Paul Thompson - The Middle of Nowhere

“It is,” vowed Caeta.

“Then speak no more of terms. I am your man.”

Bergom muttered dire things as Hume donned a faded leather cape and buckled on a short, wide sword.

“The Black Hammers will hear of this desertion!” the butcher growled. “Where am I gonna get another cutter on such short notice?”

“The Black Hammers understand duty,” Hume replied. “What they won’t understand is how much you short them on the weight of the beef you sell them. If they want to speak to me, let them find me, and I will tell.”

Bergom paled. Further protests died in his throat.

Hume plopped a flat, wide-brimmed hat on his slick pate and tied it on. “Lead on, lady,” he said. Dazed by their good fortune, Wilf and Caeta walked their new catch back to the stable.

It was a strange ensemble that gathered beneath the leaking stable roof that evening. Rations were short, but the farmers readily gave up their small portions to their newly hired fighters.

Warriors are by nature suspicious of strangers, especially other fighters of unknown caliber or loyalty. Facing the four villagers from Nowhere, Khorr, Raika, and Hume ate in silence, scarcely acknowledging each other.

“A question,” said Hume at last.

“What is it?” Caeta replied.

“Who will command us? We cannot fight alone, each with his”-he nodded to the lanky Raika, “-or her own tactics and style. Someone must command.”

“Why not you? You’re an experienced warrior,” said Nils.

Hume rubbed his smooth scalp. “Your confidence in me is kind, but misplaced. I was but a lesser thane in Khur, one of a picked band of eight who guarded the north gate of the citadel. I’ve never led others into battle. I am a good follower, not a commander.”

“You captained a ship, didn’t you?” Malek asked Raika.

She shook her head. “I was second mate, and I’m not a soldier, I told you. I can fight, but don’t ask me to lead this crazy company.”

Khorr said, “We must find a captain. There must be many at loose ends in Robann.”

“That’ll be tricky,” countered Raika. “Battle commanders will expect more than barley cakes in payment.”

Wilf looked up. Stars glittered through rents in the roof.

“Rain’s ended,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll find a leader.”

“And more fighters!” Raika said sharply. “No offense to Hume or the bull-man, but three of us won’t accomplish much against forty.”

“I will fight with you,” Malek announced.

“All the able-bodied folk of the village will fight,” Caeta added. “There’s at least thirty of us. How many experienced warriors will we need, do you think, to make up the difference?”

Hume drew a thick finger through the straw, calculating. “Ten, I would say. Eight at least.”

“Seven’s a lucky number,” said Wilf, curled up and nearly asleep.

“Seven against fifty. Ha!” Raika started to think she’d made a bad bargain, treasure or no treasure.

Malek awoke, heart beating fast. Someone was behind him, poking about in their bags. With one eye open, he could see his friends and their three hirelings, all sleeping peacefully. With everyone accounted for, it could only be a stranger rooting through their supplies. He braced himself, grasping the walking stick he’d leaned on all the way from Nowhere.

Steady, steady, he told himself. Now!

He rolled to his feet and swung the stout staff. A fleeting glimpse of the intruder’s silhouette was all Malek saw as the staff snagged on something, probably clothing, then continued on. He’d swung so hard and wildly he couldn’t stop, and the force of the blow spun him around. The shadowy figure was small, close to the floor. A man on his knees, maybe? It darted away, and Malek let out a yell.

At once the stable loft exploded. Wilf and Nils jumped to their feet, totally confused. Caeta sat up and shouted, “What? What?” Hume reacted according to his training, reaching for his sword.

Raika rolled over and grunted, “Kill the rat, and go back to sleep!”

“It’s not a rat! It’s a thief!” Malek replied. Khorr slept on, softly snoring.

The fleeing intruder made for the ladder, but Hume reached it first. Blade bare, he shouted in a commanding voice, “Stand where you are! You can’t get away!”

The shadow flitted away from him and toward Wilf. The young farmer dived for the thief’s legs. His arms closed on air, and he slid six feet in the straw, piling a wave of loose fodder around his head. Nils grabbed a hayfork and charged at the elusive intruder. He missed too, the wooden tines banging hard against the wall.

“Damn the noise!” Raika said irritably, sitting up. “Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?”

“Grab him!” Malek cried.

The small gray figure ran right at her. Raika’s hands moved like serpents striking, but she felt her fingers brush through hair and cloth, then the thief was past her. Surprised, she crouched and sprang. Malek clearly saw her outstretched arms gather in the diminutive visitor. She hit the floor and rolled into a ball, punching hard at the captive in her arms.

“Wake me up, will you? Middle of the filthy night! Here’s another!” she said through gritted teeth.

In the meantime, Khorr had stirred. He scrubbed his wide bovine nose and propped himself up on one elbow. “What have you got there, lady?” he said sleepily.

“A dirty little thief!”

“Made of straw?”

Raika stopped punching. She thrust the object of her anger away. It was a small sheaf of hay, tied up in a bundle.

“What’s this? Sorcery?” she exclaimed.

Caeta had lit a candle. Raising it high, she saw something in the rafters shrink from the feeble circle of light thrown off by the flame.

“He’s here,” she said, pointing.

They gathered below. When Caeta gave the candle to Khorr, the tallest one present, they saw a pale, pointed face in the shadows. The thief clung to the beam, out of reach.

“It’s a kender!”

“Should’ve known,” Raika said.

“Come down!” Caeta said sternly. “Come down, and no one will hurt you.”

“If I stay up here, no one will hurt me either.”

Malek peered at the skulking thief. “Hey, you’re the same kender we saw the other day in the Thirsty Beggar!”

“You’re mistaken. I’ve never been in the Thrifty Beggar-”

“Thirsty,” Raika corrected him. “I saw you too.” She folded her arms, glaring. “Are you following me?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

Nils checked through their belongings. Nothing was missing.

“You see?” said the kender. “I’m not a thief. All those tales about my people stealing are vicious lies!”

Hume beckoned Khorr to bend down. The minotaur stooped, and Hume had a word in his ear.

“Very well,” said Khorr. The shaven-headed swordsman lent the minotaur his weapon. Khorr stretched his long arm up, up, until the point of the Khurian’s blade was below the kender’s chin.

“Don’t be rash!”

“Come down,” Caeta repeated.

Everyone tensed as the kender gathered himself to jump. He landed lightly between them. Raika seized the back of his collar roughly.

“No,” said Malek. “Let him be.”

Scowling, she complied.

“What’s your name?” asked Caeta.

“Carver. Carver Reedwhistle of the Balifor Reedwhistles.” He stuck out a slim, rather dirty hand. “Maybe you’ve heard of us?”

“Nobody’s heard of you, worm,” Raika snapped. Carver withdrew his hand.

“We do seem to keep running into you,” Malek said. He sat down on a hay bale, and the others followed his example. “What do you want? Why are you following us?”

The kender tapped the side of his sharp nose. “I listen to this,” he said, smiling, “and I smell something interesting brewing. I mean, what brings a band of sod-scratchers all the way to Robann? Robann, a sinkhole that collects every out-of work mercenary, hardcase, and sword-slinger for a hundred leagues around?” He pointed dramatically at Malek. “You’re forming a robber band, aren’t you?”