The Middle of Nowhere

CHAPTER EIGHT

"C’mon, you clods! Straighten that line! And yell when you attack-yell like you mean it! Yell your guts out!”

Eight farmers, five men and three women, rushed headlong across the dusty village common, screeching as loudly as they could. They gripped makeshift wooden spears and wore ragged cloth turbans on their heads. This last detail was Raika’s special contribution. The rolled cloth would provide some protection against raps on the head.

“Besides,” she said, “turbans make you look civilized.”

As shock troops, the farmers had a long way to go. Because they were different heights and strengths, they couldn’t maintain an even line once they started moving. The long-legged quickly outpaced the short, and over a distance the strong moved faster than the weak.

All morning Raika stormed up and down, waving her hands and shouting at anyone out of place. When she finally let her inept troops rest, Raika went to the well to rinse dust and disgust from her mouth. Robien sat there, watching the maneuvers. He perched on the surrounding wall, feet dangling on either side of the Ancestor. The lower half of the broken sandstone block had almost changed from red to blue, owing to the stain spreading down from the crack.

“Traps all laid?” she said, dropping the bucket into the cool, stone-lined shaft.

“Not all,” replied the elf. “Some must be done after dark.”

She hauled on the rope to bring the bucket back up. “Why after dark?”

“Some of the triggers must be set in darkness. After they’re in place, a single miscast shadow can set them off.”

The Saifhumi woman regarded him skeptically. Unlike most mainlanders, she had never stood in awe of elves. All the ones she ever met were clever and cultured, but they didn’t seem any wiser than anyone else.

“Your troops are shaping up,” Robien said politely.

“Shaping up to be killed.” Raika hoisted the full bucket over her head and dumped the water over her. She spat grit, and added, “They don’t stand together, they don’t think together, and they don’t fight together. The bandits will have them for supper.”

“Maybe you’re not going about it the right way.”

“Oh? How would you train these yokels?”

“Having them run around charging is pointless. Not one of them has the fortitude to attack mounted men. That’s as well. All they need to do is defend, not attack.”

“I had no idea you were such a general,” Raika said, wiping her face with her turban.

“I’ve lived a long time and done many things. Many years ago, I was a soldier.”

Raika slouched against the well wall. “Then you teach them, master!”

Robien did not reply but strolled out into the hot sun. Raika’s villagers were marching in circles inside the row of houses, shoulder to shoulder. Robien stood in front of them and waited. When the farmers came abreast of him, he held up a hand to stop them.

“Hold,” he said mildly. He took the spear from the nearest man, Malek’s cousin Fayn. He was a rangy fellow five years’ Malek’s senior, with rusty red hair all over his body and a multitude of freckles.

“Any of you ever speared a man before?”

The farmers shook their heads.

“How about a horse?”

No again.

Robien nodded. “Follow me,” he said.

They looked to their nominal commander for guidance. Raika shrugged and waved them away. Let the elf drill the fools if he wants, her gestures seemed to say.

Robien shouldered the borrowed spear and led the farmers to a gap between two of the houses. Both huts had been filled with dirt, and the rattan fence between them, meant only to keep chickens out of the root cellars beneath each house, had been reinforced with concealed piles of cordwood and stones. It was no real impediment to a determined attacker, but the strength of the fence would certainly surprise and perhaps unhorse unwary riders.

“Here,” said Robien, halting. “Five of you defending this gap ought to be able to hold off any number of horsemen.”

“How?” asked Fayn.

Robien took the three biggest men and arrayed them between the huts. Two women knelt between them, spears braced against their feet.

“You must keep your nerve above all,” Robien told them. “If you break, the riders will slaughter you, but if you hold your line and keep points out, the enemy will turn away, I promise.”

One of the women laughed nervously. “Why should they break before us?”

“No one wants to get speared,” Robien replied dryly. “They’ll ride at you, screaming dire threats, but they won’t charge home. What they really want is to scare you into running.”

Robien held out his arms. The huts were far enough apart that he couldn’t quite touch them.

“Only one horse can get through here at a time,” he said. “Two, in a pinch. If you see two or more riders bearing down on you, stand fast! They’ll turn away or else collide trying to fit between the houses. When they do, you’ll have them.”

A shower of short arrows fell on Robien and the farmers, followed by gales of childish laughter. The elf picked up one of the missiles. It was blunt and fletched with stiff green leaves.

“You must also beware of enemy archers,” the bounty hunter said.

More laughter from above, and Carver appeared on the roof of the left-hand hut, surrounded by a gang of scruffy, bright-eyed children.

“You are all victims of the Nowhere Whippik Corps!” Carver said.

“I hope you’ll use sharper ones on the raiders,” Robien replied.

“To be sure! They’re being made even now.”

Robien nodded. “It is a sound tactic to put missile-throwers on the high ground.”

Thinking of missile-throwers reminded him of Amergin, his sling-toting quarry.

“Has anyone seen Amergin today?”

“Not since he left with you this morning,” said Fayn.

“He was supposed to be laying traps in the northeast approaches,” Robien mused. “I wonder if he’s come back?” He dismissed the farmers and made for the west end of the village where Khorr and some men still labored hard on the trench.

The open end of Nowhere was abuzz with activity. Outside the growing trench, pairs of village men and women pounded heavy stakes into the ground. Good-sized trees were hard to come by on the high plains, so these stakes were rafters or center posts taken from their houses. Once the posts were driven in half their length, a farmer with a hatchet whittled the ends to a formidable point.

Behind the row of stakes, the trench cut into the soil like a fresh wound. Beneath the yellow topsoil was clay, thick gray earth too heavy in which to grow crops. Elderly villagers hauled the clay away in baskets to fill emptied houses. The trench already stretched across the open end of Nowhere. Now Khorr and his diggers were hurrying to deepen it.

The minotaur made a tremendous impression as he stood hip deep in the earth, his broad shoulders sheened with sweat, his naturally bronze skin gone copper in the hot sun. He’d broken two ordinary mattocks before Wilf made him a tool worthy of his size, lashing three ordinary handles to the only iron-headed pick in the village.

Robien stood to one side, keeping clear of the urgent bustle. He called out to Khorr.

The sweat-soaked poet leaned on his implement and palmed his face dry with a colorful kerchief.

“What is it?”

“Have you seen Amergin?”

“Not since yesterday. Is he missing?”

Robien felt his jaw tighten. “No. I just need to find him.”

“Perhaps you should engage the services of a good tracker!”

The minotaur was wittier than he looked. Robien ruefully waved his thanks. Khorr called for water and downed an entire bucket fetched by two village women. The bounty hunter moved on.

He crossed on a plank laid over the open trench and slipped between the slanting stakes. From there he looked back over the entire village. Carver and the children clambered over the thatched rooftops, launching blunt darts at each other. Raika’s hoarse shouting rose over the cloud of dust where her spearmen were still drilling. Sir Howland and Hume were out on reconnaissance. The strange Ezu had spent the past two days collecting rocks and plants from the countryside, but it was unclear if he was doing anything of real value. Khorr slaved away, digging by day and reciting minotaur epics to his crew at night.

That left the missing Amergin. Robien didn’t believe his fellow Kagonesti would have run away. Howland’s odd company had gotten Amergin out of Robann, and saved him from the Brotherhood of Quen. He would not abandon those to whom he owed a debt. So where was he?

Out of sight of the working villagers, Robien put his head down and ran. He was fleet of foot, but his speed was an asset he chose not to share with the farmers or the mercenaries. To survive, everyone needed an edge. Robien had several he kept close to his heart. The time might soon come when he would need every advantage he could wrest.

At Howland’s request, both elves agreed not to set up any traps on the open ground between the village proper and the fields. Once inside the sea of barley, or past the green garden plots, anything was fair game.

Robien neared a stand of corn. Aside from some indistinct noises coming from the village, all seemed calm. He put a hand to his mouth. “Amergin!” he called, not too loudly. He continued in Elvish, “Where are you, brother?”

A crow rose squawking from the corn rows. Robien watched it depart, protesting loudly in the manner of all crows. It fluttered away, becoming a black wrinkle against the dull, hazy sky.

He slipped between the closely growing stalks. Sunlight filtered between the curled-up leaves, dappling the ground. This was a perfect place for a trip-line. Robien dropped to one knee and removed his belt. Made of hardwood pegs strung together on a rawhide core, the belt was normally flexible unless the pegs were twisted a certain way. Robien ran them through his hands, deftly rotating the segments until his belt had been transformed into a rigid rod. He leaned forward, probing between the corn stalks. Almost immediately he snagged a horizontal filament. Palomino horsehairs, gleaned by Amergin from the grassland around them, braided together into a strong, thin twine, invisible under ordinary circumstances. Here was a trigger all right. Where was the trap?

He sidled sideways through the corn until the horsehair zigged away from him. Following the line, Robien found Amergin’s trap. Amid the green corn, a double line of green canes stuck in the dirt were bent back at a severe angle. The trigger line ran back and forth among the bent stalks. When tripped, the canes would fly up in a rippling wave, flailing anything within reach. Amergin had studded the cane stalks with whatever sharp objects he could find-flakes of flint, chicken bones carved to points, beef shoulder blades made keen by the Kagonesti’s knife, and inch-long thorns from the plains gorse bushes. None of these were lethal (unless poisoned), but they could put out an eye or spook a horse with ease. Robien was impressed. Amergin knew his business.

He moved on, finding three layers of intertwined traps. Beyond the corn field, Amergin had hollowed out a mossy bank of earth. It looked solid enough to walk or ride over, but the slightest weight would cause the shell of moss to collapse. Underneath was a hole six inches deep and over twelve feet long, deep enough to hobble a horse or break a man’s ankle. Amergin had done all this without leaving any trace.

Next the bounty hunter found a series of snags-hidden or disguised lengths of thorny creeper, more horsehair twine, and rawhide thong. The snags were linked so that anyone struggling to get out of one would make the others tighter. Not lethal, again, but troublesome to foes.

The outermost line of traps was the deadly one. Robien was intrigued by Amergin’s cool cunning. By putting the worst traps first, he would convince the enemy that succeeding ones would be as bad or worse. If Rakell’s men were quick to anger, they might bull on through, heedless of any danger, anxious to avenge their hurts. That would surely give away their position. In any case, the defenders would reap a benefit.

The outer trap was clearly marked. Amergin had set up four widely spaced scarecrows, made of tree limbs, leaves, and mud. He modeled them to resemble foot soldiers in armor. If the light were poor enough, the enemy might be fooled at first. Each figure was a trigger. Sunk in the ground around the scarecrows were four hinged stakes, each a good two feet long, made of green wood. Anyone striking or otherwise disturbing a scarecrow would cause a heavy stone to fall from the figure’s head into a deep, narrow hole. The falling stone caused the stakes to rise and snap shut on the scarecrow. With luck, Amergin could impale three or four of the enemy with each one.

Robien stood close to one scarecrow, admiring the delicate system of notches and lines that made it work. A voice behind him said, “What a lot of foolishness.”

Amergin’s voice. He turned quickly but saw no one. Robien said in Elvish, “You are a master of trap-craft. I salute you.”

In Common, Amergin replied, “Don’t try to cozen me by using the old tongue.”

“As you wish.” Robien reverted to the language of humans. His eyes darted from side to side, trying to spot the hidden forester. They were in the open, surrounded by grass, but Robien couldn’t see his quarry at all.

“Your camouflage is excellent,” said the bounty hunter.

“You’ve been among the sky-folk too long,” Amergin said, using the Kagonesti term for those who did not live in the woods-whether human, kender, dwarf, or elf.

“Not so long that I couldn’t find your traps,” Robien said.

“How many?”

“Four sets.”

“There are six.”

Robien moved away from the scarecrow, careful not to jar it. “Your skill is greater than mine. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

A hunched figure emerged from the chest-high grass. Amergin had encased himself in a large grass drape so he melted into the surrounding growth.

“I want you to understand. When we fought in your camp, you bested me because the woman interfered. In the wild, you would never find me, much less catch me.”

Robien nodded. “I let her take me-you know that, don’t you?”

The grass-figure shifted. “Robien the Tireless taken from behind by a human? Not in a year of springtimes.”

Amergin pulled the grass hood off his head. His dark eyes were rimmed with red. He’d apparently not slept these past two days.

“I’m tired, bounty hunter. I don’t want to go on wondering if in the end you intend to sell me to the Brotherhood.”

“Sell? What I do, I do honorably. Service rendered for money paid.”

“I am a person, not a service!” Amergin exclaimed.

“We can settle this afterward. The villagers-”

“Let’s settle it now!” Amergin drew his knife. “Renounce the Brotherhood’s contract, or I’ll water the weeds with your blood!”

As Robien’s hand closed around the handle of his sword, the rumble of moving horses reached them both. Hunter and hunted’s eyes met.

The forester pulled his hood down and vanished into the grass. Robien ran, hunched over, to a small sour apple tree on the crest of a slight slope. To the east he saw eleven riders cantering through the grass. The lead horseman raised his hand, and the riders reined to a stop.

“It’s beyond those fields, yonder? See the green? That’s it,” said the leader.

“Should we spread out, Keph?” asked one of the men.

“It doesn’t matter. There’s not a sword in the place.” He laughed shortly. “Nor a man to wield one!”

Two riders detached themselves from the rest and took up positions not twenty feet from Robien.

“Keep an eye out,” the leader, Keph, told them. “We’ll be back in two days to relieve you.”

“Bring wine!” said one of the scouts.

“And meat!” said the other.

Keph laughed. “I’ll bring you a feast deluxe.”

Something brushed against Robien’s elbow. Amergin was lying on his belly close enough to touch him.

“Let’s take them,” he whispered.

“What, now? Wait till the others are gone!”

“Now. Quietly. It will disturb the rest.”

With a mild rustle, Amergin was gone. The remaining nine horsemen trotted away, heading southeast.

The two scouts sat slouched on their animals, facing the unseen village. As Robien watched, he noticed the scout on the left’s horse shying a little, as though the beast had detected a serpent near its feet. A snake would be less dangerous, the bounty hunter thought.

Robien crept forward as fast as he dared, knees bent, hands brushing the ground. He left his sword in its scabbard and took out his hunting knife, a single-edged weapon as long as his hand. Teeth clamped on the blade, he worked his way closer to the unwary men.

One scout’s horse stirred a little. The rider patted his animal. “Steady, steady,” he crooned.

“He wants to go back to camp too,” said the other man.

Robien was behind them, no more than six feet away, when Amergin rose up like a ghost and grabbed both men by their mantles, jerking them backward off the rumps of their mounts. The horses took off, neighing and tossing their heads.

Amergin threw himself over one of the men, covering him with his grassy cape. The other man struggled to rise and draw his sword. Robien took him from behind, clamping a hand over the man’s mouth and burying his blade in the small of his back.

The grass flowed away, revealing the second rider dead.

“Now what?” asked Robien, breathing hard.

Amergin gripped the dead man’s collar. “Bring him.”

They dragged the bodies over the hill. Amergin proceeded confidently, leading Robien to a small depression in the hillside. This hollow was full of brambles. Amergin shoved the dead man in then took Robien’s victim and pushed him in, too. Robien thought they were done, but Amergin retraced their path, plucking up bent grass and wiping away any bloodstains. When he was done, only the most expert tracker could have detected where the bodies had been taken.

By now the frightened horses had overtaken their comrades, causing consternation among the other riders. They came galloping back. Robien made ready to retire, but Amergin gripped his wrist hard. He spread his grass cape over the bounty hunter.

“Watch. Listen.”

The brigands circled the spot where their companions had disappeared, prodding the grass with their lances.

“Juric! Vago!” the leader called.

More than once the men passed within spitting distance of the Kagonesti but failed to detect them.

“Keph, where are they?” one man cried.

“Hiding. They must be!”

“Vago wouldn’t do that!”

“Neither would Juric!”

Keph said, “Then they’ve deserted, the scum.”

The dead men’s friends protested vigorously. Keph cursed them into silence. “If they didn’t desert, what happened to them? Did they disappear into thin air?”

A gaunt, hawk-faced rider pushed the helmet back on his head and fearfully scanned the sky. “Something took them,” he intoned.

His leader scoffed. “What? A dragon? Don’t you think we would’ve seen anything big enough to carry off two armed men?”

Hawk-face would not be talked down. “There’s a reason why this land is deserted. There are wild spirits, malign powers abroad here!”

“You’re mad, Botha! The gods are dead, and all the ghosts died with them ages ago!” Keph circled his nervous horse. “Besides, this land isn’t empty. Farmers live here.”

“Maybe they have a pact with the dark spirits-”

Keph struck Botha with a mailed fist. The blow rocked him, but the hard-riding warrior kept his seat.

“That’s enough!” Keph snapped. “There are no spirits! There’s no power here greater than our Lord Rakell, understand?” He circled again. “Juric and Vago have deserted, I tell you. You heard ’em. They didn’t want picket duty, so they ran off. They’re hiding in the grass out there, somewhere. If I had time, I’d set a fireline and smoke ’em out, but Lord Rakell’s on the move and expects us back before sundown. So be men, not children! Let’s go!”

The bandits rode away. Once they were out of sight, Robien threw back the grass mat and sat up, drawing deep breaths. It was nearly airless under there.

“Seeds are planted,” Amergin said, shucking off his camouflage hood and gauntlets. “Now we will let them grow a little.” He started back to the bramble gully.

“What are you going to do now?” Robien called after him.

Amergin didn’t answer.

Robien followed, curious. Amergin dragged the bodies out and lashed their wrists together then draped the dead raiders on two of his scarecrows, looping their arms around his figures’ necks. It was a macabre scene, two corpses each hugging a scarecrow as if they were long-lost comrades. Rakell’s men were sure to be frightened or infuriated when they found them. Seeing Amergin’s macabre ploy, Robien wasn’t sure which he felt himself.