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Robien sprang forward, taking on the first bandit to reach the top. He kicked mud in the man’s face, blinding him. Scrubbing desperately with his mailed hand, the lead bandit failed to parry Robien’s long lunge. The elf’s slim sword found a gap and slid in. Robien had to use his foot to free his blade when the bandit went face down in the mud.

Rakell reached the top and found a clear space. Howland was waiting for him.

He opened his visor. “So, it is single combat with you, sergeant? You’re not gentle-born.”

“Noble is as noble does,” Howland barked. “I may be a disgraced man-at-arms, but you’re a thief and a murderer, so we can fight as equals, don’t you think?”

In answer, Rakell hurled himself at Howland. Fifteen years younger and five inches taller, he moved with surprising speed. Howland found the bandit chief’s blade flashed close indeed. Only by yielding ground did he keep off Rakell’s point.

He countered with short swings to keep Rakell off-balance. Once Howland’s blade skidded off the chief’s curved breastplate, and Rakell rewarded him with a heavy blow on the jaw. Howland staggered back, almost losing his grip on his sword. Stunned, he moved too slowly to counter the headlong thrust Rakell aimed at his chest. Howland brought his sword up, too late, too slowly.

Something gray and brown flashed between them. Howland saw Malek had leaped in front of him. The farmer hacked at Rakell with amateurish fury, enough so to force the former Knight back. Rakell countered with his shield, driving the boss into Malek’s gut. The valiant young farmer fell to his knees, all air gone from his lungs. Rakell stood over him, his blade poised to run Malek through.

With a clang, Howland interposed his sword. Angry to the point of foolhardiness, the old soldier punched Rakell through his open visor. Blood coursed from the bandit chief’s nose. Howland hit him again and kicked Malek until the latter crawled out of the way, collapsing out of Rakell’s reach.

On they dueled. Rakell scored a cut on Howland’s left forearm, and Howland beat a thrust and knocked the helmet off Rakell’s head. They drew apart, panting heavily. Rakell’s lip and chin were stained with blood, and Howland’s eye was swelling shut.

They exchanged four fast cuts, neither man budging, then Rakell evaded Howland’s blade with a viciously timed upthrust. It caught Howland in the hand. His sword spun away. He stepped back and drew his dagger, though an eight-inch weapon was meagre defense against Rakell’s long sword.

They both lunged, Howland turning under the taller man’s attack, trying to find a weakness in Rakell’s armor. They struggled and heaved until Howland suddenly felt Rakell stiffen in his grasp. Their eyes met. What Howland saw was not shock or fear but hatred-bitter, deep-rooted hatred.

Rakell’s knees folded, but Howland saw no obvious wounds on the man. No one was near enough to have stabbed the bandit, and he saw no arrow in Rakell either.

Still clutching Howland’s tattered sleeve, Rakell fell on his back, eyes wide and staring. He clung to life, shuddering, trying to bring his sword up for one last swing. In mercy, Howland finished his foe with a dagger thrust.

Finding Rakell’s helmet, he raised it on the stump of a spear shaft, crying, “Rakell is dead! Rakell is dead!”

Robien and Raika, still fighting, saw the bandit chief’s helmet and raised the cry themselves.

All along the line, the bandits turned their backs and fled. A few were struck down as they ran, but for the most part the farmers fell to their knees and gratefully watched the brigands leave. Before Rakell’s blood cooled on the churned earth, not a living bandit remained in Nowhere. Alone or in small groups, they rode pell-mell for the horizon, taking nothing with them but the blades in their hands and the armor on their backs.

A curious quiet fell over the village. Howland let the pole and helmet fall and sat down hard beside Rakell’s lifeless body. Next thing he knew, Robien was shaking him, saying, “Howland! Howland, can you speak?”

“Yes.”

“We did it, Sir Howland, we did it!”

Raika stalked over and dropped heavily by her commander. She voiced a few choice curses, but she hadn’t the strength to make them ring. She leaned against Howland’s back and groaned, “Is there any strong drink left in this forsaken hole?”

A jug appeared under her chin. Surprised, Raika looked up to see who held it.

“Drink,” said Caeta. “All we have is yours.”

Malek got to his feet and ran down the hill. Everyone knew where he was going. He dashed out of the village, straight for the bandits’ southern camp, crying “Laila!”

“You know, my family traces their line back to Kith-Kanan,” Robien said, grinning, “but I’ve never seen or heard of anything like the duel you had with Rakell! Bards will sing about it for a hundred years!”

Raika leaned forward to examine Rakell. She only meant to close his lifeless eyes, but as she turned his head away, she noticed something. Blinking once or twice, she settled back and drank deep from Caeta’s jug. It wasn’t fruit wine, or farmer’s barley dew either-it was brown rum, and it seared Raika’s throat all the way down.

She held out the jug to Howland, gasping, “To you, sir!”

He had a modest sip, then passed it to Robien. The Kagonesti, without drinking, handed it off to the wounded Nils. While elf and farmer exchanged happy greetings, Raika turned to Howland.

“Quiet a fight you had,” she said.

“I didn’t win,” he said slowly.

“I know.”

With her toe, she pushed Rakell’s head to one side, exposing the back of his neck. There, almost hidden by the bandit chief’s thick hair, was a sharp, angular bit of metal, well coated with the dead man’s blood. It took Howland a few moments to realize what it was: an iron star.

“Amergin!”

“Keep your voice down,” Raika muttered. “Our friend lives-but things will go more easily for him if Robien believes him slain.”

Howland agreed. The bounty hunter could truthfully tell the Brotherhood of Quen back in Robann that his quarry had perished in battle. Thus Amergin would be spared further trouble, and Robien too. Howland would have hated to see the two Kagonesti fight-not after all they’d been through together.

Robien returned with the rum. “Do you see, Sir Howland? Do you see?” he said excitedly.

Far out on the plain, a small group of people were wearily returning to Nowhere on foot. Leading the freed hostages were two figures, a few yards ahead of the rest. Even from this distance it was easy to see they were holding hands.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Truth of Victory

With peace restored, the farmers worked hard to reclaim their lives. Hardly had the clash of arms faded into silence when they began tearing down the redoubt, using the earth to refill the trench. All the fallen were laid to rest there-old Calec, the village elder, Marren, who lost his soul and found it again even without his eyes, the children who had fought from the rooftops with Carver, and everyone else who perished fighting for the future of Nowhere-including the nameless bandits. Even they were given proper burial, lest their restless spirits remain bound to the scene of their violent deaths.

Last to be covered in the grave was Khorr. The farmers surrounded the minotaur’s body with bound sheaves of barley straw, an honor usually reserved for their wisest, most respected elders.

In just a few days the redoubt was gone. Only a few damp clods of earth remained. The trench was filled in and trampled smooth, and all the barricades and barriers were pulled down. After that, the farmers turned to clearing out and repairing their homes.

Howland and his surviving fighters passed these days in deserved idleness, resting their aching limbs and nursing their hurts large and small. No one spoke of leaving yet or what they planned to do next. Their fatigue was too profound. In contrast, the villagers seemed to work ceaselessly. The hired warriors observed in wonder how quickly the farmers returned to their timeless tasks.