'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 Kraisian 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, lighting 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 despair from clutching at them 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 the warriors themselves. The Kraisian 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 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 warded 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 Pamted 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 in her eyes, he saw it 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,
pointing 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 11 is 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. 'I give you no names but the one you came with, 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,' she said. '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. A few 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; that 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 was 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 from hiding was not the stuff of heroes.
31
The Battle of Cutter's Hollow
332 AR
At the forefront of the square stood the cutters. Chopping trees and hauling lumber had left most of them thick of arm and broad of shoulder, but some, like Yon Grey, were well past their prime, and others, like Ren's son Linder, had not yet grown into their full strength. They stood clustered in one of the portable circles, gripping the wet hafts of their axes as the sky darkened.
Behind the cutters, the Hollow's three fattest cows had been staked in the centre of the square. Having consumed Leesha's drugged meal, they slumbered deeply on their feet.
Behind the cows was the largest circle. Those within could not match the raw muscle of the cutters, but they had greater numbers. Nearly half of them were women, some as young as fifteen. They stood grimly alongside their husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons. Merrem, Dug the butcher's burly wife, held a warded cleaver, and looked well ready to use it.
Behind them lay the covered pit, and then, the third circle, directly before the great doors of the Holy House, where Stefny and the others too old or frail to run about the muddy square stood fast with long spears.
Everyone was armed with a warded weapon. Some, those with the shortest reach, also carried round bucklers made from barrel lids, painted with wards of forbiddance. The Painted Man had only made one of those, but the others had copied it well enough.
At the edge of the day pen's fence, behind the wardposts, stood the artillery, children barely in their teens, armed with bows and slings. A few adults had been given one of the precious thundersticks, or one of Benn's thin flasks, stuffed with a soaked rag. Young children held lanterns, hooded against the rain, to light the weapons. Those who had refused to fight huddled with the animals under the shelter behind them, which shielded Bruna's festival flamework from the rain.
More than a few, like Ande, had gone back on their promise to fight, accepting the scorn of their fellows as they hid behind the wards. As the Painted Man rode through the square astride Twilight Dancer, he saw others looking towards the pen longingly, fear etched on their faces.
There were screams as the corelings rose, and many took a step backwards, their resolve faltering. Terror threatened to defeat the Hollowers before the battle even began. A few tips from the Painted Man on where and how to strike were meagre against the weight of a lifetime's conditioned fear.
The Painted Man noticed Benn shaking. One of his pants legs was soaked and clinging to his twitching thigh, and not from the rain. He dismounted and stood before the glassblower.
'Why are you out here, Benn?' he asked, raising his voice so others could hear.
'M-my d-daughters,' Benn said, nodding back towards the Holy House. It looked as if the spear he held was going to vibrate right out of his hands.
The Painted Man nodded. Most of the Hollowers were there to protect their loved ones lying helpless in the Holy House. If not, they would all be in the pen. He gestured to the corelings materializing in the square. 'You fear them?' he asked, louder still.
'Y-yes,' Benn managed, tears mixing with the rain on his cheeks. A glance showed others nodding as well.
The Painted Man stripped off his robes. None of the people had seen him unclad before, and their eyes widened as they took in the wards tattooed over every inch of his body. 'Watch,' he told Benn, but the command was meant for all.
He stepped from the circle, striding up to a seven foot-tall wood demon that was just beginning to solidify. He looked back, meeting the eyes of as many Hollowers as he could. Seeing them watching intently, he shouted, 'This is what you fear!'
Turning sharply, the Painted Man struck hard, smashing the flat of his hand against the coreling's jaw, knocking the demon down in a flash of magic just as it became fully solid. The coreling shrieked in pain, but it recovered quickly, coiling on its tail to spring. The villagers stood open-mouthed, their eyes locked on the scene, sure the Painted Man would be killed.
The wood demon lunged, but the Painted Man kicked off a sandal and spun, dropped low and planted his hands on the ground, flicking off his sandals as he kicked up inside the coreling's reach. His warded heels struck its armoured chest with a thunderclap, and the demon was sent reeling again, its chest scorched and blackened.
A smaller wood demon launched itself at h
im as he stalked his prey, but the Painted Man caught its arm and twisted himself behind its back, jabbing his warded thumbs into its eyes. There was a smoking sizzle, and the coreling screamed, staggering away and clawing at its face.
As the blind coreling stumbled about, the Painted Man resumed his pursuit of the first demon, meeting its next attack head-on. He pivoted and turned the coreling's momentum against it, latching on as it stumbled past him and wrapping his warded arms around its head. He squeezed, ignoring the demon's futile attempts to dislodge him, and waited as the feedback built in intensity. Finally, with a burst of magic, the creature's skull collapsed, and they fell to the mud.
As the Painted Man rose from the corpse the other demons kept their distance, hissing and searching for a sign of weakness. The Painted Man roared at them, and those closest took a step back from him.
'It is not you that should fear them, Benn the glassblower!' the Painted Man called, his voice like a hurricane. 'It is they that should fear you!'
None of the Hollowers made a sound, but many fell to their knees, drawing wards in the air before them. He walked back up to Benn, who was no longer shaking. 'Remember that,' he said, using his robes to wipe the mud from his wards, 'the next time they clutch at your heart.'
'Deliverer,' Benn whispered, and others began to mumble the same.
The Painted Man shook his head sharply, rainwater flying free. 'No. You are the Deliverer!' he shouted, poking Benn hard in the chest. 'And you!' he cried, spinning to roughly haul a kneeling man to his feet. 'All of you are Deliverers!' he bellowed, sweeping his arms over all who stood in the night. 'If the corelings fear a Deliverer, let them quail at a hundred of them!' He shook his fist, and the Hollowers roared.
The spectacle kept the newly-formed demons at bay for a moment, issuing low growls as they stalked back and forth. But their pacing soon slowed, and one by one they crouched, muscles bunching up as they tamped down.
The Painted Man looked to the left flank, his warded eyes piercing the gloom. Flame demons avoided the water-filled trench, but wood demons approached that way, heedless of the wet.
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