The Middle of Nowhere

by Paul B. Thompson

  She stalked down the slope. Khorr gave Carver a mildly reproachful look and followed her.

  “Yeah, right!” Carver muttered. “No treasure? Ha! You just don’t want to share it fair and square!” He stamped his foot, wincing from the burn he gave himself with Ezu’s lens. “Think I’ll give up and go home? Not me! Not Carver Reedwhistle, master of adventure!” Realizing no one was listening, he hurried after Caeta and the minotaur. “Wait for me!” he shouted. When they didn’t, he repeated his call louder and louder each time.

  Not half an hour had passed since Howland had demanded stealth from his followers. Already the warriors’ quiet entry into Nowhere had been shattered by the irrepressible kender.

  Wind raised eddies of dust around the silent huts. Malek stopped at the well to offer Howland and Hume fresh water. The old bucket, broken the day Rakell kidnapped Laila, Larem, and the others, had been replaced by a flimsy container made of woven grass. It leaked copiously as Howland raised it to his lips.

  “Where is everybody?” Malek wondered out loud. “It’s strange. No one working in the fields, no children playing in the shade …”

  “Perhaps Rakell came back sooner than expected and took them,” said Hume.

  “No, they must be here.” Howland lowered the grass bucket. “We saw them from the hill. They’re hiding from us. They’re afraid.”

  Malek reddened. “Fools! They can see I’m with you!”

  “They fear strangers,” the Knight said. “Can you blame them after all that has happened?”

  Malek ran to the nearest house and rattled the door. “Come out! Come out, Vank! You too, Dora! Bakar, Fayn, Luki, where are you?”

  He ran to the next house, calling his neighbors’ names. Howland and Hume remained at the well, embarrassed but outwardly stoic.

  Malek fell to kicking at doors and cursing his fellow villagers. No one emerged until the others arrived. Not until Nils, Wilf, and especially Caeta returned were the farmers reassured by familiar faces. Slowly, one house at a time, they opened their doors and peeked out.

  “Come out, you damned rabbits!” Malek raged. “Greet our guests! They’ve come here to fight for you. Can you not show them some gratitude?”

  Gradually the people of Nowhere collected on the common ground between their homes. Mothers hugged children close to them, while husbands nervously flexed work-worn hands around their garden tools.

  An aged villager appeared in a gap in the crowd. Caeta gave a little cry and rushed forward to greet her father. Not waiting for an invitation, Howland also went to meet him. Hume stayed by the well with the recruits.

  Caeta wiped happy tears from her eyes. “Papa, this is Sir Howland, a Knight who’s come to help us.”

  “Greetings, my lord,” the old man said. “Thank you for seeing my daughter safely home. I never thought to see her or the boys again.”

  “We’ve come a long way,” Howland replied briskly. “There is much to do. Where can I quarter my people?”

  After a brief consultation between elder and daughter, Caeta said, “Marren’s hut is empty. The raiders took him and his girl Laila. You may sleep there.”

  “I shall want to meet with every able-bodied man and woman in the village. We’ve come to fight your enemies, but we will need plenty of help.”

  “I will call a village gathering after sunset,” said the elder. He grasped Howland’s hand with his bony one. Aged or not, his grip was hard.

  “We are determined to fight,” rasped the elder. “To the death.”

  Howland managed to smile. “A true warrior doesn’t fight to the death,” he countered. “He fights until his enemies are defeated—or dead.”

  Breaking away from the elder and his daughter, Howland signaled the others to join him. He led them across the dusty square to the hut they were told to occupy. Frightened, curious farmers openly stared at their would-be saviors. Few of them had ever been more than a day’s walk from home, and an ebony-skinned woman, two elves, a minotaur, a kender, and Ezu with his exotic features filled them with wonder. At one point a small boy darted out from behind his mother and ran up to Khorr. With exaggerated care, he lightly touched the minotaur’s brawny flank.

  “Yes?” asked Khorr in his cavern-deep voice.

  With a yelp, the child fled back to his mother.

  “They’re scared,” said Robien. “Scared because we’re different.”

  “I hardly know what I’m doing here,” the Saifhumi woman muttered.

  “A noble thing.”

  She snorted. “You think so?”

  The bounty hunter halted to look over the wide-eyed crowd watching them. “Until this moment I didn’t believe Sir Howland’s story about oppressed farmers. Now I see it’s true.”

  “Move along.” She gave him a shove.

  Ezu, trailing the rest, paused to examine a group of villagers clustered in front of a pair of joined huts. Smiling and speaking in a soothing voice, he fingered the women’s bone hair clasps and the men’s tools.

  “There is little metal here,” he observed to one of the inhabitants. “Perhaps a trade—a hair clasp for—”

  Amergin came back and took him in tow.

  Marren’s hut was a single room, with a pounded clay floor and central hearth. Because Marren was blind, what few pieces of furniture he and Laila had were fastened securely in place. Raika promptly claimed the bed, a simple wooden frame filled with moss and straw.

  “Ah!” She reclined and for the first time in days took her eyes off Robien.

  Howland entered. “Listen, all. We’re to meet with the village elder and his people tonight. Before then, I have tasks for you.”

  “Fire away, captain.” Raika cupped her hands behind her head and closed her eyes.

  He ignored her. “To my eye, this village appears indefensible. If Rakell is half the soldier I imagine he is, he thinks so too. That may give us an advantage. An enemy is most vulnerable when he believes he has the upper hand.”

  “What shall we do?” asked Hume.

  “For now, we’ve got to whip these villagers into fighting shape. Malek says there are twenty-five or so capable of fighting, but they must be properly led. Otherwise, they’ll just be sheep driven before wolves.”

  Carver made baa-baaing noises. Howland ignored him.

  “Each of us who is able will take six or eight farmers in hand and teach them how to move and fight together,” he said.

  “Are we not all able?” asked Khorr.

  “Ezu is not a warrior. Neither is Carver. As for Robien—I’d be glad to have you with us, but as a prisoner, you’re under no obligation to fight for your captors,” said the knight.

  The Kagonesti ranger, kneeling with his hands still tied, looked thoughtful. “I don’t know what fate is planned for me,” he said, “but I would rather fight free than stay bound. Captivity is death for a freeborn elf like me. I will not try to escape.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” Howland ordered Robien cut free.

  Raika protested. “What’s to stop him from fleeing in the night and betraying the lot of us to the Quen Bortherhood?”

  “The choice is his.” Howland’s tone was clear. The matter was not open for debate.

  “What about Amergin? Has he no say?”

  The barefoot forester was leaning against the doorway, watching but not speaking, as usual. When Raika invoked him he said, “If Robien gives up his contract to return me to Robann, I have no objection to his fighting with us.”

  “A contract is a contract,” the bounty hunter replied tersely.

  Raika pointed triumphantly at the stubborn elf.

  “You’re making this difficult,” said Hume.

  “Honor has a way of making life difficult. It also gives life meaning.” Robien shrugged his pinioned shoulders. “On the other hand, the Brotherhood did not specify when I was to bring my quarry in. Given the circumstances, I believe it could be a long time before I return Amergin to them.”

  Howland said, “Cut him lo
ose.”

  Hume hacked through the rawhide lacing. Robien stood, rubbing his raw, chafed wrists. “Thank you,” he said to Howland.

  Howland was somber. “Don’t thank me. You may have agreed to your own death.”

  They discussed arming the farmers with makeshift weapons. At last Carver spoke up.

  “I can make whippiks for the villagers and teach them how to use them. Anyone can use a whippik, even human children.”

  “True,” Hume said thoughtfully. “Many of the village children are no bigger than kender.”

  Carver made a face. “Size isn’t everything, you know.”

  Khorr raised a meaty hand shyly. “What’s a whippik?”

  Carver strode to the hearth. “A whippik,” he explained, “is a throwing stick with loop of gut or twine on one end. By sitting a stone or dart in the loop, a whippik can propel the missile almost as far as a bow. They’re simple to make. All we need is a piece of straight wood as long as the thrower’s arm. And projectiles, of course.”

  “All right,” said Howland. “Carver, you’re in charge of the village children old enough to use a whippik.”

  Grinning fiercely, the kender swaggered back to his spot between Ezu and Khorr and squatted on the floor.

  “What other weapons can we make?” asked the Knight.

  “Spears,” said Hume.

  “Lash a stone to a handle and you have a mace,” said Raika.

  “Slings,” said Robien, glancing at Amergin.

  “Our friend is deadly with one,” Howland agreed, “but can you teach simple-minded farmers to sling?”

  “In a year of practice, yes.”

  Howland nodded. “You have twelve days.”

  “They’d be better off throwing rocks with their bare hands,” protested Amergin.

  Howland sighed. “Try to train them anyway.”

  “While you’re working the villagers, Hume and I, with Malek and his brother, are going to look for Rakell’s stronghold and scout it out. If we can, we’ll free some of the captives he’s holding, while thinning his ranks as much as we can.”

  “What about defenses for the village?” asked Raika. “Once you attack Rakell, he’ll know we’re around. He may strike back before we’re ready to stand up to him.”

  Ezu stood. Smiling as always, he said, “Hello? This one has ideas along those lines.”

  Everyone looked at the stranger skeptically. Not intimidated, Ezu continued.

  “I’ve been to many places, in many lands. I’ve seen all sorts of fortifications, from high stone walls to the permanent rings of fire around the citadel of Kamkorah …” Temporarily lost in his memories, his voice trailed off.

  Howland cleared his throat, and Ezu snapped back to the present. “I may be able to recall some feature we can use to shield these poor people from their tormentors.”

  Tired from the long, hot journey, Howland was in no mood to listen to the foreigner’s odd, elliptical speech. “Fine. Study the matter and try to come up with a physical defense for Nowhere.” To Hume he muttered, “At least it will keep the fellow busy and out of our way.”

  Howland dismissed his troops until sunset, when they would gather in full conclave with the villagers. “You’re free till then,” he said. “Keep to the village, but stay out of sight! Rakell may have sentinels watching everything that happens here.”

  The defenders of Nowhere drifted out until only Howland, Hume, and Raika were left. The old Knight wanted to draw up a sketch-map of the vicinity. He and Hume discussed the lay of the land and ways to defend it. Raika seemed asleep.

  “You’d better keep an eye on our world traveler,” she said, her voice flat with fatigue. “I don’t trust him.”

  “Seems like a harmless fool to me,” Hume replied.

  “Those people were going to hang him for a spy.”

  “Which he freely told us,” Howland pointed out.

  Raika opened one eye. “The best way to disguise a lie is by telling the truth.”

  Howland nodded grudgingly. “Since you don’t have Robien to watch any longer, maybe you want the job?”

  She never heard his jest. Raika, her back to both men, was already snoring loudly.

  The grand meeting of the inhabitants of Nowhere and their new defenders took place after dark. To avoid being seen by Rakell’s scouts, the conclave was held in a barley field west of the settlement. Aside from a few boys left behind to keep watch, everyone trekked silently into the night to meet the warriors come to help them. Hope was in the air. The foreigners and their strange ways seemed full of portent for success.

  The villagers sat down in orderly rows, facing Howland’s motley band. Two torches blazed on either side of the Knight, the only light he would permit. When Caeta entered the clearing with her father, Elder Calec, on her arm, Howland bade them sit up front. Once the elder was seated, he began.

  “I am Howland uth Ungen, Knight of the Order of the Rose. As you know, we’ve come here to defend you against your enemies, Rakell and his raiders.” He paused, trying to catch every farmer’s eyes before he continued. “This we cannot do.”

  The stunned silence that followed extended to his comrades. Hume looked the most stricken of all.

  “We cannot do it with the forces we have on hand. I therefore recommend you abandon this village and move elsewhere.”

  Howland folded his arms across his chest and waited. For a time the only sound was the crackled of the burning torches. At last Calec coughed a little and raised his creaking voice.

  “What deceit is this?” he rasped. “Are you admitting defeat before the fight has begun?”

  “I tell what I know to be true,” Howland replied. “This place is indefensible.”

  Old Calec struggled to his feet, disdaining his daughter’s supporting hand. “You did not come here to tell us that! Why say it now?”

  Howland met the elder’s knowing gaze. “Because the alternative is very hard.”

  “I have lived here eighty-eight years,” said Calec. “My father and mother lived here before me, and their parents before them.” He waved a gnarled hand at the folk behind him. “We’re farmers. We know hardship. Every day we draw breath is a battle against drought, disease, and death. What can be harder than that?”

  “Just this: To win, to survive, everyone must fight. Everyone.”

  The elder spat in the dust. “Give me a stick or a stone, and I’ll fight.”

  The farmers and families behind him were not so sure. A loud murmur rippled through their ranks. Their unease was voiced by Bakar. “Why did we seek warriors, if we’re expected to fight anyway? We could have done that all along and saved food and water!”

  “Will you not fight for your homes and families?” asked Hume.

  Raika snapped, “You’d be slaughtered without us!”

  Voices grew louder as accusations of bad faith and cowardice flew back and forth. Khorr had to restrain Raika from punching a farmer who called her craven. Fearing violence, some villagers tried to creep away unnoticed in the dark.

  A high, warbling whistle cut through the heated words. It grew in intensity until many had to clap hands over their ears to bear it. Everyone turned to the source of the sound, standing in the rear ranks of the newcomers.

  Ezu removed the metal pipe from his lips. The piercing note ceased. Far away, nightbirds screeched, and a rare wolf of the plains howled in lonesome protest.

  “What is that?” asked Howland.

  “A whistle, as used by the sailors of Ladosh.” He tucked it away in his baggy trousers. “Effective, isn’t it?”

  “Unbearable!” said the minotaur. “I thought my head would split!”

  “Many animals find it intolerable. Wolves and dogs, for example.” The howls of the wild creatures could still be heard. “And horses.”

  “Horses?” Howland understood. “Will your whistle upset Rakell’s cavalry?”

  The amiable traveler shrugged.

  “May I see it?”

  Ezu handed How
land the device. It was brass, about as thick as a woman’s little finger, and eight inches long. The walls of the tube were thick, and two slots were cut in the upper surface, one about a third of the length from the mouth end, the other halfway along. Howland put the whistle to his lips and blew. No sound emerged.

  He blew until his face purpled. Ezu gently took the whistle back. “Perhaps it’s not so useful after all,” he said to the mystified Howland.

  Now that calm had been restored, Amergin spoke up. “I’m not a soldier,” he began, “but I have fought mounted foes before. There are no walls around my home forest, but no marauder dares enter it.”

  “Trees are a good fence against cavalry,” said Hume.

  “I speak not of fences or trees,” said the Kagonesti. “Fences can be broken down and trees burned. What my people do to deter attack is lay traps. Many, many traps. Our settlements are ringed with them.”

  “Trenches!” offered Hume. “My khan once defended the whole of the Khurman Peninsula with a line of trenches. The land there is desert, loose sand and gravel, with no trees of any kind. We dug two lines of trenches across the peninsula and turned back the horde of ogre warlord Shagrah-de.”

  Howland pulled out the goatskin parchment he’d procured that afternoon and examined the simple map he’d drawn of Nowhere. He beckoned Malek, Nils, and Caeta to look at it with him. Though blind, Calec joined them.

  “These are useful ideas.” He ran a finger across the drawing. “Where did the raiders come from before?”

  Malek pointed. “They approached from the south.” He tapped the parchment at the open end of the horseshoe of houses. “When they were nearer, they circled around and rode in from the west.”

  It made sense. Ogres and horses need room to maneuver, and it was easier to funnel them into the open end of the village than to squeeze them between huts.

  “We might be able to close this open ground with a trench,” Howland said.

  “Add a barrier of sharpened stakes to fend off horses,” suggested Robien.