Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

The rake clattered to the floor. Close behind it came Howland. Sick and exhausted, he fainted dead away.

Raika caught him. Though he was filthy, she held on to him, lowering him gently to the straw.

“You surprise me,” said Khorr. “You have a heart after all.”

“He’s not my enemy,” she snapped. “He’s my commander.”

Carver returned with Amergin. The kender descended the ladder nimbly, even though he was hampered by having a squat bottle of Goodlund wine in one hand and a folded straight razor in the other. Seeing Howland stretched out on the floor, Carver sighed.

“And here I was going to shave his head!”

If the gods had still dwelt in the world, they might have granted the farmers a boon. Since history and the teachings of the wise held otherwise, the heavy fog enshrouding Robann the next morning could only have been luck.

It crept in, loose airy tendrils of white seeping through the cracks in the stable walls and roof. No one got any rest all night, save for Sir Howland, who was all but dead to the world, and Amergin, who slept soundly in his hiding place. Wilf grumbled quietly about the hunted sleeping better than his protectors, but his friends were just grateful to see the dawn.

Hume drew back the wide door. Damp coils of mist flowed in.

“This is good,” he said. “Fog will shield us from pursuit.”

They packed hurriedly. Caeta woke Howland, shaking the old Knight’s shoulder until he stirred.

“What is it?” he asked too loudly.

“Quiet,” she whispered. “Enemies are all around us!”

He opened one eye, squinting at the dull gray dawn as if it were the unbridled glare of the desert at noon. He coughed and groaned.

“Time to go, sir,” said Hume.

Howland got to his hands and knees but seemed unable to rise further. Caeta cajoled, but any attempt to stand brought on a noisy fit of coughing.

“Wonderful!” Raika said. “A commander who can’t stand!”

Hume laid Howland’s sword and scabbard on the floor a few feet in front of him. “Sir, I saved your weapon,” he said. “Rise and take it.”

“Pick it up, or I shall,” Raika added.

The old man coughed. “No one,” he rasped, “carries my sword but me!”

With a supreme effort, he pushed himself up. Reeling, he clung to Wilf and Nils for support. Hume took up the sword and held it out to Howland. With dignity, the Knight hung the belt around his shrunken waist and closed the clasp.

Amergin walked out first, a lethal star in his sling. To prevent any telltale glints from giving them away in the fog, he’d coated all their faces with candle soot.

Raika and Hume went out next, keeping the Kagonesti in view. Nils, Wilf, and Sir Howland went next, followed by Khorr, Carver, and Caeta. Finally came Malek. He put the last of their paltry valuables, a rough nugget of garnet, on the stall for the landlord to find. That done, he soundlessly swung the door shut.

The town was strangely quiet. The usual bustle and chaos was absent this morning. Practically everyone in town had passed the night hunting for Amergin, and most were abed now, dreaming of the blood money dangled over their heads by the Brotherhood of Quen.

“Go east out of town,” was the only directions the farmers had given, so Amergin walked toward the brightest patch of fog, trusting that was where the sun was rising. Tension within the party ran high.

Carver said, “This reminds me of-”

“If you say ‘Uncle Trapspringer,’ I’ll kick you,” Raika’s voice drifted back.

“I was going to say, ‘the waterfront at Sanction,’ thank you very much.”

“Shh!” Caeta held a finger to her lips.

They had to cross the High Street to get out of town. Amergin halted and pressed himself against a wall. The others stopped.

They heard voices in the fog ahead. Sounds of horses, and wheels turning.

The characteristic whistle of drovers, punctuated by the crack of whips, told them they were near the main thoroughfare. Fog or no fog, morning market goods had to be moved.

Amergin flipped the hood up on his cloak. The dark, forest-colored feathers would not hide him in the mist, but the hood did obscure his elven features.

He strode into the street. Fog closed around him.

Hume started to follow, but Raika held him back. They waited, and when no alarm arose she nodded, and they moved on.

They had no trouble until Khorr crossed. A two-horse dray rumbled up, and the horses faltered and reared at the unfamiliar shape of the minotaur looming over them in the fog. The driver worked his whip, trying to get the team moving.

“Look, Shay-a minotaur!” said the other man on the wagon’s seat.

“So what? Ain’t you ever seen one? Get out of the way, bull-man!” yelled the driver.

“Weren’t those soldiers huntin’ a minotaur last night?”

“Nah, it was an elf. Wasn’t it?”

“No,” the man said in a low voice that carried. “I heard some say they was looking for a minotaur. Killed a man in a bar fight, he did.”

Khorr could have moved on, but instead he turned back to say politely, “I didn’t kill Durand. I only broke his arm.”

The wagoneers did not hear him over the neighing of the agitated horses. Seeing the seven-foot Khorr coming closer, the men panicked. The driver lashed out with his bullwhip. His companion stood on the seat and shouted, “Help! Help! The murdering minotaur’s here!”

Malek rushed out of the fog. “For goodness sake, Khorr! Quiet them!”

The bull-man raised his powerful arms and snorted menacingly. The men paid no attention, but the horses did, straining against their harness, rearing and backing away. The rolling wagon pitched the standing man into the cargo, a bunch of half-grown pigs. Outraged, the pigs squealed and plunged about loudly.

The driver dropped his whip and tried to quiet the horses, but they were too distressed. Pushed back against the ridge of cobbles along the gutter, the wagon teetered then crashed over on its side. Pigs spilled out and ran squealing into the mist. Driver and companion were thrown to the street.

“Come on!” Malek snapped, grabbing the mild-mannered minotaur by the hand. The farmer hated to think what Khorr would do when he tried to cause trouble!

The rest were waiting for them in a narrow lane cut between two houses. The dark bulk of a gang’s tower was visible off to their left. If they’d judged things right, it was the seat of the Silver Circle.

They reached a curving avenue Raika said was called Sawbones Street because so many surgeons lived there. Amergin slipped ahead again. He hadn’t gone five steps before a flurry of arrows fell around him. Iron broadheads struck sparks on the cobbles. The Kagonesti whirled and flung his star-loaded sling at the rooftops behind him.

“Stand where you are!” Hume said roughly, holding Nils back with an outstretched arm. Everyone behind the Khur soldier hugged the wall of the near house and waited.

Having loosed one star, Amergin sprinted for the nearest cover. Directly across from him was a corral full of horses, ringed by a split-rail fence. He vaulted easily over the waist-high barrier, somersaulted into the corral, and vanished.

Without preliminary explanation, Hume cried loudly, “There he goes, men! After him!” He charged out, heedless of the unseen archers. Reluctantly, Raika and the rest followed. Hume waved them on.

“Keep moving,” he said in a low voice. “They won’t shoot if they think we’re chasing him.”

Malek, last in line, stooped to pick up one of the arrows that had been aimed at Amergin. The shaft had splintered, but the pale blue fletching was intact.

Raika glanced back and saw what he was holding. “Sky blue is the color of the Brotherhood of Quen,” she said.