The Warded Man (49 page)

“Corelings can climb better than we can,” Rojer said.

“What about finding someplace to hide?” she asked.

“We looked as long as we could,” Rojer said. “We barely have time to make this circle, but it should keep us safe.”

“I doubt it,” Leesha said, looking at the shaky lines in the dirt.

“If only I had my fiddle …” Rojer began.

“Not that pile of dung again,” Leesha snapped, sharp irritation rising to drive back humiliation and fear. “It’s one thing to brag to the apprentices in the light of day that you can charm demons with your fiddle, but what do you gain in carrying a lie to your grave?”

“I’m not lying!” Rojer insisted.

“Have it your way,” Leesha sighed, crossing her arms.

“It will be all right,” Rojer said again.

“Creator, can’t you stop lying, even for a moment?” Leesha cried. “It’s not going to be all right and you know it. Corelings aren’t bandits, Rojer. They won’t be satisfied with just …” She looked down at her torn skirts, and her voice trailed off.

Rojer’s face screwed up in pain, and Leesha knew she had been too harsh. She wanted to lash out at something, and it was easy to blame Rojer and his inflated promises for what happened. But in her heart, she knew it was more her fault than his. He left Angiers for
her
.

She looked at the darkening sky and wondered if she would have time to apologize before they were torn to pieces.

Movement in the trees and scrub behind them sent them both whirling around in fear. A man, swathed in gray robes, stepped into the clearing. His face was hidden in the shadows of his hood, and though he carried no weapons, Leesha could tell from his bearing that he was dangerous. If Marick was a wolf, this man was a lion.

She steeled herself, ravishment fresh in her mind, and honestly wondered for a moment which would be worse: another rape, or the demons.

Rojer was up in an instant, grabbing her arm and thrusting her behind him. He brandished the stick before him like a spear, his face twisted in a snarl.

The man ignored them both, moving over to inspect Rojer’s circle. “You have holes in your net there, there, and there,” he said, pointing, “and this,” he kicked the dirt by one crude symbol, “this isn’t even a ward.”

“Can you fix it?” Leesha asked hopefully, pulling free from Rojer’s grasp and moving toward the man.

“Leesha, no,” Rojer whispered urgently, but she ignored him.

The man didn’t even glance her way. “There’s no time,” he replied, pointing to the corelings already beginning to rise at the edge of the clearing.

“Oh, no,” Leesha whimpered, her face draining of color.

The first to solidify was a wind demon. It hissed at the sight of them and crouched as if to spring, but the man gave it no time. As Leesha watched in amazement, he leapt right at the coreling, grabbing its arms to prevent it from spreading its wings. The demon’s flesh hissed and smoked at his touch.

The wind demon shrieked and opened its maw, filled with needle-sharp teeth. The man snapped his head back, flipping off his hood, then drove forward, slamming the top of his bald head into the coreling’s snout. There was a flash of energy, and the demon was thrown backward. It struck the ground, stunned. The man stiffened his fingers, driving them into the coreling’s throat. There was another flash, and black ichor erupted in a spray.

The man turned sharply, wiping the ichor from his fingers as he strode past Rojer and Leesha. She could see his face now, though there was little human about it. His head was completely shaved, even his eyebrows, and in place of the lost hair were tattoos. They circled his eyes and rested atop his head, lined his ears and covered his cheeks, even running along his jaw and around his lips.

“My camp is near,” he said, ignoring their stares. “Come with me if you want to see the dawn.”

“What about the demons?” Leesha asked, as they fell in behind him. As if to accentuate her point, a pair of wood demons, knobby and barklike, rose up to block their path.

The man pulled off his robe, stripping down to a loincloth, and Leesha saw that the tattoos were not limited to his head. Wards ran along his rippling arms and legs in intricate patterns, with larger ones on his elbows and knees. A circle of protection covered his back, and another large tattoo stood at the center of his muscular chest. Every inch of him was warded.

“The Warded Man,” Rojer breathed. Leesha found the name dimly familiar.

“I’ll handle the demons,” the man said. “Take this,” he ordered, handing Leesha his robe.

He sprinted at the corelings, tumbling into a somersault and uncoiling to strike both demons in the chest with his heels. Magic exploded from the blow, blasting the wood demons from their path.

The race through the trees was a blur. The Warded Man set a brutal pace, unhindered by the corelings that leapt at them from all sides. A wood demon sprang at Leesha from the trees, but the man was there, driving a warded elbow into its skull with explosive force. A wind demon swooped in to slash its talons at Rojer, but the Warded Man tackled it away, punching right through one of its wings, grounding it.

Before Rojer could thank him, the Warded Man was off again, picking their path through the trees. Rojer helped Leesha keep up, untangling her skirts when they caught in the brush.

They burst from the trees, and Leesha could see a fire across the road: the Warded Man’s camp. Standing between them and succor, though, was a group of corelings, including a massive, eight- foot-tall rock demon.

The rock demon roared and beat its thick, armored chest with gigantic fists, its horned tail lashing back and forth. It knocked the other corelings aside, claiming the prey for itself.

The Warded Man showed no fear as he approached the monster. He gave a high-pitched whistle, and set his feet, ready to spring when the demon attacked.

But before the rock demon could strike, two massive spikes burst from its breast, sizzling and sparking with magic. The Warded Man struck quickly, driving his warded heel into the coreling’s knee and collapsing the monster to the ground.

As it fell, Leesha saw a monstrous black form behind it. The beast kicked away, pulling its horns free, and then reared up with a whinny, driving its hooves into the coreling’s back with a thunderclap of magic.

The Warded Man charged the remaining demons, but the corelings scattered at his approach. A flame demon spat fire at him, but the man held up his spread hands, and the blast became a cool breeze as it passed through his warded fingers. Shaking with fear, Rojer and Leesha followed him into his camp, stepping into his circle of protection with enormous relief.

“Twilight Dancer!” the Warded Man called, whistling again. The great horse ceased its attack on the prone demon and galloped after them, leaping into the ring.

Like its master, Twilight Dancer looked like something out of a nightmare. The stallion was enormous, bigger by far than any horse Leesha had ever seen. Its coat was thick, shining ebony, and its body was armored in warded metal. The barding about its head had been fitted with a long pair of metal horns, etched with wards, and even its black hooves had been carved with the magic symbols, painted silver. The towering beast looked more demon than horse.

Hanging from its black leather saddle were various harnesses for weapons, including a yew bow and a quiver of arrows, long knives, a bola, and spears of various lengths. A polished metal shield, circular and convex, was hooked over the saddle horn, ready to be snatched up in an instant. Its rim was etched with intricate wards.

Twilight Dancer stood quietly as the Warded Man checked it for wounds, seeming unconcerned with the demons that lurked just a few feet away. When he was assured that his mount was unharmed, the Warded Man turned back to Leesha and Rojer, who stood nervously in the center of the circle, still reeling from the events of the last few minutes.

“Stoke the fire,” the man told Rojer. “I’ve some meat we can put on, and a loaf of bread.” He moved toward his supplies, rubbing at his shoulder.

“You’re hurt,” Leesha said, coming out of her shock and rushing over to inspect his wounds. There was a cut on his shoulder, and another, deeper gash on his thigh. His skin was hard, and crisscrossed with scars, giving it a rough texture, but not unpleasant to the touch. There was a slight tingle in her fingertips as she touched him, like static from a carpet.

“It’s nothing,” the Warded Man said. “Sometimes a coreling gets lucky and catches a talon on flesh before the wards drive it away.” He tried to pull away, reaching for his robe, but she was not to be put off.

“No wound from a demon is ‘nothing,’” Leesha said. “Sit down and I’ll dress these,” she ordered, ushering him over to sit against a large stone. In truth, she was almost as frightened of the man as she was of the corelings, but she had dedicated her life to helping the injured, and the familiar work took her mind away from the pain that still threatened to consume her.

“I’ve an herb pouch in that saddlebag,” the man said, gesturing. Leesha opened the bag and found the pouch. She bent to the fire’s light as she rooted through the contents.

“I don’t suppose you have any pomm leaves?” she asked.

The man looked at her. “No,” he said. “Why? There’s plenty of hogroot.”

“It’s nothing,” Leesha mumbled. “I swear, you Messengers seem to think that hogroot is a cure for everything.” She took the pouch, along with a mortar and pestle and a skin of water, and knelt beside the man, grinding the hogroot and a few other herbs into a paste.

“What makes you think I’m a Messenger?” the Warded Man asked.

“Who else would be out on the road alone?” Leesha asked.

“I haven’t been a Messenger in years,” the man said, not flinching at all as she cleaned out the wounds and applied the stinging paste. Rojer narrowed his eyes as he watched her spread the salve on his thick muscles.

“Are you an Herb Gatherer?” the Warded Man asked, as she passed a needle through the fire and threaded it.

Leesha nodded, but kept her eyes on her work, brushing a thick lock of hair behind her ear as she set to stitching the gash in his thigh. When the Warded Man made no further comment, she flicked her eyes up to meet his. They were dark, the wards around the sockets giving them a gaunt, deep-set look. Leesha couldn’t hold that gaze for long, and quickly looked away.

“I’m Leesha,” she said, “and that’s Rojer making supper. He’s a Jongleur.” The man nodded Rojer’s way, but like Leesha, Rojer could not meet his gaze for long.

“Thank you for saving our lives,” Leesha said. The man only grunted in response. She paused briefly, waiting for him to return the introduction, but he made no effort to do so.

“Don’t you have a name?” she asked at last.

“None I’ve used in some time,” the man answered.

“But you do have one,” Leesha pressed. The man only shrugged.

“Well then what shall we call you?” she asked.

“I don’t see that you need to call me anything,” the man replied. He noted that her work was finished, and pulled away from her touch, again covering himself from head to foot in his gray robes. “You owe me nothing. I would have helped anyone in your position. Tomorrow I’ll see you safely to Farmer’s Stump.”

Leesha looked to Rojer by the fire, then back at the Warded Man. “We just left the Stump,” she said. “We need to get to Cutter’s Hollow. Can you take us there?” The gray hood shook back and forth.

“Going back to the Stump will cost us a week at least!” Leesha cried.

The Warded Man shrugged. “That’s not my problem.”

“We can pay,” Leesha blurted. The man glanced at her, and she looked away guiltily. “Not now, of course,” she amended. “We were attacked by bandits on the road. They took our horse, circle, money, even our food.” Her voice softened. “They took … everything.” She looked up. “But once I get to Cutter’s Hollow, I’ll be able to pay.”

“I have no need of money,” the Warded Man said.

“Please!” Leesha begged. “It’s urgent!”

“I’m sorry,” the Warded Man said.

Rojer came over to them, scowling. “It’s fine, Leesha,” he said. “If this cold heart won’t help us, we’ll find our own way.”

“What way is that?” Leesha snapped. “The way of being killed while you attempt to hold off demons with your stupid fiddle?”

Rojer turned away, stung, but Leesha ignored him, turning back to the man.

“Please,” she begged, grabbing his arm as he, too, turned away from her. “A Messenger came to Angiers three days ago with word of a flux that spread through the Hollow. It’s killed a dozen people so far, including the greatest Herb Gatherer that ever lived. The Gatherers left in the town can’t possibly treat everyone. They need my help.”

“So you want me to not only put aside my own path, but to go
into
a village rife with flux?” the Warded Man asked, sounding anything but willing.

Leesha began to weep, falling to her knees as she clutched at his robes. “My father is very sick,” she whispered. “If I don’t get there soon, he may die.”

The Warded Man reached out, tentatively, and put a hand on her shoulder. Leesha was unsure of how she had reached him, but she sensed that she had. “Please,” she said again.

The Warded Man stared at her for a long time. “All right,” he said at last.

Cutter’s Hollow was six days’ ride from Fort Angiers, on the southern outskirts of the Angierian forest. The Warded Man told them it would take four more nights to reach the village. Three, if they pressed hard and made good time. He rode alongside them, slowing his great stallion to their pace on foot.

“I’m going to scout up the road,” he said after a while. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Leesha felt a stab of cold fear as he kicked his stallion’s flanks and galloped off down the road. The Warded Man scared her almost as much as the bandits or the corelings, but at least in his presence she was safe from those other threats.

She hadn’t slept at all, and her lip throbbed from all the times she had bitten it to keep from crying. She had scrubbed every inch of herself after they fell asleep, but still she felt soiled.