The Warded Man (20 page)

Rojer squealed in delight, taking the toy and running off to plop down on the wooden floor, striking the strips in different patterns, delighting in the clear sounds each made.

Kally laughed at the sight. “He’s going to be a Jongleur one day,” she said.

“Not a lot of custom?” Arrick asked, sweeping his hand over the empty tables in the common room.

“Oh, it was crowded enough at lunchtime,” Kally said, “but this time of year, we don’t get many boarders apart from the occasional Messenger.”

“It must get lonely, tending an empty inn,” Arrick said.

“Sometimes,” Kally said, “but I’ve Rojer to keep me busy. He’s a handful even when it’s quiet, and a terror during caravan season, when the drivers get drunk and sing till all hours, keeping him up with their racket.”

“I imagine it must be hard for you to sleep through that, too,” Arrick said.

“It’s hard for me,” Kally admitted. “But Jessum can sleep through anything.”

“Is that so?” Arrick asked, sliding his hand over hers. Her eyes widened and she stopped breathing, but she didn’t pull away.

The front door slammed open. “Wards are patched!” Jessum called. Kally gasped, snatching her hand away from Arrick’s so quickly she spilled his ale across the bar. She grabbed a rag to soak it up.

“Just a patch job?” she asked doubtfully, her eyes down to hide the flush in her cheeks.

“Not by a spear’s throw,” Geral said. “Honestly, you’re lucky they lasted as long as they did. I patched the worst of them, and I’ll have a talk with Piter in the morning. I’ll see him replace every ward on this inn before sunset if I have to hold him at spearpoint.”

“Thank you, Geral,” Kally said, casting Jessum a withering look.

“I’m still mucking the barn,” Jessum said, “so I staked the horses out in the yard in Geral’s portable circle.”

“That’s fine,” Kally said. “Wash up, all of you. Supper will be ready soon.”

“Delicious,” Arrick proclaimed, drinking copious amounts of ale with his supper. Kally had roasted an herb-crusted shank of lamb, serving the finest cut to the duke’s herald.

“I don’t suppose you have a sister as beautiful as yourself?” Arrick asked between mouthfuls. “His Grace is in the market for a new bride.”

“I thought the duke already had a wife,” Kally said, blushing as she leaned to fill his mug.

“He does,” Geral grunted. “His fourth.”

Arrick snorted. “No more fertile than the others, I’m afraid, if the talk around the palace holds true. Rhinebeck will keep seeking wives until one gives him a son.”

“You might have the right of that,” Geral admitted.

“How many times will the Tenders let him stand and promise the Creator ‘forever’?” Jessum asked.

“As many as he needs,” Arrick assured. “Lord Janson keeps the Holy Men in check.”

Geral spat. “It’s not right, men of the Creator having to debase themselves for that …”

Arrick held up a warning finger. “They say even the trees have ears for those who speak out against the first minister.”

Geral scowled, but he held his tongue.

“Well, he’s not likely to find a bride in Riverbridge,” Jessum said. “There ent even women enough for those of us here. I had to go all the way to Cricket Run to find Kally.”

“You’re Angierian, my dear?” Arrick asked.

“Born, yes,” Kally said, “but the Tender had me swear an oath to Miln at the wedding. All Bridgefolk are required to swear to Euchor.”

“For now,” Arrick said.

“So it’s true, what they say,” Jessum said. “Rhinebeck is coming to lay claim to Riverbridge.”

“Nothing so dramatic,” Arrick said. “His Grace simply feels that with half your people of Angierian stock and your bridge built and maintained from Angierian timber, that we should all have a …” He eyed Kally as she sat back down. “… closer relationship.”

“I doubt Euchor will be quick to share Riverbridge,” Jessum said. “The Dividing has separated their lands for a thousand years. He’ll no sooner yield that border than his own throne.”

Arrick shrugged and smiled again. “That is a matter for dukes and ministers,” he said, raising his mug. “Small folk such as us need not concern ourselves over such things.”

The sun soon set, and outside there were sharp, crackling retorts, punctuated by flashes of light that leaked through the shutters as wards flared. Rojer hated those harsh sounds, and the shrieks that came with them. He sat on the floor, striking his noisemaker harder and harder, trying to drown them out.

“Corelings’re hungry tonight,” his father mused.

“It’s upsetting Rojer,” Kally said, rising from her seat to go to him.

“Not to fear,” Arrick said, wiping his mouth. He went to his multicolored bag, pulling out a slim fiddle case. “We’ll drive those demons off.”

He put bow to string, and immediately filled the room with music. Rojer laughed and clapped, his fear vanished. His mother clapped with him, and they found a rhythm to complement Arrick’s tune. Even Geral and Jessum began to clap along.

“Dance with me, Rojer!” Kally laughed, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet.

Rojer tried to keep up as she stepped to the beat, but he stumbled and she swept him up in her arms, kissing him as she spun around the room. Rojer laughed in delight.

There was a sudden crash. Arrick’s bow slipped from the strings as everyone turned to see the heavy wooden door shak ing in its frame. Dust, knocked loose by the impact, drifted lazily to the floor.

Geral was the first to react, the big man moving with surprising speed for the spear and shield he had left by the door. For a long moment, the others stared at him, uncomprehending. There was another crash, and thick black talons burst through the wood. Kally shrieked.

Jessum leapt to the fireplace, snatching up a heavy iron poker. “Get Rojer to the bolt-hole in the kitchen!” he cried, his words punctuated by a roar from beyond the door.

Geral had snatched up his spear by then, and threw his shield to Arrick. “Get Kally and the boy out!” he cried as the door splintered and a seven-foot rock demon burst through. Geral and Jessum turned to meet it. The creature threw back its head and shrieked as small nimble flame demons darted into the room around and between its thick legs.

Arrick caught the shield, but when Kally ran to his protection, Rojer clutched in her arms, he shoved her aside, snatching up his multicolored bag and sprinting to the kitchen.

“Kally!” Jessum cried as she struck the floor, twisting to shield her son from the impact.

“Damn you to the Core, Arrick!” Geral cursed the Jongleur. “May all your dreams turn to dust!” The rock demon struck him a backhand blow, launching him across the room.

A flame demon leapt at her as Kally struggled to her feet, but Jessum struck it hard with the poker, knocking it aside. It coughed fire as it landed, setting the floor alight.

“Go!” he cried as she got her feet under her. From over her shoulder, Rojer watched the demon spit fire on his father as they fled the room. Jessum screamed as his clothes ignited.

His mother clutched him tightly to her breast, moaning as she ran down the hall. Back in the common room, Geral roared in pain.

They burst into the kitchen just as Arrick yanked open the trapdoor and dropped down. His hand reached back, slapping around for the heavy iron ring to pull the warded trap shut.

“Master Arrick!” Kally cried. “Wait for us!”

“Demon!” Rojer screamed as a flame demon scampered into the room, but his warning came too late. The impact as the coreling struck them knocked the breath from his mother, but she kept hold of him even as the creature’s talons dug deep into her. She shrieked as it ran up her back, its razor teeth clamping down on her shoulder and slicing through Rojer’s right hand. He howled.

“Rojer!” his mother cried, stumbling toward the washing trough before falling to her knees. Screaming in pain, she reached back and got a firm grip on one of the coreling’s horns.

“You … can’t … have … my … son!” she screamed, and threw herself forward, pulling on the horn with all her strength. Torn from its perch, the demon took ribbons of flesh with it as Kally flipped it into the trough.

Soaking crockery shattered on impact, and the flame demon gurgled and thrashed, steam filling the air as the water was brought to an instant boil. Kally screamed as her arms burned, but she held the creature under until its thrashes stopped.

“Mum!” Rojer cried, and she turned to see two more of the creatures scamper into the room. She grabbed Rojer and ran for the trap, yanking the heavy door open with one hand. Arrick’s wide eyes looked up at her.

Kally fell as a flame demon latched onto her leg, taking a bite of her thigh. “Take him! Please!” she begged, shoving the boy down into Arrick’s arms.

“I love you!” she cried to Rojer as she slammed the trap shut, leaving them in darkness.

So close to the Dividing River, houses in Riverbridge were built on great warded blocks to resist flooding. They waited in the darkness, safe enough from corelings so long as the foundation held, but there was smoke everywhere.

“Die from demons or die from smoke,” Arrick muttered. He started to move away from the trap, but Rojer clung hard to his leg.

“Let go, boy,” Arrick said, kicking his leg in an attempt to shake the boy off.

“Don’t leave me!” Rojer cried, weeping uncontrollably.

Arrick frowned. He looked around at the smoke, and spat.

“Hold tight, boy,” he said, putting Rojer on his back. He lifted the edges of his cape to seat the boy in a makeshift sling, tying the corners about his waist. He took up Geral’s shield and picked his way through the foundation, crouching to crawl out into the night.

“Creator above,” he whispered, as he saw the entire village of Riverbridge in flames. Demons danced in the night, dragging screaming bodies out to feast.

“Seems your parents weren’t the only ones Piter shorted,” Arrick said. “I hope they drag that bastard down into the Core.”

Crouching behind the shield, Arrick made his way around the inn, hiding in the smoke and confusion until they made the main courtyard. There, safe in Geral’s portable circle, were the two horses; an island of safety amid the horror.

A flame demon caught sight of them as Arrick broke into a run for the succor, but Geral’s shield turned its firespit with a flare of magic. Inside the circle, Arrick dropped Rojer and fell to his knees, gasping. When he recovered, he began to dig at the saddlebags desperately.

“It must be here,” he muttered. “I know I left … Ah!” He pulled a wineskin free and yanked off the stopper, gulping deeply.

Rojer whimpered, cradling his bloody right hand.

“Eh?” Arrick asked. “You hurt, boy?” He moved over to examine Rojer, and gasped when he saw the boy’s hand. Rojer’s middle and index fingers were bitten clear away; his remaining fingers still clutched tightly about a lock of red hair, his mother’s, severed by the bite.

“No!” Rojer cried, as Arrick tried to take the hair away. “It’s mine!”

“I won’t take it, boy,” Arrick said, “I just need to see the bite.” He put the lock in Rojer’s other hand, and the boy clenched it tightly.

The wound wasn’t bleeding badly, partly cauterized by the flame demon’s saliva, but it oozed and stank.

“I’m no Herb Gatherer,” Arrick said with a shrug, and squirted it with wine from his skin. Rojer screamed, and Arrick tore a bit of his fine cloak to wrap the wound.

Rojer was crying freely by then, and Arrick wrapped him tightly in his cloak. “There, there, boy,” he said, holding him close and stroking his back. “We’re alive to tell the tale. That’s something, isn’t it?”

Rojer kept on weeping, and Arrick began to sing a lullaby. He sang as Riverbridge burned. He sang as the demons danced and feasted. The sound was like a shield around them, and under its protection, Rojer gave in to exhaustion and fell asleep.

ARLEN LEANED MORE HEAVILY on his walking stick as the fever grew in him. He hunched over and retched, but his empty stomach had only bile to yield. Dizzy, he searched for a focal point. He saw a plume of smoke.

There was a structure off the side of the road far ahead. A stone wall, so overgrown with vines that it was nearly invisible. The smoke was coming from there.

Hope of succor gave strength to his watery limbs, and he stumbled on. He made the wall, leaning against it as he dragged himself along, looking for an entrance. The stone was pitted and cracked; creeping vines threaded into every nook and cranny. Without the vines to support it, the ancient wall might simply collapse, much as Arlen would without the wall to support him.

At last he came to an arch in the wall. Two metal gates, rusted off their hinges, lay before it in the weeds. Time had eaten them away to nothing. The arch opened into a wide courtyard choked with vines and weeds. There was a broken fountain filled with murky rainwater, and a low building so covered in ivy that it could be missed at first glance.

Arlen walked around the yard in awe. Beneath the growth, the ground was cracked stone. Full-sized trees had broken through, overturning giant blocks now covered in moss. Arlen could see deep claw marks in the plain stone.

No wards
, he realized in amazement.
This place was from before the Return
. If that was so, it had been abandoned for over three hundred years.

The door to the building had rotted away like the gate. A small stone entryway led into a wide room. Wires hung in a tangle from the walls, the art they had held long disintegrated. A coating of slime on the floor was all that remained of a thick carpet. Ancient grooves were clawed into the walls and furniture, remnants of the fall.

“Hello?” Arlen called. “Is anyone here?”

There was no reply.

His face felt hot, but he was shivering, even in the warm air. He did not think he could manage to search much further, but there had been smoke, and smoke meant life. The thought gave him strength, and finding a crumbling stairwell, he picked his way to the second floor.

Much of the building’s top floor was open to sunlight. The roof was cracked and caved in; rusting metal bars jutting from the crumbling stone.

“Is anyone here?” Arlen called. He searched the floor, but found only rot and ruin.

As he was losing hope, he saw the smoke through a window at the far end of the hall. He ran to it, but found only a broken tree limb lying in the rear courtyard. It was clawed and blackened, with small fires still crackling in places, giving off a steady plume.

Crestfallen, he felt his face twist, but he refused to cry. He thought about just sitting and waiting for the demons to come, in hopes they would give him a faster death than the sickness, but he had sworn to give them nothing, and besides, Marea’s death had certainly not been quick. He looked down from the window to the stone courtyard.

A fall from here would kill anyone
, he mused. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and it felt easy and right to just let himself fall.

Like Cholie?
a voice in his head asked.

The noose flashed in his mind, and Arlen snapped back to reality, catching himself and pulling away from the window.

No
, he thought,
Cholie’s way is no better than Da’s. When I die, it will be because something killed me, not because I gave up
.

He could see far from the high window, over the wall and down the road. Off in the distance, he spotted movement, coming his way.

Ragen
.

Arlen tapped reserves of strength he didn’t know he had, bounding down the steps with something approaching his usual alacrity and running full out through the courtyard.

But his breath gave out as he reached the road, and he fell onto the clay, gasping and clutching a stitch in his side. It felt like there were a thousand splinters in his chest.

He looked up and saw the figures still far down the road, but close enough that they saw him, too. He heard a shout as the world went black.

Arlen awoke in daylight, lying on his stomach. He took a breath, feeling bandages wrapped tightly around him. His back still ached, but it no longer burned, and for the first time in days, his face felt cool. He put his hands under him to rise, but pain shot through him.

“I wouldn’t be in any rush to do that,” Ragen advised. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“What happened?” Arlen asked, looking up at the man who sat nearby.

“Found you passed out on the road,” the man said. “The cuts on your back had demon rot. Had to cut you open and drain the poison before I could sew them up.”

“Where’s Keerin?” Arlen asked.

Ragen laughed. “Inside,” he said. “Keerin’s been keeping his distance the last couple days. He couldn’t handle the gore, and sicked up when we first found you.”

“Days?” Arlen asked. He looked around and found himself back in the ancient courtyard. Ragen had made camp there, his portable circles protecting the bedrolls and animals.

“We found you around high sun on Thirday,” Ragen said. “It’s Fifthday now. You’ve been delirious the whole time, thrashing around as you sweated out the sickness.”

“You cured my demon fever?” Arlen asked in shock.

“That what they call it in the Brook?” Ragen asked. He shrugged. “Good a name as any, I suppose, but it’s not some magic disease, boy; just an infection. I found some hogroot not far off the road, so I was able to poultice the cuts. I’ll make some tea with it later. If you drink it for the next few days, you should be all right.”

“Hogroot?” Arlen asked.

Ragen held up a weed that grew most everywhere. “A staple of every Messenger’s herb pouch, though it’s best when fresh. Makes you a little dizzy, but for some reason, demon rot can’t abide it.”

Arlen began to cry. His mother could have been cured by a weed he regularly pulled from Jeph’s field? It was just too much.

Ragen waited quietly, giving Arlen space while the tears ran their course. After what seemed an eternity, the flow began to ebb, and his heaving sobs eased. Ragen handed him a cloth wordlessly, and Arlen dried his cheeks.

“Arlen,” the Messenger asked finally, “what are you doing all the way out here?”

Arlen looked at him for a long time, trying to decide what to say. When he finally spoke, the tale came spilling out in a rush. He told the Messenger everything, starting with the night his mother was injured and ending with running from his father.

Ragen was quiet while he took in Arlen’s tale. “I’m sorry about your mother, Arlen,” he said at last. Arlen sniffled and nodded.

Keerin wandered back as Arlen began telling how he had tried to find the road to Sunny Pasture, but had accidentally taken the fork to the Free Cities instead. He paid rapt attention as Arlen described his first night alone, the giant rock demon, and how he had scuffed the ward. The Jongleur went pale when Arlen described the race to repair it before the demon killed him.

“You’re the one that cut that demon’s arm off?” Ragen asked incredulously, a moment later. Keerin looked ready to sick up again.

“It’s not a trick I mean to try again,” Arlen said.

“No, I don’t suppose it is,” Ragen chuckled. “Still, crippling a fifteen-foot rock demon is a deed worth a song or two, eh, Keerin?” He elbowed the Jongleur, but that seemed to push the man over the edge. He covered his mouth and ran off. Ragen shook his head and sighed.

“A giant one-armed rock demon’s been haunting us ever since we found you,” he explained. “It’s hammered the wards harder than any coreling I’ve ever seen.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Arlen asked, watching Keerin double over.

“It’ll pass,” Ragen grunted. “Let’s get some food into you.” He helped Arlen sit up against the horse’s saddle. The move sent a stab of pain through him, and Ragen saw him wince.

“Chew on this,” he advised, handing Arlen a gnarled root. “It will make you a little light-headed, but it should ease the pain.”

“Are you an Herb Gatherer?” Arlen asked.

Ragen laughed. “No, but a Messenger needs to know a little of every art, if he wants to survive.” He reached into his saddlebags, pulling out a metal cookpot and some utensils.

“I wish you’d told Coline about hogroot,” Arlen lamented.

“I would have,” Ragen said, “if I thought for a second she didn’t know.” He filled the pot, and hung it from the tripod over the firepit. “It’s amazing what people have forgotten.”

He stoked the flames as Keerin returned, looking pale but relieved. “I’ll be sure to mention it when we take you back.”

“Back?” Arlen asked.

“Back?” Keerin echoed.

“Of course ‘back,’” Ragen said. “Your da will be looking for you, Arlen.”

“But I don’t want to go back,” Arlen said. “I want to go to the Free Cities with you.”

“You can’t just run away from your problems, Arlen,” Ragen said.

“I’m not going back,” Arlen said. “You can drag me there, but I’ll run again the second you let go.”

Ragen stared at him for a long time. Finally, he glanced at Keerin.

“You know what I think,” Keerin said. “I’ve no desire to add five nights, at least, to our trip home.”

Ragen frowned at Arlen. “I’ll be writing your father when we get to Miln,” he warned.

“You’ll be wasting your time,” Arlen said. “He’ll never come for me.”

The stone floor of the courtyard and the high wall hid them well that night. A wide portable circle secured the cart, and the animals were staked and hobbled in another. They were in the inner of two concentric rings, with the fire at the center.

Keerin lay huddled in his bedroll, with the blanket over his head. He was shivering though it was not cold, and when the occasional coreling tested the wards, he twitched.

“Why do they keep attacking when they can’t get through?” Arlen asked.

“They’re looking for flaws in the net,” Ragen said. “You’ll never see a coreling attack the same spot twice.” He tapped his temple. “They remember. Corelings aren’t smart enough to study the wards and reason out the weak spots, so they attack the barrier and search that way. They get through rarely, but often enough to make it worth their while.”

A wind demon came swooping over the wall and bounced off the wards. Keerin whimpered from under his blanket at the sound.

Ragen looked over at the Jongleur’s bedroll and shook his head. “It’s like he thinks that if he can’t see the corelings, they can’t see him,” he muttered.

“Is he always like this?” Arlen asked.

“That one-armed demon has him more spooked than usual,” Ragen said, “but he wasn’t exactly standing at the wards before.” He shrugged. “I needed a Jongleur on short notice. The guild gave me Keerin. I don’t normally work with ones so green.”

“Why bring a Jongleur at all, then?” Arlen asked.

“Oh, you have to bring a Jongleur with you when you’re going to the hamlets,” Ragen said. “They’re apt to stone you if you show up without one.”

“Hamlets?”

“Small villages, like Tibbet’s Brook,” Ragen explained. “Places too far for the dukes to easily control, where most folks can’t read.”

“What difference does that make?” Arlen asked.

“People that can’t read don’t have a lot of use for Messengers,” Ragen said. “Oh, they’re eager enough for their salt, or whatever it is they’re shy of, but most won’t come out of their way to see you and give you news, and collecting news is a Messenger’s first job. But bring a Jongleur with you, and people drop everything to come and see the spectacle. It wasn’t just for you that I spread word of Keerin’s show.

“Some men,” he went on, “can be Merchant, Jongleur, Herb Gatherer, and Messenger all at once, but they’re about as common as a friendly coreling. Most Messengers who take the hamlet routes have to hire a Jongleur.”

“And you don’t usually work the hamlets,” Arlen said, remembering.

Ragen winked. “A Jongleur may impress the townies, but he’ll only hold you back in a duke’s court. The dukes and merchant princes have Jongleurs of their own. All they’re interested in is trade and news, and they pay far more than anything old Hog could afford.”

Ragen rose before the sun the next morning. Arlen was already awake, and Ragen nodded at him in approval. “Messengers don’t have the luxury of sleeping late,” he said as he loudly clattered his cookpans to wake Keerin. “Every moment of light is needed.”

Arlen was feeling well enough by then to sit next to Keerin in the cart as it trundled toward the tiny lumps on the horizon Ragen called mountains. To pass the time, Ragen told Arlen tales of his travels, and pointed to herbs along the side of the road, saying which to eat and which to avoid, which could poultice a wound, and which would make it worse. He noted the most defensible spots to spend a night and why, and warned about predators.

“Corelings kill the slowest and weakest animals,” Ragen said. “So only the biggest and strongest, or those best at hiding, survive. Out on the road, corelings aren’t the only thing that will see you as prey.”

Keerin looked around nervously.

“What was that place we stayed in the last few nights?” Arlen asked.

Ragen shrugged. “Just some minor lord’s keep,” he said. “There’re hundreds of them in the lands between here and Miln, old ruins picked clean by countless Messengers.”

“Messengers?” Arlen asked.

“Of course,” Ragen said. “Some Messengers spend weeks hunting for ruins. The ones lucky enough to stumble on ruins no one’s ever found can come back with all kinds of loot. Gold, jewels, carvings, sometimes even old wards. But the real prize they’re all chasing is
the
old wards, the fighting wards, if they ever really existed.”

“Do you think they existed?” Arlen asked.

Ragen nodded. “But I’m not about to risk my neck leaving the road to look for them.”

After a couple of hours, Ragen led them off the road to a small cave. “Always best to ward a shelter when you can,” he told Arlen. “This cave is one of a few noted in Graig’s log.”