Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

Howland, Hume, Malek, and Nils looked on as the preparations began.

Malek said, “Sir Howland, did you mean what you said? Is Nowhere really doomed?”

“I would not be here still if I thought so.”

Thus reassured, Malek and Nils picked up their packs and walking sticks and set out to scout Rakell’s camp.

Alone with his leader, Hume said, “You made them believe it, sir.”

Grim-faced, Howland accepted his comrade’s judgment. “I did what I had to. People too afraid to greet their defenders stand no chance against ogres and mounted brigands. I had to stir them up, find the rams among the lambs.”

They started after the brothers, down a path through the waving lake of grain.

“Tell me truly, Sir Howland, can we win?” Hume asked.

“No honest commander ever knows that,” was the Knight’s sober reply.

Where the farmed land ended, the wild land took over. Stiffer than barley, plains grass did not bow with the evening wind. It stood against the breeze, sighing and shivering. The well-marked path from Nowhere soon faded into the undergrowth. Hume drew his sword and took the lead, cutting a path for the others.

A hundred paces beyond the cultivated field all traces of settled life vanished. The change was profound. In the standing barley, men were the masters, and the wild creatures of the plain were interlopers. Just a few steps away from the growing grain, roles were reversed. Farmer or warrior, in the wilderness everyone was alone.

Nils related that as a boy he’d hunted rabbits here, creeping through the high weeds with a crude, two-pronged spear. Half a day’s walk south of Nowhere there was a stream, he said, a brook that flowed from the east a few miles before vanishing.

“The westernmost spur of the mountains lies more than forty miles from here,” Howland told Malek. “If my memory and the maps of my old master, Garab uth Dreher, can be trusted, that is.”

“Forty miles! Are we going that far?” asked Malek.

“We can’t spare the time. If we don’t find any trace of Rakell’s force by noon tomorrow, we’ll return to Nowhere.”

Stars appeared in the purple sky, lighting up one by one like lanterns hung in distant windows. The party rested under a wind-tortured elm tree, drinking from the same flask and eating from a common bag of parched corn.

“How long have you been a soldier, Sir Howland?” asked Nils.

“All my life. I was born to it.”

“Did you always serve this Lord Garab?”

“No.” The Knight took a long swig of cider. “My first liege was the noble Harbard uth Farnan, may he rest forever in the company of fallen heroes.”

Hume rubbed his bare dome. “I know that name. Lord Harbard was a great Knight?”

“A great Knight and a gallant warrior,” said Howland. “From the time I could walk I served his house. I would have-should have-died for him.”

Awkward silence engulfed the lonely elm. Hume and the farmers remembered the state Howland had been in when they found him in Robann. Was his fall into degradation and despair linked to the fate of Lord Harbard?

Malek screwed up his courage and began to ask, but Howland replied before the questoin was complete. Night shielded the Knight’s long face, so only his voice transmitted the pain of his long-ago memories.

“I was but six and twenty when the end came. It was a terrible time, the Chaos War. The Order gave Lord Harbard the task of defending the city of Fangoth from the Knights of Takhisis. He had an army of five thousand, which seemed like more than enough to do the job. Four thousand were yeoman infantry, free men trained in arms and called up in time of war to defend our country. Backing up the yeomen were four hundred mounted knights and six hundred archers, who were elves from the old Qualinesti realm. With this force, Lord Harbard was confident he could defeat treble his number in Nerakan levies.”

Nils and Malek were ignorant of politics outside their land, but the deep sorrow in Howland’s tone forestalled them from asking for details.

“Fangoth is ringed on three sides by heavy forest. Only the east lay open, and from the east the enemy came, three thousand five hundred of them. In command was Burnond Everride, the Hammer of Nordmaar, the plunderer of Throt and Estwilde. Ah, what a bold and dangerous man! Had he known more honor, he could have been a gracious foe, but Highlord Burnond was too ruthless and cruel.

“His army seemed a joke to us. A thousand mercenary halberdiers from Saifhum-”

“Raika’s home?” said Hume.

Howland grunted an affirmative. “Rugged fighters, but their only loyalty was to their paymaster. Burnond had five hundred Knight-lancers of the Dark Order, but the bulk of his force was two thousand goblins, armed with pike and shield. Goblins! Can you imagine taking the field against Lord Harbard and free yeomen with a mob of stinking goblins?” The old Knight’s voice had risen almost to a shout. He mastered his anger and continued.

“Harbard arrayed the army in an arc to protect Fangoth. The archers were twenty paces to the fore, and the yeomen were drawn up shield to shield to withstand any charge of Burnond’s horsemen. We Knights sat under the walls of the city, in reserve. Lord Harbard told us we wouldn’t have much to do! A few volleys of arrows, and the goblins would run away-that’s what he said.

“Burnond formed his goblin infantry into a solid phalanx six ranks deep. They were armed with long pikes, twelve feet long. The rear ranks laid their pikes on the shoulders of those in front of them, making a moving hedgehog of steel points. To motivate the goblins, Burnond placed young fanatics of the Dark Order at their backs with whips, to scourge the goblins if they faltered. Can you see it? Vile vermin, driven like pigs to slaughter by blows of a rawhide whip! Where is the glory in such warfare?”

Crickets chirped in the deep shadows. A rich tapestry of stars covered the sky from horizon to horizon. Somehow the faint glitter of a million stars made the night seem darker rather than light.

Howland wrung the last drops from the cider flask. It was mild stuff, not like the rotgut sold in Robann taverns.

“A veil of archers could not stop two thousand pike-men propelled forward by whiplash,” he said dully. “The elves loosed and loosed, finally aiming over their knuckles at the black wall of spear points coming at them. In the last moment Lord Harbard gave them leave to withdraw. The elves wore no armor. No one expected them to fight infantry of the line.

“The goblins pushed on, driving deep into the yeomen. Their pikes were so long, our men couldn’t reach the enemy with their swords. Hundreds of yeomen were slain without striking a blow! When the curved lined began to bow backward under the press, Lord Harbard ordered his Knights forward. We rode around the right end of our own line, thinking to take the goblins in the flank. Burnond had foreseen this move, curse him. The Saifhumi were waiting for us. Lord Harbard thought they would scatter if charged with sword and lance, but they had been trained by Lord Burnond to stand before cavalry. Harbard, Harbard, you should have ignored the halberdiers and gone after the goblins!”

“What happened, Sir Howland?” said Malek.

“We were cut to pieces. The Saifhumi had hooks on the ends of their bills, and they dragged our men from the saddle and hacked them to bits. They cut off Lord Harbard’s head then his arms and legs.… His bloody limbs were thrown back to us! I was unhorsed, and trampled. When I awoke, I was a prisoner of the Knights of Takhisis.”

The balance of the battle went just as badly for Harbard’s army. The yeomen fought and fought until horsemen of the Dark Order threatened to cut them off from the city. Then they broke. The city, unprepared for a long siege, surrendered to Burnond Everride six days later.