The Middle of Nowhere c-5

by Paul B. Thompson

  Amergin walked up, looking wan but unflappable as ever. Howland gave him a message scrawled on a slip of goatskin, which the Kagonesti tucked into his belt. Next Howland asked for the frailest, most frightened-looking villager still capable of walking to Rakell’s camp and back. Caeta offered to go herself, but Howland insisted on a less hardy representative. He finally chose a stooped old man named Tuwan, Bakar’s uncle. He was scrawny to the point of emaciation, in part because of a long-standing illness. Tuwan had only two teeth in his head. When he smiled, he looked like Death walking.

  Caeta supplied a swath of faded linen, which Howland tacked to the haft of the bandit’s lance as a flag of truce. Amergin and Tuwan left the village by crossing the trench, then turned left and made for the bandits’ southern camp, the biggest of the three.

  “Afraid, old fellow?” asked Amergin as they crossed open ground.

  Tuwan showed both teeth. “A poor man who’s lived as long as me has seen everything awful there is,” he replied. “Done a lot, too. One thing I ain’t done is spit in the eye of a lord.”

  “Don’t do it today unless you’re tired of living,” the elf said.

  Tuwan cackled, sucking air through cracked lips.

  From his place atop the well, Howland watched the Kagonesti forester and the gaunt old farmer slowly merge into the brown expanse that was once thick with growing barley. A quartet of riders galloped out from the camp, ringing Amergin and Tuwan with lance tips. For a few seconds Howland held his breath. If the bandits were too angry, they might slay his emissaries rather than listen to them.

  Robien’s eyes were keener than his. Howland asked him, “Can you see what’s happening?”

  The bounty hunter stood beside the Knight, shading his eyes from the scarlet rays with his hands. “Amergin is showing them your message,” he said. “They’re reading it.… What did you write, Sir Howland?”

  “I told them a column of two hundred armed men was on its way to relieve us and that I expected them in two or three days.”

  Robien dropped his hands and gazed in awe at Howland’s brazen lie.

  “Even if Rakell doesn’t believe it, some of the more faint-hearted bandits might bolt.” He gave his second in command a wink. “I signed the message ‘General Howland uth Ungen, Knight of Solamnia.’ ”

  “Maybe they’ll just surrender!”

  Howland looked solemn. “Jesting aside, this is our last, best chance to come out of this with our hides-and honor-intact. While I’m gone, keep everyone on their toes. Rakell’s just as capable of treachery as he ever was.” He straightened his dusty clothes and removed the scarred helmet.

  Distant movement drew Robien’s attention. “The pickets are returning, and so are Amergin and Tuwan!”

  Howland saw the two slight figures coming back to Nowhere. “Message delivered,” he murmured. Now it was time to prepare.

  Treat every mission as if it were your last, Lord Harbard used to say, because one day it will be.

  From the detritus of battle, Howland scrounged the best possible outfit for a general and a Knight. Caeta and other village women sewed together a mantle from cloaks worn by slain bandits, while Wilf and some farmers polished armor for Howland to wear. They hammered out the dents and stoned away the sword cuts until the old Knight had a presentable set of three-quarter plate. With his old sword at his side, he looked every inch the seasoned commander.

  Amergin did little other than wash the grime from his hands, face, and neck. Ezu, who had reluctantly agreed to join Howland on his mission, following the Knight around all day like a shadow, disappeared at the last moment to don his best clothes. When he returned from the darkened row of huts to the firelit common, he brought conversation to a standstill.

  On his head he wore a tall, conical hat made of stiff white leather, the crown of which was cut in the shape of a forward-curling horn. His hands and face were powdered dead white, and two red circles were painted on his cheeks. Ezu’s soft wraparound tunic had given way to a starched white version with wide, pointed shoulders and wide lapels. The lapels and back of the tunic were embroidered with colorful designs, stylized flowers in red, black, and gold. Ezu’s belt was likewise broad and richly decorated, and his trousers’ legs were wide and stiffened with wooden strips sewn into the fabric. On his feet he wore thick-soled wooden sandals.

  “Sink me!” Raika exclaimed. “Is this how folk in your country dress?”

  “Only for the highest ceremonial occasions,” said Ezu. “It’s a bit gaudy, I know, but Sir Howland told me to look my best.”

  Howland walked slowly around Ezu, appraising his ensemble. Hand cupped on his chin, he said, “It’s better than I hoped. Rakell will be so dazzled he won’t look twice at Amergin or me.”

  In the lull since the parley, Khorr had used his great strength to chisel out of captured bandit armor plate ten stars for Amergin’s sling. Each four-pointed disk was made of forged iron, much harder than bronze, and hurled by the elf’s expert hand, they could penetrate armor. Howland gave the stars to Ezu with instructions to hide them on his person.

  “Where?” asked Ezu.

  Raika made a rude suggestion. The farmers laughed until Howland silenced them with a scowl.

  “Put them in your hat,” said the Knight.

  Ezu did better than that. The base of his headgear had a cuff, made when the leather was folded double to support the weight of the crown. He slipped the iron stars into the cuff. The upper half of each missile showed, but by evenly spacing them around the rim, Ezu made them look like decorations.

  Howland knew the bandits would relieve him of his sword and dagger, but he wanted to retain his long scabbard. The finial ball, or drag, at the end of the sheath was actually the grip of a ten inch stiletto. It was meant to be a Knight’s weapon of last resort. For Howland that was what it would be.

  Raika, Wilf, and two farmers went a hundred yards onto the dark plain and set up two pairs of crossed torches, ten feet apart. After lighting them, they hastened back to Nowhere. Before long, a column of riders left the southern camp, each man bearing a burning brand. They arrived at the torches, formed a double line, and waited.

  Seeing the horsemen, Howland said, “Time to go.”

  Amergin nodded silently. Ezu adjusted his hat (now much heavier, since it was loaded down with the forester’s ammunition) and said, “Tell me again, Sir Howland-why have I been chosen to go with you?”

  “You wanted to meet the folk of different lands? Well, here’s your chance to meet some.”

  The traveler looked unconvinced.

  “Then do it because I ask it of you. We saved your life, didn’t we?”

  Ezu nodded.

  “Do this as payment on a debt of honor.”

  “What am I to do, exactly?”

  “Say as little as possible to the enemy. Don’t discuss our situation, our strength, or our weakness. Your task is to stand by, look exotic, and distract the bodyguards.”

  Plainly worried, Ezu took his place on Howland’s left, while Amergin stood on his right. Robien ordered a hole opened in the barricade. Farmers pulled aside a tangle of casks and thorny vines.

  “Farewell, Sir Howland, and good luck!” said Caeta.

  “Give ’em the point!” Raika said.

  “Bring back any gold or jewels you happen to find lying about!” urged Carver.

  Robien clasped hands with Howland and said to his fellow Kagonesti, “Don’t get yourself killed. I need the Brotherhood’s bounty.”

  Some indeterminable emotion flashed across Amergin face. Whether it was amusement, affection, or anger, no one but the laconic forester could say.

  The minotaur was the only one to bid good-bye to Ezu. “Return to us if you can! I want to hear some of the poetry of your native land,” said Khorr genially.

  “Come,” said Howland simply. He strode between the earth-filled huts, firelight glinting on his borrowed armor.

  They walked in silence half the distance to the waiting escort. Amergin
finally broke the silence by saying, “How will I know when you want to strike?”

  Howland considered this and replied, “I’ll take off my sword belt. When you see me reverse my scabbard, you’ll know the time is near. At that moment, watch me.”

  Ezu, his stiff trousers creaking and scraping with every step, seemed to have lost his usual poise. “Strike?” he asked. “What is your plan? I haven’t been consulted, and I certainly hope this situation can be resolved without violence.”

  “Don’t talk, traveler,” Amergin said. “Walk.”

  The southern horizon was darkening from rose to purple. A slim silver crescent of the lone moon floated near the edge of the sky. Against this backdrop the horsemen sat waiting, horses’ heads bobbing.

  “Halt!” called one of the near riders. Howland and Amergin stopped. Ezu bumped into the Knight from behind. Flustered, he stepped back, muttering apologies.

  The rider at the head of the right line of riders seemed to be in charge. “Are you Howland uth Ungen?”

  Head high, the Knight answered loudly, “I am.”

  “Who are these with you?”

  “Amergin, my chief scout, and Lord Ezu, my-” Howland struggled for properly impressive titles- “my personal advisor, soothsayer, and sage.”

  “Looks like a marketplace puppet,” said another bandit. Rough laughter rippled through the ranks.

  “Shut up!” The laughter died. “You will come with us. Lord Rakell awaits.” The cloaked and helmeted bandit leaned down, hand out. “Your sword.”

  “This is a truce. My sword shall stay in its scabbard,” Howland said loftily.

  “Your sword, sir! It is the order of my Lord Rakell that you surrender your weapons, or there will be no parley!”

  With a show of great reluctance, Howland pulled his sword out by the hilt and handed it pommel first to the bandit leader. Without prompting, he also gave up his war dagger. Amergin yielded his knife.

  “What about him?” said the bandit, indicating Ezu.

  “I do not carry weapons,” Ezu replied calmly.

  The bandits did not press the point.

  “You will walk between our horses, single file, leaving a gap of five paces between you. No talking.”

  “Are we prisoners, or honorable opponents?” asked Howland. The bandit leader did not answer but turned his horse around. His men did likewise, and Howland was bidden to walk on. He did, followed a few paces behind by Ezu. Amergin came last.

  As they approached the bandits’ camp, Howland tried to absorb as much information about the enemy as he could. The horsemen around him were mostly young men, between twenty and thirty. Their leader was a little older, perhaps thirty-five. All sorts of nationalities were present, judging by their coloring, clothing, and accents-Ergoth, Nordmaar, Abanasinia … lands from all points of the compass. The only common thread he saw among them all was the rough black armor of Nerakan light cavalry. How fitting that all these disparate and desperate characters should turn up at a village called Nowhere.

  On closer inspection, the camp revealed much, too. It had no defenses-no palisade, no trench, no sharpened stakes to foil enemy horsemen. It was a hodgepodge of tents great and small, arranged in no order. Bonfires blazed at intervals between the patched canvas shelters.

  That was too bad, Amergin thought. For the deed they were contemplating, darkness would have been better.

  It was not a disciplined camp. Bandits strolled about, gobbling stew off tin plates and drinking from clay bottles. Seeing Howland and his companions, they stopped eating long enough to glare balefully at the cause of their grief. A few of the harder-looking brigands fingered blades as Howland passed. The back of Amergin’s neck tingled from all the hostile eyes raking over him. He was grateful for Rakell’s escort now.

  Catcalls and rude remarks greeted Ezu’s entry into the camp. Playing his part, he acknowledged every greeting with a seemingly good-natured nod or a wave, as if they were the kindest good wishes.

  The riders led them through a labyrinth of tents to the center of the camp. There a high-walled tent was pitched, with many lesser appendages attached to it. The leader of the escort reined in his mount and called Howland forward. Seven bandits emerged from the tent and took charged of the village delegation.

  “Are you the general?” asked one of the men on foot. He was a much older man, almost Howland’s age, with a grizzled red-gray beard and a massive scar where his left eye had once been.

  “I am Howland uth Ungen.”

  “Huh. Right.” He barked orders to the younger men with him, and the trio was roughly and thoroughly searched for weapons. Amergin kept his face impassive. Would they find his sling? The stars in Ezu’s hat? The stiletto in Howland’s scabbard?

  A bandit with fresh cuts on his arms and face grabbed Howland’s scabbard. Rattling it, he saw it was empty and left it dangling from the Knight’s hip. Nor did they find Amergin’s sling, which was merely a length of braided twine and a leather tab. When it came to searching Ezu, though, the bandits were in for a surprise.

  One snatched the hat from Ezu’s head. He peered into it, saw nothing, and flung it on the ground. Before Ezu could stoop to retrieve it, a small brown rabbit hopped out of it into the firelit night.

  “Hey!”

  The veteran bandit grabbed the rabbit by the scruff of the neck and shook it under the younger man’s nose. “Didn’t you see he had a rabbit in his hat?”

  “But he didn’t, Taylo!”

  “Then where did this come from?”

  “Oh my,” said Ezu, squeezing between the two rawboned bandits. “He shouldn’t have been there, the rascal.” He took the rabbit from Taylo’s hand and inserted it back into his hat. Once on his head, Ezu smiled benignly. “Settle down, Brownie!”

  “Gimme that!” The grizzled bandit took the curled headpiece off Ezu. He shoved his hand into it, expecting to find a handful of soft fur. Instead, his blue eyes widened in alarm. When Taylo withdrew his hand, he was clutching not a rabbit, but a thick, coiling snake with iridescent copper scales. With a shout, he tried to hurl the serpent to the ground, but the reptile was too tightly wound around his hand.

  “Get it off!” he cried to all and sundry. His young subordinates remained rooted where they were.

  Howland shot a glance at Amergin. The elf was watching the ridiculous scene with great amusement. When Howland caught his eye, they exchanged a knowing look. Ezu’s ability to befuddle onlookers was truly a great asset to their cause.

  The snake was halfway up Taylo’s arm when he drew his sword, apparently to hack off his own arm, snake and all. Ezu made soft shushing noises and gently pried the serpent loose.

  “Now, Brownie,” he said soothingly, “behave, will you?”

  “You said the rabbit was Brownie,” said one of the young guards.

  “Sometimes,” said Ezu. He carefully fitted the bulky reptile into his hat.

  “Sometimes?”

  “Sometimes Brownie’s a rabbit. Other times he’s a snake.”

  The bandits were incredulous.

  “That’s nothing!” Ezu assured them. “Once he came out a full grown bear. I had no end of trouble getting him back into the hat then!”

  The guards stepped back warily. A tall man with a black forked beard, dressed in a burgundy velvet robe, appeared in the tent door. “What in thunder is going on here?” he demanded. The bandits fell into line, white-faced. “Are these the ones from the village?”

  “Yes, my lord!” said Taylo.

  “Did you search them for weapons?”

  “Yes, my lord. That is-”

  “Well, did you?” the well-dressed brigand roared.

  Taylo weighed whether or not he should describe Ezu’s hat and its peculiar occupant to his superior and evidently decided against it.

  “All is in order, my lord!” he declared with a stammer.

  “Bring them in!”

  Howland and Amergin were chivvied inside. The bandits ushered Ezu in with considerably more
circumspection.

  Inside, the tent had a gaudy splendor. The ground was covered with thick carpet runners, brocaded in Nordmaar style. Brass and pewter lanterns, every one a different shape and size, hung at intervals overhead. Racks of spears and unstrung bows were sited at every turn, and the air was heavy with the smell of incense, spilled wine, and roasted meat.

  After three turns, Howland and his companions found themselves in the great room in the center of the tent. He quickly counted fourteen people in the room: nine men, four women, and a dwarf in a deep blue robe. The dwarf had a scale set up, and was weighing a smooth metal ingot. Since it was the wrong color for gold, Howland assumed it was iron from Rakell’s mine.

  Noticing the arrival of visitors, one man in the crowd stood. He was stocky and broad-shouldered, with prominent black brows and a nose pressed flat by too many years in a helmet. His black hair was salted with a little gray. Howland took him to be fifteen years his junior. Draped in black silk, he wore a heavy silver chain around his neck, and his fingers glittered with many rings. There was something about this man, though, that Howland almost recognized.…

  “General uth Ungen?” said the man, voice laden with irony.

  Howland did not respond immediately. The black-garbed man separated himself from his comrades and came to face Howland and the others.

  “I am Rakell,” he said. “You’ve put me to a great deal of trouble, do you know that?”

  “That is why I am here,” Howland returned.

  Rakell studied the old Knight’s face closely. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  Brow furrowed, Howland said, “Have we met?”

  Rakell laughed loudly, displaying fine white teeth. “We once served the same master, Burnond Everride!”

  Howland shuddered as if struck. Recognition came to him in a flood. “You rode with Lord Burnond’s host!”

  “So did you. I was not known as Rakell then, nor were you a general.”

  Ezu, plainly curious, spoke up. “Sir Howland was a Knight of some repute.”

  “Quiet, popinjay! You’ve heard the tale ‘Sir Howland’ spun for you, no doubt.” Rakell turned to his minions. “See here what time and tide has accomplished, my friends!” He swept back to an ornate wooden chair and sat down. “I, who was once a prince of my Order, am now a prince of thieves, while Howland here, a sergeant in Lord Burnond’s guard, has become a general of farmers!”