The Middle of Nowhere

by Paul B. Thompson

  “The Brotherhood isn’t done with us yet,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder at the weathered rooftops of Robann. “Follow the elf. He’ll keep to the low ground, and so should we.”

  Fifteen days had passed since Rakell came to Nowhere and stole Laila away. Fifteen days.

  That time hammered in Malek’s brain with every step he made. Half the time was gone before the raiders would return to enslave twenty more of his friends and neighbors, and they were still four long days’ walk from home!

  It didn’t help that summer showed no sign of fading. Every step seemed a struggle in the heat. A haze covered the blue of the sky, leaving it a dull white, the color of steam. The sun hung low over their heads, glowing like hot iron through the haze. Since leaving Robann, the party had kept to sweltering airless ravines and gullies. Light breezes stirred the trees atop the hills, rattling the dry leaves, but the farmers and their hired champions did not dare show themselves against the light sky.

  They were being followed—even Wilf could tell. By night, distant campfires lit up the western horizon. On the first night there were eight, the second night four, and since then, one. Howland assumed bounty hunters in the pay of the Brotherhood of Quen had come after them but finding the fugitives too fleet and elusive, a few gave up each morning and returned to town.

  Yet the danger had not lessened, he told them. The toughest, most persistent hunters were the ones to fear. The farmers took to looking over their shoulders so much they developed cricks in their necks.

  “There’s worse to watch for,” said Howland, glancing skyward. “We’ll soon be crossing the territory of an Overlord.” In the past year, he told the group, a red dragon of fearful power had claimed much of this land as his own. The dragon exacted stinging tribute from every caravan or trading party crossing his domain. Still, a small band of empty-handed travelers like them probably would not attract the dragon’s notice, or so Howland prayed. So far the farmers had seen no sign of the dragon on their journey to Robann.

  Four days out of Robann their path took them across a well-marked dirt road, passing northeast to southwest. Amergin approached the road cautiously. There was no one in sight, but he felt the flour-soft dust on the path with his fingers, bringing them to his nose to sniff.

  Howland halted the group behind a stand of bracken. He and Hume ventured out to confer with the Kagonesti.

  Howland looked as if he’d regained ten years of his life since leaving Robann. His complexion and carriage had improved, his eyes had lost their fevered look, and he even allowed Carver to crop his matted hair.

  “I could do a very artistic trim,” the kender said, scissors poised.

  “Cut it all off,” replied the Knight. “Let me start this venture clean.”

  With a shrug, Carver cut Howland’s hair down the scalp, leaving only a fine, brushy nap on the old man’s head. Without his lank, gray locks Howland’s sunken eyes and broad forehead lent him an air of perpetual sorrow. He now resembled a priest more than a fighting man. Knight and soldier stood on either side of the pensive elf.

  “What can you see?” asked Howland.

  “Many people came this way, two or three days ago.”

  “How many?” said Hume.

  “More than twenty on foot. They were walking quickly, pulling a two-wheel cart.” He stood up, dusting his hands. “No pony.”

  “Soldiers?”

  Amergin shook his head. “Ordinary folk—farmers, herders. Men, women. Most barefoot.”

  “Where did they go?”

  The elf pointed down the road, southwest.

  “Probably just peasants on their way to market,” said Howland. He turned to his hidden companions and waved them forward.

  “What’s wrong?” Malek asked upon joining them.

  “Nothing. All is well.”

  “I never said that,” said Amergin tersely.

  Exasperated, Howland said, “Is there any obvious danger?”

  “Perhaps. Something is strange.” Without a word of explanation, he started down the road. The farmers were appalled. For days they’d taken great pains to conceal their tracks. Now the elf was leaving clear footprints in the soft dust.

  Howland and Hume shouldered their gear and hurried after him. When no one else moved, the Knight barked, “Don’t just stand there gawping! Move!”

  “The heat’s gone to the elf’s head,” Raika said.

  Khorr, who wore an old apron draped across his horns to keep the sun off, said, “It’s some clever forester ploy, do you think?”

  “What I think is, I need a drink,” she replied.

  The road curved to the left until it led due east. Heavy, gnarled trees crowded in on both sides. The shade was welcome. Years of traffic had worn the path into the earth, and before long they were traversing a sunken road, bounded on either side by near-vertical hillsides.

  “Feels like a trap!” Raika said, looking around nervously.

  “I wouldn’t want to be caught here by cavalry,” Howland said. Ahead, Amergin continued his tireless lope.

  The hills flattened out again, and Amergin stopped. Off to his left, a sandy path led away from the road to a copse of maples. He held out one hand, palm down, his signal to halt. Howland reined in the hot, tired party.

  “Wait here,” said Amergin. He dropped the sling to his fingers, loaded it, and moved on stealthily toward the maple grove.

  Raika flopped heavily to the ground. “Who’s got water?” she said loudly. Howland shushed her.

  Caeta unslung her waterskin and handed it to the Saifhumi woman. Carver squatted by the roadside, and the farmers followed suit. Khorr found a spot in the shade, pulled up some wild onions, and set to munching. After a brief foray, Amergin returned, looking adrift.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “Come and see.”

  One by one they trailed after the Kagonesti, who urged them all to silence. When only halfway to the maples, it became clear a sizable crowd of people were ahead in the grove, standing perfectly still and not making a sound. The effect was so strange Howland, Hume, and Raika drew their swords.

  Amergin paused by a lordly maple, peering in puzzled fashion around the stout trunk. Howland, Hume, and Raika glided past him. When they were close enough, Raika grabbed hold of the nearest onlooker, a scruffy peasant in a dark brown jerkin. He didn’t move at all despite her straining limbs. The fellow seemed rooted to the spot.

  She uttered a sailor’s curse and tugged again, harder. Seams of his coarse shirt tore, but the fellow was as immovable as a marble statue.

  Howland spoke sharply to another. No response. Unaccustomed to being ignored, he swatted the man’s backside with the flat of his blade. Not the slightest protest escaped the man’s lips.

  Hume walked around the frozen people to see their faces.

  “Great Khan!” he exclaimed. “Sir Howland, look!”

  Every one of the unresponsive onlookers, all humans, stood with their eyes open, staring straight ahead. Their faces were scorched red by the sun, and their lips were cracked and peeling. Howland felt for a pulse in the young man he’d struck.

  “This one seems alive,” he said, perplexed.

  “So’s this one,” said Raika.

  “These, too. What ails them?”

  They moved through the crowd and found everyone in the grove in identical condition. Twenty-two people in all, standing rigid, eyes open, gazing at … what?

  Beneath the largest maple in the copse was a two-wheeled cart of the sort used by woodsmen, little more than an oversized wheelbarrow. Standing in the cart was a strangely dressed man with a noose around his neck.

  “Oh, ho!” said Raika. “A lynching!”

  She, Howland, and Hume gathered by the cart. Four peasants gripped the sides of the cart, ready to drag it out from under the unfortunate fellow, but they were paralyzed as well, mouths agape, as if they had been struck rigid in mid-motion.

  “This beats all,” Raika said. “If the gods still lived, I’d call
this magic!”

  Howland regarded the benoosed man thoughtfully. “I wonder what his crime was?”

  The lynching candidate appeared to be near Raika’s age, thirty or so. His skin was olive brown, an unfamiliar hue in these parts, and his hair was glossy black, cut bowl-style, straight across on his forehead. His neck was shaved behind his ears. His nose was flat and his face round. No trace of a beard sprouted from his chin. Both his hands and feet were tightly bound with rope.

  “A foreigner,” Hume remarked.

  “Yes, but from where?” answered Howland.

  “That’s a nice pearl in his ear,” said Raika. The bright white gem was pinned by a gold stud through the condemned man’s right earlobe.

  She climbed into the cart. “I think I’ll fetch it off him—”

  Her weight made the small cart shift on its wheels. Howland and Hume were about to protest when Raika saw the foreigner’s black eyes blink.

  She let out a yell and fell backward to the ground. In an instant Amergin was at her side, sling twirling. Seeing the elf enter the grove, Khorr, Carver, and the farmers came running.

  “He’s alive!” Raika shouted, pointing.

  “I am,” said the man in a pleasant, cultivated voice, “and I’d like to stay that way.”

  Hume cut the halter loose from the tree with a single swing of his newfound sword. Freed from the danger of strangling, the stranger’s knees promptly folded. He sat down hard in the cart.

  Malek, Nils, Wilf and Caeta got no further than the ring of motionless watchers.

  “Come away now!” Malek called to Howland.

  “Wait.” To the stranger he said, “Who are you?”

  “My name is Ezu. Will one of you kindly untie me?”

  No one moved to help him. Raika got up, looking as if she wanted to restore the noose to the tree and kick the cart away.

  Ezu sighed. “People of this land are so inhospitable! This hapless traveler needs your help!”

  “Cut him free,” said Howland. Hume obeyed, despite Raika’s protests.

  “We know nothing about him,” she said. “He could be the worst criminal in the world!”

  “Oh, I’m not him,” Ezu said, as Hume sawed through the ropes that bound his wrists.

  “Who?” asked Hume, pausing.

  “The Worst Criminal in the World. I met him once. Fascinating fellow—”

  Once free, Ezu climbed out of the cart. His gait was very unsteady. “I’ve been standing for three whole days,” he explained with a disarming smile. “I didn’t dare move, lest I end up dangling.”

  “What happened here?” asked Howland.

  Ezu ignored the question and said, “Can we move to different ground? These unhappy folk wished to kill me, so you’ll understand that I find their company disagreeable.”

  Howland, for once, deferred to the others. “What do you think?”

  “Seems like a decent enough chap,” said Hume.

  “He could be anybody!” Raika complained.

  Amergin’s sling remained in his hand. “Let him come,” the elf said. Opinion delivered, he turned on his heel and walked away.

  They hastily left the maple grove, though not before Carver made his rounds, “finding” odds and ends in the lynch mob’s pockets. He did not get much, but for once Caeta did not criticize his pilfering.

  “I despise mobs,” she muttered to Malek.

  Ezu limped along, surrounded by Nowhere’s hired warriors. Malek gave him water, which the stranger drank gratefully.

  “I imagine you want some explanation,” he said, once his thirst was slaked.

  “And damn quick,” Raika muttered.

  “As I said, I am Ezu, a traveler. I’ve been in this country many days.”

  Howland said, “Doing what?”

  Again the easy smile. “As I said, traveling. It is my pleasure to visit distant lands and see places I’ve never been.”

  “You just travel? How do you live?” asked Wilf.

  “By my wits, mostly.” Seeing this did not satisfy his companions, he added, “When necessary, I apply myself to any odd task that needs doing. After I’m paid, I can continue my journey. It is my goal—my dream—to travel completely around the world.”

  “You sure talk funny,” said Carver.

  “Madman,” was Raika’s verdict.

  “Why were those people trying to hang you?” asked Hume.

  The charming stranger looked pained. “They blamed me for their misfortune. Some bandits came through the district shortly after I arrived. They carried off many of the locals. I believe they intended to force them to labor. Since I am a stranger in their country, they thought me in league with the bandits.”

  The farmers stopped dead in their tracks. “It must be Rakell!” Malek raged. “Rounding up more captives!”

  “Maybe he needs more slaves to replace the ones who’ve died,” blurted Wilf. He regretted saying this when saw the anguish on his friend’s face.

  “You know the situation then?” said Ezu casually. “Good. The folks back there decided I was some kind of magical spy, divining where their villages and secreted food supplies were and betraying them to the bandits. The mob seized me, declared me guilty, and marched me down the road to hang me.

  “Bandit scouts often use this road,” Ezu added. “The peasants meant to leave my body where the bandits would find it.” In spite of the grim topic, Ezu managed a grin. “My death was to be a warning to others.”

  “Folks here seem made of sterner stuff than you,” Raika mused to Malek.

  “They are many, we are few,” the farmer replied defensively.

  “All this is fascinating,” Howland said, “but what happened to the lynch mob? How did they end up so stricken?”

  Ezu cupped a hand to the back of his head, looking embarrassed. “My doing, I fear.”

  “Magic!” declared Carver.

  “Not at all. I used Piroquey’s Powder on them.”

  “What powder?”

  “Piroquey’s Powder,” Ezu explained. “It is a rare substance I picked up in my wanderings. Sprayed in the air and inhaled, it causes a waking paralysis.”

  “Why did you use it?” asked Howland.

  The genial stranger said, “I thought once I’d stopped the hanging, I could wriggle out of my bonds, but they tied me too well. When you came along, I was wondering if I would get loose before the mob woke up.”

  Malek grunted. “I wish you hadn’t used all the powder. A substance like that would have been invaluable against Rakell.”

  Carver had ideas of his own about Piroquey’s Powder. “How long will they be asleep?”

  “They could awake at any time.”

  All the more reason to leave as soon as possible. Howland gathered everyone together and signaled Amergin they were going. The elf set off due east again, skirting the grove of silent vigilantes.

  “Begging your pardon,” Ezu said, trotting after Caeta and Khorr. “This one would like to know if he might accompany you? At least to safer surroundings?”

  “It’s not at all safe where we’re going,” Caeta replied, “but you’re welcome to join us for as long as you like.”

  “Splendid!” Ezu bowed again. He ran back to the grove and returned, bearing an ornate satchel. It was made of strips of shiny black wood, jointed with twine. A woven handle on top allowed him to carry it.

  “All my worldly goods,” he said, patting the box. “Couldn’t leave that behind!”

  The march continued long after sundown. Time was short, and the farmers pressed Howland to hurry. The old Knight kept the party going until darkness was well upon them then called a halt. They had reached the edge of the high plain. The dull, steamy sky at last dissolved into the deep azure of dusk. Hills were fewer and lower, and trees stood out like isolated sentinels against the darkening sky.

  “Cold camp, remember,” Howland said. “No fire.”

  Carver shinnied up a chestnut tree for a look around. He slid back down and reported he c
ould see a single campfire in the near distance, glowing against the velvet sky.

  “How far?” asked Howland.

  “Two miles, maybe.”

  “I tire of being chased,” Raika said.

  “So do I,” said Hume.

  “Want to do something about it?” asked Howland.

  The Saifhumi woman nodded.

  “Take Amergin with you, and see if you can’t discourage them from following us. Hume and I will stay here. We need to guard our own camp. Just because a fire is burning nearby, that doesn’t mean the fire-builder is beside it.

  “It’s an old wilderness trick,” added the Knight. “A fire draws trouble, like moths. While we send a force out to deal with our pursuer, they may choose the same time to attack. We must be vigilant.”

  They camped in a shallow ravine lined with windblown leaves. Worn out by the journey, Wilf, Nils, and Caeta were soon asleep. Malek, brooding, could not succumb to slumber. All sorts of awful images crowded his thoughts: his friends and neighbors slaving in a black pit under the whips of cruel overseers. Weak ones, too feeble to work, being given to the ogres … Laila, sleek as a yearling doe, at the mercy of Rakell and his cronies—

  The odd stranger, Ezu, loomed over him. “Greetings,” he said. “May this one join you?”

  Malek grunted, shifting to one side. Ezu dropped beside him. He opened his satchel and took out a sheaf of waxed paper. Unrolled, Malek saw it held strips of dried fish of some kind. Ezu offered some to him.

  He was tempted. Malek had eaten nothing but barley cake and water for days, and now that was running out. He and his comrades had privately agreed all the food would go to the warriors. His belly was like the sky overhead—black and empty.

  “Thank you,” he said, warily taking just one strip. The fish jerky was actually quite tender and fiercely salty. Malek’s jaw clenched from the powerful taste.

  “So,” said Ezu, “you seek to fight the bandits, all of you?”

  Malek tried to look innocent and failed.

  The stranger shrugged broadly. “When I see farmers and soldiers traveling together, I wonder … you do not bear their baggage, so you’re not porters. You and Sir Howland—” He held his hands up, palms down and parallel. “He listens to you. You’re his equal, yes?”