The Middle of Nowhere

CHAPTER TWELVE

Night passed, tense but quiet. The black landscape outside the village was alive with glimmering campfires, tiny red flames winking like the eyes of a hundred wolves, patiently haunting a beleaguered herd. Howland and Robien checked the defenses constantly, keeping the farmers on guard awake with jokes, threats, and an occasional slap or kick. Howland did not rest until an hour or so before dawn when he sat down, back against the well, dozing until cock’s crow.

He arose seemingly refreshed, and called his people together. Robien was never far from him now. Amergin, who wouldn’t sleep in an artificial structure, slept under a spindly apple tree in the common. When Howland called, he rolled to his feet, coughed once, and came swiftly. Carver had to be called four times not because he was still asleep but because he was eating. He appeared before his commander munching a hot barley cake, two more tucked under his arms.

Khorr, clothes damp with mud from having spent the night in the trench, guzzled a bucket of water before he could speak. Hardest of all to rouse was Raika. She passed the night on her bedroll in the midst of her spear company, but when the sun rose, she was the last to stir. The busy cacophony of morning broke around her, and she never cracked an eye.

“I can wake her,” Carver vowed. He held up a gray chicken feather.

Howland’s brows climbed high. “You live dangerously, kender!”

“I don’t think he wants to live at all,” Khorr growled.

With a supercilious smirk, Carver strolled to the sleeping Raika. His band of village children gathered round the kender wherever he went. When they saw their leader, feather in hand, standing over Raika, they burst out in fits of giggling. Not even their shrill merriment disturbed the Saifhumi woman.

“Sir, about today’s action-” Robien began.

Howland, watching Carver intently, held up a hand. “Wait.”

The kender squatted down, looking over the sleeping woman for exposed skin. She had a blanket drawn up to her eyes, covering her nose, chin, ears, and neck. He moved to the other end. Three dusky toes protruded from the hem of the blanket. Carver gave his weapon a final flourish, and applied it to Raika’s toes.

Her foot twitched, like a horse shrugging off a pesky fly. Carver waited until Raika stopped moving then swished the feather back and forth under her exposed toes. This time she brought her right foot over and violently scratched the tickled spot with her other big toe.

Carver frowned, gazing at the uncovered sole of Raika’s right foot. He drew the feather down once, up, and down again, all the time watching for her eyes to open.

With the speed of a striking hawk, Raika’s leg lashed out, catching Carver in the chest. He flew a good six feet before landing spreadeagled on his back. The chicken feather drifted slowly to the ground between them. The whippik company drew in a collective breath when they saw their fearless commander struck down, but their shock soon gave way to delight, and the children laughed uproariously.

So did Howland. He slapped Khorr on his broad back and laughed till tears slid down his mustache.

Amidst all the gaiety, Raika got up. Her eyes were screwed nearly shut, but she threw off the blanket and strode to the well, not speaking to anyone until she’d taken a dipper of water.

“Is the pest alive?” she said.

The village children hauled Carver to his feet. His eyes were rolled back. The older children marched him around to clear his scrambled head.

“Alive he is,” said Khorr, “but not very happy, I’ll wager.”

“He plays any more tricks on me and I’ll make him truly unhappy!”

“You were awake?” said Robien.

She waved at the tumult around them. “Who could sleep through this?”

Now that the morning comedy was done, Howland assembled his troops. In short, simple terms, he explained their situation as he saw it and what he proposed to do about it.

“The enemy outnumbers us, is better armed, and has more experience. They can move where they will and fight when they want to,” he began.

“Maybe we should just surrender,” Raika muttered.

“I don’t advise it. If not massacred, we and all the villagers would likely end up slaves, working in Rakell’s iron mine.”

Raika said sourly, “I withdraw the suggestion!”

Howland continued. “We can fight until we do enough damage to Rakell’s force that he decides to quit, but I don’t think that’s in his character.”

“Why?” asked Khorr. “Surely a good commander knows when to leave a losing battle?”

“This is a wild band, an army of deserters and cutthroats. A man like Rakell rules by delivering success to his men. If he fails, his men will desert him in droves or might even murder him and elect a new, more ruthless leader.” Howland looked at the bandit camp in plain sight south of the village. “On the other hand, as in Khorr’s tale of Zadza, an outmatched opponent can sometimes win by striking off the head of the dragon, and in this case, we must try to kill Rakell and as many of his lieutenants as possible. Without leadership, the bandits may fly apart like dandelion blossoms in a spring breeze.”

Baldly stated, Howland’s plan sounded simple-but impossible.

“You say that awfully easily, old man!” Raika protested. “Do you expect us to cut our way through four score bandits and ask Rakell to stand still while we lop off his head?”

“A direct assault won’t work. We wouldn’t reach Rakell’s tent, much less the man himself.” Khorr asked, “How can it be done?”

“Three of us will go,” Howland said. “We’ll ask for a parley and present ourselves to the enemy. When the time is right, we’ll draw daggers and slay Rakell where he stands.”

“Is that honorable?” said Khorr.

“No,” replied Howland quietly, “but it is necessary.”

“The three’ll be slaughtered!” Raika burst out.

Howland was silent.

“Count me out!” she said. “I’m not volunteering for a suicide mission! I prefer to take my chances here.”

“I wasn’t going to ask for volunteers,” Howland said evenly. “I have three in mind already.” All eyes were on him. “Myself, Amergin, and Ezu.”

Amergin showed no surprise, no expression at all. The other misfit mercenaries were thunderstruck. Carver looked visibly relieved, fanning himself happily. Honorable or not, Khorr was clearly downcast that he had not been asked to go. Suicide missions were dangerous, yes, but the stuff of great poetry.

Raika, surprisingly, did not rant or rave. Instead, she asked, “Amergin I understand, but Ezu? He’s not a warrior-he’s not even one of us! No one knows where he is half the time!”

Indeed no one had seen the traveler since yesterday. They assumed he’d hidden during the fighting.

“Surely I would be a better choice, Sir Howland,” Robien said quietly.

“No. You would be a better choice to command in my absence.” The words ‘when I’m dead’ floated unspoken in the air.

“Why Ezu?” said Khorr, puzzled. “What good can he possibly do?”

The old Knight said. “Since we go pretending we want only to talk, Ezu’s very appearance will serve to convince Rakell we’re up to no mischief. After all, who would attempt anything grave with so foolish-looking a companion?”

Robien folded his arms and said to his fellow Kagonesti, “What do you say, Amergin?”

“I am in debt to Sir Howland,” the forester replied. “I said I would follow him till this fight was over. If he means to walk into the enemy commander’s tent with a dagger in his hat, I will go too.”

Raika clucked her tongue in disgust. She mumbled something about “throwing your life away.”

“How and when will you propose this parley?” asked the minotaur.

“Late in the day. Twilight will help us, and the timing is important. It’s best to approach the enemy after fighting off one of their attacks. That will make it seem more as if we’re anxious to talk.” Howland smiled ruefully. “If we fight hard, they’ll be more willing to listen, too.”

Horns resounded in the enemy camp. Dust billowed into the cloud-flecked sky.

“Find Ezu and bring him to me,” Howland ordered the kender, who sprinted off.

The mercenaries dispersed to their waiting troops. Khorr’s trench fighters cheered loudly when the towering bull-man returned. In contrast, Raika’s spearmen cringed as she approached, shouting orders in her harsh, grating voice.

“Fire burns, no matter what the color,” Robien said, observing the different ways his comrades led their contingents. Howland did not hear him. He was watching the enemy.

A body of horsemen rode out from the bandits southern camp, maybe fifty strong. They came within a two hundred yards of Nowhere and halted, dismounting. The bandits, now on foot, arrayed themselves in a long, single line. Each man had a good-sized basket on the ground in front of him. Howland guessed what they held.

“Send word all around the village!” Howland called, voice rising. “Expect arrows-lots of arrows!”

Robien ran to pass along the Knight’s warning.

The archers stepped through their bows, stringing the powerful staves with the ease of long practice, as Robien returned.

Howland walked around the rim of the thick stone wall surrounding the well, scarcely looking where he put his feet. One misstep and he’d plunge sixty feet to the water.

“The attack will come from the north or east,” he said. “The bowmen are only there to cover the main thrust-”

Telltale streams of dust rose in the north. “There!” said Howland. “Warn Raika! Have her bring her spearmen to the north side!”

Carver came jogging up, alone. “Can’t find him!” he gasped between breaths.

“Ezu?”

“Yes! I’ve looked everywhere. I can’t find him!”

“Never mind. Get your whippikers in position on the north side of the village. That’s where the brigands will hit us.”

Carver started to leave.

“And watch out for archers!”

He shrugged, smiled in his careless way, and went to round up his young charges.

“Sir Howland,” Robien said. “What happens if the bandits choose to attack us on two sides at once? We don’t have enough people to battle on two fronts.”

“I know,” was all the former Knight would say.

“What do we do?”

“Fight harder.”

Howland jumped down. It wasn’t far, but the landing staggered him. Robien stepped forward to brace his commander, but Howland pushed him away.

“It’s nothing,” he said brusquely. “Old bones. Fatigue.” He pointed to the distant bowmen. “Stay here and watch them. If they start our way, or if other troops join them, fetch Khorr and his men from the trench.”

“Yes, Sir Howland.”

The bandits coming down from the north camp also got off their horses well out of sling and whippik range. There were between thirty and forty of them, armed with swords and shields. Their lances they left with their animals. Even more could have joined the attack, but every tenth man held the reins of the horses his comrades left behind. Seeing this gave Amergin an idea.

“Sir Howland,” he said. “Horses …?”

He saw at once what the forester meant. “How many will you need?”

The Kagonesti wrinkled his nose. “Four.”

“Take six, young, strong ones.”

Amergin nodded, and dashed away.

From behind, the defenders heard the twang of bowstrings, followed by the hum of arrows in flight. To a man, the farmers flung themselves on the ground, arms over their heads. The first volley of arrows landed outside the ring of huts. The second buried themselves in the thatched roofs.

“Get up, you worms!” Raika cried, kicking Bakar in the rump. He yowled and leaped to his feet, incensed. Raika folded her arms and stood nose to nose with the outraged farmer.

“You have something to say?”

“Yes!” he declared, not without a quaver.

The third volley of arrows sprouted along the edge of the common.

“Speak your mind,” Raika said coldly.

“Stop kicking me!” the timid farmer declared.

“Then don’t present your rump to the sky!” She said this pleasantly, and her scowl slowly turned into a smile.

A rush of wind, and the fourth volley probed farther into the village. One stray missile brought down a rooster, pinning the bird to the ground in a spray of gaudy feathers. Other arrows clinked off the well wall or stuck shivering in the windlass frame.

Sheepishly, the farmers got to their feet. They huddled against the walls of the north side huts, confident the dirt-packed dwellings would protect them.

Raika ran to Howland, standing alone near the center of the common. The sixth volley arrived in pieces, arrows dropping at wide intervals all over the village.

“They must be lofting them straight up,” Raika said.

“Almost. The wind is breaking up the volleys,” Howland replied.

“How far can they reach?”

“A good, dry short bow can send an arrow three hundred yards.” He looked back unconcerned at the far-off line of bandit bowmen. “They seem to be having trouble reaching past two hundred.”

“Good enough!” Raika stormed back to her troops, yelling at them to stand up.

The bandits’ northern force was coming on at a steady pace but in no real formation. Howland relaxed a little. His band, backed by close to thirty villagers with long spears, ought to be able to hold off a similar number of brigands with swords. If Amergin’s scheme came off, they’d give the bandits a surprise.

Twenty yards from the village, the attackers raised their swords high and screamed bloodthirsty war cries. Atop the huts, Carver and the village boys made obscene gestures back at them.

Arrows continued to fall out of the brilliantly blue sky behind them, randomly, like thunderbolts. Howland ignored them, even when one struck close by his right foot.

Whippiks swung high, and the bandits had to raise their shields to protect their faces from the darts. Unable to see forward, their charge slowed. Raika moved her spearmen into the gaps between the huts.

“C’mon, you murdering sons of dogs!” Raika shouted. “Come fight us, face to face!”

They did just that. Splitting into groups of three or four, the brigands leaped over fences and other obstacles in their path. Raika and the spearmen countercharged. Crude as they were, the wooden spears easily pierced the boiled leather jerkins most of the bandits wore. Drawing back, the invaders lowered their bronze shields to fend off the spears. When they did, Carver’s whippiks scourged their heads and shoulders. Most of the whippik darts were made from dried cornstalks weighted with small stones in the hollow cores and tipped with two-inch long dragon-toe thorns. Though rarely lethal, the darts made painful wounds. Once a bandit had four or five of these nasty missiles in his neck or face, he lost all interest in further fighting.

Horses neighed loudly. Farmers and bandits alike paused their battle long enough to see what was disturbing the animals. What they saw delighted the villagers and dismayed Rakell’s raiders.

Amergin and six hand-picked men had stolen out of Nowhere, circled wide of the scrap going on between Raika’s troops and the bandits, and attacked the men left behind to guard the horses. There were eight of them, minding close to forty horses, and they could not let go the animals’ reins to defend themselves without losing all their comrades’ mounts. Amergin and his slingers had popped out of the grass ten yards away and swiftly struck down one guard after another. Freed, the high-strung horses broke away, inspired by stinging stones flung against their rumps. As the last bandit guard was struck down by Amergin, all the horses scattered to the winds.

Panicked by the sight of their precious mounts abandoning them, the bandits quickly ended the attack. Some even threw down sword and shield and ran full-tilt after their animals. Amergin and his slingers had a field day bouncing hard stones off the fleeing brigands. Their rout was so complete the defenders sallied forth to drag some of their fallen foes into the village, where their arms and armor were stripped off and distributed among the villagers.

Victory seemed total when Howland heard a shriek rise from the east end of Nowhere. The wounded and elderly had crept away from the barrage of arrows, sheltering in the curve of houses on the northeast border of the village. They were safe enough there, but when the bandits were repelled, some of the villagers came out to see the enemy’s defeat. Among them was Calec, the ancient headman. As he hobbled across the common on stiff, aged legs, a stray arrow took him high in the thigh. He went down without a sound but his neighbors raised a wail.

Howland hurried to the old man’s side. The cloth yard shaft had terrible force behind it, plummeting down from so high. It had passed through Calec’s left thigh, and the broadhead was buried halfway through his right as well. The impact had virtually nailed the old man’s legs together, piercing arteries in both limbs.

Caeta cradled her father’s head. Howland knelt by the elder, ignoring the humming arrows that continued to fall.

“They’re on the run?” whispered Calec.

“They’re beat,” Howland said.

The elder sighed, a long rattling exhalation. “Good. Hammer them like a gong-”

Caeta closed his eyes. “Good-bye, papa!”

More projectiles thudded around them. The archers could see villagers clustered around the fallen Calec and were concentrating on them. Gathering the old man’s legs while his daughter took his arms, Howland and Caeta carried Calec to a safer spot.

Amergin and the slingers returned, laden with swords, shields, and good iron daggers. There was enough captured weaponry to equip every fighting villager with a metal blade of some kind.

Calec was the only one killed on their side during the battle, but he was more than just the eldest of the village elders. He was the fighting heart of Nowhere, and now that heart was stilled.

Yet there was little time to grieve. As soon as the bowmen returned to camp, a fresh party of riders issued forth. Unlike the previous bands of bandits the people of Nowhere had faced, this new force appeared well armored and mounted on fine-looking horses. They carried banners too, the color of faded gold, whipping from the tips of their tall lances.

Raika’s and Amergin’s contingents rushed across the common to the south side, stumbling through a thick hedge of buried arrows as they came. Carver and his followers got down from the roofs and fell to harvesting this strange crop. The kender yanked an arrow out and examined the keen iron head. It was a real war arrow, and with the shafts clipped, they would make deadly whippik missiles.

Robien counted the riders as they cantered in a double line, parallel to the village. To Howland he said, “I make it twenty-eight!”

“Rakell’s elite,” Howland called back. “We won’t panic these men.”

“Could be worse,” said Raika, taking a deep breath.

Amergin inquired with a single raised eyebrow.

“Could be ogres.”

A signal trumpet blared, to be answered by horns in the other bandit camps. Once the armored brigands were in place, they halted, facing Nowhere. Long, pointed banners flipped slowly in the light midday airs.

“Robien, go to Khorr. Have his men stand ready to reinforce us,” Howland said. The bounty hunter departed on his mission. Wilf stepped up beside the old Knight, nudging him.

“What is it?”

Wilf held a cavalry helmet out to Howland, one taken from the recently beaten bandits. “For you, sir.” Worn bright by years of use, it was real iron, with a peeling leather pad inside.

“Thank you.” Howland slipped the helmet on. The cheek pieces were hot against his face. It fit perfectly. He buckled the strap under his chin.

Wilf made an awkward attempt to salute. Howland was touched, but the moment was broken by Raika’s loud shout, “Wilf? Wilf? Where’s that idiot gone off to now?”

The young farmer ran back to his place with the spearmen. Howland was waiting for Robien’s return when someone else touched his elbow: It was Ezu. Maybe the helmet muffled his footsteps, but Howland had heard and seen nothing of the odd traveler until he appeared.

“Where have you been?” Howland demanded.

“Here and there,” said Ezu. “You’re busy? I’ll come back-”

“You stay right by my side!” Howland thundered. “I need you-”

Out on the plain, the armored brigands started forward.

“Stay by me!”

“I’m no warrior,” said Ezu mildly.

“You are now!”

The bandit elite kept their lines straight and came on, not at wasteful gallop but at a steady trot.

“Stand by to receive cavalry!”

Raika, Amergin, and all the villagers looked at Howland in surprise. Though they’d heard his shouted commands for a while now, there was something different about his last command. Maybe it was the helmet or the sight of enemy knights, but the years seemed to have fallen away from him. He stood straighter, and his voice carried across the dusty common with uncommon energy and clarity. This was Sir Howland as he once had been.

The villagers knelt in two staggered lines, spears wedged against the ground. No attempt would be made to meet the enemy in the gaps as before. Behind the spear carriers, Amergin placed his slingers. Carver and the oldest half-dozen boys occupied the rooftops, while the younger feverishly cut up arrows and passed bundles of remade darts up to their friends. Of Robien, curiously, there was no sign. Howland glanced around for him, frowning.

At forty yards the riders swung their lances down, first the front rank then the second. They increased their pace to a canter.

“What are you waiting for, kender? Let them have it!”

With a whoop, Carver flung the first dart. It caromed off the visor of one of the riders. Dismayed, he ordered his boys to try their luck. Even with iron-tipped darts, they could make no impression on the armored riders.

Reluctantly, for kender liked animals, Carver cried, “Aim for the horses!”

At ten yards the enemy burst forward in a sudden spurt. There was no room to achieve a gallop, but they put on speed and crashed bodily through the barriers between the huts. Darts and sling shot clattered off them like hail. One or two horses got tangled in the vines and thorns, but the riders lowered their lance tips to the ground and with a single upward swing, swept the tangle aside.

The farmers’ line of spears stirred restlessly. Raika, standing behind Bakar, called out, “Those lances don’t hurt at all, you know, going in.”

“Really?” said Bakar, face streaming sweat.

“Yeah, it’s the coming out that kills you.”

Four armored riders broke through into the commons. One fell when Amergin put one of his precious metal stars through a slit in his visor. Howland drew his sword. “All right, then! Get them!”

Shouting and screaming, the farmers broke ranks and raced at the bandits. The rider nearest Howland calmly spitted first one, then another villager with his lance, flicking the impaled body of the first off before striking the second. Howland yelled to distract the deadly lancer, who promptly turned toward him. The black iron lance head cut through the air, driving toward Howland’s chest. Fear and weakness he’d learned since leaving the trade of arms vanished, and all the old moves flowed back from the depths of Howland’s memory. He struck the lance aside with the flat of his sword and got under his opponent’s reach. Once you beat the tip, he thought, a lancer was at a disadvantage against a good swordsman. Howland gripped his hilt in both hands and thrust hard at the rider’s belly. He twisted away, and the point of Howland’s blade skidded off his iron cuirass. The old Knight spun around, ducking under the horse’s head and coming up on the lancer’s left. The horseman was clad in three-quarter armor, not full plate, so the back of his legs were vulnerable. Howland swung with all his might, and felt his old sword bite hard behind his enemy’s knee. The bandit brought his heavy lance around, and the shaft connected solidly with Howland’s head. His new helmet saved him, but he went down. Moments later the lancer fell too, bleeding heavily from his leg wound. He tried to rise, but Wilf ran up and struck the lancer on the head with his spear shaft, flattening the struggling rider. Howland rolled to his feet, snatching the dagger from his belt. He jammed the point through the joint between the lancer’s gorget and helmet. Shuddering, the bandit went slack.

On his feet again, Howland looked for the gallant Wilf, but the melee had separated them again. More lancers had penetrated the line of huts, and though the farmers were fighting valiantly, giving as hard as they got, the enemy was too powerful to stand up to at close quarters. Howland was about to order his people to fall back to the well when one of the whippik boys screamed, “They’re coming! They’re coming this way!”

Between two houses Howland glimpsed another force of riders approaching. There was no way to stop them unless Khorr’s men left the trench and helped them. Where was Robien? Why had he not returned?

“Fall back! Fall back to the well!” Howland cried. The defenders tried to obey, but they were thoroughly mixed in with the enemy. Bakar fell, lanced in the back when he dropped his broken spear and tried to run. Seeing him fall, Raika felt a surge of rage. She threw down her spear and sprang at the man who’d struck Bakar, vaulting onto the rump of his horse. The heavily armored bandit couldn’t deal with Raika so close behind him. She twisted back and forth until she got a hand on his chin and wrenched him right out of the saddle, hurling him to the bloody earth.

Taking up the reins, she recovered a lance and used it to impale first one foe then another. The bandits shrank back, giving way before her.

Howland and Amergin gathered eleven villagers by the well. Cut, bleeding, and panting, they put their backs to the stone wall, ready to ward off another charge.

The elf felt something warm on his back. He was pressed against the Ancestor, and the fractured totem was warm to the touch, far warmer than the other stones in the wall. Yet there was no time to contemplate this mystery. The second wave of attackers were riding through the gaps created by the lancers.

“Time to sell our lives dearly,” Howland shouted. Beside him, Amergin loaded his last bronze star.

Just as the bandits cleared the huts, a noise at the flank made them slow. Startled beyond measure, the defenders clustered around the well saw what looked like a two-wheeled cart come charging over the dirt mound behind the trench. In the cart were Robien and three farmers, armed with spears. Pushing the cart from behind was Khorr, head down and feet churning.

With a shout, the cart hit the horsemen, bowling them over like clay tankards in a bar fight. Having disrupted the second wave of attackers, Robien and the spearmen jumped down to join Howland by the well. Khorr backed up the cart and retreated to the trench.

“Where have you been?” said Howland.

“Preparing this surprise. I hope you don’t mind. It was Khorr’s idea.”

“Where is he now?”

In answer, the cart reappeared atop the mound, brimming with more spearmen. This time Khorr ran hard down the hill into the center of the enemy. Coming to a stop after upsetting four armored lancers, the minotaur put down the poles of the cart and laid about with his stone mace. Not even the thick plate of the lancers was proof against a blow from a twenty-pound stone, and the bandits withdrew. Now, ten of Rakell’s elite horsemen lay dead in the village, along with another eight rank-and-file bandits. Seven villagers were slain and many more wounded.

Raika rode up to where Bakar lay, unmoving. She lifted one leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground.

“Fool,” she said bitterly. “Never turn your back on the enemy!”

She threw down her sword with disgust. It landed across Bakar’s back. He groaned.

“What? Alive?” She rolled the farmer over. Bakar’s face was white as milk, but he was breathing.

“You’re hitting me again,” he moaned.

“Shut up!” Raika stood. “Where are those healers? We have a wounded man here!”

Seeing the bandits ride sedately back to camp, Howland slowly let out the breath he was holding. Khorr presented himself with his men, saying, “We beat them again, Sir Howland!”

“So we did.”

“Will they come again today?” Robien wondered.

“Yes.”

Elf and minotaur looked crestfallen.

The Knight explained. “If Rakell keeps to the strategy he’s been following, he’ll mount spoiling attacks all day to keep us off guard and prevent us from repairing our defenses.”

Robien uttered a Kagonesti curse. Khorr asked, “What can we do?”

“Carry on despite them. Any show of weakness will bring on an even more serious assault.”

Suddenly Howland had a thought. “Where’s Ezu?”

“Here.”

Ezu was sitting cross-legged on the well wall right behind him.

“How long have you been there?”

“Since you said, ‘Fall back to the well.’ Am I not where you wish me to be?”

“Yes, fine. Don’t budge from that spot!”

While weary farmers struggled to rebuild the broken-down barricades between the huts, others used Khorr’s cart to clear away the enemy dead.

Raika, pleased with the fine horse she’d acquired, rode out sixty yards from the village and in full view of the bandits’ south camp thrust a broken lance deep into the dry turf. She propped a battered, blood-smeared helmet on the end of the lance, spat on the ground, and rode back to Nowhere.