The Warded Man

“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 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 toward 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 into the dirt.

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 dirt and cursing.

Arlen was no stranger to death. That specter 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 dirt, 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 diffused 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 succor 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 good-bye 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.