Читать книгу The Demon Cycle Books 1-3 and Novellas: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear, The Daylight War plus The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold and Messenger’s Legacy - Peter V. Brett - Страница 47
Оглавление328 AR
One Arm shrieked into the night, its vengeance finally at hand. Arlen forced himself to breathe deeply, fighting to keep his heart from pounding right out of his chest. Even if the magic of the spear could harm the demon – and he had nothing more than his hopes that it could – it would not be enough to win this battle. He needed all his wits about him, all his training.
His feet slowly slid apart into a battle-stance. The sand would slow him, but it would slow One Arm, as well. He kept eye contact, and made no sudden moves as the coreling savoured the moment. Its reach far exceeded his own, even carrying the spear. Let it come to him.
Arlen felt as if his entire life had been rushing towards this moment without him ever realizing it. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for this test, but after being hounded by this demon for over ten years, the thought of putting it off for any longer was intolerable. Even now, he could step back into the protective circle, safe from the rock demon’s attacks. Deliberately, he moved away from it, committing himself to the contest. He would either die here, or he would prove his right to be free.
One Arm watched him circle, its muzzle curling in a snarl. A low rumbling echoed in the coreling’s throat. Its tail flicked faster, and Arlen knew it was getting ready to strike.
With a roar, the demon lunged, its talons splayed as they cut the air. Arlen darted straight forward, ducking the blow and moving inside the coreling’s reach. He kept on, moving right between its legs, stabbing his spear into its tail as he rolled aside. There was a satisfying flash of magic as he struck, and the demon howled as the weapon pierced its armour and reached flesh.
Arlen was expecting the return slash of the demon’s tail, but it came quicker than he anticipated. He threw himself on the ground as the appendage whooshed by, the spikes inches from his head. He was up again in a flash, but One Arm was already turning, using its tail’s momentum to speed its pivot. For all its size, the coreling was agile and quick.
One Arm struck again, and Arlen could not dodge in time. He whipped the shaft of his spear perpendicular to the blow in parry, but he knew the demon was far too powerful to block. He had let his emotions get the better of him; had entered this contest too soon. He cursed himself for a fool.
But as the demon’s talons struck the metal of the spear, the wards etched along its length flared. Arlen hardly felt the blow, but One Arm was deflected as if it had hit a warded circle. The demon was thrown back as its own power rebounded, but it recovered fast, unharmed.
Arlen forced himself to overcome his shock and move, understanding the blessing for what it was and determined to make the most of it. One Arm charged him madly, determined to power through this new obstacle.
Scattering sand as he ran, Arlen vaulted the fallen remains of a thick stone pillar, taking shelter behind it and preparing to dodge left or right, depending on how the demon approached.
One Arm struck hard at the pillar, almost four feet in diameter, and broke it in half, throwing one side out of its way with a flex of its sinewy arm. The raw display of power was terrifying, and Arlen bolted for his circle, needing a moment to recover.
The demon anticipated his reaction, though, and its legs twitched, launching it into the air. It landed in between Arlen and his succour.
Arlen stopped short, and One Arm again shrieked in triumph. It had tested Arlen’s mettle, and found him wanting. It respected the spear’s bite, but there was no fear in the coreling’s eyes as it advanced. Arlen gave ground slowly, deliberately, not wanting to provoke the creature with a sudden move. He backed up as far as he could before crossing his outer wardstones and coming into the reach of the sand demons clustered to watch the battle.
One Arm saw his predicament, and roared, its thunderous charge terrible to behold. Arlen set himself firmly, his legs coiled. He did not bother to raise the spear to block. Instead, he cocked it back, ready to stab.
The rock demon’s blow was powerful enough to crush a lion’s skull, but it never struck home. Arlen had allowed the demon to back him into his spare portable circle, unnoticed in the sand. The wards flared to life, reflecting the demon’s attack back on it, and Arlen was ready, leaping forward and skewering the demon in the belly with his warded spear.
One Arm’s shriek pierced the night, a deafening, horrifying sound. To Arlen, it was like music. He pulled back on the spear, but it held fast, caught in the rock demon’s thick black carapace. He yanked again, and this time, it nearly cost him his life as One Arm lashed out and struck him a glancing blow, its claws digging deep into his shoulder and chest.
Arlen was sent spinning away, but he wrenched himself towards his spare circle, collapsing in the protective ring. As he clutched his wounds, he watched the giant rock demon stumble about. Again and again, One Arm attempted to grasp the spear and pull it free of the wound, but the wards along its length thwarted the demon. And all along, the magic continued to work, sparking in the wound and sending killing waves through the coreling’s body.
Arlen allowed himself a slight smile as One Arm collapsed to the ground, thrashing. But as he watched the demon’s flailing slow to twitching, he felt a great emptiness grow inside of him. He had dreamt of this moment countless times, of how it would feel, of what he would say, but it wasn’t like he imagined. Instead of elation, he felt depression and loss.
‘That was for you, Mam,’ he whispered as the great demon ceased to move. He tried to picture her, desperate to feel her approval, and he was shocked and ashamed when he could not remember her face. He screamed, feeling wretched and small under the stars.
Giving the demon a wide berth, Arlen made his way back to his supplies, binding his wounds. The stitches he made were crooked, but they held his wounds closed, and the hogroot poultice burned, the pain evidence of its need. Already, the wound was infecting.
He found no sleep that night. If the pain of his wounds and the ache of his heart had not been sufficient to drive slumber away, a chapter of his life was about to end, and he was determined to see it through.
When the sun crested the dunes, it flooded Arlen’s camp with a speed that could only be found in the desert. The sand demons had already melted away, fleeing at the first hint of dawn. Arlen winced as he stood up, making his way from the circle to stand over One Arm, retrieving his spear.
Wherever the sun’s light touched the black carapace, it smoked, then sparked and ignited. Soon, the demon’s body was a funeral pyre, and Arlen stood watching, mesmerized. As the rock demon collapsed into ashes soon borne on the morning wind, he saw hope for the human race.
