The Desert Spear

by Peter V. Brett

  Rojer shrugged. “Rabbit in one hat, bunny in the other.”

  Leesha casually reached out to take snow from a low branch in her gloved hand, but Rojer noted the move and easily dodged the snowball she threw at him. It struck a wood demon, which looked about frantically for its assailant.

  “You want children,” Rojer said bluntly.

  “Of course I do,” Leesha said. “I always have. Just never seemed to find the right time.”

  “The right time, or the right father?” Rojer asked.

  Leesha blew out a breath. “Both. I’m only twenty-eight. With the help of herbs, I can likely carry a child to term for another two decades, but never as easily as I might have ten, or even five years ago. If I’d married Gared, our first child might be fourteen now, and there would likely have been several more after that.”

  “Arrick used to say, There’s nothing gained in lamenting what never was,” Rojer said. “Of course, he was living proof of how hard those words are to live by.”

  Leesha sighed, touching her belly and imagining the womb within. It wasn’t Gared she lamented, really. Her mother had been right about the bandits on the road, as Rojer well knew. But what she had never told him, or anyone, was that it had been her fertile time when it happened, and she had feared a child might come of it.

  Leesha had hoped Arlen would add his seed when she seduced him a few days later. If he had, she would have raised the child, if one came, in the hope it sprang from tenderness and not violence. But the Painted Man had refused, vowing to have no children lest the demon magic that gave him his strength infect them somehow.

  So Leesha had brewed the tea she had sworn never to brew, and ensured that the bandits’ seed could find no purchase. When it was done, she had wept bitterly over the empty cup.

  The memory brought fresh tears, cold lines streaking her cheeks in the winter night. Rojer reached out, and she thought he meant to wipe them away, but instead he put his hand into her hood and withdrew it suddenly, producing a multicolored handkerchief as if from her ear.

  Leesha laughed despite herself, and took it to dry her tears.

  By the time they reached town, half a dozen corelings were trailing them, sniffing at the footprints in the snow beyond the radius of the cloaks’ magic. A woman at the edge of the forbidding raised her bow, and warded arrows struck the demons like thunderbolts, killing those that failed to flee.

  All the young women in Deliverer’s Hollow studied the bow now, starting as soon as they could hold one. Many of the older women, not strong enough to pull a great bow, had begun learning to aim a loaded crank bow so they could throw in. The women worked in shifts to patrol the edge of town, killing any demons that ventured too close.

  As they came into the light, Leesha saw Wonda waiting for them. Tall, strong, and homely, it was easy to forget the girl was only coming to her fifteenth summer. Her father, Flinn, had died in the Battle of Cutter’s Hollow, and Wonda was sorely wounded. She’d recovered fully, though she was badly scarred, and had become attached to Leesha during her time in the hospit. Wonda followed Leesha like a hound, ready to kill any coreling that came near. She carried the yew great bow the Painted Man had given her, and could put it to deadly use.

  “I wish you’d let me escort you, Mistress Leesha,” Wonda said. “You’re too important to walk alone outside the forbidding.”

  “That’s what my father says,” Leesha said.

  “Your father is right, mistress,” Wonda said.

  Leesha smiled. “Perhaps when your Cloak of Unsight is finished.”

  “Really?” Wonda asked, her eyes widening. Each cloak took many, many hours to make, and was a royal gift.

  “If you’re determined to shadow my steps,” Leesha said, “I don’t see there’s much alternative. I gave the pattern to my apprentices to embroider last week.”

  “Oh, thank you, mistress!” Wonda said, throwing her long arms around Leesha and hugging her in a girlish fashion that seemed unfit for one taller and stronger than most men.

  “Air,” Leesha gasped at last, and Wonda let go and drew back quickly, looking sheepish.

  “Isn’t she a little young to be venturing outside the forbidding?” Rojer asked quietly as they headed into town. The cobbled streets of Deliverer’s Hollow looped and twisted awkwardly and often inconveniently, but in so doing they formed a huge, complex ward of protection designed by the Painted Man himself. No coreling, big or small, could rise through the soil of the town proper, nor set foot upon it, nor fly above. The streets glowed softly, warm with magic.

  “She does it already,” Leesha said. “Arlen caught her out hunting demons alone twice last week. The girl’s determined to get herself cored. I want to keep her where I can see her.”

  Once, the village would have been dark and silent after sunset, but now the glowing cobbles cast light for dozens of people moving to and fro. The Hollow had lost many in the battle almost a year ago, but its numbers had swelled as folk filtered in from nearby hamlets, drawn to the growing legend of the Painted Man. These newcomers stared and whispered to one another as Rojer and Leesha, the Painted Man’s only known confidants, passed.

  They entered the Corelings’ Graveyard, which was once the old town square where so many demons and Hollowers had perished. Despite its name, the graveyard was still the center of activity for the town: the place where the villagers trained and where the Cutters assembled each night to receive the blessings of Tender Jona before heading out to hunt demons. They stood there now, heads and broad shoulders bowed, drawing wards in the air as Jona prayed for their safety in the naked night.

  Other villagers stood by, heads bowed to join in the blessing. There was no sign of the Painted Man. He spared no time for blessings, likely already out hunting. Sometimes days passed with no sign of him other than demon bodies left freezing in the snow until the morning sun rose to burn them from the world.

  “There’s your promised,” Rojer said, nodding toward Gared Cutter, who stood at the forefront of the Cutters, stooping low so that Tender Jona, whom Gared had bullied as a child, could take a charcoal stick and draw a ward on his forehead.

  A giant, Leesha’s former betrothed towered over even the other Cutters, few of whom stood under six feet. His hair was long and blond, and his bronzed arms were thick with muscle. A pair of warded axe handles jutted over his shoulders, and his gauntlets, tough leather bolted to hammered steel etched with wards, hung from his belt. They would soon be black with sizzling demon ichor.

  Gared was not the oldest of the Cutters, nor the wisest by any means, but he had emerged from the Battle of Cutter’s Hollow a leader whom even the eldest followed without question. It was he who shouted at the men to train harder in the day, led the charge at night, and left more dead corelings in his wake than any save the Painted Man himself.

  “Whatever he’s done to you,” Rojer said, “you have to admit, he’s the sort that gets songs sung and statues made for him.”

  “Oh, there’s no denying he’s beautiful,” Leesha said looking at Gared. “He always was, and drew others to worship him like iron to a magnet. I was one of them, once.”

  She shook her head wistfully. “His da was the same way. My mother broke her wedding vows repeatedly with him, and on an animal level, I even understand it. Both men were perfect specimens on the outside.”

  She turned to Rojer. “It’s the inside that worries me. The Cutters follow Gared without question, but does he lead them in defense of the Hollow, or out of love of carnage?”

  “We thought the same about the Painted Man, once,” Rojer reminded her. “He proved us wrong. Perhaps Gared will, too.”

  “I wouldn’t gamble on it,” Leesha said, turning away from the scene and continuing on.

  At the far end of the graveyard stood the Holy House, and built onto the side of the stone building was the new hospit, completed before the first snows.

  “Ay, Mistress Leesha! Rojer!” Benn called, spotting them. The glassblower was standing with hi
s apprentices, who where carrying blown items and large sheets of glass. Nearby, a group of fiddlers stood, tuning their instruments in a clamor. Benn gave a few quick instructions to his apprentices and came over to meet them.

  “Ready to charge when you are, Rojer,” he said.

  “How were last night’s results?” Leesha asked.

  Benn reached into a pocket, producing a small glass vial. Leesha took the item, running her fingers over the wards thoughtfully. It seemed like ordinary glass, but the wards were smooth, as if the bottle had been heated again after they were etched.

  “Try and break it,” Benn encouraged.

  Leesha cast the vial down onto the cobbles as hard as she could, but the glass only bounced, ringing a clear note. She picked it up, studying it closely; there wasn’t the slightest mark upon it.

  “Impressive,” she said. “Your warding is improving.”

  Benn smiled and bowed. “You can break one on an anvil, if you’re determined, but it ent easy.”

  Leesha frowned and shook her head. “They should resist even that. Let me see one you haven’t charged yet.”

  Benn nodded, signaling an apprentice who brought another vial, almost identical to the first. “Here’s one of those we mean to charge tonight.”

  Leesha studied the vial closely, tracing her fingernail down into the grooves of the etching. “Might be that the depth of the groove affects the power of the charge,” she mused. “I’ll think on it.” She slipped the vials into a pocket in her apron for later study.

  “We’ve got production running smoothly now,” Rojer said. “Benn and his apprentices blow and ward by day, and my apprentices and I lure corelings in to charge them at night. Soon every home will have windows of warded glass, and we’ll be able to store liquid demonfire in quantity without fear.”

  Leesha nodded. “I’d like to observe the charging tonight.”

  “Of course,” Rojer said.

  Darsy and Vika were waiting by the hospit doors. “Mistress Leesha.” Vika greeted her with a curtsy as they arrived at the hospit. She was a plain woman, neither beautiful nor ugly, sturdily built with breeder’s hips and a round face.

  “You don’t have to curtsy every night, Vika,” Leesha said.

  “Course I do,” Vika said. “You’re town Gatherer.” Vika was a full Herb Gatherer herself, but she and Darsy, both years Leesha’s senior, accepted Leesha as their leader.

  “I doubt Bruna put up with that,” Leesha said. Her mentor, the town’s last Gatherer, had been a woman of terrible temper who spat upon meaningless formality.

  “The old crone was too blind to see it,” Darsy said, coming up and giving Leesha a nod of greeting. Bowing and scraping was not Darsy’s way, but there was as much deference in that nod as in all Vika’s curtsies and mistresses.

  The daughter of Cutter stock, Darsy was tall and heavyset, though more with muscle than fat. She could overmatch most men at festival feats of strength, and the heavy warded blade at her waist had cut the limbs from more than one demon seeking to finish off an injured person on the battlefield.

  “Hospit’s ready, if the Cutters come back with wounded,” Darsy said.

  “Thank you, Darsy,” Leesha said. The hospit was always busiest at midnight, when Cutters came back from the hunt. Even against warded axes, wood demons could be a terrifying foe. Under the canopy of trees, their skin blended into the bark as if they wore Cloaks of Unsight, and while some walked the forest floor, looking much like trees themselves, others stalked the limbs like monkeys, dropping unexpectedly on their prey.

  Even so, fatalities among the Cutters were few. When a warded weapon struck a demon and flared to life, there was always feedback. The magic jolted through the wielder, bringing with it a flash of ecstasy and a feeling of invincibility. Those who tasted the magic were stronger and healed faster, at least until the dawn. Only Arlen still had power in the day.

  “What are the apprentices working on?” she asked Vika.

  “Eldest are embroidering your cloak patterns,” Vika said. “The rest are sterilizing instruments and practicing their letters.”

  “I’ve brought fresh books and a new grimoire I’ve completed,” Leesha said, handing her the satchel.

  Vika nodded. “I’ll have it copied right away.”

  “You have your Gatherer’s apprentices copying wards?” Rojer asked. “Isn’t that better handled by Warders’ apprentices? I could have a word…”

  Leesha shook her head. “Every one of my girls gets warding lessons now. I won’t have them left helpless at sunset like we were.”

  Leaving Leesha to make her rounds in the hospit, Rojer went over to the music shell at the edge of the square where his apprentices gathered. They were a mixed bunch, as motley as Rojer’s pants. Some were Hollowers, but most had come from other towns, drawn to the tales of the Painted Man. Half of them were too old to lift a tool or weapon, and so they decided to try the fiddle, only to find that their fingers lacked the necessary dexterity. Several others were children whose skill might not tell for many years.

  Only a handful of the remainder showed promise, pretty Kendall most of all. She was Rizonan, and new to the Hollow. Old enough to handle complex arrangements, but young enough to still learn quickly, she had a real aptitude for music. She was slender and quick, as adept at tumbling and acrobatics as fiddling. She would make a fine Jongleur one day.

  Rojer did not immediately acknowledge his apprentices, and they knew to keep back until he did. He took out his fiddle and plucked the strings, checking their tune. Satisfied, he took up the bow in his crippled hand. He was missing his index and middle fingers, bitten off by a flame demon when he was only a child, but his two remaining fingers were limber and strong, and the bow became like an extension of his arm.

  All the feelings he had hidden behind his Jongleur’s mask that night found voice in his music then, as he filled the square with a haunting melody. Layer by layer, he added complexities to the music, limbering his muscles and readying himself for the night’s work.

  The apprentices applauded when he was finished, and Rojer bowed before taking them through a series of simpler melodies to warm them up. He winced at all the discordant notes. Only Kendall was able to keep pace with him, her face knit tight in concentration.

  “Terrible!” he snapped. “Has anyone other than Kendall even lifted their fiddle since last night? Practice! All day, every day!”

  Some of the apprentices grumbled at that, but Rojer played a jarring series of notes on his fiddle, startling them. “Don’t want to hear your grumbles, either!” he barked. “We’re looking to charm demons, not spin a wedding reel. If you ent gonna take that seriously, it’s time to put your fiddle back in its case!”

  Everyone looked at their feet, and Rojer knew he had been too harsh. Not half as harsh as Arrick would have been, but more than felt fair. He knew he should say something encouraging, but nothing came to mind. Arrick hadn’t set much example there.

  He walked away, breathing deeply. Without even thinking about it, he put his bow back to work, turning his guilt and frustration into music. He let the emotions drift off with the sounds, and he looked back to his apprentices and made the music speak to them, giving the hope and encouragement his words lacked. As he played, folk began to straighten, their eyes growing determined once more.

  “That was beautiful, Rojer,” a voice said when he finally took bow from string. Rojer saw Kendall standing beside him. He hadn’t even noticed her approach—lost in his music.

  “Are you thirsty?” Kendall asked, holding up a stone jug. “I brewed sweet tea. Still hot.”

  Did Leesha know all along she meant it for me? Rojer wondered.

  You ent good enough, fiddle boy, Elona had said, and you know it.

  Leesha knew it, too, it seemed. She might as well have tied Kendall with a bow.

  “Never much cared for sweet tea,” Rojer said. “Makes my hands shake.”

  “Oh,” Kendall said, deflating. “Well…that’s al
l right.”

  “I want you to solo tonight,” Rojer said. “I think you’re ready.”

  Kendall brightened. “Really?” She gave a squeal and threw her arms around him, hugging a bit longer than was precisely necessary.

  Of course, that was when Leesha chose to arrive. Rojer stiffened, and Kendall pulled back in confusion until she saw Leesha. She quickly stepped away from Rojer and dipped into a curtsy. “Mistress Leesha.”

  “Kendall.” Leesha greeted her with a smile. “Is that sweet tea I smell?”

  Kendall blushed a deep red. “I, ah…”

  Rojer scowled. “Run and fetch your fiddle, Kendall.” He turned to Leesha. “Kendall is going to try a solo tonight.”

  “Is she ready for that?” Leesha asked.

  Rojer shrugged. “Is Wonda ready to hunt corelings? I was younger than Kendall when I first charmed a demon.”

  “Your need was more dire,” Leesha said.

  “It’s safe,” Rojer said. “I’ll be ready to take over if I’m needed, and the women will be watching with arrows nocked.” He nodded to the edge of the wards, where archers, including Wonda, had gathered in force.

  They began preparations by ordering the archers to keep clear a wide area of ground past the edge of the forbiddance. Rojer then led his fiddlers into a series of loud, jarring notes, filling the air with an atonal cacophony that corelings hated. The music shell focused the sound to the area just outside the forbidding, where corelings tended to gather, sometimes in force.

  Thus secure, the glassblower’s apprentices rushed out from the forbidding and placed warded glass throughout the clearing. There were large sheets, blown bottles, vials, even a glass axe that must have taken weeks to make and ward.

  When the glassblowers were safely returned, the fiddlers changed their tune. Rojer led the music, calling out instructions to the others as he did, using them to amplify his special magic as he coaxed demons out of the woods and into the clearing. He then walked alone outside the forbiddance, calling with his music, controlling each step forward the corelings took until they were arranged as he liked.