The Warded Man

by Peter V. Brett

  “Should’ve taken her with us,” the man in the motley cap said. “Gets cold in that miserable cave.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” the black-bearded man said. “We got a horse and a Messenger circle, now. We don’t need to stay in the cave no more, and that’s best. Word in the Stump’s that the duke’s noticin’ them just leaving the town gettin’ hit. We go south first thing come morning, before we’ve got Rhinebeck’s guards on our heels.”

  The men were so busy with their discussion, they didn’t notice the man riding down the road toward them until he was just a dozen yards away. In the waning light, he seemed wraithlike, wrapped in flowing robes and astride a dark horse, moving in the shadow of the trees beside the forest road.

  When they did take note of him, the mirth on their faces fell away, replaced with looks of challenge. The black-bearded man dropped the portable circle to the ground and pulled a heavy cudgel from the horse, advancing on the stranger. He was squat and thickly set, with thinning hair above his long, unkempt beard. Behind him, the mute raised a club the size of a small tree, and the man in the motley cap brandished a spear, the head nicked and burred.

  “This here’s our road,” the black-bearded man explained to the stranger. “We’re fine to share, like, but there’s a tax.”

  In answer, the stranger stepped his horse from the shadows.

  A quiver of heavy arrows hung from his saddle, the bow strung and in easy reach. A spear as long as a lance rested in a harness on the other side, a rounded shield beside it. Strapped behind his seat, several shorter spears jutted, their points glittering wickedly in the setting sun.

  But the stranger reached for no weapon, merely letting his hood slip back a bit. The men’s eyes widened, and their leader backed away, scooping up the portable circle.

  “Might let you pass just the once,” he amended, glancing back at the others. Even the giant had gone pale with fear. They kept their weapons ready, but carefully edged around the giant horse and backed down the road.

  “We’d best not see you on this road again!” the black-bearded man called, when they were a safe distance away.

  The stranger rode on, unconcerned.

  Rojer fought his terror as their voices receded. They had told him they would kill him if he tried to rise again. He reached into his secret pocket to take hold of his talisman, but all he found were some broken bits of wood and a clump of yellow-gray hair. It must have broken when the mute kicked him in the gut. He let the remnants fall from his numb fingers into the mud.

  The sound of Leesha’s sobs cut into him, making him afraid to look up. He had made that mistake before, when the giant had gotten off his back to take his turn with Leesha. One of the others had quickly taken his place, using Rojer’s back as a bench to watch the fun.

  There was little intelligence in the giant’s eyes, but if he lacked the sadism of his companions, his dumb lust was a terror in itself; the urges of an animal in the body of a rock demon. If Rojer could have removed the image of him atop Leesha from his mind by clawing out his eyes, he would not have hesitated.

  He had been a fool, advertising their path and valuables like that. Too much time spent in the Western hamlets had dulled his natural, city-bred distrust of strangers.

  Marko Rover wouldn’t have trusted them, he thought.

  But that wasn’t entirely true. Marko was forever getting tricked or clubbed on the head and left for dead. He survived by keeping his wits afterward.

  He survives because it’s a story and you control the ending, Rojer reminded himself.

  But the image of Marko Rover picking himself up and dusting himself off stuck with him, and eventually, Rojer gathered his strength and his nerve, forcing himself to his knees. Pain shot through him, but he did not think they had broken any bones. His left eye was so swollen he could barely see out of it, and he tasted blood in his mouth from his thickened lip. He was covered in bruises, but Abrum had done worse.

  But there were no guardsmen, this time, to haul him to safety. No mother or master to put themselves in a demon’s path.

  Leesha whimpered again, and guilt shook him. He had fought to save her honor, but they had been three, all armed and stronger than him. What could he have done?

  I wish they’d killed me, he thought to himself, slumping. Better dead than to have seen …

  Coward, a voice in the back of his head snarled. Get up. She needs you.

  Rojer staggered to his feet, looking around. Leesha was curled up in the dirt of the forest road, sobbing, without even the strength to cover her shame. There was no sign of the bandits.

  Of course, it hardly mattered. They had taken his portable circle, and without it he and Leesha were as good as dead. Farmer’s Stump was almost a full day behind them, and there was nothing ahead on the road for several days’ walk. It would be dark in little more than an hour.

  Rojer ran to Leesha’s side, falling to his knees beside her. “Leesha, are you all right?” he asked, cursing himself for the crack in his voice. She needed him to be strong.

  “Leesha, please answer me,” he begged, squeezing her shoulder.

  Leesha ignored him, curled up tight, shaking as she wept. Rojer stroked her back and whispered comfort to her, subtly tugging her dress back down. Whatever place her mind had retreated to in order to withstand the ordeal, she was reluctant to leave it. He tried to hold her in his arms, but she shoved him violently away, curling right back up, wracked with tears.

  Leaving her side, Rojer picked through the dirt, gathering what few things had been left them. The bandits had dug through their bags, taking what they wanted and tossing the rest, mocking and destroying their personal effects. Leesha’s clothing lay scattered in the road, and Rojer found Arrick’s brightly colored bag of marvels trampled in the muck. Much of what it had contained was taken or smashed. The painted wooden juggling balls were stuck in the mud, but Rojer left them where they lay.

  Off the road where the mute had kicked it, he spied his fiddle case, and dared to hope they might survive. He rushed over to find the case broken open. The fiddle itself was salvageable with a little tuning and some new strings, but the bow was nowhere to be found.

  Rojer looked as long as he dared, throwing leaves and underbrush in every direction with mounting panic, but to no avail. It was gone. He put the fiddle back in its case and spread out one of Leesha’s long skirts, bundling the few salvageable items within.

  A strong breeze broke the stillness, rustling the leaves of the trees. Rojer looked up at the setting sun, and realized suddenly, in a way he had not before, that they were going to die. What did it matter if he had a bowless fiddle and some clothes with him when it happened?

  He shook his head. They weren’t dead yet, and it was possible to avoid corelings for a night, if you kept your wits. He squeezed his fiddle case reassuringly. If they lived through the night, he could cut off a lock of Leesha’s hair and make a new bow. The corelings couldn’t hurt them if he had his fiddle.

  To either side of the road, the woods loomed dark and dangerous, but Rojer knew corelings hunted men above all other creatures. They would stalk the road. The woods were their best hope to find a hiding place, or a secluded spot to prepare a circle.

  How? that hated voice asked again. You never bothered to learn.

  He moved back to Leesha, kneeling gently by her side. She was still shuddering, crying silently. “Leesha,” he said quietly, “we need to get off the road.”

  She ignored him.

  “Leesha, we need to find a place to hide.” He shook her. Still no response. “Leesha, the sun is setting!”

  The sobbing stopped, and Leesha raised wide, frightened eyes. She looked at his concerned, bruised face, and her face screwed up as her crying resumed.

  But Rojer knew he had touched her for a moment, and refused to let that go. He could think of few things worse than what had happened to her, but getting torn apart by corelings was one of them. He gripped her shoulders and shook her violently.

&
nbsp; “Leesha, you need to get ahold of yourself!” he shouted. “If we don’t find a place to hide soon, the sun is going to find us scattered all over the road!”

  It was a graphic image, intentionally so, and it had the desired effect as Leesha came up for air, gasping but no longer crying. Rojer dried her tears with his sleeve.

  “What are we going to do?” Leesha squeaked, gripping his arms painfully tight.

  Again, Rojer called upon the image of Marko Rover, and this time it came readily. “First, we’re going to get off the road,” he said, sounding confident when he was not. Sounding as if he had a plan when he did not. Leesha nodded, and let him help her stand. She winced in pain, and it cut right through him.

  With Rojer supporting Leesha, they stumbled off the road and into the woods. The remaining light dropped dramatically under the forest canopy, and the ground crackled beneath their feet with twigs and dry leaves. The place smelled sickly sweet with rotting vegetation. Rojer hated the woods.

  He scoured his mind for the tales of people who had survived the naked night, sifting for words with a ring of truth, searching for something, anything, that could help them.

  Caves were best, the tales all agreed. Corelings preferred to hunt in the open, and a cave with even simple wards across the front was safer than attempting to hide. Rojer could recall at least three consecutive wards from his circle. Perhaps enough to ward a cave mouth.

  But Rojer knew of no caves nearby, and had no idea what to look for. He cast about helplessly, and caught the sound of running water. Immediately, he pulled Leesha in that direction. Corelings tracked by sight, sound, and smell. Barring true succor, the best way to avoid them was to mask those things. Perhaps they could dig into the mud on the water’s bank.

  But when he found the source of the sound, it was only a trickling stream with no bank to speak of. Rojer grabbed a smooth rock from the water and threw it, growling in frustration.

  He turned back to find Leesha squatting in the ankle-deep water, weeping again as she scooped up handfuls and splashed herself. Her face. Her breasts. Between her legs.

  “Leesha, we have to go …” he said, reaching out to take her arm, but she shrieked and pulled away, bending for more water.

  “Leesha, we don’t have time for this!” he screamed, grabbing her and yanking her to her feet. He dragged her back into the woods, having no idea what he was looking for.

  Finally he gave up, spotting a small clearing. There was nowhere to hide, so their only hope was to ward a circle. He let Leesha go and moved quickly into the clearing, brushing away a bed of rotting leaves to find the soft, moist dirt beneath.

  Leesha’s blurry eyes slowly came into focus as she watched Rojer scraping leaves from the forest floor. She leaned heavily on a tree, her legs still weak.

  Only minutes ago, she had thought that she would never recover from her ordeal, but the corelings about to rise were too immediate a threat, and she found, almost gratefully, that they kept her mind from replaying her assault again and again, as it had been since the men had taken their spoils and left.

  Her pale cheeks were smudged with dirt and streaked with tears. She tried to smooth her torn dress, to regain some sense of dignity, but the ache between her legs was a constant reminder that her dignity was scarred forever.

  “It’s almost dark!” she moaned. “What are we going to do?”

  “I’ll draw a circle in the dirt,” Rojer said. “It will be all right. I’ll make everything all right,” he promised.

  “Do you even know how?” she asked.

  “Sure … I guess,” Rojer said unconvincingly. “I had that portable one for years. I can remember the symbols.” He picked up a stick, and started to scratch lines in the dirt, glancing up to the darkening sky again and again as he worked.

  He was being brave for her. Leesha looked at Rojer, and felt a stab of guilt for getting him into this. He claimed to be twenty, but she knew that for a lie with years to spare. She should never have brought him along on such a dangerous journey.

  He looked much like he had the first time she had seen him, his face puffy and bruised, blood oozing from his nose and mouth. He wiped at it with his sleeve and pretended it did not affect him. Leesha saw through the act easily, knew he was as frantic as she, but his effort was comforting, nonetheless.

  “I don’t think you’re doing that right,” she said, looking over his shoulder.

  “It’ll be fine,” Rojer snapped.

  “I’m sure the corelings will love it,” she shot back, annoyed by his dismissive tone, “since it won’t hinder them in the least.” She looked around. “We could climb a tree,” she suggested.

  “Corelings can climb better than we can,” Rojer said.

  “What about finding someplace to hide?” she asked.

  “We looked as long as we could,” Rojer said. “We barely have time to make this circle, but it should keep us safe.”

  “I doubt it,” Leesha said, looking at the shaky lines in the dirt.

  “If only I had my fiddle …” Rojer began.

  “Not that pile of dung again,” Leesha snapped, sharp irritation rising to drive back humiliation and fear. “It’s one thing to brag to the apprentices in the light of day that you can charm demons with your fiddle, but what do you gain in carrying a lie to your grave?”

  “I’m not lying!” Rojer insisted.

  “Have it your way,” Leesha sighed, crossing her arms.

  “It will be all right,” Rojer said again.

  “Creator, can’t you stop lying, even for a moment?” Leesha cried. “It’s not going to be all right and you know it. Corelings aren’t bandits, Rojer. They won’t be satisfied with just …” She looked down at her torn skirts, and her voice trailed off.

  Rojer’s face screwed up in pain, and Leesha knew she had been too harsh. She wanted to lash out at something, and it was easy to blame Rojer and his inflated promises for what happened. But in her heart, she knew it was more her fault than his. He left Angiers for her.

  She looked at the darkening sky and wondered if she would have time to apologize before they were torn to pieces.

  Movement in the trees and scrub behind them sent them both whirling around in fear. A man, swathed in gray robes, stepped into the clearing. His face was hidden in the shadows of his hood, and though he carried no weapons, Leesha could tell from his bearing that he was dangerous. If Marick was a wolf, this man was a lion.

  She steeled herself, ravishment fresh in her mind, and honestly wondered for a moment which would be worse: another rape, or the demons.

  Rojer was up in an instant, grabbing her arm and thrusting her behind him. He brandished the stick before him like a spear, his face twisted in a snarl.

  The man ignored them both, moving over to inspect Rojer’s circle. “You have holes in your net there, there, and there,” he said, pointing, “and this,” he kicked the dirt by one crude symbol, “this isn’t even a ward.”

  “Can you fix it?” Leesha asked hopefully, pulling free from Rojer’s grasp and moving toward the man.

  “Leesha, no,” Rojer whispered urgently, but she ignored him.

  The man didn’t even glance her way. “There’s no time,” he replied, pointing to the corelings already beginning to rise at the edge of the clearing.

  “Oh, no,” Leesha whimpered, her face draining of color.

  The first to solidify was a wind demon. It hissed at the sight of them and crouched as if to spring, but the man gave it no time. As Leesha watched in amazement, he leapt right at the coreling, grabbing its arms to prevent it from spreading its wings. The demon’s flesh hissed and smoked at his touch.

  The wind demon shrieked and opened its maw, filled with needle-sharp teeth. The man snapped his head back, flipping off his hood, then drove forward, slamming the top of his bald head into the coreling’s snout. There was a flash of energy, and the demon was thrown backward. It struck the ground, stunned. The man stiffened his fingers, driving them into the coreling’
s throat. There was another flash, and black ichor erupted in a spray.

  The man turned sharply, wiping the ichor from his fingers as he strode past Rojer and Leesha. She could see his face now, though there was little human about it. His head was completely shaved, even his eyebrows, and in place of the lost hair were tattoos. They circled his eyes and rested atop his head, lined his ears and covered his cheeks, even running along his jaw and around his lips.

  “My camp is near,” he said, ignoring their stares. “Come with me if you want to see the dawn.”

  “What about the demons?” Leesha asked, as they fell in behind him. As if to accentuate her point, a pair of wood demons, knobby and barklike, rose up to block their path.

  The man pulled off his robe, stripping down to a loincloth, and Leesha saw that the tattoos were not limited to his head. Wards ran along his rippling arms and legs in intricate patterns, with larger ones on his elbows and knees. A circle of protection covered his back, and another large tattoo stood at the center of his muscular chest. Every inch of him was warded.

  “The Warded Man,” Rojer breathed. Leesha found the name dimly familiar.

  “I’ll handle the demons,” the man said. “Take this,” he ordered, handing Leesha his robe.

  He sprinted at the corelings, tumbling into a somersault and uncoiling to strike both demons in the chest with his heels. Magic exploded from the blow, blasting the wood demons from their path.

  The race through the trees was a blur. The Warded Man set a brutal pace, unhindered by the corelings that leapt at them from all sides. A wood demon sprang at Leesha from the trees, but the man was there, driving a warded elbow into its skull with explosive force. A wind demon swooped in to slash its talons at Rojer, but the Warded Man tackled it away, punching right through one of its wings, grounding it.

  Before Rojer could thank him, the Warded Man was off again, picking their path through the trees. Rojer helped Leesha keep up, untangling her skirts when they caught in the brush.