Howland pulled out the goatskin parchment he’d procured that afternoon and examined the simple map he’d drawn of Nowhere. He beckoned Malek, Nils, and Caeta to look at it with him. Though blind, Calec joined them.
“These are useful ideas.” He ran a finger across the drawing. “Where did the raiders come from before?”
Malek pointed. “They approached from the south.” He tapped the parchment at the open end of the horseshoe of houses. “When they were nearer, they circled around and rode in from the west.”
It made sense. Ogres and horses need room to maneuver, and it was easier to funnel them into the open end of the village than to squeeze them between huts.
“We might be able to close this open ground with a trench,” Howland said.
“Add a barrier of sharpened stakes to fend off horses,” suggested Robien.
Howland studied his map, frowning. “Once the bandits find they can’t just ride in as they did before, they’ll try to break through the ring of houses. The huts are too flimsy to stop ogres,” he muttered.
“Fill them with dirt,” said Khorr.
The leaders, clustered around the map, looked up at the hulking poet.
“Fill the huts with the dirt left over from digging the trench,” the minotaur said. “It has to go somewhere. If the houses are full of dirt, no one can break through them.”
One or two villagers sent up a wail, at the idea of filling their homes with dirt.
Howland grinned a little. “This affair is beginning to intrigue me!”
“Then you’ll stay and fight, after all?” asked the elder.
“If your people stand with us, we’ll stay,” the Knight declared.
Many of the younger farmers cheered, and their cries were echoed by Howland’s motley troop. Some older villagers still seemed unsure.
“If we resist, Lord Rakell will kill everyone of us,” one said.
“Those who do not fight do not deserve to live!” old Calec growled.
He seized Sir Howland’s hand in rough but fervent fellowship. The Knight shifted the aged farmer’s grip from the downward, country folks’ grip to the upright warrior style.
“Now we are sworn to the task. Time is short. Let’s begin,” said Howland.
The outline of the trench was scratched in the earth that night. By dawn, digging was underway. Baskets were filled with dry earth and hauled to the farthest houses. The villagers cleared their belongings from the huts and dumped the dirt inside. When full, each hut would hide a mound of earth nine feet high.
According to Howland’s instructions, each member of his band took five or six villagers to train. Carver gained an instant following among the Nowhere children, eleven of whom eagerly lined up to learn the secrets of the whippik. Raika showed the best weavers in the village How to lash round stones onto rake handles to serve as maces. Khorr stripped to the waist and joined in digging, where he did the work of four men. A small contingent worked alongside him, and he recited the minotaur war epic Six Axes for King Banu as they labored on the trench. Amergin and Robien took their bands of followers into the fields to learn how to lay forester traps. Elderly villagers were set to converting garden tools to spears.
Howland, Hume, Malek, and Nils looked on as the preparations began.
Malek said, “Sir Howland, did you mean what you said? Is Nowhere really doomed?”
“I would not be here still if I thought so.”
Thus reassured, Malek and Nils picked up their packs and walking sticks and set out to scout Rakell’s camp.
Alone with his leader, Hume said, “You made them believe it, sir.”
Grim-faced, Howland accepted his comrade’s judgment. “I did what I had to. People too afraid to greet their defenders stand no chance against ogres and mounted brigands. I had to stir them up, find the rams among the lambs.”
They started after the brothers, down a path through the waving lake of grain.
“Tell me truly, Sir Howland, can we win?” Hume asked.
“No honest commander ever knows that,” was the Knight’s sober reply.
Where the farmed land ended, the wild land took over. Stiffer than barley, plains grass did not bow with the evening wind. It stood against the breeze, sighing and shivering. The well-marked path from Nowhere soon faded into the undergrowth. Hume drew his sword and took the lead, cutting a path for the others.
A hundred paces beyond the cultivated field all traces of settled life vanished. The change was profound. In the standing barley, men were the masters, and the wild creatures of the plain were interlopers. Just a few steps away from the growing grain, roles were reversed. Farmer or warrior, in the wilderness everyone was alone.
Nils related that as a boy he’d hunted rabbits here, creeping through the high weeds with a crude, two-pronged spear. Half a day’s walk south of Nowhere there was a stream, he said, a brook that flowed from the east a few miles before vanishing.
“The westernmost spur of the mountains lies more than forty miles from here,” Howland told Malek. “If my memory and the maps of my old master, Garab uth Dreher, can be trusted, that is.”
“Forty miles! Are we going that far?” asked Malek.
“We can’t spare the time. If we don’t find any trace of Rakell’s force by noon tomorrow, we’ll return to Nowhere.”
Stars appeared in the purple sky, lighting up one by one like lanterns hung in distant windows. The party rested under a wind-tortured elm tree, drinking from the same flask and eating from a common bag of parched corn.
“How long have you been a soldier, Sir Howland?” asked Nils.
“All my life. I was born to it.”
“Did you always serve this Lord Garab?”
“No.” The Knight took a long swig of cider. “My first liege was the noble Harbard uth Farnan, may he rest forever in the company of fallen heroes.”
Hume rubbed his bare dome. “I know that name. Lord Harbard was a great Knight?”
“A great Knight and a gallant warrior,” said Howland. “From the time I could walk I served his house. I would have-should have-died for him.”
Awkward silence engulfed the lonely elm. Hume and the farmers remembered the state Howland had been in when they found him in Robann. Was his fall into degradation and despair linked to the fate of Lord Harbard?
Malek screwed up his courage and began to ask, but Howland replied before the questoin was complete. Night shielded the Knight’s long face, so only his voice transmitted the pain of his long-ago memories.
“I was but six and twenty when the end came. It was a terrible time, the Chaos War. The Order gave Lord Harbard the task of defending the city of Fangoth from the Knights of Takhisis. He had an army of five thousand, which seemed like more than enough to do the job. Four thousand were yeoman infantry, free men trained in arms and called up in time of war to defend our country. Backing up the yeomen were four hundred mounted knights and six hundred archers, who were elves from the old Qualinesti realm. With this force, Lord Harbard was confident he could defeat treble his number in Nerakan levies.”
Nils and Malek were ignorant of politics outside their land, but the deep sorrow in Howland’s tone forestalled them from asking for details.
“Fangoth is ringed on three sides by heavy forest. Only the east lay open, and from the east the enemy came, three thousand five hundred of them. In command was Burnond Everride, the Hammer of Nordmaar, the plunderer of Throt and Estwilde. Ah, what a bold and dangerous man! Had he known more honor, he could have been a gracious foe, but Highlord Burnond was too ruthless and cruel.
“His army seemed a joke to us. A thousand mercenary halberdiers from Saifhum-”
“Raika’s home?” said Hume.
Howland grunted an affirmative. “Rugged fighters, but their only loyalty was to their paymaster. Burnond had five hundred Knight-lancers of the Dark Order, but the bulk of his force was two thousand goblins, armed with pike and shield. Goblins! Can you imagine taking the field against Lord Harbard and free yeomen with a mob of stinking goblins?” The old Knight’s voice had risen almost to a shout. He mastered his anger and continued.