The Warded Man (9 page)

Back when the farm was safe.

Back when his mother was well.

Back when he didn’t know his father was a coward.

Coline had promised to send one of her boys up to the farm to let Norine know they would likely be gone a week or more, and to help tend the animals and check the wards while they were away. The neighbors would throw in, but Norine’s loss was too raw for her to face the nights alone.

The Herb Gatherer had also given them a crude map, carefully rolled and slipped into a protective hide tube. Paper was a rarity in the Brook, and not given away lightly. Arlen was fascinated by the map, and studied it for hours, even though he couldn’t read the few words labeling the places. Neither Arlen nor his father had letters.

The map marked the way to Sunny Pasture, and what lay along the road, but the distances were vague. There were farms marked along the way where they could beg succor, but there was no way to tell how far apart they were.

His mother slept fitfully, sodden with sweat. Sometimes she spoke or cried out, but her words made little sense. Arlen daubed her with wet cloth and made her drink the sharp tea as the Herb Gatherer had instructed him, but it seemed to do little good.

Late in the afternoon, they approached the house of Harl Tanner, a farmer who lived on the outskirts of the Brook. Harl’s farm was only a couple of hours past the Cluster by the Woods, but by the time Arlen and his father had gotten under way, it was midafternoon.

Arlen remembered seeing Harl and his three daughters at the summer solstice festival each year, though they had been absent since the corelings had taken Harl’s wife, two summers past. Harl had become a recluse, and his daughters with him. Even the tragedy in the Cluster had not brought them out.

Three-quarters of the Tanner fields were blackened and scorched; only those closest to the house were warded and sown. A gaunt milking cow chewed cud in the muddy yard, and ribs showed clearly on the goat tied up by the chicken coop.

The Tanners’ home was a single story of piled stones, held together with packed mud and clay. The larger stones were painted with faded wards. Arlen thought them clumsy, but they had lasted thus far, it seemed. The roof was uneven, with short, squat wardposts poking up through the rotting thatch. One side of the house connected to the small barn, its windows boarded and its door half off the hinges. Across the yard was the big barn, looking even worse. The wards might hold, but it looked ready to collapse on its own.

“I’ve never seen Harl’s place before,” Jeph said.

“Me neither,” Arlen lied. Few people apart from Messengers had reason to head up the road past the Cluster by the Woods, and those who lived up that way were sources of great speculation in Town Square. Arlen had snuck off to see Crazy Man Tanner’s farm more than once. It was the farthest he had ever been from home. Getting back before dusk had meant hours of running as fast as he could.

One time, a few months before, he almost didn’t make it. He had been trying to catch a glimpse of Harl’s eldest daughter, Ilain. The other boys said she had the biggest bubbies in the Brook, and he wanted to see for himself. He waited one day, and saw her come running out of the house, crying. She was beautiful in her sadness, and Arlen had wanted to go comfort her, even though she was eight summers older than him. He hadn’t been so bold, but he’d watched her longer than was wise, and almost paid a heavy price for it when the sun began to set.

A mangy dog began barking as they approached the farm, and a young girl came out onto the porch, watching them with sad eyes.

“We might have to succor here,” Jeph said.

“It’s still hours till dark,” Arlen said, shaking his head. “If we don’t catch Ragen by then, the map says there’s another farm up by where the road forks to the Free Cities.”

Jeph peered over Arlen’s shoulder at the map. “That’s a long way,” he said.

“Mam can’t wait,” Arlen said. “We won’t make it all the way today, but every hour is an hour closer to her cure.”

Jeph looked back at Silvy, bathed in sweat, then up at the sun, and nodded. They waved at the girl on the porch, but did not stop.

They covered a great distance in the next few hours, but found no sign of the Messenger or another farm. Jeph looked up at the orange sky.

“It will be full dark in less than two hours,” he said. “We have to turn back. If we hurry, we can make it back to Harl’s in time.”

“The farm could be right around that next bend,” Arlen argued. “We’ll find it.”

“We don’t know that,” Jeph said, spitting over the side of the cart. “The map ent clear. We turn back while we still can, and no arguing.”

Arlen’s eyes widened in disbelief. “We’ll lose half a day that way, not to mention the night. Mam might die in that time!” he cried.

Jeph looked back at his wife, sweating in her bundled blankets, breathing in short fits. Sadly, he looked around at the lengthening shadows, and suppressed a shiver. “If we’re caught out after dark,” he replied quietly, “we’ll all die.”

Arlen was shaking his head before his father finished, refusing to accept it. “We could …” he floundered. “We could draw wards in the dirt,” he said at last. “All around the cart.”

“And if a breeze comes along and mars them?” his father asked. “What then?”

“The farm could be just over the next hill!” Arlen insisted.

“Or it could be twenty more miles down the road,” his father shot back, “or burned down a year ago. Who knows what’s happened since that map was drawn?”

“Are you saying Mam ent worth the risk?” Arlen accused.

“Don’t you tell me what she’s worth!” his father screamed, nearly bowling the boy over. “I’ve loved her all my life! I know better than you! But I’m not going to risk all three of us! She can last the night. She
has
to!”

With that, he pulled hard on the reins, stopping the cart and turning it about. He cracked the leather hard into Missy’s flanks, and sent her leaping back down the road. The animal, frightened by the coming dark, responded with a frantic pace.

Arlen turned back toward Silvy, swallowing bitter anger. He watched his mother bounce around as the wheels ran over stones and dips, not reacting at all to the bumpy ride. Whatever his father thought, Arlen knew her chances had just been cut in half.

The sun was nearly set when they reached the lonely farmhouse. Jeph and Missy seemed to share a panicked terror, and they screamed their haste as one. Arlen had leapt into the back of the cart to try and keep his mother from being thrown about by the widely jolting ride. He held her tight, taking many of the bruises and bashes for her.

But not all; he could feel Coline’s careful stitches giving, the wounds oozing open again. If the demon fever didn’t claim her, there was a good chance the ride would.

Jeph ran the cart right up to the porch, shouting, “Harl! We seek succor!”

The door opened almost immediately, even before they could get out of the cart. A man in worn overalls came out, a long pitchfork in hand. Harl was thin and tough, like dried meat. He was followed by Ilain, the sturdy young woman holding a stout metal-headed shovel. The last time Arlen saw her, she had been crying and terrified, but there was no terror in her eyes now. She ignored the crawling shadows as she approached the cart.

Harl nodded as Jeph lifted Silvy out of the cart. “Get her inside,” he ordered, and Jeph hurried to comply, letting a deep breath out as he crossed the wards.

“Open the big barn door!” he told Ilain. “That cart won’t fit in the little’un.” Ilain gathered her skirts and ran. He turned to Arlen. “Drive the cart to the barn, boy! Quick!”

Arlen did as he was told. “No time to unhitch her,” the farmer said. “She’ll have to do.” It was the second night in a row. Arlen wondered if Missy would ever get unhitched.

Harl and Ilain quickly shut the barn door and checked the wards. “What are you waiting for?” the man roared at Arlen. “Run for the house! They’ll be here in a moment!”

He had barely spoken the words when the demons began to rise. He and Arlen sprinted for the house as spindly, clawed arms and horned heads seemed to grow right out of the ground.

They dodged left and right around the rising death, adrenaline and fear giving them agility and speed. The first corelings to solidify, a group of lissome flame demons, gave chase, gaining on them. As Arlen and Ilain ran on, Harl turned and hurled his pitchfork into their midst.

The weapon struck the lead demon full in the chest, knocking it into its fellows, but even the skin of a tiny flame demon was too knobbed and tough for a pitchfork to pierce. The creature picked up the tool in its claws and spat a gout of flame upon it, setting the wooden haft alight, then tossed it aside.

But though the coreling hadn’t been hurt, the throw delayed them. The demons rushed forward, but as Harl leapt onto the porch, they came to an abrupt halt, slamming into a line of wards that stopped them as surely as if they had run into a brick wall. As the magic flared brightly and hurled them back into the yard, Harl rushed into the house. He slammed and bolted the door, throwing his back against the portal.

“Creator be praised,” he said weakly, panting and pale.

The air inside Harl’s farmhouse was thick and hot, stinking of must and waste. The buggy reeds on the floor absorbed some of the water that made it past the thatch, but they were far from fresh. Two dogs and several cats shared the home, forcing everyone to step carefully. A stone pot hung in the fireplace, adding to the mix the sour scent of a stew perpetually cooking, added to as it diminished. A patchwork curtain in one corner gave a touch of privacy for the chamber pot.

Arlen did his best to redo Silvy’s bandages, and then Ilain and her sister Beni put her in their room, while Harl’s youngest, Renna, set another two cracked wooden bowls at the table for Arlen and his father.

There were only three rooms, one shared by the girls, another for Harl, and the common room where they cooked and ate and worked. A ragged curtain divided the room, partitioning off the area for cooking and eating. A warded door in the common room led to the small barn.

“Renna, take Arlen and check the wards while the men talk and Beni and I get supper ready,” Ilain said.

Renna nodded, taking Arlen’s hand and pulling him along. She was almost ten, close to Arlen’s age of eleven, and pretty beneath the smudges of dirt on her face. She wore a plain shift, worn and carefully mended, and her brown hair was tied back with a ragged strip of cloth, though many locks had freed themselves to fall about her round face.

“This one’s scuffed,” the girl commented, pointing to a ward on one of the sills. “One of the cats must have stepped on it.” Taking a stick of charcoal from the kit, she carefully traced the line where it had been broken.

“That’s no good,” Arlen said. “The lines ent smooth anymore. That weakens the ward. You should draw it over.”

“I’m not allowed to draw a fresh one,” Renna whispered. “I’m supposed to tell Father or Ilain if there’s one I can’t fix.”

“I can do it,” Arlen said, taking the stick. He carefully wiped clean the old ward and drew a new one, his arm moving with quick confidence. Stepping back as he finished, he looked around the window, and then swiftly replaced several others as well.

While he worked, Harl caught sight of them and started to rise nervously, but a motion and a few confident words from Jeph brought him back to his seat.

Arlen took a moment to admire his work. “Even a rock demon won’t get through that,” he said proudly. He turned, and found Renna staring at him. “What?” he asked.

“You’re taller than I remember,” the girl said, looking down and smiling shyly.

“Well, it’s been a couple of years,” Arlen replied, not knowing what else to say. When they finished their sweep, Harl called his daughter over. He and Renna spoke softly to one another, and Arlen caught her looking at him once or twice, but he couldn’t hear what was said.

Dinner was a tough stew of parsnip and corn with a meat Arlen couldn’t identify, but it was filling enough. While they ate, they told their tale.

“Wish you’da come to us first,” Harl said when they finished. “We been t’Old Mey Friman plenty times. Closer’n going all the way to Town Square t’see Trigg. If it took you two hours of cracking the whip t’get back to us, you’da reached Mack Pasture’s farm soon, you pressed on. Old Mey, she’s only an hour-so past that. She never did cotton to living in town. You’d really whipped that mare, you mighta made it tonight.”

Arlen slammed down his spoon. All eyes at the table turned to him, but he didn’t even notice, so focused was he on his father.

Jeph could not weather that glare for long. He hung his head. “There was no way to know,” he said miserably.

Ilain touched his shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself for being cautious,” she said. She looked at Arlen, reprimand in her eyes. “You’ll understand when you’re older,” she told him.

Arlen rose sharply and stomped away from the table. He went through the curtain and curled up by a window, watching the demons through a broken slat in the shutters. Again and again they tried and failed to pierce the wards, but Arlen didn’t feel protected by the magic. He felt imprisoned by it.

“Take Arlen into the barn and play,” Harl ordered his younger daughters after the rest had finished eating. “Ilain will take the bowls. Let’cher elders talk.”