The Warded Man

“Milnese soil is stony,” Ragen said. “Those who don’t have private gardens to fertilize are required to put their waste out for collection to use in the Duke’s Gardens. It’s the law.”

“It’s a smelly law,” Arlen said.

Ragen laughed. “Maybe,” he replied. “But it keeps us fed, and drives the economy. The collection guildmaster’s manse makes mine look like a hovel.”

“I’m sure yours smells better,” Arlen said, and Ragen laughed again.

At last they turned a corner and came to a small but sturdy shop, with wards delicately etched around the windows and into the lintel and jamb of the door. Arlen could appreciate the detail of those wards. Whoever made them had a skilled hand.

They entered to a chime of bells, and Arlen’s eyes widened at the contents of the shop. Wards of every shape and size, made in every medium, filled the room.

“Wait here,” Ragen said, moving across the room to speak with a man sitting on a workbench. Arlen barely noticed him go, wandering around the room. He ran his fingers reverently over wards woven into tapestry, etched into smooth river stones, and molded from metal. There were carved posts for farmers’ fields, and a portable circle like Ragen’s. He tried to memorize the wards he saw, but there were just too many.

“Arlen, come here!” Ragen called after a few minutes. Arlen started, and rushed over.

“This is Master Cob,” Ragen introduced, gesturing to a man who was perhaps sixty. Short for a Milnese, he had the look of a strong man gone to fat. A thick gray beard, shot through with signs of its former black, covered his face, and his close-cropped hair was thin atop his head. His skin was lined and leathern, and his grip swallowed Arlen’s hand.

“Ragen tells me you want to be a Warder,” Cob said, sitting back heavily on the bench.

“No, sir,” Arlen replied. “I want to be a Messenger.”

“So does every boy your age,” Cob said. “The smart ones wise up before they get themselves killed.”

“Weren’t you a Messenger once?” Arlen asked, confused at the man’s attitude.

“I was,” Cob agreed, lifting his sleeve to show a tattoo similar to Ragen’s. “I traveled to the five Free Cities and a dozen hamlets, and earned more money than I thought I could ever spend.” He paused, letting Arlen’s confusion grow. “I also earned this,” he said, lifting his shirt to show thick scars running across his stomach, “and this.” He slipped a foot from his shoe. A crescent of scarred flesh, long healed, showed where four of his toes had been.

“To this day,” Cob said, “I can’t sleep more than an hour without starting awake, reaching for my spear. Yes, I was a Messen ger. A damned good one and luckier than most, but I still would not wish it on anyone. Messaging may seem glorious, but for every man who lives in a manse and commands respect like Ragen here, there are two dozen rotting on the road.”

“I don’t care,” Arlen said. “It’s what I want.”

“Then I’ll make a deal with you,” Cob sighed. “A Messenger must be, above all, a Warder, so I’ll apprentice you and teach you to be one. When we have time, I’ll teach you what I know of surviving the road. An apprenticeship lasts seven years. If you still wish to be a Messenger then … well, you’re your own man.”

“Seven years?” Arlen gawked.

Cob snorted. “You don’t pick up warding in a day, boy.”

“I can ward now,” Arlen said defiantly.

“So Ragen tells me,” Cob said. “He also tells me you do it with no knowledge of geometry or wardtheory. Eyeballing your wards may not get you killed tomorrow, boy, or next week, but it will get you killed.”

Arlen stomped a foot. Seven years seemed like an eternity, but deep down he knew the master was right. The pain in his back was a constant reminder that he wasn’t ready to face the corelings again. He needed the skills this man could teach him. He didn’t doubt that there were dozens of Messengers who fell to the demons, and he vowed not to become one of them because he was too stubborn to learn from his mistakes.

“All right,” he agreed finally. “Seven years.”