Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

“I told them a column of two hundred armed men was on its way to relieve us and that I expected them in two or three days.”

Robien dropped his hands and gazed in awe at Howland’s brazen lie.

“Even if Rakell doesn’t believe it, some of the more faint-hearted bandits might bolt.” He gave his second in command a wink. “I signed the message ‘General Howland uth Ungen, Knight of Solamnia.’ ”

“Maybe they’ll just surrender!”

Howland looked solemn. “Jesting aside, this is our last, best chance to come out of this with our hides-and honor-intact. While I’m gone, keep everyone on their toes. Rakell’s just as capable of treachery as he ever was.” He straightened his dusty clothes and removed the scarred helmet.

Distant movement drew Robien’s attention. “The pickets are returning, and so are Amergin and Tuwan!”

Howland saw the two slight figures coming back to Nowhere. “Message delivered,” he murmured. Now it was time to prepare.

Treat every mission as if it were your last, Lord Harbard used to say, because one day it will be.

From the detritus of battle, Howland scrounged the best possible outfit for a general and a Knight. Caeta and other village women sewed together a mantle from cloaks worn by slain bandits, while Wilf and some farmers polished armor for Howland to wear. They hammered out the dents and stoned away the sword cuts until the old Knight had a presentable set of three-quarter plate. With his old sword at his side, he looked every inch the seasoned commander.

Amergin did little other than wash the grime from his hands, face, and neck. Ezu, who had reluctantly agreed to join Howland on his mission, following the Knight around all day like a shadow, disappeared at the last moment to don his best clothes. When he returned from the darkened row of huts to the firelit common, he brought conversation to a standstill.

On his head he wore a tall, conical hat made of stiff white leather, the crown of which was cut in the shape of a forward-curling horn. His hands and face were powdered dead white, and two red circles were painted on his cheeks. Ezu’s soft wraparound tunic had given way to a starched white version with wide, pointed shoulders and wide lapels. The lapels and back of the tunic were embroidered with colorful designs, stylized flowers in red, black, and gold. Ezu’s belt was likewise broad and richly decorated, and his trousers’ legs were wide and stiffened with wooden strips sewn into the fabric. On his feet he wore thick-soled wooden sandals.

“Sink me!” Raika exclaimed. “Is this how folk in your country dress?”

“Only for the highest ceremonial occasions,” said Ezu. “It’s a bit gaudy, I know, but Sir Howland told me to look my best.”

Howland walked slowly around Ezu, appraising his ensemble. Hand cupped on his chin, he said, “It’s better than I hoped. Rakell will be so dazzled he won’t look twice at Amergin or me.”

In the lull since the parley, Khorr had used his great strength to chisel out of captured bandit armor plate ten stars for Amergin’s sling. Each four-pointed disk was made of forged iron, much harder than bronze, and hurled by the elf’s expert hand, they could penetrate armor. Howland gave the stars to Ezu with instructions to hide them on his person.

“Where?” asked Ezu.

Raika made a rude suggestion. The farmers laughed until Howland silenced them with a scowl.

“Put them in your hat,” said the Knight.

Ezu did better than that. The base of his headgear had a cuff, made when the leather was folded double to support the weight of the crown. He slipped the iron stars into the cuff. The upper half of each missile showed, but by evenly spacing them around the rim, Ezu made them look like decorations.

Howland knew the bandits would relieve him of his sword and dagger, but he wanted to retain his long scabbard. The finial ball, or drag, at the end of the sheath was actually the grip of a ten inch stiletto. It was meant to be a Knight’s weapon of last resort. For Howland that was what it would be.

Raika, Wilf, and two farmers went a hundred yards onto the dark plain and set up two pairs of crossed torches, ten feet apart. After lighting them, they hastened back to Nowhere. Before long, a column of riders left the southern camp, each man bearing a burning brand. They arrived at the torches, formed a double line, and waited.

Seeing the horsemen, Howland said, “Time to go.”

Amergin nodded silently. Ezu adjusted his hat (now much heavier, since it was loaded down with the forester’s ammunition) and said, “Tell me again, Sir Howland-why have I been chosen to go with you?”

“You wanted to meet the folk of different lands? Well, here’s your chance to meet some.”

The traveler looked unconvinced.

“Then do it because I ask it of you. We saved your life, didn’t we?”

Ezu nodded.

“Do this as payment on a debt of honor.”

“What am I to do, exactly?”

“Say as little as possible to the enemy. Don’t discuss our situation, our strength, or our weakness. Your task is to stand by, look exotic, and distract the bodyguards.”

Plainly worried, Ezu took his place on Howland’s left, while Amergin stood on his right. Robien ordered a hole opened in the barricade. Farmers pulled aside a tangle of casks and thorny vines.

“Farewell, Sir Howland, and good luck!” said Caeta.

“Give ’em the point!” Raika said.

“Bring back any gold or jewels you happen to find lying about!” urged Carver.

Robien clasped hands with Howland and said to his fellow Kagonesti, “Don’t get yourself killed. I need the Brotherhood’s bounty.”

Some indeterminable emotion flashed across Amergin face. Whether it was amusement, affection, or anger, no one but the laconic forester could say.

The minotaur was the only one to bid good-bye to Ezu. “Return to us if you can! I want to hear some of the poetry of your native land,” said Khorr genially.

“Come,” said Howland simply. He strode between the earth-filled huts, firelight glinting on his borrowed armor.

They walked in silence half the distance to the waiting escort. Amergin finally broke the silence by saying, “How will I know when you want to strike?”

Howland considered this and replied, “I’ll take off my sword belt. When you see me reverse my scabbard, you’ll know the time is near. At that moment, watch me.”

Ezu, his stiff trousers creaking and scraping with every step, seemed to have lost his usual poise. “Strike?” he asked. “What is your plan? I haven’t been consulted, and I certainly hope this situation can be resolved without violence.”

“Don’t talk, traveler,” Amergin said. “Walk.”

The southern horizon was darkening from rose to purple. A slim silver crescent of the lone moon floated near the edge of the sky. Against this backdrop the horsemen sat waiting, horses’ heads bobbing.

“Halt!” called one of the near riders. Howland and Amergin stopped. Ezu bumped into the Knight from behind. Flustered, he stepped back, muttering apologies.

The rider at the head of the right line of riders seemed to be in charge. “Are you Howland uth Ungen?”

Head high, the Knight answered loudly, “I am.”

“Who are these with you?”

“Amergin, my chief scout, and Lord Ezu, my-” Howland struggled for properly impressive titles- “my personal advisor, soothsayer, and sage.”

“Looks like a marketplace puppet,” said another bandit. Rough laughter rippled through the ranks.

“Shut up!” The laughter died. “You will come with us. Lord Rakell awaits.” The cloaked and helmeted bandit leaned down, hand out. “Your sword.”

“This is a truce. My sword shall stay in its scabbard,” Howland said loftily.