Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

“Maybe he’s left Robann,” said Wilf.

“Ain’t possible. The Brotherhood’s got trackers out in all directions. They ain’t picked up nothing.” Shifting his torch to his left hand and lowering his right to the hilt of his sword, he added, “The rat must still be here.”

Raika said, “Well, we haven’t got him. If we did, we wouldn’t be standing here jawing with you, sunshine.”

The gang leader’s eyes narrowed. “Then you won’t mind if we search the place ourselves?”

Raika all but yawned. “Suit yourself, boys.”

Malek and the farmers looked alarmed, but Raika, Hume, and Carver all managed a disinterested facade. One of the goblins stood over Sir Howland, prodding him with the handle of his pitchfork.

“Who’s this?”

“Not an elf. Ears not pointy, see?” Raika leaned against a post and clasped her hands behind her head. “Don’t you even know what a Kagonesti looks like?”

The vigilantes poked and prodded around the big barn, finding nothing but a few random chickens nesting in the straw. Two of the goblins fell to chasing a fat white hen until their boss stormed over and cracked them on the head with his knout.

The humans in his group climbed into the loft. Hume and Raika exchanged a look. Carver lay on his back and made moo-ing noises.

Malek could hear the men clomping around, thrusting spears into the loose hay. He prayed the board covering Amergin’s hiding place would not be dislodged by their probing.

A scraggly fellow with stringy hair and a wisp of a beard stuck his head over the loft rail and said, “Nothing up here, Nub.”

“Then get down! We got plenty more places to check!”

Men and goblins filed out. The leader, Nub, was the last. Screwing up his face as though he smelled something bad, he swept the barn with his eyes one last time before departing then ducked out.

Caeta sighed deeply. “Where’s Khorr?”

Carver made more cattle sounds then laughed. Arching his back, he sprang to his feet like an acrobat.

“As my old Uncle Trapspringer used to say, the best place to hide something is under the seeker’s nose!”

He strolled to the cow stalls and stood in front of one, gesturing to the horned head above him. “Speak, Khorr!”

“What shall I say?” The minotaur opened the stall door and stepped out.

The kender had missed Khorr by two stalls. He covered his error with a high-pitched laugh.

“I’m so clever I even fool myself!”

Malek nodded. “Maybe the kender will turn out to be useful after all.”

Howland uth Ungen snorted, choked, and sat up. “Wine!” he croaked. “Give me wine!”

Malek, Nils, Caeta, and Wilf slowly circled around him. Holding his head in his hands, the fallen knight repeated his plea.

Malek squatted and offered him the neck of his waterskin. Howland seized it in both hands and drank greedily.

“Is this old souse really any good to us?” Wilf murmured.

Lowering the leather bag with a gasp, Howland said, “Good enough even to whip you clod-hoppers into fighting shape!”

Malek said, “Do you remember us?”

“I remember,” Howland said gruffly. He wiped his crusted lip with the back of his hand. “How many warriors have you got, so far?”

“Five, counting you.”

“Six!” Carver said brightly. “Don’t forget me!”

Malek grimaced. “Six, it seems.”

“Help me up.” Howland held out his hands to Nils and Malek. They dragged him upright. “All right, all right. Might as well get down to business. All of you, line up.”

No one moved.

“I said line up! Better you learn one thing first-when I give an order, you do it!”

Awkwardly, they sorted themselves into a single line facing the Knight. With Khorr at one end and Carver at the other, they made a strange-looking company.

“Tcha!” Howland snapped. “What a command!” He stood in front of the minotaur, fists on his hips. “You’re big enough, I’ll grant. Have you any skills?”

“I’ve memorized all six thousand lines of The Rage of Captain Edzi ,” said Khorr.

Howland squeezed his bloodshot eyes shut. “Any fighting skills?”

“I’m a good wrestler.”

“A wrestler. I see. We’ll just have to ask the brigands to come close enough for you to hug them, won’t we?”

Howland moved down the line to Hume. “You look like a soldier.”

“Yes, sir. I am Hume nar Fanac, by birth thane to the mighty Khan of Khur.”

“In what were you trained?”

“Pike and halberd, sir.”

Howland nodded. “Any archery?”

“No, sir.”

The knight moved on to Raika.

“Before you ask, I’m a sailor, not a warrior,” she said dryly.

“You’re no stranger to swords, I fancy.”

She shrugged. “The sea is a dangerous place.”

Howland walked off a short way. A rake and a pitchfork leaned against one of the inner stalls. Taking one in each hand, he went back to Raika. Without warning, he flung the pitchfork sideways at her. She caught it, glaring.

“Are we going to pitch hay?” she said.

“You pose too much, woman, and you’re too free with your mouth. Let’s see what you can do.”

Raika grinned. “Any time, old man.”

Caeta stepped out of line to protest. Howland was hung-over, dehydrated, thirty years older than Raika, and six inches shorter. “I don’t want our new general injured before he has the chance to train us.”

“Get back in your place!” Howland snapped.

He drew back a few steps and beckoned Raika toward him. As she advanced, he swiftly thrust the handle of his rake between her ankles, tripping her. Before Raika knew it, she was flat on her belly, and Howland had the head of the rake pressed against the back of her neck.

“Got you,” he said.

“Yeah, quite a coup for you, old man. Trip me when I’m not looking!”

“Do you think war has polite rules?”

He let her up. She crouched low, the tines of her pitchfork level with Howland’s chest. His grimy brigandine would not keep out those sharp iron points.

“Ha!” Raika jabbed hard.

Howland’s feet never shifted. He parried, catching the tines with the rake handle and flipping the pitchfork back over Raika’s shoulder. It stuck quivering in the floor, and Howland administered a stinging blow across her back with the other end of the rake.

“Twice,” he said, coughing a little.

Raika kept her temper in check. She retrieved the pitchfork and held it in both hands in front of her like a quarterstaff. Howland made a few elementary attacks with the rake, which she easily warded off. Then the attacks came faster. Left-right-left-left-right came the blows. Raika gave ground. Right-left-right-right-left. Sweat sheened her face and arms.

Howland circled away, coughing more. “I’d shave my head for a draught of wine,” he muttered. Carver heard him, grinned, and scurried up the ladder into the loft.

“You’re strong and quick,” the old Knight told Raika, “but you must learn to anticipate the enemy’s next move. Only that way can you hope to defeat him.”

He started toward her, pivoted, and came from the other direction. The gray rake handle blurred.

Left-right-left-left-

“Ha!” said Raika. She moved to block a blow from the right, and met only air. The blunt end of the rake handle hurtled at her face. Raika flinched, but Howland stopped it a hair’s breadth from her cheek.

“And three times,” he said. “You thought you had my moves figured out, but only because I pointed out the pattern to you. Another lesson: Don’t listen to what an opponent tells you. Your enemy wants to hurt you, not help you.”

Malek grabbed his brother happily. They’d found a real leader at last!