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 69

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Rojer was still asleep when they returned. They changed their muddy clothes silently, backs to one another, and then Leesha shook Rojer awake while the Painted Man saddled the horses. They ate a cold breakfast in silence, and were on the road before the sun had risen far. Rojer rode behind Leesha on her mare, the Painted Man alone on his great stallion. The sky was heavy with cloud, promising more rain to come.

‘Shouldn’t we have passed a Messenger headed north by now?’ Rojer asked.

‘You’re right,’ Leesha said. She looked up and down the road, worried.

The Painted Man shrugged. ‘We’ll reach Cutter’s Hollow by high sun,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you there, and be on my way.’

Leesha nodded. ‘I think that’s best,’ she agreed.

‘Just like that?’ Rojer asked.

The Painted Man inclined his head. ‘You were expecting more, Jongleur?’

‘After all we’ve been through? Night, yes!’ Rojer cried.

‘Sorry to disappoint,’ the Painted Man replied, ‘but I’ve business to attend.’

‘Creator forbid you go a night without killing something,’ Leesha muttered.

‘But what about what we discussed?’ Rojer pressed. ‘Me travelling with you?’

‘Rojer!’ Leesha cried.

‘I’ve decided it’s a bad idea,’ the Painted Man told him. He glanced at Leesha. ‘If your music can’t kill demons, it’s no use to me. I’m better off on my own.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Leesha put in. Rojer scowled at her, and her cheeks burned. He deserved better, she knew, but she could offer no comfort or explanation when it was taking all her strength to hold back tears.

She had known the Painted Man for what he was. As much as she’d hoped otherwise, she had known his heart might not stay open for long, that all they might have was a moment. But oh, she had wanted that moment! She had wanted to feel safe in his arms, and to feel him inside her. She stroked her belly absently. If he had seeded her and she had found herself with child, she would have cherished it, never questioning who the father might be. But now … there were pomm leaves enough in her stores for what must be done.

They rode on in silence, the coldness between them palpable. Before long, they turned a bend and caught their first glimpse of Cutter’s Hollow.

Even from a distance, they could see the village was a smoking ruin.

Rojer held on tightly as they bounced along the road. Leesha had kicked into a gallop upon the seeing the smoke, and the Painted Man followed suit. Even in the damp, fires still burned hungrily in Cutter’s Hollow, casting billows of greasy black smoke into the air. The town was devastated, and again Rojer found himself reliving the destruction of Riverbridge. Gasping for breath, he squeezed his secret pocket before remembering that his talisman was broken and lost. The horse jerked, and he snapped his hand back to Leesha’s waist to keep from being thrown.

Survivors could be seen wandering about like ants in the distance. ‘Why aren’t they fighting the fires?’ Leesha asked, but Rojer merely held on, having no answer.

They pulled up as they reached the town, taking in the devastation numbly. ‘Some of these have been burning for days,’ the Painted Man noted, nodding towards the remains of once-cosy homes. Indeed, many of the buildings were charred ruins, barely smoking, and others still were cold ash. Smitt’s tavern, the only building in town with two floors, had collapsed in on itself, some of the beams still ablaze, and other buildings were missing roofs or entire walls.

Leesha took in the smudged and tear-streaked faces as she rode deeper into town, recognizing every one. All were too occupied with their own grief to take notice of the small group as they passed. She bit her lip to keep from crying.

In the centre of town, the townspeople had collected the dead. Leesha’s heart clenched at the sight: at least a hundred bodies, without even blankets to cover them. Poor Niklas. Saira and her mother. Tender Michel. Steave. Children she had never met, and elders she had known all her life. Some were burned, and others cored, but most had not a mark on them. Fluxed.

Mairy knelt by the pile, weeping over a small bundle. Leesha felt her throat close up, but somehow managed to get down from her horse and approach, laying a hand on Mairy’s shoulder.

‘Leesha?’ Mairy asked in disbelief. A moment later she surged to her feet, wrapping the Herb Gatherer in a tight hug, sobbing uncontrollably.

‘It’s Elga,’ Mairy cried, referring to her youngest, a girl not yet two. ‘She … she’s gone!’

Leesha held her tightly, cooing soothing sounds as words failed her. Others noticed her, but kept a respectful distance while Mairy poured out her grief.

‘Leesha,’ they whispered. ‘Leesha’s come. Thank the Creator.’

Finally, Mairy managed to collect herself, pulling back and lifting her smudged and filthy apron to dab at her tears.

‘What’s happened?’ Leesha asked softly. Mairy looked at her, eyes wide, and tears filled them again. She trembled, unable to speak.

‘Plague,’ said a familiar voice, and Leesha turned to see Jona approaching, leaning heavily on a cane. His Tender’s robes had been cut away from one leg, the lower half splinted and wrapped tight in bandages stained with blood. Leesha embraced him, glancing meaningfully at the leg.

‘Broken tibia,’ he said, waving his hand dismissively. ‘Vika’s seen to it.’ His face grew dark. ‘It was one of the last things she did, before she succumbed.’

Leesha’s eye’s widened. ‘Vika’s dead?’ she asked in shock.

Jona shook his head. ‘Not yet, at least, but the flux has got her, and the fever has her raving. It won’t be long.’ He looked around. ‘It may not be long for any of us,’ he said in a low voice meant for Leesha alone. ‘I fear you’ve chosen an ill time for your homecoming, Leesha, but perhaps that too is the Creator’s plan. Had you waited another day, there might not have been a home for you to come to.’

Leesha’s eyes hardened. ‘I don’t want to hear any more nonsense like that!’ she scolded. ‘Where is Vika?’ She turned a circle, taking in the small crowd. ‘Creator, where is everyone?’

‘The Holy House,’ Jona said. ‘The sick are all there. Those that have recovered, or been blessed not to fall prey at all, are out collecting the dead, or mourning them.’

‘Then that’s where we’re going,’ Leesha said, tucking herself under Jona’s arm to support him as they walked. ‘Now tell me what’s happened. Everything.’

Jona nodded. His face was pale, his eyes hollow. He was damp with sweat, and had obviously lost a great deal of blood, suppressing his pain only with great concentration. Behind them, Rojer and the Painted Man followed silently, along with most of the other villagers who had seen Leesha’s arrival.

‘The plague started months ago,’ Jona began, ‘but Vika and Darsy said it was just a chill, and thought little of it. Some that caught it, the young and strong, mostly, recovered quickly, but others took to their beds for weeks, and some eventually passed. Still, it seemed a simple flux, until it began to strengthen. Healthy people began to take ill rapidly, reduced overnight to weakness and delirium.

‘That was when the fires started,’ he said. ‘People collapsing in their homes with candles and lamps in hand, or too sick to see to their wards. With your father and most of the other Warders in sickbed, nets began to fail all over town, especially with all the smoke and ash in the air marring every ward in sight. We fought the fires as best we could, but more and more people fell to the sickness, and there weren’t enough hands.

‘Smitt collected the survivors in a few warded buildings as far from the fires as possible, hoping for safety in numbers, but that just spread the plague faster. Saira collapsed last night during the storm, knocking over an oil lamp and starting a fire that soon had the whole tavern ablaze. The people had to flee into the night …’ He choked, and Leesha stroked his back, not needing to hear more. She could well imagine what had happened next.

The Holy House was the only building in Cutter’s Hollow made wholly of stone, and had resisted the flaming ash in the air, standing in proud defiance of the ruins. Leesha passed through the great doors, and gasped in shock. The pews had been cleared, and almost every inch of floor covered in straw pallets with only the barest space between them. Perhaps two hundred people lay there groaning, many bathed in sweat and thrashing about as others, weak with sickness themselves, tried to restrain them. She saw Smitt passed out on a pallet, and Vika not far off. Two more of Mairy’s children, and others, so many others. But there was no sign of her father.

A woman looked up at them as they entered. She was prematurely grey and looked haggard and drawn, but Leesha knew her blocky frame instantly.

‘Thank the Creator,’ Darsy said, catching sight of her. Leesha let go of Jona, and moved quickly to speak with her. After several minutes, she returned to Jona.

‘Does Bruna’s hut still stand?’ she asked.

Jona shrugged. ‘So far as I know,’ he said. ‘No one has been there since she passed. Almost two weeks now.’

Leesha nodded. Bruna’s hut was far from the village proper, shielded by rows of trees. It was doubtful the soot had broken its wards. ‘I’ll need to go there and get supplies,’ she said, stepping back outside. It was beginning to rain again, the sky bleak and bereft of hope.

Rojer and the Painted Man were there, along with a cluster of villagers.

‘It is you,’ Brianne said, rushing up to embrace Leesha. Evin stood not far back, holding a young girl in his arms with Callen, grown tall though he was not yet ten, next to him.

Leesha returned the embrace warmly. ‘Has anyone seen my father?’ she asked.

‘He’s home, where you should be,’ came a voice, and Leesha turned to see her mother approach, Gared at her heel. Leesha did not know whether to feel relief or dread at the sight.

‘You come to check on everyone but your own family?’ Elona demanded.

‘Mum, I only just …’ Leesha began, but her mother cut her off.

‘Only this and only that!’ Elona barked. ‘Always a reason to turn your back on your blood when it suits you! Your poor father is finding death’s succour, and I find you here …!’

‘Who’s with him?’ Leesha interrupted.

‘His apprentices,’ Elona said.

Leesha nodded. ‘Have them bring him here with the others,’ she said.

‘I’ll do no such thing!’ Elona cried. ‘Take him from the comfort of a feather bed for an infested straw pallet in a room rife with plague?’ She grabbed Leesha’s arm. ‘You’ll come see him now! You’re his daughter!’

‘Don’t you think I know that?!’ Leesha demanded, snatching her arm away. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she made no effort to brush them aside. ‘Do you think I thought of anything else as I dropped everything and left Angiers? But he’s not the only person in town, Mother! I can’t abandon everyone to tend one man, even if he is my father!’

‘You’re a fool if you think these people ent dead already,’ Elona said, drawing gasps from the crowd. She pointed to the stone walls of the Holy House. ‘Will those wards hold back the corelings tonight?’ she asked, drawing everyone’s attention to the stone, blackened by smoke and ash. Indeed, there was barely a ward visible.

She drew close to Leesha, her voice lowering. ‘Our house is far from the others,’ she whispered. ‘It may be the last warded home in all of Cutter’s Hollow. It can’t hold everyone, but it can save us, if you come home!’

Leesha slapped her full in the face. Elona was knocked into the mud, and sat there dumbfounded, pressing her hand to her reddening cheek. Gared looked ready to rush Leesha and carry her off, but she checked him with a cold glare.

‘I’m not going to hide away and leave my friends to the corelings!’ she shouted. ‘We’ll find a way to ward the Holy House, and make our stand here. Together! And if demons should dare come and try to take my children, I have secrets of fire that will burn them from this world!’

My children, Leesha thought, in the sudden silence that followed. Am I Bruna now, to think of them so? She looked around, taking in the scared and sooty faces, not a one taking charge, and realized for the first time that as far as everyone was concerned, she was Bruna. She was Herb Gatherer for Cutter’s Hollow now. Sometimes that meant bringing healing, and sometimes …

Sometimes it meant a dash of pepper in the eyes, or burning a wood demon in your yard.

The Painted Man came forward. People whispered at the sight of him, a robed and hooded spectre hardly noticed a moment before.

‘Wood demons won’t be all you face,’ he said. ‘Flame demons will delight in your fire, and wind demons soar above it. The razing of your town might even have called rock demons down from the hills. They will be waiting when the sun sets.’

‘We’re all going to die!’ Ande cried, and Leesha felt panic building in the crowd.

‘What do you care?’ she demanded of the Painted Man. ‘You’ve kept your promise and seen us here! Get on your core-spawned horse and be on your way! Leave us to our fate!’

But the Painted Man shook his head. ‘I swore an oath to give the corelings nothing, and I won’t break it again. I’ll be damned to the Core myself before I give them Cutter’s Hollow.’

He turned to the crowd, and pulled back his hood. There were gasps of shock and fear, and for a moment, the rising panic was arrested. The Painted Man seized on that moment. ‘When the corelings come to the Holy House tonight, I will stand and fight!’ he declared. There was a collective gasp, and a flare of recognition in many of the villagers’ eyes. Even here, they had heard the tales of the tattooed man who killed demons.

‘Will any of you stand with me?’ he asked.

The men looked at each other doubtfully. Women took their arms, imploring them with their eyes not to say anything foolish.

‘What can we do,’ cept get cored?’ Ande called. ‘Ent nothing that can kill a demon!’

‘You’re wrong,’ the Painted Man said, and strode over to Twilight Dancer, pulling free a wrapped bundle. ‘Even a rock demon can be killed,’ he said, unwrapping a long, curved object and throwing it into the mud in front of the villagers.

It was three feet long from its wide broken base to its sharp point, smooth and coloured an ugly yellow-brown, like a rotten tooth. As the villagers stared open-mouthed, a weak ray of sun broke from the overcast sky, striking it. Even in the mud, the length began to smoke, sizzling away the fresh droplets of drizzle that struck it.

In a moment, the rock demon’s horn burst into flame.

‘Every demon can be killed!’ the Painted Man cried, pulling a warded spear from Twilight Dancer and throwing it to stick in the burning horn. There was a flash, and the horn exploded in a burst of sparks like a festival flamework.

‘Merciful Creator,’ Jona said, drawing a ward in the air. Many of the villagers followed suit.

The Painted Man crossed his arms. ‘I can make weapons that bite the corelings,’ he said, ‘but they are worthless without arms to wield them, so I ask again, who will stand with me?’

There was a long moment of silence. Then, ‘I will.’ The Painted Man turned, surprised to see Rojer come and stand by his side.

‘And I,’ Yon Gray said, stepping forward. He leaned heavily on his cane, but there was hard determination in his eyes. ‘More’n seventy years I’ve watched ’em come and take us, one by one. If tonight’s t’be my last, then I’ll spit in a coreling’s eye afore the end.’

The other Hollowers stood dumbfounded, but then Gared stepped forward.

‘Gared, you idiot, what are you doing?’ Elona demanded, grabbing his arm, but the giant cutter shrugged off her grip. He reached out tentatively and pulled the warded spear free from the ground. He looked hard at the wards running along its surface.

‘My da was cored last night,’ he said in a low, angry tone. He clutched the weapon and looked up at the Painted Man, showing his teeth. ‘I aim t’take his due.’

His words spurred others. One by one and in groups, some of them in fear, some in anger, and many more in despair, the people of Cutter’s Hollow rose up to meet the coming night.

‘Fools,’ Elona spat, and stormed off.

‘You didn’t need to do that,’ Leesha said, her arms wrapped around the Painted Man’s waist as Twilight Dancer raced up the road to Bruna’s hut.

‘What good is a mad obsession, if it doesn’t help people?’ he replied.

‘I was angry this morning,’ Leesha said. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘You meant it,’ the Painted Man assured her. ‘And you weren’t wrong. I’ve been so occupied with what I was fighting against, I’d forgotten what I was fighting for. All my life I’ve dreamed of nothing but killing demons, but what good is it to kill corelings out in the wild, and ignore the ones that hunt men every night?’

They pulled up at the hut, and the Painted Man leapt down and held a hand out to her. Leesha smiled, and let him assist her dismount. ‘The house is still intact,’ she said. ‘Everything we need should be inside.’

They went into the hut. Leesha meant to head straight for Bruna’s stores, but the familiarity of the place struck her hard, and she realized she was never going to see Bruna again; never hear her cursing or scold her for spitting on the floor, never again tap her wisdom or laugh at her ribaldry. That part of her life was over.

But there was no time for tears, so Leesha shoved the feelings aside and strode to the pharmacy, picking jars and bottles and shoving some into her apron, handing others to the Painted Man, who packed them quickly and loaded them on Twilight Dancer.

‘I don’t see why you needed me for this,’ he said. ‘I should be warding weapons. We only have a few hours.’

She handed him the last of the herbs, and when they were safely stowed, led him to the centre of the room, pulling up the carpet, revealing a trapdoor. The Painted Man opened it for her, revealing wooden steps leading down into darkness.

‘Should I fetch a candle?’ he asked.

‘Absolutely not!’ Leesha barked.

The Painted Man shrugged. ‘I can see well enough,’ he said.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap,’ she said. She reached into the many pockets of her apron, producing two small stoppered vials. She poured the contents of one into the other and shook it, producing a soft glow. Holding the vial aloft, she led them down the musty steps into a dusty cellar. The walls were packed soil, wards painted onto the support beams. The small space was filled with storage crates, shelves of bottles and jars, and large barrels.

Leesha went to a shelf and lifted a box of flamesticks. ‘Wood demons can be hurt by fire,’ she mused. ‘What about a strong dissolvent?’

‘I don’t know,’ the Painted Man said. Leesha tossed him the box and got down on her knees, rummaging through some bottles on a low shelf.

‘We’ll find out,’ she said, passing back a large glass bottle full of clear liquid. The stopper was glass as well, held tightly in place with a twisted net of thin wire.

‘Grease and oil will steal their footing,’ Leesha muttered, still rummaging. ‘And burn hot and bright, even in the rain …’ She handed him a pair of cured clay jugs, sealed in wax.

More items followed. Thundersticks, normally used to blow free unruly tree stumps, and a box of Bruna’s celebration flamework: festival crackers, flamewhistles, and tossbangs.

Finally, at the back of the cellar, she brought them to a large water barrel.

‘Open it,’ Leesha told the Painted Man. ‘Gently.’

He did so, finding four ceramic jugs bobbing softly in the water. He turned to Leesha and looked at her curiously.

‘That,’ she said, ‘is liquid demonfire.’

Twilight Dancer’s swift, warded hooves had them down to Leesha’s father’s house in minutes. Again, Leesha was struck hard by nostalgia, and again, she shoved the sentiment aside. How many hours until sunset? Not enough. That was sure.

The children and the elderly had begun to arrive, gathering in the yard. Brianne and Mairy had already put them to work collecting tools. Mairy’s eyes were hollow as she watched the children. It had not been easy to convince her to leave her two children at the Holy House, but at last reason prevailed. Their father was staying, and if things went badly, the other children would need their mother.

Elona stormed out of the house as they arrived.

‘Is this your idea?’ she demanded. ‘Turning my house into a barn?’

Leesha pushed right past, the Painted Man at her side. Elona had no choice but to fall in behind them as they entered the house. ‘Yes, Mother,’ she said. ‘It was my idea. We may not have space for everyone, but the children and elderly who have avoided the flux thus far should be safe here, whatever else happens.’

‘I won’t have it!’ Elona barked.

Leesha whirled on her. ‘You have no choice!’ she shouted. ‘You were right that we have the only strong wards left in town, so you can either suffer here in a crowded house, or stand and fight with the others. But Creator help me, the young and the old are staying behind Father’s wards tonight.’

Elona glared at her. ‘You wouldn’t speak to me so, if your father were well.’

‘If he were well, he would have invited them himself,’ Leesha said, not backing down an inch.

She turned her attention to the Painted Man. ‘The paper shop is through those doors,’ she told him, pointing. ‘You should have space to work, and my father’s warding tools. The children are collecting every weapon in town, and will bring them to you.’

The Painted Man nodded and vanished into the shop without a word.

‘Where in the world did you find that one?’ Elona asked.

‘He saved us from demons on the road,’ Leesha said, going to her father’s room.

‘I don’t know if it will do any good,’ Elona warned, putting a hand on the door. ‘Midwife Darsy says it’s in the Creator’s hands now.’

‘Nonsense,’ Leesha said, entering the room and immediately going to her father’s side. He was pale and damp with sweat, but she did not recoil. She placed a hand to his forehead, and then ran her sensitive fingers over his throat, wrists, and chest. While she worked, she asked her mother questions about his symptoms, how long they had been manifest, and what she and midwife Darsy had tried so far.

Elona wrung her hands, but answered as best she could.

‘Many of the others are worse,’ Leesha said. ‘Da is stronger than you give him credit.’

For once, Elona had no belittling retort.

‘I’ll brew a potion for him,’ Leesha said. ‘He’ll need to be dosed regularly, at least every three hours.’ She took a parchment and began writing instructions in a swift hand.

‘You’re not staying with him?’ Elona asked.

Leesha shook her head. ‘There’s near to two hundred people in the Holy House that need me, Mother,’ she said, ‘many of them worse off than Da.’

‘They have Darsy to look after them,’ Elona argued.

‘Darsy looks as if she hasn’t slept since the flux started,’ Leesha said. ‘She’s dead on her feet, and even at her best, I wouldn’t trust her cures against this sickness. If you stay with Da and follow my instructions, he’ll be more likely to see the dawn than most in Cutter’s Hollow.’

‘Leesha?’ her father moaned. ‘’S’ that you?’

Leesha rushed to his side, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking his hand. ‘Yes, Da,’ she said, her eyes watering, ‘it’s me.’

‘You came,’ Erny whispered, his lips curling into a slow smile. His fingers squeezed Leesha’s hand weakly. ‘I knew you would.’

‘Of course I came,’ Leesha said.

‘But you have to go,’ Erny sighed. When Leesha gave no reply, he patted her hand. ‘Heard what you said. Go do what needs be done. Just seeing you has given me new strength.’

Leesha half-sobbed, but tried to mask it as a laugh. She kissed his forehead.

‘Is it bad as all that?’ Erny whispered.

‘A lot of folk are going to die tonight,’ Leesha said.

Erny’s hand tightened on hers, and he sat up a bit. ‘Then you see to it that it’s no more than need be,’ he said. ‘I’m proud of you and I love you.’

‘I love you, Da,’ Leesha said, hugging him tightly. She wiped her eyes and left the room.

Rojer tumbled about the tiny aisle of the makeshift hospit as he pantomimed the daring rescue the Painted Man had performed a few nights earlier.

‘But then,’ he went on, ‘standing between us and the camp, was the biggest rock demon I’ve ever seen.’ He leapt on top of a table and reached his arms high into the air, waving them to show they were still not high enough to do the creature justice.

‘Fifteen feet tall, it was,’ Rojer said, ‘with teeth like spears and a horned tail that could smash a horse. Leesha and I stopped up short, but did the Painted Man hesitate? No! He walked on, calm as Seventhday morning, and looked the monster right in the eyes.’

Rojer enjoyed the wide eyes surrounding him, and hesitated, letting the tense silence build before shouting, ‘Bam!’ and clapping his hands together. Everyone jumped. ‘Just like that,’ Rojer said, ‘the Painted Man’s horse, black as night and seeming like a demon itself, slammed its horns through the demon’s back.’

‘The horse had horns?’ an old man asked, raising a grey eyebrow as thick and bushy as a squirrel tail. Propped up in his pallet, the stump of his right leg soaked his bandages in blood.

‘Oh, yes,’ Rojer confirmed, sticking fingers up behind his ears and getting coughing laughs. ‘Great ones of shining bright metal, strapped on by its bridle and sharply pointed, etched with wards of power! The most magnificent beast you have ever seen, it is! Its hooves struck the beast like thunderbolts and as it smote the demon to the ground, we ran for the circle, and were safe,’ Rojer concluded.

‘What about the horse?’ one child asked.

‘The Painted Man gave a whistle …’ Rojer put his fingers to his lips and emitted a shrill sound, ‘… and his horse came galloping through the corelings, leaping over the wards and into the circle.’ He clapped his hands against his thighs in a galloping sound and leapt to illustrate the point.

The patients were riveted by his tale, taking their minds off their sickness and the impending night. More, Rojer knew he was giving them hope. Hope that Leesha could cure them. Hope that the Painted Man could protect them.

He wished he could give himself hope, as well.

Leesha had the children scrub out the big vats her father used to make paper slurry, using them to brew potions on a larger scale than she had ever attempted. Even Bruna’s stores quickly ran out, and she passed word to Brianne, who had the children ranging far and wide for hogroot and other herbs.

Frequently, her eyes flicked to the sunlight filtering through the window, watching it crawl across the shop’s floor. The day was waning.

Not far off, the Painted Man worked with similar speed, his hand moving with delicate precision as he painted wards onto axes, picks, hammers, spears, arrows, and sling stones. The children brought him anything that might possibly be used as a weapon, and collected the results as soon as the paint dried, piling them in carts outside.

Every so often, someone came running in to relay a message to Leesha or the Painted Man. They gave instructions quickly, sending the runner off and turning back to their work.

With only a pair of hours before sunset, they drove the carts back through the steady rain to the Holy House. The villagers stopped work at the sight of them, coming quickly to help Leesha unload her cures. A few approached the Painted Man to assist unloading his cart, but a look from him turned them away.

Leesha went to him, carrying a heavy stone jug. ‘Tampweed and skyflower,’ she said, handing it to him. ‘Mix it with the feed of three cows, and see that they eat it all.’ The Painted Man took the jug and nodded.

As she turned to go into the Holy House, he caught her arm. ‘Take this,’ he said, handing her one of his personal spears. It was five feet long, made from light ash wood. Wards of power were etched into the metal tip, sharpened to a wicked edge. The shaft, too, was carved with defensive wards, lacquered hard and smooth, the butt capped in warded steel.

Leesha looked at it dubiously, making no move to take it. ‘Just what do you expect me to do with that?’ she asked. ‘I’m an Herb …’

‘This is no time to recite the Gatherer’s oath,’ the Painted Man said, shoving the weapon at her. ‘Your makeshift hospit is barely warded. If our line fails, that spear may be all that stands between the corelings and your charges. What will your oath demand then?’

Leesha scowled, but she took the weapon. She searched his eyes for something more, but his wards were back in place, and she could no longer see his heart. She wanted to throw down the spear and wrap him in her arms, but she could not bear to be rebuffed again.

‘Well … good luck,’ she managed to say.

The Painted Man nodded. ‘And to you.’ He turned to attend his cart, and Leesha stared after him, wanting to scream.

The Painted Man’s muscles unclenched as he moved away. It had taken all his will to turn his back on her, but they couldn’t afford to confuse one another tonight.

Forcing Leesha from his mind, he turned his thoughts to the coming battle. The Krasian holy book, the Evejah, contained accounts of the conquests of Kaji, the first Deliverer. He had studied it closely when learning the Krasian tongue.

The war philosophy of Kaji was sacred in Krasia, and had seen its warriors through centuries of nightly battle with the corelings. There were four divine laws that governed battle: Be unified in purpose and leadership. Do battle at a time and place of your choosing. Adapt to what you cannot control, and prepare the rest. Attack in ways the enemy will not expect, finding and exploiting their weaknesses.

A Krasian warrior was taught from birth that the path to salvation lay in killing alagai. When Jardir called for them to leap from the safety of their wards, they did so without hesitation, fighting and dying secure in the knowledge that they were serving Everam and would be rewarded in the afterlife.

The Painted Man feared the Hollowers would lack the same unity of purpose, failing to commit themselves to the fight, but watching as they scurried to and fro, readying themselves, he thought he might perhaps be underestimating them. Even in Tibbet’s Brook, everyone had stood by their neighbours in hard times. It was what kept the hamlets alive and thriving, despite their lack of warded walls. If he could keep them occupied, keep them from despairing when the demons rose, perhaps they would fight as one.

If not, everyone in the Holy House would die this night.

The strength of Krasia’s resistance was due as much to Kaji’s second law, choosing terrain, as it was to the warriors themselves. The Krasian Maze was carefully designed to give the dal’Sharum layers of protection, and to funnel the demons to places of advantage.

One side of the Holy House faced the woods, where wood demons held sway, and two more faced the wrecked streets and rubble of the town. There were too many places for corelings to take cover and hide. But past the cobbles of the main entrance lay the town square. If they could funnel the demons there, they might have a chance.

They were unable to clean the greasy ash off the rough stone walls of the Holy House and ward it in the rain, so the windows and great doors had been boarded and nailed shut, hasty wards chalked onto the wood. Ingress was limited to a small side entrance, with wardstones laid about the doorway. The demons would have an easier time getting through the wall.

The very presence of humans out in the naked night would act as a magnet to demons, but nevertheless, the Painted Man had taken pains to funnel the corelings away from the building and flanks, so that the path of least resistance would drive them to attack from the far end of the square. At his direction, the villagers had placed obstacles around the other sides of the Holy House, and interspersed hastily made wardposts, signs he had painted with wards of confusion. Any demon charging past them to attack the walls of the building would forget its intent, and inevitably be drawn towards the commotion in the town square.

Beside the square on one side was a day pen for the Tender’s livestock. It was small, but its new wardposts were strong. A few animals milled around the men erecting a rough shelter within.

The other side of the square had been dug with trenches quickly filling with mucky rainwater, to urge flame demons to take an easier path. Leesha’s oil was a thick sludge on top of the water.

The villagers had done well in enacting Kaji’s third law, preparation. Steady rain had made the square slick, a thin film of mud forming on the hard-packed ground. The Painted Man’s Messenger circles were set about the battlefield as he had directed, points of ambush and retreat, and a deep pit had been dug and covered with a muddy tarp. Viscous grease was being spread on the cobbles with brooms.

And the fourth law, attacking the enemy in a way they would not expect, would take care of itself.

The corelings would not expect them to attack at all.

‘I did as you asked,’ a man said, approaching him as he pondered the terrain.

‘Eh?’ the Painted Man said.

‘I’m Benn, sir,’ the man said. ‘Mairy’s husband.’ The Painted Man just stared. ‘The glassblower,’ he clarified, and the Painted Man’s eyes finally lit with recognition.

‘Let’s see, then,’ he said.

Benn produced a small glass flask. ‘It’s thin, like you asked,’ he said. ‘Fragile.’

The Painted Man nodded. ‘How many did you and your apprentices have time to make?’ he asked.

‘Three dozen,’ Benn said. ‘May I ask what they’re for?’

The Painted Man shook his head. ‘You’ll see soon enough,’ he said. ‘Bring them, and find me some rags.’

Rojer approached him next. ‘I’ve seen Leesha’s spear,’ he said. ‘I’ve come for mine.’

The Painted Man shook his head. ‘You’re not fighting,’ he said. ‘You’re staying inside with the sick.’

Rojer stared at him. ‘But you told Leesha…’

‘To give you a spear is to rob you of your strength,’ the Painted Man cut him off. ‘Your music would be lost in the din outside, but inside, it’ll prove more potent than a dozen spears. If the corelings break through, I’m counting on you to hold them back until I arrive.’

Rojer scowled, but he nodded, and headed into the Holy House.

Others were already waiting for his attention. The Painted Man listened to reports on their progress, assigning further tasks that were leapt to immediately. The villagers moved with hunched quickness, like hares ready to flee at any moment.

No sooner than he had sent them off, Stefny came storming up to him, a group of angry women at her back. ‘What’s this about sending us up to Bruna’s hut?’ the woman demanded.

‘The wards there are strong,’ the Painted Man said. ‘There is no room for you in the Holy House or Leesha’s family home.’

‘We don’t care about that,’ Stefny said. ‘We’re going to fight.’

The Painted Man looked at her. Stefny was a tiny woman, barely five feet, and thin as a reed. Well into her fifties, her skin was thin and rough, like worn leather. Even the smallest wood demon would tower over her.

But the look in her eyes told him that didn’t matter. She was going to fight no matter what he said. The Krasians might not allow women to fight, but that was their failing. He would not deny any who were willing to stand in the night. He took a spear off his cart and handed it to her. ‘We’ll find you a place,’ he promised.

Expecting an argument, Stefny was taken aback, but she took the weapon, nodded once and moved away. The other women came in turn, and he handed a spear to each.

The men came at once, seeing the Painted Man handing out weapons. The cutters took their own axes back, looking at the freshly painted wards dubiously. No axe blow had ever penetrated a wood demon’s armour.

‘Won’t need this,’ Gared said, handing back the Painted Man’s spear. ‘I ent one for spinning a stick around, but I know how to swing my axe.’

One of the cutters brought a girl to him, perhaps thirteen summers old. ‘My name’s Flinn, sir,’ the cutter said. ‘My daughter Wonda hunts with me sometimes. I won’t have her out in the naked night, but if ya let her have a bow behind the wards, you’ll find her aim is true.’

The Painted Man looked at the girl. Tall and homely, she had taken after her father in size and strength. He went to Twilight Dancer and pulled down his own yew bow and heavy arrows. ‘I won’t need these tonight,’ he said to her, and pointed to a high window at the apex of the Holy House’s roof. ‘See if you can pry loose enough boards to shoot from there,’ he advised.

Wonda took the bow and ran off. Her father bowed and backed away.

Tender Jona limped out to meet him next.

‘You should be inside, and off that leg,’ the Painted Man said, never comfortable around Holy Men. ‘If you can’t carry a load or dig a trench, you’re only in the way out here.’

Tender Jona nodded. ‘I only wanted to have a look at the defences,’ he said.

‘They should hold,’ the Painted Man said with more confidence than he felt.

‘They will,’ Jona said. ‘The Creator would not leave those in His house without succour. That’s why He sent you.’

‘I’m not the Deliverer, Tender,’ the Painted Man said, scowling. ‘No one sent me, and nothing about tonight is assured.’

Jona smiled indulgently, the way an adult might at the ignorance of a child. ‘It’s coincidence, then, that you showed up in our moment of need?’ he asked. ‘It’s not for me to say if you are the Deliverer or not, but you are here, just like every one of us, because the Creator put you here, and He has reason for everything He does.’

‘He had a reason for fluxing half your village?’ the Painted Man asked.

‘I don’t pretend to see the path,’ Jona said calmly, ‘but I know it’s there all the same. One day, we’ll look back and wonder how we ever missed it.’

Darsy was squatting wearily by Vika’s side, trying to cool her feverish brow with a damp cloth, when Leesha entered the Holy House.

Leesha went straight to them, taking the cloth from Darsy. ‘Get some sleep,’ she said, seeing the deep weariness in the woman’s eyes. ‘The sun will set soon, and we’ll all need our strength then. Go. Rest while you still can.’

Darsy shook her head. ‘I’ll rest when I’m cored,’ she said. ‘Till then I’ll work.’

Leesha considered her a moment, then nodded. She reached into her apron and pulled out a dark, gummy substance wrapped in waxed paper. ‘Chew this,’ she said. ‘You’ll feel cored tomorrow, but it will keep you alert through the night.’

Darsy nodded, taking the gum and popping it into her mouth while Leesha bent to examine Vika. She took a skin from around her shoulder, pulling the stopper. ‘Help her sit up a bit,’ she said, and Darsy complied, lifting Vika so that Leesha could give her the potion. She coughed a bit out, but Darsy massaged her throat, helping her swallow until Leesha was satisfied.

Leesha rose to her feet and scanned the seemingly endless mass of prone bodies. She had triaged and dealt with the worst of the injured before heading out to Bruna’s hut, but there were plenty of hurts still in need of mending, bones to set and wounds to sew, not to mention forcing her potions down dozens of unconscious throats.

Given time, she was confident she could drive the flux off. Perhaps a few perhaps had progressed too far and would remain sickly or pass, but most of her children would recover.

If they made it through the night.

She called the volunteers together, distributing medicine and instructing them on what to expect and do when the wounded from outside began to come.

Rojer watched Leesha and the others work, feeling cowardly as he tuned his fiddle. Inside, he knew the Painted Man was right; he should work to his strengths, as Arrick had always said. But that did not make hiding behind stone walls while others stood fast feel any braver.

Not long ago, the thought of putting down his fiddle to pick up a tool had been abhorrent, but he had grown tired of hiding while others died for him.

If he lived to tell it, he imagined The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow would be a tale that outlived his children’s children. But what of his own part? Playing the fiddle whilst in hiding was a deed hardly worth a line, let alone a verse.