The Middle of Nowhere

by Paul B. Thompson

  The rain persisted. Late in the afternoon a lookout cried out for Howland. He climbed the slippery slope of the redoubt and immediately beheld what had alarmed the farmer.

  Walking uncertainly across the harvest-bared south plain came a lone figure, cloaked and cowled against the weather. There was nothing special about him, save that he was alone and on foot. He had no visible weapons, nor did he carry a flag of truce.

  Howland called for Robien. The bounty hunter hastened to Howland’s side.

  “Water’s getting deep inside,” the elf said, indicating the interior of the redoubt. Rainwater had collected to the point that the wounded and aged villagers had to abandon the redoubt for drier positions atop the earthen wall. A few even went back to their homes, saying it was better to die under their own roof than to cower in the mud.

  “Never mind the water,” Howland said. “We have a visitor.”

  Robien spotted the solitary figure. “Who can it be?”

  “We’ll know soon. In the mean time, keep a sharp watch on other fronts. This may be a trick to draw our attention away from another spot.”

  The loner on foot moved deliberately, but before long he was near the outer ring of huts. Howland, Raika, and Malek went to the same gap in the houses the bandits had broken down earlier. As soon as Howland entered the narrow lane, he saw the stranger had stopped. He stood outside the former barricade, unmoving, as rain streamed off his smoke-colored cowl.

  Raika bared her blade. “Doesn’t feel right!”

  Howland nodded but moved forward. Malek caught his arm and stopped him.

  “Remember Khorr’s tale?” he said. “Don’t you become the dragon who loses his head!”

  Howland certainly didn’t want to be assassinated, but someone had to meet the stranger. To mollify his companions, he turned back the flaps of his cowhide cape, leaving his hands free to take sword in hand.

  They picked their way through the trampled fence, broken weapons, and smell of blood. Six yards from the newcomer, Howland halted. Malek and Raika stood on either hand, ready for signs of treachery.

  “Who goes there?”

  Gloved hands rose and pushed back the cowl.

  “Ezu!”

  “Right-right! It is I, friends! May this one enter?”

  Howland and Raika stood aside, making way for their odd companion. Ezu glided past, saying, “I had to wait until someone came to greet me. This one didn’t want to be taken for a bandit!”

  “How did you get here?” asked Raika.

  “I walked.”

  “Didn’t Rakell hold you or question you?” said Howland sharply.

  “Oh, we had a few chats,” Ezu replied. “I must say, I prefer your company to his. Such a difficult man.”

  Raika laughed harshly. “Difficult? It’s a miracle he didn’t separate your head from your shoulders!”

  Ezu smiled. “He mentioned doing just that, but he could not harm me.”

  Howland caught Raika’s eye. Could not harm?

  “Laila—did you see Laila, my betrothed?” Malek asked desperately, clutching the traveler’s arm.

  “The blind man’s daughter? I saw her. She is well.”

  They returned to the muddy common. Seeing the sea of muck, Ezu sighed gustily. “This is too much rain,” he said to no one in particular.

  “Why don’t you make it stop?” said Raika sarcastically.

  The day-long downpour slackened then ceased.

  Wide-eyed, Malek said, “What are you?”

  Ezu unclasped the frog at his neck and let the heavy woolen cloak slide from his shoulders. “Who controls the rain?” he asked. “Not I. I’m just a traveler.”

  Beams of sunshine slanted in low from the west. Ezu pointed to the nearest standing hut, saying, “I have been ordered to bring a private message to you, Sir Howland.”

  Raika and Malek returned to the redoubt, while Howland and Ezu entered the small hut alone. There was nothing inside but lumps of dirt leftover from when the house had been filled. A few errant rays of late afternoon sun filtered through the dripping thatch.

  Howland folded his arms across his chest. “Well?”

  “I carry a message from Lord Rakell,” said Ezu. His costume seemed much the worse for wear, torn and spattered with mud. “He bade me tell you that you may leave the village with your people, and no one will harm you. How did he put it? ‘Tell the sergeant he’s acquitted himself well. He may take his honor and go.’ ”

  “What happens to Nowhere once we’re gone?”

  Ezu shrugged.

  “I see. Did Rakell say anything else?”

  “No, but there are things you should know.”

  Ezu lowered his voice and glanced around conspiratorially. “Half the remaining bandits have abandoned him. When you killed his ogre mercenaries, many jumped on their horses and rode away.”

  Howland felt a surge of hope. “How many are left?”

  “Hard to say. Twelve? Or twenty? I didn’t see them altogether.”

  Twenty! That greatly improved the odds. Howland wrung the eccentric foreigner’s hand.

  “We may live through this yet!” he declared.

  More soberly, he related the loss of Khorr, Amergin, and Carver. Ezu frowned and clasped a hand over his mouth.

  “So many deaths! The poet, did you say? What a pity!”

  A single trumpet blared outside. Howland jumped at the sound.

  “How long did you have to deliver the message and for me to reply?”

  “Not long enough, I think!”

  They dashed outside. Defenders gathered on the redoubt shouted and gestured to the south plain. Howland darted around the hut and saw a small body of horsemen coming toward them.

  “Rakell must have sent you go to distract us. It doesn’t matter.” Howland shucked off the cape and drew his sword. “Let’s get to a safer spot.”

  As they made their way through the village he said, “You cast some kind of spell in Rakell’s tent to prevent my death. Will you do as much now to save us all?”

  The mud squelched with every step. For a moment Ezu said nothing, then he replied, “I cannot interfere. I’m only an observer here.”

  “Will you observe us dying? Will you stand by and allow yourself to be killed?” Howland demanded.

  “No one will harm me,” Ezu said.

  Again, such bland confidence. Who was Ezu, that no one dared raise a weapon to him? Filled with sudden anger, Howland raised his sword over Ezu’s head. Instead of thirty-two inches of tempered steel he was holding a bundle of five white lilies!

  “What?” he said, dropping the flowers. Ezu clucked his tongue and retrieved Howland’s sword from the mud.

  “Careful,” he said, handing over the bare blade. “You’ll still need this.”

  Howland and Ezu scaled the redoubt, taking their place amid the remaining defenders. Raika handed him his helmet. The old soldier declined.

  “I will fight without it,” he said.

  The oblique rays shining under the clouds cast odd highlights on the scene. Everything seemed tinted gold, down to the muddiest, dirtiest farmer clutching a battered spear. By the gilding light, Howland could see Ezu’s news was true—the bandit camps north and east of the village looked empty and abandoned. A few scrappy tents still stood billowing in the breeze, but no men or horses were in sight.

  Riding toward them at a modest trot was the last of Rakell’s bandit horde. No more than twenty, each rider bore a pennant on his lance tip.

  With water standing in the trench and the bottom of the redoubt, everyone left in Nowhere stood atop the triangular wall. Babes in arms, elders too bent to stand up, sick, wounded, and dying filled out the ranks of the hale. Glancing left and right, Howland estimated his effective strength at sixteen.

  “No one’s to leave the wall!” he shouted. “Let the enemy come to us! Make ready the catapult stones. If they ride within ten yards of the foot of the mound, roll a stone down on them!”

  The bandits entered the
village at three points previously breached in the barricade. No one contested their entry. Once inside, they reformed on the common. Dressing their ranks, the horsemen waited silently.

  A single horse and rider moved out from the line. He came within a dozen yards of the redoubt and stopped.

  “Howland uth Ungen!”

  Leaning on a well-worn spear, the old soldier yelled back, “What do you want, Deyamon?”

  The bandit chief known as Lord Rakell folded his arms across the pommel of his saddle.

  “So, you remember me now?”

  “I do. Deyamon uth Kayr, a minor Knight in the army of Lord Burnond Everride. Why did you leave his service? Weren’t his slaughters enough for you?”

  “Any man, even a battle-tested warrior like Lord Burnond, craves peace once he reaches a certain age,” the bandit said tersely. “Burnond put up his sword, but I cannot. I was not born to collect taxes or drill goblin infantry. I came here to make a kingdom of my own!”

  “Then you’ve failed.” Howland waved to the farmers and their families around him. “These people have seen to that.”

  “Yes, I underestimated you, sergeant. I was wrong. Now I say for the last time, come down from there, and join with me. Together we’ll carve out a realm and rule it side by side!”

  “Rule on the backs of the poor and helpless? No thank you.” He held up his sword. “Come and take us, or ride away, Deyamon. Those are your only choices.”

  Rakell angrily snapped the visor of his helmet shut. His reply, if any, was lost when he did so, but he turned his horse back and rode quickly to his men. For a brief moment Howland thought the bandits might depart. He was wrong.

  Hurrahing, the front row of horsemen spurred forward. Their lances were just long enough to reach the top of the redoubt wall.

  “Lie down!” Howland called to his followers.

  The sides of the earthen mound were too soft and steep for the horses to climb, so the bandits were left with no option but to ride up and down, poking at any hostile face that appeared on the rampart.

  “Give ’em the stones!” Raika said. She and four village children rolled a sixty pound catapult shot to the edge and let go. Slowed a bit by the mud, the boulder still cut down a pair of horses, throwing the riders down as well. Cheering, the villagers rolled three more stones, but the bandits knew they were coming now and easily guided their mounts around them.

  “Enough!” Howland said. “Save them for later!”

  Rakell’s second and last line of bandits dismounted, drawing swords and fixing shields on their arms. They tramped through the muck past their floundering comrades.

  Some of the boys peppered them with whippik darts, and those slingers taught by Amergin thickened the hail with stones and stars. The armored warriors shrugged off the bombardment and started up the slope.

  “Line up here! Shoulder to shoulder, that’s right!” Howland and Raika pushed spear-armed villagers into a tight line while Robien cleared the non-combatants out of harm’s way.

  “Lower your spears! Lean into them!”

  Rakell’s men advanced into the spiny hedge of spear points. They beat the sharp tips aside with the swords and warded off thrusts with their shields. It was hard, fighting uphill, but their superior strength and training gradually overcame the other obstacles. Some farmers pulled back with shattered shafts and headless spears. Raika grabbed anyone retreating and forced them into line again.

  “I’ve got no head!” wailed one farmer, waving his decapitated spear.

  “I can see that!” Raika snapped, slapping the back of the poor man’s skull, “but you’ve got six feet of hardwood. Keep the enemy off with it!”

  The first wave of attackers, seeing their comrades advancing, got off their horses and joined the fight. Many slipped and rolled down the soft earthen mound, but spurred on by Rakell’s example they rose and tried again.

  The first bandits neared the rampart. Howland and Robien stepped up, swords ready. At the opposite end of the defender’s line, Raika drew her sword, too.

  Howland saw Rakell in the midst of his men, struggling up the slope. He deliberately stepped back from the edge to allow the bandits room enough to stand on equal footing. The line of spears pivoted away, forming a new line at right angles to the first.

  Rakell’s etched helmet bobbed into view. Howland waited. Robien moved in beside him.

  “Leave him to me,” Howland said calmly. The bounty hunter acknowledged his words with a curt nod.

  Robien sprang forward, taking on the first bandit to reach the top. He kicked mud in the man’s face, blinding him. Scrubbing desperately with his mailed hand, the lead bandit failed to parry Robien’s long lunge. The elf’s slim sword found a gap and slid in. Robien had to use his foot to free his blade when the bandit went face down in the mud.

  Rakell reached the top and found a clear space. Howland was waiting for him.

  He opened his visor. “So, it is single combat with you, sergeant? You’re not gentle-born.”

  “Noble is as noble does,” Howland barked. “I may be a disgraced man-at-arms, but you’re a thief and a murderer, so we can fight as equals, don’t you think?”

  In answer, Rakell hurled himself at Howland. Fifteen years younger and five inches taller, he moved with surprising speed. Howland found the bandit chief’s blade flashed close indeed. Only by yielding ground did he keep off Rakell’s point.

  He countered with short swings to keep Rakell off-balance. Once Howland’s blade skidded off the chief’s curved breastplate, and Rakell rewarded him with a heavy blow on the jaw. Howland staggered back, almost losing his grip on his sword. Stunned, he moved too slowly to counter the headlong thrust Rakell aimed at his chest. Howland brought his sword up, too late, too slowly.

  Something gray and brown flashed between them. Howland saw Malek had leaped in front of him. The farmer hacked at Rakell with amateurish fury, enough so to force the former Knight back. Rakell countered with his shield, driving the boss into Malek’s gut. The valiant young farmer fell to his knees, all air gone from his lungs. Rakell stood over him, his blade poised to run Malek through.

  With a clang, Howland interposed his sword. Angry to the point of foolhardiness, the old soldier punched Rakell through his open visor. Blood coursed from the bandit chief’s nose. Howland hit him again and kicked Malek until the latter crawled out of the way, collapsing out of Rakell’s reach.

  On they dueled. Rakell scored a cut on Howland’s left forearm, and Howland beat a thrust and knocked the helmet off Rakell’s head. They drew apart, panting heavily. Rakell’s lip and chin were stained with blood, and Howland’s eye was swelling shut.

  They exchanged four fast cuts, neither man budging, then Rakell evaded Howland’s blade with a viciously timed upthrust. It caught Howland in the hand. His sword spun away. He stepped back and drew his dagger, though an eight-inch weapon was meagre defense against Rakell’s long sword.

  They both lunged, Howland turning under the taller man’s attack, trying to find a weakness in Rakell’s armor. They struggled and heaved until Howland suddenly felt Rakell stiffen in his grasp. Their eyes met. What Howland saw was not shock or fear but hatred—bitter, deep-rooted hatred.

  Rakell’s knees folded, but Howland saw no obvious wounds on the man. No one was near enough to have stabbed the bandit, and he saw no arrow in Rakell either.

  Still clutching Howland’s tattered sleeve, Rakell fell on his back, eyes wide and staring. He clung to life, shuddering, trying to bring his sword up for one last swing. In mercy, Howland finished his foe with a dagger thrust.

  Finding Rakell’s helmet, he raised it on the stump of a spear shaft, crying, “Rakell is dead! Rakell is dead!”

  Robien and Raika, still fighting, saw the bandit chief’s helmet and raised the cry themselves.

  All along the line, the bandits turned their backs and fled. A few were struck down as they ran, but for the most part the farmers fell to their knees and gratefully watched the brigands leave. Befo
re Rakell’s blood cooled on the churned earth, not a living bandit remained in Nowhere. Alone or in small groups, they rode pell-mell for the horizon, taking nothing with them but the blades in their hands and the armor on their backs.

  A curious quiet fell over the village. Howland let the pole and helmet fall and sat down hard beside Rakell’s lifeless body. Next thing he knew, Robien was shaking him, saying, “Howland! Howland, can you speak?”

  “Yes.”

  “We did it, Sir Howland, we did it!”

  Raika stalked over and dropped heavily by her commander. She voiced a few choice curses, but she hadn’t the strength to make them ring. She leaned against Howland’s back and groaned, “Is there any strong drink left in this forsaken hole?”

  A jug appeared under her chin. Surprised, Raika looked up to see who held it.

  “Drink,” said Caeta. “All we have is yours.”

  Malek got to his feet and ran down the hill. Everyone knew where he was going. He dashed out of the village, straight for the bandits’ southern camp, crying “Laila!”

  “You know, my family traces their line back to Kith-Kanan,” Robien said, grinning, “but I’ve never seen or heard of anything like the duel you had with Rakell! Bards will sing about it for a hundred years!”

  Raika leaned forward to examine Rakell. She only meant to close his lifeless eyes, but as she turned his head away, she noticed something. Blinking once or twice, she settled back and drank deep from Caeta’s jug. It wasn’t fruit wine, or farmer’s barley dew either—it was brown rum, and it seared Raika’s throat all the way down.

  She held out the jug to Howland, gasping, “To you, sir!”

  He had a modest sip, then passed it to Robien. The Kagonesti, without drinking, handed it off to the wounded Nils. While elf and farmer exchanged happy greetings, Raika turned to Howland.

  “Quiet a fight you had,” she said.

  “I didn’t win,” he said slowly.

  “I know.”

  With her toe, she pushed Rakell’s head to one side, exposing the back of his neck. There, almost hidden by the bandit chief’s thick hair, was a sharp, angular bit of metal, well coated with the dead man’s blood. It took Howland a few moments to realize what it was: an iron star.