Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

The villagers sat down in orderly rows, facing Howland’s motley band. Two torches blazed on either side of the Knight, the only light he would permit. When Caeta entered the clearing with her father, Elder Calec, on her arm, Howland bade them sit up front. Once the elder was seated, he began.

“I am Howland uth Ungen, Knight of the Order of the Rose. As you know, we’ve come here to defend you against your enemies, Rakell and his raiders.” He paused, trying to catch every farmer’s eyes before he continued. “This we cannot do.”

The stunned silence that followed extended to his comrades. Hume looked the most stricken of all.

“We cannot do it with the forces we have on hand. I therefore recommend you abandon this village and move elsewhere.”

Howland folded his arms across his chest and waited. For a time the only sound was the crackled of the burning torches. At last Calec coughed a little and raised his creaking voice.

“What deceit is this?” he rasped. “Are you admitting defeat before the fight has begun?”

“I tell what I know to be true,” Howland replied. “This place is indefensible.”

Old Calec struggled to his feet, disdaining his daughter’s supporting hand. “You did not come here to tell us that! Why say it now?”

Howland met the elder’s knowing gaze. “Because the alternative is very hard.”

“I have lived here eighty-eight years,” said Calec. “My father and mother lived here before me, and their parents before them.” He waved a gnarled hand at the folk behind him. “We’re farmers. We know hardship. Every day we draw breath is a battle against drought, disease, and death. What can be harder than that?”

“Just this: To win, to survive, everyone must fight. Everyone .”

The elder spat in the dust. “Give me a stick or a stone, and I’ll fight.”

The farmers and families behind him were not so sure. A loud murmur rippled through their ranks. Their unease was voiced by Bakar. “Why did we seek warriors, if we’re expected to fight anyway? We could have done that all along and saved food and water!”

“Will you not fight for your homes and families?” asked Hume.

Raika snapped, “You’d be slaughtered without us!”

Voices grew louder as accusations of bad faith and cowardice flew back and forth. Khorr had to restrain Raika from punching a farmer who called her craven. Fearing violence, some villagers tried to creep away unnoticed in the dark.

A high, warbling whistle cut through the heated words. It grew in intensity until many had to clap hands over their ears to bear it. Everyone turned to the source of the sound, standing in the rear ranks of the newcomers.

Ezu removed the metal pipe from his lips. The piercing note ceased. Far away, nightbirds screeched, and a rare wolf of the plains howled in lonesome protest.

“What is that?” asked Howland.

“A whistle, as used by the sailors of Ladosh.” He tucked it away in his baggy trousers. “Effective, isn’t it?”

“Unbearable!” said the minotaur. “I thought my head would split!”

“Many animals find it intolerable. Wolves and dogs, for example.” The howls of the wild creatures could still be heard. “And horses.”

“Horses?” Howland understood. “Will your whistle upset Rakell’s cavalry?”

The amiable traveler shrugged.

“May I see it?”

Ezu handed Howland the device. It was brass, about as thick as a woman’s little finger, and eight inches long. The walls of the tube were thick, and two slots were cut in the upper surface, one about a third of the length from the mouth end, the other halfway along. Howland put the whistle to his lips and blew. No sound emerged.

He blew until his face purpled. Ezu gently took the whistle back. “Perhaps it’s not so useful after all,” he said to the mystified Howland.

Now that calm had been restored, Amergin spoke up. “I’m not a soldier,” he began, “but I have fought mounted foes before. There are no walls around my home forest, but no marauder dares enter it.”

“Trees are a good fence against cavalry,” said Hume.

“I speak not of fences or trees,” said the Kagonesti. “Fences can be broken down and trees burned. What my people do to deter attack is lay traps. Many, many traps. Our settlements are ringed with them.”

“Trenches!” offered Hume. “My khan once defended the whole of the Khurman Peninsula with a line of trenches. The land there is desert, loose sand and gravel, with no trees of any kind. We dug two lines of trenches across the peninsula and turned back the horde of ogre warlord Shagrah-de.”

Howland pulled out the goatskin parchment he’d procured that afternoon and examined the simple map he’d drawn of Nowhere. He beckoned Malek, Nils, and Caeta to look at it with him. Though blind, Calec joined them.

“These are useful ideas.” He ran a finger across the drawing. “Where did the raiders come from before?”

Malek pointed. “They approached from the south.” He tapped the parchment at the open end of the horseshoe of houses. “When they were nearer, they circled around and rode in from the west.”

It made sense. Ogres and horses need room to maneuver, and it was easier to funnel them into the open end of the village than to squeeze them between huts.

“We might be able to close this open ground with a trench,” Howland said.

“Add a barrier of sharpened stakes to fend off horses,” suggested Robien.

Howland studied his map, frowning. “Once the bandits find they can’t just ride in as they did before, they’ll try to break through the ring of houses. The huts are too flimsy to stop ogres,” he muttered.

“Fill them with dirt,” said Khorr.

The leaders, clustered around the map, looked up at the hulking poet.

“Fill the huts with the dirt left over from digging the trench,” the minotaur said. “It has to go somewhere. If the houses are full of dirt, no one can break through them.”

One or two villagers sent up a wail, at the idea of filling their homes with dirt.

Howland grinned a little. “This affair is beginning to intrigue me!”

“Then you’ll stay and fight, after all?” asked the elder.

“If your people stand with us, we’ll stay,” the Knight declared.

Many of the younger farmers cheered, and their cries were echoed by Howland’s motley troop. Some older villagers still seemed unsure.

“If we resist, Lord Rakell will kill everyone of us,” one said.

“Those who do not fight do not deserve to live!” old Calec growled.

He seized Sir Howland’s hand in rough but fervent fellowship. The Knight shifted the aged farmer’s grip from the downward, country folks’ grip to the upright warrior style.

“Now we are sworn to the task. Time is short. Let’s begin,” said Howland.

The outline of the trench was scratched in the earth that night. By dawn, digging was underway. Baskets were filled with dry earth and hauled to the farthest houses. The villagers cleared their belongings from the huts and dumped the dirt inside. When full, each hut would hide a mound of earth nine feet high.

According to Howland’s instructions, each member of his band took five or six villagers to train. Carver gained an instant following among the Nowhere children, eleven of whom eagerly lined up to learn the secrets of the whippik. Raika showed the best weavers in the village How to lash round stones onto rake handles to serve as maces. Khorr stripped to the waist and joined in digging, where he did the work of four men. A small contingent worked alongside him, and he recited the minotaur war epic Six Axes for King Banu as they labored on the trench. Amergin and Robien took their bands of followers into the fields to learn how to lay forester traps. Elderly villagers were set to converting garden tools to spears.