The Middle of Nowhere

by Paul B. Thompson

  The outermost line of traps was the deadly one. Robien was intrigued by Amergin’s cool cunning. By putting the worst traps first, he would convince the enemy that succeeding ones would be as bad or worse. If Rakell’s men were quick to anger, they might bull on through, heedless of any danger, anxious to avenge their hurts. That would surely give away their position. In any case, the defenders would reap a benefit.

  The outer trap was clearly marked. Amergin had set up four widely spaced scarecrows, made of tree limbs, leaves, and mud. He modeled them to resemble foot soldiers in armor. If the light were poor enough, the enemy might be fooled at first. Each figure was a trigger. Sunk in the ground around the scarecrows were four hinged stakes, each a good two feet long, made of green wood. Anyone striking or otherwise disturbing a scarecrow would cause a heavy stone to fall from the figure’s head into a deep, narrow hole. The falling stone caused the stakes to rise and snap shut on the scarecrow. With luck, Amergin could impale three or four of the enemy with each one.

  Robien stood close to one scarecrow, admiring the delicate system of notches and lines that made it work. A voice behind him said, “What a lot of foolishness.”

  Amergin’s voice. He turned quickly but saw no one. Robien said in Elvish, “You are a master of trap-craft. I salute you.”

  In Common, Amergin replied, “Don’t try to cozen me by using the old tongue.”

  “As you wish.” Robien reverted to the language of humans. His eyes darted from side to side, trying to spot the hidden forester. They were in the open, surrounded by grass, but Robien couldn’t see his quarry at all.

  “Your camouflage is excellent,” said the bounty hunter.

  “You’ve been among the sky-folk too long,” Amergin said, using the Kagonesti term for those who did not live in the woods—whether human, kender, dwarf, or elf.

  “Not so long that I couldn’t find your traps,” Robien said.

  “How many?”

  “Four sets.”

  “There are six.”

  Robien moved away from the scarecrow, careful not to jar it. “Your skill is greater than mine. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  A hunched figure emerged from the chest-high grass. Amergin had encased himself in a large grass drape so he melted into the surrounding growth.

  “I want you to understand. When we fought in your camp, you bested me because the woman interfered. In the wild, you would never find me, much less catch me.”

  Robien nodded. “I let her take me—you know that, don’t you?”

  The grass-figure shifted. “Robien the Tireless taken from behind by a human? Not in a year of springtimes.”

  Amergin pulled the grass hood off his head. His dark eyes were rimmed with red. He’d apparently not slept these past two days.

  “I’m tired, bounty hunter. I don’t want to go on wondering if in the end you intend to sell me to the Brotherhood.”

  “Sell? What I do, I do honorably. Service rendered for money paid.”

  “I am a person, not a service!” Amergin exclaimed.

  “We can settle this afterward. The villagers—”

  “Let’s settle it now!” Amergin drew his knife. “Renounce the Brotherhood’s contract, or I’ll water the weeds with your blood!”

  As Robien’s hand closed around the handle of his sword, the rumble of moving horses reached them both. Hunter and hunted’s eyes met.

  The forester pulled his hood down and vanished into the grass. Robien ran, hunched over, to a small sour apple tree on the crest of a slight slope. To the east he saw eleven riders cantering through the grass. The lead horseman raised his hand, and the riders reined to a stop.

  “It’s beyond those fields, yonder? See the green? That’s it,” said the leader.

  “Should we spread out, Keph?” asked one of the men.

  “It doesn’t matter. There’s not a sword in the place.” He laughed shortly. “Nor a man to wield one!”

  Two riders detached themselves from the rest and took up positions not twenty feet from Robien.

  “Keep an eye out,” the leader, Keph, told them. “We’ll be back in two days to relieve you.”

  “Bring wine!” said one of the scouts.

  “And meat!” said the other.

  Keph laughed. “I’ll bring you a feast deluxe.”

  Something brushed against Robien’s elbow. Amergin was lying on his belly close enough to touch him.

  “Let’s take them,” he whispered.

  “What, now? Wait till the others are gone!”

  “Now. Quietly. It will disturb the rest.”

  With a mild rustle, Amergin was gone. The remaining nine horsemen trotted away, heading southeast.

  The two scouts sat slouched on their animals, facing the unseen village. As Robien watched, he noticed the scout on the left’s horse shying a little, as though the beast had detected a serpent near its feet. A snake would be less dangerous, the bounty hunter thought.

  Robien crept forward as fast as he dared, knees bent, hands brushing the ground. He left his sword in its scabbard and took out his hunting knife, a single-edged weapon as long as his hand. Teeth clamped on the blade, he worked his way closer to the unwary men.

  One scout’s horse stirred a little. The rider patted his animal. “Steady, steady,” he crooned.

  “He wants to go back to camp too,” said the other man.

  Robien was behind them, no more than six feet away, when Amergin rose up like a ghost and grabbed both men by their mantles, jerking them backward off the rumps of their mounts. The horses took off, neighing and tossing their heads.

  Amergin threw himself over one of the men, covering him with his grassy cape. The other man struggled to rise and draw his sword. Robien took him from behind, clamping a hand over the man’s mouth and burying his blade in the small of his back.

  The grass flowed away, revealing the second rider dead.

  “Now what?” asked Robien, breathing hard.

  Amergin gripped the dead man’s collar. “Bring him.”

  They dragged the bodies over the hill. Amergin proceeded confidently, leading Robien to a small depression in the hillside. This hollow was full of brambles. Amergin shoved the dead man in then took Robien’s victim and pushed him in, too. Robien thought they were done, but Amergin retraced their path, plucking up bent grass and wiping away any bloodstains. When he was done, only the most expert tracker could have detected where the bodies had been taken.

  By now the frightened horses had overtaken their comrades, causing consternation among the other riders. They came galloping back. Robien made ready to retire, but Amergin gripped his wrist hard. He spread his grass cape over the bounty hunter.

  “Watch. Listen.”

  The brigands circled the spot where their companions had disappeared, prodding the grass with their lances.

  “Juric! Vago!” the leader called.

  More than once the men passed within spitting distance of the Kagonesti but failed to detect them.

  “Keph, where are they?” one man cried.

  “Hiding. They must be!”

  “Vago wouldn’t do that!”

  “Neither would Juric!”

  Keph said, “Then they’ve deserted, the scum.”

  The dead men’s friends protested vigorously. Keph cursed them into silence. “If they didn’t desert, what happened to them? Did they disappear into thin air?”

  A gaunt, hawk-faced rider pushed the helmet back on his head and fearfully scanned the sky. “Something took them,” he intoned.

  His leader scoffed. “What? A dragon? Don’t you think we would’ve seen anything big enough to carry off two armed men?”

  Hawk-face would not be talked down. “There’s a reason why this land is deserted. There are wild spirits, malign powers abroad here!”

  “You’re mad, Botha! The gods are dead, and all the ghosts died with them ages ago!” Keph circled his nervous horse. “Besides, this land isn’t empty. Farmers live here.”

&
nbsp; “Maybe they have a pact with the dark spirits—”

  Keph struck Botha with a mailed fist. The blow rocked him, but the hard-riding warrior kept his seat.

  “That’s enough!” Keph snapped. “There are no spirits! There’s no power here greater than our Lord Rakell, understand?” He circled again. “Juric and Vago have deserted, I tell you. You heard ’em. They didn’t want picket duty, so they ran off. They’re hiding in the grass out there, somewhere. If I had time, I’d set a fireline and smoke ’em out, but Lord Rakell’s on the move and expects us back before sundown. So be men, not children! Let’s go!”

  The bandits rode away. Once they were out of sight, Robien threw back the grass mat and sat up, drawing deep breaths. It was nearly airless under there.

  “Seeds are planted,” Amergin said, shucking off his camouflage hood and gauntlets. “Now we will let them grow a little.” He started back to the bramble gully.

  “What are you going to do now?” Robien called after him.

  Amergin didn’t answer.

  Robien followed, curious. Amergin dragged the bodies out and lashed their wrists together then draped the dead raiders on two of his scarecrows, looping their arms around his figures’ necks. It was a macabre scene, two corpses each hugging a scarecrow as if they were long-lost comrades. Rakell’s men were sure to be frightened or infuriated when they found them. Seeing Amergin’s macabre ploy, Robien wasn’t sure which he felt himself.

  It was dark when Robien and Amergin returned. Robien made a wide circuit of the isolated village, checking the traps. When all was done, the two Kagonesti walked back to the village through the barley, tossing lightly in the night wind. Neither elf spoke to the other.

  A bonfire blazed in the center of the village common. The bright fire startled the elves, and fearing trouble, they separated. Each entered Nowhere at a different point between the darkened huts. Yet all was calm. There were no signs of a raid.

  Howland had returned. Malek and Nils were also present, but Amergin didn’t spot Hume. Curious, the elf made his way to the old Knight.

  Caeta accosted him. “One of your comrades has been killed,” she said sadly. Amergin didn’t need to be told which.

  Robien approached the bonfire from the other side. The villagers huddled around the flames, grass mats and blankets spread on the ground. With their homes filled with dirt, they would be sleeping in the open for a while.

  Raika rose from her haunches when she spied the bounty hunter. “First blood to Rakell,” she said. “They got Hume.”

  “We got two of them today,” Robien replied. He described the killing of the two bandits.

  News that the Kagonesti had encountered Rakell’s scouts so near the village sent a spasm of terror through the assembled farmers. Howland summoned Amergin and Robien, asking for every detail of their fight.

  The laconic Amergin had little to say, so Robien, no big talker himself, had to supply most of the details.

  “It was a small band, eleven men on horses, armed with sword and lance. Only nine rode away.”

  “We slew four at the ford but lost Hume.” Howland’s grim face looked gray by firelight. “Young Malek saw his bride among the slaves fetching water. Seeing her unhinged him. Hume went to his aid, and that’s when he fell.”

  The Knight looked over his downcast troops and the dispirited villagers. Something had to be done to stop this slide into despair. If it went on unchecked, Rakell could win without striking another blow.

  A speech praising Hume’s humility and courage might help, but Howland never got the chance to deliver it. The somber air around the bonfire was invaded by the weird, unnatural keen of Ezu’s whistle. Heads turned.

  Into the ring of firelight strolled the traveler. He looked even more bizarre than usual. Over his baggy trousers and loose tunic Ezu had pinned scores of flowering plants, all different. There was thistle, dandelion, red and white clover, tiny climbing roses, tufts of corn silk, bean flowers, violets—all the common blossoms found on the northern plain. By firelight, the paler blooms took on a rosy glow, like cat’s eyes by a blazing hearth. In addition, Ezu wore a pair of deer antlers, cast off long ago and whitened by the elements, fastened to a thick leather strap he wore tied around his forehead. He cut an eerie figure, part-human, part-animal, part flowering field.

  Coming into view with his whistle at his lips, Ezu had his eyes shut. A few feet from Howland and the mercenaries, he halted.

  “Good people!” he said, taking the brass stem away and opening his eyes. “I compliment you on the richness of your domain.”

  Somehow the whistle disappeared from his hand. Ezu cupped his hands together and blew lightly into the hollow they made. When he flung his hands apart, a pearl-gray dove fluttered into the air.

  Chuckles all around.

  “He’s a petty conjurer!” Raika said with an amused grunt.

  The villager children—and Carver—rushed forward, surrounding Ezu. While they clamored for more tricks, he extended a finger, almost touching the tip of the kender’s sharp nose. Carver stared at it, going cross-eyed in the process. The children giggled.

  Ezu suddenly inverted his hand, and there under Carver’s nose appeared a small golden sphere, about the size of an acorn.

  “Take it,” said Ezu pleasantly. “It is yours.”

  The kender took the small ball. He sniffed it, brow furrowed, and hastily peeled off the outer wrapping of gold foil. Inside was a stark white pellet. Impulsively, Carver popped the white pill in his mouth. He gasped a little then grinned.

  “Spice candy, just like Auntie Fastswitcher used to make!”

  The children pleaded for treats of their own. Ezu stood back a half step and spread his hands wide. Golden globes rained from his fingertips—or were they really coming from his voluminous sleeves?

  Boys and girls scrambled in the dirt, retrieving every last morsel. While this happy chaos continued, Howland, Raika, and Khorr came forward.

  “You didn’t tell us you were a juggler,” growled Howland, folding his arms.

  “I have many talents,” Ezu replied. “Lady, would you assist me?”

  Raika looked doubtful. “I don’t hold with this sleight-of-hand rubbish.”

  “It’s magic, not sleight-of-hand. Please.”

  Khorr gave the Saifhumi woman a playful nudge, which was enough to send her staggering into Ezu’s arms. He steadied her as she slapped his helpful hands away. Those watching laughed, even Howland.

  “I heard magic had gone away,” Ezu said. “In my own small way, I’ve tried to bring a little back.”

  He passed one hand over another. “I once visited your homeland, the island of Saifhum,” Ezu said softly, keeping Raika’s eyes on his darting hands. “What from there do you miss the most?”

  Her answer was quick and firm: “My lover, Enjollah!”

  The village women behind Raika cheered her sentiment.

  Ezu stroked his beardless chin. “Sadly I cannot produce Enjollah for you, so what else? A favorite trinket perhaps, food, or drink?”

  “Thornapple,” she said, smirking. “I haven’t seen Saifhumi fruit since coming to the mainland.”

  Undaunted, Ezu began making distracting hand gestures again.

  “No, wait! I’ve changed my mind. Thornapple wine.” She grinned.

  Ezu looked perplexed but only for a instant. “Very well, though it may take longer … for what is wine, but fruit grown old and gone awry?”

  He thrust his right hand high into the air, fingers spread. Everyone followed his broad, dramatic motion, paying no heed to his left hand, which went behind his head. When it returned, he held a small pot-bellied bottle.

  The crowd gasped. Ezu presented the bottle to Raika.

  Her mouth worked, but no barbs issued forth. She looked helplessly at Howland.

  “What is it?” he asked, amused.

  “I know these bottles,” she said. “They’re only made in Saifhum!”

  “Open it!” Khorr urged.

&
nbsp; She pulled the cork with her knife tip. A strong, sweet aroma overcame the smoky smell of the bonfire. Raika took a fast swig. Coughing, she said, “Thornapple wine! And strong!”

  Howland took the bottle and sniffed the neck. “Thornapple brandy,” he suggested.

  Raika grabbed the little jug back and gulped a second mouthful.

  More of the crowd surged around Ezu, some laughing, some clapping, and not a few demanding he produce some long-ago delicacy they remembered. Ezu silenced them with a whirl of his hand. The brass whistle appeared. He didn’t need to blow it. The mere sight of the piercing instrument calmed the excited farmers.

  He looked up at the minotaur. “My robust friend,” he said, “inside that spreading torso beats the heart of an artist. What gift may I give you?”

  The great horned head shook slowly from side to side. “There is nothing you can do for me. The understanding of my clan cannot be accomplished with a wave of your hand.”

  Ezu rolled the whistle across the back of his hand. It vanished once more. He sighed. “I fear you are right. If I could make your people revere you as a poet, I would, but an artist must earn acceptance. He cannot demand it.” He tugged one of his fat earlobes. “Still, even poets need inspiration.”

  He tucked his hands into his sleeves, rolling them around his arms a few times. When Ezu took them out again, they were empty. The audience murmured with disappointment.

  “Give Khorr a treat!” cried Carver, cheek bulging with candy.

  Several people in the crowd, including Caeta, echoed the kender’s cry.

  Ezu said, “But he already has his treat!”

  Khorr looked down at his callused and blistered hands. Nestled in the palm of his left hand was what looked like a painted block of wood five or six inches long. Brown eyes wide, the minotaur held up the strange object.

  “Is this—?”

  Ezu nodded sagely.

  Raika, slightly tipsy from her thornapple brandy, thrust her face close to Khorr’s prize. “Whatsit?” she said loudly.

  “A ronto,” the minotaur said. The reverence in his voice was obvious. He held the block out for all to see. Pushing on one edge, the block fanned open, becoming a collection of thin wooden slats held together by a pin driven vertically through the end of each piece. The slats were covered with elaborate, colorful pictures, painted in neat lines.