Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

Money and goods changed hands in the crowd. A chant of “Three! Three!” began. Nodding slowly to each other, the elves loaded a new stone each, and quick as they did, both hurled at the same time. As close together as two events could be, both tankards exploded in a spray of red clay fragments.

The blond elf stalked to the center of the square and flung out a hand at his opponent, pointing. A hush fell over the raucous mob.

“You see!” he shouted. “I am as good as you!”

The forester combed potshards from his hair with his fingers. “No,” he said coldly. “You lost.”

“We broke each other’s cups at the same time!”

“Mine hit first. Yours broke before mine did.”

He turned to go, but the well-dressed elf charged in, caught his arm, and spun the dark-haired elf around.

“Once more then! Without cups!” he cried.

An acorn falling on the cobbles would have shattered the sudden hush. The forester looked up at his taller antagonist with wide, black eyes.

“You know what you’re saying, don’t you?”

“Stand to your place!” was the haughty answer. The blue-clad elf stalked back to his spot, while the forester calmly resumed his stance.

“Fifty steel on Solito!” someone yelled.

“Shut up!” A scuffle broke out to the farmers’ right, quickly squelched by those watching.

Instead of stones, this time the elves loaded sling-stars, flat pieces of iron or bronze with four to six razor-sharp points. Thrown by an expert, a star point could pierce plate armor.

This time, as Solito raised his arm to spin his weapon, his opponent made a single underhand swing and let fly. Wilf and Caeta followed the glittering bronze missile in flight. One point buried itself in the center of Solito’s forehead. Stricken, his own star flew wildly away. It flashed between Raika and Wilf. The Saifhumi woman stood her ground. Wilf threw himself backward into the pool to avoid the hissing projectile.

Without a sound, the blond elf fell dead.

Having been in Robann four days, the farmers expected the crowd to break into cheers for the winner. No one did. In fact, those on the outside edges of the crowd began to hurry away, eager to be gone. Before long, genuine panic seized the square, and witnesses were rushing to find every available avenue of escape.

Raika snagged a goblin hopping by. The ugly little creature squirmed and tried to bite Raika’s hand, but she held him by the neck so tightly he couldn’t bend down far enough to get his teeth in her.

“Leggo! Leggo!” he whined, waving his arms uselessly.

“Why all the rush?” she said. “Surely duels are common in Robann?”

“Not like this! Leggo!”

Raika shook the goblin hard. “Tell me,” she said tersely.

“That one dead-he Brotherhood!”

She opened her fingers and let the goblin drop to the cobbles. Coughing, he gathered himself up and staggered away.

“What does it mean?” asked Caeta.

“The dead elf was a member of the gang that rules this part of town.” Raika glanced at the blue-clad figure, left leg still bent, arms flung wide. “When the Brotherhood of Quen finds out one of their own has been killed, they may take their anger out on anyone who was here.”

“We ought to go!” Wilf said. He jumped down from the pool. Algae dripped from his ears.

“Not yet. I’ve no desire to get trampled in some back street. Besides, we may want to talk to the winner.”

Caeta’s eyes widened. “You’re right. He’s certainly capable.”

Against the thinning tide of fleeing spectators, Raika, Wilf, and Caeta reached the forester. He was standing with his head down, working beeswax into his sling to keep it supple. Wilf marveled at his coolness. The killer was the calmest person in the square.

“What do you want?” demanded the elf before Raika or the farmers could speak.

“Just a word.” Raika looked at the elf’s fallen foe. “That was quite a throw.”

“He was a large target.”

“What’s your name?” asked Caeta.

“Amergin.” He slurred the last syllable, Ah-mer-zheen.

“They have a proposition for you,” Raika said. “You should listen.”

Amergin finished working his sling. He tucked it away and recovered his blue-green cloak, left on the ground during the contest. To the farmers’ amazement, they saw it was made of thousands of tiny green or blue bird feathers arranged in overlapping rows of graduated color.

“I’ve no time to listen to propositions,” said the elf.

Caeta said, “We’ll give you shelter.”

“Not wise. The Quen Brotherhood will slay anyone they find at my side.”

Amergin started moving. He did not run, but his movements were remarkably swift. Wilf had to jog to keep up, and even tall Raika had to hurry.

Breathlessly, the farmers gasped out their plea as they hastened through an alley toward Silver Circle territory. During the explanation Amergin said nothing, just kept moving. At the border between the Brotherhood’s territory and the Silver Circle’s quarter, five elves in sky-blue tunics stood watch. Amergin flattened against a wall. Raika and the farmers did likewise.

“They wasted no time!” Wilf whispered.

“The first to leave the square warned them,” Amergin answered quietly. “In hopes of a reward …” He uncoiled his sling. “They’ll not take me-at least not alive.”

“Wait,” Raika said. “There might be a better way.”

She grabbed Wilf by the front of his rough shirt. “Play along,” she murmured and shoved him out of the alley into plain view of the Brotherhood guards.

Storming out after him, she shouted, “Worthless rat of a husband! How dare you come home at this hour, reeking of drink! Where have you been? Who have you been with?”

A bit stunned, Wilf could only stammer, “None of your business!” He embellished this with a belated sneer. “Wench!”

“Wench? I’ll show you who’s a wench!” She threw a punch at the hapless young farmer, who closed his eyes and cringed. Raika deliberately missed him and pretended to go reeling across the street from the force of the missed blow. She collided with three of the Quen guards.

“Shameless lout, see what you made me do!” she screamed.

“Get off, human!” said one of the elves, pushing Raika away.

“Now you want to push me around, too? There’s no justice in the world, no honor for a suffering wife!”

She drew back her large fist and knocked the closest elf cold. Wilf blundered into another, diverting him until Raika could knock him down as well.

The remaining three Quen gang members tried to seize them. They carried swords and batons, and though Raika was more than a match for them in terms of strength, they were agile and alert now, and she and Wilf received several punishing blows. Wilf went to his knees, arms encircling his head for protection. A Quen guard stood over him, ready to put him away, when a flat river-washed stone hit him squarely on the back of the head. It sounded like a melon being opened by a housewife.

Caeta burst out of the alley, shouting, “Sonny! What are they doing to you, dear boy?”

Distracted by the old woman’s sudden appearance, one of the remaining guards mistimed his attack, and Raika tore the baton from his hands. He went for his sword, but she smashed his fingers against the hilt with his own stick. White-faced, the elf abandoned the fight. He ran up Moneylender’s Street, holding his shattered hand to his chest.

Raika turned to face the last guard and saw Amergin had disposed of him already. They raced on, eager to be away before the injured guard returned with reinforcements and didn’t stop until they reached the stable.

Inside, Khorr stood with one foot propped up on a bale of hay. One hand upraised, he declaimed,