Brayan's Gold

by Peter V. Brett

  He gestured down the trail where Curk had ridden. “Get on your horse and go. You can even take that stick in your hand for insurance.”

  But Arlen made no move to get off the cart. “Who told you we were coming? Was it Sandar? If I find his leg ent really broken, I’ll break it for him.”

  “Don’t matter who told us,” the bandit said. “No one’s going to think you didn’t do your duty. You done Messengers proud, but you ent gonna win this. What do you care, if Count Brayan sees a dip in his ledgers? He can afford it.”

  “Don’t care about Count Brayan,” Arlen admitted. “But I care about my promises, and I promised to get this cart and everything on it to his mines.”

  The men spread out, three picks and a bowman at either end of the road. “That ent gonna happen,” the bandit leader said. “You try to move that cart, we shoot your horse.”

  Arlen glanced at the bowmen. “Shoot my horse and it’ll be the last thing you ever do,” he promised.

  The bandit sighed. “So where does that get us, ’cept half hour closer to dark?”

  “How close are you willing to get?” Arlen asked. He rapped his gauntlet against his scratched breastplate. “I’ll stand here in my ‘pretty warded armor’ right until the rising.”

  He looked out over the bandits, all of them on foot and none carrying so much as a pack. “You, I expect, need to get on back to succor at Brayan’s Wardpost before dark. That’s why you told Curk to keep on riding, and it’s at least five hours walk back the way we came. Wait too long, and you won’t make it in time. Is it worth it to get cored over a few boxes of thundersticks when you have families to feed?”

  “All right, we tried to do it easy,” the bandit leader said. “Fed, shoot him.” Arlen ducked under his shield, but there was no immediate impact.

  “You said no names, Sandar!” the crank bowman cried.

  “Ent gonna matter, you idiot, once you put a bolt through this head,” Sandar snapped.

  Arlen started. Of course. He had never met Sandar, but it made perfect sense. He shifted his shield so he could see the bandit. “You faked the break so you could ride out a day early and ambush your own shipment.”

  Sandar shrugged. “Ent like you’re gonna live to tell anyone.”

  But still there was no shot from above. Arlen dared to peek over his shield. Fed’s hands shook, his aim veering wildly, and finally he put up the weapon.

  “Corespawn it, Fed!” Sandar shouted. “Shoot!”

  “Suck a demon’s teat!” Fed shouted back. “I didn’t come out here to shoot some boy. My son’s older’n him.”

  “Boy had his chance to walk away,” Sandar said. Some of the others grunted in agreement, including the man Arlen had kicked.

  “Don’t care,” Fed called. “‘No one gets hurt’, you said. ‘Just a dip in some Royal’s ledger.’” He pulled the bolt from his bow and slung the weapon over his shoulder, picking up the spare as well. “I’m done.” He moved to pick his way down the outcropping.

  One of the other bowmen eased his draw as well. “Fed’s right. I’m sick of eatin’ gruel as anyone, but I ent lookin’ to kill over it.”

  Arlen looked for the last bowman’s reaction, but the man only sighted and fired.

  He got his shield up in time, but it was a heavy bow, and the shield was only a thin sheet of hammered steel riveted onto wood, meant more to defend against corelings and nightwolves than arrows. The arrowhead made it through before the shaft caught fast, puncturing the side of Arlen’s cheek. He stumbled back and almost lost his balance, squeezing the thunderstick so hard he was afraid it would go off in his hand. Everyone tensed.

  But Arlen caught himself and straightened, turning to reveal the match clutched in his shield hand. He struck it with his thumb, and it lit with a pop.

  “I’m going to light the fuse before the match burns my finger,” he said, waving the thunderstick, “and then I’m going to throw it at anyone still in my sight.”

  A couple of men turned and ran outright. Sandar’s eyes narrowed, but at last he lifted his kerchief to spit, and whistled for the rest to follow him as he headed down the road.

  The match did end up burning Arlen’s hand, but he never needed to light the fuse. A few minutes later he was back on his way up the mountain. Dawn Runner was not pleased about pulling the entire load, but it could not be helped. He didn’t think the bandits would be able to follow him on foot, but he kept the thunderstick and his drybox close to hand, just in case. It was nearing dark when he made it to the next wardpost.

  Sandar was waiting.

  The Messenger had shed his miner’s disguise, clad now in battered steel mail and carrying a heavy spear and shield. He sat atop a powerful destrier, much larger than a sleek courser like Dawn Runner. With a horse like that, and no cart to slow him or limit his path, it wasn’t surprising that he had gotten ahead of Arlen.

  “Had to be a goody, dincha?” Sandar asked. “Couldn’t leave it alone. Guild is insured. You’re insured. You could’ve ridden off with Curk. The only loser would have been Count Brayan, and that bastard’s got gold comin’ out his arse.”

  Arlen just looked at him.

  “But now,” Sandar raised his spear. “Now I have to kill you. Can’t trust you to keep your mouth shut otherwise.”

  “Any reason I should?” Arlen asked. “I don’t take kindly to having bows aimed at me.” He picked up the thunderstick sitting next to him in the driver’s seat.

  Sandar moved his horse closer. “Do it,” he dared. “Blast this close’ll set off every crate. Kill us both, and the horses besides. Either way, them sticks ent getting to Brayan’s Gold.”

  Arlen looked him hard in the eyes, knowing he was right. Whatever Curk might think, he wasn’t crazy, and didn’t want to die today.

  “Then get off your horse,” Arlen said. “Fight me fair, and our spears can decide which of us walks away.”

  “Ent no one can say you ent got stones, boy,” Sandar laughed. “If you want me to hand you a proper beating before I kill you, I’ll oblige.” He rode into the clearing by the wardpost, dismounting and staking down his horse. Arlen followed and set the thunderstick down, taking up his spear and shield before hopping down from the cart.

  He set his feet apart in a comfortable stance, his shield and spear ready. He had practiced spearfighting with Cob and Ragen for countless hours, but this was real. This time, it would end in blood.

  Like most Messengers, Sandar was built more like a bear than a man. His arms and shoulders were thick, with a barrel chest and a heavy gut. He held his weapons like they were a part of him, and his eyes had the dead, predatory stare of One Arm. Arlen knew he would not hesitate on the killing stroke.

  They began to circle in opposite directions, eyes searching for an opening. Sandar made an exploratory thrust of his spear, but Arlen batted it aside easily and returned quickly to guard, refusing to be baited. He returned a measured thrust of his own. As expected, Sandar’s shield snapped up to intercept.

  Again Sandar attacked, this time more forcefully, but the moves were all simple spear forms. Arlen knew all the counters and picked them by rote, waiting for the real attack, the one that would come as a surprise when he thought he was countering something else.

  But that attack never came. Sandar was powerfully built and had murder in his eyes, but fought like a novice. After several minutes of dancing around the wardpost, Arlen tired of the game and stepped into the next predictable attack. He ducked, hooking Sandar’s shield with his own and raising both to cover himself as he stomped on the side of the Messenger’s knee.

  There was a sharp snap that echoed in the crisp air, like the branch of a winter-stripped tree breaking off in the wind. Sandar screamed and collapsed to the ground.

  “Son of the Core! You broke my ripping leg!” he howled.

  “Promised I would,” Arlen said.

  “I’ll kill you!” Sandar shrieked, writhing on the ground in agony.

  Arlen took a step back and rai
sed his visor. “I don’t think so. Fight’s over, Sandar. Sooner you realize that, the sooner I can come set that leg for you.”

  Sandar glared at him, but after a moment, he threw his spear and shield out of reach. Arlen put down his own weapons and took Sandar’s spear. He braced it against the ground and snapped it with a sharp kick of his steel-shod heel. He laid the two halves on the ground by Sandar and knelt to examine the leg.

  As he did, Sandar threw a fistful of loose dirt right in his eyes.

  Arlen gave a yell and stumbled back, but Sandar was on him in an instant, knocking him to the ground. Flat on his back in heavy steel armor with another man atop him, Arlen had no way to rise.

  “Ripping kill you!” he screamed, hammering Arlen about the head with heavy gauntleted fists. Rather than crippling him, the pain in his leg seemed to give him a mad strength like a cornered nightwolf.

  Arlen’s head felt like the clapper from a bell, and it was impossible to think clearly. Half-blind from the grit, he felt more than saw the long knife that suddenly appeared in one of Sandar’s fists. The first thrust skittered across his breastplate, and the next bit into the interlocking rings at his shoulder joint.

  Arlen threw his head back and howled. The armor turned the edge, but the pain was incredible, and he knew his shoulder would ache for days.

  That was, assuming he lived through the next few minutes.

  Sandar gave up trying to pierce the armor and stabbed the knife at Arlen’s throat. Arlen caught his wrist, and they struggled silently for the next few moments. Arlen strained every muscle he had, but Sandar had weight and leverage in addition to his mad strength. The blade drew ever closer to the thin but vulnerable seam between Arlen’s neckplate and helmet.

  “Almost there,” Sandar whispered.

  “Not quite,” Arlen grunted, punching a mailed fist into Sandar’s broken knee. The Messenger screamed and recoiled in agony, and Arlen punched him full in the jaw, rolling as the man fell and reversing the pin. He pinned the knife arm with his knee, and landed several more heavy blows before the weapon fell from Sandar’s limp hand.

  Well after dark, Arlen sat by the edge of the wardnet, watching One Arm and holding the thunderstick thoughtfully. In his other hand, he held the white-tipped match. His fingers itched to light it, and his other arm tensed, ready to throw. He pictured One Arm catching the stick in its jaws, and the explosion blowing the demon’s head apart. Pictured its headless body lying on the ground, oozing ichor.

  But he kept hearing Curk’s voice in his head. Them sticks ent ours, boy. Curk might have been a coward in the end, but he was right about that. Arlen was no thief. He glanced at Sandar, surprised to find the man awake and staring at him.

  “Know what you’re thinking,” Sandar said, “but there’s a lot of loose rock up mountain. Thunderstick’s more likely to cause a landslide than kill that demon.”

  “You don’t know what I’m thinking,” Arlen said.

  Sandar grunted. “Honest word,” he agreed. “Been trying to figure out why you splinted my leg and put a cold cloth on my head when I’d’ve killed you dead and tossed you off a cliff.”

  “Don’t want you dead,” Arlen said. “You can still sit a horse with that splint. You go back peaceful, and I’ll tell Malcum just enough so your license is all you lose.”

  Sandar barked a laugh. “Ent Malcum I’m worried about, it’s Count Brayan. He gets wind I tried to rob him, and my head’ll be on a pike before the sun sets.”

  “If the shipment gets through, I’ll see to it you keep your head,” Arlen said.

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t trust that,” Sandar said.

  Arlen shrugged. “Try and kill me again tonight if you’re up to it, but I warn you, I’m a light sleeper. Cross me again and I’ll break enough bones so you never sit a horse again, then drag you up to Brayan’s Gold with me to look the people you tried to rob in the eye.”

  Sandar nodded. “Sleep easy, I’ll go back peaceful. Curk was right. You got a death wish, boy. Seen it before. Odds are you won’t live long enough to tell anyone anything.”

  Arlen had already broken camp by the time the demons sank back down into the Core in the pre-dawn light. He and Sandar left the wardstone and parted ways as the sun crested the mountainside.

  The temperature grew colder as he ascended the winding mountain path. Spring was on in full on the Milnese plain, but here patches of snow were still visible, and his armor no longer seemed so warm with the wind chilling the steel. He began walking for long periods each day, as much to keep his blood flowing as to take some of the load off Dawn Runner, valiantly doing the work of two horses. They moved slower as a result, but there were still hours left before dark when Arlen reached the next of Brayan’s great wardposts. He kept on, and camped at dusk behind his own circles. The following day he came upon the next post early, and the fourth right at dusk, making camp in its shelter.

  The trail grew steeper, trees turning stunted and vegetation sparse amidst the rock and snow. The trail meandered, the never-ending wagon ruts skirting for miles around obstacles that had been too great for the trailblazers to cut or dig through. But still they climbed, and the weather grew colder. The ruts became indentations in the snow, and the trees vanished entirely.

  He ceased trying to pass Brayan’s wardposts, so tired by day’s end that he was glad of their protection, though he often had to sweep the snow from them to restore full potency.

  On his seventh day out from Miln, Arlen spotted the waystation Malcum had promised, far up the slope. It was a small structure, barely a hut, but after days of freezing cold, biting wind, and loneliness, Arlen was more than ready for a night indoors with someone to talk to.

  “Ay, the station!” he cried, his call echoing off the stone facing above.

  “Ay, Messenger!” a call came echoing back a moment later.

  It was still the better part of an hour before Arlen reached the station, built into the side of the mountain. The warding on the building wasn’t elegant, but it was thorough, and contained many wards Arlen was not familiar with. He took out his journal to quickly sketch them.

  The station keeper, a yellow-bearded man wrapped in a heavy jacket lined with nightwolf pelt and bearing Count Brayan’s arms came out to greet him. He was young, perhaps twenty winters, and carried no weapon. He strode right up to Arlen, extending a gloved hand to shake.

  “You’re not Sandar,” he said, smiling.

  “Sandar broke his leg,” Arlen said.

  “There’s a Creator, after all,” the man laughed. “I’m Derek of the Goldmen.”

  “Arlen Bales of Tibbet’s Brook,” Arlen replied, gripping the hand firmly.

  “So you know what it’s like to live at the end of the world,” Derek said. “I want to hear all about it.” He clapped Arlen’s shoulder. “Coffee’s hot inside, if you want to go warm up. I’ll stable your horse and stow the cart.” It was only midday, but there was no question that Arlen would stay the night. Derek seemed as desperate for someone to talk to as Arlen.

  “I’m warm enough to see the cargo stowed.” Arlen said, though his feet and hands ached from the cold, and he could no longer feel his face. After what happened with Sandar, he didn’t intend to let the crates of thundersticks out of his sight until they were under lock and key.

  Derek shrugged. “You’re free to suffer as you like.” He took Dawn Runner’s bridle and led the way to a pair of wooden barn doors embedded in the rock face of the mountain.

  “Quickly, now,” Derek said, as he grasped the great iron ring hanging from one of the doors, “don’t want to

  let the heat escape.” He opened the door just enough to admit the cart, and Arlen quickly led Dawn Runner through. There was a moment of sweet warmth, but then an icy wind roared in through the door as Derek was pulling it shut behind them, stealing the comfort.

  Shivering, Arlen found himself in a small chamber, walled at the far end with a curtain of thick, ragged furs. Oil lamps flickered on either w
all.

  Derek took a lamp and drew the curtain aside to allow them passage. Arlen gaped. The entryway was just an alcove at the far end of a vast chamber, cut deep into the mountainside. It was filled with pens to handle teams of animals, granaries for their feed, and stowing area for a dozen carts. It was mostly empty now, but Arlen could well imagine the bustle and energy that ran through this great room when a caravan was passing though.

  By the time the cart and horse were stowed, Arlen was sweating in his armor again. He looked about the great chamber, but there was no sign of a furnace vent or fire.

  “Why’s it so warm in here?” he asked.

  Derek led him to the stone wall and knelt, pointing to a swirling pattern of wards painted at about knee height along the wall in either direction.

  Arlen studied the pattern. It wasn’t complex, but it was brilliant. “Heat wards. So the corelings attack the station doors outside…”

  “And their magic gets leeched in here to warm the walls,” Derek finished. “Some nights it gets hot as firespit, though. Almost rather be cold.” Arlen, stifling in his armor, understood completely.

  They took a side door out of the chamber and into the station itself. The ceiling, walls, and floor were the living stone of the mountain, cut into long halls, doorways and chambers. Heat wards ran along the base of the walls here, too.

  “Didn’t realize the station went back so far into the mountain,” Arlen said.

  “Nowhere else to go without blocking the road, and that’s narrow enough,” Derek said. “That pine lodge is just the front porch. Come on, I’ll show you your chamber.”

  “Thanks,” Arlen said. “If I don’t get out of this ripping armor soon, I’m going to melt. Been sleeping in it a week now.”

  “Smells like it,” Derek said. “You can have the royal chamber, seeing as how there’s no one else here to take it. There’s a tub.”

  The royal chamber was meant to allow Count Brayan and his heirs the luxury they were accustomed to when they went to inspect the mines. The chamber was very fine, filled with oak furniture, fur rugs, and heat warded stones. Most importantly, there was a proper bed, with a feathered mattress.