Paul Thompson: The Middle of Nowhere

Raika put two fingers in the purse tied to her wide sash belt and brought out a single large coin. It gleamed yellow in the dim light: a gold Saifhum florin. In a blur of motion, she slapped the big coin on the bar. Everyone in the Thirsty Beggar looked up, even the gray-bearded dwarf who’d been snoring in a back booth for the past hour. Before the owner could claim the gold, Raika’s hand flashed back to her belt and drew a short dagger.

The men at the door, long forgotten, let out a collective gasp. Sweat trickled down the barman’s face.

She raised the dagger alongside her head slowly. Three of the men at the door covered their eyes. One did not. Neither did the kender, already munching something he’d taken from behind the bar.

Without a word, Raika drove the dagger home. The emaciated barkeep let out a whimper and sagged to the floor.

She sauntered toward the door. The farmers made way for her. With one hand on the door, Raika looked back and said, “Keep the change.”

She’d driven the dagger through the coin and into the bar. The blade was buried up to the hilt.

The kender hopped down and squatted over the unconscious man. Clucking his lips, he went around the end of the bar and filled his pockets with hard rolls, jerky, and chunks of yellow cheese. He picked up a pitcher of foamy beer. He walked back by the passed-out proprietor, stopping only to give the dagger an experimental tug. It didn’t budge. Chuckling, the kender strolled out.

“Did you see that? He called her ‘mercenary.’ We should talk to her!” said the youngest of the men, the one with unruly yellow hair.

“She’s certainly strong,” agreed the lean, black-haired man, “but she won’t be interested in our offer. She’s has too much money.”

“How do you figure that?” asked the stranger in the hood with the gray brows.

“She paid with gold and didn’t take change.”

The fourth man, the one with the thick shoulders and bald pate, went to the bar and tired to free the dagger. The dark, stained oak held fast to the slim blade. With so short a handle to grasp, no one but an ogre could free the dagger or the coin.

“Come on, Nils, let’s try another place.”

Outside, they saw Raika ambling up the street. She was easy to follow, being taller than most. She glanced back once at the four strangers, gave them a hard stare, and pushed her way into another tavern, the Boar’s Tusk.

“What about that place?” said Malek, pointing.

Her long braid concealed by the hood, Caeta shrugged. “Any place folks gather will do.”

The farmers wended their way toward the Boar’s Tusk, clutching each other’s cloaks. Robann was crowded by any standard, and to the innocent inhabitants of Nowhere, it was the most thickly populated place they’d ever been.

Wilf, last in line, felt a strange hand grasping the back of his woolen wrap. Over his shoulder he spied a kender, the one from the Thirsty Beggar. He was holding onto Wilf with one hand while he guzzled purloined beer with the other.

“Excuse me-?” Wilf said.

The kender lowered the pitcher and belched loudly. “You’re excused, mate. I saw you fellas holding on each other, so I decided to join and up and see where you’re all going.”

Up front, Malek felt a tug as those behind him stopped. He spied the unwanted addition to their little group.

“What do you want?” he demanded of the kender.

“Nothing special. Just makin’ my way.”

“We’re poor men. We’ve nothing to steal.”

“Steal?” The kender drew himself up in mock outrage.

“You stole that beer,” said Nils.

A hard roll fell from the kender’s pocket.

“And that bread,” added Caeta.

“Cheese and meat, too,” put in Wilf.

With much affected dignity, the kender picked up the fallen roll and blew off the dirt. “I have every intention of paying!” he said. “As soon as I get some money,” he added, glaring at them. Turning on one heel, he marched away.

“Wilf,” Malek said, “watch your back from now on!”

The Boar’s Tusk was considerably more busy than the last establishment. As soon as the farmers entered, they ran up against a wall of sights, smells, and sounds. The tavern was narrow but deep, lit by three open skylights.

“What now?” Wilf asked.

“Look for ones with swords,” said Caeta. “They’re the ones we need.”

Keeping close together, they insinuated themselves into the noisy crowd. Malek didn’t get five steps before half a flagon of wine was spilled on his shirt. It came from the hand of a sweaty fat man, who was gesticulating wildly as he related some tale to his companion, a red-bearded dwarf.

“What? Eh, sorry, friend!” said the fat man, still waving his hands. Droplets of blood-red wine flew. “Girl, fetch another pipe of this Goodlund vintage! And one for my poor, sodden friend, here!”

Malek tried to wave off the proffered drink. “I cannot repay the favor,” he protested.

“Never mind!” The stout man seemed to always talk at the top of his lungs. “I don’t need wine poured on me, friend, just in me!”

Caeta muttered in Malek’s ear, “We’ll scout the room.” With that, she, Wilf, and Nils were swallowed up by the press.

A glazed clay cup of wine was thrust into Malek’s hands.

“Falzen’s my name,” said the fat man. “This here’s Gorfon, Gorfon Tattermaul.” Falzen belched. “He’s a dwarf!”

Malek nodded to them both with wide eyes. “Malek, Gusrav’s son.”

“You’re not from around here,” said Gorfon. He had a deep, penetrating voice that Malek found he could hear well, even through the din.

“I’m from”-he almost said “Nowhere,” but he’d grown tired of explaining the village’s name. “-east of here. I’ve never been to Robann before.”

“It’s a stinking sinkhole, ain’t it?” Falzen said. “More so since the wars ended. Every out-of-work spear-toter north of the Newsea passes through here, seems like.”

Malek drank deeply of the Goodlund wine as his mind raced ahead. Lots of soldiers looking for employment was good news.

“Are you a warrior?” he asked, looking around for his companions.

“Me? May all the forgotten gods defend me! I’m no hack-and-slasher! Steel’s my line-iron and steel.”

That accounted for his expansive ways. Falzen must be a wealthy man. Eyeing the dwarf, Malek said, “Are you in the metal trade as well, Master Tattermaul?”

“Aye. My brothers and I have a new concession underway. In the east.” Tattermaul let that vague remark hang in the air. “A new iron mine.”

Malek almost choked. What was it Lord Rakell had said? “Dwarves of the Throtian Mining Guild had established a mine in the Khalkist Mountains?”

“Of course, the price of iron is down, thanks to the current peace,” Falzen went on. His small eyes shone. “But who knows? War may break out at any time.” He raised his cup to his dwarf colleague. “Here’s to war and the blades it takes to fight ’em!”

Gorfon merely grunted.

As soon as he could, Malek slipped away. Loathing the callous steel merchant, he spun out an elaborate plan to waylay Falzen and the dwarf, holding them hostage against the safe return of Laila and the rest-

He gave up the idea before he’d gone five steps. Four farmers, unskilled at anything but raising crops, weren’t likely to overcome a rich merchant (doubtless with his own private guards) and a thick-armed dwarf. Besides, even if they could kidnap Falzen and Gorfon, once they returned them, Rakell could raid their village again with impunity. No, the old plan was best: Find real fighters to defend Nowhere by defeating Rakell’s marauders.

Malek found his companions in a boisterous crowd surrounding an incipient arm-wrestling contest. On one side was an enormous man, seemingly carved out of sinew and hard muscle. He wore a sleeveless leather vest studded with brass rings, and his coal-black hair was gathered into a single long scalplock. A narrow mustache drooped on either side of his chin. His forearms bore many thin, parallel scars.