The Middle of Nowhere

by Paul B. Thompson

  “Amergin!”

  “Keep your voice down,” Raika muttered. “Our friend lives—but things will go more easily for him if Robien believes him slain.”

  Howland agreed. The bounty hunter could truthfully tell the Brotherhood of Quen back in Robann that his quarry had perished in battle. Thus Amergin would be spared further trouble, and Robien too. Howland would have hated to see the two Kagonesti fight—not after all they’d been through together.

  Robien returned with the rum. “Do you see, Sir Howland? Do you see?” he said excitedly.

  Far out on the plain, a small group of people were wearily returning to Nowhere on foot. Leading the freed hostages were two figures, a few yards ahead of the rest. Even from this distance it was easy to see they were holding hands.

  With peace restored, the farmers worked hard to reclaim their lives. Hardly had the clash of arms faded into silence when they began tearing down the redoubt, using the earth to refill the trench. All the fallen were laid to rest there—old Calec, the village elder, Marren, who lost his soul and found it again even without his eyes, the children who had fought from the rooftops with Carver, and everyone else who perished fighting for the future of Nowhere—including the nameless bandits. Even they were given proper burial, lest their restless spirits remain bound to the scene of their violent deaths.

  Last to be covered in the grave was Khorr. The farmers surrounded the minotaur’s body with bound sheaves of barley straw, an honor usually reserved for their wisest, most respected elders.

  In just a few days the redoubt was gone. Only a few damp clods of earth remained. The trench was filled in and trampled smooth, and all the barricades and barriers were pulled down. After that, the farmers turned to clearing out and repairing their homes.

  Howland and his surviving fighters passed these days in deserved idleness, resting their aching limbs and nursing their hurts large and small. No one spoke of leaving yet or what they planned to do next. Their fatigue was too profound. In contrast, the villagers seemed to work ceaselessly. The hired warriors observed in wonder how quickly the farmers returned to their timeless tasks.

  One morning, Malek and Laila entered her father Marren’s old hut and did not reappear for some time. This did not seem too strange for long-separated lovers, but when they did emerge again their arms were full of unexpected treasures: pots of sweet oil, pressed fruit, barley flour in clay urns, cloth-wrapped cheeses and haunches of smoked game. Raika, asleep in the shade of a hut across the common, smelled the tang of cured venison and sat up, tossing aside the straw hat she’d been wearing to shade her face.

  “Howland?” she called.

  He was dozing too, sitting up as was his wont, his back against the daub wall of the hut. He cracked an eye when called.

  “Eh?”

  “Robien!”

  The bounty hunter was already on his feet. “I see,” he said slowly.

  Together the hired warriors converged on Marren’s house. They watched as Malek and Laila piled up stores outside the hut’s only door. Malek greeted them cheerfully, but none of them responded.

  “Where did all this come from?” said Howland.

  “Why, the storage pit under the floor,” Malek said, as if stating the obvious.

  “Do all the huts have them?”

  Laila shrugged. “Most do. It’s where we store our reserves for winter.”

  Raika turned on one heel and marched to the next house. Nils, his wife Sai, and his son Larem were doing the very same thing as Malek and Laila, removing hidden goods from the hut. Raika snatched a pottery jug from Larem’s hands. She yanked out the plug and sniffed the spout.

  Howland and Robien arrived. She held out the jug to them. “Rum!” she cried.

  “We also have beer,” said Sai, a long-faced woman with frizzy red hair.

  “Cold and parched as we’ve been these past days, and they have rum!” Raika threw back her head and took a long drink from the jug. After four swallows, she dashed the clay pot to the ground, shattering it.

  Nils came out of his home. “What’s this, Raika?”

  “Miserable cheats!” She seized the injured Nils by his baggy shirt. “We ate barley cake for twenty-two days when you had venison?” She shoved him against the hut and reached for her sword. “After we shed our blood for you! We faced an army of bandits and ogres—for you! And this is our payment? I ought to kill you! I ought to kill you all!”

  Her sword never came out. All at once Ezu was there, his hand over hers, clutching the hilt. She tried to pull free of him but found she couldn’t.

  “Don’t interfere, wizard!” she snarled. “I won’t be used this way!”

  Ezu withdrew his hand, but Raika still couldn’t draw her blade. It felt as if it were welded into the scabbard.

  “So they lied to you,” Ezu said blandly. “Are you surprised? A farmer has no one to rely on but himself. Their children learn at their parent’s knee that the world is a hard, unforgiving place, willing to take everything the farmer nurtures in a single fire, flood, or raid. They’re taught to hide everything valuable they have. This isn’t just food or drink to them, it’s life itself. Under the floors of each house you’ll find all kinds of secret supplies: victuals of every kind, tools, weapons, even gold. They hide their meager wealth underground to protect it from catastrophe, but most of all to keep it from the rapacious ones with swords.”

  He stood aside. “Go ahead, demolish the house. Wreck the whole village until you get what you think is due you.” Ezu put on the most solemn expression anyone had ever seen him assume. “Do that, then tell me how you are any different from Rakell.”

  A few steps behind Raika, Howland felt his outrage recede upon hearing Ezu’s words.

  Frustrated at her inability to draw her sword, Raika tore the whole thing off her hip, belt, scabbard and all. Wrapped in brass and leather, her sword was still a dangerous bludgeon, and Nils and his family scattered as she swung it hard against the door post. It made a deep gouge in the wood and put a dent in the scabbard, but Raika’s rage dissipated with the blow.

  “I’ve been here too long,” she said to Nils. “I’ve shed too much blood. I would have killed you for a slab of venison and a bottle of rum.”

  She walked away, head hanging. Howland let her go.

  Ezu said, “And you, Sir Howland? What will you do now?”

  The soldier stooped to pick up a pot of pressed fruit Sai had dropped in her haste to avoid Raika’s wild swing. The beeswax seal had broken, and sticky syrup oozed from the opening. Howland dabbed at the glistening syrup. Sweet berries. He handed the cracked pot to Sai.

  “We’ve all been here too long. It’s time to go.” He rubbed his sunburnt brow. “If Robien and Raika agree to accompany me, we’ll leave the village before sundown.”

  “My home is in the forest,” the elf said, “but I will follow you one last time, Sir Howland.”

  “Please, call me just Howland. I’ve had enough of titles. The worst men I’ve ever known all had titles, so leave me apart from them.”

  The farmers had rounded a good number of bandit horses, and Howland was offered his pick of the herd. He took three for himself, Robien, and Raika, and a fourth to serve as a pack animal. He chose four stocky, sturdy beasts, each an indifferent color. They were not handsome, but they would walk all day with considerable burdens.

  While the warriors packed their sparse gear, villagers prepared food and drink for their journey. By the time Howland, Raika, and Robien rode forth, their pack animal was well laden.

  The surviving population of Nowhere gathered at the east end of the village. The setting sun was in their faces. Riding abreast with Howland in the center, the defenders stopped before the assembled villagers. Not a few of the farmers still clutched their spears, but most had abandoned warlike tools in favor of rakes, pitchforks, and spades.

  Caeta raised her hand high. “We can never truly repay you for what you’ve done,” she said. “Our loved ones are free, and our homes pre
served. How can we tell you what that means to us?”

  “You can’t,” Raika said flatly.

  Howland was more diplomatic. “For myself, you owe me nothing. I regained something vital here, somthing I thought I’d lost.” He considered his next words carefully. “Don’t forget how to fight,” he said. “Next time, when wolves are baying outside your door, take up swords and spears yourselves and defend what’s yours. It’s your right. Don’t forget that.”

  He leaned down and clasped hands with Caeta, as did Raika and Robien after him. Malek and Laila, arms about each other’s waists, waved and smiled. Nils, bolstered by Sai and Larem, added a hearty good-bye.

  As she rode by, Raika spotted Bakar, one of the few survivors from her spear company. She turned her horse around, rode up to him, and dismounted. The young farmer, bearing his wounds without complaint, sidled away as Raika approached.

  “You,” she said roughly. “Come here.”

  He stayed where he was. “You’re not going to hit me one last time, are you?”

  “No, fool.” Stalking over, she unbuckled her sword belt and handed it to Bakar. “This is for you. It’s a good blade, if you can get it out of the scabbard. Think of it as a gift,” she added, smiling. She swung up on her horse and cantered away to catch up to Howland and Robien.

  Some of Bakar’s neighbors surrounded him, curious about the Saifhumi woman’s gift.

  Bakar wrapped his fingers around the sword handle and pulled. The oiled steel blade slid easily out of its sheath. Whatever spell Ezu had cast on it was gone.

  Three men, led by Wilf, took it on themselves to repair the cracked Ancestor in the well wall. They pried apart the stones from the top down, slowly isolating the long block of red sandstone. With reverence, two villagers gently lifted the broken top of the Ancestor free of the wall. Setting it down, they turned to freeing the lower half. Caeta happened by, and as she passed the rounded upper portion of the ancient totem rolled on its side, exposing its interior face to the sky. Caeta looked at it and gasped.

  “It is them!”

  Wilf and his helpers ceased tugging on the lower half of the Ancestor. “It’s who?” he asked.

  Caeta could only point mutely.

  Wilf knelt by the red stone. The inside face was carved with a number of small faces, each about the size of a man’s thumb, one below the other, from the rounded peak down to the break. The carvings had been turned inside when the wall was built, so no one living in Nowhere had ever seen the markings before.

  Brow furrowed, Wilf ran dry, callussed fingers over the images. The bottom face was the smallest, but it had a pointed chin and long ears, like a kender. Above it was a human face, beardless … a woman’s perhaps. Was that a turban on her head?

  Lichen encrusted the next two faces. Wilf scratched it away with his thumbnail as his companions crouched behind him, peering over his shoulder. Caeta’s startled cry had drawn others to the scene. They stood around, gazing at the broken totem, murmuring in low, amazed voices.

  Under the gray lichen were a pair of similar faces, one facing up the other down, so it appeared they were staring into each other’s eyes. One was depicted with a hood on, almond shaped eyes, and peaked ears. His compatriot was bare-headed, with cropped hair and identical ears. Two elves …

  “Carver,” Wilf said slowly, touching the lowest image. “Raika, Amergin, Robien—”

  The next carved face had horns. Above it was a mature bearded man wearing a warrior’s helmet.

  “What does it mean?” asked the young farmer at Wilf’s shoulder. He had no answer. He put the question to Caeta.

  “It’s an omen,” she decided. “A promise from the past we did not see till now.”

  Bakar scratched his scruffy cheek. “What good is an omen if you find it too late?” he said, bewildered.

  “Think of it as a token from the departed gods,” the old woman replied. “A mark of favor from the great spirits to our humble village.”

  With considerable excitement, the men pried loose the lower half of the Ancestor stone, eager to see what it might show. Some prediction of the future, perhaps?

  There was another image on the lower portion of the bloc: a full figure in profile, as long as Wilf’s palm, striding vigorously. The relief was low, and the carving worn by years of rain, hot days, and cold nights. But two features were clear: the striding figure wore wide, billowing trousers, festooned with flowers, and on his head sprouted a fine set of deer antlers.

  “So that’s who he was,” said Caeta.

  Among the people of the plains there was an ancient legend. A legend of a stranger who came to their isolated settlements, spreading new ideas and new knowledge, teaching Nowhere’s ancestors what crops to plant and sharing the secrets of fire and metal. The Wanderer, he was called.

  Or, as Ezu always insisted, the Traveler.

  The family of a farmer named Vank were clearing their hut by firelight. Vank had fallen in battle, fighting as one of Amergin’s slingers. His hut was on the south side of the village, where the fighting had been the most intense. The roof had been smashed when an armor-clad bandit fell through it. Inside was a rat’s nest of broken rafters and thatch, which Vank’s wife and children patiently pulled apart and removed.

  When the floor was clear, Vank’s wife dug down a few inches to the open their storage pit. Where there should have been a plank lid, she found only loose dirt. Surprised, she called for her children to help her.

  Digging furiously with their hands, they finally dragged out the broken planks, and Vank’s wife thrust a burning brand into the hole.

  A pale, dazed face looked up at her.

  “Did we win?” asked Carver.

  Vank’s wife swooned. Her daughter ran for help, and soon half a dozen armed farmers came running, thinking a live bandit had been found in Vank’s cellar. Malek was among them. He recognized the kender at once.

  “Pull him out!” he shouted. A rope was lowered, and Carver was hauled up. He was covered with fine dust, and one eye was black and swollen shut. He’d spent almost a week in the pit, but he was in remarkably good spirits, considering.

  “I tried to dig my way out, but every time I touched the roof, more dirt fell in, so I quit. I figured Sir Howland would get me out eventually,” he explained. “There was plenty to eat and drink down there.”

  “Howland is gone,” Malek said.

  Carver stepped out of the ring of curious villagers. He looked up and down the length of the common and saw none of his comrades.

  “The bounty hunter elf and Raika too?” he said, already knowing the answer. The farmers nodded mutely.

  “They left me!”

  “We thought you were dead,” said Malek.

  The kender thrust out his small chest. “Takes more than an army of bandits to kill Carver Reedwhistle!”

  A bucket of water was brought, and Carver set to washing. When his hands and face were clean, he clapped his small hands together, rubbing them briskly.

  “Now that we’re alone, just us friends,” he said, grinning. “Tell me about the treasure.”

  Neither Raika nor Robien questioned Howland about their destination until they were well away from Nowhere. Once they were alone on the open plain, Raika said, “Where are we bound, captain?”

  “Sergeant,” he corrected. “I mean to find the iron mine Rakell was operating and free any slaves still working there.”

  “What about the Throtian Mining Guild?” asked the elf.

  His tone was grim, unbending. “They’ll see reason once I tell them Rakell is dead and his band dispersed.”

  “And the red dragon—what’s his name?” Raika said.

  Howland did not answer. His plan for dealing with the powerful guild and the even more powerful Overlord was the same: Creep in quietly, do what needs to be done, and don’t attract too much unfriendly attention.

  They were only three against unknown odds. A month past Raika would have called the enterprise mad, but after their amazing victo
ry, she counted nothing Howland said impossible. She shrugged. It sounded like a worthwhile adventure.

  On they rode. Howland didn’t offer to stop or make camp. His companions stayed by him, unwilling to disappoint him by asking for rest.

  Under a patchwork quilt of stars and wisps of cloud, they reached the high range, the last of the plains before the mountains rose in the east. Raika nodded in the saddle, letting her bandit-trained horse follow Howland’s mount as she dozed. Robien might have napped too, but some hours past midnight he reined up.

  “Whoa … what is it?” Howland said. Raika’s horse fell to cropping the coarse broom straw at their feet.

  “Someone’s following us,” the Kagonesti said.

  Howland rode back to him. “How many?”

  “Just one, on foot.”

  A glimmer of recognition lit up Howland’s tired countenance. “One, eh? Why do I think I know who it is?”

  If Robien knew, he didn’t say. With Raika’s horse still obediently following, Howland and the elf sauntered back the way they’d come. In less than a mile they spied a single figure wading up the center of the trail they’d made in the grass.

  “How can you sense someone trailing us by half a mile?” asked Howland.

  “The grass is dry. I heard his footfalls.”

  Howland wasn’t sure if the Kagonesti was pulling his leg or not. They waited, reins slack, until the person on their trail was within easy earshot.

  “Ezu! Is that you?” called Howland. Raika snorted and woke up when he shouted.

  “Greetings, Sir Howland!” answered the familiar, cheerful voice.

  He was wearing another one of his bizarre outfits—a short kilt made of some dark, checkered cloth, leggings, and a hip-length wraparound robe in red and gold. He had on a wide, stiff-brimmed felt hat and a pair of saffron-tinted spectacles. An enormous bundle was slung on his shoulders, and he balanced his load by leaning on a long hardwood staff.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Howland.

  “Still traveling—”

  “Seems to me you’re following us.”