The Warded Man

CHAPTER 8

TO THE FREE CITIES

319 AR





ARLEN LEANED MORE HEAVILY on his walking stick as the fever grew in him. He hunched over and retched, but his empty stomach had only bile to yield. Dizzy, he searched for a focal point. He saw a plume of smoke.

There was a structure off the side of the road far ahead. A stone wall, so overgrown with vines that it was nearly invisible. The smoke was coming from there.

Hope of succor gave strength to his watery limbs, and he stumbled on. He made the wall, leaning against it as he dragged himself along, looking for an entrance. The stone was pitted and cracked; creeping vines threaded into every nook and cranny. Without the vines to support it, the ancient wall might simply collapse, much as Arlen would without the wall to support him.

At last he came to an arch in the wall. Two metal gates, rusted off their hinges, lay before it in the weeds. Time had eaten them away to nothing. The arch opened into a wide courtyard choked with vines and weeds. There was a broken fountain filled with murky rainwater, and a low building so covered in ivy that it could be missed at first glance.

Arlen walked around the yard in awe. Beneath the growth, the ground was cracked stone. Full-sized trees had broken through, overturning giant blocks now covered in moss. Arlen could see deep claw marks in the plain stone.

No wards, he realized in amazement. This place was from before the Return. If that was so, it had been abandoned for over three hundred years.

The door to the building had rotted away like the gate. A small stone entryway led into a wide room. Wires hung in a tangle from the walls, the art they had held long disintegrated. A coating of slime on the floor was all that remained of a thick carpet. Ancient grooves were clawed into the walls and furniture, remnants of the fall.

“Hello?” Arlen called. “Is anyone here?”

There was no reply.

His face felt hot, but he was shivering, even in the warm air. He did not think he could manage to search much further, but there had been smoke, and smoke meant life. The thought gave him strength, and finding a crumbling stairwell, he picked his way to the second floor.

Much of the building’s top floor was open to sunlight. The roof was cracked and caved in; rusting metal bars jutting from the crumbling stone.

“Is anyone here?” Arlen called. He searched the floor, but found only rot and ruin.

As he was losing hope, he saw the smoke through a window at the far end of the hall. He ran to it, but found only a broken tree limb lying in the rear courtyard. It was clawed and blackened, with small fires still crackling in places, giving off a steady plume.

Crestfallen, he felt his face twist, but he refused to cry. He thought about just sitting and waiting for the demons to come, in hopes they would give him a faster death than the sickness, but he had sworn to give them nothing, and besides, Marea’s death had certainly not been quick. He looked down from the window to the stone courtyard.

A fall from here would kill anyone, he mused. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and it felt easy and right to just let himself fall.

Like Cholie? a voice in his head asked.

The noose flashed in his mind, and Arlen snapped back to reality, catching himself and pulling away from the window.

No, he thought, Cholie’s way is no better than Da’s. When I die, it will be because something killed me, not because I gave up.

He could see far from the high window, over the wall and down the road. Off in the distance, he spotted movement, coming his way.

Ragen.

Arlen tapped reserves of strength he didn’t know he had, bounding down the steps with something approaching his usual alacrity and running full out through the courtyard.

But his breath gave out as he reached the road, and he fell onto the clay, gasping and clutching a stitch in his side. It felt like there were a thousand splinters in his chest.

He looked up and saw the figures still far down the road, but close enough that they saw him, too. He heard a shout as the world went black.

Arlen awoke in daylight, lying on his stomach. He took a breath, feeling bandages wrapped tightly around him. His back still ached, but it no longer burned, and for the first time in days, his face felt cool. He put his hands under him to rise, but pain shot through him.

“I wouldn’t be in any rush to do that,” Ragen advised. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“What happened?” Arlen asked, looking up at the man who sat nearby.

“Found you passed out on the road,” the man said. “The cuts on your back had demon rot. Had to cut you open and drain the poison before I could sew them up.”

“Where’s Keerin?” Arlen asked.

Ragen laughed. “Inside,” he said. “Keerin’s been keeping his distance the last couple days. He couldn’t handle the gore, and sicked up when we first found you.”

“Days?” Arlen asked. He looked around and found himself back in the ancient courtyard. Ragen had made camp there, his portable circles protecting the bedrolls and animals.

“We found you around high sun on Thirday,” Ragen said. “It’s Fifthday now. You’ve been delirious the whole time, thrashing around as you sweated out the sickness.”

“You cured my demon fever?” Arlen asked in shock.

“That what they call it in the Brook?” Ragen asked. He shrugged. “Good a name as any, I suppose, but it’s not some magic disease, boy; just an infection. I found some hogroot not far off the road, so I was able to poultice the cuts. I’ll make some tea with it later. If you drink it for the next few days, you should be all right.”

“Hogroot?” Arlen asked.

Ragen held up a weed that grew most everywhere. “A staple of every Messenger’s herb pouch, though it’s best when fresh. Makes you a little dizzy, but for some reason, demon rot can’t abide it.”

Arlen began to cry. His mother could have been cured by a weed he regularly pulled from Jeph’s field? It was just too much.

Ragen waited quietly, giving Arlen space while the tears ran their course. After what seemed an eternity, the flow began to ebb, and his heaving sobs eased. Ragen handed him a cloth wordlessly, and Arlen dried his cheeks.

“Arlen,” the Messenger asked finally, “what are you doing all the way out here?”

Arlen looked at him for a long time, trying to decide what to say. When he finally spoke, the tale came spilling out in a rush. He told the Messenger everything, starting with the night his mother was injured and ending with running from his father.

Ragen was quiet while he took in Arlen’s tale. “I’m sorry about your mother, Arlen,” he said at last. Arlen sniffled and nodded.

Keerin wandered back as Arlen began telling how he had tried to find the road to Sunny Pasture, but had accidentally taken the fork to the Free Cities instead. He paid rapt attention as Arlen described his first night alone, the giant rock demon, and how he had scuffed the ward. The Jongleur went pale when Arlen described the race to repair it before the demon killed him.

“You’re the one that cut that demon’s arm off?” Ragen asked incredulously, a moment later. Keerin looked ready to sick up again.

“It’s not a trick I mean to try again,” Arlen said.

“No, I don’t suppose it is,” Ragen chuckled. “Still, crippling a fifteen-foot rock demon is a deed worth a song or two, eh, Keerin?” He elbowed the Jongleur, but that seemed to push the man over the edge. He covered his mouth and ran off. Ragen shook his head and sighed.

“A giant one-armed rock demon’s been haunting us ever since we found you,” he explained. “It’s hammered the wards harder than any coreling I’ve ever seen.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Arlen asked, watching Keerin double over.

“It’ll pass,” Ragen grunted. “Let’s get some food into you.” He helped Arlen sit up against the horse’s saddle. The move sent a stab of pain through him, and Ragen saw him wince.

“Chew on this,” he advised, handing Arlen a gnarled root. “It will make you a little light-headed, but it should ease the pain.”

“Are you an Herb Gatherer?” Arlen asked.

Ragen laughed. “No, but a Messenger needs to know a little of every art, if he wants to survive.” He reached into his saddlebags, pulling out a metal cookpot and some utensils.

“I wish you’d told Coline about hogroot,” Arlen lamented.

“I would have,” Ragen said, “if I thought for a second she didn’t know.” He filled the pot, and hung it from the tripod over the firepit. “It’s amazing what people have forgotten.”