Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

“Remember Khorr’s tale?” he said. “Don’t you become the dragon who loses his head!”

Howland certainly didn’t want to be assassinated, but someone had to meet the stranger. To mollify his companions, he turned back the flaps of his cowhide cape, leaving his hands free to take sword in hand.

They picked their way through the trampled fence, broken weapons, and smell of blood. Six yards from the newcomer, Howland halted. Malek and Raika stood on either hand, ready for signs of treachery.

“Who goes there?”

Gloved hands rose and pushed back the cowl.

“Ezu!”

“Right-right! It is I, friends! May this one enter?”

Howland and Raika stood aside, making way for their odd companion. Ezu glided past, saying, “I had to wait until someone came to greet me. This one didn’t want to be taken for a bandit!”

“How did you get here?” asked Raika.

“I walked.”

“Didn’t Rakell hold you or question you?” said Howland sharply.

“Oh, we had a few chats,” Ezu replied. “I must say, I prefer your company to his. Such a difficult man.”

Raika laughed harshly. “Difficult? It’s a miracle he didn’t separate your head from your shoulders!”

Ezu smiled. “He mentioned doing just that, but he could not harm me.”

Howland caught Raika’s eye. Could not harm?

“Laila-did you see Laila, my betrothed?” Malek asked desperately, clutching the traveler’s arm.

“The blind man’s daughter? I saw her. She is well.”

They returned to the muddy common. Seeing the sea of muck, Ezu sighed gustily. “This is too much rain,” he said to no one in particular.

“Why don’t you make it stop?” said Raika sarcastically.

The day-long downpour slackened then ceased.

Wide-eyed, Malek said, “What are you?”

Ezu unclasped the frog at his neck and let the heavy woolen cloak slide from his shoulders. “Who controls the rain?” he asked. “Not I. I’m just a traveler.”

Beams of sunshine slanted in low from the west. Ezu pointed to the nearest standing hut, saying, “I have been ordered to bring a private message to you, Sir Howland.”

Raika and Malek returned to the redoubt, while Howland and Ezu entered the small hut alone. There was nothing inside but lumps of dirt leftover from when the house had been filled. A few errant rays of late afternoon sun filtered through the dripping thatch.

Howland folded his arms across his chest. “Well?”

“I carry a message from Lord Rakell,” said Ezu. His costume seemed much the worse for wear, torn and spattered with mud. “He bade me tell you that you may leave the village with your people, and no one will harm you. How did he put it? ‘Tell the sergeant he’s acquitted himself well. He may take his honor and go.’ ”

“What happens to Nowhere once we’re gone?”

Ezu shrugged.

“I see. Did Rakell say anything else?”

“No, but there are things you should know.”

Ezu lowered his voice and glanced around conspiratorially. “Half the remaining bandits have abandoned him. When you killed his ogre mercenaries, many jumped on their horses and rode away.”

Howland felt a surge of hope. “How many are left?”

“Hard to say. Twelve? Or twenty? I didn’t see them altogether.”

Twenty! That greatly improved the odds. Howland wrung the eccentric foreigner’s hand.

“We may live through this yet!” he declared.

More soberly, he related the loss of Khorr, Amergin, and Carver. Ezu frowned and clasped a hand over his mouth.

“So many deaths! The poet, did you say? What a pity!”

A single trumpet blared outside. Howland jumped at the sound.

“How long did you have to deliver the message and for me to reply?”

“Not long enough, I think!”

They dashed outside. Defenders gathered on the redoubt shouted and gestured to the south plain. Howland darted around the hut and saw a small body of horsemen coming toward them.

“Rakell must have sent you go to distract us. It doesn’t matter.” Howland shucked off the cape and drew his sword. “Let’s get to a safer spot.”

As they made their way through the village he said, “You cast some kind of spell in Rakell’s tent to prevent my death. Will you do as much now to save us all?”

The mud squelched with every step. For a moment Ezu said nothing, then he replied, “I cannot interfere. I’m only an observer here.”

“Will you observe us dying? Will you stand by and allow yourself to be killed?” Howland demanded.

“No one will harm me,” Ezu said.

Again, such bland confidence. Who was Ezu, that no one dared raise a weapon to him? Filled with sudden anger, Howland raised his sword over Ezu’s head. Instead of thirty-two inches of tempered steel he was holding a bundle of five white lilies!

“What?” he said, dropping the flowers. Ezu clucked his tongue and retrieved Howland’s sword from the mud.

“Careful,” he said, handing over the bare blade. “You’ll still need this.”

Howland and Ezu scaled the redoubt, taking their place amid the remaining defenders. Raika handed him his helmet. The old soldier declined.

“I will fight without it,” he said.

The oblique rays shining under the clouds cast odd highlights on the scene. Everything seemed tinted gold, down to the muddiest, dirtiest farmer clutching a battered spear. By the gilding light, Howland could see Ezu’s news was true-the bandit camps north and east of the village looked empty and abandoned. A few scrappy tents still stood billowing in the breeze, but no men or horses were in sight.

Riding toward them at a modest trot was the last of Rakell’s bandit horde. No more than twenty, each rider bore a pennant on his lance tip.

With water standing in the trench and the bottom of the redoubt, everyone left in Nowhere stood atop the triangular wall. Babes in arms, elders too bent to stand up, sick, wounded, and dying filled out the ranks of the hale. Glancing left and right, Howland estimated his effective strength at sixteen.

“No one’s to leave the wall!” he shouted. “Let the enemy come to us! Make ready the catapult stones. If they ride within ten yards of the foot of the mound, roll a stone down on them!”

The bandits entered the village at three points previously breached in the barricade. No one contested their entry. Once inside, they reformed on the common. Dressing their ranks, the horsemen waited silently.

A single horse and rider moved out from the line. He came within a dozen yards of the redoubt and stopped.

“Howland uth Ungen!”

Leaning on a well-worn spear, the old soldier yelled back, “What do you want, Deyamon?”

The bandit chief known as Lord Rakell folded his arms across the pommel of his saddle.

“So, you remember me now?”

“I do. Deyamon uth Kayr, a minor Knight in the army of Lord Burnond Everride. Why did you leave his service? Weren’t his slaughters enough for you?”

“Any man, even a battle-tested warrior like Lord Burnond, craves peace once he reaches a certain age,” the bandit said tersely. “Burnond put up his sword, but I cannot. I was not born to collect taxes or drill goblin infantry. I came here to make a kingdom of my own!”

“Then you’ve failed.” Howland waved to the farmers and their families around him. “These people have seen to that.”

“Yes, I underestimated you, sergeant. I was wrong. Now I say for the last time, come down from there, and join with me. Together we’ll carve out a realm and rule it side by side!”

“Rule on the backs of the poor and helpless? No thank you.” He held up his sword. “Come and take us, or ride away, Deyamon. Those are your only choices.”

Rakell angrily snapped the visor of his helmet shut. His reply, if any, was lost when he did so, but he turned his horse back and rode quickly to his men. For a brief moment Howland thought the bandits might depart. He was wrong.