Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

The two scouts sat slouched on their animals, facing the unseen village. As Robien watched, he noticed the scout on the left’s horse shying a little, as though the beast had detected a serpent near its feet. A snake would be less dangerous, the bounty hunter thought.

Robien crept forward as fast as he dared, knees bent, hands brushing the ground. He left his sword in its scabbard and took out his hunting knife, a single-edged weapon as long as his hand. Teeth clamped on the blade, he worked his way closer to the unwary men.

One scout’s horse stirred a little. The rider patted his animal. “Steady, steady,” he crooned.

“He wants to go back to camp too,” said the other man.

Robien was behind them, no more than six feet away, when Amergin rose up like a ghost and grabbed both men by their mantles, jerking them backward off the rumps of their mounts. The horses took off, neighing and tossing their heads.

Amergin threw himself over one of the men, covering him with his grassy cape. The other man struggled to rise and draw his sword. Robien took him from behind, clamping a hand over the man’s mouth and burying his blade in the small of his back.

The grass flowed away, revealing the second rider dead.

“Now what?” asked Robien, breathing hard.

Amergin gripped the dead man’s collar. “Bring him.”

They dragged the bodies over the hill. Amergin proceeded confidently, leading Robien to a small depression in the hillside. This hollow was full of brambles. Amergin shoved the dead man in then took Robien’s victim and pushed him in, too. Robien thought they were done, but Amergin retraced their path, plucking up bent grass and wiping away any bloodstains. When he was done, only the most expert tracker could have detected where the bodies had been taken.

By now the frightened horses had overtaken their comrades, causing consternation among the other riders. They came galloping back. Robien made ready to retire, but Amergin gripped his wrist hard. He spread his grass cape over the bounty hunter.

“Watch. Listen.”

The brigands circled the spot where their companions had disappeared, prodding the grass with their lances.

“Juric! Vago!” the leader called.

More than once the men passed within spitting distance of the Kagonesti but failed to detect them.

“Keph, where are they?” one man cried.

“Hiding. They must be!”

“Vago wouldn’t do that!”

“Neither would Juric!”

Keph said, “Then they’ve deserted, the scum.”

The dead men’s friends protested vigorously. Keph cursed them into silence. “If they didn’t desert, what happened to them? Did they disappear into thin air?”

A gaunt, hawk-faced rider pushed the helmet back on his head and fearfully scanned the sky. “Something took them,” he intoned.

His leader scoffed. “What? A dragon? Don’t you think we would’ve seen anything big enough to carry off two armed men?”

Hawk-face would not be talked down. “There’s a reason why this land is deserted. There are wild spirits, malign powers abroad here!”

“You’re mad, Botha! The gods are dead, and all the ghosts died with them ages ago!” Keph circled his nervous horse. “Besides, this land isn’t empty. Farmers live here.”

“Maybe they have a pact with the dark spirits-”

Keph struck Botha with a mailed fist. The blow rocked him, but the hard-riding warrior kept his seat.

“That’s enough!” Keph snapped. “There are no spirits! There’s no power here greater than our Lord Rakell, understand?” He circled again. “Juric and Vago have deserted, I tell you. You heard ’em. They didn’t want picket duty, so they ran off. They’re hiding in the grass out there, somewhere. If I had time, I’d set a fireline and smoke ’em out, but Lord Rakell’s on the move and expects us back before sundown. So be men, not children! Let’s go!”

The bandits rode away. Once they were out of sight, Robien threw back the grass mat and sat up, drawing deep breaths. It was nearly airless under there.

“Seeds are planted,” Amergin said, shucking off his camouflage hood and gauntlets. “Now we will let them grow a little.” He started back to the bramble gully.

“What are you going to do now?” Robien called after him.

Amergin didn’t answer.

Robien followed, curious. Amergin dragged the bodies out and lashed their wrists together then draped the dead raiders on two of his scarecrows, looping their arms around his figures’ necks. It was a macabre scene, two corpses each hugging a scarecrow as if they were long-lost comrades. Rakell’s men were sure to be frightened or infuriated when they found them. Seeing Amergin’s macabre ploy, Robien wasn’t sure which he felt himself.

It was dark when Robien and Amergin returned. Robien made a wide circuit of the isolated village, checking the traps. When all was done, the two Kagonesti walked back to the village through the barley, tossing lightly in the night wind. Neither elf spoke to the other.

A bonfire blazed in the center of the village common. The bright fire startled the elves, and fearing trouble, they separated. Each entered Nowhere at a different point between the darkened huts. Yet all was calm. There were no signs of a raid.

Howland had returned. Malek and Nils were also present, but Amergin didn’t spot Hume. Curious, the elf made his way to the old Knight.

Caeta accosted him. “One of your comrades has been killed,” she said sadly. Amergin didn’t need to be told which.

Robien approached the bonfire from the other side. The villagers huddled around the flames, grass mats and blankets spread on the ground. With their homes filled with dirt, they would be sleeping in the open for a while.

Raika rose from her haunches when she spied the bounty hunter. “First blood to Rakell,” she said. “They got Hume.”

“We got two of them today,” Robien replied. He described the killing of the two bandits.

News that the Kagonesti had encountered Rakell’s scouts so near the village sent a spasm of terror through the assembled farmers. Howland summoned Amergin and Robien, asking for every detail of their fight.

The laconic Amergin had little to say, so Robien, no big talker himself, had to supply most of the details.

“It was a small band, eleven men on horses, armed with sword and lance. Only nine rode away.”

“We slew four at the ford but lost Hume.” Howland’s grim face looked gray by firelight. “Young Malek saw his bride among the slaves fetching water. Seeing her unhinged him. Hume went to his aid, and that’s when he fell.”

The Knight looked over his downcast troops and the dispirited villagers. Something had to be done to stop this slide into despair. If it went on unchecked, Rakell could win without striking another blow.

A speech praising Hume’s humility and courage might help, but Howland never got the chance to deliver it. The somber air around the bonfire was invaded by the weird, unnatural keen of Ezu’s whistle. Heads turned.

Into the ring of firelight strolled the traveler. He looked even more bizarre than usual. Over his baggy trousers and loose tunic Ezu had pinned scores of flowering plants, all different. There was thistle, dandelion, red and white clover, tiny climbing roses, tufts of corn silk, bean flowers, violets-all the common blossoms found on the northern plain. By firelight, the paler blooms took on a rosy glow, like cat’s eyes by a blazing hearth. In addition, Ezu wore a pair of deer antlers, cast off long ago and whitened by the elements, fastened to a thick leather strap he wore tied around his forehead. He cut an eerie figure, part-human, part-animal, part flowering field.