Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

“We saw you in the Thirsty Beggar yesterday,” Malek began.

“So what?”

The brothers exchanged glances. “That was quite a feat, driving a knife through a coin like that,” said Nils.

“That was my last florin.” She picked up her cup and tilted her head far back, draining the very last drops of beer. “I should’ve stuck the knife in the barkeep’s skull.”

“May we sit down?” asked Malek.

“What for?”

“We’d like to talk to you.”

She held up her dry clay cup. “Words are dry. Are you buying?”

They had almost no money left, but Malek was determined. “Yes,” he said and put a worn silver coin on the table.

Raika shouted for service, and the teen-age girl hurried over with a pitcher of beer.

“Leave it,” Raika said.

The girl eyed them suspiciously then snatched the silver from the table.

Nils swallowed. That was their last piece of hard money.

She emptied one cup and filled it again. “So talk,” she said.

Malek said, “We come from a small village east of here. We’re in great peril there. Bandits have carried off twenty of our people, and in twenty days’ time they will return for twenty more!”

“Carried off? For what?”

“To work in a mine,” Nils said.

“Mine, eh?” For a moment there was no sound but the crackle of the fire and drip-drip of the farmers’ sodden cloaks on the brick floor.

“What kind of mine?” asked Raika.

“Uh, iron.” Malek wondered what difference that made. “We’re looking for warriors, fighters, to help us get our people back and defeat the bandits.”

“I’m a sailor, not a warrior.”

“You’re a long way from the sea,” Nils countered, not unkindly. “You’re obviously capable, and I think you’ve held a sword before.”

She smiled into her cup. “A time or two.”

“Will you help us?” asked Malek earnestly.

“What’s in it for me?”

Here was the crucial point. Malek looked away and let his brother do the explaining.

“We’re poor folk,” Nils said. “We have no gold or steel. All we can do is keep your belly full and head dry for as long as you remain with us. But-but-it is a good fight.”

The woman set her cup down and licked her lips. Malek tensed.

Raika threw back her head and guffawed. She clapped Nils on the shoulder and kept laughing.

“What a pair you are!” she exclaimed. Around the quiet inn, the other guests lifted their heads at the noise. “Sell you my life for three squares and a straw bed? For a good fight? Well, why not?”

Nils blinked. “You’ll help us?”

“Sure. There’s nothing in my purse but air and nothing in my belly but the beer I’ve had this morning!” She suddenly sobered. “How many brigands are there?”

“Thirty-eight horsemen, and …”

Malek finished for his brother. “Ten ogres.”

She stared at him. “That’s a lot of brawn to run an iron mine. Hmm.” Raika grimaced, showing many white teeth. “I don’t suppose you care if I pick up a little booty along the way?” she said. “Taken from your enemies, I mean.”

If that was her only condition, the brothers were only too glad to agree. After giving her directions to the stable, Malek and Nils rose to leave.

“One of your future comrades is already there. A minotaur,” said Malek. “Just so you know.”

“I sailed the Blood Sea. I know minotaurs,” she replied. “They fight well.”

They shook hands with the Saifhumi woman and left the Rusty Shield in great excitement.

Alone again, Raika forsook her cup and hoisted the pitcher instead. Silly peasants, she mused as the brown brew slid down. Did they take her for a fool? Threadbare farmers recruiting mercenaries? Bandits operating an iron mine? What nonsense! Still, there had to be something of great value at stake. The farmers’ accents and primitive garments bespoke some remote locale. If there was wealth to be had, be it gold, steel, jewels, or whatever, it shouldn’t be too hard to wrest a portion for herself.

Her laughter rang out again. This time her inert fellow patrons paid her no mind, and the serving girl peeked shyly over the kitchen half-door, curious to know what made the surly stranger suddenly so merry.

The high street marked the limit of Black Hammer territory. More mercantile-oriented than their neighbors, the best markets were sited in their part of Robann. Fair weather or foul, the Black Hammers expected their markets to operate. Though the rain beat down all morning, the merchants unrolled their awnings and set out their wares as they did every day.

Caeta and Wilf wandered among the stalls, stomachs growling at the display of foodstuffs. Summer harvest had come in here, and tables groaned under heaps of carrots, cabbages, and dirt-caked potatoes. The aisle of butchers was even more heartbreaking as the hungry farmers walked past links of savory sausage, salt beef, smoky hams, and fresh hare. At one point Wilf staggered and sat down in the mud. Caeta dragged him to his feet.

“We must go elsewhere,” she said. “I don’t think we’ll find any warriors here.”

“Warriors?” boomed a voice. Caeta turned to see an aproned butcher standing under a dripping tarp. “We have everything at the Black Hammer market,” he said, chuckling. “Even warriors!”

He waved them under his open tent. Puzzled but curious, Wilf and Caeta followed.

The butcher led them back between crates and casks to an area screened by canvas and poles. There, working on a rough table made of logs, a squat, well-muscled man with a gleaming shaved head was cutting up a cow carcass with a massive cleaver. Spattered with gore, he looked like a blood-wraith, and Wilf trembled at the sight of him. There was something vaguely inhuman about the man’s features.…

“There’s your warrior!” said the butcher, laughing.

“Ain’t that right, Hume?”

Thunk! The muscular man buried his cleaver in the table. Caeta and Wilf flinched at the sound.

“Yes, I am a warrior,” Hume said with pride. “Misfortune has brought me to this state. Why do you mock me, Bergom?”

The butcher sneered. “Such a high and mighty fellow! You were starving until I gave you a job! I just thought I’d show these rubes how real life treats a ‘real’ warrior!” He chuckled deep in his barrel chest.

“Are you a trained fighter, sir?” asked Caeta.

Hume bowed stiffly. “Good lady, I am Hume nar Fanac, by birth thane to the mighty Khan of Khur.”

“There is no Khan of Khur!” said Bergom the butcher.

“The throne survives, but my lord did not. So long as he lived, I was his vassal.”

Caeta gripped Wilf’s hand. “Master Hume, how would you like to be a warrior again instead of a butcher’s apprentice?”

“In whose service, lady?”

“Ours.”

“Haw, haw, haw!” Bergom slapped his pot belly, grinning from ear to ear. “This is a better joke than I thought it would be!”

Caeta stepped forward and took Hume’s blood-smeared hand. “I tell you truly, sir. I and my companions have come looking for champions to defend our homes against a robber knight and his minions. We have little to offer, but our cause is just.”

Hume listened and looked from the rain-soaked, somber peasants to his rude and sarcastic employer. Untying his apron, he handed it to Bergom.

“What? What do you think you’re doing?” spluttered the butcher.

“Choosing the path of a warrior,” said Hume. “Lady, I am at your service.”

Caeta and Wilf were astounded, and the young man said, “You haven’t asked for our terms!”

Hume washed his hands and face quickly from a barrel brimming with rainwater. “You say your cause is honorable?”