Paul Thompson: The Middle of Nowhere

Hurrahing, the front row of horsemen spurred forward. Their lances were just long enough to reach the top of the redoubt wall.

“Lie down!” Howland called to his followers.

The sides of the earthen mound were too soft and steep for the horses to climb, so the bandits were left with no option but to ride up and down, poking at any hostile face that appeared on the rampart.

“Give ’em the stones!” Raika said. She and four village children rolled a sixty pound catapult shot to the edge and let go. Slowed a bit by the mud, the boulder still cut down a pair of horses, throwing the riders down as well. Cheering, the villagers rolled three more stones, but the bandits knew they were coming now and easily guided their mounts around them.

“Enough!” Howland said. “Save them for later!”

Rakell’s second and last line of bandits dismounted, drawing swords and fixing shields on their arms. They tramped through the muck past their floundering comrades.

Some of the boys peppered them with whippik darts, and those slingers taught by Amergin thickened the hail with stones and stars. The armored warriors shrugged off the bombardment and started up the slope.

“Line up here! Shoulder to shoulder, that’s right!” Howland and Raika pushed spear-armed villagers into a tight line while Robien cleared the non-combatants out of harm’s way.

“Lower your spears! Lean into them!”

Rakell’s men advanced into the spiny hedge of spear points. They beat the sharp tips aside with the swords and warded off thrusts with their shields. It was hard, fighting uphill, but their superior strength and training gradually overcame the other obstacles. Some farmers pulled back with shattered shafts and headless spears. Raika grabbed anyone retreating and forced them into line again.

“I’ve got no head!” wailed one farmer, waving his decapitated spear.

“I can see that!” Raika snapped, slapping the back of the poor man’s skull, “but you’ve got six feet of hardwood. Keep the enemy off with it!”

The first wave of attackers, seeing their comrades advancing, got off their horses and joined the fight. Many slipped and rolled down the soft earthen mound, but spurred on by Rakell’s example they rose and tried again.

The first bandits neared the rampart. Howland and Robien stepped up, swords ready. At the opposite end of the defender’s line, Raika drew her sword, too.

Howland saw Rakell in the midst of his men, struggling up the slope. He deliberately stepped back from the edge to allow the bandits room enough to stand on equal footing. The line of spears pivoted away, forming a new line at right angles to the first.

Rakell’s etched helmet bobbed into view. Howland waited. Robien moved in beside him.

“Leave him to me,” Howland said calmly. The bounty hunter acknowledged his words with a curt nod.

Robien sprang forward, taking on the first bandit to reach the top. He kicked mud in the man’s face, blinding him. Scrubbing desperately with his mailed hand, the lead bandit failed to parry Robien’s long lunge. The elf’s slim sword found a gap and slid in. Robien had to use his foot to free his blade when the bandit went face down in the mud.

Rakell reached the top and found a clear space. Howland was waiting for him.

He opened his visor. “So, it is single combat with you, sergeant? You’re not gentle-born.”

“Noble is as noble does,” Howland barked. “I may be a disgraced man-at-arms, but you’re a thief and a murderer, so we can fight as equals, don’t you think?”

In answer, Rakell hurled himself at Howland. Fifteen years younger and five inches taller, he moved with surprising speed. Howland found the bandit chief’s blade flashed close indeed. Only by yielding ground did he keep off Rakell’s point.

He countered with short swings to keep Rakell off-balance. Once Howland’s blade skidded off the chief’s curved breastplate, and Rakell rewarded him with a heavy blow on the jaw. Howland staggered back, almost losing his grip on his sword. Stunned, he moved too slowly to counter the headlong thrust Rakell aimed at his chest. Howland brought his sword up, too late, too slowly.

Something gray and brown flashed between them. Howland saw Malek had leaped in front of him. The farmer hacked at Rakell with amateurish fury, enough so to force the former Knight back. Rakell countered with his shield, driving the boss into Malek’s gut. The valiant young farmer fell to his knees, all air gone from his lungs. Rakell stood over him, his blade poised to run Malek through.

With a clang, Howland interposed his sword. Angry to the point of foolhardiness, the old soldier punched Rakell through his open visor. Blood coursed from the bandit chief’s nose. Howland hit him again and kicked Malek until the latter crawled out of the way, collapsing out of Rakell’s reach.

On they dueled. Rakell scored a cut on Howland’s left forearm, and Howland beat a thrust and knocked the helmet off Rakell’s head. They drew apart, panting heavily. Rakell’s lip and chin were stained with blood, and Howland’s eye was swelling shut.

They exchanged four fast cuts, neither man budging, then Rakell evaded Howland’s blade with a viciously timed upthrust. It caught Howland in the hand. His sword spun away. He stepped back and drew his dagger, though an eight-inch weapon was meagre defense against Rakell’s long sword.

They both lunged, Howland turning under the taller man’s attack, trying to find a weakness in Rakell’s armor. They struggled and heaved until Howland suddenly felt Rakell stiffen in his grasp. Their eyes met. What Howland saw was not shock or fear but hatred-bitter, deep-rooted hatred.

Rakell’s knees folded, but Howland saw no obvious wounds on the man. No one was near enough to have stabbed the bandit, and he saw no arrow in Rakell either.

Still clutching Howland’s tattered sleeve, Rakell fell on his back, eyes wide and staring. He clung to life, shuddering, trying to bring his sword up for one last swing. In mercy, Howland finished his foe with a dagger thrust.

Finding Rakell’s helmet, he raised it on the stump of a spear shaft, crying, “Rakell is dead! Rakell is dead!”

Robien and Raika, still fighting, saw the bandit chief’s helmet and raised the cry themselves.

All along the line, the bandits turned their backs and fled. A few were struck down as they ran, but for the most part the farmers fell to their knees and gratefully watched the brigands leave. Before Rakell’s blood cooled on the churned earth, not a living bandit remained in Nowhere. Alone or in small groups, they rode pell-mell for the horizon, taking nothing with them but the blades in their hands and the armor on their backs.

A curious quiet fell over the village. Howland let the pole and helmet fall and sat down hard beside Rakell’s lifeless body. Next thing he knew, Robien was shaking him, saying, “Howland! Howland, can you speak?”

“Yes.”

“We did it, Sir Howland, we did it!”

Raika stalked over and dropped heavily by her commander. She voiced a few choice curses, but she hadn’t the strength to make them ring. She leaned against Howland’s back and groaned, “Is there any strong drink left in this forsaken hole?”

A jug appeared under her chin. Surprised, Raika looked up to see who held it.

“Drink,” said Caeta. “All we have is yours.”

Malek got to his feet and ran down the hill. Everyone knew where he was going. He dashed out of the village, straight for the bandits’ southern camp, crying “Laila!”

“You know, my family traces their line back to Kith-Kanan,” Robien said, grinning, “but I’ve never seen or heard of anything like the duel you had with Rakell! Bards will sing about it for a hundred years!”