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.