The Middle of Nowhere

CHAPTER NINE

It was dark when Robien and Amergin returned. Robien made a wide circuit of the isolated village, checking the traps. When all was done, the two Kagonesti walked back to the village through the barley, tossing lightly in the night wind. Neither elf spoke to the other.

A bonfire blazed in the center of the village common. The bright fire startled the elves, and fearing trouble, they separated. Each entered Nowhere at a different point between the darkened huts. Yet all was calm. There were no signs of a raid.

Howland had returned. Malek and Nils were also present, but Amergin didn’t spot Hume. Curious, the elf made his way to the old Knight.

Caeta accosted him. “One of your comrades has been killed,” she said sadly. Amergin didn’t need to be told which.

Robien approached the bonfire from the other side. The villagers huddled around the flames, grass mats and blankets spread on the ground. With their homes filled with dirt, they would be sleeping in the open for a while.

Raika rose from her haunches when she spied the bounty hunter. “First blood to Rakell,” she said. “They got Hume.”

“We got two of them today,” Robien replied. He described the killing of the two bandits.

News that the Kagonesti had encountered Rakell’s scouts so near the village sent a spasm of terror through the assembled farmers. Howland summoned Amergin and Robien, asking for every detail of their fight.

The laconic Amergin had little to say, so Robien, no big talker himself, had to supply most of the details.

“It was a small band, eleven men on horses, armed with sword and lance. Only nine rode away.”

“We slew four at the ford but lost Hume.” Howland’s grim face looked gray by firelight. “Young Malek saw his bride among the slaves fetching water. Seeing her unhinged him. Hume went to his aid, and that’s when he fell.”

The Knight looked over his downcast troops and the dispirited villagers. Something had to be done to stop this slide into despair. If it went on unchecked, Rakell could win without striking another blow.

A speech praising Hume’s humility and courage might help, but Howland never got the chance to deliver it. The somber air around the bonfire was invaded by the weird, unnatural keen of Ezu’s whistle. Heads turned.

Into the ring of firelight strolled the traveler. He looked even more bizarre than usual. Over his baggy trousers and loose tunic Ezu had pinned scores of flowering plants, all different. There was thistle, dandelion, red and white clover, tiny climbing roses, tufts of corn silk, bean flowers, violets-all the common blossoms found on the northern plain. By firelight, the paler blooms took on a rosy glow, like cat’s eyes by a blazing hearth. In addition, Ezu wore a pair of deer antlers, cast off long ago and whitened by the elements, fastened to a thick leather strap he wore tied around his forehead. He cut an eerie figure, part-human, part-animal, part flowering field.

Coming into view with his whistle at his lips, Ezu had his eyes shut. A few feet from Howland and the mercenaries, he halted.

“Good people!” he said, taking the brass stem away and opening his eyes. “I compliment you on the richness of your domain.”

Somehow the whistle disappeared from his hand. Ezu cupped his hands together and blew lightly into the hollow they made. When he flung his hands apart, a pearl-gray dove fluttered into the air.

Chuckles all around.

“He’s a petty conjurer!” Raika said with an amused grunt.

The villager children-and Carver-rushed forward, surrounding Ezu. While they clamored for more tricks, he extended a finger, almost touching the tip of the kender’s sharp nose. Carver stared at it, going cross-eyed in the process. The children giggled.

Ezu suddenly inverted his hand, and there under Carver’s nose appeared a small golden sphere, about the size of an acorn.

“Take it,” said Ezu pleasantly. “It is yours.”

The kender took the small ball. He sniffed it, brow furrowed, and hastily peeled off the outer wrapping of gold foil. Inside was a stark white pellet. Impulsively, Carver popped the white pill in his mouth. He gasped a little then grinned.

“Spice candy, just like Auntie Fastswitcher used to make!”

The children pleaded for treats of their own. Ezu stood back a half step and spread his hands wide. Golden globes rained from his fingertips-or were they really coming from his voluminous sleeves?

Boys and girls scrambled in the dirt, retrieving every last morsel. While this happy chaos continued, Howland, Raika, and Khorr came forward.

“You didn’t tell us you were a juggler,” growled Howland, folding his arms.

“I have many talents,” Ezu replied. “Lady, would you assist me?”

Raika looked doubtful. “I don’t hold with this sleight-of-hand rubbish.”

“It’s magic, not sleight-of-hand. Please.”

Khorr gave the Saifhumi woman a playful nudge, which was enough to send her staggering into Ezu’s arms. He steadied her as she slapped his helpful hands away. Those watching laughed, even Howland.

“I heard magic had gone away,” Ezu said. “In my own small way, I’ve tried to bring a little back.”

He passed one hand over another. “I once visited your homeland, the island of Saifhum,” Ezu said softly, keeping Raika’s eyes on his darting hands. “What from there do you miss the most?”

Her answer was quick and firm: “My lover, Enjollah!”

The village women behind Raika cheered her sentiment.

Ezu stroked his beardless chin. “Sadly I cannot produce Enjollah for you, so what else? A favorite trinket perhaps, food, or drink?”

“Thornapple,” she said, smirking. “I haven’t seen Saifhumi fruit since coming to the mainland.”

Undaunted, Ezu began making distracting hand gestures again.

“No, wait! I’ve changed my mind. Thornapple wine.” She grinned.

Ezu looked perplexed but only for a instant. “Very well, though it may take longer … for what is wine, but fruit grown old and gone awry?”

He thrust his right hand high into the air, fingers spread. Everyone followed his broad, dramatic motion, paying no heed to his left hand, which went behind his head. When it returned, he held a small pot-bellied bottle.

The crowd gasped. Ezu presented the bottle to Raika.

Her mouth worked, but no barbs issued forth. She looked helplessly at Howland.

“What is it?” he asked, amused.

“I know these bottles,” she said. “They’re only made in Saifhum!”

“Open it!” Khorr urged.

She pulled the cork with her knife tip. A strong, sweet aroma overcame the smoky smell of the bonfire. Raika took a fast swig. Coughing, she said, “Thornapple wine! And strong!”

Howland took the bottle and sniffed the neck. “Thornapple brandy,” he suggested.

Raika grabbed the little jug back and gulped a second mouthful.

More of the crowd surged around Ezu, some laughing, some clapping, and not a few demanding he produce some long-ago delicacy they remembered. Ezu silenced them with a whirl of his hand. The brass whistle appeared. He didn’t need to blow it. The mere sight of the piercing instrument calmed the excited farmers.

He looked up at the minotaur. “My robust friend,” he said, “inside that spreading torso beats the heart of an artist. What gift may I give you?”

The great horned head shook slowly from side to side. “There is nothing you can do for me. The understanding of my clan cannot be accomplished with a wave of your hand.”

Ezu rolled the whistle across the back of his hand. It vanished once more. He sighed. “I fear you are right. If I could make your people revere you as a poet, I would, but an artist must earn acceptance. He cannot demand it.” He tugged one of his fat earlobes. “Still, even poets need inspiration.”

He tucked his hands into his sleeves, rolling them around his arms a few times. When Ezu took them out again, they were empty. The audience murmured with disappointment.

“Give Khorr a treat!” cried Carver, cheek bulging with candy.

Several people in the crowd, including Caeta, echoed the kender’s cry.

Ezu said, “But he already has his treat!”

Khorr looked down at his callused and blistered hands. Nestled in the palm of his left hand was what looked like a painted block of wood five or six inches long. Brown eyes wide, the minotaur held up the strange object.

“Is this-?”

Ezu nodded sagely.

Raika, slightly tipsy from her thornapple brandy, thrust her face close to Khorr’s prize. “Whatsit?” she said loudly.

“A ronto,” the minotaur said. The reverence in his voice was obvious. He held the block out for all to see. Pushing on one edge, the block fanned open, becoming a collection of thin wooden slats held together by a pin driven vertically through the end of each piece. The slats were covered with elaborate, colorful pictures, painted in neat lines.

“It’s a book!” said Carver.

“A recitative,” Khorr corrected. “The pictures help the poet recite the story.”

“What poem is it?” asked Howland.

Khorr’s liquid brown eyes glistened. “The Saga of the Nine Captains! The greatest sea-epic known to my race!” He turned back to Ezu, who was standing quietly, examining some of the flowers pinned to his trouser leg. “My ancestor, Kozh the One-Horned, was one of the Nine Captains! Did you know this?”

Ezu, distracted, looked up and said, “Why, no. How could I?”

Raika put her arm around the traveler’s neck, a friendly headlock that brought blood to his face. “Rascal! You’re all right! But what about Sir Howland? What does he get?”

“Sir Howland will get what he wants, soon,” Ezu replied. His tone was devoid of playful banter or double meaning. Raika released him. “But it is not I who will give it to him.”

The Knight bowed his head slightly, accepting Ezu’s pronouncement-or was it a prediction?

Khorr strode back to the bonfire, now reduced to a pair of lesser fires divided by a pool of glowing coals. He spread the wooden leaves of the ronto and began to recite:

Nine captains commanded, nine ships should sail,

To all corners claimed by the horned-folk’s king.

Who will wander? Who will wager their lives?

Said Kruz, conqueror of the kingdom.…

Fascinated farmfolk crowded around the declaiming minotaur. Children crawled into their fathers’ and mothers’ laps, still sucking on Ezu’s wonderful treats. Their breath reeked of spice, mingled sage and mint, and they listened wide-eyed as Khorr related the adventures of the nine minotaur captains.

Raika pushed through the crowd, claiming a prime spot at Khorr’s feet. Carver joined her.

No longer the focus of attention, Ezu turned to go. Howland called out, “Master Ezu-a word, if you please.”

The genial traveler paused. “Yes?”

Howland waited until he was nose to nose before saying in guarded tones, “I wonder: Who are you? What are you up to?”

“I told you, Sir Howland. I’m a mere traveler.”

“But no ordinary man.”

Ezu bowed. “You’re very kind-”

Howland caught him by the arm. “How could you have these things? Kender spice candy? Brandy from Saifhum? A book of minotaur poetry? By my Oath, do not tell me these were souvenirs of your sojourns!”

“I can only tell you the truth, good Knight. This one has been to Saifhum, Mithas and Kothas, and Hylo where the kender dwell. All my little gifts tonight could have come from there to here with me.”

“ ‘Could have’?”

“A good juggler leaves his audience guessing, doesn’t he?”

Without any effort, Ezu freed himself from Howland’s grasp and walked away. The old warrior’s fingers closed on air. He blinked in astonishment.

“Ezu! Ezu, your prediction: What is it I shall get?” he cried.

Ezu’s voice drifted back, like the fading notes of his pipe: “Honor. Honor …” His silhouette merged with the black outline of the old well.

Howland ran a few yards after him. In the deep shadows away from the dying bonfire the flower-bedecked, horn-headed stranger was nowhere to be seen.

Work on the defenses came to an abrupt end the next day. The first gilded grains began to fall from the drooping barley stalks. All other considerations were ignored as the ageless signal was seen. It was time to harvest the crop. Amergin and Robien had to disable their many traps in the field. All other work stopped as the villagers devoted themselves to the task. Raika grumbled about the villagers abandoning their drills, but Howland was not displeased.

“It’s sound for them to harvest,” he said. “The food is needed, and it would look suspicious to Rakell’s scouts if they found the crop moldering in the fields. Surprise is still an important element of our success.”

“How can there be any surprise?” Khorr said. “Two of their men disappeared, thanks to Amergin and Robien, and you fought them at the watering ford. Surely Rakell knows armed strangers are in the area?”

“He may, but I’m counting on him not linking the incidents to Nowhere. He must lose men all the time to desertion and small, local skirmishes.”

While the farmers labored over their crop, Howland conducted a tour of their defenses. The trench barred the open end of the village. It was deep enough to stop any charge by mounted men, and the road leading to it was strewn with sharpened stakes and mounded earth. Khorr and thirteen villagers would defend the trench.

“You’ll be the first to fight,” Howland told the minotaur. “Rakell has no respect for the farmers, and the best way to break an enemy’s resistance is to crush them at their strongest point.”

“He will not pass,” vowed Khorr.

“That’s the spirit! Once he realizes your position is strong, he’ll turn away to spare his troops casualties.” Howland put the trench at his back and surveyed the rest of the village. “Next, he’ll try to filter his horsemen in between the houses.”

“And we’ll sting them from above with our whippiks!” cried Carver eagerly. “We’ve made over four hundred darts!”

“That’s good, but take some other missiles to the rooftops with you-stones, wood, baskets of dirt-anything weighty. Understand?”

The kender gave the Knight a sloppy salute.

“Carver and the children will punish them, though they won’t be stopped by youngsters with whippiks,” Howland went on. “The filled huts and disguised fences will confuse them, but if Rakell is any leader at all, they’ll eventually break through.”

“Next we meet them with our spearmen,” said Raika.

“Yes. Each of us will lead a band of villagers to counterattack any raiders who get through.”

“Where do you want me?” asked Robien.

Howland sighed. “With Hume gone, I will need a second-in-command. Will you take the job?”

No one objected, so Robien agreed.

“Stay by me, then. I may have to send you to the others with instructions from time to time.”

“How will it end, Sir Howland? When will we know we’ve won?” Raika asked.

Gripping his sword hilt, the Knight replied, “When there are no more enemies to kill.”

Two peaceful days passed, then three. The barley crop slowly accumulated by the threshing pits, where teams of farmers beat the brown stalks to liberate the grain. Women and old folks tied the battered straw into sheaves, which they returned to the fields in neat, orderly rows. Seeing the bundles of straw gave Howland an idea.

“Make some of the sheaves hollow,” he told Malek. “We can post lookouts inside them to keep watch for the bandits.” Grunting agreement, Malek did as Howland asked.

Since seeing his beloved at the stream, Malek had fallen into a black gloom. At first his brother Nils believed Malek was upset by seeing his bride in servitude, but Raika offered her opinion.

“He’s not sad. He’s furious,” she said sagely. “All he can think about now is burying his blade in Rakell’s chest!”

In four days, all the barley was cut. The formerly lush fields were now patches of stubble, dotted with standing sheaves. Green garden plots, once bounded on all sides by brown grain, now stood out like islands of fertility on the barren plain. The corn would stay green another four weeks, the beans and other small crops only two.

“It’s amazing Rakell hasn’t struck yet,” Howland mused. “How many days left of the thirty he mentioned until his return?”

“Today is the thirtieth day,” Caeta answered.

Howland gave swift orders. “No one is to leave the village alone, or travel more than an hour’s walk away. I don’t want the brigands picking up fresh prisoners they can interrogate.”

“That means no hunting,” Nils said. “No fresh meat.”

Howland was adamant. The enemy was due at any time, and they couldn’t afford to loose a single villager, either as a fighter or an informant.

Amergin, who came and went like a ghost, offered to go on an extended reconnaissance and restore his ring of traps. Howland agreed.

“Don’t get caught!” he said in jest. The idea that Rakell’s idle troopers could catch the elusive Kagonesti seemed ridiculous.

With a new sling made for him by Caeta and a sackful of stones and stars, Amergin slipped away.

The sun was setting. Farmers carried on their threshing by torchlight, and the womenfolk prepared special harvest cakes for everyone. Howland and his little troop sat in a half-circle by the village well, eating hot barley cakes smeared with wild honey and fresh butter.

Raika said, “If I ate like this every day, I wouldn’t mind the low pay!”

“If you ate like this every day, you’d be bigger than Khorr,” Carver quipped.

Raika aimed a kick at the kender, who scooted out of reach. When he made a few more unkind remarks about Raika’s increasing girth, she got up to give him a real blow.

She never delivered it. The half-eaten cake fell from her fingers.

“Hey, don’t waste good food!” Carver protested.

Raika pointed to the horizon. Howland jumped up, shading his eyes against the setting sun.

The low rise south of Nowhere was two miles distant, separated by fields stripped clean by the harvest. Sitting along the ridge were a line of horsemen. By the setting sun’s ruddy light, Howland could see the gleam of steel.

One of the village women saw the horsemen too and let out a shriek. People ran back and forth, snatching up children and dashing to their huts, only to remember they were filled to the rafters with earth.

Someone beat the bronze gong by the well. Howland barked, “Stop that noise! Stop it, I say! It’s only a scouting party!”

Robien cracked the joints of his long fingers and said,

“Shall we go after them?”

“No. There’s no point. We can’t stop Rakell from returning. If we reveal ourselves now, it’ll only makes things harder for us later.”

They stood to arms all night. Villagers sent to take up spy positions in the hollow barley sheaves reported small bands of horsemen riding around the village all night, but none closed in. This might have been because of the Kagonesti traps they blundered upon. Many were found sprung, and several marauders were killed. Men and horses were also injured, and the brigands evidently spooked. By the next morning, all the village’s spies, Amergin included, reported the enemy had ridden away. There were none in sight.

It seemed like a miracle. Was their fear of Rakell’s band exaggerated? Had the enemy been repelled by a few forester tricks and traps? Many thought so. Raika and Carver loudly proclaimed victory, and more than a few villagers rejoiced.

Two men did not celebrate. Malek still burned to free Laila from Rakell’s thrall, and Howland uth Ungen remained at his post by the well, carefully honing his sword.