Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

“I wronged him.”

Raika shook her head. “Your reasoning was sound. I would have agreed with you had I been awake.” She folded her arms. “Who was he, really? A wizard? A spirit? A god?”

“There are no gods,” Howland said firmly. “They abandoned us.”

They returned to their respective blankets. Before Raika lay down again, she saw something glinting in the moonlight. Curious, she groped in the shadows and found Ezu’s saffron spectacles.

“Look here! Did he forget these?”

“I don’t think so.” Howland took the glasses and tried them on. “However silly he acts, I don’t think Ezu does anything by accident.” He drew in his breath sharply when he saw the mountain around them as clearly as if it were day. Removing the spectacles carefully he said, “These must be his parting gift for Robien.”

“Why him?”

“I need nothing now, and he’s already given you a present.”

“What?”

“He named your future husband for you, didn’t he?”

“Who?” Raika said incredulously.

“The pirate king of Kernaf, Gramdene- ‘the handsomest man in the world’.”

Raika tried to laugh Howland’s assertion aside, but the forced merriment expired in her throat. Could it be true? Was she destined to be Gramdene’s wife?

Howland put the spectacles in his saddlebag. He would give them to Robien when he returned. As for Raika, thoughts of her future mate kept her awake for almost an hour.

At first light, Howland and Raika resumed their ride up the narrow valley. Howland expected Robien back by dawn, but the sun was over the mountain, and the elf was still gone. Yet the valley was remarkably quiet and calm. Raika was the nervous one. She rode alongside Howland with spear in hand, warily watching the heights above them.

As they ascended into the cleft of the mountain, they noticed signs of recent violence. They came across wrecked carts, abandoned equipment, and dead bodies, both slave and bandit. Not all were human. A pair of ogres, overcome by scores of small wounds, lay side by side atop a flat boulder. Evidently they’d made a stand against a large number of opponents before succumbing. More curious were the slain dwarves they found in overturned wagons. They were prosperously turned out, but no one had bothered to plunder them. Judging by their injuries, they were felled when a hail of stones knocked them senseless. Their horses had gone wild, turning over the conveyances. If the impact had not killed the dwarves, their cargo had. Every wheeled vehicle was laden with scores of bright metal ingots. Several hundred lay scattered on the trail for more than a mile.

“Iron or steel?” Raika wondered.

Howland dismounted and picked up a hefty bar. He rapped the ingot with a handy stone, and it made a dull sound.

“Pig iron. Why would fleeing dwarves fill their carts with pig iron?” he mused.

Three plumes of smoke rose from the plateau ahead. As they rounded the bend, Raika spotted someone on the path. She pulled back on her reins and warned Howland.

He drew up beside her. “No, it’s all right. It’s Robien.”

The Kagonesti was standing in the cart path, gazing at the scene. Raika and Howland rode slowly ahead until they reached him. Robien did not look up when they stopped on either side of him.

“Good morning,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t come back, but I thought I’d better keep watch here. I knew you’d come eventually.” He lowered the sword from his shoulder and shoved it into its scabbard.

Raika and Howland got down, tying their mounts to a convenient sapling. Howland gave Raika a spare sword from the bundle on the pack horse. She buckled it around her hips. With Robien leading the way, they entered the silent camp.

A rough stockade of pine logs had been erected around the mine works, but many of the sharpened timbers had been toppled. They had been broken down from the inside, as every one lay with their crowns pointing outward. Inside the fence, all was chaos. Great heaps of cinders and slag, still smoldering, lay alongside the central path. The air stank of coke and sulfur.

“Is there anyone alive here?” Howland wondered.

“Someone’s stirring. I heard him last night,” said Robien. “I never caught up with them, and I decided to wait until you arrived.”

A second dirt road crossed the first at right angles. They stood at the crossroads, taking in the scene. On their right was a massive furnace house made of local timber and stone. Two tall chimneys, one broken off to half the height of the other, still gave off smoke. The upper half of the broken chimney had come down on the roof of the furnace house, smashing it wide open. The wooden part of the structure had been reduced to charred wood, and the stone walls were blackened on the inside. Outside the furnace house were scores of abandoned wheelbarrows, some empty, some full and lying on their sides, spilling coal or dull red ore on the ash-covered ground.

To the left stood a number of plank and canvas huts, the kind used by an army on campaign. Most were trampled and torn. A few had been torched. Beyond them was a rail-fence stockade full of conical hide tents. The front of the stockade lay flat on the ground, facing outward.

The newcomers walked through the ruined camp. Now and then one or the other would stop to examine some trace, some relic, or some body. By the time they reached the shattered stockade, it was clear what had happened.

“The slaves must have revolted,” Howland said, pointing to the conical tents. “They were housed here. At some point they rushed the stockade and broke it down. They rampaged out, demolishing the outer camp where their captors lived.”

“Interested only in flight, they stole every animal they could find and fled,” Robien added.

“Who brought down the chimney, I wonder?” Raika said.

“Who knows?” Howland said. “Maybe the black gang did it as part of the rebellion.”

Everywhere they found signs of struggle, destruction, and a hasty departure. Near the mouth of the mine they found a sturdier, more finished building, built in the fashion of a dwarven mountain hall. Every window was shuttered with thick, seasoned planks, but they had been breached nonetheless. The big, iron-strapped door was off its hinges, stove in by a salvaged timber used as a makeshift battering ram.

Raika hesitated at the open door. “Hello?” she called. “Anyone there?”

No one answered, but they heard a scuffling from within. Out came three swords.

Robien whispered, “Guard the door, Sergeant. Raika and I will go in and flush out whatever’s here.”

Inside the hall was dim, with only the light from shattered shutters leaking in. Robien went right, Raika left.

She was sure she was standing in the sacked headquarters of the Throtian Mining Guild. Several rooms were filled with broken furniture and scattered sheets of parchment. Raika knelt to examine a random page. It was covered with columns of tiny, precisely written figures.

A thick, hairy hand protruded from under an upside-down table. She kicked it aside and found the body of a dwarf. He’d been battered to death, but his rings and silver gorget were still in place. Raika pondered relieving him of his jewelry. He didn’t need his finery any more, and the price of it might get her home to Saifhum.

Underneath the dead dwarf was a dark brown leather bag. It clinked when Raika nudged it. Sweat beaded on her lip. She opened the flap and poured the contents out.

Gold! Big Thorbardin double-hammer coins rang and rolled across the floor. Raika yelped with delight. She quickly counted forty-six double-hammers, which were twice the weight of a standard gold piece. Now she could get home in style!