Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

Raika leaned forward to examine Rakell. She only meant to close his lifeless eyes, but as she turned his head away, she noticed something. Blinking once or twice, she settled back and drank deep from Caeta’s jug. It wasn’t fruit wine, or farmer’s barley dew either-it was brown rum, and it seared Raika’s throat all the way down.

She held out the jug to Howland, gasping, “To you, sir!”

He had a modest sip, then passed it to Robien. The Kagonesti, without drinking, handed it off to the wounded Nils. While elf and farmer exchanged happy greetings, Raika turned to Howland.

“Quiet a fight you had,” she said.

“I didn’t win,” he said slowly.

“I know.”

With her toe, she pushed Rakell’s head to one side, exposing the back of his neck. There, almost hidden by the bandit chief’s thick hair, was a sharp, angular bit of metal, well coated with the dead man’s blood. It took Howland a few moments to realize what it was: an iron star.

“Amergin!”

“Keep your voice down,” Raika muttered. “Our friend lives-but things will go more easily for him if Robien believes him slain.”

Howland agreed. The bounty hunter could truthfully tell the Brotherhood of Quen back in Robann that his quarry had perished in battle. Thus Amergin would be spared further trouble, and Robien too. Howland would have hated to see the two Kagonesti fight-not after all they’d been through together.

Robien returned with the rum. “Do you see, Sir Howland? Do you see?” he said excitedly.

Far out on the plain, a small group of people were wearily returning to Nowhere on foot. Leading the freed hostages were two figures, a few yards ahead of the rest. Even from this distance it was easy to see they were holding hands.

With peace restored, the farmers worked hard to reclaim their lives. Hardly had the clash of arms faded into silence when they began tearing down the redoubt, using the earth to refill the trench. All the fallen were laid to rest there-old Calec, the village elder, Marren, who lost his soul and found it again even without his eyes, the children who had fought from the rooftops with Carver, and everyone else who perished fighting for the future of Nowhere-including the nameless bandits. Even they were given proper burial, lest their restless spirits remain bound to the scene of their violent deaths.

Last to be covered in the grave was Khorr. The farmers surrounded the minotaur’s body with bound sheaves of barley straw, an honor usually reserved for their wisest, most respected elders.

In just a few days the redoubt was gone. Only a few damp clods of earth remained. The trench was filled in and trampled smooth, and all the barricades and barriers were pulled down. After that, the farmers turned to clearing out and repairing their homes.

Howland and his surviving fighters passed these days in deserved idleness, resting their aching limbs and nursing their hurts large and small. No one spoke of leaving yet or what they planned to do next. Their fatigue was too profound. In contrast, the villagers seemed to work ceaselessly. The hired warriors observed in wonder how quickly the farmers returned to their timeless tasks.

One morning, Malek and Laila entered her father Marren’s old hut and did not reappear for some time. This did not seem too strange for long-separated lovers, but when they did emerge again their arms were full of unexpected treasures: pots of sweet oil, pressed fruit, barley flour in clay urns, cloth-wrapped cheeses and haunches of smoked game. Raika, asleep in the shade of a hut across the common, smelled the tang of cured venison and sat up, tossing aside the straw hat she’d been wearing to shade her face.

“Howland?” she called.

He was dozing too, sitting up as was his wont, his back against the daub wall of the hut. He cracked an eye when called.

“Eh?”

“Robien!”

The bounty hunter was already on his feet. “I see,” he said slowly.

Together the hired warriors converged on Marren’s house. They watched as Malek and Laila piled up stores outside the hut’s only door. Malek greeted them cheerfully, but none of them responded.

“Where did all this come from?” said Howland.

“Why, the storage pit under the floor,” Malek said, as if stating the obvious.

“Do all the huts have them?”

Laila shrugged. “Most do. It’s where we store our reserves for winter.”

Raika turned on one heel and marched to the next house. Nils, his wife Sai, and his son Larem were doing the very same thing as Malek and Laila, removing hidden goods from the hut. Raika snatched a pottery jug from Larem’s hands. She yanked out the plug and sniffed the spout.

Howland and Robien arrived. She held out the jug to them. “Rum!” she cried.

“We also have beer,” said Sai, a long-faced woman with frizzy red hair.

“Cold and parched as we’ve been these past days, and they have rum!” Raika threw back her head and took a long drink from the jug. After four swallows, she dashed the clay pot to the ground, shattering it.

Nils came out of his home. “What’s this, Raika?”

“Miserable cheats!” She seized the injured Nils by his baggy shirt. “We ate barley cake for twenty-two days when you had venison?” She shoved him against the hut and reached for her sword. “After we shed our blood for you! We faced an army of bandits and ogres-for you! And this is our payment? I ought to kill you! I ought to kill you all!”

Her sword never came out. All at once Ezu was there, his hand over hers, clutching the hilt. She tried to pull free of him but found she couldn’t.

“Don’t interfere, wizard!” she snarled. “I won’t be used this way!”

Ezu withdrew his hand, but Raika still couldn’t draw her blade. It felt as if it were welded into the scabbard.

“So they lied to you,” Ezu said blandly. “Are you surprised? A farmer has no one to rely on but himself. Their children learn at their parent’s knee that the world is a hard, unforgiving place, willing to take everything the farmer nurtures in a single fire, flood, or raid. They’re taught to hide everything valuable they have. This isn’t just food or drink to them, it’s life itself. Under the floors of each house you’ll find all kinds of secret supplies: victuals of every kind, tools, weapons, even gold. They hide their meager wealth underground to protect it from catastrophe, but most of all to keep it from the rapacious ones with swords.”

He stood aside. “Go ahead, demolish the house. Wreck the whole village until you get what you think is due you.” Ezu put on the most solemn expression anyone had ever seen him assume. “Do that, then tell me how you are any different from Rakell.”

A few steps behind Raika, Howland felt his outrage recede upon hearing Ezu’s words.

Frustrated at her inability to draw her sword, Raika tore the whole thing off her hip, belt, scabbard and all. Wrapped in brass and leather, her sword was still a dangerous bludgeon, and Nils and his family scattered as she swung it hard against the door post. It made a deep gouge in the wood and put a dent in the scabbard, but Raika’s rage dissipated with the blow.

“I’ve been here too long,” she said to Nils. “I’ve shed too much blood. I would have killed you for a slab of venison and a bottle of rum.”

She walked away, head hanging. Howland let her go.

Ezu said, “And you, Sir Howland? What will you do now?”

The soldier stooped to pick up a pot of pressed fruit Sai had dropped in her haste to avoid Raika’s wild swing. The beeswax seal had broken, and sticky syrup oozed from the opening. Howland dabbed at the glistening syrup. Sweet berries. He handed the cracked pot to Sai.