The Middle of Nowhere c-5

by Paul B. Thompson

  “Enjollah.” She heard her own voice but had no sensation she was speaking.

  “Yes. Dream well of Enjollah.”

  When he lifted his finger, the feeling ended. Raika braced herself against the well wall.

  “Sink me, I must be tired!”

  “You are tired. Why don’t you go to sleep?”

  “I think I’ll go to sleep.”

  “Good night, lady. May all your dreams be happy ones.”

  Raika’s head stopped heaving like an argosy’s deck in a cyclone. She walked past Ezu, vaguely aware of him leaning against the low stone wall.

  And he was gone.

  Fog and cobwebs evaporated from Raika’s head. She doubled back and circled the well. The field stone wall was waist high, and Ezu was nowhere to be found. He was not crouching low, trying to deceive her. He was gone. The only place he coud have gone was down the well.… She leaned far over the wall and peered into the inky depths. Below the Eternal Spring glimmered. She couldn’t see the mossy walls of the shaft, but there was no sign of Ezu in the well either.

  Shaken, she retreated to her bedroll near the village gong. Carver was nearby, lying sprawled on his back, mouth agape, wheezing and whistling. Sir Howland slept sitting up, his back against the gong post, a sword across his lap. He was hard, that old man.

  Despite her consternation over her encounter with Ezu, Raika quickly fell asleep. She knew something was wrong, unnatural about him, but her fears melted away under surging waves of slumber.

  As Ezu told her, she walked the beaches of Saifhum that night. Enjollah was by her side.

  Warmth fled Nowhere during the night. The temperature fell, and as it departed it called forth a heavy mist from the soil. Howland awoke with a start as a firm hand clamped down on his wrist.

  “It’s Amergin.”

  He rubbed his eyes. The Kagonesti said, “We have fog.”

  Howland slowly stood. Fog, their friend when they escaped from Robann, was not welcome now. Ten thousand enemies could encircle the village under cover of fog, and no one in Nowhere would even know it until it was too late.

  “Call everyone to arms!”

  Amergin ran off to arouse the village. Howland climbed atop the well wall and tried to see through the murk. The fog was thready and dry, swirling around anything that moved. That was some help.

  Shouts stirred the sleeping village. A clatter of arms and the thump of bare feet announced the rising of Nowhere. In short order Raika, Khorr, Carver, and Robien gathered at Howland’s feet. The minotaur rubbed his eyes, yawning with enough force to stir the kender’s unkempt hair. Robien looked a little befuddled, very unusual for him. Of all the hired fighters, Raika seemed the most relaxed. She stretched her long arms, bowed and flexed with languid grace. When Carver made some grumpy remark to her, she just smiled and ruffled his hair.

  Unbidden, Ezu appeared from behind Howland. He stood patiently watching the commotion around him. He was neatly dressed for once-broadcloth tunic and wide-legged trousers, sash belt, and his usual sandals. No antlers, flowers, or fireflies.

  In twos and threes and sixes, the villagers crowded around the assembled mercenaries. Faces swollen with sleep, they babbled to each other about the cause of the alarm.

  “Is it Rakell? Is he here?” many asked. Howland waited a while, hands clasped behind his back, until the farmers settled down.

  “People of Nowhere,” he said, “I called this alarm because of the fog. Until we know better, we must assume the enemy is in the vicinity.”

  Groans and grumbles rose from the villagers.

  “You scared us to death!” Bakar whined.

  “There’s no enemy?” asked Caeta.

  “There’s no one!” Bakar answered crossly.

  “Silence!” Howland’s commanding voice stifled dissent. “Do you think this is a game? This is war, or have you forgotten?”

  With few further complaints, the villagers assembled into their respective fighting groups. Carver and the children were given the vital task of keeping lookout for signs of trouble outside the village. When everyone was at their appointed place, Howland called Robien to him.

  “Collect six spearmen,” he said. “We’re going out for a look around.”

  Robien rounded up half a dozen of the more agile farmers.

  Howland turned to Carver. “The watchword is ‘Fangoth.’ Understand? Anyone who comes near who doesn’t say ‘Fangoth’ is the enemy! Spread the word!”

  Perched on a hut roof, the kender gave a jaunty salute and passed Howland’s message on to his young followers. “Fangoth! Fangoth!”

  “Quiet, now,” the Knight said as they crossed the trench. Below them, farmers huddled in the damp earth, clutching homemade spears and maces. Khorr walked up and down the length of the trench, bolstering his frightened troops’ morale.

  “Take up the planks behind us,” Howland said. Khorr himself took hold of the bridge and heaved it behind the trench.

  “You know the watchword?”

  The minotaur said, “Yes, ‘Fangoth.’ Anyone who comes near who doesn’t say the word will get hurt.”

  “We’ll be back soon.”

  Howland led his little band out into the mist. It was deathly quiet. Two dozen paces from the trench, Nowhere could not be seen at all. Small sounds carried through the fog: careless talk, the rattle of tools, weapons, and breakfast pots. Howland sighed. The enemy could get an earful this morning and at very little risk.

  He arranged his party in arrow formation, with the experienced scout and hunter Robien on point. Howland was behind him on one side, trailed by three villagers. Three more were arrayed on the other side. They walked slowly through the barley stubble, straining their senses to detect what might lie ahead.

  Wilf followed Howland. After walking some distance, he froze in mid-step. Dropping to one knee, he hissed a warning to the others.

  Everyone stopped. “What is it?” Howland whispered.

  “Horses!”

  Howland turned to Robien. “I don’t hear horses, do you?”

  “Not hear, smell!” Born and raised a farmer, Wilf knew beasts equally well by sight, sound, or smell. Before anyone had time to dispute Wilf’s claim, the soft clop-clop of horses’ hooves were distinctly heard.

  There was no cover but the mist. Like hares being stalked by hounds, Howland and his men held themselves motionless, not even drawing breath.

  Two men on horseback appeared out of the fog, riding across a few yards ahead of Robien. They wore mismatched bits of armor, indifferently painted black.

  “If you ask me, the boss is barkin’ at shadows,” one of the riders muttered. “These farmers ain’t gonna fight us. They got no more backbone than a slug!”

  Scouts! Rakell was out there, somewhere, groping in the fog!

  Robien looked back at his leader. His face asked the question, do we attack?

  Howland curtly shook his head. Let them pass.

  When the mist closed around the pair of riders, Howland gestured for everyone to follow him. Hands on sword hilts to keep them from rattling, they ran in a crouch back the way they came.

  A horse neighed behind them. One of the farmers looked away toward the sound. He promptly tripped on the barley stubble and fell flat on his face. To Howland and the rest, his fall sounded like a thunderclap.

  Sure enough, hoofbeats came their way at a trot. While Wilf and another villager hauled the fallen man to his feet, Howland drew his sword and let the flat lie against his shoulder.

  Robien, moving like a ghost, took his place beside him. Wilf and the farmers formed a small circle, as they had been trained to do, kneeling on one knee with their spears braced against the ground.

  A man appeared on horseback, riding easily with the reins loosely in his hand. He still had his lance propped on his right boot. He spied Howland and turned his animal toward him.

  “Steady,” said the old Knight under his breath.

  “Who goes there?” asked the rider. “Seen anything?�
�� He evidently took the sword-armed Howland for one of his own band.

  Too late he spotted Robien and the villagers behind Howland. The rider reined up and tried to bring his lance into position. Howland rushed him. Having no shield on his arm, the brigand had no way to fend off the attack but with his lance, a thick-shafted spear with an iron hand-guard and square, pointed head. Howland easily avoided the sweep of the heavy weapon and thrust upward at the bandit. His point took the rider in the armpit. Grunting, the bandit dropped his lance.

  The horse whipped around, knocking Howland to the ground. The wounded rider tried to spur himself out of danger, but he hadn’t reckoned on Robien’s agility. The Kagonesti vaulted onto the horse’s rump and landed astride behind the bleeding man. Planting a hand on the side of the man’s helmet, he shoved him off. The bandit tried to get up, but Wilf and the farmers swarmed over him, battering him down, finishing him off with awkward spear thrusts.

  Robien returned, riding the bandit’s horse. Howland brushed himself off, saying, “Can you handle the beast?”

  “I can ride,” answered the elf.

  Howland tossed him the dead bandit’s lance. “Watch our backs, then.”

  The farmers had already stripped the fallen rider to his breechnap. Each man carried off some part of the dead warrior’s belongings. Though disgusted by their greediness, Howland did not reproach them. They lived hard lives. It was their custom to take whatever goods fate put in their hands. There were high lords and generals of great repute who did the same, taking the choicest booty from the defeated for their own gain.

  “Back to the village!” he said, keeping his voice low.

  More horses galloped to and fro in the fog behind them. The hoofbeats grew louder, punctuated by the twang and hiss of a bow and arrow.

  Someone cried out. Howland planted a foot and spun around. Three bandits, one armed with a bow, had caught up to the fleeing farmers. One villager was down, pierced by an arrow. Still burdened by their booty, the remaining farmers were sitting ducks for an accomplished archer.

  “Hai! Over here!” Howland cried. The bowman ignored him and picked off another farmer. Howland snatched up a stone and hurled it at the bandits. A lancer, watching his comrade’s fun, heard the stone and pointed at Howland.

  The archer, armed with a short recurve bow, took deliberate aim at him. Howland stood still, arms folded across his chest.

  He’d been shot at many times, and he knew how to handle a lone bowman. From a range of perhaps forty yards, he had just enough time to drop out of the way of the arrow once it was loosed-if his old limbs didn’t fail him.

  He heard rather than saw the release of the bowstring. The high twang was his cue. He could plainly see the dark-shafted arrow twisting in flight, coming straight at his chest. As soon as Howland could make out the fletching-goose feathers, gray-he threw himself hard to the left. The arrow passed right through where he’d been standing.

  With a flurry of hooves, Robien galloped out of the mist, lance leveled. He spitted the archer in the ribs but lost his grip on the unfamiliar weapon when the man toppled from the saddle. The remaining two lancers spurred their mounts at him. Robien snapped the reins, for he wore no spurs. and rode hard to Howland.

  “Give me your hand!” Robien cried.

  Howland would not. He felt safer on foot in the fog than trying to out-ride experienced horsemen.

  “Get back to Nowhere!” the old Knight ordered. He slapped the animal’s rump. It bolted, and Robien was hard pressed to stay on.

  Shouts and hoofbeats resounded in the mist. Running hard, the old Knight soon saw the jagged line of sharpened stakes that delineated the trench. Robien, a few yards ahead, slid off the borrowed beast, shouted the watchword, and scampered across the narrow plank restored for the scouting party’s return.

  Howland dodged between two stakes. Below he saw the trench was crowded with wild-eyed, frightened farmers.

  “Fangoth!” he growled, gasping from his sprint. Heel to toe, he threaded his way across the deep ditch. Wilf and the three remaining farmers came hard on his heels.

  “They’re coming! Stand to!” he cried, throwing himself down the opposite slope of the dirt mounded up behind the trench. Khorr repeated the order in his booming voice.

  Fifteen riders galloped out of the fog. The small party were plainly astonished to find themselves charging a well-prepared defense instead of a wide open village. Reining in frantically, they managed to avoid impaling themselves on the stakes, but this left them open for a ferocious counterstroke.

  Howland stood up on the ridge of the earthen mound, sword in hand. “Now! Give it back to them!” he roared.

  The farmers in the trench poked and thrust at the milling horses. Pricked on the flanks or belly, a few horses reared, throwing their riders. Climbing out of the trench, Khorr and five village men swarmed on the fallen bandits, battering them with stone-headed maces.

  Screaming at the top of their lungs, Raika and her spear carriers came running up behind Howland. They were out of range but howled and grimaced as threateningly as they could. From the rooftops nearest the north end of the trench, Carver flung darts with his whippik. He was fast, but his aim was off, and he hit no one.

  Clearly shocked to meet such fierce resistance, the bandits quickly broke off battle and rode away. Watching them go, Howland wished he had four good archers. He could have picked them all off from the mound.

  Swallowed by the fog, the bandits left four dead behind, in addition to those slain by Howland’s patrol. Elated villagers whooped and hollered, some mounting the rampart in front of the trench and baring their bottoms in the direction of the fleeing enemy.

  Howland swiftly stifled such foolishness. He strode up and down the mound, barking orders.

  “Who’s hurt? If you’re hurt so much you can’t fight, report to the camp for treatment!” The elderly women of Nowhere had been given the task of tending the village’s wounded. “If you’re not hurt, shut your mouths and take your places. Do you think you’ve won? They’ll be back, and you’ll get arrows in your arse if you keep up this stupid display!”

  Raika was disappointed that she and her band had not been able to participate in the skirmish. Howland sent her away, growling, “You’ll get your chance to fight!”

  Whatever joy the villagers felt at their first repulse of the bandits quickly died when they heard the trumpets blow. First from the north, then the east, south, and west, brass horns blared through the fog, announcing the presence of Lord Rakell on every side. Nowhere was surrounded.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Test of Iron

  All too soon the late morning sun scoured away the mist. What was revealed when the fog burned off made every heart in Nowhere skip a beat.

  Arrayed on the plains around the village were scores of horsemen, many more than the thirty-odd riders who had originally swooped down on the farmers and carried off their people to slave in mines. From his perch atop the tallest house, Carver counted eighty-nine horsemen, ten ogres, and most ominously of all, a wheeled catapult drawn by six brawny oxen.

  Standing on the stone wall surrounding the well, Howland, Raika, Robien, and Amergin watched the bandits as they galloped about They did not close on the village though, not yet. Howland had an idea why.

  “Rakell isn’t here yet,” he surmised. “Look at them! All this to-ing and fro-ing! No decent commander would countenance such a waste of energy. Rakell must be delayed.”

  “You mean he may show up with more men?” said Raika.

  “No more than a dozen, I’ll wager-Rakell and his personal retinue.”

  “The odds are too much. I never bargained on this,” Robien said.

  “None of us did.” Howland lowered his hands from his brow, where he’d shaded his eyes against the glare. “I hope none of you had any other plans for your life.”

  He jumped down, calling for Caeta, her father the Elder, and other prominent villagers. Old Calec tottered up to Howland wearing a rusty iro
n pot on his head. At first Howland took it to be a misused cooking pot, but on closer inspection he saw it was an old-style Solamnic helmet, of the kind worn by the yeoman infantry.

  “Where did you get that?” he said sharply.

  Calec touched the helmet absently. “Marren’s house. When we cleared it out, we found many old armaments,” he replied. “What do we do now, Sir Howland? The enemy is more numerous than we expected-”

  Howland plucked the helmet off the aged man’s head. Judging by the nicks and dents, it had seen hard use.

  “Marren had this? Laila’s father?”

  “Aye, with some other martial goods.” The elder gestured, and the villagers behind him displayed various soldierly items: a pair of leg guards, an armored skullcap, and a good war dagger with an iron blade a foot long. Howland examined these things closely. They were all of Solamnic workmanship, a style he knew well. He dated the arms to his youth, thirty to forty years ago. Thirty years ago Howland had been a proud and powerful young warrior, serving the gracious lord Harbard.

  “Sir Howland!” Robien prodded him insistently. “Sir Howland, the enemy!”

  The present returned like a slap in the face. Howland saw a squadron of lancers were trotting straight at the trench.

  “Everyone to your places!” he cried. “They mean to test our mettle. Show them what we’re made of!”

  He hurried to Khorr with Robien at his heels. Raika mustered her little company of spearmen, and Amergin organized his slingers.

  The bandits came on deliberately, sizing up the defenses as they came. Bodies of the men who’d fallen during the melee in the fog still lay in the newly mown field.

  From atop the earthen bulwark Howland peered into the trench. Khorr had taken his place in the center of the ditch, flanked by an equal numbers of villagers on either side.

  “Fight hard!” Howland said. “They’re searching for weakness. Don’t show them any!”

  Arrows flickered into the dirt on either side of Howland’s feet. The old Knight disregarded the danger until Robien pulled him down. How he wished the farmers had bows of their own!