The Desert Spear (demon)

by Peter V. Brett

  Wonda and the archers took a different tack, halting their horses several dozen yards back and sighting the wind demons that filled the sky. They came crashing down one after another, feathered shafts jutting from their leathery bodies.

  Rojer slipped from his horse, leaving it with the archers, and took up his fiddle, playing even as he ran for the small circle. Much like Leesha’s Cloaks of Unsight, his music made him effectively invisible to the corelings as he waded through their lines, but without the need for a slow pace. In moments he was inside the circle, and changed his tune to the jarring notes that would drive the demons away from the small family.

  The young woman screamed as battle raged about them, black demon ichor flying free in the night air. Her parents were doing what they could to make her comfortable, but it was clear from their fumbling that they had no idea how to assist in the delivery.

  “She needs help!” Rojer cried. “We need to get her to an Herb Gatherer!”

  The Painted Man broke away from the demons he was engaging and was at Rojer’s side in an instant. He was clad only in a loincloth, covered in tattoos and demon ichor. The Rizonans backed away from him in fear, but the girl was too far gone to even notice.

  “Get my herb pouch,” the Painted Man said, kneeling by the girl and examining her with a surprisingly gentle touch. “Her water’s broken and her contractions are close. There’s no time to get her to a Gatherer.”

  Rojer ran out to Twilight Dancer, but the stallion was in a wild rage, trampling a pair of flame demons into the snow and mud. Drawing his warded cloak about him, Rojer took up his fiddle again. As with the corelings, Rojer’s special magic found resonance with the beast, and in short order the horse stood calmly while Rojer retrieved the precious herb pouch.

  He brought the pouch to the Painted Man, who quickly began grinding herbs into powder and mixing them with water. The girl’s family kept back, watching the scene in horror as the Cutters laid waste to demons all around them.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” Rojer asked nervously, as the Painted Man brought his potion to the moaning woman’s lips.

  “I was apprenticed to an Herb Gatherer for six months as part of my Messenger training,” the Painted Man said. “I’ve seen it done.”

  “Seen?!” Rojer asked.

  “Do you want to do it?” the Painted Man asked, looking at him. Rojer blanched and shook his head. “Then just play your ripping fiddle and keep the demons back while I work.” Rojer nodded and put bow back to string.

  Hours later, with the sounds of battle long faded, a shrill cry broke the night. Rojer looked at the screaming babe and smiled.

  “There will be no denying it when people call you Deliverer now,” he said.

  The Painted Man scowled at him, and Rojer laughed.

  Leesha carried the steaming tray up the steps of Smitt’s inn, her heart beating nervously. Twice before, she had considered giving herself to Marick, whom she could not deny was handsome and quick-witted. Both times, Marick’s character had failed at the key moment, making Leesha feel that in his mind, her needs were second to his own, if he was considering them at all.

  But her mother was right again. She often was, even as she used the insight to cut at people. Leesha was tired of being alone, and she knew in her heart that Arlen would never fill that place for her. Not for the first time, she wished she could see Rojer in that light, but it was impossible. She loved Rojer, but had no desire for him to share her bed. Marick had shown the people of Fort Rizon that he was a man who could be counted upon in times of need. Perhaps it was time to look beyond his past failings.

  She tugged the wrinkles from her dress, then felt foolish for it, and knocked on his door.

  “Ay?” Marick asked as he opened the door. He was shirtless and damp, having just come from the warm basin of water in his room. His eyes widened as he caught sight of Leesha.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Leesha said. “Just thought you might do with a hot meal before you sleep.”

  “I…yes, thank you,” Marick said, grabbing his tunic and pulling it on. Leesha looked away as he did so, though the image of his muscled body lingered in her mind.

  Marick took the tray, inhaling its aroma deeply as he brought it over to the small table and chair by the bed. He lifted the lid to reveal a hot joint of meat, moist with its own juices, nestled amid spiced potatoes and fresh steamed greens.

  “Food in Deliverer’s Hollow is soon to grow short,” Leesha said, “but Smitt’s stores have held out for a night, at least.”

  “A bed is glorious enough, after lying down in snow for near two weeks,” Marick said. “This is a gift from the Creator Himself.” He tore into the meat, and Leesha took a strange satisfaction in watching him eat the food she had prepared. She remembered the feeling, distantly, from the time she and Gared had been promised, and she first cooked for him. It seemed a century ago, in another life.

  “That was delicious,” Marick said when he was done, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  “It’s small thanks for what you did,” Leesha said, “bringing those people to safety in their time of need.”

  “Even after I failed you in yours?” Marick asked. Leesha looked at him in surprise.

  “Last year,” Marick said, “when flux caught the Hollow and you needed to get home. I made…unfair demands for my assistance.”

  “Marick…” Leesha began softly.

  “No, let me speak,” Marick said. “When we were on the road to Angiers that first time, I was so taken with you, I thought we would be raising children together within a year. But then, in the tent, when I couldn’t…be a man with you, I…”

  “Marick…” Leesha said again.

  “It made me crazy,” Marick said. “I felt like I needed to get far away from you, but when I did, I couldn’t stop thinking of you, even when I…lay with other women.” He looked away.

  “But when I saw you again,” he went on, “I felt so…hard, and I wanted to make up for my past failing quickly, before something else prevented it. It was unfair to you, and I’m sorry.”

  Leesha laid a hand on his arm. “I’m not a child,” she said. “I was as responsible for what happened as you.” It was more true than he would ever know, and at that moment she felt horrified at her own actions. It felt so righteous at the time, but the truth was she had drugged and used him for her own convenience, leaving him scarred for years over the ordeal. Perhaps Rojer was right, and she was more like her mother than she knew.

  “That’s kind of you to say,” Marick said, squeezing her arm, “but you and I both know it isn’t so. I’m glad you managed to make it home,” he added, “and without having to surrender your virtue.”

  Leesha had been leaning in toward him, but she flinched back from him at the words, for indeed, her virtue had been torn from her on the trip, taken by bandits on the road because she went without proper escort. All because of Marick’s impatience and inability to think of others before himself.

  Marick seemed not to notice her change in demeanor. He chuckled and shook his head. “Can’t get over how you run the Hollow now. What happened to the soft girl who turned the head of every man that saw her? Overnight you’ve become Hag Bruna. I’ll wager even the corelings are scared of you now.”

  Hag Bruna? Was that how folk saw her? The lonesome crone who bullied and intimidated everyone in town? Was that what she ’d become when her virtue was stripped from her?

  Her mother sensed the change, too. Time it was done somehow, Elona had said, and I expect you’re the better for it.

  Leesha shook her head to clear it, sensing the moment they had been about to share slipping away. “What are your plans now?” she asked. “Will you help us hunt for more survivors on the road, or do you mean to take your group of refugees directly on to Angiers?”

  Marick looked at her in surprise. “Neither.”

  “What do you mean?” Leesha asked.

  “Now that the Rizonans are safe, it’s time I mo
ved on,” Marick said. “The duke needs word of the Krasian attack, and I’ve let them slow me long enough.”

  “Slow you?” Leesha asked. “Their lives depended on you!”

  Marick nodded. “I couldn’t leave people out on the road without succor, but they have succor now. I’m not Rizonan. I have no further responsibility to them.”

  “But Deliverer’s Hollow can’t possibly absorb so many!” Leesha cried.

  Marick shrugged. “I’ll tell the duke. Let it be his problem.”

  “They’re not a problem, Marick, they’re people!” Leesha said.

  “What do you expect me to do?” Marick asked. “Devote the rest of my life to looking out for them? That’s not a Messenger’s way.”

  “Well, I’m glad we never ended up raising children together, then,” Leesha snapped. “Enjoy your bed, Messenger.” She took the tray and left, slamming the door behind her.

  “What are we going to do?” Smitt asked. Leesha had called a late meeting of the town council to discuss Marick’s revelation that he was leaving the refugees in Deliverer’s Hollow and pressing on alone in the morning.

  “Take them in, of course,” Leesha said. “Open our homes while helping them build their own. We can’t just leave these folk without food or shelter.”

  “The greatward can’t accommodate so many new houses,” Smitt said.

  “So we’ll build another,” Leesha said. “We have near two thousand hands to do the work, and miles of forest for material.”

  “Not to scuff the wards,” Darsy said, “but just how’re we supposed to feed so many in the dead of winter? If more keep coming, we’ll all be eating snow before long.”

  Leesha had been considering the same problem. “Every young woman in the Hollow can shoot a bow now. We’ll put them to hunting, and the boys to trapping.”

  “That will only go so far,” Vika said.

  Leesha nodded. “Corkweed may be tough and bitter, but it’s nutritious enough, grows on just about everything, and survives year-round. Put the younger children to work gathering it, and I’ll think of a way to cook and season it in bulk. If that’s not enough, there are edible barks and even insects that can fill a starving belly.”

  “Weeds and insects?” Elona asked. “You’re going to ask folk to eat bugs?”

  “I’m seeing to it they don’t starve, Mother,” Leesha said. “If I have to sit and eat bugs in front of them to set an example, that’s what I’ll do.”

  “Well enough for you,” Elona said, “but don’t expect me to do the same.”

  “You’ll have your own part to play,” Leesha said.

  Elona looked at her. “I’m not making my house into an inn for every vagabond that comes down the road.”

  Leesha sighed. “It’s getting dark, Mother. You’d best head home. we’ll talk in the morning.”

  The others took this as the meeting’s end and filed out of the room after Elona, leaving Leesha alone with Stefny.

  “Don’t fret,” Stefny said. “I’m sure your mother will be more than willing to do her part, opening her home to the Rizonan men with the biggest dangles.”

  Leesha glared at her. “My mum isn’t the only woman in this village who broke her wedding vows,” she reminded her. Stefny’s youngest son Keet, now nearly twenty, was fathered not by Smitt but by the village’s previous Tender, Michel. It was still unknown to Smitt and the rest of town, but Bruna, who had midwifed the child, knew from the outset.

  “Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking Bruna’s secrets died with her,” Leesha warned. “Keep your hypocrisy to yourself.”

  Stefny blanched white and nodded meekly. Leesha gave an amused snort at how she scurried out of the room, and then started suddenly, realizing she sounded just like Bruna.

  It was well over a week after Marick rode off—to the cheers and adulation of those he was deserting—before the Painted Man and Rojer returned. Erny and the Cutters had drifted back into the city over the first few days, each bringing groups of refugees with them, but the Painted Man and Rojer kept ranging ever farther, and all who came to the Hollow told stories of encountering them.

  Leesha was proud of Arlen and Rojer for the lives they were saving, but by the time they returned, so many folk had come that she despaired of feeding them all, weeds and bugs or no.

  “We went as close to Rizon as we dared,” Rojer said over hot tea at her cottage the day they returned. “I think we found everyone who took the road, though there are likely some who tried to cut overland. The Krasians have dug in firmly, and send out regular patrols on the road.”

  “They’ve only dug in temporarily,” the Painted Man said. “It won’t be long before they’re on the move again.”

  “Back to the ripping desert, I hope,” Rojer said.

  The Painted Man shook his head. “No. They’ll conquer Lakton, and then they’ll turn north and head right for the Hollow.”

  Leesha felt her face grow cold, and Rojer looked like he might be sick.

  “How can you know that?” she asked.

  “The Krasians believe that Kaji, the first Deliverer, unified the tribes of Krasia and then rode out of the desert, spending two decades conquering the lands to the north,” the Painted Man said. “He called it Sharak Sun, the Daylight War, and levied the men into Sharak Ka, the great holy war against demonkind. If Ahmann Jardir thinks he is the Deliverer come again, he will attempt to follow the same path.”

  “What are we to do?” Leesha asked.

  “Build defenses,” the Painted Man said. “Fight them, every inch of the way.”

  Leesha shook her head. “No. I won’t support that. These aren’t demons you’re talking about killing, Arlen. They’re human beings.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” the Painted Man said. “I have Krasian friends, Leesha! Can you say the same?” Leesha looked at him in shock, but she recovered and shook her head.

  “Make no mistake,” the Painted Man said, his voice quieter, but no less vehement, “the Krasians believe every single person in the North is inferior to the least of them. They may make a show of being merciful to leaders they can use to further their goals, but there will be no such concessions to regular folk. They will kill or enslave everyone who does not swear utter submission to Jardir and the Evejah. We have to fight.”

  “We could retreat to Angiers,” Leesha said. “Hide within the city walls.”

  The Painted Man shook his head. “We can’t give them any ground. I know these people. If we show fear and retreat, they will think us weak, and only press the attack harder.”

  “I still don’t like it,” Leesha said.

  The Painted Man shrugged. “Your liking it is irrelevant. The good news is that I doubt they have more than six thousand warriors of fighting age. The bad news is that the least of those can outfight any three Cutters, and when they’re ready to move, they’ll have levied thousands of slave troops from Rizon.”

  “How are we supposed to fight against that?” Rojer said.

  “Unity,” the Painted Man said. “We need to open dialogue with Lakton now, while the lines of communication are still clear, and petition the dukes of Angiers and Miln to put aside their differences and commit to a common defense.”

  “I don’t know the duke of Miln,” Rojer said, “but I grew up in Rhinebeck’s court when my master Arrick was his herald. Rhinebeck is more likely to put aside his differences with the corelings than with Duke Euchor.”

  “Then we’ll have to convince him personally,” Leesha said. She looked at the Painted Man. “All of us.”

  The Painted Man sighed. “Just as well I not go to Lakton. I’m…not very welcome there.”

  “So the tale’s true then?” Rojer asked. “The dockmasters tried to kill you?”

  “After a fashion,” the Painted Man said.

  Rojer sat in the music shell that night, playing to soothe the hundreds of refugees still living in tents in the Corelings’ Graveyard. Many of them drifted over to sit by the shell, baski
ng in the warm glow of the greatward as they fell under Rojer’s spell. His music swept them up and carried them far away to forget, at least for a short time, that their lives had been shattered.

  It seemed a terribly inadequate gift, but it was all he had to give. He kept his Jongleur’s mask in place, letting them see nothing of the bleakness he felt inside.

  Tender Jona was waiting for him when he finished playing. The Holy Man was young, not yet thirty, but he was well loved by the Hollowers, and no one had worked harder to bring comfort and necessities to the refugees. In addition to organizing most of the food and shelter rationing, the Tender walked among the refugees, learning their names and letting them know they were not alone. He led prayers for the dead, found caregivers for orphans, and married lovers brought together by tragedy.

  “Thank you for doing this,” Jona said. “I could feel their spirits lifting as they watched you play. My own, as well.”

  “I’ll perform every evening I’m not needed elsewhere,” Rojer said.

  “Bless you,” Jona said. “Your music gives such strength to them.”

  “I wish it could give some to me,” Rojer said. “Sometimes I think in my case the opposite is true.”

  “Nonsense,” Jona said. “Strength of spirit is not some finite thing, where one man must lose for another to gain. The Creator grants strength and weakness to us all. What has you feeling weak, child?”

  “Child?” Rojer laughed. “I’m not part of your audience, Tender. I have my fiddle,” he held up the instrument, “and you have yours.” He pointed with his bow at the heavy leather-bound Canon that Jona held in his hands.

  Rojer knew his words hurt the Tender, and that the man deserved better, but his mood was black and Jona had picked the wrong time to condescend. He waited for the Holy Man to shout at him, ready and willing to shout right back.

  But Jona never grew vexed. He slipped the book into a satchel he wore for just that purpose, and spread his hands to show they were empty. “As your friend, then. And someone who understands your pain.”