Читать книгу: «The Painted Man»

1

Aftermath 319 AR

The great horn sounded.

Arlen paused in his work, looking up at the lavender wash of the dawn sky. Mist still clung to the air, bringing with it a damp, 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.

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. Behind Arlen, the door to the house opened, and he knew his mother would be there, covering her mouth with both hands.

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 nearest 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 their destination. 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 town Speaker approached their cart as it pulled up. Selia, whom Arlen’s mother sometimes called Selia the Barren, was a hard 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.

‘How many lost?’ Jeph asked, though he didn’t really seem to want to know.

‘Twenty-seven,’ Selia said. 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 the wards failed and enough flame demons gathered in one place.

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 the 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 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 sizable 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 free 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 dirt with blood running from his ear. Willum 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 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. Rusco Hog was the richest man in the Brook. He 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. For as long as Arlen could remember, it had been the same man, grey-haired but spry and full of cheer. This new one was younger, and he seemed sullen. 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 a 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 Messengers’ 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 ent 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. Give the letters and packages to Rusco Hog 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 in 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”.’

‘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. ‘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. Farther 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 flame, rock, and wood demons. Their wardnet is proof against wind demons, and no people can ward against water demons better. They’re fisher-folk, 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 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 fewer 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 had 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.

‘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, hiding 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 defused 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 ent 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. ‘“Baleses 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 part 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 three 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 to my flock!’ 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 ent 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 a few weeks ago, 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 built 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 practised them, getting better and better. More and more wards were discovered, until someone learned 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 a night passed without the corelings. Now night after night went by with no sign of them, and we were baffled.’ He scratched his head in mock 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 then the tune turned ominous, and the Jongleur’s voice deepened once more. ‘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. 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, and the accumulated knowledge of the Age of Science burned as flame demons frolicked.

‘Scholars desperately searched the wreckages of libraries for answers. The old science was no help, but they found salvation at last in stories once considered fantasy and superstition. Men began to draw clumsy symbols in the soil, preventing the corelings from approaching. The ancient wards held power still, but the shaking hands that drew them often made mistakes, and they were paid for dearly.

‘Those who 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 flame, rock, swamp, water, wind, 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.