The Middle of Nowhere Page 3

  “How do you figure that?” asked the stranger in the hood with the gray brows.

  “She paid with gold and didn’t take change.”

  The fourth man, the one with the thick shoulders and bald pate, went to the bar and tired to free the dagger. The dark, stained oak held fast to the slim blade. With so short a handle to grasp, no one but an ogre could free the dagger or the coin.

  “Come on, Nils, let’s try another place.”

  Outside, they saw Raika ambling up the street. She was easy to follow, being taller than most. She glanced back once at the four strangers, gave them a hard stare, and pushed her way into another tavern, the Boar’s Tusk.

  “What about that place?” said Malek, pointing.

  Her long braid concealed by the hood, Caeta shrugged. “Any place folks gather will do.”

  The farmers wended their way toward the Boar’s Tusk, clutching each other’s cloaks. Robann was crowded by any standard, and to the innocent inhabitants of Nowhere, it was the most thickly populated place they’d ever been.

  Wilf, last in line, felt a strange hand grasping the back of his woolen wrap. Over his shoulder he spied a kender, the one from the Thirsty Beggar. He was holding onto Wilf with one hand while he guzzled purloined beer with the other.

  “Excuse me—?” Wilf said.

  The kender lowered the pitcher and belched loudly. “You’re excused, mate. I saw you fellas holding on each other, so I decided to join and up and see where you’re all going.”

  Up front, Malek felt a tug as those behind him stopped. He spied the unwanted addition to their little group.

  “What do you want?” he demanded of the kender.

  “Nothing special. Just makin’ my way.”

  “We’re poor men. We’ve nothing to steal.”

  “Steal?” The kender drew himself up in mock outrage.

  “You stole that beer,” said Nils.

  A hard roll fell from the kender’s pocket.

  “And that bread,” added Caeta.

  “Cheese and meat, too,” put in Wilf.

  With much affected dignity, the kender picked up the fallen roll and blew off the dirt. “I have every intention of paying!” he said. “As soon as I get some money,” he added, glaring at them. Turning on one heel, he marched away.

  “Wilf,” Malek said, “watch your back from now on!”

  The Boar’s Tusk was considerably more busy than the last establishment. As soon as the farmers entered, they ran up against a wall of sights, smells, and sounds. The tavern was narrow but deep, lit by three open skylights.

  “What now?” Wilf asked.

  “Look for ones with swords,” said Caeta. “They’re the ones we need.”

  Keeping close together, they insinuated themselves into the noisy crowd. Malek didn’t get five steps before half a flagon of wine was spilled on his shirt. It came from the hand of a sweaty fat man, who was gesticulating wildly as he related some tale to his companion, a red-bearded dwarf.

  “What? Eh, sorry, friend!” said the fat man, still waving his hands. Droplets of blood-red wine flew. “Girl, fetch another pipe of this Goodlund vintage! And one for my poor, sodden friend, here!”

  Malek tried to wave off the proffered drink. “I cannot repay the favor,” he protested.

  “Never mind!” The stout man seemed to always talk at the top of his lungs. “I don’t need wine poured on me, friend, just in me!”

  Caeta muttered in Malek’s ear, “We’ll scout the room.” With that, she, Wilf, and Nils were swallowed up by the press.

  A glazed clay cup of wine was thrust into Malek’s hands.

  “Falzen’s my name,” said the fat man. “This here’s Gorfon, Gorfon Tattermaul.” Falzen belched. “He’s a dwarf!”

  Malek nodded to them both with wide eyes. “Malek, Gusrav’s son.”

  “You’re not from around here,” said Gorfon. He had a deep, penetrating voice that Malek found he could hear well, even through the din.

  “I’m from”—he almost said “Nowhere,” but he’d grown tired of explaining the village’s name. “—east of here. I’ve never been to Robann before.”

  “It’s a stinking sinkhole, ain’t it?” Falzen said. “More so since the wars ended. Every out-of-work spear-toter north of the Newsea passes through here, seems like.”

  Malek drank deeply of the Goodlund wine as his mind raced ahead. Lots of soldiers looking for employment was good news.

  “Are you a warrior?” he asked, looking around for his companions.

  “Me? May all the forgotten gods defend me! I’m no hack-and-slasher! Steel’s my line—iron and steel.”

  That accounted for his expansive ways. Falzen must be a wealthy man. Eyeing the dwarf, Malek said, “Are you in the metal trade as well, Master Tattermaul?”

  “Aye. My brothers and I have a new concession underway. In the east.” Tattermaul let that vague remark hang in the air. “A new iron mine.”

  Malek almost choked. What was it Lord Rakell had said? “Dwarves of the Throtian Mining Guild had established a mine in the Khalkist Mountains?”

  “Of course, the price of iron is down, thanks to the current peace,” Falzen went on. His small eyes shone. “But who knows? War may break out at any time.” He raised his cup to his dwarf colleague. “Here’s to war and the blades it takes to fight ’em!”

  Gorfon merely grunted.

  As soon as he could, Malek slipped away. Loathing the callous steel merchant, he spun out an elaborate plan to waylay Falzen and the dwarf, holding them hostage against the safe return of Laila and the rest—

  He gave up the idea before he’d gone five steps. Four farmers, unskilled at anything but raising crops, weren’t likely to overcome a rich merchant (doubtless with his own private guards) and a thick-armed dwarf. Besides, even if they could kidnap Falzen and Gorfon, once they returned them, Rakell could raid their village again with impunity. No, the old plan was best: Find real fighters to defend Nowhere by defeating Rakell’s marauders.

  Malek found his companions in a boisterous crowd surrounding an incipient arm-wrestling contest. On one side was an enormous man, seemingly carved out of sinew and hard muscle. He wore a sleeveless leather vest studded with brass rings, and his coal-black hair was gathered into a single long scalplock. A narrow mustache drooped on either side of his chin. His forearms bore many thin, parallel scars.

  Across from this fearsome man was an even more startling figure. Bulking larger than any human in the tavern was a great bull-headed creature, a minotaur from the islands across the Blood Sea. Naked to the waist, the minotaur presented an expanse of heavily muscled chest. His dark, bovine eyes were soft in the shadowed recesses away from the skylights. When he blinked, Malek noticed the creature had very long brown lashes.

  Onlookers howled bets and waved sweaty fistfuls of coins at the combatants. In spite of the minotaur’s superior size, betting was heavily in favor of the burly man. Judging by the shouts around him, his name was Durand.

  “Six to four, six to four for Durand!”

  Oddsmakers scratched tallies on tabletops with lumps of chalk. More money appeared in all sort of denominations—gold coins of a dozen nations, steel rings (the common pay of soldiers), square silver plaques, uncut gems, and even a sprinkling of humble coppers. The odds rose to two to one in favor of the human. Wilf got so excited he tried to bet the buckle of his cloak, but Nils restrained him.

  “All right, beef-man,” said Durand with a sneer. “Shall we be about it?”

  “I regret this. I really do,” replied the minotaur. His voice was as low and rumbling as his physique predicted, but his intonation was surprisingly gentle.

  “Enough regrets!” Durand presented his brawny right arm, palm out. “Put up your paw!”

  The minotaur’s great hand almost completely enclosed the human’s. “Notice, please, my hand has the same form as yours,” the bull-man said. “It is not a paw.”

  Sinews in Durand’s arm leaped out as he threw his strengt
h against the minotaur. Everyone gathered around the table began shouting, most crying “Durand! Durand!” as the man tried to force the minotaur’s arm down. So far, neither contestant had budged.

  Veins appeared in Durand’s neck, throbbing with effort. He bared yellow teeth and bore down, bowing his head to the task. Still the minotaur’s arm did not shift. Quite absently, he raised his left hand and scratched behind his short horns. Durand grunted curses at his opponent.

  The minotaur had few partisans in the crowd up to now. Seeing him resist Durand so effortlessly led a few to chant, “Go, bull-man, go!”

  Eyes popping, Durand let out a roar of defiance. His elbow rose until howls from the onlookers made him bring it down again.

  “This is tedious,” said the minotaur. “I really must go now.”

  Without warning, he swept his arm down to the table. Everyone heard the loud pop as Durand’s forearm snapped.

  After a heartbeat of silence, the crowd erupted. Those who had bet on the minotaur whooped with joy. Durand’s supporters cried foul. It wasn’t long before a fist was thrown, then a flurry of weighty mugs followed. Touts scrambled to recover the wagers before a riot broke out. All the while Durand writhed on the floor, grasping his broken arm.

  Someone flew backward into Malek, bowling him over. Wilf received a fist in the face and spun away, stunned. Tough old Caeta picked up a stool and used it to fend off a barrage of cups and mugs while Nils frantically dodged punches thrown at his head.

  Malek got to his knees. He crawled toward the only calm person in sight: the minotaur. Several men fell over him along the way, but Malek reached the bull-man’s side. Liquid brown eyes regarded him impassively.

  “Any shelter in a storm!” Malek said.

  Just then he spied the gleam of bare bronze. A man in a soldier’s tunic with a bloody nose loomed behind the minotaur, dagger drawn. Malek tried to push the minotaur out of the way, crying, “Look out!” He might as well have tried to shift Mount Estvar.

  The minotaur rose and turned. Easily seven feet tall, he towered so high his attacker lost his nerve. He gaped at the bull-man, and another brawler flattened him with a bench.

  “Time to go,” rumbled the minotaur. He grabbed Malek by the back of his shirt.

  “Hey, wait!” Malek flailed helplessly, his feet off the floor.

  “You did me a good turn. I’ll see you safely out of this fracas.”

  “But my friends—!” He pointed at Nils and the others.

  “Very well.”

  Still holding Malek, the minotaur waded into the melee, swatting aside anyone in his way. Once Nils, Wilf, and Caeta were together, he boomed, “Follow me,” and started for the door.

  It was a wild trip for Malek. He kicked and struck at anyone who got in his way, but it was hard to fight while dangling in mid-air. On the way he saw Falzen cowering under a table, while Gorfon stood over him, an axe resting on his shoulder. Brawlers gave the armed dwarf wide berth.

  Three men cut the minotaur off, blocking the door. “Stop, you!” one of them shouted. He carried a short sword already stained with blood. “You cost us a lot of money!”

  “That’s hardly my fault,” answered the minotaur mildly. “It was no contest. That should have been plain.”

  “Shut up, beef! Pay up, or we’ll take our losses out of your hide!”

  His friend, armed with a broken bottle, said, “Wonder if we can make a roast of him?”

  “Naw,” said the sword-bearer. “By the look of him, I bet his mother was a tough old cow.”

  Thump! Malek hit the floor on the seat of his pants. It hurt, but it was more the indignity he resented. He forgot his small discomfort when he saw the minotaur charge. Lowering his horned head, he caught the man’s sword and with a twist, tore it from his hands. Another sideways swipe, and he threw the swordsman six feet onto a table. Next he backhanded the bottle-carrier, leaving him flat on his back, out cold. The third troublemaker, seeing his armed friends undone, turned tail and fled.

  Bellowing, the minotaur burst through the closed tavern door, smashing the planks to flinders. People in the street scattered at the sight of the raging bull-man. Malek and the farmers came tumbling after him. They piled up against the immobile minotaur’s back.

  The vast horned head snapped around, and Malek felt hot breath on his face.

  “Little men, do not trouble me!”

  “Don’t you remember? I’m the one who warned you!” Malek replied.

  Nostrils flaring, the minotaur regained his composure. “I am shamed,” he said with a profound sigh. “To lose my temper over such a childish taunt! Still, no one calls my mother a c—” He bit off the hateful epithet.

  “Not more than once,” muttered Nils, behind his brother.

  Shouts rang out from inside the Boar’s Tusk. The men the minotaur had brushed aside had aroused the angry, drunken mob inside against the bull-man. They were coming, and there were two dozen of them at least.

  “Time to go.” The minotaur sprinted up the street, drawing stares from passersby as he ran. His long legs ate up ground at a tremendous rate, and the farmers struggled to keep up. A patrol of armed men appeared in front of him.

  Someone cried, “Silver Circle guards!”

  All the businesses in this part of town paid “protection” to the Silver Circle gang. News of the disturbance in the Boar’s Tusk had swiftly reached the gang’s stronghold, and this party of footmen had been dispatched to quell the riot and protect the gang’s valuable concession.

  Seeing naked swords and spears, the minotaur did a quick about-face. The tavern mob had flooded the street. The minotaur forced his way through the angry crowd, tossing people right and left with hands and horns. The Silver Circle guards charged.

  Malek waved and shouted, “This way! Follow us! Come on, this way!”

  They ran down a side street, deeply shadowed by the setting sun and smelling damp. Up a narrow alley and over a fence, and they reached the rear of a large, ramshackle wooden building. Pausing for breath, the farmers and the bull-man listened for sounds of pursuit. There was noise aplenty, but it sounded as if the town guards were fighting the mob.

  “I guess we escaped!” Caeta gasped, doubling over.

  “Thank you for your help,” said the minotaur. “I think I shall leave now. Too many hotheads in this town. Too many swords.”

  “Wait,” Malek said. “What is your name?”

  “Khorr, of the Thickhorn Clan.”

  “Wait, Khorr! Stay here until things calm down.”

  “What is this place?” The minotaur sniffed air filled with straw and horse dung. “A stable?”

  “Our lodging,” Wilf said wryly. “We can’t afford the hostels here.”

  Planting his hands on his hips, Khorr surveyed the decrepit stable. “No one would look for the scion of the Thickhorn Clan in such a place!” He laughed, and the livestock within squirmed and pranced at the sound.

  They went in and closed the rickety door behind them. In the loft, the farmers’ meager bundles lay hidden under loose straw. As they settled in, backs against the wall, Caeta said, “How do you come to be so far from your homeland, Master Khorr?”

  “It’s a sad tale, long, and lacking in romance. Suffice it to say, I am exiled from the land of my clan, and I know not when I may return. Five years I’ve been traveling in foreign climes.”

  “On the run, eh?” said Nils. He rummaged through his bundle and distributed dry barley cakes to his comrades. Noting Khorr’s interest, he gave the bull-man two cakes. “Kill someone, did you—if I may ask?”

  “No. I chose a path for my life my clan could not accept.”

  Malek couldn’t imagine what such a path might be. Pirate? Assassin?

  “You see,” said Khorr shyly, “I am a poet.”

  Everyone stopped chewing. “Poet?” said Wilf.

  “Quite. I yearn to inscribe my name on the hearts of listeners everywhere, alongside the great bards of my race: Yagar, Kingus, Gonz …”
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br />   “If your people have had great bards in the past, why did your family oppose you becoming a poet?” asked Malek reasonably.

  Khorr made short work of two barley cakes that would have fed a farmer for two days. “Well, the Thickhorn clan have always been seafarers,” he said, licking his blunt fingers. “My grandsire, Khol, navigated the Blood Sea Maelstrom, and my Great-uncle Ghard won the Battle of Cape Balifor against the pirate fleet of Khurman the Terrible eighty-eight years ago. I wrote six hundred triplets about the battle …” Suddenly abashed, Khorr stopped and cleared his throat. “You see, for one of my name to remain at home in Kothas reciting verse was deemed a disgrace. They ordered me to sign on a ship, but I refused. When I defied my clan, they cast me out.”

  Silent lightning flickered through the gaping roof tiles. The smell of rain was in the air. Caeta passed around a goatskin bag. It only held water, but it was all they had.

  Malek explained who they were and why they’d come to Robann. “Unless we can find warriors to defeat Rakell and rescue our loved ones, our village is doomed,” he finished. Thinking of Laila raised a lump in his throat all the water in the Eternal Spring could not wash down.

  “There is much wickedness in the world,” Khorr said solemnly.

  “Where will you go next?” asked Caeta hopefully.

  “South and west, I think. The lands around the New Sea are said to have a liking for the arts. Perhaps I will find a place there,” said Khorr.

  “Or …” Malek steadied himself to say aloud what he’d been thinking. “Or you could come to our village!”

  “I’m not a warrior.”

  “You have twice the strength of any human,” Malek said. “Come with us! We’ll feed you well and house you. If you make a name defending us, maybe you can return to Kothas!”

  Khorr stood, horns scraping the rafters. “Hmmm. I thank you for your hospitality, but I cannot accept your offer. Fighting is a brutal business. That is why I am a poet.”

  Thunder broke overhead, and rain poured down. The roof leaked, but the farmers moved to a dry corner. Glumly, Malek turned his face to the wall.