Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

Howland’s eyes fluttered and closed. He began to snore.

Hume got up, his face a mask of stone. “This one is a liar as well as a drunkard. No Knight of the Rose would sink so low.”

The centaur barkeep returned. “The last coin you gave me was tainted, general! It had more lead in it than gold!” He saw Howland’s head lolling and spat. “Get out, you cheat! Sleep it off somewhere else!”

He dragged the unresisting man out and stood him up against the booth wall. Rifling through the pockets and pouches in Howland’s clothing, he found no more money. Cursing, he flung the old man to the floor.

“The boss will take it out of my hide if the receipts are short tonight!” Glancing into the booth, he saw a gleam of metal.

“Ah!” Nestled in the corner of the booth was a sword, scabbard, and belt. It was a fine, straight weapon, plainly finished, but it was real steel.

“I’ll just keep this!” said the centaur, grinning.

“Wait.” Hume’s broad hand clamped down on the centaur’s arm. “You can’t take a man’s sword. No matter how low he’s fallen, a warrior’s sword is his soul.”

“Put it in a poem!” The barkeep tried to wrench his arm free but found Hume’s grasp too strong. “You want trouble? The Iron Gang rules this inn. One word from me, and the three of you will be swinging from their parapet by sunset.”

“Let go, Hume,” Malek said. The proud thane did so reluctantly. The centaur was about to drag Howland out by his heels when Hume spoke again.

“How much does he owe?”

“Eh?”

“Sir Howland’s bill-how much?”

The centaur’s bristling brows twitched. “Two gold.”

“You said only one was tainted.”

“One’s for my trouble-and silence.”

Hume drew his short sword. Though he drew underhand, with his grip reversed so as to keep the point down, the centaur blundered back, upsetting a pair of chairs.

“Peace!” said Hume. “I was only going to offer my own blade in payment for the bill.”

Cautiously, the centaur reached out to take Hume’s weapon. He licked the blade and plunked it with his finger.

“Not steel,” he muttered. “Wrought iron, ten years old. Worth two, maybe three gold.”

He weighed the easy prize of Hume’s sword against Howland’s better blade. Good sense prevailed, or perhaps it was the hard glint in Hume’s eye. The centaur flung Howland’s sword to Malek.

“Take it, and begone! Cheaters are not welcome in the Shield and Saber!”

Boosting the unconscious man between them, Malek and Nils carried Howland out. Hume preceded them, carrying the general’s sword with reverence.

Back at the stable, there was much explaining to be done. Caeta told her comrades about Amergin and the duel. Malek told them about the manhunt.

“He killed the son of the chief of the gang!” Malek said worriedly. “If he’s found here, our lives won’t be worth a field of rocks!”

“Calm yourself,” Caeta urged. “Amergin is fantastic with his sling, and a cooler head I’ve never seen. He’s agreed to help us if we get him out of town safely. Will you forsake a bargain already struck?”

Malek was tempted, but fourteen days had passed already. Sixteen more, and Rakell would return to Nowhere for another twenty villagers. Worse, there was no way to know how the farmers already taken, including Laila, were faring.

“Very well. We’ll keep your bargain, Caeta.”

Carver squatted by the still-snoring Howland. He sniffed and made a face. “Who’s the rosebud?”

“His name’s Howland uth Ungen. He’s a Knight of Solamnia and a general.”

“He needs a bath,” Carver observed.

Malek frowned. “Why is that kender still here?”

“Because I haven’t killed him yet,” Raika said. Carver thought she was joking.

Caeta knelt by Howland. She turned his head this way and that then lifted his hands one by one, examining them with care. She felt his legs and kneaded his belly a few times.

“What’s she doing?” asked Khorr.

“Caeta’s the best stock breeder in the village,” Nils replied. “I’ve seen her do that to calves. She’s checking to see if he’s sound.”

“He is,” she said, arranging Howland’s arms at his side. “He’s not been on the bottle too long.” Rising, she added, “You say he was a general? We need a general. We can’t be too choosy.”

“We know nothing about him,” sputtered Wilf. “For all we know, he could be a former cobbler or a tailor.”

“Scars.”

The male farmers looked puzzled. “What scars?”

“His arms have many scars, like so.” She made parallel slashes with her hand up one arm. “Sword cuts, old ones. He has healed wounds on the front of both legs.”

“Lance wounds received by a man on horseback,” Hume said admiringly.

“He’s got almost all his teeth, too.”

“Which means what?” said Raika. Seated with her back against the stable wall, she watched them intently as they clustered around the sleeping Howland.

“He’s eaten well all his life. That and his recovered injuries means he’s had a healer’s care. I would also wager he’s worn a helmet most of his life, as his teeth are not broken out, and his face isn’t marred.”

“Splendid!” Carver cried, clapping his hands. He flopped on the straw. “Do me next. Tell me what my life has been!”

Caeta ignored him. “Shall we keep this old dog? He’s worn out, but a wise old hound is a better hunter than the spryest pup.”

It was getting dark. Out in the streets of Robann, armed mobs were searching for Amergin. Other, smaller bands were hunting Khorr. Time and the scant welcome the town afforded was running out.

“Put the question to him when he wakes,” said Malek. “That’s all we can do.”

No one slept that night. The farmers and their hired fighters kept to the stable, but there were periodic alarms as bands of bounty hunters stormed in, searching for Amergin. Khorr was still being sought by vengeance-seekers too. Since it would arouse suspicion for all of them to hide, Hume, Raika, and the farmers concentrated on keeping the Kagonesti and the minotaur out of sight. But how to hide a seven foot tall bull-man?

Amergin they secreted under the floor of the loft. While they wrangled about burying Khorr in dung or under a heap of hay, Carver solved the problem neatly. He took the hulking poet by the hand and led him to a stall between two cows.

“Kneel down,” said the kender.

Khorr went down on his knees. The kender filled the stall around the minotaur’s lower body with loose hay, then stood back to admire the effect.

“Not a word,” he cautioned, “no matter what you hear! Keep your eyes down. Yes, like that. Perfect!”

He swaggered back to the arguing companions. Sir Howland, the drunken Knight, was snoring, but the others (save Amergin) stood in circle, loudly debating various schemes.

“Cut a hole in the wall, and have Khorr put his head through it,” Raika suggested. “If anybody asks, we tell ’em he’s a trophy.”

“No, no!” said Nils. “Anyone can tell the difference between a stuffed head and a live one!”

“Have you a better idea?” said the Saifhumi woman belligerently.

“Hello! Hello!” called Carver. “I’ve solved the problem.”

Just then (for the fourth time that night) a party of vigilantes burst into the barn. Seeing Malek and the rest, the leader of the gang said, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Before the frightened farmers could speak, Hume growled, “Same as you: hunting for the one who killed the Quen chief’s son.”

“It’s been half a day, and nobody’s found him yet,” the vigilantes’ leader replied. He was a coarse, sallow-looking fellow with lank brown hair. Behind him was a mixed band of goblins and similarly seedy humans.