“What happens to Nowhere once we’re gone?”
Ezu shrugged.
“I see. Did Rakell say anything else?”
“No, but there are things you should know.”
Ezu lowered his voice and glanced around conspiratorially. “Half the remaining bandits have abandoned him. When you killed his ogre mercenaries, many jumped on their horses and rode away.”
Howland felt a surge of hope. “How many are left?”
“Hard to say. Twelve? Or twenty? I didn’t see them altogether.”
Twenty! That greatly improved the odds. Howland wrung the eccentric foreigner’s hand.
“We may live through this yet!” he declared.
More soberly, he related the loss of Khorr, Amergin, and Carver. Ezu frowned and clasped a hand over his mouth.
“So many deaths! The poet, did you say? What a pity!”
A single trumpet blared outside. Howland jumped at the sound.
“How long did you have to deliver the message and for me to reply?”
“Not long enough, I think!”
They dashed outside. Defenders gathered on the redoubt shouted and gestured to the south plain. Howland darted around the hut and saw a small body of horsemen coming toward them.
“Rakell must have sent you go to distract us. It doesn’t matter.” Howland shucked off the cape and drew his sword. “Let’s get to a safer spot.”
As they made their way through the village he said, “You cast some kind of spell in Rakell’s tent to prevent my death. Will you do as much now to save us all?”
The mud squelched with every step. For a moment Ezu said nothing, then he replied, “I cannot interfere. I’m only an observer here.”
“Will you observe us dying? Will you stand by and allow yourself to be killed?” Howland demanded.
“No one will harm me,” Ezu said.
Again, such bland confidence. Who was Ezu, that no one dared raise a weapon to him? Filled with sudden anger, Howland raised his sword over Ezu’s head. Instead of thirty-two inches of tempered steel he was holding a bundle of five white lilies!
“What?” he said, dropping the flowers. Ezu clucked his tongue and retrieved Howland’s sword from the mud.
“Careful,” he said, handing over the bare blade. “You’ll still need this.”
Howland and Ezu scaled the redoubt, taking their place amid the remaining defenders. Raika handed him his helmet. The old soldier declined.
“I will fight without it,” he said.
The oblique rays shining under the clouds cast odd highlights on the scene. Everything seemed tinted gold, down to the muddiest, dirtiest farmer clutching a battered spear. By the gilding light, Howland could see Ezu’s news was true-the bandit camps north and east of the village looked empty and abandoned. A few scrappy tents still stood billowing in the breeze, but no men or horses were in sight.
Riding toward them at a modest trot was the last of Rakell’s bandit horde. No more than twenty, each rider bore a pennant on his lance tip.
With water standing in the trench and the bottom of the redoubt, everyone left in Nowhere stood atop the triangular wall. Babes in arms, elders too bent to stand up, sick, wounded, and dying filled out the ranks of the hale. Glancing left and right, Howland estimated his effective strength at sixteen.
“No one’s to leave the wall!” he shouted. “Let the enemy come to us! Make ready the catapult stones. If they ride within ten yards of the foot of the mound, roll a stone down on them!”
The bandits entered the village at three points previously breached in the barricade. No one contested their entry. Once inside, they reformed on the common. Dressing their ranks, the horsemen waited silently.
A single horse and rider moved out from the line. He came within a dozen yards of the redoubt and stopped.
“Howland uth Ungen!”
Leaning on a well-worn spear, the old soldier yelled back, “What do you want, Deyamon?”
The bandit chief known as Lord Rakell folded his arms across the pommel of his saddle.
“So, you remember me now?”
“I do. Deyamon uth Kayr, a minor Knight in the army of Lord Burnond Everride. Why did you leave his service? Weren’t his slaughters enough for you?”
“Any man, even a battle-tested warrior like Lord Burnond, craves peace once he reaches a certain age,” the bandit said tersely. “Burnond put up his sword, but I cannot. I was not born to collect taxes or drill goblin infantry. I came here to make a kingdom of my own!”
“Then you’ve failed.” Howland waved to the farmers and their families around him. “These people have seen to that.”
“Yes, I underestimated you, sergeant. I was wrong. Now I say for the last time, come down from there, and join with me. Together we’ll carve out a realm and rule it side by side!”
“Rule on the backs of the poor and helpless? No thank you.” He held up his sword. “Come and take us, or ride away, Deyamon. Those are your only choices.”
Rakell angrily snapped the visor of his helmet shut. His reply, if any, was lost when he did so, but he turned his horse back and rode quickly to his men. For a brief moment Howland thought the bandits might depart. He was wrong.
Hurrahing, the front row of horsemen spurred forward. Their lances were just long enough to reach the top of the redoubt wall.
“Lie down!” Howland called to his followers.
The sides of the earthen mound were too soft and steep for the horses to climb, so the bandits were left with no option but to ride up and down, poking at any hostile face that appeared on the rampart.
“Give ’em the stones!” Raika said. She and four village children rolled a sixty pound catapult shot to the edge and let go. Slowed a bit by the mud, the boulder still cut down a pair of horses, throwing the riders down as well. Cheering, the villagers rolled three more stones, but the bandits knew they were coming now and easily guided their mounts around them.
“Enough!” Howland said. “Save them for later!”
Rakell’s second and last line of bandits dismounted, drawing swords and fixing shields on their arms. They tramped through the muck past their floundering comrades.
Some of the boys peppered them with whippik darts, and those slingers taught by Amergin thickened the hail with stones and stars. The armored warriors shrugged off the bombardment and started up the slope.
“Line up here! Shoulder to shoulder, that’s right!” Howland and Raika pushed spear-armed villagers into a tight line while Robien cleared the non-combatants out of harm’s way.
“Lower your spears! Lean into them!”
Rakell’s men advanced into the spiny hedge of spear points. They beat the sharp tips aside with the swords and warded off thrusts with their shields. It was hard, fighting uphill, but their superior strength and training gradually overcame the other obstacles. Some farmers pulled back with shattered shafts and headless spears. Raika grabbed anyone retreating and forced them into line again.
“I’ve got no head!” wailed one farmer, waving his decapitated spear.
“I can see that!” Raika snapped, slapping the back of the poor man’s skull, “but you’ve got six feet of hardwood. Keep the enemy off with it!”
The first wave of attackers, seeing their comrades advancing, got off their horses and joined the fight. Many slipped and rolled down the soft earthen mound, but spurred on by Rakell’s example they rose and tried again.
The first bandits neared the rampart. Howland and Robien stepped up, swords ready. At the opposite end of the defender’s line, Raika drew her sword, too.
Howland saw Rakell in the midst of his men, struggling up the slope. He deliberately stepped back from the edge to allow the bandits room enough to stand on equal footing. The line of spears pivoted away, forming a new line at right angles to the first.
Rakell’s etched helmet bobbed into view. Howland waited. Robien moved in beside him.
“Leave him to me,” Howland said calmly. The bounty hunter acknowledged his words with a curt nod.