THE

PAINTED MAN

Peter V. Brett

HARPER

Voyager

HarperCollinsPublishers

77-85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.voyager-books.co.uk

Published by Harper Voyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 2008

 

Copyright © Peter V. Brett 2008

Peter V. Brett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978 0 00 727613 4

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,

in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior

permission of the publishers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                       

 

Section I

Tibbet's Brook

319

After the Return

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1

Aftermath

319 AR

The great horn sounded.

Arlen paused in his work, looking up at the lavender wash of the dawn sky. Morning mist still clung to the air, bringing with its damp an acrid taste that was all too familiar. A quiet dread built in his gut as he waited in the morning stillness, hoping that it had been his imagination. He was eleven years old.

Again the horn was blown, this second note longer and clearer. Behind Arlen, the door to the house opened, and he knew his mother was there, covering her mouth with both hands. How many times had this happened, that he could picture her reaction so clearly?

There was a pause, and then the horn blew twice in rapid succession. One long and two short meant south and east. The Cluster by the Woods. His father had friends amongst the Cutters.

Arlen returned to his work, not needing to be told to hurry. Some chores could wait a day, but the stock still needed to be fed and the cows milked. He left the animals in the barns and opened the hay stores, slopped the pigs, and ran to fetch a wooden milk bucket. His mother was already squatting beneath the first of the cows. He snatched the spare stool and they found cadence in their work, the sound of milk striking wood drumming a funeral march. As they moved to the next pair down the line, Arlen saw his father begin hitching their strongest horse, a five-year-old chestnut-coloured mare named Missy, to the cart. His face was grim as he worked.

What would they find this time?

Before long, they were in the cart, trundling towards the small cluster of houses by the woods. It was dangerous there; over an hour's run to the next warded structure, but the lumber was needed. Arlen's mother, wrapped in her worn shawl, held him tightly as they rode.

'I'm a big boy, mam,' Arlen complained. 'I don't need you to hold me like a baby. I'm not scared.' It wasn't entirely true, but it would not do for the other children to see him clinging to his mother as they rode in. They made mock of him enough as it was.

'I'm scared,' his mother said. 'What if it's me who needs to be held?'

Feeling suddenly proud, Arlen pulled close to his mother again as they travelled down the road. She could never fool him, but she always knew what to say just the same.

A pillar of greasy smoke told them more than they wanted to know long before they reached the others. They were burning the dead. And starting the fires this early, without waiting for everyone to arrive and pray, meant there were a great many. Too many to pray over each one if the work was to be completed before dusk.

It was more than five miles from Arlen's father's farm to the Cluster by the Woods. By the time they arrived, the few remaining cabin fires had been put out, though in truth there was little left to burn. Fifteen houses; all reduced to rubble and ash.

'The wood piles, too,' Arlen's father said, spitting over the side of the cart. He gestured with his chin towards the blackened ruin that remained of a season's cutting. Arlen grimaced at the thought of how the rickety fence that penned the animals would have to last another year, and immediately felt guilty. It was only wood, after all.

The village speaker approached their cart as it pulled up. Selia, whom Arlen's mother sometimes called Selia the Barren, was a hard old woman, tall and thin, with skin like tough leather. Her long grey hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she wore her shawl like a badge of office. She brooked no nonsense, as Arlen had learned more than once at the end of her stick, but today, he was comforted by her presence. Like Arlen's father, something about Selia made him feel safe. Though she had never had children of her own, Selia acted as a parent to everyone in Tibbet's Brook. Few could match her wisdom, and fewer still her stubbornness. When you were on Selia's good side, it felt like the safest place in the world.

'It's good that you've come, Jeph,' Selia told Arlen's father. 'Silvy and young Arlen, too,' she said, nodding to them. 'We need every hand we can get. Even the boy can help.'

Arlen's father grunted, stepping down from the cart. 'I brought my tools,' he said. 'Just tell me where we can throw in.'

Arlen collected the precious tools from the back of their cart. Metal was scarce in the Brook, and his father was proud of his two shovels, his pick and his saw. They would all see heavy use this day.

'Twenty-seven,' Selia said, giving Arlen's parents the number they feared to ask for. Silvy choked and covered her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. Jeph spat again.

'Any survivors?' he asked.

'A few,' Selia said. 'Manie,' she pointed with her stick at a boy who stood staring at the funeral pyre, 'ran all the way to my house in the dark.'

Silvy gasped. No one had ever run so far and lived. 'The wards on Brine Cutter's house held for most of the night,' Selia went on. 'He and his family watched everything. A few others fled the corelings and succoured there, until the fires spread and their roof caught. They waited in the burning house until the beams started to crack, and then took their chances outside in the minutes before dawn. The corelings killed Brine's wife Meena and their son Poul, but the others made it. The burns will heal and the children will be all right in time, but the others...'

She didn't need to finish the sentence. Survivors of a demon attack had a way of dying soon after. Not all, or even most, but enough. Some of them took their own lives, and others simply stared blankly, refusing to eat or drink until they wasted away. It was said you did not truly survive an attack until a year and a day had passed.

'There are still a dozen unaccounted for,' Selia said, but with little hope in her voice.

'We'll dig them out,' Jeph agreed grimly, looking at the collapsed houses, many still smouldering. The Cutters built their homes mostly out of stone to protect against fire, but even stone would burn if enough flame demons gathered in one place and the wards failed.

Jeph joined the other men and a few of the stronger women in clearing the rubble and carting the dead to the pyre. The bodies had to be burned, of course. No one would want to be buried in the same ground the demons rose out of each night. Tender Harral, the sleeves of his robe rolled up to bare his thick arms, lifted each into fire himself, muttering prayers and drawing wards in the air as the flames took them.

Silvy joined the other women in gathering the younger children and tending to the wounded under the watchful eye of the Brook's Herb Gatherer, Coline Trigg. But no herbs could ease the pain of some of the survivors. Brine Cutter, also called Brine Broadshoulders, was a great bear of a man with a booming laugh who used to throw Arlen into the air when they came to trade for wood. Now Brine sat in the ashes beside his ruined house, slowly knocking his head against the blackened wall. He muttered to himself and clutched his arms tightly, as if cold.

Arlen and the other children were put to work carrying water and sorting through the woodpiles for salvageable lumber. There were still a few warm months left to the year, but there would not be time to cut enough wood to last the winter. They would be burning dung again this year, and the house would reek.

Again Arlen weathered a wave of guilt. He was not in the pyre, nor banging his head in shock, having lost everything. There were worse fates than a house smelling of dung.

More and more villagers arrived as the morning wore on. Bringing their families and whatever provisions they could spare, they came from Fishing Hole and Town Square; they came from the Boggin's Hill, and Soggy Marsh. Some even came all the way from Southwatch. And one by one, Selia greeted them with the grim news and put them to work.

With more than a hundred hands, the men doubled their efforts, half of them continuing to dig as the others descended upon the only salvageable structure left in the cluster: Brine Cutter's house. Selia led Brine away, somehow supporting the giant man as he stumbled, while the men cleared the rubble and began hauling new stones. A few took out warding kits and began to paint fresh wards while children made thatch. The house would be restored by nightfall.

Arlen was partnered with Cobie Fisher in hauling wood. The children had amassed a sizeable pile, though it was only a fraction of what had been lost. Cobie was a tall, thickly built boy with dark curls and hairy arms. He was popular amongst the other children, but it was popularity built at others' expense. Few children cared to weather his insults, and fewer still his beatings.

Cobie had tortured Arlen for years, and the other children had gone along Jeph's farm was the northernmost in the Brook, far from where the children tended to gather in Town Square, and Arlen spent most of his time wandering the Brook by himself. Sacrificing him to Cobie's wrath seemed a fair trade to most children.

Whenever Arlen went fishing, or passed by Fishing Hole on the way to Town Square, Cobie and his friends seemed to hear about it, and were waiting in the same spot on his way home. Sometimes they just called him names, or pushed him, but other times he came home bloody and bruised, and his mother shouted at him for fighting.

Finally, Arlen had enough. He left a stout stick hidden in that spot, and the next time Cobie and his friends pounced, Arlen pretended to run, only to produce the weapon as if from thin air and come back at them swinging.

Cobie was the first one struck, a hard blow that left him crying in the dust with blood running from his ear. Willum had received a broken finger, and Gart walked with a limp for over a week. It had done nothing to improve Arlen's popularity amongst the other children, and Arlen's father had caned him, but the other boys never bothered him again. Even now, Cobie gave him a wide berth and flinched if Arlen made a sudden move, even though he was bigger by far.

'Survivors!' Bil Baker called suddenly, standing by a collapsed house at the edge of the Cluster. 'I can hear them trapped in the root cellar!'

Immediately, everyone dropped what they were doing and rushed over. Clearing the rubble would take too long, so the men began to dig, bending their backs with silent fervour. Soon after, they broke through the side of the cellar, and began hauling out the survivors. They were filthy and terrified, but all were very much alive: Three women, six children, and one man.

'Uncle Cholie!' Arlen cried, and his mother was there in an instant, cradling her brother, who stumbled drunkenly. Arlen ran to them, ducking under his other arm to steady him.

'Cholie, what are you doing here?' Silvy asked. Cholie seldom left his workshop in Town Square. Arlen's mother had told the tale a thousand times of how she and her brother had run the farrier's shop together before Jeph began breaking his horses' shoes on purpose for a reason to come court.

'Came to court Ana Cutter,' Cholie mumbled. He pulled at his hair, having already torn whole clumps free. 'We'd just opened the bolt hole when they came through the wards...' His knees buckled, pulling Arlen and Silvy down with his weight. Kneeling in the dust, he wept.

Arlen looked at the other survivors. Ana Cutter wasn't among them. His throat tightened as the children passed. He knew every one of them; their families, what their houses were like inside and out, their animals' names. They met his eyes for a second as they went by, and in that moment, he lived the attack through their eyes. He saw himself shoved into a cramped hole in the ground while those unable to fit turned to face the corelings and the fire. Suddenly he started gasping, unable to stop until Jeph slapped him on the back and brought him to his senses.

 

                                             

 

They were finishing a cold midday meal when a horn sounded on the far side of the Brook.

'Not two in one day?' Silvy gasped, covering her mouth.

'Bah,' Selia grunted. 'At midday? Use your head, girl!'

'Then what...?'

Selia ignored her, rising to fetch a horn blower to signal back. Keven Marsh had his horn ready, as the folks from Soggy Marsh always did. It was easy to get separated in the marshes, and no one wanted to be wandering lost when the swamp demons rose. Keven's cheeks inflated like a frog's chin as he blew a series of notes.

'Messenger horn,' Coran Marsh a greybeard advised Silvy. A greybeard, he was Speaker for Soggy Marsh and Keven's father. Arlen didn't know him, so he was a Marsh or a Watch.

They tended to keep to themselves. 'They prob'ly saw the smoke. Keven's telling 'em what's happened and where everyone is.'

'A Messenger in spring?' Arlen asked. 'I thought they come in the fall after harvest. We only finished planting this past moon!'

'Messenger never came last fall,' Coran said, spitting foamy brown juice from the root he was chewing through the gap of his missing teeth. 'We been worried sumpin' happened. Thought we might not have a Messenger bring salt till next fall. Or maybe that the corelings got the Free Cities and we's cut off.'

"The corelings could never get the Free Cities,' Arlen said.

'Arlen, shush your mouth!' Silvy hissed. 'He's your elder!'

'Let the boy speak,' Coran said. 'Ever bin to a free city, boy?' he asked Arlen.

'No,' Arlen admitted.

'Ever know anyone who had?'

'No,' Arlen said again.

'So what makes you such an expert?' Coran asked. 'Ent no one been to one 'cept the Messengers. They're the only ones what brave the night to go so far. Who's to say the Free Cities ent just places like the Brook? If the corelings can get us, they can get them, too.'

'Old Hog is from the Free Cities,' Arlen said, referring to Rusco Hog, the richest man in the Brook. Hog ran the general store, which was the crux of all commerce in Tibbet's Brook.

'Ay,' Coran said, 'an' Old Hog told me years ago that one trip was enough for him. He meant to go back after a few years, but said it wasn't worth the risk. So you ask him if the Free Cities are any safer than anywhere else.'

Arlen didn't want to believe it. There had to be safe places in the world. But again the image of himself being thrown into the cellar flashed across his mind, and he knew that nowhere was truly safe at night.

The Messenger arrived an hour later. He was a tall man in his early thirties, with cropped brown hair and a short, thick beard.

Draped about his broad shoulders was a shirt of metal links, and he wore a long dark cloak with thick leather breeches and boots. His mare was a sleek brown courser. Strapped to the horse's saddle was a harness holding a number of different spears. His face was grim as he approached, but his shoulders were high and proud. He scanned the crowd and spotted the Speaker easily as she stood giving orders. He turned his horse towards her.

Riding a few paces behind on a heavily laden cart pulled by a pair of dark brown mollies, was the Jongleur. His clothes were a brightly coloured patchwork, and he had a lute resting on the bench next to him. His hair was a colour Arlen had never seen before, like a pale carrot, and his skin was so fair it seemed the sun had never touched it. His shoulders slumped, and he looked thoroughly exhausted.

There was always a Jongleur with the annual Messenger. To the children, and some of the adults, the Jongleur was the more important of the two. This one was younger than the last one Arlen remembered, and he seemed sullen, where the other man had been anything but. Children ran to him immediately, and the young Jongleur perked up, the frustration melting from his face so quickly Arlen began to doubt it was ever there. In an instant, the Jongleur was off the cart and spinning his coloured balls into the air as the children cheered.

Others, Arlen among them, forgot their work, drifting towards the newcomers. Selia whirled on them, having none of it. 'The day is no longer because the Messenger's come!' she barked. 'Back to your work!'

There were grumbles, but everyone went back to work. 'Not you, Arlen,' Selia said, 'come here.' Arlen pulled his eyes from the Jongleur and went to her as the Messenger arrived.

'Selia Barren?' the Messenger asked.

'Just Selia will do,' Selia replied primly. The Messenger's eyes widened, and he blushed, the tops of his pale cheeks turning a deep red above his beard. He leaped down from his horse and bowed low.

'Apologies,' he said. 'I did not think. Graig, your usual Messenger, told me that's what you were called.'

'It's pleasing to know what Graig thinks of me after all these years,' Selia said, sounding not at all pleased.

'Thought,' the Messenger corrected. 'He's dead, ma'am.'

'Dead?' Selia asked, looking suddenly sad. 'Was it...?'

The Messenger shook his head. 'It was a chill took him, not corelings. I'm Ragen, your Messenger this year, as a favour to his widow. The Guild will select a new Messenger for you starting next fall.'

'A year and half again before the next Messenger?' Selia asked, sounding like she was readying a scolding. 'We barely made it through this past winter without the fall salt,' she said. 'I know you take it for granted in Miln, but half our meat and fish spoiled for lack of proper curing. And what of our letters?'

'Sorry, ma'am,' Ragen said. 'Your towns are well off the common roads, and paying a Messenger to commit for a month and more of travel each year is costly. The Messenger's Guild is shorthanded, what with Graig catching that chill.' He chuckled and shook his head, but noticed Selia's visage darken in response.

'No offence meant, ma'am,' Ragen said. 'He was my friend as well. It's just... it's not many of us Messengers get to go with a roof above, a bed below, and a young wife at our side. The night usually gets us before that, you see?'

'I do,' Selia said. 'Do you have a wife, Ragen?' she asked.

'Ay,' the Messenger said, 'though to her pleasure and my pain, I see my mare more than my bride.' He laughed, confusing Arlen, who didn't think having a wife not miss you was funny.

Selia didn't seem to notice. 'What if you couldn't see her at all?' she asked. 'What if all you had were letters once a year to connect you to her? How would you feel to hear your letters would be delayed half a year? There are some in this town with kin in the Free Cities. Left with one Messenger or another, some as much as two generations gone. Those people aren't going to come home, Ragen. Letters are all we have of them, and they of us.'

'I am in full agreement with you, ma'am,' Ragen said, 'but the decision is not mine to make. The duke...'

'But you will speak to the duke upon your return, yes?' Selia asked.

'I will,' he said.

'Shall I write the message down for you?' Selia asked.

Ragen smiled. 'I think I can remember it, ma'am.'

'See that you do.'

Ragen bowed again, still lower. 'Apologies, for coming to call on such a dark day,' he said, his eyes flicking to the funeral pyre.

'We cannot tell the rain when to come, nor the wind, nor the cold,' Selia said. 'Not the corelings, either. So life must go on despite these things.'

'Life goes on,' Ragen agreed, 'but if there's anything I or my Jongleur can do to help; I've a strong back and I've treated coreling wounds many times.'

'Your Jongleur is helping already,' Selia said, nodding towards the young man as he sang and did his tricks, 'distracting the young ones while their kin do their work. As for you, I've much to do over the next few days, if we're to recover from this loss. I won't have time to hand the mail and read to those who haven't learned their letters.'

'I can read to those who can't, ma'am,' Ragen said, 'but I don't know your town well enough to distribute.'

'No need,' Selia said, pulling Arlen forward. 'Arlen here will take you to the General Store in Town Square, and Rusco Hog, the owner. Give the letters and packages to him when you deliver the salt. Most everyone will come running now that the salt's in, and Rusco's one of the few in town with letters and numbers. The old crook will complain and try to insist on payment, but you tell him that in time of trouble, the whole town must throw in. You tell him to give out the letters and read to those who can't, or I'll not lift a finger the next time the town wants to throw a rope around his neck.'

Ragen looked closely at Selia, perhaps trying to tell if she was joking, but her stony face gave no indication. He bowed again.

'Hurry along, then,' Selia said. 'Lift your feet and you'll both be back as everyone is readying to leave here for the night. If you and your Jongleur don't want to pay Rusco for a room, any here will be glad to offer their homes.' She shooed the two of them away and turned back to scold those pausing their work to stare at the newcomers.

 

                                            

 

'Is she always so... forceful?' Ragen asked Arlen as they walked over to where the Jongleur was mumming for the youngest children. The rest had been pulled back to work.

Arlen snorted. 'You should hear her talk to the greybeards. You're lucky to get away with your skin after calling her 'Barren'.'

'Graig said that's what everyone called her,' Ragen said.

'They do,' Arlen agreed, 'just not to her face, unless they're looking to take a coreling by the horns. Everyone hops when Selia speaks.'

Ragen chuckled. 'And her an old daughter, at that,' he mused. 'Where I come from, only Mothers expect everyone to jump at their command like that.'

'What difference does that make?' Arlen asked.

Ragen shrugged. 'Don't know, I suppose,' he conceded. 'That's just how things are in Miln. People make the world go, and Mothers make people, so they lead the dance.'

'It's not like that here,' Arlen said.

'It never is, in the small towns,' Ragen said. 'Not enough people to spare. But the Free Cities are different. Apart from Miln, none of the others give their women much voice at all.'

'That sounds just as dumb,' Arlen muttered.

'It is,' Ragen agreed.

The Messenger stopped, and handed Arlen the reins to his courser. 'Wait here a minute,' he said, and headed over to the Jongleur. The two men moved aside to talk, and Arlen saw the Jongleur's face change again, becoming angry, then petulant, and finally resigned as he tried to argue with Ragen, whose face remained stony throughout.

Never taking his glare off the Jongleur, the Messenger beckoned with a hand to Arlen, who brought the horse over to them.

'...don't care how tired you are,' Ragen was saying, his voice a harsh whisper, 'these people have grisly work to do, and if you need to dance and juggle all afternoon to keep their kids occupied while they do it, then you'd damn well better! Now put your face back on and get to it!' He grabbed the reins from Arlen and thrust them at the man.

Arlen got a good look at the young Jongleur's face, full of indignation and fear, before the Jongleur took notice of him. The second he saw he was being watched, the man's face rippled, and a moment later he was the bright, cheerful fellow who danced for children.

Ragen took Arlen to the cart and the two climbed on. Ragen snapped the reins, and they turned back up the dirt path that led to the main road.

'What were you arguing about?' Arlen asked as the cart bounced along.

The Messenger looked at him a moment, then shrugged. 'It's Keerin's first time so far out of the city,' he said. 'He was brave enough when there was a group of us and he had a covered wagon to sleep in, but when we left the rest of our caravan behind in Angiers, he didn't do near as well. He's got day-jitters from the corelings, and it's made him poor company.'

'You can't tell,' Arlen said, looking back at the cartwheeling man.

'Jongleurs have their mummers tricks,' Ragen said. 'They can pretend so hard to be something they're not that they actually convince themselves of it for a time. Keerin pretended to be brave. The Guild tested him for travel and he passed, but you never really know how people will hold up after two weeks on the open road until they do it for real.'

'How do you stay out on the roads at night?' Arlen asked. 'Da says drawing wards in the soil's asking for trouble.'

'Your da is right,' Ragen said. 'Look in that compartment by your feet.'

Arlen did, and produced a large bag of soft leather. Inside was a knotted rope, strung with lacquered wooden plates bigger than his hand. His eyes widened when he saw wards carved and painted into the wood.

Immediately, Arlen knew what it was: a portable warding circle, large enough to surround the cart and more besides. 'I've never seen anything like it,' Arlen said.

'They're not easy to make,' the Messenger said, 'most Messengers spend their whole apprenticeship mastering the art. No wind or rain is going to smudge those wards. But even then, they're not the same as having warded walls and a door.

'Ever see a coreling face to face, boy?' he asked, turning and looking at Arlen hard. 'Watched it take a swipe at you with nowhere to run and nothing to protect you except magic you can't see?' He shook his head. 'Maybe I'm being too hard on Keerin. He handled his test all right. Screamed a bit, but that's to be expected. Night after night is another matter. Takes its toll on some men, always worried that a stray leaf will land on a ward, and then...' He hissed suddenly and swiped a clawed hand at Arlen, laughing when the boy jumped.

Arlen ran his thumb over each smooth, lacquered ward, feeling their strength. There was one of the little plates for every foot of rope, much like there would be in any warding. He counted more than forty of them. 'Can't wind demons fly into a circle this big?' he asked. 'Da puts posts up to keep them from landing in the fields.'

The man looked over at him, a little surprised. 'Your da's probably wasting his time,' he said. 'Wind demons are strong fliers, but they need running space or something to climb and leap from in order to take off. Not much of either in a corn field, so they'd be reluctant to land, unless they saw something too tempting to resist, like some little boy sleeping in the field on a dare.' He looked at Arlen in that same way Jeph did, when warning Arlen that the corelings were serious business. As if he didn't know.

'Wind demons also need to turn in wide arcs,' Ragen continued, 'and most of them have a wingspan larger than that circle. It's possible that one could get in, but I've never seen it happen. If it does, though...' he gestured to the long, thick spear he kept next to him.

'You can kill a coreling with a spear?' Arlen asked.

'Probably not,' Ragen replied, 'but I've heard that you can stun them by pinning them against your wards.' He chuckled. 'I hope I never have to find out.'

Arlen looked at him, wide-eyed.

Ragen looked back at him, his face suddenly serious. 'Messaging's dangerous work, boy,' he said.

Arlen stared at him a long time. 'It would be worth it, to see the Free Cities,' he said at last. 'Tell me true, what's Fort Miln like?'

'It's the richest and most beautiful city in the world,' Ragen replied, lifting his mail sleeve to reveal a tattoo on his forearm of a city nestled between two mountains. 'The Duke's Mines run rich with salt, metal, and coal. Its walls and rooftops are so well warded; it's rare for the house wards to even be tested. When the sun shines on its walls, it puts the mountains themselves to shame.'

'Never seen a mountain,' Arlen said, marvelling as he traced the tattoo with a finger. 'My da says they're just big hills.'

'You see that hill?' Ragen asked, pointing north of the road.

Arlen nodded. 'Boggin's Hill. You can see the whole Brook from up there.'

Ragen nodded. 'You know what a 'hundred' means, Arlen?' he asked.

Arlen nodded again. 'Ten pairs of hands.'

'Well even a small mountain is bigger than a hundred of your Boggin's Hills piled on top of each other, and the mountains of Miln are not small.'

Arlen's eyes widened as he tried to contemplate such a height. 'They must touch the sky,' he said.

'Some are above it,' Ragen bragged. 'Atop them, you can look down at the clouds.'

'I want to see that one day,' Arlen said.

'You could join the Messenger's Guild, when you're old enough,' Ragen said.

Arlen shook his head. 'Da says the people that leave are deserters,' he said. 'He spits when he says it.'

'Your da doesn't know what he's talking about,' Ragen said. 'Spitting doesn't make things so. Without Messengers, even the Free Cities would crumble.'

'I thought the Free Cities were safe?' Arlen asked.

'Nowhere is safe, Arlen. Not truly. Miln has more people and can absorb the deaths more easily than a place like Tibbet's Brook, but the corelings still take a toll each year.'

'How many people are in Miln?' Arlen asked. 'We have three hundreds in Tibbet's Brook, and Sunny Pasture up the ways is supposed to be almost as big.'

'We have over thirty thousands in Miln,' Ragen said proudly.

Arlen looked at him, confused.

'A thousand is ten hundreds,' the Messenger supplied.

Arlen thought a moment, then shook his head. "There aren't that many people in the world,' he said.

'There are and more,' Ragen said. 'There's a wide world out there, for those willing to brave the dark.'

Arlen didn't answer, and they rode in silence for a time.

 

                                             

 

It took about an hour and a half for the trundling cart to reach Town Square. The centre of the Brook, Town Square held just over two-dozen warded wooden houses for those whose trade did not have them working in the fields or rice paddies, fishing, or cutting wood. It was here one came to find the tailor and the baker, the farrier, the cooper, and the rest.

At the centre lay the square where people would gather, and the biggest building in the Brook, the general store. It had a large open front room that housed tables and the bar, an even larger storeroom in back, and a cellar below, filled with most everything of value in the Brook.

Hog's daughters Dasy and Catrin ran the kitchen. Two credits could buy a meal to leave you stuffed, but Silvy called old Hog a cheat, since two credits could buy enough raw grain for a week. Still, plenty of unmarried men paid the price, and not all for the food. Dasy was homely and Catrin fat, but Uncle Cholie said the men who married them would be set for life.

Everyone in the Brook brought Hog their goods, be it corn or meat or fur, pottery or cloth, furniture or tools. Hog took the items, counted them up, and gave the customers credits to buy other things at the store.

Things always seemed to cost a lot more than Hog paid for them, though. Arlen knew enough numbers to see that. There were some famous arguments when people came to sell, but Hog set the prices, and usually got his way. Just about everyone hated Hog, but they needed him all the same, and were more likely to brush his coat and open his doors than spit when he passed.

Everyone else in the Brook worked throughout the sun, and barely saw all their needs met, but Hog and his daughters always had fleshy cheeks, rounded bellies, and clean new clothes. Arlen had to wrap himself in a rug whenever his mother took his overalls to wash.

Ragen and Arlen tied off the mules in front of the store and went inside. The bar was empty. Usually the air inside the taproom was thick with bacon fat, but there was no smell of cooking from the kitchen today.

Arlen rushed ahead of the Messenger to the bar. Rusco had a small bronze bell there, brought with him when he came from the Free Cities. Arlen loved that bell. He slapped his hand down on it and grinned at the clear sound.

There was a thump in the back, and Rusco came through the curtains behind the bar. He was a big man, still strong and straight-backed at sixty, but a soft gut hung around his middle, and his iron-grey hair was creeping back from his lined forehead. He wore light trousers and leather shoes with a clean white cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled halfway up his thick forearms. His white apron was spotless, as always.

'Arlen Bales,' he said with a patient smile, seeing the boy. 'Did you come just to play with the bell, or do you have some business?'

'The business is mine,' Ragen said, stepping forward. 'You Rusco Hog?'

'Just Rusco will do,' the man said. 'The townies slapped the 'Hog' on, though not to my face. Can't stand to see a man prosper.'

'That's twice,' Ragen mused.

'Say again?' Rusco said.

``'Twice that Graig's journey log has led me astray.' Ragen said. 'I called Selia 'Barren' to her face this morning.'

'Ha!' Rusco laughed. 'Did you now? Well, that's worth a drink on the house, if anything is. What did you say your name was?'

'Ragen,' the Messenger said, dropping his heavy satchel and taking a seat at the bar. Rusco tapped a keg, and plucked a slatted wooden mug off a hook.

The ale was thick and honey coloured, and foamed to a white head on top of the mug. Rusco filled one for Ragen and another for himself. Then he glanced at Arlen, and filled a smaller cup. 'Take that to a table and let your elders talk at the bar,' he said. 'And if you know what's good for you, you won't tell your mum I gave you that'

Arlen beamed, and ran off with his prize before Rusco had a chance to reconsider. He had snuck a taste of ale from his father's mug at festivals, but had never had a cup of his own.

'I was starting to worry no one was coming ever again,' he heard Rusco tell Ragen.

'Graig took a chill just before he was to leave last fall,' Ragen said, drinking deeply. 'His Herb Gatherer told him to put the trip off until he got better, but then winter set in, and he got worse and worse. In the end, he asked me to take his route until the Guild could find another. I had to take a caravan of salt to Angiers anyway, so I added an extra cart and swung this way before heading back north.'

Rusco took his mug and filled it again. 'To Graig,' he said, 'a fine Messenger, and a dangerous haggler.' Ragen smiled and the two men clapped mugs and drank.

'Another?' Rusco asked, when Ragen slammed his mug back down on the bar.

'Graig wrote in his log that you were a dangerous haggler, too,' Ragen said with a smile, 'and that you'd try to get me drunk first.'

Rusco chuckled, and refilled the mug. 'After the haggling, I'll have no need to serve these on the house,' he said, handing it to Ragen with a fresh head.

'You will if you want your mail to reach Miln,' Ragen smiled, accepting the mug.

'I can see you're going to be as tough as Graig ever was,' Rusco grumbled, filling his own mug. 'There,' he said, when it foamed over, 'we can both haggle drunk.' They laughed, and clashed mugs again.

'What news of the Free Cities?' Rusco asked. 'The Krasians still determined to destroy themselves?'

Ragen shrugged. 'By all accounts. I stopped going to Krasia a few years ago, when I married. Too far, and too dangerous.'

'So the fact that they cover their women in blankets has nothing to do with it?' Rusco asked with a smile.

Ragen laughed. 'Doesn't help,' he said, 'but it's mostly how they think all northerners, even Messengers, are cowards for not spending our nights trying to get ourselves cored.'

'Maybe they'd be less inclined to fight if they looked at their women more,' Rusco mused. 'How about Angiers and Miln? The dukes still bickering?'

'As always,' Ragen said. 'Euchor needs Angiers' wood to fuel his refineries, and grain to feed his people. Rhinebeck needs Miln's metal and salt. They have to trade to survive, but instead of making it easy on themselves, they spend all their time trying to cheat each other, especially when a shipment is lost to corelings on the road. Last summer, corelings hit a caravan of steel and salt. They killed the drivers, but left most of the cargo intact. Rhinebeck retrieved it, and refused to pay, claiming salvage rights.'

'Duke Euchor must have been furious,' Rusco said.

'Livid,' Ragen agreed. 'I was the one that brought him the news. He went red in the face, and swore Angiers wouldn't see another ounce of salt until Rhinebeck paid.'

'Did Rhinebeck pay?' Rusco asked, leaning in eagerly.

Ragen shook his head. 'They did their best to starve each other for a few months, and then the Merchant's Guild paid, just to get their shipments out before the winter came and they rotted in storage. Rhinebeck is angry at them now, for giving in to Euchor, but his face was saved and the shipments were moving again, which is all that mattered to anyone other than those two dogs.'

'Wise to watch what you call the dukes,' Rusco warned, though he was smiling.

'Who's going to tell them?' Ragen asked. 'You? The boy?' he gestured at Arlen. Both men laughed.

'And now I have to bring Euchor news of Riverbridge, which will make things worse,' Ragen said.

'The town on the border of Miln,' Rusco said, 'barely a day out from Angiers. I have contacts there.'

'Not anymore, you don't,' Ragen said pointedly, and the men were quiet for a time.

'Enough bad news,' Ragen said, hauling his satchel onto the bar. Rusco considered it dubiously.

'That doesn't look like salt,' he said, 'and I doubt I have that much mail.'

'You have six letters, and an even dozen packages,' Ragen said, handing Rusco a sheaf of folded paper. 'It's all listed here, along with all the other letters in the satchel and packages on the cart to be distributed. I gave Selia a copy of the list,' he warned.

'What do I want with that list, or your mail bag?' Rusco asked.

'The Speaker is occupied, and won't be able to distribute the mail and read to those that can't. She volunteered you.'

'And how am I to be compensated for spending my business hours reading to the townies?' Rusco asked.

'The satisfaction of a good deed to your neighbours?' Ragen asked.

Rusco snorted. 'I didn't come to Tibbet's Brook to make friends,' he said. 'I'm a businessman, and I do a lot for this town.'

'Do you?' Ragen asked.

'Damn right,' Rusco said. 'Before I came to this town, all they did was barter." He made the word a curse, and spat on the floor. 'They collected the fruits of their labour and gathered in the square every Seventhday, arguing over how many beans were worth an ear of corn, or how much rice you had to give the cooper to make you a barrel to put your rice in. And if you didn't get what you needed on Seventhday, you had to wait until the next week, or go door to door. Now everyone can come here, any day, any time from sunup to sundown, and trade for credits to get whatever else they need.'

'The town saviour,' Ragen said wryly. 'And you asking nothing in return.'

'Nothing but a tidy profit,' Rusco said with a grin.

'And how often do the villagers try to string you up for a cheat?' Ragen asked.

Rusco's eyes narrowed. 'Too often, considering half of them can't count past their fingers, and the other half can only add their toes to that,' he said.

'Selia said the next time it happens, you're on your own,' Ragen's friendly voice had suddenly gone hard, 'unless you do your part. There's plenty on the far side of town suffering worse than having to read the mail.'

Rusco frowned, but he took the list and carried the heavy bag into his storeroom.

'How bad is it, really?' he asked when he returned.

'Bad,' Ragen said. 'Twenty-seven so far, and a few still unaccounted for.'

'Creator,' Rusco swore, drawing a ward in the air in front of him. 'I had thought a family, at worst.'

'If only,' Ragen said.

They were both silent for a moment, as was decent, then looked up at each other as one.

'You have this year's salt?' Rusco asked.

'You have the duke's rice?' Ragen replied.

'Been holding it all winter, you being so late,' Rusco said.

Ragen's eyes narrowed.

'Oh, it's still good!' Rusco said, his hands coming up suddenly, as if pleading. 'I've kept it sealed and dry, and there are no vermin in my cellar!'

'I'll need to be sure, you understand,' Ragen said.

'Of course, of course,' Rusco said. 'Arlen, fetch that lamp!' he ordered, pointing the boy towards the corner of the bar.

Arlen scurried over to the lantern, picking up the striker. He lit the wick and lowered the glass reverently. He had never been trusted to hold glass before. It was colder than he imagined, but quickly grew warm as the flame licked it.

'Carry it down to the cellar for us,' Rusco ordered. Arlen tried to contain his excitement. He had always wanted to see behind the bar. They said if everyone in the Brook put all their possessions in on pile, it would not rival the wonders of Hog's cellar.

He watched as Rusco pulled a ring on his floor, opening a wide trap. Arlen came forward quickly, worried old Hog would change his mind. He went down the creaking steps, holding the lantern high to illuminate the way. As he did, the light touched on stacks of crates and barrels from floor to ceiling, running in even rows stretching back past the edges of the light. The floor was wooden to prevent corelings from rising directly into the cellar from the Core, but there were still wards carved into the racks along the walls. Old Hog was careful with his treasures.

The storekeeper led the way through the aisles to the sealed barrels in the back. 'They look unspoiled,' Ragen said, inspecting the wood. He considered a moment, then chose at random. 'That one,' he said, pointing to a barrel.

Rusco grunted and hauled out the barrel in question. Some people called his work easy, but his arms were as hard and thick as any that swung an axe or scythe. He broke the seal and popped still be heard. 'Out here, if you can't eat something, or wear it, paint a ward with it, or use it to till your field, it's not worth much of anything.'

He returned a moment later with a large cloth sack he deposited on the counter with a clink.

'People here have forgotten that gold moves the world,' he went on, reaching into the bag and pulling out two heavy yellow coins, which he waved in Ragen's face. 'The miller's kids were using these as game pieces! Game pieces! I told them I'd trade the gold for a carved wood game set I had in the back, they thought I was doing them a favour! Ferd even came by the next day to thank me!' He laughed a deep belly laugh. Arlen felt like he should be offended by that laugh, but he wasn't quite sure why.

He had played the Millers' game many times, and it seemed worth more than two metal disks, however shiny they might be.

'I brought a lot more than two suns worth,' Ragen said, nodding at the coins and then looking towards the bag.

Rusco smiled. 'Not to worry,' he said, untying the bag fully. As the cloth flattened on the counter, more bright coins spilled out, along with chains and rings and ropes of glittering stones. It was all very pretty, Arlen supposed, but he was surprised at how Ragen's eyes bulged and took on a covetous glitter.

Again they haggled, Ragen holding the stones up to the light and biting the coins, while Rusco fingered the cloth and tasted the spices. It was a blur to Arlen, whose head was spinning from the ale. Mug after mug came to the men from Catrin at the bar, but they showed no signs of being as affected as Arlen.

'Two hundred and twenty gold suns, two silver moons, the rope chain, and the three silver rings,' Rusco said at last. 'And not a copper light more.'

'No wonder you work out in a backwater,' Ragen said. 'They must have run you out of the city for a cheat.'

'Insults won't make you any richer,' Hog said, confident he had the upper hand.

'No riches for me this time,' Ragen said. 'After my travelling costs, every last light will go to Graig's widow.'

'Ah, Jenya,' Rusco said wistfully. 'She used to pen for some of those in Miln with no letters, my idiot nephew, among them. What will become of her?'

Ragen shook his head. 'The Guild paid no death-price to her, because Graig died at home,' he said. 'And since she isn't a Mother, a lot of jobs will be denied her.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' Rusco said.

'Graig left her some money,' Ragen said, 'though he never had much, and the Guild will still pay her to pen. With the money from this trip, she should have enough to get by for a time. She's young, though, and it will run out eventually unless she remarries or finds better work.'

'And then?' Rusco asked.

Ragen shrugged. 'It'll be hard for her to find a new husband, having already married and failed to bear children, but she won't become a Beggar. My Guild brothers and I have sworn that. One of us will take her in as a Servant before that happens.'

Rusco shook his head. 'Still, to fall from Merchant class to Servant...' He reached into the much lighter bag and produced a ring with a clear, sparkling stone set into it. 'See that she gets this,' he said holding the ring out.

As Ragen reached for it, though, Rusco pulled it back suddenly. 'I'll have a message back from her, you understand,' he said. 'I know how she shapes her letters.' Ragen looked at him a moment, and he quickly added, 'No insult meant.'

Ragen smiled. 'Your generosity outweighs your insult,' he said, taking the ring. 'This will keep her belly full for months.'

'Yes, well,' Rusco said gruffly, scooping up the remains of the bag, 'don't let any of the townies hear, or I'll lose my reputation as a cheat.'

'Your secret is safe with me,' Ragen said with a laugh.

'You could earn her a bit more, perhaps,' Rusco said.

'Oh?'

'The letters we have were meant to go to Miln six months ago. You stick around a few days while we pen and collect more, and maybe help pen a few, and I'll compensate you.

'No more gold,' he clarified, 'but surely Jenya could do with a cask of rice, or some cured fish or meal.'

'Indeed she could,' Ragen said.

'I can find work for your Jongleur, too,' Rusco added. 'He'll see more custom here in the Square than by hopping from farm to farm.'

'Agreed,' Ragen said. 'Keerin will need gold, though.'

Rusco gave him a wry look, and Ragen laughed. 'Had to try... you understand!' he said, echoing Hog's earlier words. 'Silver, then.'

Rusco nodded. 'I'll charge a moon for every performance, and for every moon, I'll keep one star and he the other three.'

'I thought you said the townies had no money,' Ragen noted.

'Most don't,' Rusco said. 'I'll sell the moons to them... say at the cost of five credits.'

'So Rusco Hog skims from both sides of the deal?' Ragen asked.

Hog smiled.

 

Arlen was excited during the ride back. Old Hog had promised to let him see the Jongleur for free if he spread the word that Keerin would be entertaining in the Square at high sun the next day for five credits or a silver Milnese moon. He wouldn't have much time; his parents would be readying to leave just as he and Ragen returned, but he was sure he could spread the word before they pulled him onto the cart.

'Tell me about the Free Cities,' Arlen begged as they rode. 'How many have you seen?'

'Five,' Ragen said, 'Miln, Angiers, Lakton, Rizon, and Krasia. There may be others beyond the mountains or the desert, but none that I know have seen them.'

'What are they like?' Arlen asked.

'Fort Angiers, the forest stronghold, lies south of Miln, across the Dividing River,' Ragen said. 'Angiers supplies wood for the other cities. Further south lies the great lake, and on its surface stands Lakton.'

'Is a lake like a pond?' Arlen asked.

'A lake is to a pond what a mountain is to a hill,' Ragen said, giving Arlen a moment to digest the thought. 'Out on the water, the Laktonians are safe from fire, rock, and wood demons. Their wardnet is proof against wind demons, and no people can ward against water demons better. They're fisherfolk, and thousands in the southern cities depend on their catch for food.

'West of Lakton is Fort Rizon, which is not technically a fort, since you could practically step over its wall, but it shields the largest farmlands you've ever seen. Without Rizon, the other Free Cities would starve.'

'And Krasia?' Arlen asked.

'I only visited Fort Krasia once,' Ragen said. 'The Krasians aren't welcoming to outsiders, and you need to cross more than two weeks of desert to get there.'

'Desert?'

'Sand,' Ragen explained. 'Nothing but sand for miles in every direction. No food nor water but what you carry, and nothing to shade you from the scorching sun.'

'And people live there?' Arlen asked.

'Oh, yes,' Ragen said. 'The Krasians used to be even more numerous than the Milnese, but they're dying off.'

'Why?' Arlen asked.

'Because they fight the corelings,' Ragen said.

Arlen's eyes widened. 'You can fight corelings?' he asked.

'You can fight anything, Arlen,' Ragen said. 'The problem with fighting corelings is that more often than not, you lose. The Krasians kill their share, but the corelings give better than they get. There are less Krasians every year.'

'My da says corelings eat your soul when they get you,' Arlen said.

'Bah!' Ragen spat over the side of the cart. 'Superstitious nonsense.'

They turned a bend not far from the Cluster when Arlen noticed something dangling from the tree ahead of them. 'What's that?' he asked, pointing.

'Night,' Ragen swore, and cracked the reins, sending the mollies into a gallop. Arlen was thrown back in his seat, and took a moment to right himself. When he did, he looked at the tree, which was coming up fast.

'Uncle Cholie!' he cried, seeing the man kicking his feet as he clawed at the rope around his neck.

'Help! Help!' Arlen screamed. He leapt from the moving cart, hitting the ground hard, but he bounced to his feet, darting towards Cholie. He got up under the man, but one of Cholie's thrashing feet kicked him in the mouth, knocking him down. He tasted blood, but strangely there was no pain. He came up again, grabbing Cholie's legs and trying to lift him up to loosen the rope, but he was too short, and Cholie too heavy besides, and the man continued to gag and jerk.

'Help him!' Arlen cried to Ragen. 'He's choking! Somebody help!'

He looked up to see Ragen pull a spear from the back of the cart. The Messenger drew back and threw with hardly a moment to aim, but his aim was true, severing the rope and collapsing poor Cholie onto Arlen. They both fell to the ground.

Ragen was there in an instant, pulling the rope from Cholie's throat. It didn't seem to make much difference, the man still gagged and clawed at his throat. His eyes bulged so far it looked as if they would pop right out of his head, and his face was so red it looked purple.

Arlen screamed as he gave a tremendous thrash, and then lay still.

Ragen beat Cholie's chest and breathed huge gulps of air into him, but it had no effect. Eventually, the Messenger gave up, slumping in the dust and cursing.

Arlen was no stranger to death. That spectre was a frequent visitor to Tibbet's Brook. But it was one thing to die from the corelings or from a chill. This was different. Arlen didn't need to be told that Uncle Cholie had taken his own life. He understood that instinctively. What he didn't understand was...

'Why?' he asked Ragen. 'Why would he fight so hard to survive last night, only to kill himself now?'

'Did he fight?' Ragen asked. 'Did any of them really fight? Or did they run and hide?'

'I don't...' Arlen began.

'Hiding isn't always enough, Arlen,' Ragen said. 'Sometimes, hiding kills something inside of you, so that even if you survive the demons, you don't really.'

'What else could he have done?' Arlen asked. 'You can't fight a demon.'

'I'd sooner fight a bear in its own cave,' Ragen said, 'but it can be done.'

'But you said the Krasians were dying because of it,' Arlen protested.

'They are,' Ragen said. 'But they follow their hearts. I know it sounds like madness, Arlen, but deep down, men want to fight, like they did in tales of old. They want to protect their women and children as men should. But they can't, because the great wards are lost, so they knot themselves like caged hares, sitting terrified through the night. But sometimes, especially when you see loved ones die, the tension breaks you and you just snap.'

He put a hand on Arlen's shoulder. 'I'm sorry you had to see this, boy,' he said. 'I know it doesn't make a lot of sense right now...'

'No,' Arlen said, 'it does.'

And it was true, Arlen realized. He understood the need to fight. He had not expected to win when he attacked Cobie and his friends that day. If anything, he had expected to be beaten worse than ever. But in that instant when he grabbed the stick, he hadn't cared. He only knew he was tired of just taking their abuse, and wanted it to end, one way or another.

It was comforting to know he wasn't alone.

Arlen looked at his uncle, lying in the dust, his eyes wide with fear. He knelt and reached out, brushing his eyes closed with his fingertips. Cholie had nothing to fear any longer.

'Have you ever killed a coreling?' he asked the Messenger.

'No,' Ragen said, shaking his head. 'But I've fought a few. Got the scars to prove it. But I was always more interested in getting away, or keeping them away from someone else, than I was in killing any.'

Arlen thought about that as they wrapped Cholie in a tarp and put him in the back of the wagon, hurrying back to the Cluster. Jeph and Silvy had already packed the cart and were waiting impatiently to leave, but the sight of the body diffused their anger at Arlen's late return.

Silvy wailed and threw herself on her brother, but there was no time to waste, if they were to make it back to the farm by nightfall. Jeph had to hold her back as Tender Harral painted a ward on the tarp and led a prayer as he tossed Cholie into the pyre.

The survivors who weren't staying in Brine Cutter's house were divided up and taken home with the others. Jeph and Silvy had offered succour to two women. Norine Cutter was over fifty summers old. Her husband had died some years back, and she had lost her daughter and grandson in the attack. Marea Bales was old,

too; almost forty. Her husband had been left outside when the others drew lots for the cellar. Like Silvy, both slumped in the back of Jeph's cart, staring at their knees. Arlen waved goodbye to Ragen as his father cracked the whip.

The Cluster by the Woods was drawing out of sight when Arlen realized he hadn't told anyone to come see the Jongleur.

                                                                               

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2

If It Was You

319 AR

They had just enough time to stow the cart and check the wards before the corelings came. Silvy had little energy for cooking, so they ate a cold meal of bread, cheese, and sausage, chewing with little enthusiasm. The demons came soon after sunset to test the wards, and every time the magic flared to throw them back, Norine cried out. Marea never touched her food. She sat on her pallet with her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, rocking back and forth and whimpering whenever the magic flared. Silvy cleared the plates, but she never returned from the kitchen, and Arlen could hear her crying.

Arlen tried to go to her, but Jeph caught his arm. 'Come talk with me, Arlen,' he said.

They went into the small room that housed Arlen's pallet, his collection of smooth rocks from the brook, and all his feathers and bones. Jeph selected one of these, a brightly coloured feather about ten inches long, and fingered it as he spoke, not looking Arlen in the eye.

Arlen knew the signs. When his father wouldn't look at him, it meant he was uncomfortable with whatever he wanted to talk about.

'What you saw on the road with the Messenger—' Jeph began.

'Ragen explained it to me,' Arlen said. 'Uncle Cholie was dead already, he just didn't know it right away. Sometimes people live through an attack, but die anyway.'

Jeph frowned. 'Not how I would have put it,' he said. 'But true enough, I suppose. Cholie...'

'Was a coward,' Arlen finished.

Jeph looked at him in surprise. 'What makes you say that?' he asked.

'He hid in the cellar because he was scared to die, and then killed himself because he was scared to live,' Arlen said. 'Better if he had just picked up an axe and died fighting.'

'I don't want to hear that kind of talk,' Jeph said. 'You can't fight demons, Arlen. No one can. There's nothing to be gained by getting yourself killed.'

Arlen shook his head. "They're like bullies,' he said. 'They attack us because we're too scared to fight back. I hit Cobie and the others with that stick, and they didn't bother me again.'

'Cobie isn't a rock demon,' Jeph said. 'No stick is going to scare those off.'

'There's got to be a way,' Arlen said. 'People used to do it. All the old stories say so.'

'The stories say there were magic wards to fight with,' Jeph said. 'The fighting wards are lost.'

'Ragen says they still fight demons in some places. He says it can be done.'

'I'm going to have a talk with that Messenger,' Jeph grumbled. 'He shouldn't be filling your head with such thoughts.'

'Why not?' Arlen said. 'Maybe more people would have survived last night, if all the men had gotten axes and spears...'

'They would be just as dead,' Jeph finished. 'There's other ways to protect yourself and your family, Arlen. Wisdom. Prudence. Humility. It's not brave to fight a battle you can't win.

'Who would care for the women and the children if all the men got themselves cored trying to kill what can't be killed?' he went on. 'Who would chop the wood and build the homes? Who would hunt and herd and plant and slaughter? Who would seed the women with children? If all the men die, the corelings win.'

'The corelings are already winning,' Arlen muttered. 'You keep saying the town gets smaller each year. Bullies keep coming when you don't fight back.'

He looked up at his father. 'Don't you feel it? Don't you want to fight sometimes?'

'Of course I do, Arlen,' Jeph said. 'But not for no reason. When it matters, when it really matters, all men are willing to fight. Animals run when they can, and fight when they must, and people are no different. But that spirit should only come out when needed.

'But if it was you out there with the corelings,' he said, 'or your mam, I swear I would fight like mad before I let them get near you. Do you understand the difference?'

Arlen nodded. 'I think so.'

'Good man,' Jeph said, squeezing his shoulder.

 

Arlen's dreams that night were filled with images of hills that touched the sky, and ponds so big you could put a whole town on the surface. He saw yellow sand stretching as far as his eyes could see, and a walled fortress hidden in the trees.

But he saw it all between a pair of legs that swayed lazily before his eyes. He looked up, and saw his own face turning purple in the noose.

He woke with a start, his pallet damp with sweat. It was still dark, but there was a faint lightening on the horizon, where the indigo sky held a touch of red. He lit a candle stub and pulled on his overalls, stumbling out to the common room. He found a crust to chew on as he took out the egg basket and milk jugs, putting them by the door.

'You're up early,' said a voice behind him. He turned, startled, to find Norine staring at him. Marea was still on her pallet, though she tossed in her sleep.

'The days don't get any longer while you sleep,' Arlen said.

Norine nodded. 'So my husband used to say,' she agreed. "Bales and Cutters can't work by candlelight, like the Squares," he'd say.'

'I have a lot to do,' Arlen said, peeking through the shutter to see how long he had before he could cross the wards. 'The Jongleur is supposed to perform at high sun.'

'Of course,' Norine agreed. 'When I was your age, the Jongleur was the most important thing in the world to me, too. I'll help you with your chores.'

'You don't have to do that,' Arlen said. 'Da says you should rest.'

Norine shook her head. 'Rest just makes me think of things best left unthought,' she said. 'If I'm to stay with you, I should earn my keep. After chopping wood in the Cluster, how hard could it be to slop pigs and plant corn?'

Arlen shrugged, and handed her the egg basket.

With Norine's help, the chores went by fast. She was a quick learner, and no stranger to hard work and heavy lifting. By the time the smell of eggs and bacon wafted from the house, the animals were all fed, the eggs collected, and the cows milked.

'Stop squirming on the bench,' Silvy told Arlen as they ate.

'Young Arlen can't wait to go see the Jongleur,' Norine advised.

'Maybe tomorrow,' Jeph said, and Arlen's face fell.

'What!' Arlen cried. 'But—'

'No buts,' Jeph said. 'A lot of work went undone yesterday, and I promised Selia I'd drop by the Cluster in the afternoon to help out.'

Arlen pushed his plate away and stomped into his room.

'Let the boy go,' Norine said when he was gone. 'Marea and I will help out here.' Marea looked up at the sound of her name, but went back to playing with her food a moment later.

'Arlen had a hard day, yesterday,' Silvy said. She bit her lip. 'We all did. Let the Jongleur put a smile on his face. Surely there's nothing that can't wait.'

Jeph nodded after a moment. 'Arlen!' he called. When the boy showed his sullen face, he asked, 'How much is Old Hog charging to see the Jongleur?'

'Nothing,' Arlen said quickly, not wanting to give his father reason to refuse. 'On account of how I helped carry stuff from the Messenger's cart.' It wasn't exactly true, and there was a good chance Hog would be angry that he forgot to tell people, but maybe if he spread word on the walk over, he could bring enough people for his two credits at the store to get him in.

'Old Hog always acts generous right after the Messenger comes,' Norine said.

'Ought to, after how he's been fleecing us all winter,' Silvy replied.

'All right, Arlen, you can go,' Jeph said. 'Meet me in the Cluster afterwards.'

The walk to Town Square took about two hours if you followed the path. Nothing more than a wagon track of hard-packed soil that Jeph and a few other locals kept clear, it went well out of the way to the bridge at the shallowest park of the brook. Nimble and quick, Arlen could cut the trip in half by skipping across the slick rocks jutting from the water.

Today, he needed the extra time more than ever, so he could make stops along the way. He raced along the muddy bank at breakneck speed, dodging treacherous roots and scrub with the sure-footed confidence of one who had followed the trail countless times.

He popped back out of the woods as he passed the farmhouses on the way, but there was no one to be found. Everyone was either out in the fields or back at the Cluster helping out.

It was getting close to high sun when he reached Fishing Hole. A few of the Fishers had their boats out on the small pond, but Arlen didn't see much point in shouting to them. Otherwise, the Hole was deserted, too.

He was feeling glum by the time he got to Town Square. Hog might have seemed nicer than usual yesterday, but Arlen had seen what he was like when someone cost him profit. There was no way he was going to let Arlen see the Jongleur for just two credits. He'd be lucky if the storekeep didn't take a switch to him.

But when he reached the square, he found over a hundred people gathered from all over the Brook. There were Fishers and Marshes and Boggins and Bales. Not to mention the town locals, Squares, Tailors, Millers, Bakers and all. None had come from Southwatch, of course. Folk there shunned Jongleurs.

'Arlen, my boy!' Hog called, seeing him approach. 'I've saved you a spot up front, and you'll go home tonight with a sack of salt! Well done!'

Arlen looked at him curiously, until he saw Ragen, standing next to Hog. The Messenger winked at him.

'Thank you,' Arlen said, when Hog went off to mark another arrival in his ledger. Dasy and Catrin were selling food and ale for the show.

'People deserve a show,' Ragen said with a shrug. 'But not without clearing it with your Tender, it seems.' He pointed to Keerin, who was deep in conversation with Tender Harral.

'Don't be selling any of that plague nonsense like the last one, neither!' Harral said, poking Keerin hard in the chest. He was twice the Jongleur's weight, and none of it fat.

'Nonsense?' Keerin asked, paling. 'In Miln, the Tenders will string up any Jongleur that doesn't tell of the plague!'

'I don't care what they do in the Free Cities,' Harral said. 'These're good people, and they have it hard enough without you telling 'em their suffering's because they arnt pious enough!'

'What...?' Arlen began, but Keerin broke off, heading to the centre of the square.

'Best find a seat quick,' Ragen advised.

 

As Hog promised, Arlen got a seat right in front, in the area usually left for the younger children. The others looked on enviously, and Arlen felt very special. It was rare for anyone to envy him.

The Jongleur was tall, like all Milnese, dressed in a patchwork of bright colours that looked like they were stolen from the dyer's scrap bin. He had a wispy goatee, the same carrot-colour as his hair, but the moustache never quite met the beard, and the whole thing looked like it might wash off with a good scrubbing. Everyone, especially the women, talked in wonder about his bright hair and green eyes.

As people continued to file in, Keerin paced back and forth, juggling his coloured wooden balls and telling jokes, warming to the crowd. When Hog gave the signal, he took his lute and began to play, singing in a strong, high voice. People clapped along to the songs they didn't know, but whenever he played one that was sung in the Brook, the whole crowd sang along, drowning out the Jongleur and not seeming to care. Arlen didn't mind; he was singing just as loud as the others.

After the music came acrobatics, and magic tricks. Along the way, Keerin made a few jests about husbands that had the women shrieking with laughter while the men frowned, and a few about wives that had the men slapping their thighs as the women glared.

Finally, the Jongleur paused and held up his hands for silence. There was a murmur from the crowd, and parents nudged their youngest children forward, wanting them to hear.

`Little Jessi Boggin, who was only five, climbed right into Arlen's lap for a better view. Arlen had given her family a few pups from one of Jeph's dogs that spring, and now she clung to him whenever he was near. He held her as Keerin began the Tale of the Return, his high voice dropping into a deep, booming call that carried far into the crowd.

'The world was not always as you see it,' the Jongleur told the children. 'Oh no. There was a time when humanity lived in balance with the demons. Those early years are called the Age of Ignorance. Does anyone know why?' He looked around the children in front, and several raised their hands.

'Because there wasn't any wards?' a girl asked, when Keerin pointed to her.

'That's right!' the Jongleur said, turning a somersault that brought squeals of glee from the children. 'The Age of Ignorance was a scary time for us, but there weren't as many demons then, and they couldn't kill everyone. Much like today, humans would build what they could during the day, and the demons would tear it down each night.

'As we struggled to survive,' Keerin went on, 'we adapted, learning how to hide food and animals from the demons, and how to avoid them.' He looked around as if in terror, and then ran behind one child, cringing. 'We lived in holes in the ground, so they couldn't find us.'

'Like bunnies?' Jessi asked, laughing.

'Just so!' Keerin called, putting a twitching finger up behind each ear and hopping about, wriggling his nose.

'We lived any way we could,' he went on, 'until we discovered writing. From there, it wasn't long before we had learned that some writing could hold the corelings back. What writing is that?' he asked, cupping an ear.

'Wards!' everyone cried in unison.

'Correct!' the Jongleur congratulated with a flip. 'With wards, we could protect ourselves from the corelings, and we practiced them, getting better and better. More and more wards were discovered, until someone discovered one that did more than hold the demons back. It hurt them.' The children gasped, and Arlen, even though he had heard almost this same performance every year for as long as he could remember, found himself sucking in his breath. What he wouldn't give to know such a ward!

'The demons did not take well to this advancement,' Keerin said with a grin. 'They were used to us running and hiding, and when we turned and fought, they fought back. Hard. Thus began the First Demon War, and the second age, the Age of the Deliverer.

'The Deliverer was a man called upon by the Creator to lead our armies, and with him to lead us, we were winning!' He thrust his fist into the air and the children cheered. It was infectious, and Arlen tickled Jessi with glee.

'As our magics and tactics improved,' Keerin said, 'humans began to live longer, and our numbers swelled. Our armies grew larger, even as the number of demons dwindled. There was hope that the corelings would be vanquished once and for all.'

The Jongleur paused then, and his face took on a serious expression. 'Then,' he said, 'without warning, the demons stopped coming. Never in the history of the world had had the dark settled without the creatures rising. Now, night after night passed with no sign of them, and we were baffled.' He scratched his head in confusion. 'Many believed that the demon losses in the war had been too great, and that they had given up the fight, cowering with fright in the Core.' He huddled away from the children, hissing like a cat and shaking as if with fear. Some of the children got into the act, growling at him menacingly.

'The Deliverer,' Keerin said, 'who had seen the demons fight fearlessly every night, doubted this, but as months passed without sign of the creatures, his armies began to fragment.

'Humanity rejoiced in their victory over the corelings for years,' Keerin went on. He picked up his lute and played a lively tune, dancing about. 'But as the years passed without the common foe, the brotherhood of men grew strained, and then faded. For the first time, we fought against one another.' The tune turned ominous as the Jongleur's voice deepened once more. 'As war sparked, the Deliverer was called upon by all sides to lead, but he shouted, 'I'll not fight 'gainst men while a single demon remains in the Core!' He turned his back, and left the lands as armies marched and all the land fell into chaos.'

'From these great wars arose powerful nations,' he said, turning the tune into something uplifting, 'and mankind spread far and wide, covering the entire world. The Age of the Deliverer came to a close, and the Age of Science began.

'The Age of Science,' the Jongleur said, 'was our greatest time, but nestled in that greatness was our biggest mistake. Can any here tell me what it was?' The older children knew, but Keerin signalled them to hold back and let the young ones answer.

'Because we forgot magic,' Gim Cutter said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

'Right you are!' Keerin said, snapping his fingers. 'We learned a great deal about how the world worked, about medicine and machines, but we forgot magic, and worse, we forgot the corelings. After three thousand years, no one believed they had ever even existed.

'Which is why,' he said grimly, 'we were unprepared when they came back.

'The demons had multiplied over the centuries, as the world forgot them. Then, three hundred years ago, they rose from the Core one night in massive numbers to take it back.

'Whole cities were destroyed that first night, as the corelings celebrated their return. Men fought back, but even the great weapons of the Age of Science were poor defence against the demons. The Age of Science came to a close, and the Age of Destruction took hold.

'The Second Demon War had begun.'

In his mind's eye, Arlen saw that night, saw the cities burning as people fled in terror, only to be savaged by the waiting corelings. He saw men sacrifice themselves to buy time for their families to flee, saw women take claws meant for their children. Most of all, he saw the corelings dance, cavorting in savage glee as blood ran from their teeth and talons.

Keerin moved forward even as the children drew back in fear. 'The war lasted for years, with people slaughtered at every turn. Without the Deliverer to lead them, they were no match for the corelings. Overnight, the great nations fell.

'Scholars searched for answers, finding salvation in stories once considered fantasy and superstition. The demons razed the libraries with the cities, but they weren't fast enough to get it all. Men began to draw clumsy symbols in the ground, preventing the corelings from approaching. The wards still worked, but the shaking hands that drew them often made mistakes, and they were paid for dearly.

'Those that survived gathered people to them, protecting them through the long nights. Those men became the first Warders, who protect us to this very day.' The Jongleur pointed to the crowd, 'So the next time you see a Warder, thank him, because you owe him your life.'

That was a variation on the story Arlen had never heard Warders? In Tibbet's Brook, everyone learned warding as soon as they were old enough to draw with a stick. Many had poor aptitude for it, but Arlen couldn't imagine anyone not taking the time to learn the basic forbiddings against rock, flame, wind, water, and wood demons.

'So now we stay safe within our wards,' Keerin said, 'letting the demons have their pleasures outside. Messengers,' he gestured to Ragen, 'the bravest of all men, travel from city to city for us, bringing news and escorting men and goods.'

He walked about, his eyes hard as he met the frightened looks of the children. 'But we are strong,' he said. 'Aren't we?'

The children nodded, but their eyes were still wide with fear.

'What?' he asked, putting a hand to his ear.

'Yes!' the crowd cried.

'When the Deliverer comes again, will we be ready?' he asked. 'Will the demons learn to fear us once more?'

'Yes!' the crowd roared.

'They can't hear you!' the Jongleur shouted.

'YES!' the people screamed, punching fists in the air; Arlen most of all. Jessi imitated him, punching the air and shrieking like she was a demon herself. The Jongleur bowed, and when the crowd quieted, lifted his lute and led them into another song.

 

As promised, Arlen left Town Square with a sack of salt. Enough to last weeks, even with Norine and Marea to feed. It was still unmilled, but Arlen knew his parents would be happy to pound the salt themselves, rather than pay Hog extra for the service. Most would, really, but old Hog never gave them a choice, milling the salt as soon as it came and tacking on the extra cost.

Arlen had a spring in his step as he walked down the road towards the Cluster. It wasn't until he passed the tree that Cholie had hung from that Arlen's spirits fell. He thought again about what Ragen had said about fighting corelings, and what his father had said about prudence.

He thought his father probably had the right of it: hide when you can and fight when you must. Even Ragen seemed to agree with that philosophy. But Arlen couldn't shake the feeling that hiding hurt people too, in ways they couldn't see.

He met his father in the Cluster and earned a clap on the back when he showed his prize. He spent the rest of the afternoon running to and fro, helping rebuild. Already, another house was repaired and would be warded by nightfall. In a few more weeks, the Cluster would be fully rebuilt, and that was in everyone's interest, if they wanted enough wood to last the winter.

'I promised Selia I'd throw in here for the next few days,' Jeph said as they packed the cart that afternoon. 'You'll be the man of the farm while I'm gone. You'll have to check the wardposts and weed the fields. I saw you show Norine your chores this morning. She can handle the yard, and Marea can help your mother inside.'

'All right,' Arlen said. Weeding the fields and checking the posts was hard work, but the trust made him proud.

'I'm counting on you, Arlen,' Jeph said.

'I won't let you down,' Arlen promised.

 

The next few days passed with little event. Silvy still cried at times, but there was work to do, and she never once complained of the additional mouths to feed. Norine took to caring for the animals naturally, and even Marea began to come out of her shell a bit, helping with the sweeping and cooking; working the loom after supper. Soon she was taking turns with Norine in the yard. Both women seemed determined to do their share, though their faces, too, grew pained and wistful whenever there was a lull in the work.

Arlen's hands blistered from pulling weeds, and his back and shoulders ached at the end of each day, but he didn't complain. The only one of his new responsibilities he enjoyed was working on the wardposts. Arlen had always loved warding, mastering the basic defensive symbols before most children began learning at all, and more complex wardnets soon after. Jeph didn't even check his work anymore. Arlen's hand was steadier than his

father's. Warding wasn't the same as attacking a demon with a spear, but it was fighting in its own way.

Jeph arrived at dusk each day, and Silvy had water from the well waiting for him to wash off. Arlen helped Norine and Marea lock up the animals, and then they had supper.

On the fifth day, a wind kicked up in the late afternoon that sent dust devils dancing in the yard, and had the barn door banging. Arlen could smell rain coming, and the darkening sky confirmed it. He hoped Jeph saw the signs, too, and came back early, or stayed on in the Cluster. Dark clouds meant an early dusk, and early dusk sometimes meant corelings before full sunset.

Arlen abandoned the fields and began to direct the women in herding the spooked animals back into the barn. Silvy was out as well, battening down the cellar doors and making sure the wardposts around the day pens were lashed tight. There was little time to spare when Jeph pulled up in the cart. The sky was darkening quickly, and already there was no direct sun. Corelings could rise at any moment.

'No time to unhitch the cart,' Jeph called, cracking the whip to drive Missy faster towards the barn. 'We'll do it in the morning. Everyone in the house, now!' Silvy and the other women complied, heading inside.

'We can do it if we hurry,' Arlen yelled over the roar of the wind as he ran after his father. Missy would be in foul spirits for days if she spent the night harnessed.

Jeph shook his head, 'It's too dark already! A night hitched won't kill her.'

'Lock me in the barn, then,' Arlen said. 'I'll unhitch her and wait out the storm with the animals.'

'Do as you're told, Arlen'.' Jeph shouted. He leapt from the cart and grabbed the boy by the arm, half-dragging him out of the barn.

The two of them pulled the doors shut and threw the bar as lightning split the sky. The wards painted on the barn doors were illuminated for a moment, a reminder of what was to come. The air was pregnant with the promise of rain.

They ran for the house, scanning the way before them for the mist that would herald the rising. For the moment, the way was clear. Marea held the door open, and they darted inside, just as the first fat drops of rain stirred the dust of the yard.

Marea was pulling the door closed when a howl sounded from the yard. Everyone froze.

"The dog!' Marea cried, covering her mouth. 'I left him tied to the fence!'

'Leave him,' Jeph said. 'Close the door.'

'What?!' Arlen cried, incredulous. He whirled to face his father.

'The way is still clear!' Marea cried, and darted out of the house.

'Marea, no!' Silvy cried, running out after her.

Arlen, too, ran for the door, but not before Jeph grabbed the shoulder straps of his overalls and yanked him backwards. 'Stay inside!' he ordered, moving to the door.

Arlen stumbled back a moment, then ran forward again. Jeph and Norine were out on the porch, but stayed within the line of the outer wards. By the time Arlen reached the porch, the dog was running past him into the house, the rope still trailing from its neck.

Out in the yard, wind howled, turning the drops of rain into stinging insects. He saw Marea and his mother running back towards the house, just as the demons began to rise. As always, flame demons came first, their misty forms seeping from the ground. The smallest of corelings, they crouched on all fours as they coalesced, barely eighteen inches tall at the shoulder. Their eyes, nostrils, and mouths glowed with a smoky light.

'Run, Silvy!' Jeph screamed. 'Run!'

It seemed that they would make it, but then Marea stumbled and went down. Silvy turned to help her, and in that moment, the first coreling solidified. Arlen moved to run to his mother, but Norine's hand clamped hard on his arm, holding him fast.

'Don't be stupid,' the woman hissed.

'Get up!' Silvy demanded, yanking Marea's arm.

'My ankle!' Marea cried. 'I can't! Go on without me!'

'Like night I will!' Silvy growled. 'Jeph!' she called. 'Help us!'

By then, corelings were forming all over the yard. Jeph stood frozen as they took note of the women and shrieked with pleasure, darting towards them.

'Let GO!' Arlen growled, stomping hard on Norine's foot. She howled, and Arlen yanked his arm free. He grabbed the nearest weapon he could find, a wooden milk bucket, and ran out into the yard.

'Arlen, NO!' Jeph cried, but Arlen was done listening to him.

A flame demon, no bigger than a large cat, leapt on top of Silvy's back, and she screamed as talons raked deep lines in her flesh, leaving the back of her dress a bloody tatter. From its perch, the coreling spat fire into Marea's shrieking face. The woman screamed as her skin melted and her hair ignited.

Arlen was there an instant later, swinging the bucket with all his strength. It broke apart as it struck, but the demon was knocked from his mother's back. She stumbled, but Arlen was there to support her. More flame demons closed in on them, even as wind demons began to stretch their wings, and, a dozen yards off, a rock demon began to take form.

Silvy groaned, but she got to her feet. Arlen pulled her away from Marea and her agonized wails, but the way back to the house was blocked by flame demons. The rock demon caught sight of them, too, and charged. A few wind demons, preparing to take off, got in the massive beast's way, and its talons swept them aside as easily as a scythe cut through cornstalks.

They tumbled broken through the air, and flame demons set on them, tearing them to pieces.

It was only a moment's distraction, but Arlen took it, pulling his mother away from the house. The barn was blocked as well, but the path to the day-pen was still clear, if they could keep ahead of the corelings. Silvy was screaming, out of fear or pain Arlen didn't know, but she stumbled along, keeping pace even in her wide skirts.

As he broke into a run, so too did the flame demons half-surrounding them. The rain began to fall harder, and the wind howled. Lightning split the sky, illuminating their pursuers and the day-pen, so close, yet infinitely far.

The dust of the yard was slick with the growing wet, but fear granted them agility, and they kept their feet under them. The rock demon's footfalls were as loud as the thunder as it charged, growing ever closer, making the ground shake with its stride.

Arlen skidded to a stop at the pens and fumbled with the latch. The flame demons caught up in that split second, coming in range to use their deadliest weapon. They spat flame, and Arlen and his mother were struck. The blast was weakened by distance, but still he felt his clothes ignite, and smelled burning hair. A flare of pain washed over him, but he ignored it, finally getting the gate to the pen open. He started to take his mother inside when another flame demon leapt on her, claws digging deep into her chest. With a yank, Arlen pulled her into the pen. As they crossed the wards, Silvy passed through easily, but magic flared and the coreling was thrown back. Its claws, hooked deep in her, came free in a spray of blood and flesh.

Their clothes were still burning. Wrapping Silvy in his arms, Arlen threw them both to the ground, taking the brunt of the impact himself, and then rolled them into the mud, extinguishing the flames.

There was no chance to close the gate. The demons ringed the pen now, pounding at the wardnet, sending flares of magic skittering along the web of wards. But the gate didn't really matter. Nor did the fence. So long as the wardposts were intact, they were safe from the corelings.

But they were not safe from the weather. The rain became a cold pour, and the wind whipped at them, making the droplets into a stinging spray. Silvy could not rise again after the fall. Blood and mud caked her, and Arlen didn't know if she could survive her wounds and the rain together.

He stumbled over to the slop trough and kicked it over, sloshing the unfinished remnants of the pigs' dinner to rot in the mud. Arlen could see the rock demon pounding at the wardnet, but the magic held, and the demon could not pass. Between the flashes of lightning and the spurts of demon flame, he caught sight of Marea, buried under a swarm of flame demons, each tearing off a piece and dancing away to feast.

The rock demon gave up a moment later, stomping over and grabbing Marea by the leg in a massive talon the way a cruel man might a grab a cat. Flame demons scattered as the rock demon swung the woman into the air. She let out a hoarse gasp, and Arlen was horrified to discover she was still alive. He screamed, and considered trying to dart from the wardnet and get to her. But then, the demon brought her crashing down to the ground with a sickening crunch.

Arlen turned away before the creature could begin to feast, his tears washed away by the pouring rain. Dragging the trough to Silvy, he tore the lining from her skirt and let it soak in the rain. He brushed the mud from her cuts as best he could, and wadded more lining into them. It was hardly clean, but cleaner than pig-mud.

She was shivering, so he lay against her for warmth, and pulled the stinking trough over them as a shield from the downpour, and the sight of the leering demons.

There was one more flash of lightning as he lowered the wood. The last thing he saw was his father, still standing frozen on the porch.

If it was you out there... or your mam... Arlen remembered him saying. But for all his promises, it seemed that nothing could make Jeph Bales fight.

 

The night passed with interminable slowness; there was no hope of sleep. Raindrops drummed a steady beat on the trough. The mud they lay in was cold, and stank of pig droppings. Silvy shivered in her delirium, and Arlen clutched her tightly, willing what little heat he had into her. His own hands and feet were numb.

Despair crept over him, and he wept into his mother's shoulder. But she groaned and patted his hand, and that simple, instinctive gesture pulled him free of the terror and disillusionment and pain.

He had fought a demon, and lived. He stood in a yard full of them, and survived. Corelings might be immortal, but they could be outmanoeuvred. They could be outsped.

And as the rock demon had shown when it swept the other coreling out of the way, they could be hurt.

But what difference did it make in a world where men like Jeph wouldn't stand up to the corelings, not even for their own families? What hope did any of them have?

He stared at the blackness around him for hours, but in his mind's eye, all he saw was his father's face, staring at them from the safety of the wards.

 

 

 

The rain tapered off before dawn. Arlen used the break in the weather as a chance to lift the trough, but he immediately regretted it as the collected heat the wood had stored was lost. He pulled it down again, but stole peeks until the sky began to brighten.

Most of the corelings had faded away by the time it was light enough to see, but a few stragglers remained as the sky went from indigo to lavender. He clambered to his feet, trying vainly to brush off the slime and muck that clung to him.

His arm was stiff, and stung when he flexed it. He looked down and saw that the skin was bright red where the firespit had struck. The night in the mud did one good thing, he thought, knowing his and his mother's burns would have been far worse had they not been packed in the cold muck all night.

As the last flame demons in the yard began to turn insubstantial, Arlen strode from the pen, heading for the barn.

'Arlen, no!' a cry came from the porch. Arlen looked up, and saw Jeph there, wrapped in a blanket, keeping watch from the safety of the porch wards. 'It's not full dawn yet! Wait!'

Arlen ignored him, walking to the barn and opening the doors. Missy looked thoroughly unhappy, still hitched to the cart, but she would make it to Town Square.

A hand grabbed his arm as he led the horse out. 'Are you trying to get yourself killed?!' Jeph demanded. 'You mind me, boy!'

Arlen tore his arm away, refusing to look his father in the eye. 'Mam needs to see Coline Trigg,' he said.

'She's alive?' Jeph asked incredulously, his head snapping over to where the woman lay in the mud.

'No thanks to you,' Arlen said. 'I'm taking her to Town Square.'

' We 're taking her,' Jeph corrected, rushing over to lift his wife and carry her to the cart. Leaving Norine to tend the animals and seek out poor Marea's remains, they headed off down the road to town.

Silvy was bathed in sweat, and while her burns seemed no worse than Arlen's, the deep lines the flame demons' talons had dug still oozed blood, the flesh an ugly swollen red.

'Arlen, I...' Jeph began as they rode, reaching a shaking hand towards his son. Arlen drew back, looking away, and Jeph recoiled as if burned.

Arlen knew his father was ashamed. It was just like Ragen said. Maybe Jeph even hated himself, as Cholie had. Still, Arlen could find no sympathy. His mother had paid the price for Jeph's cowardice.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

Coline Trigg's house in Town Square was one of the largest in the Brook, and filled with beds. In addition to her family, Coline always had at least one person in her sickbeds.

Coline was a short woman with a large nose and no chin. Not yet thirty, six children had made her thick around the middle. Her clothes always smelled of burnt weeds, and her cures usually involved some type of foul-tasting tea. The people of Tibbet's Brook made fun of that tea, but every one of them drank it gratefully when they took a chill.

The Herb Gatherer took one look at Silvy and had Arlen and his father bring her right inside. She asked no questions, which was just as well, as neither Arlen nor Jeph knew what they would say if she did. As she cut at each wound, squeezing out sickly brown pus, the air filled with a rotten stench. She cleaned the drained wounds with water and ground herbs, then sewed them shut. Jeph turned green, and brought his hand to his mouth suddenly.

'Out of here with that!' Coline barked, sending Jeph from the room with a pointed finger. As Jeph scurried out of the house, she looked to Arlen.

'You, too?' she demanded. Arlen shook his head. Coline stared at him a moment, then nodded in approval. 'You're braver than your father,' she said. 'Fetch the mortar and pestle. I'm going to teach you to make a balm for burns.'

Never taking her eyes from her work, Coline talked Arlen through the countless jars and pouches in her pharmacy, directing him to each ingredient and explaining how to mix them. She kept to her grisly work as Arlen applied the balm to his mother's burns.

Finally, when Silvy's wounds were all tended, she turned to inspect Arlen. He protested at first, but the balm did its work, and only as the coolness spread along his arms did he realize how much his burns had stung.

 

‘Will she be all right?' Arlen asked, looking at his mother. She seemed to be breathing normally, but the flesh around her wounds was an ugly , and that stench of rot was still thick in the air.

'I don't know,' Coline said. She wasn't one to honey her words. 'I've never seen anyone with wounds so severe. Usually, if the corelings get that close...'

'They kill you,' Jeph said from the doorway. 'They would have killed Silvy, too, if not for Arlen.

'My son taught me something last night, Coline,' Jeph said, though he looked at Arlen the whole time. 'He showed me that, whatever the odds, where there's will to act, there's hope.'

Jeph put his hands on his son's shoulders. 'I won't fail you again,' he promised. Arlen nodded and looked away. He wanted to believe it was so, but his thoughts kept returning to the sight of his father on the porch, frozen with fear.

Jeph went over to Silvy, gripping her clammy hand in his own. She was still sweating, and thrashed in her drugged sleep now and then.

'Will she die?' Jeph asked.

The Herb Gatherer blew out a long breath. 'I'm a fair hand at setting bones,' she said, 'and delivering children. I can chase a fever away and ward a chill.

I can even cleanse a demon wound, if it's still fresh.' She shook her head. 'But this is demon-fever. I've given her herbs to dull the pain and help her sleep, but you'll need a better gatherer than I to brew a cure.'

'Who else is there?' Jeph asked. 'You're all the Brook has.'

'The woman who taught me,' Coline said, 'Old Mey Friman. She lives on the outskirts of Sunny Pasture, two days from here. I've seen her cure demon-fever before. But the fever will spread quickly. If you take too long, even Old Mey won't be able to help you.'

'How do we find her?' Jeph demanded.

'You can't really get lost,' Coline said. 'There's only the one road. Just don't turn at the fork where it goes through the woods, unless you want to spend weeks on the road to Miln. That Messenger left for the Pasture a few hours ago, but he had some stops in the Brook first. If you hurry, you might catch him. Messengers carry their own wards with them. If you find him, you'll be able to keep moving right until dusk instead of stopping for succour. The Messenger could cut your trip in twain.'

'We'll find him,' Jeph said, 'whatever it takes. His voice took on a determined edge, and Arlen began to hope.

 

A strange sense of longing pulled at Arlen as he watched Tibbet's Brook recede into the distance from the back of the cart. For the first time, he was going to be more than a day's journey from home. He was going to see another town! A week ago, an adventure like that was his greatest dream. But now, all he dreamed was that things could go back to the way they were.

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 neighbours 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 labelling 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 succour, but 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 hours past the Cluster by the Woods, but by the time Arlen and his father had gotten underway, it was mid-afternoon.

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 Hart'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 that 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 succour 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 soil,' 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 isn't 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 towards 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 succour!'

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. They 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 lithesome 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 and tossing 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 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 aren't 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 youd'a 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.'

Beni and Renna rose as one, bouncing out of the curtain. Arlen was in no mood to play, but the girls didn't let him speak, yanking him to his feet and out the door into the barn.

Beni lit a cracked lantern, casting the barn in a dull glow. Harl had two old cows, four goats, a pig with eight sucklings, and six chickens. All were gaunt and bony; underfed. Even the pig's ribs showed. It seemed barely enough to feed Harl and the girls.

The barn itself was no better. Half the shutters were broken, and the hay on the floor was rotted. The goats had eaten through the wall of their stall, and were pulling the cow's hay. Mud, slop, and faeces had churned into a single muck in the pig stall.

Renna dragged Arlen to each stall in turn. 'Da doesn't like us naming the animals,' she confessed, 'so we do it secret. This one's Hoofy,' she pointed to a cow. 'Her milk tastes sour, but da says its fine. Next to her is Grouchy. She kicks, but only if you milk too hard, or not soon enough. The goats are...'

'Arlen doesn't care about the animals,' Beni scolded her sister. She grabbed his arm and pulled him away. Beni was taller than her sister, and older, but Arlen thought Renna was prettier. They climbed into the hayloft, plopping down on the clean hay.

'Let's play Succour,' Beni said. She pulled a tiny leather pouch from her pocket, rolling four wooden dice onto the floor of the loft. The dice were painted with symbols: Flame, Rock, Water, Wind, Wood, and Ward. There were many ways to play, but most rules agreed you needed to throw three before rolling four of any other kind.

They played at the dice for a while. Renna and Beni had their own rules, many of which Arlen suspected were made up to let them win.

'Two wards three times in a row counts as three wards,' Beni announced, after throwing just that. 'We win.' Arlen disagreed, but he didn't see much point in arguing.

'Since we won, you have to do what we say,' Beni declared.

'Do not,' Arlen said.

'Do too!' Beni insisted. Again, Arlen felt as if arguing would get him nowhere.

'What would I have to do?' he asked suspiciously.

'Make him play kissy!' Renna clapped.

Ben swatted her sister on the head. 'I know, dumbs!'

'What's kissy?' Arlen asked, afraid he already knew the answer.

'Oh, you'll see,' Beni said, and both girls laughed. 'It's a grown-up game. Da plays it with Ilain sometimes. You practice being married.'

'What, like saying your promises?' Arlen asked, wary.

'No, dumbs, like this,' Beni said. She put her arms around Arlen's shoulders, and pressed her mouth to his.

Arlen had never kissed a girl before. She opened her mouth to him, and so he did the same. Their teeth clicked, and both of them recoiled. 'Ow!' Arlen said.

'You do it too hard, Beni,' Renna complained. 'It's my turn.'

Indeed, Renna's kiss was much softer. Arlen found it rather pleasant. Like being near the fire when it was cold.

'There,' Renna said, when their lips parted. 'That's how you do it.'

'We have to share the bed tonight,' Beni said. 'We can practice later.'

'I'm sorry you had to give up your bed on account of my mam,' Arlen said.

'It's okay,' Renna said. 'We used to have to share a bed every night, until Mam died. But now Ilain sleeps with Da.'

'Why?' Arlen asked.

'We're not supposed to talk about it,' Beni hissed at Renna.

Renna ignored her, but she kept her voice low. 'Ilain says that now that Mam's gone, Da told her it's her duty to keep him happy the way a wife is supposed to.'

'Like cooking and sewing and stuff?' Arlen asked.

'No, it's a game like kissy,' Beni said. 'But you need a boy to play it.' She tugged on his overalls. 'If you show us your thingie, we'll teach you.'

'I am not showing you my thingie!' Arlen said, backing away.

'Why not?' Renna asked. 'Beni showed Lucik Boggin, and now he wants to play all the time.'

'Da and Lucik's father said we're promised,' Beni bragged. 'So that makes it okay. Since you're going to be promised to Renna, you should show her yours.' Renna bit her finger and looked away, but she watched Arlen out of the corner of her eye.

'That's not true!' Arlen said. 'I'm not promised to anyone!'

'What do you think the elders are talking about inside, dumbs?' Beni asked.

'Are not,' Arlen said.

'Go see!' Beni challenged.

Arlen looked at both girls, then climbed down the ladder, slipping into the house as quietly as he could. He could hear voices from behind the curtain, and crept closer.

'I wanted Lucik right away,' Harl was saying, 'but

Fernan wants him makin' mash for another season. Without an extra back around the farm, it's hard keepin' our bellies full, 'specially since them chickens quit layin' and one of the milk cows soured.'

'We'll take Renna on our way back from Mey,' Jeph said.

'Gonna tell him they's promised?' Harl asked. Arlen's breath caught.

'No reason not to,' Jeph said.

Harl grunted. 'Reckon you should wait till t'morrer,' he said. 'While yur alone on the road. Sometime boys cause a scene when they's first told. It kin hurt a girl's feelin's.'

'You're probably right,' Jeph said. Arlen wanted to scream.

'Know I am,' Harl said. 'Trust a man with daughters; they'll get upset over any old thing, ent that right, Lainie?' There was a smack, and Ilain yelped. 'But still,' Harl went on, 'you kin do them no hurt that a few hours of cryin' won't solve.'

There was a long silence, and Arlen started to edge back towards the barn door.

'I'm off t'bed,' Harl grunted. Arlen froze. 'See'n how Silvy's in yur bed tonight, Lainie,' he went on, 'you c'n sleep with me after you scrape the bowls and round up the girls.'

Arlen ducked behind a workbench as Harl went to the privy to relieve himself, and then went into his room, closing the door. He was about to creep back to the barn when Ilain spoke.

'I want to go, too,' she blurted, just after the door closed.

'What?' Jeph asked.

Arlen could see their feet under the curtain from where he crouched. Ilain came around the table to sit next to his father.

'Take me with you,' Ilain repeated. 'Please. Beni will be fine once Lucik comes. I need to get away.'

'Why?' Jeph asked. 'Surely you have enough food for three.'

'It's not that,' Ilain said. 'It doesn't matter why. I can tell Da I'll be out in the fields when you come for Renna. I'll run down the road, and meet you there. By the time Da realizes where I've gone, there'll be a night between us. He'll never follow.'

'I wouldn't be too sure of that,' Jeph said.

'Your farm is as far from here as there is,' Ilain pleaded. Arlen saw her put her hand on Jeph's knee. 'I can work,' she promised. 'I'll earn my keep.'

'I can't just steal you away from Harl,' Jeph said. 'I've no quarrel with him, and I'm not about to start one.'

Ilain spat. 'The old wretch would have you think I'm sharing his bed because of Silvy,' she said quietly. 'Truer is he raises his hand to me if I don't join him every night after Renna and Beni are off to bed.'

Jeph was silent a long time. 'I see,' he said at last. He made a fist, and started to rise.

'Don't, please,' Ilain said. 'You don't know what he's like. He'll kill you.'

'I should just stand by?' Jeph asked. Arlen didn't understand what the fuss was. So what if Ilain slept in Harl's room?.

Arlen saw Ilain move closer to his father. 'You'll need someone to take care of Silvy,' she whispered. 'And if she should pass...' she leaned in further, and her hand went to Jeph's lap the way Beni had tried to do to him. '.. .I could be your wife. I would fill your farm with children,' she promised. Jeph groaned.

Arlen felt nauseous and hot in the face. He gulped, tasting bile in his mouth. He wanted to scream their plan to Harl. The man had faced a coreling for his daughter; something Jeph would never do. He imagined Harl would punch his father. The image was not displeasing.

Jeph hesitated, then pushed Ilain away. 'No,' he said. 'We'll get Silvy to the Herb Gatherer tomorrow, and she'll be fine.'

'Then take me anyway,' Ilain begged, falling to her knees.

'I'll... think about it,' his father replied. Just then, Beni and Renna burst in from the barn. Arlen rose quickly, pretending he had just entered with them as Ilain hurriedly stood. He felt the moment to confront them slip past.

After putting the girls to bed and producing a pair of grimy blankets for Arlen and Jeph in the main room, Ilain drew a deep breath and went into her father's room. Not long after, Arlen heard Harl grunting quietly, and the occasional muffled yelp from Ilain. Pretending not to hear it, he glanced over at Jeph, seeing him biting his fist.

Arlen was up before the sun the next morning, while the rest of the house slept. Moments before sunrise, he opened the door, staring at the remaining corelings impatiently as they hissed and clawed the air at him from the far side of the wards. As the last demon in the yard went misty, he left the house and went to the big barn, watering Missy and Harl's other horses. The mare was in foul temper, and nipped at him. 'Just one more day,' Arlen told her as he put her feed bag on.

His father was still snoring as he went back into the house and knocked on the doorframe of the room shared by Renna and Beni. Beni pulled the curtain aside, and immediately, Arlen noted the worried looks on the sisters' faces.

'She won't wake up,' Renna, who was kneeling by Arlen's mother, choked. 'I knew you wanted to leave as soon as the sun rose, but when I shook her...' she gestured towards the bed, her eyes wet. 'She's so pale.'

Arlen rushed to his mother's side, taking her hand. Her fingers were cold and clammy, but her forehead burned to the touch. Her breathing came in short gasps, and the rotting stink of demon sickness was thick about her. Her bandages were soaked with brownish yellow ooze.

'Da!' Arlen cried. A moment later, Jeph appeared with Ilain and Harl close behind.

'We don't have any time to waste,' Jeph said.

'Take one'a my horses t'go with yours,' Harl said. 'Switch 'em when they tire. Push hard, and you should reach Mey by afternoon.'

'We're in your debt,' Jeph said, but Harl waved the thought away.

'Hurry, now,' he said. 'Ilain will pack you something to eat on the road.'

Renna caught Arlen's arm as he turned to go. 'We's promised now,' she whispered. 'I'll wait on the porch every dusk till you're back.' She kissed him on the cheek. Her lips were soft, and the feel of them lingered long after she pulled away.

 

The cart bumped and jerked as they raced along the rough dirt road, pausing only once to rotate the horses. Arlen looked at the food Ilain had packed as if it were poison. Jeph ate it hungrily.

As he picked at the grainy bread and hard, pungent cheese, he started to think that maybe it was all a misunderstanding. Maybe he hadn't overheard what he thought he had. Maybe Jeph hadn't hesitated in pushing Ilain away.

It was a tempting illusion, but Jeph shattered it a moment later. 'What do you think of Harl's younger daughter?' he asked. 'You spent some time with her.' Arlen felt like his father had just punched him in the stomach.

'Renna?' Arlen asked, playing innocent. 'She's okay, I guess. Why?'

'I spoke to Harl,' his father said. 'She's going to come live with us when we go back to the farm.'

'Why?' Arlen asked.

'To look after your mam, help around the farm, and... other reasons.'

'What other reasons?' Arlen pressed.

'Harl and I want to see if you two will get along,' Jeph said.

'What if we don't?' Arlen asked. 'What if I don't want some girl following me around all day asking me to play kissy with her?'

'One day,' Jeph said, 'you might not mind playing kissy so much.'

'So let her come then,' Arlen said, shrugging her shoulders and pretending not to know what his father was getting at. 'Why is Harl so eager to be rid of her?'

'You've seen the state of their farm; they can barely feed themselves,' Jeph said. 'Harl loves his daughters very much, and he wants the best for them. And what's best is marrying them while they're still young, so he can have sons to help him out and grandchildren before he dies. Ilain is already older than most girls who marry. Lucik Boggin is going to come out to help on Harl's farm starting in the fall. They're hoping he and Beni will get along.'

'I suppose Lucik didn't have any choice, either,' Arlen grumbled.

'He's happy to go, and lucky at that!' Arlen's father snapped, losing his patience. 'You're going to have to learn some hard lessons about life, Arlen. There are a lot more boys than girls in the Brook, and we can't just fritter our lives away. Every year, we lose more to dotage and sickness and corelings. If we don't keep children coming, Tibbet's Brook will fade away just like a hundred other villages! We can't let that happen!'

Arlen, seeing his normally placid father seething, wisely said nothing.

An hour later, Silvy started screaming. They turned to find her trying to stand up right there in the cart, clutching at her chest, her breath coming in loud, horrid gasps. Arlen leapt into the back of the cart, and she gripped him with surprisingly strong hands, coughing thick phlegm onto his shirt. Her bulging, bloodshot eyes stared wildly into his, but there was no recognition in them. Arlen screamed as she thrashed about, holding her as steadily as he could.

Jeph stopped the cart and together they forced her to lie back down. She thrashed about, screaming in hoarse gasps. And then, like Cholie, she gave a final wrack, and lay still.

Jeph looked at his wife, and then threw his head back and screamed. Arlen nearly bit through his lip trying to hold back his tears, but in the end, he failed. They wept together over the woman.

When their sobs eased, Arlen looked around, his eyes lifeless. He tried to focus, but the world seemed blurry, like it wasn't real.

'What do we do now?' he asked finally.

'We turn around,' his father said, and the words cut Arlen like a knife. 'We take her home and burn her. We try to go on. There's still the farm and the animals to care for, and even with Renna and Norine to help us, there's going to be some hard times ahead.'

'Renna?' Arlen asked incredulously. 'We're still taking her with us? Even now?'

'Life goes on, Arlen,' his father said. 'You're almost a man, and a man needs a wife.'

'Did you arrange one for both of us?' Arlen blurted.

'What?' Jeph asked.

'I heard you and Ilain last night!' Arlen screamed. 'You've got another wife all ready! What do you care about mam? You've already got someone else to take care of your thingie! At least, until she gets killed too, because you're too scared to help her!'

Arlen's father hit him; a hard slap across the face that cracked the morning air. His anger faded instantly, and he reached out to his son. 'Arlen, I'm sorry...!' he choked, but the boy pulled away and jumped off the cart.

'Arlen!' Jeph cried, but the boy ignored him, running as hard as he could for the woods off to the side of the road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3

A Night Alone

319 AR

Arlen ran through the woods as fast as he could, making sharp, sudden turns; picking his direction at random. He wanted to be sure his father couldn't track him, but as Jeph's calls faded, he realized his father wasn't following at all.

Why should he bother? he thought. He knows I have to come back before nightfall. Where else could I go?

Anywhere. The answer came unbidden, but he knew in his heart that it was true.

He couldn't go back to the farm and pretend everything was all right. He couldn't watch Ilain claim his mother's bed. Even pretty Renna, who kissed so softly, would only be a reminder of what he had lost, and why.

But where could he go? His father was right about one thing. He couldn't run forever. He would have to find succour before dark, or the coming night would be his last.

Going back to Tibbet's Brook was not an option. Whoever he sought succour from would drag him home by the ear the next day, and he'd be switched for the stunt with nothing to show.

Sunny Pasture, then. Unless Hog was paying them to carry something, almost no one from Tibbet's Brook ever went there, unless they were Messengers.

Coline had said Ragen was heading to Sunny Pasture before returning to the Free Cities. Arlen liked Ragen; the only elder he'd ever met who didn't talk down to him. The Messenger and Keerin were a day and more ahead of him, and mounted, but if he hurried, perhaps he could catch them in time and beg passage to the Free Cities.

He still had Coline's map, strung around his neck. It showed the road to Sunny Pasture, and the farms along the way. Even deep in the woods, he was pretty sure which way was north.

At midday he found the road, or rather the road found him, cutting straight across the woods ahead of him. He must have lost his sense of direction in the trees.

He walked on for a few hours, but he saw no sign of a farm, or the old Herb Gatherer's home. Looking at the sun, his worry increased. If he was walking north, the sun should be off to his left, but it wasn't. It was right in front of him.

He stopped and looked at the map, and his fears were confirmed. He wasn't on the road to Sunny Pasture, he was on the road to the Free Cities. Worse, after the road split off from the path to Sunny Pasture, it went right off the edge of the map.

The idea of backtracking was daunting, especially with no way to know if he could make it to succour in time. He took a step back the way he had come.

No, he decided. Going back is Da's way. Whatever happens, I'm going forward.

Arlen started walking again, leaving both Tibbet's Brook and Sunny Pasture behind. Each step was lighter and easier than the one before.

He walked for hours more, eventually leaving the trees behind and entering grassland; wide, lush fields untouched by plough or grazing. He crested a hilltop, breathing deeply of the fresh, untainted air. There was a large boulder jutting from the ground, and Arlen scrambled on top of it, looking out at a wide world that had always been beyond of his reach.

There was no sign of habitation; no place to seek succour. He was afraid of the coming night, but it was a distant feeling, like knowing you would grow old and die one day.

As the afternoon turned to evening, Arlen began looking for places to make his stand. A copse of trees held promise; there was little grass beneath them, and he could draw wards in the soil, but a wood demon might climb one of the trees, and drop into his warding ring from above.

There was a small, stony hillock free of grass, but when Arlen stood on top of it, the wind was strong, and he feared it might mar the wards, rendering them useless.

Finally, Arlen came to a place where flame demons had set a recent blaze. New buds had yet to pierce the ash, and a scuff of his foot found hard soil beneath. He cleared the ash from a wide area and began his warding circle. He had little time, so he kept it small, not wanting his haste to cause him to make a mistake.

Using a sharp stick, Arlen drew the sigils in the dirt, gently blowing away loose scrapings. He worked for over an hour, ward by ward, stepping back frequently to assure himself that they were aligned properly. His hands, as always, moved with confidence and alacrity.

When he finished, Arlen had a circle six feet in diameter. He checked the wards three times, finding no error. He put the stick in his pocket and sat at the circle's centre, watching the shadows lengthen and the sun dip low, setting the sky awash with colour.

Perhaps he would die tonight. Perhaps not. Arlen told himself it did not matter. But as the light waned, so too did his nerve. He felt his heart pounding, and every instinct told him to leap to his feet and run. But there was nowhere to run to. He was miles away from the nearest place of succour. He shivered, though it was not cold.

This was a bad idea, a tiny voice whispered in his mind, but he snarled at it. Tonight, he told that voice, we find out if mam died for nothing. Tonight, we find out what really killed her.

The brave thoughts did little to loosen his knotting muscles as the last rays of the sun winked out, and he was bathed in darkness. Here they come, that frightened voice in his head warned, as the wisps of mist began to rise from the ground.

The mist coalesced slowly, demon bodies gaining substance as they slipped from the ground. Arlen rose with them, clenching his small fists. As always, the flame demons came first, scampering about in delight, trailing flickering fire as they went. These were followed by the wind demons, which immediately ran and spread their leathery wings, leaping into the air. Last came the rock demons, laboriously hauling their heavy frames from the Core.

And then the corelings saw Arlen and howled with delight, charging the helpless boy.

A swooping wind demon struck first, raking its hooked wing claws to tear out Arlen's throat. Arlen screamed, but sparks flew as the talons struck his wards, deflecting the attack. Momentum carried the demon on and slammed its body into the shield, only to be hurled back in a shimmering burst of energy. The creature howled as it struck the ground, but it pulled itself upright, twitching as energy danced across its scales.

Next came the nimble flame demons, the largest no bigger than a dog. They skittered forward, shrieking, and began clawing at the shield. Arlen flinched each time, but the magic held. When they saw that Arlen had woven an effective net, they spat fire at him.

Arlen was wise to the trick, of course. He had been warding since he was old enough to hold a stick of charcoal, and he knew the wards against firespit. The flames were turned as effectively as the claws. He didn't even feel the heat.

Corelings gathered to the spectacle, and each flash of light as the wards activated showed Arlen a fell horde, eager to flay the flesh from his bones.

More wind demons swooped in, and were thrown back by the wards. The flame demons, too, began to hurl themselves at him in