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 63

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‘Look at me! I’m a Jongleur!’ said one of the men, plopping the belled motley cap on his head and prancing around the road. The black-bearded man barked a laugh, but their third companion, larger than both of them combined, said nothing. All were smiling.

‘I’d like to know what that witch threw at me,’ the black-bearded man said. ‘Dunked my whole head in the stream, and it still feels like my eyes are on fire.’ He held up the circle and the reins of the horse, grinning. ‘Still, an easy take like that only comes along once a’life.’

‘Be months before we need t’work again,’ the man in the motley cap agreed, jingling the purse of coins, ‘and not a scratch on us!’ He jumped up and clicked his heels.

‘Maybe not a scratch on you,’ chuckled the black-bearded man, ‘but I’ve a few on my back! That arse was worth nearly as much as the circle, even if that dust she threw in my eyes made it so I could barely see what went where.’ The man in the motley cap laughed, and their giant mute companion clapped his hands with a grin.

‘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 towards 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 was squat and thickly set, with thinning hair above his long, unkempt beard. He dropped the portable circle to the ground and pulled a heavy cudgel from the horse, advancing on the stranger. 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-grey 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 on top of 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 afterwards.

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 honour, 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 dust 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 coloured 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.

‘Leesha, you need to get a hold 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 succour, 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 soil 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 soil,’ 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 on the ground, 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 soil.

‘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 had 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 round in fear. A man, swathed in grey 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 ground by one of the crude symbols, ‘this isn’t even a ward.’

‘Can you fix it?’ Leesha asked hopefully, pulling free from Rojer’s grasp and moving towards 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 colour.

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 backwards. 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 on top of 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, knobbly 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 centre of his muscular chest. Every inch of him was warded.

‘The Painted 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 Painted 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 Painted Man tackled it away, punching right through one of its wings, grounding it.

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

They burst from the trees, and Leesha could see a fire across the road: the Painted Man’s camp. Standing between them and succour, though, was a group of corelings, including a massive, eight-foot-tall rock demon.

The rock demon roared and beat its thick, armoured chest with gigantic fists, its horned tail lashing back and forth. It knocked the other corelings aside, claiming the prey for itself.

The Painted Man showed no fear as he approached the monster. He gave a high-pitched whistle, and set his feet, ready to spring when the demon attacked.

But before the rock demon could strike, two massive spikes burst from its breast, sizzling and sparking with magic. The Painted Man struck quickly, driving his warded heel into the coreling’s knee and collapsing the monster to the ground.

As it fell, Leesha saw a monstrous black form behind it. The beast kicked away, pulling its horns free, and then reared up with a whinny, driving its hooves into the coreling’s back with a thunderclap of magic.

The Painted Man charged the remaining demons, but the corelings scattered at his approach. A flame demon spat fire at him, but the man held up his spread hands, and the blast became a cool breeze as it passed through his warded fingers. Shaking with fear, Rojer and Leesha followed him into his camp, stepping into his circle of protection with enormous relief.

‘Twilight Dancer!’ the Painted Man called, whistling again. The great horse ceased its attack on the prone demon and galloped after them, leaping into the ring.

Like its master, Twilight Dancer looked like something out of a nightmare. The stallion was enormous, bigger by far than any horse Leesha had ever seen. Its coat was thick, shining ebony, and its body was armoured in warded metal. The barding about its head had been fitted with a long pair of metal horns, etched with wards, and even its black hooves had been carved with the magic symbols, painted silver. The towering beast looked more demon than horse.

Hanging from its black leather saddle were various harnesses for weapons, including a yew bow and a quiver of arrows, long knives, a bola, and spears of various lengths. A polished metal shield, circular and convex, was hooked over the saddle horn, ready to be snatched up in an instant. Its rim was etched with intricate wards.

Twilight Dancer stood quietly as the Painted Man checked it for wounds, seeming unconcerned with the demons that lurked just a few feet away. When he was assured that his mount was unharmed, the Painted Man turned back to Leesha and Rojer, who stood nervously in the centre of the circle, still reeling from the events of the last few minutes.

‘Stoke the fire,’ the man told Rojer. ‘I’ve some meat we can put on, and a loaf of bread.’ He moved towards his supplies, rubbing at his shoulder.

‘You’re hurt,’ Leesha said, coming out of her shock and rushing over to inspect his wounds. There was a cut on his shoulder, and another, deeper gash on his thigh. His skin was hard, and crisscrossed with scars, giving it a rough texture, but not unpleasant to the touch. There was a slight tingle in her fingertips as she touched him, like static from a carpet.

‘It’s nothing,’ the Painted Man said. ‘Sometimes a coreling gets lucky and catches a talon on flesh before the wards drive it away.’ He tried to pull away, reaching for his robe, but she was not to be put off.

‘No wound from a demon is “nothing”,’ Leesha said. ‘Sit down and I’ll dress these,’ she ordered, ushering him over to sit against a large stone. In truth, she was almost as frightened of the man as she was of the corelings, but she had dedicated her life to helping the injured, and the familiar work took her mind away from the pain that still threatened to consume her.

‘I’ve an herb pouch in that saddlebag,’ the man said, gesturing. Leesha opened the bag and found the pouch. She bent to the fire’s light as she rooted through the contents.

‘I don’t suppose you have any pomm leaves?’ she asked.

The man looked at her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Why? There’s plenty of hogroot.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Leesha mumbled. ‘I swear, you Messengers seem to think that hogroot is a cure for everything.’ She took the pouch, along with a mortar and pestle and a skin of water, and knelt beside the man, grinding the hogroot and a few other herbs into a paste.

‘What makes you think I’m a Messenger?’ the Painted Man asked.

‘Who else would be out on the road alone?’ Leesha asked.

‘I haven’t been a Messenger in years,’ the man said, not flinching at all as she cleaned out the wounds and applied the stinging paste. Rojer narrowed his eyes as he watched her spread the salve on his thick muscles.

‘Are you an Herb Gatherer?’ the Painted Man asked, as she passed a needle through the fire and threaded it.

Leesha nodded, but kept her eyes on her work, brushing a thick lock of hair behind her ear as she set to stitching the gash in his thigh. When the Painted Man made no further comment, she flicked her eyes up to meet his. They were dark, the wards around the sockets giving them a gaunt, deep-set look. Leesha couldn’t hold that gaze for long, and quickly looked away.

‘I’m Leesha,’ she said, ‘and that’s Rojer making supper. He’s a Jongleur.’ The man nodded Rojer’s way, but like Leesha, Rojer could not meet his gaze for long.

‘Thank you for saving our lives,’ Leesha said. The man only grunted in response. She paused briefly, waiting for him to return the introduction, but he made no effort to do so.

‘Don’t you have a name?’ she asked at last.

‘None I’ve used in some time,’ the man answered.

‘But you do have one,’ Leesha pressed. The man only shrugged.

‘Well then, what shall we call you?’ she asked.

‘I don’t see that you need to call me anything,’ the man replied. He noted that her work was finished, and pulled away from her touch, again covering himself from head to foot in his grey robes. ‘You owe me nothing. I would have helped anyone in your position. Tomorrow I’ll see you safely to Farmer’s Stump.’

Leesha looked to Rojer by the fire, then back at the Painted Man. ‘We just left the Stump,’ she said. ‘We need to get to Cutter’s Hollow. Can you take us there?’ The grey hood shook back and forth.

‘Going back to the Stump will cost us a week at least!’ Leesha cried.

The Painted Man shrugged. ‘That’s not my problem.’

‘We can pay,’ Leesha blurted. The man glanced at her, and she looked away guiltily. ‘Not now, of course,’ she amended. ‘We were attacked by bandits on the road. They took our horse, circle, money, even our food.’ Her voice softened. ‘They took … everything.’ She looked up. ‘But once I get to Cutter’s Hollow, I’ll be able to pay.’

‘I have no need of money,’ the Painted Man said.

‘Please!’ Leesha begged. ‘It’s urgent!’

‘I’m sorry,’ the Painted Man said.

Rojer came over to them, scowling. ‘It’s fine, Leesha,’ he said. ‘If this cold heart won’t help us, we’ll find our own way.’

‘What way is that?’ Leesha snapped. ‘The way of being killed while you attempt to hold off demons with your stupid fiddle?’

Rojer turned away, stung, but Leesha ignored him, turning back to the man.

‘Please,’ she begged, grabbing his arm as he, too, turned away from her. ‘A Messenger came to Angiers three days ago with word of a flux that spread through the Hollow. It’s killed a dozen people so far, including the greatest Herb Gatherer that ever lived. The Gatherers left in the town can’t possibly treat everyone. They need my help.’

‘So you want me to not only put aside my own path, but to go into a village rife with flux?’ the Painted Man asked, sounding anything but willing.

Leesha began to weep, falling to her knees as she clutched at his robes. ‘My father is very sick,’ she whispered. ‘If I don’t get there soon, he may die.’

The Painted Man reached out, tentatively, and put a hand on her shoulder. Leesha was unsure of how she had reached him, but she sensed that she had. ‘Please,’ she said again.

The Painted Man stared at her for a long time. ‘All right,’ he said at last.

Cutter’s Hollow was six days’ ride from Fort Angiers, on the southern outskirts of the Angierian forest. The Painted Man told them it would take four more nights to reach the village. Three, if they pressed hard and made good time. He rode alongside them, slowing his great stallion to their pace on foot.

‘I’m going to scout up the road,’ he said after a while. ‘I’ll be back in an hour or so.’

Leesha felt a stab of cold fear as he kicked his stallion’s flanks and galloped off down the road. The Painted Man scared her almost as much as the bandits or the corelings, but at least in his presence she was safe from those other threats.

She hadn’t slept at all, and her lip throbbed from all the times she had bitten it to keep from crying. She had scrubbed every inch of herself after they fell asleep, but still she felt soiled.

‘I’ve heard stories of this man,’ Rojer said. ‘Spun a few myself. I thought he was only a myth, but there can’t be two men painted like that, who kill corelings with their bare hands.’

‘You called him the Painted Man,’ Leesha said, remembering.

Rojer nodded. ‘That’s what he’s called in the tales. No one knows his real name,’ he said. ‘I heard of him over a year ago when one of the Duke’s Jongleurs passed through the Western hamlets. I thought he was just an ale story, but it seems the Duke’s man was telling true.’

‘What did he say?’ Leesha asked.

‘That the Painted Man wanders the naked night, hunting demons,’ Rojer said. ‘He shuns human contact, appearing only when he needs supplies and paying with ancient gold. From time to time, you hear tales of him rescuing someone on the road.’

‘Well, we can bear witness to that,’ Leesha said. ‘But if he can kill demons, why has no one tried to learn his secrets?’

Rojer shrugged. ‘According to the tales, no one dares. Even the dukes themselves are terrified of him, especially after what happened in Lakton.’

‘What happened?’ Leesha asked.

‘The story goes that the dockmasters of Lakton sent spies to steal his combat wards,’ Rojer said. ‘A dozen men, all armed and armoured. Those he didn’t kill were crippled for life.’

‘Creator!’ Leesha gasped, covering her mouth. ‘What kind of monster are we travelling with?’

‘Some say he’s part demon himself,’ Rojer agreed, ‘the result of a coreling raping a woman on the road.’

He started suddenly, his face colouring as he realized what he’d said, but his thoughtless words had the opposite effect, breaking the spell of her fear. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘Others say he’s no demon at all,’ Rojer pressed on, ‘but the Deliverer himself, come to lift the Plague. Tenders have prayed to him and begged his blessings.’

‘I’d sooner believe he’s half coreling,’ Leesha said, though she sounded less than sure.

They travelled on in uncomfortable silence. A day ago, Leesha had been unable to get a moment’s peace from Rojer, the Jongleur constantly trying to impress her with his tales and music, but now he kept his eyes down, brooding. Leesha knew he was hurting, and part of her wanted to offer comfort, but a bigger part needed comfort of her own. She had nothing to give.

Soon after, the Painted Man rode back to them. ‘You two walk too slow,’ he said, dismounting. ‘If we want to save ourselves a fourth night on the road, we’ll need to cover thirty miles today. You two ride. I’ll run alongside.’

‘You shouldn’t be running,’ Leesha said. ‘You’ll tear the stitches I put in your thigh.’

‘It’s all healed,’ the Painted Man said. ‘Just needed a night’s rest.’

‘Nonsense,’ Leesha said, ‘that gash was an inch deep.’ As if to prove her point, she went over to him and knelt, lifting the loose robe away from his muscular, tattooed leg.

But when she removed the bandage to examine the wound, her eyes widened in shock. New, pink flesh had already grown to knit the wound together, her stitches poking from otherwise healthy skin.

‘That’s impossible,’ she said.

‘It was just a scratch,’ the Painted Man said, sliding a wicked blade through the stitches and picking them out one by one. Leesha opened her mouth, but the Painted Man rose and went back to Twilight Dancer, taking the reins and holding them out to her.

‘Thank you,’ she said numbly, taking the reins. In one moment, everything she knew about healing had been called into question. Who was this man? What was he?

Twilight Dancer cantered down the road and the Painted Man ran alongside in long, tireless strides, easily keeping pace with the horse as the miles melted away under his warded feet. When they rested, it was from Rojer and Leesha’s desire and not his. Leesha watched him subtly, searching for signs of fatigue, but there were none. When they made camp at last, his breath was smooth and regular as he fed and watered his horse, even as she and Rojer groaned and rubbed the aches from their limbs.

There was an awkward silence about the campfire. It was well past dark, but the Painted Man walked freely about the camp, collecting firewood and removing Twilight Dancer’s barding, brushing the great stallion down. He moved from the horse’s circle to their own without a thought to the wood demons lurking about. One leapt at him from the cover of the brush, but the Painted Man paid no mind as it slammed into the wards barely an inch from his back.

While Leesha prepared supper, Rojer limped bowlegged around the circle, attempting to walk off the stiffness of a day’s hard riding.

‘I think my stones are crushed from all that bouncing,’ he groaned.

‘I’ll have a look, if you like,’ Leesha said. The Painted Man snorted.

Rojer looked at her ruefully. ‘I’ll be all right,’ he managed, continuing to pace. He stopped suddenly a moment later, staring down the road.

They all looked up, seeing the eerie orange light of the flame demon’s mouth and eyes long before the coreling itself came into sight, shrieking and running hard on all fours.

‘How is it that the flame demons don’t burn the entire forest down?’ Rojer wondered, watching the trailing wisps of fire behind the creature.

‘You’re about to find out,’ the Painted Man said. Rojer found the amusement in his voice even more unsettling than his usual monotone.

The words were barely spoken before howls heralded the approach of a pack of wood demons, three strong, barrelling down the road after the flame demon. One of them had another flame demon hanging limply from its jaws, dripping black ichor.

So occupied was the flame demon with outrunning its pursuers, it failed to notice the other wood demons gathering in the scrub at the edges of the road until one pounced, pinning the hapless creature and eviscerating it with its back talons. It shrieked horribly, and Leesha covered her ears from the sound.

‘Woodies hate flame demons,’ the Painted Man explained when it was over, his eyes glinting in pleasure at the kill.

‘Why?’ Rojer asked.

‘Because wood demons are vulnerable to demonfire,’ Leesha said. The Painted Man looked up at her in surprise, then nodded.

‘Then why don’t the flame demons set them on fire?’ Rojer asked.

The Painted Man laughed. ‘Sometimes they do,’ he said, ‘but flammable or no, there isn’t a flame demon alive that’s a match in a fight with a wood demon. Woodies are second only to rock demons in strength, and they’re nearly invisible within the borders of the forest.’

‘The Creator’s Great Plan,’ Leesha said. ‘Checks and balances.’

‘Nonsense,’ the Painted Man countered. ‘If the flame demons burned everything away, there would be nothing left for them to hunt. Nature found a way to solve the problem.’

‘You don’t believe in the Creator?’ Rojer asked.

‘We have enough problems already,’ the Painted Man answered, and his scowl made it clear that he had no desire to pursue the subject.

‘There are some that call you the Deliverer,’ Rojer dared.

The Painted Man snorted. ‘There’s no Deliverer coming to save us, Jongleur,’ he said. ‘You want demons dead in this world, you have to kill them yourself.’

As if in response, a wind demon bounced off Twilight Dancer’s wardnet, filling the area with a brief flash of light. The stallion dug at the soil with his hooves, as if eager to leap from the circle and do battle, but he stayed in place, waiting for a command from his master.

‘How is it the horse stands so unafraid?’ Leesha asked. ‘Even Messengers stake down their horses at night to keep them from bolting, but yours seems to want to fight.’

‘I’ve been training Twilight Dancer since he was foaled,’ the Painted Man said. ‘He’s always been warded, so he’s never learned to fear corelings. His sire was the biggest, most aggressive beast I could find, and his dam the same.’

‘But he seemed so gentle when we rode him,’ Leesha said.

‘I’ve taught him to channel his aggressive urges,’ the Painted Man said, pride evident in his normally emotionless tone. ‘He returns kindness, but if he’s threatened, or I am, he’ll attack without hesitation. He once crushed the skull of a wild boar that would have gored me for sure.’

Finished with the flame demons, the wood demons began to circle the wards, drawing closer and closer. The Painted Man strung his yew bow and took out his quiver of heavy-tipped arrows, but he ignored the creatures as they slashed at the barrier and were thrown back. When they finished their meal, he selected an unmarked arrow and took an etching tool from his warding kit, slowly inscribing the shaft with wards.

‘If we weren’t here …’ Leesha asked.

‘I would be out there,’ the Painted Man answered, not looking up at her. ‘Hunting.’

Leesha nodded, and was quiet for a time, watching him. Rojer shifted uncomfortably at her obvious fascination.

‘Have you seen my home?’ she asked softly.

The Painted Man looked at her curiously, but made no reply.

‘If you’ve come from the south, you must’ve come through the Hollow,’ Leesha said.

The Painted Man shook his head. ‘I give the hamlets a wide berth,’ he said. ‘The first person to see me runs off, and before long I’m met by a cluster of angry men with pitchforks.’

Leesha wanted to protest, but she knew the people of Cutter’s Hollow would act much as he described. ‘They’re only afraid,’ she said lamely.

‘I know,’ the Painted Man said. ‘And so I leave them in peace. There’s more to the world than hamlets and cities, and if the price of one is losing the other …’ he shrugged. ‘Let people hide in their homes, caged like chickens. Cowards deserve no better.’

‘Then why did you save us from the demons?’ Rojer asked.

The Painted Man shrugged. ‘Because you’re human and they’re abominations,’ he said. ‘And because you struggled to survive, right up to the last minute.’

‘What else could we have done?’ Rojer asked.

‘You’d be amazed how many just lie down and wait for the end,’ the Painted Man said.

They made good time the fourth day out from Angiers. Neither the Painted Man nor his stallion seemed to know fatigue; Twilight Dancer easily paced his master’s loping run.

When they finally made camp for the night, Leesha made a thin soup from the Painted Man’s remaining stores, but it barely filled their bellies. ‘What are we going to do for food?’ she asked him, as the last of it vanished down Rojer’s throat.

The Painted Man shrugged. ‘I hadn’t planned for company,’ he said as he sat back, carefully painting wards onto his fingernails.

‘Two more days of riding is a long way to go without food,’ Rojer lamented.

‘You want to cut the trip in half,’ the Painted Man said, blowing on a nail to dry it, ‘we could travel by night, as well. Twilight Dancer can outrun most corelings, and I can kill the rest.’

‘Too dangerous,’ Leesha said. ‘We’ll do Cutter’s Hollow no good if we all get killed. We’ll just have to travel hungry.’

‘I’m not leaving the wards at night,’ Rojer agreed, rubbing his stomach regretfully.

The Painted Man pointed to a coreling stalking the camp. ‘We could eat that,’ he said.

‘You can’t be serious!’ Rojer cried in disgust.

‘Just the thought is sickening,’ Leesha agreed.

‘It’s not so bad, really,’ the man said.

‘You’ve actually eaten demon?’ Rojer asked.

‘I do what I have to, to survive,’ the man replied.

‘Well, I’m certainly not going to eat demon meat,’ Leesha said.

‘Me neither,’ Rojer agreed.

‘Very well,’ the Painted Man sighed, getting up and taking his bow, a quiver of arrows, and a long spear. He stripped off his robe, revealing his warded flesh, and moved to the edge of the circle. ‘I’ll see what I can hunt up.’

‘You don’t need to …!’ Leesha called, but the man ignored her. A moment later, he had vanished into the night.

It was more than an hour before he returned, carrying a plump pair of rabbits by the ears. He handed the catch to Leesha, and returned to his seat, picking up the tiny warding brush.

‘You make music?’ he asked Rojer, who had just finished restringing his fiddle and was plucking at the strings, adjusting the tensions.

Rojer jumped at the comment. ‘Y-yes,’ he managed.

‘Will you play something?’ the Painted Man asked. ‘I can’t remember the last time I heard music.’

‘I would,’ Rojer said sadly, ‘but the bandits kicked my bow into the woods.’

The man nodded and sat in thought a moment. Then he stood suddenly, producing a large knife. Rojer shrank back, but the man just stepped back out of the circle. A wood demon hissed at him, but the Painted Man hissed right back, and the demon shied away.

He returned soon after with a supple length of wood, shearing the bark with his wicked blade. ‘How long was it?’ he asked.

‘E-eighteen inches,’ Rojer stuttered.

The Painted Man nodded, cutting the branch to the appropriate length and walking over to Twilight Dancer. The stallion did not react as he cut a length of hair from its tail. He notched the wood and tied the horsehair flat and thick on one side. He knelt next to Rojer, bending the branch. ‘Tell me when the tension is right,’ he said, and Rojer laid the fingers of his crippled hand on the hair. When he was satisfied, the Painted Man tied the other end and handed it to him.

Rojer beamed at the gift, treating it with resin before taking up his fiddle. He put the instrument to his chin and gave it a few strokes with the new bow. It wasn’t ideal, but he grew more confident, pausing to tune once more before beginning to play.

His skilful fingers filled the air with a haunting melody that took Leesha’s thoughts to Cutter’s Hollow, wondering at its fate. Vika’s letter was almost a week gone. What would she find when she arrived? Perhaps the flux had passed with no more loss, and this desperate ordeal had been for nothing.

Or perhaps they needed her more than ever.

The music affected the Painted Man as well, she noticed, for his hands stopped their careful work, and he stared off into the night. Shadows draped his face, obscuring the tattoos, and she saw in his sad countenance that he had been comely once. What pain had driven him to this existence, scarring himself and shunning his own kind for the company of corelings? She found herself aching to heal him, though he showed no hurt.

Suddenly, the man shook his head as if to clear it, startling Leesha from her reverie. He pointed off into the darkness. ‘Look,’ he whispered. ‘They’re dancing.’

Leesha looked out in amazement, for indeed, the corelings had ceased to test the wards, had ceased even to hiss and shriek. They circled the camp, swaying in time to the music. Flame demons leaped and twirled, sending ribbons of fire spiralling away from their knotted limbs, and wind demons looped and dived through the air. Wood demons had crept from the cover of the forest, but they ignored the flame demons, drawn to the melody.

The Painted Man looked at Rojer. ‘How are you doing that?’ he asked, his voice awed.

Rojer smiled. ‘The corelings, they have an ear for music,’ he said. He rose to his feet, walking to the edge of the circle. The demons clustered there, watching him intently. He began to walk the circle’s perimeter, and they followed, mesmerized. He stopped and swayed from side to side as he continued to play, and the corelings mirrored his movements almost exactly.

‘I didn’t believe you,’ Leesha apologized quietly. ‘You really can charm them.’

‘And that’s not all,’ Rojer boasted. With a twist and a series of sharp strokes of the bow, he turned the melody sour; once pure notes ringing out discordant and tainted. Suddenly, the corelings were shrieking again, covering their ears with their talons and scrambling away from Rojer. They drew back further and further as the musical assault continued, vanishing into the shadows beyond the firelight.

‘They haven’t gone far,’ Rojer said. ‘As soon as I stop, they’ll be back.’

‘What else can you do?’ the Painted Man asked quietly.

Rojer smiled, as content to perform for an audience of two as he was for a cheering crowd. He softened his music again, the chaotic notes smoothly flowing back into the haunting melody. The corelings reappeared, drawn to the music once more.

‘Watch this,’ Rojer instructed, and changed the sound again, the notes rising high and grating, causing even Leesha and the Painted Man to grit their teeth and lean away.

The reaction of the corelings was more pronounced. They grew enraged, shrieking and roaring as they threw themselves at the barrier with abandon. Again and again the wards flared and threw them back, but the demons did not relent, smashing themselves against the wardnet in an insane attempt to reach Rojer and silence him forever.

Two rock demons joined the throng, shoving past the others and hammering at the wards as yet more added to the press. The Painted Man rose silently behind Rojer and lifted his bow.

The string hummed, and one of the heavy, thick-headed arrows exploded into the chest of the nearest rock demon like a bolt of lightning, brightening the area for a moment. Again and again the Painted Man fired into the horde, his hands a blur. The warded bolts blasted the corelings back, and the few that rose again were quickly torn to pieces by their fellows.

Rojer and Leesha stood horrified at the slaughter. The Jongleur’s bow slipped from the fiddle’s strings, hanging forgotten in his limp hand as he watched the Painted Man work.

The demons were screaming still, but it was pain and fear now, their desire to attack the wards vanished with the music. Still the Painted Man fired, again and again until his arrows were all gone. He grabbed a spear, throwing it and striking a fleeing wood demon in the back.

There was chaos now, the few remaining corelings desperate to escape. The Painted Man stripped off his robe, ready to leap from the circle to kill demons with his bare hands.

‘No, please!’ Leesha cried, throwing herself at him. ‘They’re running!’

‘You would spare them?’ the Painted Man roared, glaring at her, his face terrible with wrath. She fell back in fear, but she kept her eyes locked on his.

‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Don’t go out there.’

Leesha feared he might strike her, but he only stared at her, his breath heaving. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he calmed and took up his robe, covering his wards once more.

‘Was that necessary?’ she asked, breaking the silence.

‘The circle wasn’t designed to forbid so many corelings at once,’ the Painted Man said, his voice again a cold monotone. ‘I don’t know that it would have held.’

‘You could have just asked me to stop playing,’ Rojer said.

‘Yes,’ the Painted Man agreed, ‘I could have.’

‘Then why didn’t you?’ Leesha demanded.

The Painted Man didn’t answer. He strode out of the circle and began cutting his arrows from the demon corpses.

Leesha was fast asleep later that night when the Painted Man approached Rojer. The Jongleur, staring out at the fallen demons, gave a startled jump when the man squatted down next to him.

‘You have power over the corelings,’ he said.

Rojer shrugged. ‘So do you,’ he said. ‘More than I ever will.’

‘Can you teach me?’ the Painted Man asked.

Rojer turned, meeting the man’s gimlet eyes. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘You kill demons by the score. What’s my trick compared to that?’

‘I thought I knew my enemies,’ the Painted Man said. ‘But you’ve shown me otherwise.’

‘You think they may not be all bad, if they can enjoy music?’ Rojer asked.

The Painted Man shook his head. ‘They are no patrons of art, Jongleur,’ he said. ‘The moment you ceased to play, they would have killed you without hesitation.’

Rojer nodded, conceding the point. ‘Then why bother?’ he asked. ‘Learning the fiddle is a lot of work to charm beasts you can just as easily kill.’

The Painted Man’s face hardened. ‘Will you teach me or not?’ he asked.

‘I will …’ Rojer said, thinking it through, ‘but I want something in return.’

‘I have plenty of money,’ the Painted Man assured him.

Rojer waved his hand dismissively. ‘I can get money whenever I need it,’ he said. ‘What I want is more valuable.’

The Painted Man said nothing.

‘I want to travel with you,’ Rojer said.

The Painted Man shook his head. ‘Out of the question,’ he said.

‘You don’t learn the fiddle overnight,’ Rojer argued. ‘It’ll take weeks to become even passable, and you’ll need more skill than that to charm even the least discriminating coreling.’

‘And what do you get out of it?’ the Painted Man asked.

‘Material for stories that will fill the Duke’s amphitheatre night after night,’ Rojer said.

‘What about her?’ the Painted Man asked, nodding back towards Leesha. Rojer looked at the Herb Gatherer, her breast gently rising and falling as she slept, and the Painted Man did not miss the significance of that gaze.

‘She asked me to escort her home, nothing more,’ Rojer said at last.

‘And if she asks you to stay?’

‘She won’t,’ Rojer said quietly.

‘My road is no Marko Rover tale, boy,’ the Painted Man said. ‘I’ve no time to be slowed by one who hides at night.’

‘I have my fiddle now,’ Rojer said with more bravery than he felt. ‘I’m not afraid.’

‘You need more than courage,’ the Painted Man said. ‘In the wild, you kill or be killed, and I don’t just mean demons.’

Rojer straightened, swallowing the lump in his throat. ‘Everyone who tries to protect me ends up dead,’ he said. ‘It’s time I learned to protect myself.’

The Painted Man leaned back, considering the young Jongleur.

‘Come with me,’ he said at last, rising.

‘Out of the circle?’ Rojer asked.

‘If you can’t do that, you’re no use to me,’ the Painted Man said. When Rojer looked around doubtfully, he added, ‘Every coreling for miles heard what I did to their fellows. It’s doubtful we’ll see more tonight.’

‘What about Leesha?’ Rojer asked, rising slowly.

‘Twilight Dancer will protect her, if need be,’ the man said. ‘Come on.’ He moved out of the circle and vanished into the night.

Rojer swore, but he grabbed his fiddle and followed the man down the road.

Rojer clutched his fiddle case tightly as they moved through the trees. He had made to take it out at first, but the Painted Man had waved for him to put it away.

‘You’ll draw attention we don’t want,’ he whispered.

‘I thought you said we weren’t likely to see any corelings tonight,’ Rojer hissed back, but the Painted Man ignored him, moving through the darkness as if it were broad daylight.

‘Where are we going?’ Rojer asked for what seemed the hundredth time.

They climbed a small rise, and the Painted Man lay flat, pointing downwards.

‘Look there,’ he told Rojer. Below, Rojer could see three very familiar men and a horse sleeping within the tight confines of an even more familiar portable circle.

‘The bandits,’ Rojer breathed. A flood of emotions washed over him – fear, rage, and helplessness – and in his mind’s eye, he relived the ordeal they had put him and Leesha through. The mute stirred in his sleep, and Rojer felt a stab of panic.

‘I’ve been tracking them since I found you,’ the Painted Man said. ‘I spotted their fire while I was hunting tonight.’

‘Why did you bring me here?’ Rojer asked.

‘I thought you might like a chance to get your circle back,’ the Painted Man said.

Rojer looked back at him. ‘If we steal the circle while they’re sleeping, the corelings will kill them before they know what’s happening.’

‘The demons are thin,’ the Painted Man said. ‘They’ll have better odds than you did.’

‘Even so, what makes you think I’d want to risk it?’ Rojer asked.

‘I watch,’ the man said, ‘and I listen. I know what they did to you … and to Leesha.’

Rojer was quiet a long while. ‘There are three of them,’ he said at last.

‘This is the wild,’ the Painted Man said. ‘If you want to live in safety, go back to the city.’ He spat the last word like a curse.

But Rojer knew there was no safety in the city, either. Unbidden, he saw Jaycob crumple to the ground, and heard Jasin’s laughter. He could have sought justice after the attack, but he chose to flee, instead. He was forever fleeing, and letting others die in his stead. His hand searched for a talisman that was no longer there as he stared down at the fire.

‘Was I wrong?’ the Painted Man asked. ‘Shall we go back to our camp?’

Rojer swallowed. ‘As soon as I have what belongs to me,’ he decided.