“Spearmen, kneel!”
In ragged order, the farmers went down on one knee, extending their spears forward. They filled the gaps between the larger, heavier stakes.
Ten yards. Eight. Six … two of the villagers yelped and dropped their weapons, scampering frantically into the trench. Howland swore out loud. The rest held.
The bandits boldly charged home. They must have believed the villagers would break. All they had to do then was maneuver between the sharpened obstacles and massacre the farmers. The riders were brave, but their judgment poor. Most of the farmers stood fast, and the stakes were closer together than they appeared.
Horses screamed and reared as they collided with the sharp wooden points. Warriors fell heavily from the saddle. In moments the gallant charge became a mass of bloody confusion.
“Now, slingers! Now, whippiks!”
Around Howland, Amergin and his slingers loosed a storm of pellets on the trapped horsemen. Lacking enough metal stars, they had to use smooth stones, which while deadly against unarmored targets, were not so effective against iron helmets and breastplates. The storm of flying stones took their toll, however, and the whippik darts completed the rout. More than one rider, hearing the terrible sound of airborne projectiles, glanced upward to receive a stone or dart in the face.
One by one the bandits turned tail and galloped to safety. The last to fall was a hard-riding fellow at the rear of the formation. Amergin slipped one of his few remaining stars into his sling and let it fly. Sunlight flashed off the whirling, pointed disc until it buried itself in the small of the rider’s back. He threw up his hands and slid lifelessly from his horse.
Khorr raised a cheer, which the villagers atop the mound echoed again and again. From the rooftops, the whippik corps jeered the retreating brigands with all the crude and cruel vigor that comes naturally to children.
“Enough!” Howland said gruffly. “We haven’t won yet.” To give weight to his words, a score of archers rode forward, out of range of slings or whippiks, and peppered the trench and mound with arrows. Everyone hastily took cover.
“I count eight,” Robien said, sliding his sword back into its scabbard. “And six animals.”
Howland peered over the trench. Eight new bodies littered the ground. He didn’t bother to count slain horses.
“They won’t attack here again,” Howland said. “Next they’ll try the houses.” The perimeter of the tiny village suddenly seemed very wide and long. Where would the enemy strike?
He told Amergin, “Go to Raika. I’ll join you after I have a word with Khorr. Robien, stay with me.”
Amergin led his slingers away. Howland and the bounty hunter climbed over the rim of the mound and slid down into the trench. Wild-eyed farmers presented a hedge of spear points to him when they landed.
“Easy, lads. Don’t you know your own commander?” said Robien.
“Beg pardon, sir!” said the nearest villager, a burly woman with stout arms and a childlike face.
“It’s all right. You did well.” Howland slipped among them, patting the sweating, trembling farmers on the back as he went. “You fought well. Be proud!”
“They’re not so tough!” declared a young man in a leather apron, the village cobbler.
“They won’t mess with us again!” said his companion. Howland let them brag. Soon enough events would deflate their buoyant spirits.
He found Khorr standing over the two men who’d run away from the bandits’ attack. They huddled together miserably in the bottom of the trench. Though Khorr towered over them, looking very fierce, Howland could tell the minotaur poet was sorry for them.
“What am I to do with you?” Khorr said not very forcefully. “Every hand is needed. I can’t send you back to wait with the gray-haired grannies, can I?”
“Answer your commander!” Howland barked when the men said nothing.
“No, sir!” they chorused.
“They must stay,” Howland said for all to hear. “No one is excused from fighting, not now. We can’t spare anyone! Put these white-livered dastards among those who fought most bravely. Maybe their courage will rub off.”
The unhappy pair slunk away. In private tones, Howland said, “Keep alert. I don’t think they’ll attack you again, not today, anyway.” He pointed to the opposite end of Nowhere. “They’ll try the east end next.”
“How do you know, sir?” the minotaur asked.
“Rakell’s not here yet. Some underling must be in command. I suspect he wants to impress his master and capture the village before Rakell arrives. I’ve watched the bandits. They’re fine riders, but they know nothing of tactics. Their next move will be to attack as far away from the trench as they can, thinking they’re being foxy.” Howland grinned. “I’ll teach them a thing or two.”
“Yes, sir!”
Khorr boosted Robien and the old Knight out of the trench. As man and elf descended the earthen mound behind the trench, they heard the minotaur’s deep voice proclaim,
Let us sing of wind and wave and wonder,
Shouting seven songs of wild wanderings!
Sea and sky, land and lie,
Ballads long and martial-!
“Windwave Ballads, first canto,” Robien declared.
Howland smiled. Fighter or not, Khorr was an inspiration to his men. Many captains counted as greater warriors could not claim that.
As he crossed the village common, ignoring the cowering old women and weeping babies, Howland saw columns of dust rising outside the ring of huts. The air was still, so the dust gave an excellent indication of where the bandits were moving. Large numbers were riding hard from west to east, just as Howland predicted.
He bumped solidly into someone. He was about to shove the lout aside when he realized it was Ezu.
“The battle is joined?”
“Yes. Stay out of the way, will you?” Howland tried to slip by, but Ezu moved the same way, and they collided again.
“I beg your pardon!”
“Get out of my way!” Howland snapped. He stood stock still until Ezu stepped carefully to one side. The Knight strode on, leaving Robien to catch up.
“I hope you win!” Ezu called after him.
“I wouldn’t give you two coppers for your life if we don’t,” Howland fumed to himself.
Movement at the edge of his vision caught the Knight’s eye. Carver and his young cohorts were moving along the row of houses, the kender leaping over the gap between huts then catching each child as they followed. They chortled with delight, sounds that cheered and chilled Howland at the same time. He was glad they were not scared. He was appalled they were not terrified.
Raika paced back and forth in front of her recruits. They tried to look soldierly, but their drab, loose-fitting clothes and unkempt appearance spoiled any semblance of warriorlike demeanor. Their spears leaned this way and that. Trembling with excitement, Raika snatched the spear from Bakar’s hands and rapped his skull with the shaft. He howled, clasping his head.
“You’re a soldier, not a scarecrow!” she yelled. “Try to act like one!”
Amergin and the slingers stood in a loose half-circle, facing the arc of houses that enclosed the east end of the village. There was a small, rain-washed gully beyond the huts, deep enough to hide a man lying down but not deep enough to hinder a horse. On his own initiative, Amergin had sown this gully with strands of thorny creeper.
The houses, packed with dirt, were linked together by a series of disguised obstacles-chicken fences and animal pens, reinforced with stones and heavy layers of earth, cesspools with their plank roofs removed, nearly invisible lengths of horsehair twine strung between buildings at the precise height of a mounted man. When Howland and Robien arrived, everyone was tense but ready.
Smoke drifted over Nowhere. Raika stretched up on her toes to see what was burning.