Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

She hoped he was honest. His gift of thornapple brandy had touched her deeply. It was the first taste of home she’d had in a long time. If Ezu was a spy, she’d profoundly regret burying a sword in his guts.

“Ezu? Ezu?”

The only sound she heard was the chirpping of crickets. She called the traveler’s name again a little louder. Still no answer. Feeling parched, Raika crossed to the village well. She felt the stillness all around her. At the well, she leaned into the open pit to draw up the bucket. When she straightened, someone stood directly across from her, a blank black outline looming by the well wall.

“Who’s there?” she hissed, drawing her sword.

The clouds parted, and starlight found Ezu’s face amid the shadows. He looked odd in the darkness. A greenish yellow glow lit his face and neck.

Raika circled the well cautiously. “What’s that light?” she whispered loudly.

“This?” He waved his hand below his chin, and the glow fragmented into many tiny points of light, flying away. “Fireflies.”

She scoffed, lowering her sword. “How do you get fireflies to light on you and glow?”

“I acquired a certain scented oil in Sancrist. It doesn’t smell like much, but it draws fireflies from miles around.”

The last insects flew away, leaving Ezu’s head in darkness.

“They cling to anything anointed with the oil, and glow until dispersed,” he said. “It makes a handy lamp.”

Raika shook her head, bemused. “You’re certainly the strangest man I’ve ever met!”

Ezu bowed as though he’d received a compliment.

“You’ve been calling me,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I want to know, where do you spend your nights?” Raika asked bluntly.

“I study the land and its denizens. I am a contemplative man.”

“You’re an elusive man,” she replied, “and maybe a spy!”

“Ah!” Ezu seemed more pleased than offended. “So you came to catch this one in the act, did you? I told you from the start-I’m a traveler. Because I’m only passing through, this one tries to keep aloof from local events. I don’t want to interfere.”

“The peasants who tried to lynch you must have had a reason.”

He shrugged. “Mobs don’t need a reason, just an opportunity.” Ezu smiled again. “And a rope.” He put a hand to his throat, rubbing it.

She would’ve laughed, but a strange feeling quickly came over her. Her head swam, and her arms and legs seemed to belong to someone else. They would not obey her will to move.

Ezu stepped closer and extended his right index finger, as he had the night he gave Carver the spice candy. Instead of making a sweet appear, Ezu pressed the tip of his finger to the center of Raika’s forehead.

“You will dream tonight of home,” he said softly. “Dream of your lover-what was his name?”

“Enjollah.” She heard her own voice but had no sensation she was speaking.

“Yes. Dream well of Enjollah.”

When he lifted his finger, the feeling ended. Raika braced herself against the well wall.

“Sink me, I must be tired!”

“You are tired. Why don’t you go to sleep?”

“I think I’ll go to sleep.”

“Good night, lady. May all your dreams be happy ones.”

Raika’s head stopped heaving like an argosy’s deck in a cyclone. She walked past Ezu, vaguely aware of him leaning against the low stone wall.

And he was gone.

Fog and cobwebs evaporated from Raika’s head. She doubled back and circled the well. The field stone wall was waist high, and Ezu was nowhere to be found. He was not crouching low, trying to deceive her. He was gone. The only place he coud have gone was down the well.… She leaned far over the wall and peered into the inky depths. Below the Eternal Spring glimmered. She couldn’t see the mossy walls of the shaft, but there was no sign of Ezu in the well either.

Shaken, she retreated to her bedroll near the village gong. Carver was nearby, lying sprawled on his back, mouth agape, wheezing and whistling. Sir Howland slept sitting up, his back against the gong post, a sword across his lap. He was hard, that old man.

Despite her consternation over her encounter with Ezu, Raika quickly fell asleep. She knew something was wrong, unnatural about him, but her fears melted away under surging waves of slumber.

As Ezu told her, she walked the beaches of Saifhum that night. Enjollah was by her side.

Warmth fled Nowhere during the night. The temperature fell, and as it departed it called forth a heavy mist from the soil. Howland awoke with a start as a firm hand clamped down on his wrist.

“It’s Amergin.”

He rubbed his eyes. The Kagonesti said, “We have fog.”

Howland slowly stood. Fog, their friend when they escaped from Robann, was not welcome now. Ten thousand enemies could encircle the village under cover of fog, and no one in Nowhere would even know it until it was too late.

“Call everyone to arms!”

Amergin ran off to arouse the village. Howland climbed atop the well wall and tried to see through the murk. The fog was thready and dry, swirling around anything that moved. That was some help.

Shouts stirred the sleeping village. A clatter of arms and the thump of bare feet announced the rising of Nowhere. In short order Raika, Khorr, Carver, and Robien gathered at Howland’s feet. The minotaur rubbed his eyes, yawning with enough force to stir the kender’s unkempt hair. Robien looked a little befuddled, very unusual for him. Of all the hired fighters, Raika seemed the most relaxed. She stretched her long arms, bowed and flexed with languid grace. When Carver made some grumpy remark to her, she just smiled and ruffled his hair.

Unbidden, Ezu appeared from behind Howland. He stood patiently watching the commotion around him. He was neatly dressed for once-broadcloth tunic and wide-legged trousers, sash belt, and his usual sandals. No antlers, flowers, or fireflies.

In twos and threes and sixes, the villagers crowded around the assembled mercenaries. Faces swollen with sleep, they babbled to each other about the cause of the alarm.

“Is it Rakell? Is he here?” many asked. Howland waited a while, hands clasped behind his back, until the farmers settled down.

“People of Nowhere,” he said, “I called this alarm because of the fog. Until we know better, we must assume the enemy is in the vicinity.”

Groans and grumbles rose from the villagers.

“You scared us to death!” Bakar whined.

“There’s no enemy?” asked Caeta.

“There’s no one!” Bakar answered crossly.

“Silence!” Howland’s commanding voice stifled dissent. “Do you think this is a game? This is war, or have you forgotten?”

With few further complaints, the villagers assembled into their respective fighting groups. Carver and the children were given the vital task of keeping lookout for signs of trouble outside the village. When everyone was at their appointed place, Howland called Robien to him.

“Collect six spearmen,” he said. “We’re going out for a look around.”

Robien rounded up half a dozen of the more agile farmers.

Howland turned to Carver. “The watchword is ‘Fangoth.’ Understand? Anyone who comes near who doesn’t say ‘Fangoth’ is the enemy! Spread the word!”

Perched on a hut roof, the kender gave a jaunty salute and passed Howland’s message on to his young followers. “Fangoth! Fangoth!”

“Quiet, now,” the Knight said as they crossed the trench. Below them, farmers huddled in the damp earth, clutching homemade spears and maces. Khorr walked up and down the length of the trench, bolstering his frightened troops’ morale.

“Take up the planks behind us,” Howland said. Khorr himself took hold of the bridge and heaved it behind the trench.