The Middle of Nowhere

by Paul B. Thompson

  Howland and Amergin were chivvied inside. The bandits ushered Ezu in with considerably more circumspection.

  Inside, the tent had a gaudy splendor. The ground was covered with thick carpet runners, brocaded in Nordmaar style. Brass and pewter lanterns, every one a different shape and size, hung at intervals overhead. Racks of spears and unstrung bows were sited at every turn, and the air was heavy with the smell of incense, spilled wine, and roasted meat.

  After three turns, Howland and his companions found themselves in the great room in the center of the tent. He quickly counted fourteen people in the room: nine men, four women, and a dwarf in a deep blue robe. The dwarf had a scale set up, and was weighing a smooth metal ingot. Since it was the wrong color for gold, Howland assumed it was iron from Rakell’s mine.

  Noticing the arrival of visitors, one man in the crowd stood. He was stocky and broad-shouldered, with prominent black brows and a nose pressed flat by too many years in a helmet. His black hair was salted with a little gray. Howland took him to be fifteen years his junior. Draped in black silk, he wore a heavy silver chain around his neck, and his fingers glittered with many rings. There was something about this man, though, that Howland almost recognized.…

  “General uth Ungen?” said the man, voice laden with irony.

  Howland did not respond immediately. The black-garbed man separated himself from his comrades and came to face Howland and the others.

  “I am Rakell,” he said. “You’ve put me to a great deal of trouble, do you know that?”

  “That is why I am here,” Howland returned.

  Rakell studied the old Knight’s face closely. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Brow furrowed, Howland said, “Have we met?”

  Rakell laughed loudly, displaying fine white teeth. “We once served the same master, Burnond Everride!”

  Howland shuddered as if struck. Recognition came to him in a flood. “You rode with Lord Burnond’s host!”

  “So did you. I was not known as Rakell then, nor were you a general.”

  Ezu, plainly curious, spoke up. “Sir Howland was a Knight of some repute.”

  “Quiet, popinjay! You’ve heard the tale ‘Sir Howland’ spun for you, no doubt.” Rakell turned to his minions. “See here what time and tide has accomplished, my friends!” He swept back to an ornate wooden chair and sat down. “I, who was once a prince of my Order, am now a prince of thieves, while Howland here, a sergeant in Lord Burnond’s guard, has become a general of farmers!”

  Amergin looked to his leader. Sergeant?

  “Sergeant was his highest rank. Did you think a true Knight of the Rose would deign to serve the Dark Order so readily?” Rakell laughed again. “When they brought me the note you wrote, I almost believed it. I knew someone with martial skills was directing the farmers! But a Knight? I consulted the rolls of the ancients orders and found no Howland uth Ungen.”

  Howland unbuckled his sword belt, saying nothing. He wrapped the leather strap around the scabbard and turned it over. The finial, a brass ball kept bright by constant rubbing, gleamed by lantern light.

  “So,” whispered Howland, “you know me. Then you did not ask us here to parley?”

  “Negotiate with a sergeant, a turncoat to his own people? Not hardly!” At Rakell’s nod, guards rose in a body, swords in hand. “You’ve made things difficult here, and I have troubles enough! A damnable red dragon holds me up for tribute … the mine needs workers, and there aren’t enough villages in the region to provide a full corps of diggers. However, once you’re dead, the farmers will lose heart and give in. All will be as it was.”

  Rakell’s captains seized Howland, Ezu, and Amergin. Howland tried to free the stiletto, but he was easily wrestled to the carpet by four younger, stronger warriors.

  “What are you waiting for? Kill him now,” Rakell said harshly.

  A blade touched the back of Howland’s neck.

  “Wait, my lord.”

  The new voice came from the far right of the room, where a man sat motionless in a high-backed chair. As thin as Tuwan, the old man in the chair had a wreath of fine, white hair and a lined, leathery countenance. He was richly outfitted, like the other bandits, in finery stolen from some noble house. His most striking feature was his sunken, useless eyes.

  “What is it, Marren?” said Rakell.

  “Why kill such an unexpected asset?”

  “Asset? A broken-down old soldier with delusions of knighthood?”

  “Deluded or not, he’s held your band off for how many days?”

  Rakell frowned. “Get to your point, Marren!”

  The blind man held out his hand. One of the women present, a striking maiden with hair the color of clover honey, moved to assist him. There was enough resemblance between her and the old man to see they were of the same blood. She helped Marren stand and guided him to Rakell.

  “He wouldn’t come here unthinking,” said the blind man. “I daresay he reckoned on some treachery of his own. Isn’t that so, sergeant?”

  Amergin and Ezu said nothing, and Howland’s words were growled into the carpet. At Rakell’s command, he was dragged to his feet.

  “Tell me, what happens if you don’t return?” asked Marren. “You must have reckoned on some plan.”

  “My second will carry on the fight,” said Howland. Blood ran down his nose and over his lips.

  “So there are no troops coming to relieve the village. That was a lie, too.”

  Howland gazed at the floor.

  “He knows everything about their defenses,” said Marren. “Question him first, kill him later.”

  “I won’t talk!” Howland cried.

  “Of course you won’t,” Rakell said, sneering. “You came here to die. I intend to oblige you.”

  Again the blade went to the old soldier’s throat. Again Marren said, “Wait!”

  Sighing, Rakell said, “Are you sure you know whose side you’re on, Marren, or did you live in that dust-hole village too long?”

  “My exile was no less bitter than this man’s,” Marren replied, indicating Howland. “If you hadn’t found me, I would’ve died in Nowhere, forgotten by the order and all my comrades.”

  “Touching,” said Rakell, “but what do you care whether this old fraud lives or dies?”

  “You gave me a chance to join you. Why not give him the same chance? From what you say, he is accustomed to switching sides.”

  “You were my old commander, Marren uth Aegar. I learnt the fine art of war from you, and for that I owe you. I bow to your wisdom, but not in this instance. I owe ‘Sir Howland’ nothing better than a swift stroke through the heart, and killing him will hasten the end of the siege of Nowhere.”

  Ignoring Rakell, Marren pointed a finger unerringly at Howland’s face. “Will you consent to join Lord Rakell’s band?” he demanded sharply.

  “Never. Better a dead general of farmers than a live traitor!”

  Marren’s hand dropped to his side. He shrugged and turned away. His young kinswoman guided him back to his chair.

  “Enough delay. Take him outside and shorten him by a head,” Rakell said. “Killing him here will only dirty the carpet.”

  “What of the other two, my lord?”

  “Put them in chains. They look strong enough. They can dig ore like the others.”

  Amergin tensed to fight, even though he was boxed in by a a pair of naked sword points. Sensing the oddly dressed human was less trouble, two of Rakell’s lieutenants sought to manacle Ezu first.

  “Hold out your hands!”

  Ezu complied without demurral. When the bandit tried to clap the iron bands around his wrists, they closed on air, falling to the rug with a loud clank. Ezu’s hands hadn’t moved.

  “Fool, on his wrists!” Rakell said.

  The bandit tried again as Howland was being marched out. Again the manacles seemed to pass through the traveler as though he were made of smoke.

  “Be of good cheer, Sir Howland,” Ezu called o
ut to his leader. “It’s not our time to die.”

  “Somebody gag that fool!” barked Rakell.

  Howland and his guards reached the door. Ezu tilted his head back. His nose wrinkled, and he opened his mouth wide, making gasping noises. The bandits around Ezu drew back.

  “What’s he doing now?” Rakell got out of his chair. “Subdue that man, at once!”

  “I think he’s having a fit!”

  Ezu snorted. “Going—going—to sneeze!”

  He did, magnificently. At once all light in the room went out.

  When darkness claimed the tent, the room exploded. Everywhere there was the scrape of iron blades and shouts of alarm. One of the guards still held a sword point firmly at the back of Howland’s neck.

  “Stand still! Be quiet!” Rakell bellowed. “Keep your heads!”

  Someone screamed, a blood-chilling sound. Howland heard a soft whirring, then a thud, and the blade at his back shifted abruptly and fell lengthwise across his back, landing on the carpet beside him. He bent and seized the short sword, peering ahead in the darkness.

  There was a clash of iron, punctuated by more grunts and curses.

  “Stop it, fools!” Rakell cried. “You’re fighting each other!”

  Howland crawled forward on his hands and knees, finding himself against a wall where it seemed safe to stand. The whirring sounded again, and something sharp clipped his ear. Touching his stinging earlobe, Howland realized he was bleeding. Amergin! He was using his sling in total darkness. He crouched down, anxious to avoid being slain by his own confederate.

  He didn’t dare say a word. If he spoke, he might give himself away to the enemy.

  “Can’t someone make light?”

  “Oh, mercy, I’m stabbed!”

  “Let go! Let go of me, I’m one of you!”

  Howland felt a light tug on his sleeve. He whirled, sword ready at his side.

  “Who’s there?” he muttered.

  “Marren.”

  He reached out his left hand and grabbed a fistful of the blind man’s robe. Guided by his grip, Howland pressed the sword against Marren’s jaw.

  “Traitor!” he hissed. “You would see your neighbors enslaved! Why shouldn’t I kill you?”

  Marren leaned forward, confident in his mastery of darkness. “Because Malek is here. His brother too. Now I will lead you to them. Quiet yourself.”

  Some large heavy object crashed behind them. A pungent, smoky smell filled the room.

  “Who knocked over the censer?”

  “Not me … why can’t I see the flames?”

  “Because it’s out, idiot!”

  “If it’s out, why is it still fuming—?”

  New screams shattered the air.

  “I’m burning! I’m burning!”

  Marren calmly pushed the blade away from his face and pulled Howland’s hand from his robe. Taking the old soldier by the wrist, he led the way. Howland pulled against the old man.

  “Amergin? Ezu?”

  “Come away,” Marren insisted in a harsh whisper. “Come away, or all with be lost!”

  Reluctantly, Howland let the blind man guide him out of the room. They entered a cool, breezy passage as dark as the previous room. There were no lights anywhere. Even the bonfires outside, which had cast such lurid shadows on the tent walls on their way in, seemed to have gone out. What was happening?

  Unerringly, Marren led Howland to open air. Once outside—he knew this by the sound and smell—Howland was shocked to realize he couldn’t see any better! The darkness was everywhere. Even the stars were gone. The sky and land were as black as an onyx box.

  “I can’t see!” Howland exclaimed. He planted his feet and refused to advance farther.

  Marren touched his face lightly. “I thought so,” he said. “Rakell’s boys were too confused to be just nightblind.”

  “How did this happen?”

  “Your friend in the funny pants—what’s his name? He did it.”

  “How could he? How do you know he wears odd pants?”

  “Though blind, I hear well. Rakell’s men made many comments about his clothes. Darkness fell when your companion sneezed, so it must be his doing.”

  Howland shook his head. Ezu had sneezed. At the time Howland imagined the strange traveler had somehow blown out the lanterns. How could his sneeze have the power to extinguish the campfires outside and the stars as well?

  Marren resumed his fast walk. Howland let himself be led. More than once he felt heat on his face and believed he must be passing a still-blazing campfire. No one interfered with them. Whatever force had stricken Howland must have blinded every bandit in camp. All around them men floundered in the sudden darkness, cursing or calling piteously for help.

  Canvas brushed against Howland’s forehead. Marren was taking him into a tent.

  “Let me borrow this,” the old man said, plucking the sword from Howland’s hand. Ahead, two male voices were disputing loudly about the cause of the sudden, all-encompassing darkness.

  “It must be an eclipse!” argued one. “The shadow of the moon has fallen across the world—”

  “Moon? Don’t be a dolt! The moon is bright, it don’t have a shadow!”

  Howland heard two dull clangs, and the disputatious guards fell silent. Marren returned and clasped his hand again. He put the hilt of the sword in Howland’s other hand.

  “Thank you for the loan.”

  They ducked between two heavy flaps. The room beyond was hot and close and felt very small. Howland could smell sweat, hear breathing.

  “Malek? Nils?” Marren called softly.

  Something stirred vigorously at their feet, yelping incoherently. Howland went down on one knee and found the brothers lying back to back, gagged, with their hands and feet bound. Working by touch alone, he untied the closest farmer’s gag.

  “What’s happening? What’s happening?” sputtered Malek.

  “Ssh, quiet!”

  “Sir Howland! You’ve come to rescue us! Are you alone?”

  “Marren uth Aegar is with me.”

  Malek writhed against his bonds. “Where is he? I’ll kill him! Tell me where he is, the vile traitor!”

  “Be still, will you? Marren brought me here. I had no idea Rakell’s men had taken you.”

  “We were captured three days after we left home,” Malek said. He heaved against the cords around his wrists. “I saw Marren riding next to Rakell, wearing a velvet robe and golden chain! He has sold out his own people!”

  There was no reasoning with him, so Howland untied Nils first. The older farmer moved slowly, grunting from obvious pain.

  “I looked at a guard wrong,” he said, “and got a beating for my trouble.”

  Horses galloped by, and the riders careened from the saddle, crashing to the ground just outside the tent. Everyone inside went stiff and silent. Whoever fell outside showed no sign of rising again anytime soon.

  Whispering, Howland said, “I’ll free you, Malek, if you control yourself.”

  “Where’s Laila?” he asked too loudly.

  “I removed her from the room first,” said Marren calmly, “then came back for Sir Howland.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Howland said quickly and harshly. “You know I don’t deserve it.”

  “What do you mean? You’re a great warrior, a leader! A worthless turncoat like Marren should kiss your dirty shoe!” Malek hissed.

  There was no time for explanations, so Howland let the matter drop. Nils and Malek could walk, the former with difficulty, and Marren said he could lead them back to Nowhere.

  “What about Amergin and Ezu?” asked Howland.

  “The forest elf is better off than all of us. He can see in darkness,” said Marren. “As for your strangely dressed companion, as the author of this confusion I assume he is safely gone.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I heard the elf moving easily in the darkness. He even used his sling to fell the bandit standing over you. Whatev
er the spell was your friend used, it affected only humans, not the elf.”

  “Ezu a wizard!” exclaimed Nils. “Huh!”

  “I won’t go back to the village without Laila!” said Malek.

  “Malek, be sensible! How can we find her now? None of us can see,” his brother said.

  “Her blind father could find her! Can’t you, Marren?”

  Howland had a vague impression of the withered, white-haired old man nodding.

  “I can find her, but I’ll guide you to the north side of the camp then go back for her myself. It’s safer for you that way, and Rakell does not yet suspect that I have done anything against him. Besides, my life matters little. Soon the disease in my bones will finish me, and I don’t want to be remembered as the tool of bandits.”

  “Why were you treating with Rakell?” Howland demanded.

  “He and I were comrades-in-arms once in the Dark Order. He thought he could enlist me in his new cause, and for comfort’s sake, I let him think so. I acted selfishly, I can’t deny. That’s over now, and I have a chance to pay back the good people who took me in when I arrived here, a sickly exile, twenty-seven years ago.” He moved to the door. “We must hurry.”

  Supporting Nils between them, Howland and Malek followed the blind man out. There tiny embers glimmered in the night, though they knew they were really raging bonfires. Overhead, a few fuzzy points of light were growing visible in the sky again.

  “Hurry!”

  Marren led them haltingly through the maze of tents. The camp had grown quiet in the hour since darkness claimed their sight. Now and then they heard shouts or groans and heard horses snort as they grazed among the unconscious forms of their masters. In the unnatural dark, Marren found his way to the northern side of the camp. When the tall, untrammeled grass of the plain brushed against their knees, they knew the party was nearing freedom.

  “Here you are. Can you see better yet?” Marren asked.

  Howland could make out murky shapes but could not judge size or distance. Malek saw the stars and little else. Nils, for some reason, saw the best of any of them.

  “I can make out the ground a few feet in front of me,” he said. “I can guide us back to the village.

  “Good luck,” said Marren. “If you don’t encounter riders from the other camps, you’ll make it.”