The Warded Man

He stoked the flames as Keerin returned, looking pale but relieved. “I’ll be sure to mention it when we take you back.”

“Back?” Arlen asked.

“Back?” Keerin echoed.

“Of course ‘back,’” Ragen said. “Your da will be looking for you, Arlen.”

“But I don’t want to go back,” Arlen said. “I want to go to the Free Cities with you.”

“You can’t just run away from your problems, Arlen,” Ragen said.

“I’m not going back,” Arlen said. “You can drag me there, but I’ll run again the second you let go.”

Ragen stared at him for a long time. Finally, he glanced at Keerin.

“You know what I think,” Keerin said. “I’ve no desire to add five nights, at least, to our trip home.”

Ragen frowned at Arlen. “I’ll be writing your father when we get to Miln,” he warned.

“You’ll be wasting your time,” Arlen said. “He’ll never come for me.”

The stone floor of the courtyard and the high wall hid them well that night. A wide portable circle secured the cart, and the animals were staked and hobbled in another. They were in the inner of two concentric rings, with the fire at the center.

Keerin lay huddled in his bedroll, with the blanket over his head. He was shivering though it was not cold, and when the occasional coreling tested the wards, he twitched.

“Why do they keep attacking when they can’t get through?” Arlen asked.

“They’re looking for flaws in the net,” Ragen said. “You’ll never see a coreling attack the same spot twice.” He tapped his temple. “They remember. Corelings aren’t smart enough to study the wards and reason out the weak spots, so they attack the barrier and search that way. They get through rarely, but often enough to make it worth their while.”

A wind demon came swooping over the wall and bounced off the wards. Keerin whimpered from under his blanket at the sound.

Ragen looked over at the Jongleur’s bedroll and shook his head. “It’s like he thinks that if he can’t see the corelings, they can’t see him,” he muttered.

“Is he always like this?” Arlen asked.

“That one-armed demon has him more spooked than usual,” Ragen said, “but he wasn’t exactly standing at the wards before.” He shrugged. “I needed a Jongleur on short notice. The guild gave me Keerin. I don’t normally work with ones so green.”

“Why bring a Jongleur at all, then?” Arlen asked.

“Oh, you have to bring a Jongleur with you when you’re going to the hamlets,” Ragen said. “They’re apt to stone you if you show up without one.”

“Hamlets?”

“Small villages, like Tibbet’s Brook,” Ragen explained. “Places too far for the dukes to easily control, where most folks can’t read.”

“What difference does that make?” Arlen asked.

“People that can’t read don’t have a lot of use for Messengers,” Ragen said. “Oh, they’re eager enough for their salt, or whatever it is they’re shy of, but most won’t come out of their way to see you and give you news, and collecting news is a Messenger’s first job. But bring a Jongleur with you, and people drop everything to come and see the spectacle. It wasn’t just for you that I spread word of Keerin’s show.

“Some men,” he went on, “can be Merchant, Jongleur, Herb Gatherer, and Messenger all at once, but they’re about as common as a friendly coreling. Most Messengers who take the hamlet routes have to hire a Jongleur.”

“And you don’t usually work the hamlets,” Arlen said, remembering.

Ragen winked. “A Jongleur may impress the townies, but he’ll only hold you back in a duke’s court. The dukes and merchant princes have Jongleurs of their own. All they’re interested in is trade and news, and they pay far more than anything old Hog could afford.”

Ragen rose before the sun the next morning. Arlen was already awake, and Ragen nodded at him in approval. “Messengers don’t have the luxury of sleeping late,” he said as he loudly clattered his cookpans to wake Keerin. “Every moment of light is needed.”

Arlen was feeling well enough by then to sit next to Keerin in the cart as it trundled toward the tiny lumps on the horizon Ragen called mountains. To pass the time, Ragen told Arlen tales of his travels, and pointed to herbs along the side of the road, saying which to eat and which to avoid, which could poultice a wound, and which would make it worse. He noted the most defensible spots to spend a night and why, and warned about predators.

“Corelings kill the slowest and weakest animals,” Ragen said. “So only the biggest and strongest, or those best at hiding, survive. Out on the road, corelings aren’t the only thing that will see you as prey.”

Keerin looked around nervously.

“What was that place we stayed in the last few nights?” Arlen asked.

Ragen shrugged. “Just some minor lord’s keep,” he said. “There’re hundreds of them in the lands between here and Miln, old ruins picked clean by countless Messengers.”

“Messengers?” Arlen asked.

“Of course,” Ragen said. “Some Messengers spend weeks hunting for ruins. The ones lucky enough to stumble on ruins no one’s ever found can come back with all kinds of loot. Gold, jewels, carvings, sometimes even old wards. But the real prize they’re all chasing is the old wards, the fighting wards, if they ever really existed.”

“Do you think they existed?” Arlen asked.

Ragen nodded. “But I’m not about to risk my neck leaving the road to look for them.”

After a couple of hours, Ragen led them off the road to a small cave. “Always best to ward a shelter when you can,” he told Arlen. “This cave is one of a few noted in Graig’s log.”

Ragen and Keerin set up camp, feeding and watering the animals and moving their supplies into the cave. The unhitched cart was put in a circle just outside. While they worked, Arlen inspected the portable circle. “There are wards here I don’t know,” he noted, tracing the markings with a finger.

“I saw a few in Tibbet’s Brook that were new to me, as well,” Ragen admitted. “I copied them down in my log. Perhaps tonight you can tell me what they do?” Arlen smiled, pleased that he might offer something in return for Ragen’s generosity.

Keerin began shifting uncomfortably as they ate, looking frequently at the darkening sky, but Ragen seemed unhurried as the shadows grew.

“Best to bring the mollies into the cave now,” Ragen noted finally. Keerin immediately moved to comply. “Pack animals hate caves,” Ragen told Arlen, “so you wait as long as you can before bringing them in. The horse always goes last.”

“Doesn’t it have a name?” Arlen asked.

Ragen shook his head. “My horses have to earn their names,” he said. “The guild trains them special, but plenty of horses still spook when chained outside in a portable circle at night. Only the ones I know won’t bolt or panic get names. I bought this one in Angiers, after my garron ran off and got cored. If she makes it to Miln, I’ll give her a name.”

“She’ll make it,” Arlen said, stroking the courser’s neck. When Keerin had the mollies inside, he took her bridle and led her into the cave.

As the others settled in, Arlen studied the cave mouth. Wards were chiseled into the stone, but not the floor of the entrance. “The wards are incomplete,” he said, pointing.

“Course they are,” Ragen answered. “Can’t ward dirt, can we?” He looked at Arlen curiously. “What would you do to complete the circle?” he asked.

Arlen studied the puzzle. The mouth of the cave wasn’t a perfect circle, more like an inverted U. Harder to ward, but not too hard, and the wards carved on the rock were common enough. Taking a stick, he sketched wards in the dirt, their lines connecting smoothly with those already in place. He checked them thrice, and then slid back, looking at Ragen for approval.

The Messenger was silent a moment as he studied Arlen’s work, then nodded.

“Well done,” Ragen said, and Arlen beamed. “You plotted the vertices masterfully. I couldn’t have woven a tighter web myself, and you did all the equations in your head, no less.”

“Uh, thanks,” Arlen said, though he had no idea what Ragen was talking about.

Ragen caught the boy’s pause. “You did do the equations, didn’t you?” he asked.

“What’s an equation?” Arlen asked. “That line”—he pointed to the nearest ward—“goes to that ward there.” He pointed to the wall. “It crosses these lines”—he pointed to other wards—“which crisscross with those here.” He pointed to still others. “It’s as simple as that.”

Ragen was aghast. “You mean you just eyeballed it?” he demanded.

Arlen shrugged as Ragen turned back to him. “Most people use a straightstick to check the lines,” he admitted, “but I never bother.”

“How Tibbet’s Brook isn’t swallowed by the night, I have no idea,” Ragen said. He pulled a sack from his saddlebag and knelt at the cave mouth, sweeping Arlen’s wards away.

“Dirt wards are still foolhardy, however well drawn,” he said.

Ragen selected a handful of lacquered wooden ward plates from the sack. Using a straightstick marked with lines, he spaced them out quickly, resealing the net.

It hadn’t been dark for more than an hour when the giant one-armed rock demon bounded into the clearing. It gave a great howl, sweeping lesser demons aside as it stomped toward the cave mouth, roaring a challenge. Keerin groaned, retreating to the back of the cave.

“That one has your scent now,” Ragen warned. “It will follow you forever, waiting for you to drop your guard.”

Arlen looked at the monster for a long moment, considering the Messenger’s words. The demon snarled and struck hard at the barrier, but the wards flared and knocked it away. Keerin whimpered, but Arlen rose and walked up to the mouth of the cave. He met the coreling’s eyes and slowly raised his hands, bringing them together suddenly in a loud clap, mocking the demon with his two limbs.

“Let it waste its time,” he said as the demon howled in impotent rage. “It won’t get me.”

They continued on the road for almost a week. Ragen turned them north, passing through the foothills of the mountain range, ascending ever higher. Now and again Ragen would stop to hunt, felling small game from great distances with his thin throwing spears.

Most nights they stayed in shelters noted in Graig’s log, though twice they simply camped in the road. Like any animal, Ragen’s mare was terrified by the stalking demons, but she did not try to pull free from her hobble.

“She deserves a name,” Arlen said, for the hundredth time, pointing at the steady horse.

“Fine, fine!” Ragen finally conceded, ruffling Arlen’s hair. “You can name her.”

Arlen smiled. “Nighteye,” he said.

Ragen looked at the horse, and nodded. “It’s a good name,” he agreed.