The Middle of Nowhere

by Paul B. Thompson

  “Five, counting you.”

  “Six!” Carver said brightly. “Don’t forget me!”

  Malek grimaced. “Six, it seems.”

  “Help me up.” Howland held out his hands to Nils and Malek. They dragged him upright. “All right, all right. Might as well get down to business. All of you, line up.”

  No one moved.

  “I said line up! Better you learn one thing first—when I give an order, you do it!”

  Awkwardly, they sorted themselves into a single line facing the Knight. With Khorr at one end and Carver at the other, they made a strange-looking company.

  “Tcha!” Howland snapped. “What a command!” He stood in front of the minotaur, fists on his hips. “You’re big enough, I’ll grant. Have you any skills?”

  “I’ve memorized all six thousand lines of The Rage of Captain Edzi,” said Khorr.

  Howland squeezed his bloodshot eyes shut. “Any fighting skills?”

  “I’m a good wrestler.”

  “A wrestler. I see. We’ll just have to ask the brigands to come close enough for you to hug them, won’t we?”

  Howland moved down the line to Hume. “You look like a soldier.”

  “Yes, sir. I am Hume nar Fanac, by birth thane to the mighty Khan of Khur.”

  “In what were you trained?”

  “Pike and halberd, sir.”

  Howland nodded. “Any archery?”

  “No, sir.”

  The knight moved on to Raika.

  “Before you ask, I’m a sailor, not a warrior,” she said dryly.

  “You’re no stranger to swords, I fancy.”

  She shrugged. “The sea is a dangerous place.”

  Howland walked off a short way. A rake and a pitchfork leaned against one of the inner stalls. Taking one in each hand, he went back to Raika. Without warning, he flung the pitchfork sideways at her. She caught it, glaring.

  “Are we going to pitch hay?” she said.

  “You pose too much, woman, and you’re too free with your mouth. Let’s see what you can do.”

  Raika grinned. “Any time, old man.”

  Caeta stepped out of line to protest. Howland was hung-over, dehydrated, thirty years older than Raika, and six inches shorter. “I don’t want our new general injured before he has the chance to train us.”

  “Get back in your place!” Howland snapped.

  He drew back a few steps and beckoned Raika toward him. As she advanced, he swiftly thrust the handle of his rake between her ankles, tripping her. Before Raika knew it, she was flat on her belly, and Howland had the head of the rake pressed against the back of her neck.

  “Got you,” he said.

  “Yeah, quite a coup for you, old man. Trip me when I’m not looking!”

  “Do you think war has polite rules?”

  He let her up. She crouched low, the tines of her pitchfork level with Howland’s chest. His grimy brigandine would not keep out those sharp iron points.

  “Ha!” Raika jabbed hard.

  Howland’s feet never shifted. He parried, catching the tines with the rake handle and flipping the pitchfork back over Raika’s shoulder. It stuck quivering in the floor, and Howland administered a stinging blow across her back with the other end of the rake.

  “Twice,” he said, coughing a little.

  Raika kept her temper in check. She retrieved the pitchfork and held it in both hands in front of her like a quarterstaff. Howland made a few elementary attacks with the rake, which she easily warded off. Then the attacks came faster. Left-right-left-left-right came the blows. Raika gave ground. Right-left-right-right-left. Sweat sheened her face and arms.

  Howland circled away, coughing more. “I’d shave my head for a draught of wine,” he muttered. Carver heard him, grinned, and scurried up the ladder into the loft.

  “You’re strong and quick,” the old Knight told Raika, “but you must learn to anticipate the enemy’s next move. Only that way can you hope to defeat him.”

  He started toward her, pivoted, and came from the other direction. The gray rake handle blurred.

  Left-right-left-left—

  “Ha!” said Raika. She moved to block a blow from the right, and met only air. The blunt end of the rake handle hurtled at her face. Raika flinched, but Howland stopped it a hair’s breadth from her cheek.

  “And three times,” he said. “You thought you had my moves figured out, but only because I pointed out the pattern to you. Another lesson: Don’t listen to what an opponent tells you. Your enemy wants to hurt you, not help you.”

  Malek grabbed his brother happily. They’d found a real leader at last!

  The rake clattered to the floor. Close behind it came Howland. Sick and exhausted, he fainted dead away.

  Raika caught him. Though he was filthy, she held on to him, lowering him gently to the straw.

  “You surprise me,” said Khorr. “You have a heart after all.”

  “He’s not my enemy,” she snapped. “He’s my commander.”

  Carver returned with Amergin. The kender descended the ladder nimbly, even though he was hampered by having a squat bottle of Goodlund wine in one hand and a folded straight razor in the other. Seeing Howland stretched out on the floor, Carver sighed.

  “And here I was going to shave his head!”

  If the gods had still dwelt in the world, they might have granted the farmers a boon. Since history and the teachings of the wise held otherwise, the heavy fog enshrouding Robann the next morning could only have been luck.

  It crept in, loose airy tendrils of white seeping through the cracks in the stable walls and roof. No one got any rest all night, save for Sir Howland, who was all but dead to the world, and Amergin, who slept soundly in his hiding place. Wilf grumbled quietly about the hunted sleeping better than his protectors, but his friends were just grateful to see the dawn.

  Hume drew back the wide door. Damp coils of mist flowed in.

  “This is good,” he said. “Fog will shield us from pursuit.”

  They packed hurriedly. Caeta woke Howland, shaking the old Knight’s shoulder until he stirred.

  “What is it?” he asked too loudly.

  “Quiet,” she whispered. “Enemies are all around us!”

  He opened one eye, squinting at the dull gray dawn as if it were the unbridled glare of the desert at noon. He coughed and groaned.

  “Time to go, sir,” said Hume.

  Howland got to his hands and knees but seemed unable to rise further. Caeta cajoled, but any attempt to stand brought on a noisy fit of coughing.

  “Wonderful!” Raika said. “A commander who can’t stand!”

  Hume laid Howland’s sword and scabbard on the floor a few feet in front of him. “Sir, I saved your weapon,” he said. “Rise and take it.”

  “Pick it up, or I shall,” Raika added.

  The old man coughed. “No one,” he rasped, “carries my sword but me!”

  With a supreme effort, he pushed himself up. Reeling, he clung to Wilf and Nils for support. Hume took up the sword and held it out to Howland. With dignity, the Knight hung the belt around his shrunken waist and closed the clasp.

  Amergin walked out first, a lethal star in his sling. To prevent any telltale glints from giving them away in the fog, he’d coated all their faces with candle soot.

  Raika and Hume went out next, keeping the Kagonesti in view. Nils, Wilf, and Sir Howland went next, followed by Khorr, Carver, and Caeta. Finally came Malek. He put the last of their paltry valuables, a rough nugget of garnet, on the stall for the landlord to find. That done, he soundlessly swung the door shut.

  The town was strangely quiet. The usual bustle and chaos was absent this morning. Practically everyone in town had passed the night hunting for Amergin, and most were abed now, dreaming of the blood money dangled over their heads by the Brotherhood of Quen.

  “Go east out of town,” was the only directions the farmers had given, so Amergin walked toward the brightest patch of fog, trusting that was wh
ere the sun was rising. Tension within the party ran high.

  Carver said, “This reminds me of—”

  “If you say ‘Uncle Trapspringer,’ I’ll kick you,” Raika’s voice drifted back.

  “I was going to say, ‘the waterfront at Sanction,’ thank you very much.”

  “Shh!” Caeta held a finger to her lips.

  They had to cross the High Street to get out of town. Amergin halted and pressed himself against a wall. The others stopped.

  They heard voices in the fog ahead. Sounds of horses, and wheels turning.

  The characteristic whistle of drovers, punctuated by the crack of whips, told them they were near the main thoroughfare. Fog or no fog, morning market goods had to be moved.

  Amergin flipped the hood up on his cloak. The dark, forest-colored feathers would not hide him in the mist, but the hood did obscure his elven features.

  He strode into the street. Fog closed around him.

  Hume started to follow, but Raika held him back. They waited, and when no alarm arose she nodded, and they moved on.

  They had no trouble until Khorr crossed. A two-horse dray rumbled up, and the horses faltered and reared at the unfamiliar shape of the minotaur looming over them in the fog. The driver worked his whip, trying to get the team moving.

  “Look, Shay—a minotaur!” said the other man on the wagon’s seat.

  “So what? Ain’t you ever seen one? Get out of the way, bull-man!” yelled the driver.

  “Weren’t those soldiers huntin’ a minotaur last night?”

  “Nah, it was an elf. Wasn’t it?”

  “No,” the man said in a low voice that carried. “I heard some say they was looking for a minotaur. Killed a man in a bar fight, he did.”

  Khorr could have moved on, but instead he turned back to say politely, “I didn’t kill Durand. I only broke his arm.”

  The wagoneers did not hear him over the neighing of the agitated horses. Seeing the seven-foot Khorr coming closer, the men panicked. The driver lashed out with his bullwhip. His companion stood on the seat and shouted, “Help! Help! The murdering minotaur’s here!”

  Malek rushed out of the fog. “For goodness sake, Khorr! Quiet them!”

  The bull-man raised his powerful arms and snorted menacingly. The men paid no attention, but the horses did, straining against their harness, rearing and backing away. The rolling wagon pitched the standing man into the cargo, a bunch of half-grown pigs. Outraged, the pigs squealed and plunged about loudly.

  The driver dropped his whip and tried to quiet the horses, but they were too distressed. Pushed back against the ridge of cobbles along the gutter, the wagon teetered then crashed over on its side. Pigs spilled out and ran squealing into the mist. Driver and companion were thrown to the street.

  “Come on!” Malek snapped, grabbing the mild-mannered minotaur by the hand. The farmer hated to think what Khorr would do when he tried to cause trouble!

  The rest were waiting for them in a narrow lane cut between two houses. The dark bulk of a gang’s tower was visible off to their left. If they’d judged things right, it was the seat of the Silver Circle.

  They reached a curving avenue Raika said was called Sawbones Street because so many surgeons lived there. Amergin slipped ahead again. He hadn’t gone five steps before a flurry of arrows fell around him. Iron broadheads struck sparks on the cobbles. The Kagonesti whirled and flung his star-loaded sling at the rooftops behind him.

  “Stand where you are!” Hume said roughly, holding Nils back with an outstretched arm. Everyone behind the Khur soldier hugged the wall of the near house and waited.

  Having loosed one star, Amergin sprinted for the nearest cover. Directly across from him was a corral full of horses, ringed by a split-rail fence. He vaulted easily over the waist-high barrier, somersaulted into the corral, and vanished.

  Without preliminary explanation, Hume cried loudly, “There he goes, men! After him!” He charged out, heedless of the unseen archers. Reluctantly, Raika and the rest followed. Hume waved them on.

  “Keep moving,” he said in a low voice. “They won’t shoot if they think we’re chasing him.”

  Malek, last in line, stooped to pick up one of the arrows that had been aimed at Amergin. The shaft had splintered, but the pale blue fletching was intact.

  Raika glanced back and saw what he was holding. “Sky blue is the color of the Brotherhood of Quen,” she said.

  Malek peered up through the mist. He could see the ragged roofline of houses behind them but no sign of movement. Where had the archers gone?

  They raced on, barely keeping the Kagonesti in sight. The sky was brightening all the time. When the sun got well up, the fog wouldn’t last long.

  Skirting the corral, Caeta saw dim figures dashing through the mist off to her right. Alarmed, she looked left and saw more shadows flickering between the houses on that side.

  “They’re all around us!” she said.

  “Hounds to the hare,” Howland said, wheezing. “They’re using us to trail their quarry.”

  A bowstring twanged. Almost immediately they heard the hum of Amergin’s sling and a short, sharp scream.

  They trampled through a muddy garden plot, almost stumbling over the body of a slain elf. One of Amergin’s smoked stars was imbedded under the dead elf’s left ear.

  Carver busied himself over the fallen Quen Brother, helping himself to the contents of the elf’s pockets and pouch.

  At the far end of the garden was a rubble-stone wall. Amergin was crouched behind it, sling held loosely in his hand. One by one they dropped beside him. Khorr had to practically flatten himself to keep his great head down.

  The mist was breaking up. Through tattered shreds of fog, they could see a phalanx of armed gang members blocking the way. Their pale blue cloaks hung limply in the still air.

  “Amergin!” called one. “Give yourself up! The rest of you, this is not your fight!”

  The Kagonesti uttered a single syllable of his native dialect. No one had to translate his private rejoinder.

  “All right, commander,” Raika said to Howland. “Here’s a military problem. What do we do now?”

  The old Knight peeked over the long cairn. “In an orthodox battle, I’d called for archers to dislodge them then charge with sword and lance.”

  Raika sniffed. “I left my prancing steed at home with my bow.”

  “Give up, Amergin! Come quietly, and I promise you a quick death!”

  “Who could resist generous terms like that?” said Carver.

  Khorr gripped the wall with both hands. “Sir Howland, we have no bows but stones aplenty,” he said. “Will that do?”

  “Why not?” Hume said, taking a stone in each hand. “Warriors must learn to fight with ready means.” He hurled them both at the elves barring their way.

  Khorr joined in, and the young farmers too. They popped up, lobbed their stones, then ducked down again, expecting arrows to come winging back.

  The first stones hit in front of the elves, caroming off the pavement. Startled, the Quenites backed up a bit, then nocked arrows and loosed. Hume got one through the armpit of his tunic before he threw himself down with alacrity.

  Raika joined the bombardment. After two of their number were knocked down, the gang officer drew his sword and shouted, “Enough of this nonsense! Let’s charge!”

  The archers parted ranks, revealing a dozen sword-armed comrades, but when they rushed the garden wall, Amergin rose up with his sling.

  Three Quenites went down, clutching their legs. Amergin had thrown three stars at once. He reloaded and hurled again, bring down two more. The remainder hesitated and inched back.

  “Volley!” Howland cried. The stone-throwers hurled their missiles, pelting the wavering gang with more stones. More elves went down with cracked heads and bleeding scalps. The survivors backed away.

  “Now’s the moment! Charge!”

  Hume, Howland, Khorr, and Raika scrambled over the wall and ran yelling at the e
lves. Carried away in the fervor of the moment, Malek, Nils, and Wilf followed. Carver stood on the wall and whooped encouragingly while Caeta hurled stones over their heads.

  Raika had almost reached the retreating elves when she suddenly realized she was unarmed. The elves didn’t seem to notice. They ran up the street, away from the yelping band attacking them. Amergin flung sharp bronze stars by their ears until they gave way and fled farther.

  The only person to actually close with the elves was Hume. He grabbed one gang member who’d taken a stone to the head and sat dazed on the ground. Lacking a blade, he head-butted the unhappy elf then relieved him of his sword.

  In moments the battle was done. The fleeing elves’ footfalls faded up the hill, and the street was theirs.

  “Ha! We did it!” Wilf crowed.

  “We were lucky,” Raika said cheerfully. “They weren’t expecting a crowd of crazy humans, just a lone forester.”

  Hume stuck the slim elf sword through the sash at his waist. “Help yourself to their weapons before they come back with reinforcements,” he said. Seven members of the Quen gang lay unmoving on the street. Two were dead, slain by Amergin, and the remainder were insensible. Malek, Nils, Wilf, and Raika gathered up all the weapons they could carry.

  Howland, author of their tiny victory, stood with his hands braced on his knees, retching. Caeta came up behind him and comforted him.

  Amergin waited a few yards away, fog swirling around him. Wilf came to him, arms laden with swords and daggers.

  “You’re an amazing fighter,” Wilf said. “I’ve never seen anyone use a sling like you!”

  The Kagonesti coiled the thong around his hand. “Among my own, I’m counted a mediocre marksman.” There was a trace of a smile on the dour elf’s face.

  Hume urged speed, and they quickly fled the scene. Once past a final row of shanties and storehouses, they beheld open country at last.

  “Where to now?” Amergin asked.

  “East. Our village is seven days’ journey from here,” Malek said.

  Amergin nodded briefly. He ran down the weedy hillside to a ravine, headed roughly in the right direction.

  “How are you feeling, general?” Raika asked.

  Howland wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Though pale, he looked a little stronger than before. Leaving Robann was like a tonic to him.