Barren

by Peter V. Brett

  “Ay, Speaker.” Fredd punched a fist to his chest and ran off.

  Selia’s mouth was sour, but she turned to Brine. “He’s right. Fishers, Boggins, Baleses, Pastures. We need every hand on this. Caught ’em with their breeches down tonight, but don’t reckon that trick will work twice, and there’s still one night left to new moon.”

  “An’ next month?” Brine asked. “Month after that?”

  Selia spread her hands. “Core if I know. For now, take the wounded back to camp in Mack’s field, and see if we can get Coline Trigg up here.”

  “Ay, Speaker,” Brine said.

  Lesa met her eyes as Brine stepped away, and Selia felt her breath catch. Jeorje had a bride at home no older than Lesa. His seventh. Yet she was denying herself?

  “Reckon Mack’s got an empty hayloft, girl?”

  The smile that broke across Lesa’s face brightened the twilight. “Ay, think we can find a spot.”

  Jeorje’s eyes followed the two women as they walked away, but Selia ignored it. Jeorje wasn’t the only one whose winters had turned to summers. If she was being given another chance at life, she didn’t mean to let Jeorje Watch and Raddock Fisher dictate how it was lived.

  * * *

  The whole town lent a hand after sunup, marring the demon greatward by felling trees, paring brush, and digging furrows to break the lines. Mack and his family were given warded weapons, and teams were sent to search the woods for any sign the demons had begun work elsewhere.

  The Marshes arrived around midday, grim-faced as they drove several carts heavily laden with barrels into the camp.

  “What’s this?” Selia asked.

  “A condition of our compact,” Jeorje said. “For too long, the Marshes have drowned their problems, wallowing in strong drink rather than solving with hard work.”

  Selia couldn’t argue. Soggy Marsh was famed for its stills, producing marsh water, a spirit made from fermented rice that could double as lamp oil. Marsh water wasn’t as tasty as Boggin’s ale, but Hog did a brisk business selling it in the General Store. Two fingers were enough to put smaller folk off balance. Four could set a grown man stumbling about, singing half-forgotten songs at the top of his lungs.

  “This solves two problems at once,” Jeorje said.

  “The hive,” Selia said.

  Jeorje nodded to Keven Marsh as the young man gave a respectful bow. “All here, Speaker. Every barrel in the Marsh.”

  “No doubt some folk have hidden a bit away, but we’ll find it in time,” Jeorje said.

  They led the carts to the great demon hive, Marshes hauling casks up to the top and cracking them open while others worked a fire pump, spraying the logs and mud with marsh water.

  When the last of it was dumped, the stink of alcohol was thick in the air. Jeorje himself lit the torch and threw it into the pile, reading from the Canon as the hive burned, sending great billowing clouds of evil black smoke into the sky.

  The Marshes watched sadly as their beloved marsh water burned. The heat and smoke made their eyes water, tears streaking the greasy ash on their faces.

  There were shrieks within as the hive dome collapsed. An hour later the structure imploded, falling in on itself and leaving a crater of frightening depth beneath. Yawning tunnels circled the crater in almost every direction, illuminated by the burning wreckage. All stretched deep into the ground, farther than Selia could see.

  “All the way to the Core, or I’m a Fisher.” Brine shuddered.

  * * *

  They were on guard as the sun set—hundreds of spears, mattocks, and bows—but there was no sign of corelings rising as full dark came.

  “Not so much as a Regular,” Selia told the other Speakers.

  “Maybe they ran off for good?” Lucik ventured hopefully.

  “These demon princes are as clever as you say, they know we’re waiting,” Jeorje said. “They—”

  Everyone’s head turned as the great horn sounded, counting the blasts. Four long, and one short. Selia saw smoke and the glow of fire.

  The corelings had attacked Fishing Hole.

  * * *

  “What if it’s a trap?” Lesa asked. “Lurin’ us away so they can get back to work on the hive?”

  “Ent a gamble I’m willing to make with all Fishing Hole on the table.” Selia banged her spear against her mended shield. “Saddle up! Fishers need our help!”

  They raced across the Brook, heedless of the moonless night. Selia set a brutal pace that many of the others, traveling on foot or less experienced at riding, could not maintain, but Jeorje’s great gray stallion matched her gelding stride for stride. Selia could not tell if that was due to concern for the Fishers, or a refusal to be seen as second to her.

  Arrogant, idiot woman, she cursed herself. What does it matter? Knew these demons were smart. Knew their sights were set on the Brook. But you had to keep your grudges. Now the Fishers are going to pay for it.

  Selia hated herself in that moment, hated her lifetime of failures. Anjy Watch. Renna Tanner. Core take her if every man, woman, and child in Fishing Hole was added to that list.

  There were houses aflame when they thundered over the bridge into Fishing Hole. Some folk had taken to the water to escape the blaze, their vessels outlined in firelight and the flare of wards as water demons sought to pull them under. Human remains were scattered in the street, but screams told Selia it was not too late for most of the folk.

  Something stumbled into their path, forcing Selia and Jeorje to pull up so hard they nearly lost their seats. They had weapons ready, but it was only Raddock Lawry, clutching a head wound that matted his hair and beard with blood. “Speaker!”

  “Raddock.” Selia lowered her spear. “What—”

  Before she could finish the words, Raddock swept an arm their way, the limb growing into a sinuous tentacle with a great hooked talon bigger than a reaping scythe at its end. The claw whipped across, severing the front legs of their horses like barley stalks.

  Butter let out a horrific cry, crashing into the mud. Selia tried to throw herself free, but was caught and pinned as the animal rolled atop her.

  Jeorje was quicker, leaping from the saddle and keeping his feet as his stallion went down. The demon’s taloned limb whipped again, cracking across his head. The strap of his steel-reinforced hat broke and he hit the ground hard, walking stick bouncing out of reach.

  Butter continued to thrash, momentarily taking the weight off Selia. She tried to pull free, but the horse fell back again, blasting the breath from her lungs and smashing her face-first into the mud. She came up spitting as Butter screamed and twisted again. This time she managed to scramble away, wiping mud from her eyes.

  The coreling wearing Raddock’s form was rushing her. Lesa threw her spear at it, but the demon threw itself back, sinuous as a snake as it dodged the spear and whipped back upright, barely losing momentum.

  Jeorje recovered his weapon, stalking in on the demon. It lashed at him again but the old Watchman batted the blow aside, coming in quick. He raised his cane for a blow, but instead gave a bellow of pain, dropping the weapon and clutching at his head. He fell to his knees, thrashing and screaming.

  Selia spat another mouthful of mud, grasping for the slippery shaft of her spear. She found it and turned to face the coreling.

  But then she felt it. A presence in her mind, setting every nerve in her body aflame as easily as she might turn up the wick of a lamp. She tried to resist, understanding that it was not real pain, but it made no difference in the sensation. Muscles spasmed and she found herself screaming.

  Memories began to flash unbidden across her mind’s eye, the demon rolling back the years like flipping pages in a journal. Some it passed without consideration—moments of joy, or pride, or happiness. The coreling lingered instead on failures. Pains. Her weakest, most helpless moments. The burning of the school. The staking of Renna Tanner. Weeping on the road to Sunny Pasture, covered in blood.

  Tears streaked the mud on her face. S
he could hear fighting as the militia thundered across the bridge, but it was a distant thing, like folk laughing on a porch down the road.

  The demon probed deeper, delving into thoughts so precious, so private, that Selia instinctively raged in response. Her anger seemed to give the coreling pause and, in that moment, she felt something. A tingling on her forehead.

  The mind ward, Selia realized. It was still there, on her helmet, covered in mud that kept it from functioning properly.

  She reached for it, but there was resistance in the air, as though she were pushing her hand into a rice barrel. She grit her teeth, clumsily swiping at the mud on her helmet.

  The moment she did, the resistance lessened. She could still feel the presence in her mind, but it was weaker now as the ward gained power. Selia stuck her muddy hand into a seam in her armor, searching. After several frantic moments she pulled free a kerchief, using it to wipe the helmet clean.

  Immediately the pressure in her mind ceased, the fire running across her nerves snuffed like a candle. Her vision cleared and she saw the demon changeling feathered with arrows, their warded heads glowing angrily beneath its flesh. The thing with Raddock’s face gave an inhuman shriek and melted away, leaving the arrows lying in the mud as it re-formed into a field demon and fled the continuing fire.

  “Secure the streets!” Selia stumbled to her feet, moving to Jeorje, who continued to writhe on the ground clutching at his head. She found his hat, banded with steel, etched with mind wards.

  She moved close to place it back on Jeorje’s head, but he curled and sprang at her suddenly, wrapping his powerful arms around her legs and twisting her to the ground.

  “Jeorje! Get hold of yourself!” Selia didn’t wait to see if the words got through, punching hard against his unprotected head.

  Jeorje accepted the blow, using his greater weight to pin her to the ground, hands at her throat. “Should’ve rid this town of you fifty years ago.”

  “This . . . ent . . . you . . .” Selia gasped the words, pulling helplessly at Jeorje’s wrists as he choked her. Her feet thrashed and kicked, but she could not get them under her to force him off or reverse the pin. She managed to slam a knee between his legs, but even that only seemed to intensify the mad look in Jeorje’s eyes.

  Selia’s vision began to blur. Lesa was screaming her name, but demons were pouring out of Fishing Hole, and it was all the militia could do to hold them back.

  Balling a steel-gauntleted fist, Selia put the last of her strength into a shallow right hook into the back of Jeorje’s elbow. The blow hyperextended the joint, and for a moment his grip weakened.

  Selia drew a rasping breath and punched again, hitting Jeorje in the throat. It was his turn to gasp then, as Selia curled her legs up and kicked out, knocking him back. “Corespawn it!” Her voice was a hoarse rasp. “It ent you! It’s the demon!”

  But was it really? Perhaps a coreling prince was nudging his mind, but no doubt this was a fantasy Jeorje had nursed for decades in the dark corners of his heart.

  “Murderer!” He came at her again.

  This time Selia was ready, slipping his punch and coming in underneath, hooking him in the ribs, right, left, and right again before quick-stepping away. His prideful refusal to wear proper armor was a weakness here. There were plates between the layers of his coat, but it was open in the front, and she was able to snake through. Even in his madness, Jeorje could not easily shrug off the heavy blows from her reinforced fists.

  He tried to grapple again, and this time Selia accepted the hold, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him down even as her armored knee came up to meet his kidney. She shoved him back, stunned, and he was unable to dodge a side kick that put him on the ground.

  He put his hands under him, and Selia knew the battle was far from over. Instead of attacking or moving to retreat, she snatched up his hat and thrust it down on his head.

  Jeorje shook his head, the madness leaving his eyes as he looked up at her. “Selia, what . . . ?”

  “Demon was in your mind,” Selia said. “Touched mine, as well.”

  Jeorje’s mouth was a flat line as he got to his feet, turning his eyes to scan the street.

  “You’re welcome,” Selia said at his back.

  Jeorje pretended not to hear the words, retrieving his spear-tipped cane. “Doesn’t change things, Selia.”

  Selia let it go at that, picking up her own spear and shield. The words were as close to thanks as she was going to get. The two of them readied to join the battle, only to find it fading. The demons, so numerous a moment ago, were scattering into the night.

  They swept the streets of Fishing Hole, finding survivors everywhere. Under the direction of a coreling prince, the demons had penetrated the wards almost effortlessly, but they seemed more interested in drawing the Brook’s leaders into a trap than in killing Fishers. The real Raddock had taken refuge on one of the fishing boats.

  “This is your fault,” Raddock snarled when he made it back to shore. “Protection, you promised, yet you leave my borough without means to defend itself, and take all your fighters to protect one Pasture’s farm?”

  What he’d said wasn’t entirely fair, but neither was he wrong. It had been a mistake to withhold fighting wards from the Fishers, no matter what they’d done. She opened her mouth to reply.

  “You speak honest word, Fisher,” Jeorje cut in before Selia could speak. He put a hand out. “Southwatch can help you rebuild, and see your fishing spears warded before the next new moon.”

  Raddock stared at the hand for a long moment, then reached out and took it. He glared at Selia as the men shook.

  Had that comin’.

  * * *

  Town Square bustled over the next fortnight. Selia had people bending their backs sunrise to sunset, pulling up the paving stones in the square and re-laying them in a mosaic warding. Scared folk took on debt in Hog’s ledgers at the General Store for tools and supplies to help them construct their own greatwards. The tavern was equally busy, Marshes bitterly drinking Boggin’s ale as everyone shared their fears.

  Watchmen passed through in numbers, heading to Fishing Hole with laden carts of lumber and supplies. Jeorje was making good on his promise, and Selia couldn’t bring herself to condemn it. She’d had all the time in the world to make things right with the Fishers.

  Selia was everywhere in town, soothing nerves and turning them into productivity. The demons had not resumed work on the hive, but there was little that could be done to fill the massive pit, and none were fool enough to venture into its tunnels.

  Lesa began staying openly at her house, ostensibly as her assistant, but it seemed folk had been asking their elders, as Raddock bid. The two of them drew looks whenever folk thought they weren’t watching, and some normally friendly faces were . . . colder. Still, none challenged them openly, and Selia began to think Lesa had been right.

  “Mam asked if I was a square girl today,” Lesa told Selia one night.

  There was a rattle, and Selia saw her hand shaking the cup in its saucer. She set it on the table before she spilled her tea. “What did you say?”

  “Honest word,” Lesa said.

  Selia drew a deep breath. “And still she let you come back here?”

  “Woman grown, even if Old Lady Barren don’t want to see it,” Lesa said. “Mam don’t get to ‘let’ me do anything.”

  Selia nodded. “Fair and true. What did she say?”

  “What I expected,” Lesa said. “Loves me, and ent gonna stop. You’re a good woman who’s done right by this town, but older’n me, and we won’t always see eye to eye. Sad I won’t have children.”

  Selia instinctively touched her own belly, pretending to smooth her dress. “Ways around that, we want.”

  Lesa put her hands on her hips. “Ent gonna let some man—”

  Selia silenced her with a wave. “Don’t need him to touch you. Like basting a roast. Pastures do it all the time with livestock.”

  Lesa made a face and
Selia laughed, kissing her. The weight she’d carried for years was finally lifting. She went to bed with an easy heart.

  And woke in the morning to the sound of the Messenger horn.

  * * *

  Though he brought no goods and only a small letter satchel, folk clustered in the tavern as the Messenger met the town council in the back room of Hog’s store. His armor was freshly scratched and dented, man and mount haggard from the journey. He had dark hair and beard, with eyes like a nightwolf.

  “My name is Marick.” The man held up his satchel, sealed with a mortar and pestle crest. “I come as a representative of Mistress Leesha Paper, Countess of Hollow County.”

  “Countess is a Gatherer?” Coline asked in surprise.

  “Ay,” Marick said. “And thank the Creator for it. There was none better to lead when the Krasians came.”

  “Krasians came out of the desert?” Hog asked.

  Marick nodded. “Made war on the Free Cities. Conquered Fort Rizon, and took the mainland in Lakton, driving refugees north in the thousands.”

  “Creator.” Harral drew a ward in the air.

  “An alliance between Miln and Angiers stopped their advance,” Marick said. “That . . . and the common enemy.”

  “Corelings,” Selia said.

  Marick handed her his satchel. “It’s all there in Mistress Leesha’s letter, Speaker. Demons are swarming, looking to build new hives all over Thesa.”

  Selia nodded. “Seen their handiwork already. Marred their greatward in the western woods and set the hive ablaze. Left with a honeycomb we reckon leads all the way to the Core.”

  “Night,” Marick said. “Did you see the mind demon?”

  “No, but I felt it in my head before I got my wards in place.” Selia didn’t mention Jeorje had been invaded, as well. Now more than ever, they needed unity.

  “Luckier than you know, Speaker,” Marick said. “Ent many get that close and walk away. But you need to understand, it ent over. They’ll be back next month, stronger than ever. Hatchling queen takes residence in that hive, she’ll see your town as her personal larder.”