Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

Thus did Edzi, courageous captain, lift high his awesome ax ,

To smite his former friend, now the treacher Toral ,

Traitor, taunter, and terrible foe-

Sitting cross-legged at the minotaur’s feet, leaning back on his splayed out hands, was Carver Reedwhistle.

“Hiya,” he said, seeing them enter.

“Why are you here again?” said Raika.

Khorr lowered his arm and took his foot from the hay bale. “He was a willing audience. I was reciting The Rage of Captain Edzi , a famous ballad of my people.”

Taking in the minotaur and kender, the elf asked, “What is this? A refuge for refuse?”

“You might say that,” Caeta said, smiling. “Take your ease, Master Amergin, and we shall explain.”

The elf listened in silence to the story of Rakell and the victimized village. When the woman was done, he said, “I cannot help you.”

“Why?” Wilf said. “You’re amazing with that sling-and you don’t seem intimidated by any odds.”

“I’m not a mercenary. I am a hunter. Solito bullied me into that contest. I knew it would end the way it did, but he would have slain me on the spot had I refused his challenge.” He went down on one knee and ran a hand along his lean, chapped face. “There was no way out but to fight, then to flee. Your battle is not my battle.”

Caeta offered him food, which he declined, and water, which he accepted. She said, “What happens now? Won’t the Brotherhood be hunting for you?” She knew the answer, but she waited for the elf’s silent headshake. “If we can deliver you from the vengeful gang, will you help us?”

Amergin lowered the waterskin from his thin lips. “The Brotherhood has many blades, and if they ask it, other gangs in town will join them in tracking me down. You can’t stand them all off. My fight isn’t your fight either.”

Caeta surveyed her comrades. Wilf was following things intently. Khorr, too, was listening, but Raika stood by the door, gazing out distractedly at the hot afternoon. Carver lay on his back with his eyes closed, one leg cocked in the air, dangling foot bobbing.

“I never offered to fight your enemies for you,” Caeta said carefully. “Just help you elude them. We help you, so you can help us. Is that not fair?”

“Will you turn me over to the Brotherhood if I refuse?”

“No, never.”

Raika looked up at the farmer’s earnest reply. “They don’t have much, so they can afford to be honest,” she said to Amergin meaningfully. Carver chuckled.

Amergin remained kneeling. Gazing at the straw-strewn floor, he said, “The Brotherhood was supposed to send me home.”

“What do you mean?”

“I come from the forest, far to the south, over the New Sea. The Brotherhood hired me as scout and tracker. I thought I was to hunt game for them, but they made me track down those who’d transgressed against them: debtors, cheats, and thieves. When I led the Brotherhood to their quarry, they did terrible things to them.”

“Enough,” said Khorr, speaking for the first time. “Here’s your chance to be rid of them. Join us! I, too, am sought by ruffians through no fault of my own. These humans have shielded me, and I have decided to repay their sacrifice by helping them fight their enemies. Can you do any less?”

Amergin sank into a sitting position. He never said yes, but his change of posture was eloquent proof he meant to stay.

Half a mile away, Malek, Nils, and Hume trudged through the hot, stinking streets. Their luck had been bad all morning, and after noon word spread that the gang in charge of the northern quarter of Robann would pay good coin to find a certain malefactor who’d murdered one of their own. Taverns and inns emptied, and hundreds of tough, hungry mercenaries joined the manhunt.

The farmers entered a large establishment called the Shield and Saber. Upon entry they found the great room almost deserted. Capable of holding and serving two hundred at a time, it contained less than a dozen patrons. Eight of these were dwarves in heavy mail coats, seated at a round table and just beginning the seventh course of their noonday meal.

Hume went to the bar. His soldierly bearing and infantryman’s gait marked him for what he was. He spoke briefly with the barkeep, a centaur no less, who rebuffed his queries about warriors seeking work.

“You’ll hire no blades today,” said the centaur, polishing the bar with a filthy cloth. “Everyone who can wield a knife, from the lordly born to the worst scum in Robann, has gone to the Brotherhood of Quen.”

Malek and Nils approached. “Why have they gone?” asked Malek.

The centaur laughed, sounding not surprisingly like a horse neighing. “For gold, dirt-digger! Some fool killed the son of the gang’s chief, and a price of a thousand gold pieces has been laid on the killer’s head!”

“That’s bad,” Hume admitted.

“Word’s gone ’round about you and your friends, too,” added the centaur. “Farmers hiring blades for cheap.” He neighed again sarcastically. “Nobody’s left here but the general.”

Nils looked around for a well-appointed officer, but he saw none. “General?”

“Want to meet him?”

There were no other prospects, so Malek and Nils agreed. Leathery face split in a gap-toothed grin, the centaur came out from behind the bar and beckoned the farmers to follow.

The Shield and Saber’s great room was really two rooms, a large and a small, joined at right angles. In the smaller extension, which held booths and small, square tables, a few isolated souls lingered. Judging by their gray hair and bleary expressions, they were too old, too sick, or too lost in drink to take interest in a manhunt.

The centaur stopped by a back booth. He rapped his hairy knuckles on the headboard. “Hey, general! Wake up! You have visitors!”

“I can pay my bill,” groaned a voice on the other side of the partition.

“That I know, or you’d be in the street now!”

Braying, the centaur left them.

“This is a fool’s errand,” grunted Hume.

Malek peeked around the partition.

Seated inside the booth was an older man, near Caeta’s age. Gray-bearded, his long hair was lank and matted. He wore the moldering remnants of a fine uniform. Brass buttons, where not missing, had turned green from neglect.

The old soldier turned red-rimmed eyes toward Malek. “What do you want, stranger?”

“Are you a general?” asked the farmer.

“I was. Once.” Three wine bottles, one lying on its side, were strewn about the table. The old man reeked of sour wine and unwashed clothes.

Malek waved Hume and his brother forward. “May we speak to you, General?”

The general shrugged.

The three slid onto the bench across from the old man. He studied them, squinting against a cloud of age and drink.

“You’re not human,” he said to Hume. “What are you, half-ogre?”

“That’s not important,” Malek said firmly. “Hume is in our employ.”

“Doing what?”

“Defending these good people and their home from raiders,” Hume replied stiffly.

“Huh.” The general reached for the nearest bottle. Failing to find a cup, he drank directly from it.

“This is a waste of time,” Hume muttered.

“Mind your tongue!” the general said. “You’re in the presence of Howland uth Ungen, Order of the Rose, and Knight of Solamnia!” He missed the edge of the table with the bottle, and it fell into his lap.

“I’m in the presence of a drunken fool,” snarled Hume.

“Yes, I’m drunk! I’ve been drunk for the past four years! You’d be too if you’d seen what I’ve seen, done what I’ve done … lost what I’ve lost.”

“We need an experienced commander,” Malek pressed on, heedless. “With our people and the warriors we’ve hired, we have some chance against the bandits, but we need a real commander to lead us! Someone with experience in the field.”