Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

“You know the watchword?”

The minotaur said, “Yes, ‘Fangoth.’ Anyone who comes near who doesn’t say the word will get hurt.”

“We’ll be back soon.”

Howland led his little band out into the mist. It was deathly quiet. Two dozen paces from the trench, Nowhere could not be seen at all. Small sounds carried through the fog: careless talk, the rattle of tools, weapons, and breakfast pots. Howland sighed. The enemy could get an earful this morning and at very little risk.

He arranged his party in arrow formation, with the experienced scout and hunter Robien on point. Howland was behind him on one side, trailed by three villagers. Three more were arrayed on the other side. They walked slowly through the barley stubble, straining their senses to detect what might lie ahead.

Wilf followed Howland. After walking some distance, he froze in mid-step. Dropping to one knee, he hissed a warning to the others.

Everyone stopped. “What is it?” Howland whispered.

“Horses!”

Howland turned to Robien. “I don’t hear horses, do you?”

“Not hear, smell!” Born and raised a farmer, Wilf knew beasts equally well by sight, sound, or smell. Before anyone had time to dispute Wilf’s claim, the soft clop-clop of horses’ hooves were distinctly heard.

There was no cover but the mist. Like hares being stalked by hounds, Howland and his men held themselves motionless, not even drawing breath.

Two men on horseback appeared out of the fog, riding across a few yards ahead of Robien. They wore mismatched bits of armor, indifferently painted black.

“If you ask me, the boss is barkin’ at shadows,” one of the riders muttered. “These farmers ain’t gonna fight us. They got no more backbone than a slug!”

Scouts! Rakell was out there, somewhere, groping in the fog!

Robien looked back at his leader. His face asked the question, do we attack?

Howland curtly shook his head. Let them pass.

When the mist closed around the pair of riders, Howland gestured for everyone to follow him. Hands on sword hilts to keep them from rattling, they ran in a crouch back the way they came.

A horse neighed behind them. One of the farmers looked away toward the sound. He promptly tripped on the barley stubble and fell flat on his face. To Howland and the rest, his fall sounded like a thunderclap.

Sure enough, hoofbeats came their way at a trot. While Wilf and another villager hauled the fallen man to his feet, Howland drew his sword and let the flat lie against his shoulder.

Robien, moving like a ghost, took his place beside him. Wilf and the farmers formed a small circle, as they had been trained to do, kneeling on one knee with their spears braced against the ground.

A man appeared on horseback, riding easily with the reins loosely in his hand. He still had his lance propped on his right boot. He spied Howland and turned his animal toward him.

“Steady,” said the old Knight under his breath.

“Who goes there?” asked the rider. “Seen anything?” He evidently took the sword-armed Howland for one of his own band.

Too late he spotted Robien and the villagers behind Howland. The rider reined up and tried to bring his lance into position. Howland rushed him. Having no shield on his arm, the brigand had no way to fend off the attack but with his lance, a thick-shafted spear with an iron hand-guard and square, pointed head. Howland easily avoided the sweep of the heavy weapon and thrust upward at the bandit. His point took the rider in the armpit. Grunting, the bandit dropped his lance.

The horse whipped around, knocking Howland to the ground. The wounded rider tried to spur himself out of danger, but he hadn’t reckoned on Robien’s agility. The Kagonesti vaulted onto the horse’s rump and landed astride behind the bleeding man. Planting a hand on the side of the man’s helmet, he shoved him off. The bandit tried to get up, but Wilf and the farmers swarmed over him, battering him down, finishing him off with awkward spear thrusts.

Robien returned, riding the bandit’s horse. Howland brushed himself off, saying, “Can you handle the beast?”

“I can ride,” answered the elf.

Howland tossed him the dead bandit’s lance. “Watch our backs, then.”

The farmers had already stripped the fallen rider to his breechnap. Each man carried off some part of the dead warrior’s belongings. Though disgusted by their greediness, Howland did not reproach them. They lived hard lives. It was their custom to take whatever goods fate put in their hands. There were high lords and generals of great repute who did the same, taking the choicest booty from the defeated for their own gain.

“Back to the village!” he said, keeping his voice low.

More horses galloped to and fro in the fog behind them. The hoofbeats grew louder, punctuated by the twang and hiss of a bow and arrow.

Someone cried out. Howland planted a foot and spun around. Three bandits, one armed with a bow, had caught up to the fleeing farmers. One villager was down, pierced by an arrow. Still burdened by their booty, the remaining farmers were sitting ducks for an accomplished archer.

“Hai! Over here!” Howland cried. The bowman ignored him and picked off another farmer. Howland snatched up a stone and hurled it at the bandits. A lancer, watching his comrade’s fun, heard the stone and pointed at Howland.

The archer, armed with a short recurve bow, took deliberate aim at him. Howland stood still, arms folded across his chest.

He’d been shot at many times, and he knew how to handle a lone bowman. From a range of perhaps forty yards, he had just enough time to drop out of the way of the arrow once it was loosed-if his old limbs didn’t fail him.

He heard rather than saw the release of the bowstring. The high twang was his cue. He could plainly see the dark-shafted arrow twisting in flight, coming straight at his chest. As soon as Howland could make out the fletching-goose feathers, gray-he threw himself hard to the left. The arrow passed right through where he’d been standing.

With a flurry of hooves, Robien galloped out of the mist, lance leveled. He spitted the archer in the ribs but lost his grip on the unfamiliar weapon when the man toppled from the saddle. The remaining two lancers spurred their mounts at him. Robien snapped the reins, for he wore no spurs. and rode hard to Howland.

“Give me your hand!” Robien cried.

Howland would not. He felt safer on foot in the fog than trying to out-ride experienced horsemen.

“Get back to Nowhere!” the old Knight ordered. He slapped the animal’s rump. It bolted, and Robien was hard pressed to stay on.

Shouts and hoofbeats resounded in the mist. Running hard, the old Knight soon saw the jagged line of sharpened stakes that delineated the trench. Robien, a few yards ahead, slid off the borrowed beast, shouted the watchword, and scampered across the narrow plank restored for the scouting party’s return.

Howland dodged between two stakes. Below he saw the trench was crowded with wild-eyed, frightened farmers.

“Fangoth!” he growled, gasping from his sprint. Heel to toe, he threaded his way across the deep ditch. Wilf and the three remaining farmers came hard on his heels.

“They’re coming! Stand to!” he cried, throwing himself down the opposite slope of the dirt mounded up behind the trench. Khorr repeated the order in his booming voice.

Fifteen riders galloped out of the fog. The small party were plainly astonished to find themselves charging a well-prepared defense instead of a wide open village. Reining in frantically, they managed to avoid impaling themselves on the stakes, but this left them open for a ferocious counterstroke.

Howland stood up on the ridge of the earthen mound, sword in hand. “Now! Give it back to them!” he roared.