Howland dodged between two stakes. Below he saw the trench was crowded with wild-eyed, frightened farmers.
“Fangoth!” he growled, gasping from his sprint. Heel to toe, he threaded his way across the deep ditch. Wilf and the three remaining farmers came hard on his heels.
“They’re coming! Stand to!” he cried, throwing himself down the opposite slope of the dirt mounded up behind the trench. Khorr repeated the order in his booming voice.
Fifteen riders galloped out of the fog. The small party were plainly astonished to find themselves charging a well-prepared defense instead of a wide open village. Reining in frantically, they managed to avoid impaling themselves on the stakes, but this left them open for a ferocious counterstroke.
Howland stood up on the ridge of the earthen mound, sword in hand. “Now! Give it back to them!” he roared.
The farmers in the trench poked and thrust at the milling horses. Pricked on the flanks or belly, a few horses reared, throwing their riders. Climbing out of the trench, Khorr and five village men swarmed on the fallen bandits, battering them with stone-headed maces.
Screaming at the top of their lungs, Raika and her spear carriers came running up behind Howland. They were out of range but howled and grimaced as threateningly as they could. From the rooftops nearest the north end of the trench, Carver flung darts with his whippik. He was fast, but his aim was off, and he hit no one.
Clearly shocked to meet such fierce resistance, the bandits quickly broke off battle and rode away. Watching them go, Howland wished he had four good archers. He could have picked them all off from the mound.
Swallowed by the fog, the bandits left four dead behind, in addition to those slain by Howland’s patrol. Elated villagers whooped and hollered, some mounting the rampart in front of the trench and baring their bottoms in the direction of the fleeing enemy.
Howland swiftly stifled such foolishness. He strode up and down the mound, barking orders.
“Who’s hurt? If you’re hurt so much you can’t fight, report to the camp for treatment!” The elderly women of Nowhere had been given the task of tending the village’s wounded. “If you’re not hurt, shut your mouths and take your places. Do you think you’ve won? They’ll be back, and you’ll get arrows in your arse if you keep up this stupid display!”
Raika was disappointed that she and her band had not been able to participate in the skirmish. Howland sent her away, growling, “You’ll get your chance to fight!”
Whatever joy the villagers felt at their first repulse of the bandits quickly died when they heard the trumpets blow. First from the north, then the east, south, and west, brass horns blared through the fog, announcing the presence of Lord Rakell on every side. Nowhere was surrounded.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
All too soon the late morning sun scoured away the mist. What was revealed when the fog burned off made every heart in Nowhere skip a beat.
Arrayed on the plains around the village were scores of horsemen, many more than the thirty-odd riders who had originally swooped down on the farmers and carried off their people to slave in mines. From his perch atop the tallest house, Carver counted eighty-nine horsemen, ten ogres, and most ominously of all, a wheeled catapult drawn by six brawny oxen.
Standing on the stone wall surrounding the well, Howland, Raika, Robien, and Amergin watched the bandits as they galloped about They did not close on the village though, not yet. Howland had an idea why.
“Rakell isn’t here yet,” he surmised. “Look at them! All this to-ing and fro-ing! No decent commander would countenance such a waste of energy. Rakell must be delayed.”
“You mean he may show up with more men?” said Raika.
“No more than a dozen, I’ll wager-Rakell and his personal retinue.”
“The odds are too much. I never bargained on this,” Robien said.
“None of us did.” Howland lowered his hands from his brow, where he’d shaded his eyes against the glare. “I hope none of you had any other plans for your life.”
He jumped down, calling for Caeta, her father the Elder, and other prominent villagers. Old Calec tottered up to Howland wearing a rusty iron pot on his head. At first Howland took it to be a misused cooking pot, but on closer inspection he saw it was an old-style Solamnic helmet, of the kind worn by the yeoman infantry.
“Where did you get that?” he said sharply.
Calec touched the helmet absently. “Marren’s house. When we cleared it out, we found many old armaments,” he replied. “What do we do now, Sir Howland? The enemy is more numerous than we expected-”
Howland plucked the helmet off the aged man’s head. Judging by the nicks and dents, it had seen hard use.
“Marren had this? Laila’s father?”
“Aye, with some other martial goods.” The elder gestured, and the villagers behind him displayed various soldierly items: a pair of leg guards, an armored skullcap, and a good war dagger with an iron blade a foot long. Howland examined these things closely. They were all of Solamnic workmanship, a style he knew well. He dated the arms to his youth, thirty to forty years ago. Thirty years ago Howland had been a proud and powerful young warrior, serving the gracious lord Harbard.
“Sir Howland!” Robien prodded him insistently. “Sir Howland, the enemy!”
The present returned like a slap in the face. Howland saw a squadron of lancers were trotting straight at the trench.
“Everyone to your places!” he cried. “They mean to test our mettle. Show them what we’re made of!”
He hurried to Khorr with Robien at his heels. Raika mustered her little company of spearmen, and Amergin organized his slingers.
The bandits came on deliberately, sizing up the defenses as they came. Bodies of the men who’d fallen during the melee in the fog still lay in the newly mown field.
From atop the earthen bulwark Howland peered into the trench. Khorr had taken his place in the center of the ditch, flanked by an equal numbers of villagers on either side.
“Fight hard!” Howland said. “They’re searching for weakness. Don’t show them any!”
Arrows flickered into the dirt on either side of Howland’s feet. The old Knight disregarded the danger until Robien pulled him down. How he wished the farmers had bows of their own!
“Get Amergin,” he said quietly. “Tell Carver to hold the whippiks until the enemy presents a better target.”
Robien raced away with Howland’s orders. When the bandits were within lance-reach of the line of stakes, Howland stood and shouted, “Now, Khorr, now!”
The minotaur came roaring out of the trench, followed by screaming farmers brandishing spears, clubs, and axes. They had strict orders not the leave the shelter of the stakes, but with the hated foe so near, some forgot what they’d been told and ran out too far. Two villagers were promptly trampled into the dirt. They might have perished had not Khorr stormed in, swinging a mace in each hand. He clubbed down two riders and dragged the impetuous farmers to safety.
Noting the frenzy of the villagers’ resistance, the bandits broke and rode away. Howland guessed what was next. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Amergin and his slingers were coming. They were, at a dead run, Robien with them. A quick check showed Carver and the children were in place on the rooftops.
Fifty yards from the stakes, the riders suddenly turned and spurred hard, charging back on Khorr’s troops. As Khorr had been instructed, he kept his men out of the trench, seemingly confused and leaderless.
“Stand where you are!” the minotaur boomed. The farmers shifted nervously, fearful of the thundering horses and bright lance tips rushing at them. Above, Howland held his breath. He could have shouted instructions to Khorr and his men, but he wanted to see how they would perform without him.