Enough time passed to convinced Howland they would not be back soon. He marched Nils and Malek back to the water’s edge.
Two dead horses floated in the stream. Rakell’s men had dragged Hume’s body ashore and chopped off his head.
“They took it back to their warlord to prove they fought,” said Howland. Anger, like sparks falling on tinder, slowly ignited inside him. “How did he die? What happened?”
“It was my fault,” Malek admitted. “I saw my betrothed among the captives. When I tried to reach her, a bandit almost got me. Hume saved my life, but they put three arrows in him …”
Howland stalked to Malek and struck him in the face with the back of his hand. Delivered by a lifelong soldier like Howland, it knocked the farmer to the ground.
“Hothead! You nearly killed us all!”
“We got five of them!” Malek countered. “I thought I could save her!”
“Hume was worth more than any five cutthroats! He was vital to us! What will we do without him?”
Nils stepped between them. “Rakell knows he has armed foes about, but he may not realize we are from Nowhere, not yet. We must go back and ready ourselves!”
Howland said nothing but waded across to where Hume’s body lay. He pried the sword from the man’s stiffening fingers and returned. He offered the Quen blade to Nils.
“No more mistakes!” he said through clenched teeth. “We have no margin for misfortune left! Tell your miserable brother to harden his heart. I won’t let him sacrifice our lives or the village for the sake of a single woman. Is that clear?”
Deeply ashamed, Malek slunk away. Nils, looking burdened by his new weapon, trudged after him.
It was a while before Howland uth Ungen followed his charges. It took a long time for him to dig a decent grave.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"C’mon, you clods! Straighten that line! And yell when you attack-yell like you mean it! Yell your guts out!”
Eight farmers, five men and three women, rushed headlong across the dusty village common, screeching as loudly as they could. They gripped makeshift wooden spears and wore ragged cloth turbans on their heads. This last detail was Raika’s special contribution. The rolled cloth would provide some protection against raps on the head.
“Besides,” she said, “turbans make you look civilized.”
As shock troops, the farmers had a long way to go. Because they were different heights and strengths, they couldn’t maintain an even line once they started moving. The long-legged quickly outpaced the short, and over a distance the strong moved faster than the weak.
All morning Raika stormed up and down, waving her hands and shouting at anyone out of place. When she finally let her inept troops rest, Raika went to the well to rinse dust and disgust from her mouth. Robien sat there, watching the maneuvers. He perched on the surrounding wall, feet dangling on either side of the Ancestor. The lower half of the broken sandstone block had almost changed from red to blue, owing to the stain spreading down from the crack.
“Traps all laid?” she said, dropping the bucket into the cool, stone-lined shaft.
“Not all,” replied the elf. “Some must be done after dark.”
She hauled on the rope to bring the bucket back up. “Why after dark?”
“Some of the triggers must be set in darkness. After they’re in place, a single miscast shadow can set them off.”
The Saifhumi woman regarded him skeptically. Unlike most mainlanders, she had never stood in awe of elves. All the ones she ever met were clever and cultured, but they didn’t seem any wiser than anyone else.
“Your troops are shaping up,” Robien said politely.
“Shaping up to be killed.” Raika hoisted the full bucket over her head and dumped the water over her. She spat grit, and added, “They don’t stand together, they don’t think together, and they don’t fight together. The bandits will have them for supper.”
“Maybe you’re not going about it the right way.”
“Oh? How would you train these yokels?”
“Having them run around charging is pointless. Not one of them has the fortitude to attack mounted men. That’s as well. All they need to do is defend, not attack.”
“I had no idea you were such a general,” Raika said, wiping her face with her turban.
“I’ve lived a long time and done many things. Many years ago, I was a soldier.”
Raika slouched against the well wall. “Then you teach them, master!”
Robien did not reply but strolled out into the hot sun. Raika’s villagers were marching in circles inside the row of houses, shoulder to shoulder. Robien stood in front of them and waited. When the farmers came abreast of him, he held up a hand to stop them.
“Hold,” he said mildly. He took the spear from the nearest man, Malek’s cousin Fayn. He was a rangy fellow five years’ Malek’s senior, with rusty red hair all over his body and a multitude of freckles.
“Any of you ever speared a man before?”
The farmers shook their heads.
“How about a horse?”
No again.
Robien nodded. “Follow me,” he said.
They looked to their nominal commander for guidance. Raika shrugged and waved them away. Let the elf drill the fools if he wants, her gestures seemed to say.
Robien shouldered the borrowed spear and led the farmers to a gap between two of the houses. Both huts had been filled with dirt, and the rattan fence between them, meant only to keep chickens out of the root cellars beneath each house, had been reinforced with concealed piles of cordwood and stones. It was no real impediment to a determined attacker, but the strength of the fence would certainly surprise and perhaps unhorse unwary riders.
“Here,” said Robien, halting. “Five of you defending this gap ought to be able to hold off any number of horsemen.”
“How?” asked Fayn.
Robien took the three biggest men and arrayed them between the huts. Two women knelt between them, spears braced against their feet.
“You must keep your nerve above all,” Robien told them. “If you break, the riders will slaughter you, but if you hold your line and keep points out, the enemy will turn away, I promise.”
One of the women laughed nervously. “Why should they break before us?”
“No one wants to get speared,” Robien replied dryly. “They’ll ride at you, screaming dire threats, but they won’t charge home. What they really want is to scare you into running.”
Robien held out his arms. The huts were far enough apart that he couldn’t quite touch them.
“Only one horse can get through here at a time,” he said. “Two, in a pinch. If you see two or more riders bearing down on you, stand fast! They’ll turn away or else collide trying to fit between the houses. When they do, you’ll have them.”
A shower of short arrows fell on Robien and the farmers, followed by gales of childish laughter. The elf picked up one of the missiles. It was blunt and fletched with stiff green leaves.
“You must also beware of enemy archers,” the bounty hunter said.
More laughter from above, and Carver appeared on the roof of the left-hand hut, surrounded by a gang of scruffy, bright-eyed children.
“You are all victims of the Nowhere Whippik Corps!” Carver said.
“I hope you’ll use sharper ones on the raiders,” Robien replied.
“To be sure! They’re being made even now.”
Robien nodded. “It is a sound tactic to put missile-throwers on the high ground.”
Thinking of missile-throwers reminded him of Amergin, his sling-toting quarry.
“Has anyone seen Amergin today?”
“Not since he left with you this morning,” said Fayn.
“He was supposed to be laying traps in the northeast approaches,” Robien mused. “I wonder if he’s come back?” He dismissed the farmers and made for the west end of the village where Khorr and some men still labored hard on the trench.