The Desert Prince

by Peter V. Brett

  Then I pull my other trick, the opposite of going slippery. I suck in, halving the length of my arms as they become dense with compressed mass. The demon is stronger than I am, but I have leverage, and even corelings need breath. It thrashes and makes choked sounds, attempting to dislodge me, but I’m tougher like this, and hang on in sheer terror as it batters me against the ground.

  In time I might strangle the demon, but not before the ones coming out of the trees reach us. I’m tough when I suck in, but I don’t want to test it against wood demon claws. Hary throws his other knife, but this one skitters off a wood demon’s bark without sticking. The demon seems not to notice as it stalks in.

  Selia is still locked in combat with the first wood demon. It moves with surprising speed and agility for such a big, stiff brute. She still appears to be in control, but with more approaching, her advantage won’t last.

  I give up my hold and go slippery again. The demon immediately twists around to bite and claw at me, but I pop from its grasp like a wriggling fish. I land on my feet and dart back to Hary and Selia, pulling the pipes from my belt.

  I raise the instrument to my lips just as the wood demon fighting Selia swipes upward with one log arm, knocking her shield up and baring a seam in her armor joint. One of its long talons flashes and something spatters my face. I touch my hand to it, fingers coming away wet with blood. Selia’s shield arm collapses and she staggers, trying to keep her spear up.

  “Aunt Selia!” I don’t think as I charge in. The demon has its talons raised for a killing blow, but it glances my way at the sound. It catches sight of me, and its focus immediately shifts.

  I raise my hand like Mam tried to teach me, taking all my fear and anger and focusing it into my finger as I trace a heat ward in the air, powering it with my own magic. The symbol flares and the demon flinches with a yelp of pain as sparks fly across its chest, but I don’t have the power to set the creature ablaze.

  The effort leaves me drained, and I stumble to one knee. We’re surrounded now, corelings gathering from all sides, and I’ve only one trick left to play.

  I lift the pipes, desperation lending me focus as I recall Hary’s lessons and blow a series of rapid notes, high and discordant, that affect the demons like a schoolmam’s nails on a chalkboard.

  The approaching demons flinch and take a step back. One of their number lies twitching on the ground, an arrow in its shoulder and a knife in its throat. Another growls with pain at the scorch marks on its chest. I weave these threats into my song—if the atonal sounds can even be called that—instilling fear in the corespawn. It’s not enough to drive them away completely, but they keep out of reach, hissing and growling as they begin to circle. I can’t play forever, and they know it.

  I look to Selia, but Hary is already with her. The old man has pulled a hundred colored cloths from his Jongleur’s bag of marvels, knotting a tourniquet. His hands and the bright silks are covered in blood, and I wonder if Selia will die. If all of us are going to die.

  “Her arm’s nearly severed,” Hary says. “We need help, boy, and quick. She’ll lose the arm either way, but if we don’t get to a Gatherer, she’ll bleed to death first.”

  I look around, not knowing how that’s possible. Selia can’t walk, and neither of us is equipped to carry her. And if I stop playing for even a moment…

  My hands are slick with sweat and beginning to shake with fear. I can’t play much longer in any event. I scan the clearing, spotting Hary’s cello, and point to it with the pipes. He nods, pulling my warded cloak close and putting up the hood. So long as he doesn’t move too quickly, he’ll be invisible to the demons.

  Slowly he makes his way to his instrument, avoiding the probing claws of demons that can smell and hear him as they swipe blindly at the air. Sweat drips into my eyes, but I’m afraid to take my hands away from the pipes long enough to brush it away. I feel my heart pounding in my chest as he finds the cello, but fumbles for long moments looking for the bow.

  At last he finds it, and I wait long, excruciating moments as he tightens the horsehair and cleans it of debris. The demons hiss as he is forced to throw open the cloak and sit on the fallen bough, putting the instrument between his legs.

  I cast a worried glance at Selia. Her eyes are open, but I can see her lifeglow fading. The air is so thick with the smell of her blood, it overpowers everything else.

  A discordant twang makes me shudder, and the pipes slip from my lips. I glance back and see Hary frowning as he struggles to fix a broken string. The demons surge forward, but I resume playing and they start circling again, just out of striking distance.

  At last Hary sets his bow, and the cello comes to life. “Go, boy.”

  I drop the pipes to hang from their strap, running as fast as I can. A demon steps into my path, but I go slippery, sliding past quick as a horsefly.

  The demons shriek. I hear them give chase, but I don’t dare look. It would only slow me when I need to be swift. Grandfather’s greatward is barely a mile away. At a full sprint it’s barely a minute, but even without looking, I can hear the field demons gaining on me, and don’t know if I can make it in time.

  I howl, and fear gives me new strength as I put on speed. The night wind is cold on my tears.

  At last Grandfather’s farmstead comes in sight, the greatward glowing softly in the darkness.

  “Mam!” The scream, born of terror, rips my throat. “Mam! Help!”

  Before I even reach the farm, a mist rises in front of me, coalescing into the shape of Renna Bales, my mother. Her long brown hair is tied in a thick braid, and she wears a simple sleeveless dress of homespun wool. Her tanned skin is unmarked.

  Mam’s eyes narrow as I pull up short and she takes in the sight of me. I notice for the first time the blood on my hands, and honestly don’t know if it’s mine. She looks up, seeing the pursuing demons, and her mouth becomes a tight line. Wards appear all over her body, the flowing script glowing beneath her skin.

  They’re always there, silver ink waiting beneath layers of dermis. Mam can call them with an act of will, but they sometimes glow when her emotions run hot. It’s wise to step lightly at times like that.

  Mam slips free the large knife she always keeps at her belt. I know it belonged to her father, but not much more. Harl Tanner died before I was born, and no one in the family ever talks about him.

  A pair of field demons lead the chase, but Mam’s knife seems to cut the air, leaving a trail of silver fire as she carves a field ward. The charging corelings hit it full speed, flattening like sparrows on a window.

  Three wood demons bring up the rear, but the heat wards Mam cuts are quick and precise. She doesn’t stumble or lose her glow like I did from the drain, but one by one, the demons are immolated in flames. One of them continues its attack, bashing at her with bark arms all ablaze.

  Mam dissolves into mist, and the blows pass through her like smoke as she slips past the burning woodies to face a pair of shrieking flame demons bringing up the rear of the attack. They’re no bigger than badgers, but their scales are hard as diamond, and their firespit is hot enough to set stone ablaze.

  One stops short, hawking a wad of burning phlegm it spits at her. Mam slaps it aside with the flat of her blade, firespit wards on her hand snuffing the flames like a candle. She cuts a cold ward into the air, and steam hisses from the flame demon’s body. Then it begins to shriek as hot scales whine and crack under the strain of rapid condensation.

  She cuts a tiny impact ward, and the demon shatters like a dropped plate.

  The other flamer leaps at Mam, claws leading, but she bats them away and skewers the demon on her knife. It spits fire but she lifts a hand, absorbing the magic. Her wards brighten in waves coming from the knife’s hilt as she intensifies the Draw, drinking the coreling’s magic like a glass of lemonade on a hot day.

  Ent no place in the world as saf
e as Mam’s apron strings. I sob, realizing things are going to be okay.

  “Where are the others?” Mam lets the dead demon slide from her knife.

  “In the clearing,” I choke. “Selia…she’s hurt!”

  “Show me,” Mam says. “Hurry now.”

  I run full speed for the clearing, but Mam paces me easily. When she hears Hary’s playing, she effortlessly pulls ahead to enter the clearing first.

  Hary’s cello is out of tune, and the dirty bow whines on the strings. It gives his music an air of desperation that holds the demons close, even as the harsh sounds keep them at bay. I can see his hand shaking on the strings.

  Aunt Selia lies next to him, limp and pale, her breath shallow. The sight crushes me. Her butter cookies are the greatest thing I’ve ever smelled, and no matter how many times she caught me stealing them, she never stopped setting them on the windowsill.

  Now I can smell her dying, and it’s my fault. I’m supposed to be the Deliverer’s son, but when demons came, all I could do was run.

  “That’s enough, Hary,” Mam says. “Go on and help Darin with Selia.”

  “Ay.” Hary nods, the bow dropping from suddenly nerveless fingers. Hary sees his hands shaking and quickly stuffs them in his armpits, giving Mam a little bow. “Thank you, Mrs. Bales.”

  I dash to Selia, and panic when I get a clear look. Her eyes are glassy and wet, half open, staring at nothing. Her skin is pale and cold. I focus, filtering the surrounding noise, and find her heartbeat. It’s slow. Weak. Fading. “Mam.”

  “Gonna be all right, Darin.” Mam’s gaze is locked on the demons shaking off Hary’s spell. They pace back and forth, growling as they work themselves up to attack. “Might want to cover your eyes.”

  A low rumble forms in the back of Mam’s throat, and the demons howl in answer to the challenge. They spring forward, and Mam’s wards flare. Hary and I have barely a second to close our eyes and throw up an arm before they become blinding.

  The demons in front turn to ash as the light strikes them. Those farther back hit the ground on fire. They shriek and roll about, attempting to smother the flames.

  There’s a crashing above, and I look up to see stunned demons raining down from the boughs. These, Mam sets to with her knife, doing more damage than even their infernal healing powers can recover from.

  The sheer number of corelings is terrifying. Finding a single Wanderer near settled land is uncommon. Two or three is rare. But Mam’s killed a dozen so far, and still more turn and flee into the woods. This was never some lone Wanderer. This is a pack.

  In an eyeblink, Mam crosses the distance to us. “All right, Selia, let’s have a look.” Her knife is hot with ichor as she cuts away Hary’s makeshift bindings.

  Bile rises in my throat as I see Selia’s arm. The demon’s talons cut all the way through the bone, leaving the arm attached by little more than a flap of skin and some muscle. I choke the gorge back down and it roils in my stomach, burning.

  “Tk tk tk,” Mam clucks as she lifts the arm, fitting the cloven bone back together. “Hold still, now.”

  Barely awake, Selia ent capable of much else. The wards on Mam’s hands brighten; and the muscles, tendons, and arteries of Selia’s arm reach out like grasping fingers, finding their severed ends and weaving back together.

  In moments the limb is reattached. Mam slides a glowing finger around the wound, erasing even the scar. Color returns to Selia’s skin, and something of its old warmth. Her eyes regain lucidity.

  “Be bit weak for a few days,” Mam says. “And you’ll be hungry as the Core.”

  “Better than having to cut the left sleeves from all my dresses,” Selia croaks through dry lips. “Thank you, dear.”

  “You all right, Darin?” Mam doesn’t wait for me to answer. My body itches as she Draws magic through me and Reads the current.

  “Just scrapes and scratches,” I say, but she already knows. She knows everything, now. How scared I was. How ashamed I am.

  I feel tears coming, and I want to run away before they come, but I ent brave enough with the corelings still out there. I try to take a breath, but my chest is too tight. It’s all I can do to choke out, “I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever for?” Hary asks. “We’d both be in a demon’s belly if not for you.”

  “Only because I ran for help,” I say.

  “Nonsense, my boy,” Hary says. “That branch would have crushed me like a mouse in a trap.”

  Mam lays a hand on my shoulder. “Sure you did all you could.”

  “Did I?” I pull away, turning to face her. “Tried my bow, but I was too scared to shoot straight. My heat ward was about as useful as a festival cracker. Tried to hold them back with my pipes, but I was so shaky I could barely play.” The tears start coming, and there’s nothing to do but to let it happen.

  “Everyone’s lookin’ for me to be the Deliverer’s son, but there’s no tales of Da leaving folk behind to run for help.”

  “No one expects you to be your da, Darin,” Selia says quietly.

  “Everyone expects it,” I say. “I can smell it on ’em. They’re just too sunny to admit it. And all I ever do is disappoint.”

  “Ent thinking clearly, Darin,” Mam says. “Fightin’ does that. It’s desperate and chaotic and scary as spit. Gotta make it up as you go, and things don’t always work like you planned.” She reaches out and takes me by the shoulders. “But you kept your head and got everyone back alive. Runnin’ to me ent something to be ashamed of. It was smart. Proud of you.”

  She pulls me into a hug, squeezing out the last of the tears. I take a full breath at last as she turns to Hary. She Reads him same as me, then reaches out a hand. The old Jongleur takes it, and the ambient magic drifting over the ground rushes into him as she pulls him to his feet. The effect is immediate, straightening Hary’s back and adding a youthful spring to his step.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  Mam lifts Selia, armor and all, as easily as she would a babe. “Let’s get back to the house.”

  Mam’s wards are bright enough to light our way home. The goldwood fence around the fields and yard sketches the shape of a greatward. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief when we cross into its succor.

  Mam turns, eyes scanning the night, searching for something. When she doesn’t find it, she exhales slowly, shedding the excess magic she’s been holding. Her wards dim and then disappear beneath her flesh, magic pooling at her feet before being sucked into the greatward, strengthening its protection.

  “No one leaves the greatward till sunup,” Mam says. “Come on inside and I’ll put the kettle on.”

  * * *

  —

  Grandda Jeph added to his farmhouse over the years, and let me have the new attic as my room—as far as possible from the bustling commons two floors below. Still, I can hear every quiet word as adults talk down in the kitchen over tea and Mam’s butter cookies, which have never been as good as Selia’s.

  It feels like trying to recall some terrible dream as I listen to Aunt Selia’s account of what happened, focusing mostly on the wood demon she fought.

  “Faster’n any woodie had a right to be,” Selia says. “Fought smart. Knew how to get around the wards on my shield and armor. And they were waiting for us. It was a bushwhack.”

  “Could be a mimic riling them up,” Mam suggests. “They’re cunning, and lesser corelings obey them.”

  Aunt Selia once told me how she fought a mimic demon before I was born. I had nightmares for a month after. Mimics were shape-shifters. Smarter than other demons, they would learn their victims’ names and then take the form of someone they trust, calling for them to step off the safety of the wards.

  “Cunning demon wouldn’t set a trap next to the rippin’ Bales family farm,” Selia says. “Plenty of isolated farms with nothing but wardposts around the fields
. Why hunt next to the strongest greatward for a hundred miles?”

  “A mind, then,” Mam allows. “Testing our defenses, or…lookin’ for something.”

  “Or someone,” Selia adds.

  “Ay,” Mam agrees, but she doesn’t elaborate.

  She doesn’t need to. Mimics can pretend to be someone you know, but minds can take a body over completely, turning folk into puppets. They were the generals of the demon war, at least until my da killed them all.

  “You think he’s back?” Selia asks quietly. I don’t know who they mean, but I can’t ask from two floors up, so I listen carefully, hoping for a clue.

  “Din’t say that,” Mam says. “Might just be a juvenile mind that escaped the purge.”

  “Even a young mind demon ent ‘just’ anything, Renna,” Selia scoffs. “Last one to come to the Brook nearly tore us apart. Town was in flames before it was done, folk turning on their neighbors and thinking it righteous.”

  Mam makes a spitting sound. “Brook’s always had that problem, Selia.”

  “Can’t deny it,” Selia said. “Folk gossip and judge and don’t always do what’s right. But when the night is darkest, we always stand together. If there’s a mind looking for you, the Brook—”

  “Will be safer with me and Darin far away,” Mam cuts in.

  9

  THE BUNKER

  It’s not quite dawn when there’s a knock at the door. I haven’t slept at all, and I’m not alone. Hary is dozing in the common, but Selia’s been to the kitchen, and the house is filled with the smell of fresh butter cookies.

  “Ent a good night for folk to be out and about,” Mam says, heading for the door.

  I’m out the window and onto the roof before she gets there, peering down to see who it is. I drop down next to Stela Inn just as Mam opens the door.

  Like most Warded Children, Stela is covered in tattoos, her hair cropped short and her clothing little more than scraps. “Darin!” She grins when she sees me and tousles my hair. “Must’ve grown four inches since I saw you last!”