Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

“I guess we escaped!” Caeta gasped, doubling over.

“Thank you for your help,” said the minotaur. “I think I shall leave now. Too many hotheads in this town. Too many swords.”

“Wait,” Malek said. “What is your name?”

“Khorr, of the Thickhorn Clan.”

“Wait, Khorr! Stay here until things calm down.”

“What is this place?” The minotaur sniffed air filled with straw and horse dung. “A stable?”

“Our lodging,” Wilf said wryly. “We can’t afford the hostels here.”

Planting his hands on his hips, Khorr surveyed the decrepit stable. “No one would look for the scion of the Thickhorn Clan in such a place!” He laughed, and the livestock within squirmed and pranced at the sound.

They went in and closed the rickety door behind them. In the loft, the farmers’ meager bundles lay hidden under loose straw. As they settled in, backs against the wall, Caeta said, “How do you come to be so far from your homeland, Master Khorr?”

“It’s a sad tale, long, and lacking in romance. Suffice it to say, I am exiled from the land of my clan, and I know not when I may return. Five years I’ve been traveling in foreign climes.”

“On the run, eh?” said Nils. He rummaged through his bundle and distributed dry barley cakes to his comrades. Noting Khorr’s interest, he gave the bull-man two cakes. “Kill someone, did you-if I may ask?”

“No. I chose a path for my life my clan could not accept.”

Malek couldn’t imagine what such a path might be. Pirate? Assassin?

“You see,” said Khorr shyly, “I am a poet.”

Everyone stopped chewing. “Poet?” said Wilf.

“Quite. I yearn to inscribe my name on the hearts of listeners everywhere, alongside the great bards of my race: Yagar, Kingus, Gonz …”

“If your people have had great bards in the past, why did your family oppose you becoming a poet?” asked Malek reasonably.

Khorr made short work of two barley cakes that would have fed a farmer for two days. “Well, the Thickhorn clan have always been seafarers,” he said, licking his blunt fingers. “My grandsire, Khol, navigated the Blood Sea Maelstrom, and my Great-uncle Ghard won the Battle of Cape Balifor against the pirate fleet of Khurman the Terrible eighty-eight years ago. I wrote six hundred triplets about the battle …” Suddenly abashed, Khorr stopped and cleared his throat. “You see, for one of my name to remain at home in Kothas reciting verse was deemed a disgrace. They ordered me to sign on a ship, but I refused. When I defied my clan, they cast me out.”

Silent lightning flickered through the gaping roof tiles. The smell of rain was in the air. Caeta passed around a goatskin bag. It only held water, but it was all they had.

Malek explained who they were and why they’d come to Robann. “Unless we can find warriors to defeat Rakell and rescue our loved ones, our village is doomed,” he finished. Thinking of Laila raised a lump in his throat all the water in the Eternal Spring could not wash down.

“There is much wickedness in the world,” Khorr said solemnly.

“Where will you go next?” asked Caeta hopefully.

“South and west, I think. The lands around the New Sea are said to have a liking for the arts. Perhaps I will find a place there,” said Khorr.

“Or …” Malek steadied himself to say aloud what he’d been thinking. “Or you could come to our village!”

“I’m not a warrior.”

“You have twice the strength of any human,” Malek said. “Come with us! We’ll feed you well and house you. If you make a name defending us, maybe you can return to Kothas!”

Khorr stood, horns scraping the rafters. “Hmmm. I thank you for your hospitality, but I cannot accept your offer. Fighting is a brutal business. That is why I am a poet.”

Thunder broke overhead, and rain poured down. The roof leaked, but the farmers moved to a dry corner. Glumly, Malek turned his face to the wall.

Heavy footsteps returned. Malek looked up.

“I’ll stay as long as it rains, though, if you don’t mind,” Khorr said.

“Certainly! Certainly!” They made room in the dry spot for their hulking companion. Khorr drew dry straw up around his bare legs.

“It’s cold here,” the minotaur said. “Not like Kothas. There the sun shines hot and strong.”

“You really do want to go home, don’t you?” Caeta said gently.

The minotaur shook his heavy head. “A poet must experience life. Travail is the seasoning of good verse.”

“If that’s so, I’m a bard,” Nils grunted.

Though Khorr did not say any more, Malek knew they’d found their first champion.

The rain continued the next day. After another scant meal of barley cakes and pickled eggs, the farmers prepared to scour Robann again. They convinced Khorr to remain behind in the stable. If Durand’s friends or the irate gamblers were still after him, it would be safer for their first recruit to stay out of sight.

The powerful bull-man was not unhappy with his confinement. “It will give me time to compose,” he said.

Pulling rough woolen hoods over their heads, the four villagers slipped out into the rain. To cover more ground, they decided to split into pairs: Nils and Malek would try the inns and taverns in the part of town controlled by the Red Scarf gang, while Caeta and Wilf would try their luck south of the high street, in Black Hammer territory. Robann had a surfeit of idle warriors lingering over cups, grousing about their lack of employment. They were humans mostly, with a leavening of dwarves, and a few woodland elves. Malek and Nils were a bit afraid of dwarves. Rakell’s band was mixed up with dwarves in the mining venture, and since Malek’s encounter with Gorfon Tattermaul, they couldn’t be sure who a dwarf might be working for-or related to. Dwarves were very clannish and would not readily take up arms against their fellows.

Elves, on the other hand, were intimidating. With their taciturn ways and obvious contempt for humans, they seemed too lofty for the humble farmers to approach.

It was a bad morning all around for the brothers. Those fighters Malek and Nils did speak to listened until the terms of the deal were broached.

“Work for a handful of grain? What am I, a plow horse?” one mustached warrior barked with a laugh. At one hostel the soldiers were so insulted by the farmers’ offer they threw Malek and Nils out in the street.

Furious, Malek picked himself up, palming mud from his face. “If I had a sword-!”

“If you had a sword, they’d take it from you and stick it where no sword should ever go,” Nils said severely. “Come away!”

Steady rain washed much of the mud off the pair by the time they reached an inn called the Rusty Shield. An ancient knightly shield hung above the door, the emblem of the establishment. As the name promised, it was very rusty.

Like the Thirsty Beggar the day before, it was not a popular place. Only six customers were in the common room, each alone, each hunched over a cup. A fire crackled on the hearth, which a slender young girl was stoking when they entered. The aroma of cedar filled the gloomy room.

Malek immediately spotted the tall black woman they’d seen yesterday. She was at the far end of the room, her back against the timber wall. She had one leg propped up on a bench, the other coiled underneath. A moment of recognition flashed across her face when she saw the farmers.

“That’s her again,” Malek whispered. “Let’s ask her.”

“All right, but watch what you say!”

They walked right up to Raika, stopping a respectful three steps away.

“What do you want?” she said slowly.