The Middle of Nowhere

by Paul B. Thompson

  Dead warriors were stripped of their weapons and armor, and these were distributed to the victors. Wilf found himself sporting a bronze helmet and short iron sword. Raika and Robien reorganized the tired villagers, passing out praise and criticism in equal measure.

  “Bloody fools!” Raika raged. “Didn’t you hear Sir Howland’s order to keep down? Charging a pair of archers! Some of you weren’t even armed!”

  “We beat them, didn’t we?” Caeta answered proudly.

  The Saifhumi woman had to admit they had.

  Water was fetched from the well. Everyone gulped down as much as they could, cutting the dust from their throats and soothing the fire in their breasts. They’d beaten off two attacks today. Small ones, to be sure, but they had done it!

  Howland and Robien went back to the well and stood atop the wall. From there the Knight could see the bandit army had concentrated into three distinct groups, one south of the village, one northwest, and one due east. The aimless riding and horn blowing ceased.

  Stillness fell over the plain. Dust settled. Howland got down. He leaned both hands on the well wall and sighed.

  “What is it?” asked Robien, though he had an idea.

  “The pointless demonstrations are over. Rakell has returned,” Howland said. Dipping his hands into the bucket, he splashed cold water over his face. “Now the real battle begins.”

  By dusk, the stifling calm had held for half a day. Formations of bandit horsemen rode away, leaving smaller bands to pitch camp in plain sight of the village.

  Wounds were washed and bound, and the evening meal was prepared. A kind of unnatural lethargy took hold of the farmers. The euphoria of fighting off their enemies had passed, leaving in its wake the numbing realization the fight would go on, tomorrow, the day after, maybe as long as anyone on either side remained alive.

  Howland convened a council around the well before the first stars of night appeared. All his people were there along with the leaders of the village: Caeta, Wilf, the elder women and men, and old Calec, alone still full of fighting spirit.

  Howland explained the situation. They’d driven off two haphazard attacks, undertaken, he believed, by some junior leader of the bandits. Now Lord Rakell was present, and things had settled down.

  “Don’t let the lull fool you,” he told them. “When Rakell moves, things will be different. If he’s any commander at all, he’ll use every weapon in his arsenal against us.”

  “Will the ogres come too?” asked Caeta.

  Howland nodded solemnly.

  She shuddered.

  “What can we do, then? Have we any chance of survival, let alone of winning?” Robien said.

  Howland hooked his thumbs in his shirtfront and gazed at the fire. “We do.”

  Farmers and mercenaries alike exchanged looks of wonder.

  “Ten days ago you believed we were doomed,” the Elder rasped. “Why, now, do you think we can win?”

  “A good general must understand his enemy,” Howland replied. “Seeing them fight today, I understand them better now. Rakell rules them with an iron hand. His men must fear him. I’m counting on that. I myself will deal with Rakell.”

  “You can’t hope to negotiate!” Raika said. “Not with murderers who shoot down children!”

  “I will not negotiate.”

  Howland was silent for a long time, thinking. The others debated with increasing anger, as everyone proposed his own wild scheme to win.

  Carver said, “If we can take a few prisoners alive, we can make them tell us where the gold mine is!”

  “There’s no gold mine!” Wilf retorted.

  “If his warriors grow weary of Rakell’s rule, perhaps we can turn them,” Robien suggested. “If only a dozen desert, it will discourage the rest.”

  “The ogres—!” Caeta began once more.

  “Be silent!” Howland said suddenly. His voice was like a thunderclap. Even Carver shut his mouth for once.

  To Robien, Howland asked, “How does one kill a poisonous snake?”

  “Strike off the head.”

  No sooner had the bounty hunter spoken, than he, Raika, Amergin, and Khorr all perceived Howland’s plan.

  “Strike off the head!” the minotaur repeated. “A classic notion. In The Lay of the Blue Dragon, the hero Zadza frees the minotaurs of the Scarlet Isle by beheading the vile beast Murmoroc.”

  “This is no time for poetry,” Raika said.

  “On the contrary, I would like to hear the tale of Zadza,” said Howland, leaning back against the well. “In brief prose, if you please, Khorr.”

  The minotaur spread his big hands. “Your loss, friends! The Lay of the Blue Dragon is a wonderful piece, 1,629 septameters in five cantos …” Khorr sighed, sending a shower of sparks skyward from the campfire.

  “The climax of the story is thus: Zadza, unable to defeat Murmoroc in open battle, stages his own death. The minotaur tribe of the Scarlet Isle send supplicants to the dragon, begging for mercy. Murmoroc agrees, if the minotaurs send ten females and ten males to him as sacrifices. Unable to offer resistance, they sadly agree.

  “Twenty-one minotaurs show up at the dragon’s lair—”

  “Twenty-one?” said Caeta. “Why not twenty?”

  “I can guess,” Howland said, smiling. “Zadza was the twenty-first.”

  “Yes! You know the poem?” Khorr asked.

  “No, but I recognize the tactics. Go on.”

  “Zadza comes disguised as a funerary priest. While he burns incense and sprinkles the water of death over the twenty sacrificial victims, he lulls Murmoroc into inattentiveness.”

  “And then?” said Carver, rapt.

  “He cuts off the dragon’s head with his axe,” said Khorr.

  The kender applauded.

  Howland said, “Very good. That’s just what I have in mind.” He beamed at all the puzzled faces. Turning to the Elder Calec he added, “You’re going to help me.”

  “Help you what?”

  “Cut off the dragon’s head.”

  Night passed, tense but quiet. The black landscape outside the village was alive with glimmering campfires, tiny red flames winking like the eyes of a hundred wolves, patiently haunting a beleaguered herd. Howland and Robien checked the defenses constantly, keeping the farmers on guard awake with jokes, threats, and an occasional slap or kick. Howland did not rest until an hour or so before dawn when he sat down, back against the well, dozing until cock’s crow.

  He arose seemingly refreshed, and called his people together. Robien was never far from him now. Amergin, who wouldn’t sleep in an artificial structure, slept under a spindly apple tree in the common. When Howland called, he rolled to his feet, coughed once, and came swiftly. Carver had to be called four times not because he was still asleep but because he was eating. He appeared before his commander munching a hot barley cake, two more tucked under his arms.

  Khorr, clothes damp with mud from having spent the night in the trench, guzzled a bucket of water before he could speak. Hardest of all to rouse was Raika. She passed the night on her bedroll in the midst of her spear company, but when the sun rose, she was the last to stir. The busy cacophony of morning broke around her, and she never cracked an eye.

  “I can wake her,” Carver vowed. He held up a gray chicken feather.

  Howland’s brows climbed high. “You live dangerously, kender!”

  “I don’t think he wants to live at all,” Khorr growled.

  With a supercilious smirk, Carver strolled to the sleeping Raika. His band of village children gathered round the kender wherever he went. When they saw their leader, feather in hand, standing over Raika, they burst out in fits of giggling. Not even their shrill merriment disturbed the Saifhumi woman.

  “Sir, about today’s action—” Robien began.

  Howland, watching Carver intently, held up a hand. “Wait.”

  The kender squatted down, looking over the sleeping woman for exposed skin. She had a blanket drawn up to her eyes, covering her
nose, chin, ears, and neck. He moved to the other end. Three dusky toes protruded from the hem of the blanket. Carver gave his weapon a final flourish, and applied it to Raika’s toes.

  Her foot twitched, like a horse shrugging off a pesky fly. Carver waited until Raika stopped moving then swished the feather back and forth under her exposed toes. This time she brought her right foot over and violently scratched the tickled spot with her other big toe.

  Carver frowned, gazing at the uncovered sole of Raika’s right foot. He drew the feather down once, up, and down again, all the time watching for her eyes to open.

  With the speed of a striking hawk, Raika’s leg lashed out, catching Carver in the chest. He flew a good six feet before landing spreadeagled on his back. The chicken feather drifted slowly to the ground between them. The whippik company drew in a collective breath when they saw their fearless commander struck down, but their shock soon gave way to delight, and the children laughed uproariously.

  So did Howland. He slapped Khorr on his broad back and laughed till tears slid down his mustache.

  Amidst all the gaiety, Raika got up. Her eyes were screwed nearly shut, but she threw off the blanket and strode to the well, not speaking to anyone until she’d taken a dipper of water.

  “Is the pest alive?” she said.

  The village children hauled Carver to his feet. His eyes were rolled back. The older children marched him around to clear his scrambled head.

  “Alive he is,” said Khorr, “but not very happy, I’ll wager.”

  “He plays any more tricks on me and I’ll make him truly unhappy!”

  “You were awake?” said Robien.

  She waved at the tumult around them. “Who could sleep through this?”

  Now that the morning comedy was done, Howland assembled his troops. In short, simple terms, he explained their situation as he saw it and what he proposed to do about it.

  “The enemy outnumbers us, is better armed, and has more experience. They can move where they will and fight when they want to,” he began.

  “Maybe we should just surrender,” Raika muttered.

  “I don’t advise it. If not massacred, we and all the villagers would likely end up slaves, working in Rakell’s iron mine.”

  Raika said sourly, “I withdraw the suggestion!”

  Howland continued. “We can fight until we do enough damage to Rakell’s force that he decides to quit, but I don’t think that’s in his character.”

  “Why?” asked Khorr. “Surely a good commander knows when to leave a losing battle?”

  “This is a wild band, an army of deserters and cutthroats. A man like Rakell rules by delivering success to his men. If he fails, his men will desert him in droves or might even murder him and elect a new, more ruthless leader.” Howland looked at the bandit camp in plain sight south of the village. “On the other hand, as in Khorr’s tale of Zadza, an outmatched opponent can sometimes win by striking off the head of the dragon, and in this case, we must try to kill Rakell and as many of his lieutenants as possible. Without leadership, the bandits may fly apart like dandelion blossoms in a spring breeze.”

  Baldly stated, Howland’s plan sounded simple—but impossible.

  “You say that awfully easily, old man!” Raika protested. “Do you expect us to cut our way through four score bandits and ask Rakell to stand still while we lop off his head?”

  “A direct assault won’t work. We wouldn’t reach Rakell’s tent, much less the man himself.” Khorr asked, “How can it be done?”

  “Three of us will go,” Howland said. “We’ll ask for a parley and present ourselves to the enemy. When the time is right, we’ll draw daggers and slay Rakell where he stands.”

  “Is that honorable?” said Khorr.

  “No,” replied Howland quietly, “but it is necessary.”

  “The three’ll be slaughtered!” Raika burst out.

  Howland was silent.

  “Count me out!” she said. “I’m not volunteering for a suicide mission! I prefer to take my chances here.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask for volunteers,” Howland said evenly. “I have three in mind already.” All eyes were on him. “Myself, Amergin, and Ezu.”

  Amergin showed no surprise, no expression at all. The other misfit mercenaries were thunderstruck. Carver looked visibly relieved, fanning himself happily. Honorable or not, Khorr was clearly downcast that he had not been asked to go. Suicide missions were dangerous, yes, but the stuff of great poetry.

  Raika, surprisingly, did not rant or rave. Instead, she asked, “Amergin I understand, but Ezu? He’s not a warrior—he’s not even one of us! No one knows where he is half the time!”

  Indeed no one had seen the traveler since yesterday. They assumed he’d hidden during the fighting.

  “Surely I would be a better choice, Sir Howland,” Robien said quietly.

  “No. You would be a better choice to command in my absence.” The words ‘when I’m dead’ floated unspoken in the air.

  “Why Ezu?” said Khorr, puzzled. “What good can he possibly do?”

  The old Knight said. “Since we go pretending we want only to talk, Ezu’s very appearance will serve to convince Rakell we’re up to no mischief. After all, who would attempt anything grave with so foolish-looking a companion?”

  Robien folded his arms and said to his fellow Kagonesti, “What do you say, Amergin?”

  “I am in debt to Sir Howland,” the forester replied. “I said I would follow him till this fight was over. If he means to walk into the enemy commander’s tent with a dagger in his hat, I will go too.”

  Raika clucked her tongue in disgust. She mumbled something about “throwing your life away.”

  “How and when will you propose this parley?” asked the minotaur.

  “Late in the day. Twilight will help us, and the timing is important. It’s best to approach the enemy after fighting off one of their attacks. That will make it seem more as if we’re anxious to talk.” Howland smiled ruefully. “If we fight hard, they’ll be more willing to listen, too.”

  Horns resounded in the enemy camp. Dust billowed into the cloud-flecked sky.

  “Find Ezu and bring him to me,” Howland ordered the kender, who sprinted off.

  The mercenaries dispersed to their waiting troops. Khorr’s trench fighters cheered loudly when the towering bull-man returned. In contrast, Raika’s spearmen cringed as she approached, shouting orders in her harsh, grating voice.

  “Fire burns, no matter what the color,” Robien said, observing the different ways his comrades led their contingents. Howland did not hear him. He was watching the enemy.

  A body of horsemen rode out from the bandits southern camp, maybe fifty strong. They came within a two hundred yards of Nowhere and halted, dismounting. The bandits, now on foot, arrayed themselves in a long, single line. Each man had a good-sized basket on the ground in front of him. Howland guessed what they held.

  “Send word all around the village!” Howland called, voice rising. “Expect arrows—lots of arrows!”

  Robien ran to pass along the Knight’s warning.

  The archers stepped through their bows, stringing the powerful staves with the ease of long practice, as Robien returned.

  Howland walked around the rim of the thick stone wall surrounding the well, scarcely looking where he put his feet. One misstep and he’d plunge sixty feet to the water.

  “The attack will come from the north or east,” he said. “The bowmen are only there to cover the main thrust—”

  Telltale streams of dust rose in the north. “There!” said Howland. “Warn Raika! Have her bring her spearmen to the north side!”

  Carver came jogging up, alone. “Can’t find him!” he gasped between breaths.

  “Ezu?”

  “Yes! I’ve looked everywhere. I can’t find him!”

  “Never mind. Get your whippikers in position on the north side of the village. That’s where the brigands will hit us.”

  Carver start
ed to leave.

  “And watch out for archers!”

  He shrugged, smiled in his careless way, and went to round up his young charges.

  “Sir Howland,” Robien said. “What happens if the bandits choose to attack us on two sides at once? We don’t have enough people to battle on two fronts.”

  “I know,” was all the former Knight would say.

  “What do we do?”

  “Fight harder.”

  Howland jumped down. It wasn’t far, but the landing staggered him. Robien stepped forward to brace his commander, but Howland pushed him away.

  “It’s nothing,” he said brusquely. “Old bones. Fatigue.” He pointed to the distant bowmen. “Stay here and watch them. If they start our way, or if other troops join them, fetch Khorr and his men from the trench.”

  “Yes, Sir Howland.”

  The bandits coming down from the north camp also got off their horses well out of sling and whippik range. There were between thirty and forty of them, armed with swords and shields. Their lances they left with their animals. Even more could have joined the attack, but every tenth man held the reins of the horses his comrades left behind. Seeing this gave Amergin an idea.

  “Sir Howland,” he said. “Horses …?”

  He saw at once what the forester meant. “How many will you need?”

  The Kagonesti wrinkled his nose. “Four.”

  “Take six, young, strong ones.”

  Amergin nodded, and dashed away.

  From behind, the defenders heard the twang of bowstrings, followed by the hum of arrows in flight. To a man, the farmers flung themselves on the ground, arms over their heads. The first volley of arrows landed outside the ring of huts. The second buried themselves in the thatched roofs.

  “Get up, you worms!” Raika cried, kicking Bakar in the rump. He yowled and leaped to his feet, incensed. Raika folded her arms and stood nose to nose with the outraged farmer.

  “You have something to say?”

  “Yes!” he declared, not without a quaver.

  The third volley of arrows sprouted along the edge of the common.