A prancing roan horse cut off his beloved from him. The rider struck her down with the butt of his spear. Enraged, Malek flung his stick at the man and shouted, “Butcher, leave her be!”
Coolly the man turned, couching his spear under his arm like a lance. He dug in his spurs, twisting his horse’s head in a half circle to get at Malek. The young farmer backed frantically, but the water was knee deep, and it slowed him. Malek clearly saw the square-shaped spearhead plunging at his chest.
From nowhere Hume appeared, sword at maximum reach. He ran it right through the charging rider’s leg and into his horse. Men and beast fell together in tremendous fountain of spray.
Saved by his comrade’s rush, Malek tried to pull Hume from his tangle with the fallen horse and rider. The burly warrior rose, spewing creek water from both nostrils.
“Rally to Sir Howland!” he gasped. “Back to shore!”
“But Laila! It’s Laila!” Malek cried, trying to get around Hume.
Hume shuddered suddenly. To his horror, Malek saw an arrow sprouting from Hume’s broad back. Before he could even react, two more struck. Hume groaned deeply. His knees buckled.
“Get to shore!” he said through bloody, gritted teeth.
A hand seized the back of his shirt and pulled him away. Malek saw the Khurish warrior fall facedown in the stream.
Nils was dragging him. Malek tried to fight his way free, but his older brother held on. “Laila’s back there!” he screamed.
“I saw,” Nils replied. “We can’t reach her! Hume’s done for! We must get away!”
More horsemen appeared on the path, galloping to the fray. Gasping from his wound and spitting water, Nils let Howland take hold of his brother and drag him onto dry land.
Stumbling and staggering, the three men fled into the high grass. Had the horsemen been bolder, they might have caught them all, but without a leader to take charge, the riders gathered up the prisoners, the killed, and the wounded and beat a retreat.
Enough time passed to convinced Howland they would not be back soon. He marched Nils and Malek back to the water’s edge.
Two dead horses floated in the stream. Rakell’s men had dragged Hume’s body ashore and chopped off his head.
“They took it back to their warlord to prove they fought,” said Howland. Anger, like sparks falling on tinder, slowly ignited inside him. “How did he die? What happened?”
“It was my fault,” Malek admitted. “I saw my betrothed among the captives. When I tried to reach her, a bandit almost got me. Hume saved my life, but they put three arrows in him …”
Howland stalked to Malek and struck him in the face with the back of his hand. Delivered by a lifelong soldier like Howland, it knocked the farmer to the ground.
“Hothead! You nearly killed us all!”
“We got five of them!” Malek countered. “I thought I could save her!”
“Hume was worth more than any five cutthroats! He was vital to us! What will we do without him?”
Nils stepped between them. “Rakell knows he has armed foes about, but he may not realize we are from Nowhere, not yet. We must go back and ready ourselves!”
Howland said nothing but waded across to where Hume’s body lay. He pried the sword from the man’s stiffening fingers and returned. He offered the Quen blade to Nils.
“No more mistakes!” he said through clenched teeth. “We have no margin for misfortune left! Tell your miserable brother to harden his heart. I won’t let him sacrifice our lives or the village for the sake of a single woman. Is that clear?”
Deeply ashamed, Malek slunk away. Nils, looking burdened by his new weapon, trudged after him.
It was a while before Howland uth Ungen followed his charges. It took a long time for him to dig a decent grave.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nowhere to Run
"C’mon, you clods! Straighten that line! And yell when you attack-yell like you mean it! Yell your guts out!”
Eight farmers, five men and three women, rushed headlong across the dusty village common, screeching as loudly as they could. They gripped makeshift wooden spears and wore ragged cloth turbans on their heads. This last detail was Raika’s special contribution. The rolled cloth would provide some protection against raps on the head.
“Besides,” she said, “turbans make you look civilized.”
As shock troops, the farmers had a long way to go. Because they were different heights and strengths, they couldn’t maintain an even line once they started moving. The long-legged quickly outpaced the short, and over a distance the strong moved faster than the weak.
All morning Raika stormed up and down, waving her hands and shouting at anyone out of place. When she finally let her inept troops rest, Raika went to the well to rinse dust and disgust from her mouth. Robien sat there, watching the maneuvers. He perched on the surrounding wall, feet dangling on either side of the Ancestor. The lower half of the broken sandstone block had almost changed from red to blue, owing to the stain spreading down from the crack.
“Traps all laid?” she said, dropping the bucket into the cool, stone-lined shaft.
“Not all,” replied the elf. “Some must be done after dark.”
She hauled on the rope to bring the bucket back up. “Why after dark?”
“Some of the triggers must be set in darkness. After they’re in place, a single miscast shadow can set them off.”
The Saifhumi woman regarded him skeptically. Unlike most mainlanders, she had never stood in awe of elves. All the ones she ever met were clever and cultured, but they didn’t seem any wiser than anyone else.
“Your troops are shaping up,” Robien said politely.
“Shaping up to be killed.” Raika hoisted the full bucket over her head and dumped the water over her. She spat grit, and added, “They don’t stand together, they don’t think together, and they don’t fight together. The bandits will have them for supper.”
“Maybe you’re not going about it the right way.”
“Oh? How would you train these yokels?”
“Having them run around charging is pointless. Not one of them has the fortitude to attack mounted men. That’s as well. All they need to do is defend, not attack.”
“I had no idea you were such a general,” Raika said, wiping her face with her turban.
“I’ve lived a long time and done many things. Many years ago, I was a soldier.”
Raika slouched against the well wall. “Then you teach them, master!”
Robien did not reply but strolled out into the hot sun. Raika’s villagers were marching in circles inside the row of houses, shoulder to shoulder. Robien stood in front of them and waited. When the farmers came abreast of him, he held up a hand to stop them.
“Hold,” he said mildly. He took the spear from the nearest man, Malek’s cousin Fayn. He was a rangy fellow five years’ Malek’s senior, with rusty red hair all over his body and a multitude of freckles.
“Any of you ever speared a man before?”
The farmers shook their heads.
“How about a horse?”
No again.
Robien nodded. “Follow me,” he said.
They looked to their nominal commander for guidance. Raika shrugged and waved them away. Let the elf drill the fools if he wants, her gestures seemed to say.
Robien shouldered the borrowed spear and led the farmers to a gap between two of the houses. Both huts had been filled with dirt, and the rattan fence between them, meant only to keep chickens out of the root cellars beneath each house, had been reinforced with concealed piles of cordwood and stones. It was no real impediment to a determined attacker, but the strength of the fence would certainly surprise and perhaps unhorse unwary riders.
“Here,” said Robien, halting. “Five of you defending this gap ought to be able to hold off any number of horsemen.”
“How?” asked Fayn.
Robien took the three biggest men and arrayed them between the huts. Two women knelt between th
em, spears braced against their feet.
“You must keep your nerve above all,” Robien told them. “If you break, the riders will slaughter you, but if you hold your line and keep points out, the enemy will turn away, I promise.”
One of the women laughed nervously. “Why should they break before us?”
“No one wants to get speared,” Robien replied dryly. “They’ll ride at you, screaming dire threats, but they won’t charge home. What they really want is to scare you into running.”
Robien held out his arms. The huts were far enough apart that he couldn’t quite touch them.
“Only one horse can get through here at a time,” he said. “Two, in a pinch. If you see two or more riders bearing down on you, stand fast! They’ll turn away or else collide trying to fit between the houses. When they do, you’ll have them.”
A shower of short arrows fell on Robien and the farmers, followed by gales of childish laughter. The elf picked up one of the missiles. It was blunt and fletched with stiff green leaves.
“You must also beware of enemy archers,” the bounty hunter said.
More laughter from above, and Carver appeared on the roof of the left-hand hut, surrounded by a gang of scruffy, bright-eyed children.
“You are all victims of the Nowhere Whippik Corps!” Carver said.
“I hope you’ll use sharper ones on the raiders,” Robien replied.
“To be sure! They’re being made even now.”
Robien nodded. “It is a sound tactic to put missile-throwers on the high ground.”
Thinking of missile-throwers reminded him of Amergin, his sling-toting quarry.
“Has anyone seen Amergin today?”
“Not since he left with you this morning,” said Fayn.
“He was supposed to be laying traps in the northeast approaches,” Robien mused. “I wonder if he’s come back?” He dismissed the farmers and made for the west end of the village where Khorr and some men still labored hard on the trench.
The open end of Nowhere was abuzz with activity. Outside the growing trench, pairs of village men and women pounded heavy stakes into the ground. Good-sized trees were hard to come by on the high plains, so these stakes were rafters or center posts taken from their houses. Once the posts were driven in half their length, a farmer with a hatchet whittled the ends to a formidable point.
Behind the row of stakes, the trench cut into the soil like a fresh wound. Beneath the yellow topsoil was clay, thick gray earth too heavy in which to grow crops. Elderly villagers hauled the clay away in baskets to fill emptied houses. The trench already stretched across the open end of Nowhere. Now Khorr and his diggers were hurrying to deepen it.
The minotaur made a tremendous impression as he stood hip deep in the earth, his broad shoulders sheened with sweat, his naturally bronze skin gone copper in the hot sun. He’d broken two ordinary mattocks before Wilf made him a tool worthy of his size, lashing three ordinary handles to the only iron-headed pick in the village.
Robien stood to one side, keeping clear of the urgent bustle. He called out to Khorr.
The sweat-soaked poet leaned on his implement and palmed his face dry with a colorful kerchief.
“What is it?”
“Have you seen Amergin?”
“Not since yesterday. Is he missing?”
Robien felt his jaw tighten. “No. I just need to find him.”
“Perhaps you should engage the services of a good tracker!”
The minotaur was wittier than he looked. Robien ruefully waved his thanks. Khorr called for water and downed an entire bucket fetched by two village women. The bounty hunter moved on.
He crossed on a plank laid over the open trench and slipped between the slanting stakes. From there he looked back over the entire village. Carver and the children clambered over the thatched rooftops, launching blunt darts at each other. Raika’s hoarse shouting rose over the cloud of dust where her spearmen were still drilling. Sir Howland and Hume were out on reconnaissance. The strange Ezu had spent the past two days collecting rocks and plants from the countryside, but it was unclear if he was doing anything of real value. Khorr slaved away, digging by day and reciting minotaur epics to his crew at night.
That left the missing Amergin. Robien didn’t believe his fellow Kagonesti would have run away. Howland’s odd company had gotten Amergin out of Robann, and saved him from the Brotherhood of Quen. He would not abandon those to whom he owed a debt. So where was he?
Out of sight of the working villagers, Robien put his head down and ran. He was fleet of foot, but his speed was an asset he chose not to share with the farmers or the mercenaries. To survive, everyone needed an edge. Robien had several he kept close to his heart. The time might soon come when he would need every advantage he could wrest.
At Howland’s request, both elves agreed not to set up any traps on the open ground between the village proper and the fields. Once inside the sea of barley, or past the green garden plots, anything was fair game.
Robien neared a stand of corn. Aside from some indistinct noises coming from the village, all seemed calm. He put a hand to his mouth. “Amergin!” he called, not too loudly. He continued in Elvish, “Where are you, brother?”
A crow rose squawking from the corn rows. Robien watched it depart, protesting loudly in the manner of all crows. It fluttered away, becoming a black wrinkle against the dull, hazy sky.
He slipped between the closely growing stalks. Sunlight filtered between the curled-up leaves, dappling the ground. This was a perfect place for a trip-line. Robien dropped to one knee and removed his belt. Made of hardwood pegs strung together on a rawhide core, the belt was normally flexible unless the pegs were twisted a certain way. Robien ran them through his hands, deftly rotating the segments until his belt had been transformed into a rigid rod. He leaned forward, probing between the corn stalks. Almost immediately he snagged a horizontal filament. Palomino horsehairs, gleaned by Amergin from the grassland around them, braided together into a strong, thin twine, invisible under ordinary circumstances. Here was a trigger all right. Where was the trap?
He sidled sideways through the corn until the horsehair zigged away from him. Following the line, Robien found Amergin’s trap. Amid the green corn, a double line of green canes stuck in the dirt were bent back at a severe angle. The trigger line ran back and forth among the bent stalks. When tripped, the canes would fly up in a rippling wave, flailing anything within reach. Amergin had studded the cane stalks with whatever sharp objects he could find-flakes of flint, chicken bones carved to points, beef shoulder blades made keen by the Kagonesti’s knife, and inch-long thorns from the plains gorse bushes. None of these were lethal (unless poisoned), but they could put out an eye or spook a horse with ease. Robien was impressed. Amergin knew his business.
He moved on, finding three layers of intertwined traps. Beyond the corn field, Amergin had hollowed out a mossy bank of earth. It looked solid enough to walk or ride over, but the slightest weight would cause the shell of moss to collapse. Underneath was a hole six inches deep and over twelve feet long, deep enough to hobble a horse or break a man’s ankle. Amergin had done all this without leaving any trace.
Next the bounty hunter found a series of snags-hidden or disguised lengths of thorny creeper, more horsehair twine, and rawhide thong. The snags were linked so that anyone struggling to get out of one would make the others tighter. Not lethal, again, but troublesome to foes.
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.”
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