Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

“Defeat wasn’t the worst of it. My ruin had just begun. After the battle of Fangoth Field I served the man who murdered my liege,” Howland said, whispering. He acknowledged Hume’s shocked expression. “Shocked? Garab uth Dreher was Lord Burnond’s cavalry chief, and I lent my sword to his service. We captured men were given that choice-service or mutilation. Warriors who refused to serve the Knights of Takhisis had their eyes put out, or had a hand or foot chopped off. Then they were turned loose, to wander as beggars, object warnings to anyone who would resist Takhisis’s rule.

“I was young and vain, and like most young men, I valued my body more than my soul. I could not bear the thought of being maimed and useless. I told myself, if I stayed whole, I could one day fight to bring down Burnond Everride and his kind. I joined them and fought battles against my former companions.

“When Chaos raged loose on Krynn, the Knights of Takhisis joined the Knights of Solamnia. I tried to rejoin my comrades, but they rejected me, calling me a turncoat. After the war, that reputation stayed with me.

“You’d think that sort of reputation would be good for a hired warrior, but it’s not. It’s death. Keeping faith with your companions is the only virtue a mercenary understands, and they demand it above all. For decades I scratched the barest living from my skill at arms.”

Howland stood and drew a deep breath. “Now I’m no good to anyone any more as a warrior, except to dirt-poor farmers from Nowhere.”

Hume hung his head, unable to speak. Malek burst out, “Your past doesn’t matter here, Sir Howland! Save my betrothed and my brother’s son, and you’ll always have a place of honor in our village!”

Howland said nothing to this promise but stood by the slumped Hume. “What say you, soldier? Do you think me worth following now?”

Hume raised his heavy head. His broad, bald brow glistened with sweat.

“I am one-quarter ogre,” he said, choking. “Do you know what that means? Not human. Not ogre. Used for my strength and steadfastness and despised for my broken ancestry. Do you think me worth having as a follower?”

Howland laid his hand on Hume’s shoulder. “No child chooses his ancestors. If you are true, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Hume stood and met his leader’s gaze. “If you keep faith with your soldiers today and tomorrow, then yesterday means nothing.”

Truth breaks many strong bonds, but sometimes it also forges them.

They found Nils’s stream before dawn and followed it eastward. Howland reasoned a mounted outfit like Rakell’s would need plenty of water in a dry region like this. Sure enough, they found a spot where the clay bank had been churned up by many shod horses’ hooves.

“How old would you say these tracks are?” Howland asked.

Nils felt the yielding clay with his fingertips. Ferns just above the creek bank had been trodden down, but the leaves were still green and pliable.

“No more than day,” said the farmer.

“I agree. What does that imply?”

Hume said, “They water here often!”

Howland nodded. He waded through the shallow stream to the opposite shore. “There’s nothing like twenty or thirty horses’ tracks here. More like six or seven.”

“A patrol!”

“Yes. Rakell is careful. He sends out patrols every day to sweep the plain for signs of trouble.”

“Or useful prisoners,” Malek added bitterly.

“We’ll set our trap here,” the old Knight assured him. “Four men can ambush six right enough. We won’t pick a fight with Rakell’s entire force, just whittle him down a bit and take some prisoners, maybe.”

The watering spot had little obvious cover from which to stage an ambush. Both banks were gentle, grassy slopes without big trees or boulders. Greenery on the banks was lush enough to hide in, but men on horseback might see them lying on their bellies in the weeds.

Nils wandered away from the others, probing the bottom of the stream with his walking stick.

“Look here!” he called. “The water’s deep enough here to hide us!” He demonstrated by sitting down in the stream a few steps west of the ford. He drew his knees up to his chest, and all but the crown of his head disappeared beneath the silvery water. He popped up again, gasping.

Howland said, “That’s a start. We’ll need more than two feet of water to make this work.” Gathering his comrades to him, he explained his ideas.

Like a silent furnace, the sun came up. The steam-colored sky returned, and the air was heavy with unbroken sweat. A line of riders appeared, shimmering in the morning heat. Seven horsemen, lean and alert, rode slowly down the path to the creek, four on the left, three on the right. Marching disconsolately between the lines of horses were eight prisoners, bearing balks of timber across their shoulders. Long leather buckets hung from both ends of these timbers. The daily water detail was near its destination.

Chatting idly as they meandered along, the riders were equipped with a mix of arms and armor. All had breastplates of some description, ranging from a fluted southern pattern to a heavy, riveted relic of old Nordmaar. Each warrior carried a sword and shield (slung on his back), but for herding sluggish captives they also carried light spears, which could be cast or carried.

Leading the water detail was a hard-faced veteran with the insignia of a corporal on his helmet. He rode into the flowing stream and let his horse drink his fill. Twisting on his thin, worn saddle, he said, “Men on the left, water your animals. Those of you on the right, watch the prisoners.”

The last of the four men on the left side of the column steered his horse into the water. Near the center of the stream, the animal balked, bobbing its head many times and nodding.

“What is it? A snake?” asked the corporal.

The rider reined back his horse. “Don’t know, corp. Something’s got old Dodger spooked.”

In the water three dark objects rested on the bottom. They resembled logs, driven into the sandy creek bed. The trooper was about to poke at them with his spear when his comrades on shore, still unwatered, loudly complained about the delay.

“All right, you lot. Let your animals drink.”

The last three riders waded in with their horses, none of which shied from the unknown objects. When their mounts were slaked, the corporal ordered the prisoners to fill their buckets. The captives filed in, dipping first one side of their carriers, then the other. The corporal moved out of their way, riding up higher on the north bank.

He spotted something startling in the grass, a man’s limp arm, fingers slack. Hand on his sword, he guided his horse toward the motionless limb. It proved to be attached to a squat, powerfully built man with a shaven head. Purplish red stains covered the man’s face.

“Dugun! Fetz!” he said loudly. “I found someone!”

Work stopped. The prisoners stood in water up to their knees. The two named men rode across to their corporal.

“Ugly brute!” said the one called Fetz. “Is he human?”

“Looks like your brother,” quipped Dugun.

“Shut up and check him,” snapped the corporal. Dugun dismounted and kicked the body, none too gently.

“Hey! Hey!” When he got no response, the brigand squatted beside the unmoving body to see if the man was still breathing.

He never got the chance to find out. In the blink of an eye, the “dead” man drove a slim iron dagger into Dugun’s chest.

“He’s alive! Watch out!”

The corporal’s warning was too late. Hume rolled to his feet, snatched the sword he’d been lying on, and thrust upward. His point caught the corporal below the hip guard of his breastplate, driving deep into the man’s side. Blood spurted from the corporal’s lips. With an incoherent cry, he toppled from his horse.