Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

“I am Rakell,” he said. “You’ve put me to a great deal of trouble, do you know that?”

“That is why I am here,” Howland returned.

Rakell studied the old Knight’s face closely. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Brow furrowed, Howland said, “Have we met?”

Rakell laughed loudly, displaying fine white teeth. “We once served the same master, Burnond Everride!”

Howland shuddered as if struck. Recognition came to him in a flood. “You rode with Lord Burnond’s host!”

“So did you. I was not known as Rakell then, nor were you a general.”

Ezu, plainly curious, spoke up. “Sir Howland was a Knight of some repute.”

“Quiet, popinjay! You’ve heard the tale ‘Sir Howland’ spun for you, no doubt.” Rakell turned to his minions. “See here what time and tide has accomplished, my friends!” He swept back to an ornate wooden chair and sat down. “I, who was once a prince of my Order, am now a prince of thieves, while Howland here, a sergeant in Lord Burnond’s guard, has become a general of farmers!”

Amergin looked to his leader. Sergeant?

“Sergeant was his highest rank. Did you think a true Knight of the Rose would deign to serve the Dark Order so readily?” Rakell laughed again. “When they brought me the note you wrote, I almost believed it. I knew someone with martial skills was directing the farmers! But a Knight? I consulted the rolls of the ancients orders and found no Howland uth Ungen.”

Howland unbuckled his sword belt, saying nothing. He wrapped the leather strap around the scabbard and turned it over. The finial, a brass ball kept bright by constant rubbing, gleamed by lantern light.

“So,” whispered Howland, “you know me. Then you did not ask us here to parley?”

“Negotiate with a sergeant, a turncoat to his own people? Not hardly!” At Rakell’s nod, guards rose in a body, swords in hand. “You’ve made things difficult here, and I have troubles enough! A damnable red dragon holds me up for tribute … the mine needs workers, and there aren’t enough villages in the region to provide a full corps of diggers. However, once you’re dead, the farmers will lose heart and give in. All will be as it was.”

Rakell’s captains seized Howland, Ezu, and Amergin. Howland tried to free the stiletto, but he was easily wrestled to the carpet by four younger, stronger warriors.

“What are you waiting for? Kill him now,” Rakell said harshly.

A blade touched the back of Howland’s neck.

“Wait, my lord.”

The new voice came from the far right of the room, where a man sat motionless in a high-backed chair. As thin as Tuwan, the old man in the chair had a wreath of fine, white hair and a lined, leathery countenance. He was richly outfitted, like the other bandits, in finery stolen from some noble house. His most striking feature was his sunken, useless eyes.

“What is it, Marren?” said Rakell.

“Why kill such an unexpected asset?”

“Asset? A broken-down old soldier with delusions of knighthood?”

“Deluded or not, he’s held your band off for how many days?”

Rakell frowned. “Get to your point, Marren!”

The blind man held out his hand. One of the women present, a striking maiden with hair the color of clover honey, moved to assist him. There was enough resemblance between her and the old man to see they were of the same blood. She helped Marren stand and guided him to Rakell.

“He wouldn’t come here unthinking,” said the blind man. “I daresay he reckoned on some treachery of his own. Isn’t that so, sergeant?”

Amergin and Ezu said nothing, and Howland’s words were growled into the carpet. At Rakell’s command, he was dragged to his feet.

“Tell me, what happens if you don’t return?” asked Marren. “You must have reckoned on some plan.”

“My second will carry on the fight,” said Howland. Blood ran down his nose and over his lips.

“So there are no troops coming to relieve the village. That was a lie, too.”

Howland gazed at the floor.

“He knows everything about their defenses,” said Marren. “Question him first, kill him later.”

“I won’t talk!” Howland cried.

“Of course you won’t,” Rakell said, sneering. “You came here to die. I intend to oblige you.”

Again the blade went to the old soldier’s throat. Again Marren said, “Wait!”

Sighing, Rakell said, “Are you sure you know whose side you’re on, Marren, or did you live in that dust-hole village too long?”

“My exile was no less bitter than this man’s,” Marren replied, indicating Howland. “If you hadn’t found me, I would’ve died in Nowhere, forgotten by the order and all my comrades.”

“Touching,” said Rakell, “but what do you care whether this old fraud lives or dies?”

“You gave me a chance to join you. Why not give him the same chance? From what you say, he is accustomed to switching sides.”

“You were my old commander, Marren uth Aegar. I learnt the fine art of war from you, and for that I owe you. I bow to your wisdom, but not in this instance. I owe ‘Sir Howland’ nothing better than a swift stroke through the heart, and killing him will hasten the end of the siege of Nowhere.”

Ignoring Rakell, Marren pointed a finger unerringly at Howland’s face. “Will you consent to join Lord Rakell’s band?” he demanded sharply.

“Never. Better a dead general of farmers than a live traitor!”

Marren’s hand dropped to his side. He shrugged and turned away. His young kinswoman guided him back to his chair.

“Enough delay. Take him outside and shorten him by a head,” Rakell said. “Killing him here will only dirty the carpet.”

“What of the other two, my lord?”

“Put them in chains. They look strong enough. They can dig ore like the others.”

Amergin tensed to fight, even though he was boxed in by a a pair of naked sword points. Sensing the oddly dressed human was less trouble, two of Rakell’s lieutenants sought to manacle Ezu first.

“Hold out your hands!”

Ezu complied without demurral. When the bandit tried to clap the iron bands around his wrists, they closed on air, falling to the rug with a loud clank. Ezu’s hands hadn’t moved.

“Fool, on his wrists!” Rakell said.

The bandit tried again as Howland was being marched out. Again the manacles seemed to pass through the traveler as though he were made of smoke.

“Be of good cheer, Sir Howland,” Ezu called out to his leader. “It’s not our time to die.”

“Somebody gag that fool!” barked Rakell.

Howland and his guards reached the door. Ezu tilted his head back. His nose wrinkled, and he opened his mouth wide, making gasping noises. The bandits around Ezu drew back.

“What’s he doing now?” Rakell got out of his chair. “Subdue that man, at once!”

“I think he’s having a fit!”

Ezu snorted. “Going-going-to sneeze!”

He did, magnificently. At once all light in the room went out.

When darkness claimed the tent, the room exploded. Everywhere there was the scrape of iron blades and shouts of alarm. One of the guards still held a sword point firmly at the back of Howland’s neck.

“Stand still! Be quiet!” Rakell bellowed. “Keep your heads!”

Someone screamed, a blood-chilling sound. Howland heard a soft whirring, then a thud, and the blade at his back shifted abruptly and fell lengthwise across his back, landing on the carpet beside him. He bent and seized the short sword, peering ahead in the darkness.

There was a clash of iron, punctuated by more grunts and curses.

“Stop it, fools!” Rakell cried. “You’re fighting each other!”