Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

Malek peered up through the mist. He could see the ragged roofline of houses behind them but no sign of movement. Where had the archers gone?

They raced on, barely keeping the Kagonesti in sight. The sky was brightening all the time. When the sun got well up, the fog wouldn’t last long.

Skirting the corral, Caeta saw dim figures dashing through the mist off to her right. Alarmed, she looked left and saw more shadows flickering between the houses on that side.

“They’re all around us!” she said.

“Hounds to the hare,” Howland said, wheezing. “They’re using us to trail their quarry.”

A bowstring twanged. Almost immediately they heard the hum of Amergin’s sling and a short, sharp scream.

They trampled through a muddy garden plot, almost stumbling over the body of a slain elf. One of Amergin’s smoked stars was imbedded under the dead elf’s left ear.

Carver busied himself over the fallen Quen Brother, helping himself to the contents of the elf’s pockets and pouch.

At the far end of the garden was a rubble-stone wall. Amergin was crouched behind it, sling held loosely in his hand. One by one they dropped beside him. Khorr had to practically flatten himself to keep his great head down.

The mist was breaking up. Through tattered shreds of fog, they could see a phalanx of armed gang members blocking the way. Their pale blue cloaks hung limply in the still air.

“Amergin!” called one. “Give yourself up! The rest of you, this is not your fight!”

The Kagonesti uttered a single syllable of his native dialect. No one had to translate his private rejoinder.

“All right, commander,” Raika said to Howland. “Here’s a military problem. What do we do now?”

The old Knight peeked over the long cairn. “In an orthodox battle, I’d called for archers to dislodge them then charge with sword and lance.”

Raika sniffed. “I left my prancing steed at home with my bow.”

“Give up, Amergin! Come quietly, and I promise you a quick death!”

“Who could resist generous terms like that?” said Carver.

Khorr gripped the wall with both hands. “Sir Howland, we have no bows but stones aplenty,” he said. “Will that do?”

“Why not?” Hume said, taking a stone in each hand. “Warriors must learn to fight with ready means.” He hurled them both at the elves barring their way.

Khorr joined in, and the young farmers too. They popped up, lobbed their stones, then ducked down again, expecting arrows to come winging back.

The first stones hit in front of the elves, caroming off the pavement. Startled, the Quenites backed up a bit, then nocked arrows and loosed. Hume got one through the armpit of his tunic before he threw himself down with alacrity.

Raika joined the bombardment. After two of their number were knocked down, the gang officer drew his sword and shouted, “Enough of this nonsense! Let’s charge!”

The archers parted ranks, revealing a dozen sword-armed comrades, but when they rushed the garden wall, Amergin rose up with his sling.

Three Quenites went down, clutching their legs. Amergin had thrown three stars at once. He reloaded and hurled again, bring down two more. The remainder hesitated and inched back.

“Volley!” Howland cried. The stone-throwers hurled their missiles, pelting the wavering gang with more stones. More elves went down with cracked heads and bleeding scalps. The survivors backed away.

“Now’s the moment! Charge!”

Hume, Howland, Khorr, and Raika scrambled over the wall and ran yelling at the elves. Carried away in the fervor of the moment, Malek, Nils, and Wilf followed. Carver stood on the wall and whooped encouragingly while Caeta hurled stones over their heads.

Raika had almost reached the retreating elves when she suddenly realized she was unarmed. The elves didn’t seem to notice. They ran up the street, away from the yelping band attacking them. Amergin flung sharp bronze stars by their ears until they gave way and fled farther.

The only person to actually close with the elves was Hume. He grabbed one gang member who’d taken a stone to the head and sat dazed on the ground. Lacking a blade, he head-butted the unhappy elf then relieved him of his sword.

In moments the battle was done. The fleeing elves’ footfalls faded up the hill, and the street was theirs.

“Ha! We did it!” Wilf crowed.

“We were lucky,” Raika said cheerfully. “They weren’t expecting a crowd of crazy humans, just a lone forester.”

Hume stuck the slim elf sword through the sash at his waist. “Help yourself to their weapons before they come back with reinforcements,” he said. Seven members of the Quen gang lay unmoving on the street. Two were dead, slain by Amergin, and the remainder were insensible. Malek, Nils, Wilf, and Raika gathered up all the weapons they could carry.

Howland, author of their tiny victory, stood with his hands braced on his knees, retching. Caeta came up behind him and comforted him.

Amergin waited a few yards away, fog swirling around him. Wilf came to him, arms laden with swords and daggers.

“You’re an amazing fighter,” Wilf said. “I’ve never seen anyone use a sling like you!”

The Kagonesti coiled the thong around his hand. “Among my own, I’m counted a mediocre marksman.” There was a trace of a smile on the dour elf’s face.

Hume urged speed, and they quickly fled the scene. Once past a final row of shanties and storehouses, they beheld open country at last.

“Where to now?” Amergin asked.

“East. Our village is seven days’ journey from here,” Malek said.

Amergin nodded briefly. He ran down the weedy hillside to a ravine, headed roughly in the right direction.

“How are you feeling, general?” Raika asked.

Howland wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Though pale, he looked a little stronger than before. Leaving Robann was like a tonic to him.

“The Brotherhood isn’t done with us yet,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder at the weathered rooftops of Robann. “Follow the elf. He’ll keep to the low ground, and so should we.”

Fifteen days had passed since Rakell came to Nowhere and stole Laila away. Fifteen days.

That time hammered in Malek’s brain with every step he made. Half the time was gone before the raiders would return to enslave twenty more of his friends and neighbors, and they were still four long days’ walk from home!

It didn’t help that summer showed no sign of fading. Every step seemed a struggle in the heat. A haze covered the blue of the sky, leaving it a dull white, the color of steam. The sun hung low over their heads, glowing like hot iron through the haze. Since leaving Robann, the party had kept to sweltering airless ravines and gullies. Light breezes stirred the trees atop the hills, rattling the dry leaves, but the farmers and their hired champions did not dare show themselves against the light sky.

They were being followed-even Wilf could tell. By night, distant campfires lit up the western horizon. On the first night there were eight, the second night four, and since then, one. Howland assumed bounty hunters in the pay of the Brotherhood of Quen had come after them but finding the fugitives too fleet and elusive, a few gave up each morning and returned to town.

Yet the danger had not lessened, he told them. The toughest, most persistent hunters were the ones to fear. The farmers took to looking over their shoulders so much they developed cricks in their necks.

“There’s worse to watch for,” said Howland, glancing skyward. “We’ll soon be crossing the territory of an Overlord.” In the past year, he told the group, a red dragon of fearful power had claimed much of this land as his own. The dragon exacted stinging tribute from every caravan or trading party crossing his domain. Still, a small band of empty-handed travelers like them probably would not attract the dragon’s notice, or so Howland prayed. So far the farmers had seen no sign of the dragon on their journey to Robann.