The Warded Man

Rojer began to play, and all his doubts and fears fell away as the vibration of the strings became his world. He caressed a melody forth, and nodded when he was ready. Arrick joined him with a soft hum, waiting for another nod before beginning to sing. They played thus for some time, falling into a comfortable harmony honed by years of practice and performance. Much later, Arrick broke off suddenly, looking around.

“What is it?” Rojer asked.

“I don’t think a demon has struck the wards since we started,” Arrick said.

Rojer stopped playing, looking out into the night. It was true, he realized, wondering how he hadn’t noticed it before. The wood demons were crouched about the circle, motionless, but as Rojer met the eyes of one, it sprang at him.

Rojer screamed and fell back as the coreling struck the wards and was repelled. All around them the magic flared as the rest of the creatures shook off their daze and attacked.

“It was the music!” Arrick said. “The music held them back!”

Seeing the confused look on the boy’s face, Arrick cleared his throat, and began to sing.

His voice was strong, and carried far down the road, drowning out the demon roars with its beautiful sound, but it did nothing to keep the demons at bay. On the contrary, the corelings shrieked all the louder and clawed at the barrier, as if desperate to silence him.

Arrick’s thick eyebrows furrowed, and he changed tune, singing the last song he and Rojer had been practicing, but the corelings still swiped at the wards. Rojer felt a stab of fear. What if the demons found a weakness in the wards, like they had …

“The fiddle, boy!” Arrick called. Rojer looked dumbly down at the fiddle and bow still clutched in his hands. “Play it, fool!” Arrick commanded.

But Rojer’s crippled hand shook, and the bow touched string with a piercing whine, like fingernails on slate. The corelings shrieked, and backed a step away. Emboldened, Rojer played more jarring and sour notes, driving the demons farther and farther off. They howled and put clawed hands to their heads as if in pain.

But they did not flee. The demons backed away from the circle slowly until they found a tolerable distance. There they waited, black eyes reflecting the firelight.

The sight chilled Rojer’s heart. They knew he couldn’t play forever.

Arrick had not been exaggerating when he said they would be treated as heroes in the hamlets. The people of Cricket Run had no Jongleurs of their own, and many remembered Arrick from his time as the duke’s herald, a decade gone.

There was a small inn for housing cattle drivers and produce farmers heading to and from Woodsend and Shepherd’s Dale, and they were welcomed there and given free room and board. The whole town showed up to watch them perform, drinking enough ale to more than repay the innkeep. In fact, everything went flawlessly, until it came time to pass the hat.

“An ear of corn!” Arrick shouted, shaking it in Rojer’s face. “Whar we sposa to do wi’that?”

“We could always eat it,” Rojer offered. His master glared at him and continued to pace.

Rojer had liked Cricket Run. The people there were simple and good-hearted, and knew how to enjoy life. In Angiers, crowds pressed close to hear his fiddle, nodding and clapping, but he had never seen folk so quick to dance as the Runners. Before his fiddle was halfway from its case, they were backing up, making room. Before long, they were reeling and spinning and laughing uproariously, embracing his music fully and flowing wherever it took them.

They cried without shame at Arrick’s sad ballads, and laughed hysterically at their bawdy jokes and mummery. They were, in Rojer’s estimation, everything one could ask in an audience.

When the act was over, chants of “Sweetsong and Halfgrip!” were deafening. They were inundated with offers of lodging, and the wine and food overflowed. Rojer was swept behind a haystack by a pair of raven-eyed Runner girls, sharing kisses until his head spun.

Arrick was less pleased.

“How could I have forgotten what it was like?” he lamented.

He was referring, of course, to the collection hat. There was no coin in the hamlets, or little enough. What there was went for necessities, seed and tools and wardposts. A pair of wooden klats settled to the bottom of the hat, but that wasn’t even enough to pay for the wine Arrick had drunk on the journey from Angiers. For the most part, the Runners paid in grain, with the occasional bag of salt or spice thrown in.

“Barter!” Arrick spat the word like a curse. “No vintner in Angiersh will take payment in bagsh of barley!”

The Runners had paid in more than just grain. They gave gifts of salted meat and fresh bread, a horn of clotted cream and a basket of fruit. Warm quilts. Fresh patches for their boots. Whatever good or service they could spare was offered with gratitude. Rojer hadn’t eaten so well since the duke’s palace, and for the life of him he could not understand his master’s distress. What was coin for, if not to buy the very things that the Runners gave in abundance?

“Leasht they had wine,” Arrick grumbled. Rojer eyed the skin nervously as his master took a pull, knowing it would only amplify Arrick’s distress, but he said nothing. No amount of wine could distress Arrick so much as the suggestion that he should not drink so much wine.

“I liked it there,” Rojer dared. “I wish we could have stayed longer.”

“What d’you know?” Arrick snapped. “You’re jussa stupid boy.” He groaned as if in pain. “Woodsend’ll be no better,” he lamented, looking down the road, “and Sheepshagger’s Dale’ll be worsht of all! What wash I thinking, keeping this stupid circle?”

He kicked at the precious plates of the portable circle, knocking the wards askew, but he did not seem to notice or care, stumbling drunkenly about the fire.

Rojer gasped. Sunset was mere moments away, but he said nothing, darting over to the spot and frantically correcting the damage, glancing fearfully at the horizon.

He finished not a moment too soon. The corelings rose as he was still smoothing the rope. He fell back as the first coreling leapt at him, crying out as the wards flared to life.

“Damn you!” Arrick screamed at a demon as it charged him. The drunken Jongleur stuck his chin out in defiance and cackled as the coreling smashed against the wardnet.

“Master, please,” Rojer begged, taking Arrick’s arm and pulling him toward the center of the ring.

“Oh, Halfgrip knowsh besht, now?” he sneered, yanking his arm away and almost falling down in the process. “Poor drunk Shweetsong dun’t know t’keep away from coreling clawsh?”

“It’s not like that,” Rojer protested.

“Then wha’s it like?” Arrick demanded. “Y’think tha’ ’cos the crowds cheer yur name that y’d be anything without me?”

“No,” Rojer said.

“Damn right,” Arrick muttered, pulling again on his skin and stumbling away.

Rojer’s throat tightened, and he reached into his secret pocket for his talisman. He rubbed the smooth wood and silky hair with his thumb, trying to call upon its power.

“Tha’s right, call yer mum!” Arrick shouted, turning back and pointing at the little doll. “F’get who raised you, who taught you everything y’know! I gave up my life for you!”

Rojer gripped his talisman tighter, feeling his mother’s presence, hearing her last words. He thought again of how Arrick had shoved her to the ground, and an angry lump formed in his throat. “No,” he said. “You were the only one who didn’t.”

Arrick scowled and advanced on the boy. Rojer shrank back, but the circle was small, and there was nowhere to go. Outside the circle, demons paced hungrily.

“Gimme that!” Arrick shouted angrily, grabbing at Rojer’s hands.

“It’s mine!” Rojer cried. They struggled for a moment, but Arrick was larger and stronger, and had two full hands. He snatched the talisman away at last and threw it into the fire.

“No!” Rojer shouted, diving toward the flames, but it was too late. The red hair ignited immediately, and before he could find a twig to fish the talisman out, the wood caught. Rojer knelt in the dirt and watched it burn, dumbfounded. His hands began to shake.

Arrick ignored him, stumbling up to a wood demon that was hunched at the circle’s edge, clawing at the wards. “It’s your fault thish happened t’me!” he screamed. “Your fault I wash shaddled with an ungrateful boy and lost my commishon! Yoursh!”

The coreling shrieked at him, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. Arrick roared right back, smashing his wineskin over the creature’s head. The skin burst, spraying them both with blood-red wine and tanned leather.

“My wine!” Arrick cried, realizing suddenly what he had done. He moved to cross the wards as if he could in some way undo the damage.

“Master, no!” Rojer cried. He dove into a tumble, reaching up with his good hand to grab Arrick’s ratty ponytail as he kicked at the backs of his master’s knees. Arrick was yanked back away from the wards and landed heavily atop his apprentice.

“Get’cher handsh offa me!” Arrick cried, not realizing that Rojer had just saved his life. He gripped the boy’s shirt as he lurched to his feet, shoving him right out of the circle.

Coreling and human alike froze in that moment. Awareness dawned on Arrick’s face even as a wood demon shrieked in triumph and tamped down, launching itself at the boy.

Rojer screamed and fell back, having no hope of getting back across the wards in time. He brought up his hands in a feeble attempt to fend the creature off, but before the coreling struck, there was a cry, and Arrick tackled the demon, knocking it away.

“Get back to the circle!” Arrick cried. The demon roared and struck back hard, launching the Jongleur through the air. He bounced as he hit the ground, a flailing limb snagging the rope of the portable circle and pulling the plates out of alignment.

All around the clearing, other corelings began to race to the breach. They were both going to die, Rojer realized. The first demon made to charge at him again, but again Arrick grabbed at it, turning it aside.

“Your fiddle!” he cried. “You can drive them back!” As the words left his lips, though, the coreling’s talons dug deep into his chest, and he spit a thick bubble of blood.

“Master!” Rojer screamed. He glanced at his fiddle doubtfully.

“Save yourself!” Arrick gasped just before the demon tore out his throat.

By the time dawn banished the demons back to the Core, the fingers of Rojer’s good hand were cut and bleeding. It was only with great effort that he straightened them and released the fiddle.

He had played through the long night, cowering in the darkness as the fire died, sending discordant notes into the air to keep at bay the corelings he knew were waiting in the black.

There had been no beauty, no melody to fall into as he played, just screeches and dissonance; nothing to turn his thoughts from the horror around him. But now, looking at the scattered bits of flesh and bloody cloth that were all that remained of his master, a new horror struck, and he fell to his knees, retching.

After a time, his heaving eased, and he stared at his cramped and bloody hands, willing them to stop shaking. He felt flushed and hot, but his face was cold in the morning air, drained of blood. His stomach continued to roil, but there was nothing left in it to expel. He wiped his mouth with a motley sleeve and forced himself to rise.

He tried to collect enough of Arrick to bury, but there was little to be found. A clump of hair. A boot, torn open to get at the meat within. Blood. Corelings disdained neither bone nor offal, and they had fed in a frenzy.

The Tenders taught that corelings ate their victims body and soul, but Arrick had always said Holy Men were bigger liars than Jongleurs, and his master could spin a whopper. Rojer thought of his talisman, and the feeling of his mother’s spirit it brought. How could he feel her if her soul had been consumed?

He looked to the cold ashes of the fire. The little doll was there, blackened and split, but it crumbled away in his hands. Not far away, lying in the dirt, were the remains of Arrick’s ponytail. Rojer took the hair, more gray than gold now, and put it in his pocket.

He would make a new talisman.

Woodsend came into sight well before dusk, much to Rojer’s relief. He didn’t think he had the strength to last another night outside.

He had thought of turning back to Cricket Run and begging passage with a Messenger back to Angiers, but it would have meant explaining what happened, and Rojer wasn’t ready for that. Besides, what was there for him in Angiers? Without a license, he couldn’t perform, and Arrick had made enemies of any that might have completed his apprenticeship. Better to keep on to the ends of the world, where no one would know him and the guild could not reach.

Like Cricket Run, Woodsend was filled with good, solid folk who welcomed a Jongleur with open arms, too pleased to question the fortune that had brought an entertainer to their town.

Rojer accepted their hospitality with gratitude. He felt a fraud, claiming to be a Jongleur when he was only an unlicensed apprentice, but he doubted the Enders would care much if they knew. Would they refuse to dance to his fiddle, or laugh less at his mummery?

But Rojer didn’t dare touch the colored balls in the bag of marvels, and begged off from song. He flipped instead, tumbling and hand walking, using everything in his repertoire to hide his inadequacies.

The Enders didn’t press him, and that was enough for now.