The Warded Man (6 page)

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.

THEY HAD JUST ENOUGH TIME to stow the cart and check the wards before the corelings came. Silvy had little energy for cooking, so they ate a cold meal of bread, cheese, and sausage, chewing with little enthusiasm. The demons came soon after sunset to test the wards, and every time the magic flared to throw them back, Norine cried out. Marea never touched her food. She sat on her pallet with her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, rocking back and forth and whimpering whenever the magic flared. Silvy cleared the plates, but she never returned from the kitchen, and Arlen could hear her crying.

Arlen tried to go to her, but Jeph caught his arm. “Come talk with me, Arlen,” he said.

They went into the small room that housed Arlen’s pallet, his collection of smooth rocks from the brook, and all his feathers and bones. Jeph selected one of these, a brightly colored feather about ten inches long, and fingered it as he spoke, not looking Arlen in the eye.

Arlen knew the signs. When his father wouldn’t look at him, it meant he was uncomfortable with whatever he wanted to talk about.

“What you saw on the road with the Messenger …” Jeph began.

“Ragen explained it to me,” Arlen said. “uncle Cholie was dead already, he just didn’t know it right away. Sometimes people live through an attack, but die anyway.”

Jeph frowned. “Not how I would have put it,” he said. “But true enough, I suppose. Cholie …”

“Was a coward,” Arlen finished.

Jeph looked at him in surprise. “What makes you say that?” he asked.

“He hid in the cellar because he was scared to die, and then killed himself because he was scared to live,” Arlen said. “Better if he had just picked up an axe and died fighting.”

“I don’t want to hear that kind of talk,” Jeph said. “You can’t fight demons, Arlen. No one can. There’s nothing to be gained by getting yourself killed.”

Arlen shook his head. “They’re like bullies,” he said. “They attack us because we’re too scared to fight back. I hit Cobie and the others with that stick, and they didn’t bother me again.”

“Cobie ent a rock demon,” Jeph said. “No stick is going to scare those off.”

“There’s got to be a way,” Arlen said. “People used to do it. All the old stories say so.”

“The stories say there were magic wards to fight with,” Jeph said. “The fighting wards are lost.”

“Ragen says they still fight demons in some places. He says it can be done.”

“I’m going to have a talk with that Messenger,” Jeph grumbled. “He shouldn’t be filling your head with such thoughts.”

“Why not?” Arlen said. “Maybe more people would have survived last night, if all the men had gotten axes and spears …”

“They would be just as dead,” Jeph finished. “There’s other ways to protect yourself and your family, Arlen. Wisdom. Prudence. Humility. It’s not brave to fight a battle you can’t win.

“Who would care for the women and the children if all the men got themselves cored trying to kill what can’t be killed?” he went on. “Who would chop the wood and build the homes? Who would hunt and herd and plant and slaughter? Who would seed the women with children? If all the men die, the corelings win.”

“The corelings are already winning,” Arlen muttered. “You keep saying the town gets smaller each year. Bullies keep coming when you don’t fight back.”

He looked up at his father. “Don’t you feel it? Don’t you want to fight sometimes?”

“Of course I do, Arlen,” Jeph said. “But not for no reason. When it matters, when it
really
matters, all men are willing to fight. Animals run when they can, and fight when they must, and people are no different. But that spirit should only come out when needed.

“But if it was you out there with the corelings,” he said, “or your mam, I swear I would fight like mad before I let them get near you. Do you understand the difference?”

Arlen nodded. “I think so.”

“Good man,” Jeph said, squeezing his shoulder.

Arlen’s dreams that night were filled with images of hills that touched the sky, and ponds so big you could put a whole town on the surface. He saw yellow sand stretching as far as his eyes could see, and a walled fortress hidden in the trees.

But he saw it all between a pair of legs that swayed lazily before his eyes. He looked up, and saw his own face turning purple in the noose.

He woke with a start, his pallet damp with sweat. It was still dark, but there was a faint lightening on the horizon, where the indigo sky held a touch of red. He lit a candle stub and pulled on his overalls, stumbling out to the common room. He found a crust to chew on as he took out the egg basket and milk jugs, putting them by the door.

“You’re up early,” said a voice behind him. He turned, startled, to find Norine staring at him. Marea was still on her pallet, though she tossed in her sleep.

“The days don’t get any longer while you sleep,” Arlen said.

Norine nodded. “So my husband used to say,” she agreed. “‘Baleses and Cutters can’t work by candlelight, like the Squares,’ he’d say.”

“I have a lot to do,” Arlen said, peeking through the shutter to see how long he had before he could cross the wards. “The Jongleur is supposed to perform at high sun.”

“Of course,” Norine agreed. “When I was your age, the Jongleur was the most important thing in the world to me, too. I’ll help you with your chores.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Arlen said. “Da says you should rest.”

Norine shook her head. “Rest just makes me think of things best left unthought,” she said. “If I’m to stay with you, I should earn my keep. After chopping wood in the Cluster, how hard could it be to slop pigs and plant corn?”

Arlen shrugged, and handed her the egg basket.

With Norine’s help, the chores went by fast. She was a quick learner, and no stranger to hard work and heavy lifting. By the time the smell of eggs and bacon wafted from the house, the animals were all fed, the eggs collected, and the cows milked.

“Stop squirming on the bench,” Silvy told Arlen as they ate.

“Young Arlen can’t wait to go see the Jongleur,” Norine advised.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Jeph said, and Arlen’s face fell.

“What!” Arlen cried. “But …”

“No buts,” Jeph said. “A lot of work went undone yesterday, and I promised Selia I’d drop by the Cluster in the afternoon to help out.”

Arlen pushed his plate away and stomped into his room.

“Let the boy go,” Norine said when he was gone. “Marea and I will help out here.” Marea looked up at the sound of her name, but went back to playing with her food a moment later.

“Arlen had a hard day, yesterday,” Silvy said. She bit her lip. “We all did. Let the Jongleur put a smile on his face. Surely there’s nothing that can’t wait.”

Jeph nodded after a moment. “Arlen!” he called. When the boy showed his sullen face, he asked, “How much is old Hog charging to see the Jongleur?”

“Nothing,” Arlen said quickly, not wanting to give his father reason to refuse. “On account of how I helped carry stuff from the Messenger’s cart.” It wasn’t exactly true, and there was a good chance Hog would be angry that he forgot to tell people, but maybe if he spread word on the walk over, he could bring enough people for his two credits at the store to get him in.

“Old Hog always acts generous right after the Messenger comes,” Norine said.

“Ought to, after how he’s been fleecing us all winter,” Silvy replied.

“All right, Arlen, you can go,” Jeph said. “Meet me in the Cluster afterwards.”

The walk to Town Square took about two hours if you followed the path. Nothing more than a wagon track of hard-packed dirt that Jeph and a few other locals kept clear, it went well out of the way to the bridge at the shallowest part of the brook. Nimble and quick, Arlen could cut the trip in half by skipping across the slick rocks jutting from the water.

Today, he needed the extra time more than ever, so he could make stops along the way. He raced along the muddy bank at breakneck speed, dodging treacherous roots and scrub with the sure-footed confidence of one who had followed the trail countless times.

He popped back out of the woods as he passed the farmhouses on the way, but there was no one to be found. Everyone was either out in the fields or back at the Cluster helping out.

It was getting close to high sun when he reached Fishing Hole. A few of the Fishers had their boats out on the small pond, but Arlen didn’t see much point in shouting to them. Otherwise, the Hole was deserted, too.

He was feeling glum by the time he got to Town Square. Hog might have seemed nicer than usual yesterday, but Arlen had seen what he was like when someone cost him profit. There was no way he was going to let Arlen see the Jongleur for just two credits. He’d be lucky if the storekeep didn’t take a switch to him.

But when he reached the square, he found over three hundred people gathered from all over the Brook. There were Fishers and Marshes and Boggins and Bales. Not to mention the town locals, Squares, Tailors, Millers, Bakers, and all. None had come from Southwatch, of course. Folk there shunned Jongleurs.

“Arlen, my boy!” Hog called, seeing him approach. “I’ve saved you a spot up front, and you’ll go home tonight with a sack of salt! Well done!”

Arlen looked at him curiously, until he saw Ragen, standing next to Hog. The Messenger winked at him.

“Thank you,” Arlen said, when Hog went off to mark another arrival in his ledger. Dasy and Catrin were selling food and ale for the show.

“People deserve a show,” Ragen said with a shrug. “But not without clearing it with your Tender, it seems.” He pointed to Keerin, who was deep in conversation with Tender Harral.

“Don’t be selling any of that Plague nonsense to my flock!” Harral said, poking Keerin hard in the chest. He was twice the Jongleur’s weight, and none of it fat.

“Nonsense?” Keerin asked, paling. “In Miln, the Tenders will string up any Jongleur that doesn’t tell of the Plague!”

“I don’t care what they do in the Free Cities,” Harral said. “These’re good people, and they have it hard enough without you telling ’em their suffering’s because they ent pious enough!”

“What …?” Arlen began, but Keerin broke off, heading to the center of the square.

“Best find a seat quick,” Ragen advised.

As Hog promised, Arlen got a seat right in front, in the area usually left for the younger children. The others looked on enviously, and Arlen felt very special. It was rare for anyone to envy him.

The Jongleur was tall, like all Milnese, dressed in a patchwork of bright colors that looked like they were stolen from the dyer’s scrap bin. He had a wispy goatee, the same carrot color as his hair, but the mustache never quite met the beard, and the whole thing looked like it might wash off with a good scrubbing. Everyone, especially the women, talked in wonder about his bright hair and green eyes.

As people continued to file in, Keerin paced back and forth, juggling his colored wooden balls and telling jokes, warming to the crowd. When Hog gave the signal, he took his lute and began to play, singing in a strong, high voice. People clapped along to the songs they didn’t know, but whenever he played one that was sung in the Brook, the whole crowd sang along, drowning out the Jongleur and not seeming to care. Arlen didn’t mind; he was singing just as loud as the others.

After the music came acrobatics, and magic tricks. Along the way, Keerin made a few jests about husbands that had the women shrieking with laughter while the men frowned, and a few about wives that had the men slapping their thighs as the women glared.

Finally, the Jongleur paused and held up his hands for silence. There was a murmur from the crowd, and parents nudged their youngest children forward, wanting them to hear. Little Jessi Boggin, who was only five, climbed right into Arlen’s lap for a better view. Arlen had given her family a few pups from one of Jeph’s dogs a few weeks ago, and now she clung to him whenever he was near. He held her as Keerin began the Tale of the Return, his high voice dropping into a deep, booming call that carried far into the crowd.

“The world was not always as you see it,” the Jongleur told the children. “Oh, no. There was a time when humanity lived in balance with the demons. Those early years are called the Age of Ignorance. Does anyone know why?” He looked around the children in front, and several raised their hands.

“Because there wasn’t any wards?” a girl asked, when Keerin pointed to her.

“That’s right!” the Jongleur said, turning a somersault that brought squeals of glee from the children. “The Age of Ignorance was a scary time for us, but there weren’t as many demons then, and they couldn’t kill everyone. Much like today, humans built what they could during the day, and the demons would tear it down each night.

“As we struggled to survive,” Keerin went on, “we adapted, learning how to hide food and animals from the demons, and how to avoid them.” He looked around as if in terror, then ran behind one child, cringing. “We lived in holes in the ground, so they couldn’t find us.”

“Like bunnies?” Jessi asked, laughing.

“Just so!” Keerin called, putting a twitching finger up behind each ear and hopping about, wriggling his nose.

“We lived any way we could,” he went on, “until we discovered writing. From there, it wasn’t long before we had learned that some writing could hold the corelings back. What writing is that?” he asked, cupping an ear.