Curk groaned, but he took the purse.
* * * * *
They hitched their horses to Brayan’s cart, but in Messenger style, kept them saddled and packed in addition to the yoke. They might require speed if a wheel cracked close to dusk.
The cart looked like any other, but a hidden steel suspension absorbed the bumps and depressions of the road with nary a jostle to the passengers and cargo, keeping the volatile thundersticks steady. Arlen hung his head over the edge to look at the mechanics as they rode.
“Quit that,” Curk snapped. “Might as well wave a sign we’re carrying thundersticks.”
“Sorry,” Arlen said, straightening. “Just curious.”
Curk grunted. “Royals all ride around town in fancy carts suspended like this. Wouldn’t do for some well-bred Lady to ruffle her silk petticoats over a bump in the road, now would it?”
Arlen nodded and sat back, breathing deeply of the mountain air as he looked over the Milnese plain spread out far below. Even in his heavy armor, he felt lighter as the city walls receded into the distance behind them. Curk, however, grew increasingly agitated, casting suspicious eyes over everyone they passed and stroking the haft of his spear, lying in easy reach.
“There really bandits in these hills?” Arlen asked.
Curk shrugged. “Sometimes mine townies short on one thing or another get desperate, and everyone is short on thundersticks. Just one of the corespawned things can save a week’s labor, and costs more than townies see in a year. Word gets out what we’re carryin’, every miner in the mountains will be tempted to tie a cloth across his nose.”
“Good thing no one knows,” Arlen said, dropping a hand to his own spear.
But despite their sudden doubt, the first day passed without event. Arlen began to relax as they moved past the main roads miners used and headed into less traveled territory. When the sun began to droop low in the sky, they reached a common campsite, a ring of boulders painted with great wards encircling an area big enough to accommodate a caravan. They pulled up and unhitched the cart, hobbling the horses and checking the wards, clearing dirt and debris from the stones and touching up the paint where necessary.
After their wards were secure, Arlen went to one of the firepits and laid kindling. He pulled a match from the drybox in his belt pouch and flicked the white tip with his thumbnail, setting it alight with a pop.
Matches were expensive, but common enough in Miln and standard supply for Messengers. In Tibbet’s Brook where Arlen was raised, though, they had been rare and coveted, saved only for emergencies. Only Hog who owned the General Store—and half the Brook— could afford to light his pipe with matches. Arlen still got a little thrill every time he struck one.
He soon had a comfortable fire blazing, and pan fried some vegetables and sausage while Curk sat with his head propped against his saddle, pulling from a clay jug that smelled more like an Herb Gatherer’s disinfectant than anything fit for human consumption. By the time they had eaten it was full dark and the rising had begun.
Mist seeped from invisible pores in the ground, reeking and foul, slowly coalescing into harsh demonic form. There were no flame demons in the cold mountain heights, but wind demons materialized in plenty, as did a few squat rock demons— no bigger than a large man, but weighing thrice as much, all of it corded muscle under thick slate armor. Their wide snouts held hundreds of teeth, bunched close like nails in a box. Wood demons stalked the night as well, taller than the rock demons at ten feet, but thinner, with barklike armor and branchlike arms.
The demons quickly caught sight of their campfire and shrieked in delight, launching themselves at the men and horses. Silver magic spiderwebbed through the air as the corelings reached the wards, throwing the force of the demons’ attack back at them and knocking more than a few to the ground.
But the demons didn’t stop there. They began to circle, striking at the forbidding again and again as they searched for a gap in the field of protection.
Arlen stood close to the wards without shield or spear, trusting in the strength of the magic. He held a stick of graphite and his journal, taking notes and making sketches as he studied the corelings in the flashes of wardlight.
Eventually, the corelings tired of their attempts and went off in search of easier prey. The wind demons spread their great leathery wings and took to the sky, and the wood demons vanished into the trees. The rock demons lumbered off like living avalanches. The night grew quiet, and without the light of the flaring wards, darkness closed in around their campfire.
“Finally,” Curk grunted, “we can get some sleep.” He was already wrapped in his blankets, but now he corked his jug and closed his eyes.
“Wouldn’t count on that,” Arlen said, standing at the edge of the firelight and looking back the way they had come. His ears strained, picking up a distant cry he knew too well.
Curk cracked an eye. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There’s a rock demon coming this way,” Arlen said. “A big one. I can hear it.”
Curk tilted his head, listening as the demon keened again. He snorted. “That demon’s miles from here, boy.” He dropped his head back down and snuggling into his blankets.
“Don’t matter,” Arlen said. “It’s got my scent.”
Curk snorted, eyes still closed. “Your scent? What, you owe it money?”
Arlen chuckled. “Something like that.”
Soon, the ground began to tremble, and then outright shake as the gigantic one-armed rock demon bounded into view.
Curk opened his eyes. “That is one big ripping rock.” Indeed, One Arm was as tall as three of the rock demons they had seen earlier. Even the stump of its right arm, severed at the elbow, was longer than a man was tall. One Arm had followed Arlen ever since he had crippled it, and Arlen knew it would continue to do so until one of them was dead.
But it won’t be me, he promised the demon silently as their eyes met. If I do nothing else before I die, I will find a way to kill you.
He raised his hands and clapped at it, his customary greeting. The coreling’s roar split the night, and darkness vanished as the powerful demon struck hard at the wardnet with its talons. Magic flared bright and strong, throwing the demon back, but it only spun, launching its heavy, armored tail into the wards. Again the magic rebounded the blow. Arlen knew the shock of magic was causing the demon agonizing pain, but One Arm did not hesitate as it lowered its spearlike horns and charged the wards, causing a blinding flash of magic.
The demon shrieked in frustration and came again, circling and attacking with talon, horn, and tail, in its search for a weakness, even smashing the stump of its crippled arm against the wardnet.
“It’ll tire out and quit the racket soon enough,” Curk grunted and rolled over, throwing the blanket over his head.
But One Arm continued to circle, hammering at the wards over and over until the wardlight seemed perpetual, the flashes of darkness like eye blinks. Arlen studied the demon in the illumination, looking for a weakness, but there was nothing.
Finally Curk sat up. “What in the Core is the matter with that crazy…” His eyes widened as he caught a clear look at One Arm. “That’s the demon from the breach last year. The one-armed rock that stalks Jongleur Keerin for crippling it.”
“Ent after Keerin,” Arlen said. “It’s after me.”
“Why would it…” Curk began, but then his eyes widened in recognition.
“You’re him,” Curk said. “The boy from Keerin’s song. The one he saved that night.”
Arlen snorted. “Keerin couldn’t save his own breeches from a soiling if he was out in the naked night.”
Curk chuckled. “You expect me to believe you’re the one that cut that monster’s arm off? Demonshit.”
Arlen knew he shouldn’t care what Curk thought, but even after all these years, it grated on him that Keerin, a proven coward, had taken credit for his deed. He turned back to the demon and spat, his wad of phlegm striking the coreling’s thigh. One
Arm’s rage quadrupled. It shrieked in impotent fury, hammering even harder at the wards.
All the color drained from Curk’s face. “You crazy boy, provoking a rock demon?”
“Demon was already provoked,” Arlen pointed out. “I’m just showing it’s personal.”
Curk cursed, throwing aside his blankets and reaching for his jug. “Last run I do with you, boy. Never get to sleep now.”
Arlen ignored him, continuing to stare at One Arm. Hatred and revulsion swirled around him like a cloud of stink as he tried to imagine a way to kill the demon. He had never seen nor heard of anything that could pierce a rock demon’s armor. It was only an accident of magic that severed the demon’s arm, and not something Arlen would bet his life on the odds of repeating.
He looked back at the cart. “Would a thunderstick kill it, you think? They’re meant to break rocks.”
“Them sticks ent toys, you crazy little bugger,” Curk snapped. “They can do ya worsen any rock demon. And even if you’ve got a night wish and want to try anyway, they ent ours. If they count sticks and it don’t meet the tally that left Miln, even by one, it’s worse for our reputation than if we lost the lot.”
“Just wondering,” Arlen said, though he cast a longing look at the cart.
* * * * *
It was quiet the next day, as they rode across the southern base of Mount Royal—the western sister of Mount Miln—whose eastern facing was filled with small mining towns. But the number of signposts dwindled as they made their way to the western face, and the road became little more than wagon ruts leading a path through the wilderness, with a few rare forks.
Late in the day, they reached the point where Royal joined with the next mountain in the range, and there stood a great clearing surrounding a gigantic wardpost made of crete, standing twenty feet high. The wards were so large a whole caravan could succor underneath them.
“Amazing,” Arlen said. “Must’ve cost a fortune to have that cast and hauled out here.”
“A fortune to us is just copper lights to Count Brayan,” Curk said.
Arlen hopped down from the cart and went over to inspect the great post, noting the hard way the dirt in the clearing was packed, indentations telling the tale of hundreds of firepits and stakes put down by Messengers, caravan crews, and settlers over the years. The site was freshly used even now, smelling faintly of woodsmoke from a previous night’s fire.
As he studied the wardpost, Arlen noticed a brass plaque riveted into the base of the post. It read: Brayan’s Mount.
“Count Brayan owns the whole mountain?” Arlen asked.
Curk nodded. “When Brayan asked permission to mine all the way out here, the Duke laughed and gave him the whole damn mountain for a Jongleur’s song. Euchor didn’t know that Countess Mother Cera, Brayan’s wife, had found tale of a gold mine on the peak in an old history.”
“Reckon he’s not laughing now,” Arlen said.
Curk snorted. “Now Brayan owns half the crown’s debt, and Mother Cera’s arse is the only one in the city Euchor’s afraid to pinch.” They both laughed as Arlen began to climb the post, clearing windblown leaves and even a fresh bird’s nest from the wards.
It was a cold spring night, but the post radiated heat, drawn from the demons that attempted to breach its radius. The forbidding waned the further one got from the post, but it easily extended fifty feet in every direction. Even One Arm could not approach.
The next morning, they began to ascend the winding road that would twist around the entire mountain three times, getting ever narrower, rockier, and colder, before it brought them to Brayan’s mine. It was around midday when they approached a large rock outcropping, and a shrill whistle cut the air. Arlen looked up just as something struck the bench between him and Curk, blasting through the wood like a rock demon’s talon.
“That was just a sign to let you know we mean business,” a man said, stepping out from around the rock face. He wore thick coveralls and a miner’s helm with candle cup. A kerchief was tied across his nose to cover the rest of his face. “Fella atop them boulders can thread a needle with his crank bow.”
Arlen and Curk glanced up and saw there was indeed a man kneeling atop the rocks, his face similarly covered as he pointed a heavy crank bow at them. A spent bow lay at his side.
“Corespawn it,” Curk spat. “Knew this would happen.” He lifted his hands high.
“He only has one shot,” Arlen murmured.
“One’s all he needs,” Curk muttered back. “Crank bow this close’ll go through even your fancy armor like it was made of snow.”
They turned their eyes back to the man on the road. He carried no weapons, though he was followed by two men with hunter’s bows nocked and drawn, and they by half a dozen thick-armed men with miner’s picks. All wore the candled helms with kerchiefs across their faces.
“Ent lookin’ to shoot anyone,” the bandit leader said. “We ent corelings, just men with families to feed. Everyone knows you Messengers get paid in advance and keep your own bags on your horses. You unhitch that cart and go on about your business. We ent looking to take what’s yours.”
“I dunno,” said one of the men with picks, as he strode up to where Arlen sat. “Might need to take that shiny warded armor, too.” He tapped Arlen’s breastplate with his weapon, putting a second scratch in the steel, next to the one Curk had made.
“The Core you will,” Arlen said, grabbing the pick haft just under the head. He yanked it back and put his steel-shod boot in the face of the man as he was pulled forward. Teeth and blood arced through the air as the man hit the ground hard.
Arlen tossed the pick down the mountain and had his shield and spear out in an instant. “Only thing anyone comes near this cart will be taking is my spear in their eye.”
“You crazy, boy?” Curk demanded, his hands still lifted. “Gonna get killed over a cart?”
“We promised to see this cart to Brayan’s Mine,” Arlen said loudly, never taking his eyes off the bandits, “and that’s what we’re going to do.”
“This ent a game, boy,” bandit leader said. “A crank bow bolt will punch right through that shield.”
“Your bowman had best hope so,” Arlen said, loud enough for the bowman to hear, “or we’ll see if he can dodge a spear without falling off those rocks and breaking his neck.”
The leader stepped up and grabbed the arm of the bandit Arlen had kicked, hauling him to his feet and shoving him back towards the others in one smooth motion.
“That one’s an idiot,” he told Arlen, “and he don’t speak for us. I do. You keep your armor. We don’t even need your cart. Just a few crates off the back, and we’ll let you ride on safe and sound.”
Arlen stepped into the back of the cart, putting his boot on a crate of thundersticks with a thump. “These crates? You want I should just kick ’em off the cart?” Curk gave a shout and backpedaled, falling from his seat. Everyone jumped.
The leader held up his hand, patting the air. “No one’s sayin’ that. You know just what it is you’re carryin’, boy?”
“Oh, I know,” Arlen said. He kept his shield up as he squatted, setting down his spear and pulling out a thunderstick. It was two inches in diameter and ten long, wrapped in a dull gray paper that belied the power within. A thin fuse of slow burning twine hung from one end.
“I’ve a match, to go with it,” Arlen said, holding the thunderstick up for all to see.
The bandits on the ground all took several steps back. “You be careful now, boy,” the leader said. “Them things don’t always need a spark to go off. Ent wise, swingin’ it around.”
“Best keep your distance, then,” Arlen said. For a moment, silence fell as he and the bandit leader locked stares. Then came a sudden snapping sound, and everyone jumped.
Arlen looked over to see that Curk had cut his horse from the cart harness and was swinging into the saddle. He readied his spear and shield, and turned to face the bandits. Arlen saw doubt in the bandit leader�
�s eyes, and smiled.
But Curk kept his speartip down, and Arlen felt his momentary advantage vanish.
“Don’t want no part of some thunderstick showdown!” Curk shouted. “I got years of drinking ahead of me, and fifteen hundred suns to pay for it!”
The bandit leader gave a start, but then he nodded. “Smart man.” He signaled the others to move back, giving Curk an open path back down the road. “You stay smart, and keep on riding when you see the wardpost.”
Curk looked at Arlen. “Can’t handle a scratch on your armor, but you’ll blow yourself to bits over a cart? You ent right in the head, boy.” He kicked his horse hard, and in moments he had vanished back down the trail. Even the sound of his galloping hoofbeats quickly faded.
“Ent too late to do the same,” the bandit leader said, turning back to Arlen. “You ever seen what a thunderstick can do to a man? What you’ve got in your hand’ll blow you apart so there’s nothing to burn at the funeral. Tear that pretty warded armor of yours like paper.”
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.”
The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold Page 6