The Warded Man

Benn produced a small glass flask. “It’s thin, like you asked,” he said. “Fragile.”

The Warded Man nodded. “How many did you and your apprentices have time to make?” he asked.

“Three dozen,” Benn said. “May I ask what they’re for?”

The Warded Man shook his head. “You’ll see soon enough,” he said. “Bring them, and find me some rags.”

Rojer approached him next. “I’ve seen Leesha’s spear,” he said. “I’ve come for mine.”

The Warded Man shook his head. “You’re not fighting,” he said. “You’re staying inside with the sick.”

Rojer stared at him. “But you told Leesha …”

“To give you a spear is to rob you of your strength,” the Warded Man cut him off. “Your music would be lost out in the din outside, but inside, it’ll prove more potent than a dozen spears. If the corelings break through, I’m counting on you to hold them back until I arrive.”

Rojer scowled, but he nodded, and headed into the Holy House.

Others were already waiting for his attention. The Warded Man listened to reports on their progress, assigning further tasks that were leapt to immediately. The villagers moved with hunched quickness, like hares ready to flee at any moment.

No sooner than he had sent them off, Stefny came storming up to him, a group of angry women at her back. “What’s this about sending us up to Bruna’s hut?” the woman demanded.

“The wards there are strong,” the Warded Man said. “There is no room for you in the Holy House or Leesha’s family home.”

“We don’t care about that,” Stefny said. “We’re going to fight.”

The Warded Man looked at her. Stefny was a tiny woman, barely five feet, and thin as a reed. She was well into her fifties; her skin was thin and rough, like worn leather. Even the smallest wood demon would tower over her.

But the look in her eyes told him it didn’t matter. She was going to fight no matter what he said. The Krasians might not allow women to fight, but that was their failing. He would not deny any who were willing to stand in the night. He took a spear off his cart and handed it to her. “We’ll find you a place,” he promised.

Expecting an argument, Stefny was taken aback, but she took the weapon, nodding once and moving away. The other women came in turn, and he handed a spear to each.

The men came at once, seeing the Warded Man handing out weapons. The cutters took their own axes back, looking at the freshly painted wards dubiously. No axe blow had ever penetrated a wood demon’s armor.

“Won’t need this,” Gared said, handing back the Warded Man’s spear. “I ent one for spinning a stick around, but I know how to swing my axe.”

One of the cutters brought a girl to him, perhaps thirteen summers old. “My name’s Flinn, sir,” the cutter said. “My daughter Wonda hunts with me sometimes. I won’t have her out in the naked night, but if ya let her have a bow behind the wards, you’ll find her aim is true.”

The Warded Man looked at the girl. Tall and homely, she had taken after her father in size and strength. He went to Twilight Dancer and pulled down his own yew bow and heavy arrows. “I won’t need these tonight,” he said to her, and pointed to a high window at the apex of the Holy House’s roof. “See if you can pry loose enough boards to shoot from there,” he advised.

Wonda took the bow and ran off. Her father bowed and backed away.

Tender Jona limped out to meet him next.

“You should be inside, and off that leg,” the Warded Man said, never comfortable around Holy Men. “If you can’t carry a load or dig a trench, you’re only in the way out here.”

Tender Jona nodded. “I only wanted to have a look at the defenses,” he said.

“They should hold,” the Warded Man said with more confidence than he felt.

“They will,” Jona said. “The Creator would not leave those in His house without succor. That’s why He sent you.”

“I’m not the Deliverer, Tender,” the Warded Man said, scowling. “No one sent me, and nothing about tonight is assured.”

Jona smiled indulgently, the way an adult might at the ignorance of a child. “It’s coincidence, then, that you showed up in our moment of need?” he asked. “It’s not for me to say if you are the Deliverer or not, but you are here, just like every one of us, because the Creator put you here, and He has reason for everything He does.”

“He had a reason for fluxing half your village?” the Warded Man asked.

“I don’t pretend to see the path,” Jona said calmly, “but I know it’s there all the same. One day, we’ll look back and wonder how we ever missed it.”

Darsy was squatting wearily by Vika’s side, trying to cool her feverish brow with a damp cloth, when Leesha entered the Holy House.

Leesha went straight to them, taking the cloth from Darsy. “Get some sleep,” she said, seeing the deep weariness in the woman’s eyes. “The sun will set soon, and we’ll all need our strength then. Go. Rest while you still can.”

Darsy shook her head. “I’ll rest when I’m cored,” she said. “Till then I’ll work.”

Leesha considered her a moment, then nodded. She reached into her apron and pulled out a dark, gummy substance wrapped in waxed paper. “Chew this,” she said. “You’ll feel cored tomorrow, but it will keep you alert through the night.”

Darsy nodded, taking the gum and popping it into her mouth while Leesha bent to examine Vika. She took a skin from around her shoulder, pulling the stopper. “Help her sit up a bit,” she said, and Darsy complied, lifting Vika so that Leesha could give her the potion. She coughed a bit out, but Darsy massaged her throat, helping her swallow until Leesha was satisfied.

Leesha rose to her feet and scanned the seemingly endless mass of prone bodies. She had triaged and dealt with the worst of the injured before heading out to Bruna’s hut, but there were plenty of hurts still in need of mending, bones to set and wounds to sew, not to mention forcing her potions down dozens of unconscious throats.

Given time, she was confident she could drive the flux off. Perhaps a few had progressed too far, and would remain sickly or pass, but most of her children would recover.

If they made it through the night.

She called the volunteers together, distributing medicine and instructing them on what to expect and do when the wounded from outside began to come.

Rojer watched Leesha and the others work, feeling cowardly as he tuned his fiddle. Inside, he knew the Warded Man was right: that he should work to his strengths, as Arrick had always said. But that did not make hiding behind stone walls while others stood fast feel any braver.

Not long ago, the thought of putting down his fiddle to pick up a tool had been abhorrent, but he had grown tired of hiding while others died for him.

If he lived to tell it, he imagined “The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow” would be a tale that outlived his children’s children. But what of his own part? Playing the fiddle from hiding was a deed hardly worth a line, let alone a verse.