knelt before Gath and raised his hands.

“I am Gustiag son of Prakran and I am your father’s man.” Gath bent to clasp the hands. His mind turned cartwheels. He was accepting the homage of sorcerers! There must be sixty or seventy of them in this chamber.