THE DEMON CYCLE BOOKS 1-3 AND NOVELLAS

PETER V. BRETT

Copyright

HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

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The Painted Man First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2008 Copyright © Peter V. Brett 2008 Cover Layout Design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013

The Desert Spear First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2010 Copyright © Peter V. Brett 2010 Cover Layout Design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013

The Daylight War First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2013 Copyright © Peter V. Brett 2013 Cover Layout Design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013

The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2011 Copyright © Peter V. Brett 2011 Cover Layout Design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2011

Messenger’s Legacy First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2014 Copyright © Peter V. Brett 2014 Cover Layout Design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

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

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

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.

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Source ISBNs:

The Painted Man: 9780007276134 The Desert Spear: 9780007276165 The Daylight War: 9780007276196 The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold: 9780007444458 Messenger’s Legacy: 9780008114718 Bundle Edition (Containing The Painted Man, The Desert Spear, The Daylight War, The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold and Messenger’s Legacy) © February 2015 ISBN: 9780008117542

Version: 2015-01-28

THE PAINTED MAN

PETER V. BRETT

Dedication

To Otzi, the original Painted Man.

Map

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. 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”.’

‘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 as 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 cornfield, 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. ‘Messengering’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 Messengers’ 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 nine 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 ent 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 almost 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 it to you.’

Arlen beamed, and ran off with his prize before Rusco had a chance to reconsider. He had sneaked 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 nodded 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, ‘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 said with a grin, 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.

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, demons 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 Merchants’ 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, ‘even this far out.’

‘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 mailbag?’ 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 one 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 the top off the barrel, scooping rice into a shallow pan for Ragen to inspect.

‘Good Marsh rice,’ he told the Messenger, ‘and not a weevil to be seen, nor sign of rot. This will fetch a high price in Miln, especially after so long.’ Ragen grunted and nodded, so the cask was resealed and they returned upstairs.

They argued for some time over how many barrels of rice the heavy sacks of salt on the cart were worth. In the end, neither of them seemed happy, but they shook hands on the deal.

Rusco called his daughters, and they all went out to the cart to begin unloading the salt. Arlen tried lifting a bag, but it was far too heavy, and he staggered and fell, dropping it.

‘Be careful!’ Dasy scolded, slapping the back of his head.

‘If you can’t lift, then get the door!’ Catrin barked. She herself had one sack over her shoulder and another tucked under her meaty arm. Arlen scrambled to his feet and rushed to hold the portal for her.

‘Fetch Ferd Miller and tell him we’ll pay five … make it four credits for every sack he grinds,’ Rusco told Arlen. Most everyone in the Brook worked for Hog, one way or another, but the Squarefolk most of all. ‘Five if he packs it in barrels with rice to keep it dry.’

‘Ferd is off in the Cluster,’ Arlen said. ‘Most everyone is.’

Rusco grunted, but did not reply. Soon enough the cart was empty, save for a few boxes and sacks that did not contain salt. Rusco’s daughters eyed those hungrily, but said nothing.

‘We’ll carry the rice up from the cellar tonight and keep it in the back room until you’re ready to head back to Miln,’ Rusco said, when the last sack was hauled inside.

‘Thank you,’ Ragen said.

‘The Duke’s business is done, then?’ Rusco asked with a grin, his eyes flicking knowingly to the remaining items on the cart.

‘The Duke’s business, yes,’ Ragen said, grinning in return. Arlen hoped they would give him another ale while they haggled. It made him feel light-headed, like he had caught a chill, but without the coughing and sneezing and aches. He liked the feeling, and wanted to try it again.

He helped carry the remaining items into the taproom, and Catrin brought out a platter of sandwiches thick with meat. Arlen was given a second cup of ale to wash it down, and old Hog told him he could have two credits in the book for his work. ‘I won’t tell your parents,’ Hog said, ‘but if you spend it on ale and they catch you, you’ll be working off the grief your mum gives me.’ Arlen nodded eagerly. He’d never had credits of his own to spend at the store.

After lunch, Rusco and Ragen went over to the bar and opened up the other items the Messenger had brought. Arlen’s eyes flared as each treasure was presented. There were bolts of cloth finer than anything he had ever seen; metal tools and pins, ceramics and exotic spices. There were even a few cups made of bright, sparkling glass.

Hog seemed less impressed. ‘Graig had a better haul last year,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you … a hundred credits for the lot.’ Arlen’s jaw dropped. A hundred credits! Ragen could own half the Brook for that.

Ragen didn’t care for the offer, though. His eyes went hard again, and he slammed his hand down on the table. Dasy and Catrin looked up from their cleaning at the sound.

‘To the Core with your credit!’ he growled. ‘I’m not one of your bumpkins, and unless you want the guild to know you for a cheat, you’ll not mistake me for one again.’

‘No hard feelings!’ Rusco laughed, patting the air in that placating way he had. ‘Had to try … you understand. They still like gold up there in Miln?’ he asked with a sly smile.

‘Same as everywhere,’ Ragen said. He was still frowning, but the anger had drained from his voice.

‘Not out here,’ Rusco said. He went back behind the curtain, and they could hear him rummaging around, raising his voice to 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 discs, 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 for 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. ‘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.

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