The Warded Man

CHAPTER 17 RUINS 328 AR

What are you doing, Arlen? he asked himself as his torchlight flickered invitingly on the stone stairs leading down into the dark. The sun was dipping low, and it would take several minutes to get back to his camp, but the stairs called to him in a way he could not explain.

Cob and Ragen had warned him about this. The thought of treasures that might be found in ruins was too much for some Messengers, and they took risks. Stupid risks. Arlen knew he was one of these, but he could never resist exploring the “lost dots on the map,” as Tender Ronnell had put it. The money he made messaging paid for these excursions, sometimes taking him days from the nearest road. But for all his effort, he had found only dregs.

His thoughts flashed back to the pile of books from the old world that crumbled to dust when he tried to pick them up. The rusted blade that gashed his hand and infected it so badly he felt his arm was on fire. The wine cellar that caved in and trapped him for three days until he dug himself out without a bottle to show for it. Ruin hunting never paid off, and one day, he knew, it would be the death of him.

Go back, he urged himself. Have a bite. Check your wards. Get some rest.

“The night take you,” Arlen cursed himself, and headed down the stairs.

But for all his self-loathing, Arlen’s heart pounded with excitement. He felt free and alive beyond anything the Free Cities could offer. This was why he became a Messenger.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, and dragged a sleeve across his sweating brow, taking a brief pull from his waterskin. Hot as it was, it was hard to imagine that after sunset the desert above would drop to near-freezing temperatures.

He moved along a gritty corridor of fitted stones, his torchlight dancing along the walls like shadow demons. Are there shadow demons? he wondered. That would be just my luck. He sighed. There was so much he still didn’t know.

He had learned much in the last three years, soaking up knowledge of other cultures and their struggles with the corelings like a sponge. In the Angierian forest, he had spent weeks studying wood demons. In Lakton, he learned of boats beyond the small, two-man canoes used in Tibbet’s Brook, and paid for his curiosity about water demons with a puckered scar on his arm. He had been lucky, able to plant his feet and haul on the tentacle, dragging the coreling from the water. Unable to abide the air, the nightmarish creature had let go and slipped beneath the surface once more. He spent months there, learning water wards.

Fort Rizon was much like home, less a city than a cluster of farming communities, each helping one another to ease the inevitable losses to corelings who bypassed the wardposts.

But Fort Krasia, the Desert Spear, was Arlen’s favorite. Krasia of the stinging wind, where the days burned and the cold nights brought forth sand demons from the dunes.

Krasia, where they still fought.

The men of Fort Krasia had not allowed themselves to succumb to despair. They waged a nightly battle against the corelings, locking away their wives and children and taking up spear and net. Their weapons, like those Arlen carried, could do little to pierce the tough skin of a coreling, but they stung the demons, and were enough to harass them into warded traps until the desert sun rose to reduce them to ashes. Their determination was an inspiration.

But for all he had learned, Arlen only hungered for more. Every city had taught him something unknown in the others. Somewhere out there had to be the answers he sought.

Thus, this latest ruin. Half buried in sand, almost forgotten save for a crumbling Krasian map Arlen had discovered, the city of Anoch Sun had stood untouched for hundreds of years. Much of the surface was collapsed or worn down by wind and sand, but the lower levels, cut deep into the ground, were intact.

Arlen turned a corner, and his breath caught. Up ahead, in the dim flickering light, he saw pitted symbols cut into the stone pillars to either side of the corridor. Wards.

Holding the torch close, Arlen inspected them. They were old. Ancient. The very air about them was stale with the weight of centuries. He took paper and charcoal from his satchel to make rubbings, then, swallowing hard, continued on, lightly stirring the dust of ages.

He came to a stone door at the end of the hall. It was painted with faded and chipped wards, few of which Arlen recognized. He pulled out his notebook and copied those intact enough to be made out, then moved to inspect the door.

It was more a slab than a door, and Arlen soon realized that nothing held it in place save its own weight. Taking up his spear to use as a lever, he wedged the metal tip into the seam between the slab and the wall, and heaved. The point of the spear snapped off.

“Night!” Arlen cursed. This far from Miln, metal was rare and expensive. Refusing to be balked, he took a hammer and chisel from his pack and hacked at the wall itself. The sandstone cut easily, and soon he had carved a nook wide enough to work the shaft of his spear into the room beyond. The spear was thick and sturdy, and this time when Arlen threw his weight against the lever, he felt the great slab shift slightly. Still, the wood would break before it moved.

Using the chisel, Arlen pried up the floor stones at the door’s base, digging a deep groove for it to tip into. If he could shift the stone that far, its own inertia would keep it in motion.

Moving back to the spear, he heaved once more. The stone resisted, but Arlen persevered, grinding his teeth with the effort. Finally, with a thunderous impact, the slab toppled to the ground, leaving a narrow gap in the wall, choked with dust.

Arlen moved into what appeared to be a burial chamber. The air reeked of age, but already fresher air was flooding the chamber from the corridor. Holding up his torch, he saw that the walls were brightly painted with tiny, stylized figures, depicting countless battles of humans against demons.

Battles that the humans seemed to be winning.

In the center of the room stood an obsidian coffin, cut roughly in the shape of a man holding a spear. Arlen approached the coffin, noting the wards along its length. He reached out to touch them, and realized his hands were shaking.

He knew there was little time remaining before sunset, but Arlen could not have turned away now if all the demons in the Core rose up against him. Breathing deeply, he moved to the head of the sarcophagus and pushed hard, forcing the lid down so that it would tilt to the floor without breaking. Arlen knew he should have copied the wards before trying this, but taking the time to copy them would have meant coming back in the morning, and he simply could not wait.

The heavy stone moved slowly, and Arlen’s face reddened with the strain as he pushed, his muscles knotted and bunched. The wall was close behind him, and he braced a foot against it for leverage. With a scream that echoed down the corridor, he shoved with all his might, and the cover slid off, crashing to the ground.

Arlen paid the lid no mind, staring at the contents of the great coffin. The wrapped body inside was remarkably intact, but it could not hold his attention. All Arlen could see was the object clutched in its bandaged hands. A metal spear.

Sliding the weapon reverently from the corpse’s stubborn grasp, Arlen marveled at its lightness. It was seven feet long from tip to tip, and the shaft was more than an inch in diameter. The point was still sharp enough to draw blood after so many years. The metal was unknown to Arlen, but that fact flew from his thoughts as he noted something else.

The spear was warded. All along its silvery surface the etchings ran, a level of craftsmanship unknown in modern times. The wards were unlike anything he had ever seen.

As Arlen became aware of the enormity of his find, he realized, too, the danger he was in. The sun was setting above. Nothing he had found here would matter if he died before bringing it back to civilization.

Snatching up his torch, Arlen bolted out of the burial chamber and sprinted down the hall, taking the steps three at a time. He darted through the maze of passages on instinct, praying that his twists and turns were true.

Finally, he saw the exit to the dusty, half-buried streets, but not a sliver of light could be seen through the doorway. As he reached the exit, he saw that the sky was still tinged with color. The sun had only just set. His camp was in sight, and the corelings were just beginning to rise.

Without pausing to consider his actions, Arlen dropped his torch and charged out of the building, scattering the sand as he zigzagged around the rising sand demons.

Cousins to rock demons, sand demons were smaller and more nimble, but still among the strongest and most armored of the coreling breeds. They had small, sharp scales, a dirty yellow almost indistinguishable from the grit, instead of the large charcoal gray plates of their rock-demon cousins, and they ran on all fours where rock demons stood hunched on two legs.

But their faces were the same; rows of segmented teeth jutted out on their jaws like a snout, while their nostril slits rested far back, just below their large, lidless eyes. Thick bones from their brows curved upward and back, cutting through the scales as sharp horns. Their brows twitched continually as they squeezed down, displacing the ever-blowing sand.

And even more frightening than their larger cousins, sand demons hunted in packs. They would work together to see him cored.

His heart pounding and his discovery forgotten, Arlen moved through the ruins with incredible speed and alacrity, vaulting fallen pillars and crumbled rock while dodging right and left around the solidifying corelings.

Demons needed a moment to get their bearings on the surface, and Arlen took full advantage of that as he sprinted toward his circle. He kicked one demon in the back of the knees, knocking it down just long enough for him to get past. Another he charged directly, only to spin out of the way at the last moment, the coreling’s claws slashing through empty air.

He picked up speed as the circle neared, but one demon stood in his way, and there was no way around it. The creature was nearly four feet tall, and its initial confusion was past. It crouched at the ready, directly in his path, hissing hatred.

Arlen was so close—his precious circle just a few feet away. He could only hope to barrel through the smaller creature and roll into his circle before it could kill him.

He charged right in, instinctively stabbing with his new spear as he bowled the creature over. There was a flash upon impact, and Arlen struck the ground hard, coming up in a spray of sand and continuing on, not daring to look back. He leapt for his circle, and was safe.

Panting with exertion, Arlen looked up at the sand demons surrounding him, outlined in desert twilight. They hissed and clawed at his wards, talons bringing bright flashes of magic.

In the flickering light, Arlen caught sight of the demon he had crashed into. It was slowly dragging itself away from Arlen and its fellows, leaving an inky black trail in the sand.

Arlen’s eyes widened. Slowly, he glanced down at the spear he still clutched in his hands.

The tip was coated in demon ichor.

Suppressing the urge to laugh aloud, Arlen looked back at the injured coreling. One by one, its fellows paused in their assault on Arlen’s wards, sniffing the air. They turned, glancing down at the trail of ichor, and then at the injured demon.

With a shriek, the pack fell upon the creature, tearing it apart.

The cold of the desert night eventually forced Arlen to take his eyes off the metal spear. He had laid a fire when he made camp earlier, so he struck spark to it and coaxed the flames to life, warming himself and a bit of dinner. Dawn Runner had been hobbled and blanketed in his circle, brushed and fed before Arlen left to explore the ruins that afternoon.

As it had every night for the last three years, One Arm showed up soon after moonrise, bounding over the dunes and scattering the smaller corelings to stand before Arlen’s circle. Arlen greeted it as always with a clap of his two hands. One Arm roared its hatred in return.

When he first left Miln, Arlen had wondered if he would ever find a way to sleep through the sound of One Arm hammering at his wards, but it was second nature to him now. His warding circle had been proven time and again, and Arlen maintained it religiously, keeping the plates freshly lacquered and the rope mended.

He hated the demon, though. The years had brought none of the kinship the guards on the wall of Fort Miln had felt. As One Arm remembered who had crippled it, so too did Arlen recall who had given him the puckered scars across his back and almost cost him his life. He remembered, too, nine Warders, thirty-seven guardsmen, two Messengers, three Herb Gatherers, and eighteen citizens of Miln who had lost their lives because of it. He gazed at the demon now, absently stroking his new spear. What would happen if he struck? The weapon had wounded a sand demon. Would the wards affect a rock demon as well?

It took all his willpower to resist the urge to leap from his circle and find out.

Arlen had hardly slept when the sun drove the demons back into the Core, but he rose with high spirits. After breakfast, he took out his notebook and examined the spear, painstakingly copying every ward and studying the patterns they formed along the shaft and head.

When he finished, the sun was high in the sky. Taking another torch, he went back down into the catacombs, making rubbings of the wards cut into the stone. There were other tombs, and he was tempted to ignore all sense and explore every one. But if he stayed even another day, his food would run out before he reached the Oasis of Dawn. He had gambled on finding a well in the ruins of Anoch Sun, and indeed he had, but vegetation was scant and inedible.

Arlen sighed. The ruins had stood for centuries. They would be there when he returned, hopefully with a team of Krasian Warders at his back.

By the time he came back outside, the day was wearing on. Arlen took time to exercise and feed Dawn Runner, then prepared a meal for himself, his mind turned inward.

The Krasians would demand proof, of course. Proof the spear could kill. They were warriors, not ruin hunters, and would not give up a single able-bodied man for an expedition without good reason.

Proof, he thought. And it was only right that it come from him.

With barely an hour before sunset, Arlen began to ready his camp. He hobbled his horse again, checking the portable circle around it. He prepared his ten-foot circle as usual, then took a series of wardstones from his bags and began to lay them around it in a wide outer ring some forty feet in diameter. He placed the stones slightly farther apart than usual, carefully lining them up with their fellows. There was a third portable circle in the saddlebags—Arlen always kept a spare—and he set that one in the camp as well, off to the side in the larger circle, by its edge.

When he was finished, Arlen knelt in his center circle, the spear at his side, and breathed deeply, clearing his mind of distractions. He didn’t watch as the sun dipped and the sand glowed on the horizon before going dark.

The nimble sand demons rose first, and Arlen heard the wards of his outer circle spark and crackle, keeping them back. Moments later, he heard the roar of One Arm, scattering lesser demons from its path as it approached Arlen’s outer ring. Arlen ignored it, continuing to breathe, his eyes closed, his mind calm. The lack of reaction served only to anger the demon further, and it struck hard against the warding.

Magic flared, visible even through his closed eyelids, but the demon did not immediately continue its assault. He opened his eyes, watching One Arm cock its head curiously. Arlen allowed himself a humorless smile.

One Arm struck the wards again, and again it paused. This time, the demon let out a piercing cry and set its feet, thrusting its good arm at the warding, talons spread. As if it were pressing against a wall of glass, the demon leaned forward, shrieking against the pain as it doubled and tripled the pressure against the wards. Angry magic spiderwebbed out from where its claws met the barrier, and as the demon pressed, the magic bowed visibly in the air.

With a sound that chilled even Arlen’s calm mind, the rock demon flexed its armored legs and smashed through the wardnet, tumbling into the inner ring. Dawn Runner whinnied and pulled at his hobble.

Arlen rose as One Arm did, their eyes meeting. The weaker sand demons tried desperately to replicate One Arm’s feat, but the wardstones were precisely spaced, and none of them could muster the strength to cross. They shrieked their frustration at the barrier as they bore witness to the confrontation within the circle.

Though he had grown since they first met, Arlen felt no less dwarfed by One Arm now than he had that first, terrifying night. The rock demon stood over fifteen feet tall from its clawed feet to the tips of its horns, more than twice a man’s height. Arlen was forced to crane his head upward to meet the coreling’s eyes, locked unwaveringly on his own.

One Arm’s snout split wide to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth, running with drool, and it flexed its daggerlike talons teasingly. Its armored chest was thrown out, the black carapace impenetrable to known weapons, and its spiked tail whipped back and forth, heavy enough to smash a horse with a single blow. Its body was smoking and scorched from crossing the net, but the obvious hurt only made the coreling seem more dangerous, a titan mad with pain.

Arlen’s fingers tightened on the metal spear as he stepped from the circle.

CHAPTER 18 RITE OF PASSAGE 328 AR

One Arm shrieked into the night, its vengeance finally at hand. Arlen forced himself to breathe deeply, fighting to keep his heart from pounding right out of his chest. Even if the magic of the spear could harm the demon—and he had nothing more than his hopes that it could—it would not be enough to win this battle. He needed all his wits about him, all his training.

His feet slowly slid apart into a battle stance. The sand would slow him, but it would slow One Arm as well. He kept eye contact, and made no sudden moves as the coreling savored the moment. Its reach far exceeded his own, even with the spear. Let it come to him.

Arlen felt as if his entire life had been rushing toward this moment without his ever realizing it. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for this test, but after being hounded by this demon for more than ten years, he found the thought of putting it off any longer intolerable. Even now, he could step back into the protective circle, safe from the rock demon’s attacks. Deliberately, he moved away from it, committing himself to the contest.

One Arm watched him circle, its muzzle curling in a snarl. A low rumbling echoed in the coreling’s throat. Its tail flicked faster, and Arlen knew it was getting ready to strike.

With a roar, the demon lunged, its talons splayed as they cut the air. Arlen darted straight forward, ducking the blow and moving inside the coreling’s reach. He kept on, going right between its legs, stabbing his spear into its tail as he rolled aside. There was a satisfying flash of magic as he struck, and the demon howled as the weapon broke through its armor and pierced flesh.

Arlen was expecting the return slash of the demon’s tail, but it came quicker than he anticipated. He threw himself flat to the ground as the appendage whooshed by, the spikes inches from his head. He was up again in a flash, but One Arm was already turning, using its tail’s momentum to speed its pivot. For all its size, the coreling was agile and quick.

One Arm struck again, and Arlen could not dodge in time. He whipped the shaft of his spear perpendicular to the blow in parry, but he knew the demon was far too powerful to block. He had let his emotions get the better of him; had entered this contest too soon. He cursed himself for a fool.

But as the demon’s talons struck the metal of the spear, the wards etched along its length flared. Arlen hardly felt the blow, but One Arm was deflected as if it had struck a warded circle. The demon was thrown back as its own power rebounded, but it recovered fast, unharmed.

Arlen forced himself to overcome his shock and move, understanding the blessing for what it was and determined to make the most of it. One Arm charged him madly, determined to power through this new obstacle.

Scattering sand as he ran, Arlen vaulted the fallen remains of a thick stone pillar, taking shelter behind it and preparing to dodge left or right, depending on how the demon approached.

One Arm struck hard at the pillar, almost four feet in diameter, and broke it in half, throwing one side out of its way with a flex of its sinewy arm. The raw display of power was terrifying, and Arlen bolted for his circle, needing a moment to recover.

The demon anticipated his reaction, though, and its legs twitched, launching it into the air. It landed in between Arlen and his succor.

Arlen stopped short, and One Arm again shrieked in triumph. It had tested Arlen’s mettle, and found him wanting. It respected the spear’s bite, but there was no fear in the coreling’s eyes as it advanced. Arlen gave ground slowly, deliberately, not wanting to provoke the creature with a sudden move. He backed up as far as he could before crossing his outer wardstones and coming into the reach of the sand demons clustered to watch the battle.

One Arm saw his predicament, and roared, its thunderous charge terrible to behold. Arlen set himself firmly, his legs coiled. He did not bother to raise the spear to block. Instead, he cocked it back, ready to stab.

The rock demon’s blow was powerful enough to crush a lion’s skull, but it never struck home. Arlen had allowed the demon to back him into his spare portable circle, unnoticed in the sand. The wards flared to life, reflecting the demon’s attack back on it, and Arlen was ready, leaping forward and skewering the demon in the belly with his warded spear.

One Arm’s shriek pierced the night, a deafening, horrifying sound. To Arlen, it was like music. He pulled back on the spear, but it held fast, caught in the rock demon’s thick black carapace. He yanked again, and this time it nearly cost him his life as One Arm lashed out and struck him a glancing blow, its claws digging deep into his shoulder and chest.

Arlen was sent spinning away, but he wrenched himself toward his spare circle, collapsing in the protective ring. As he clutched his wounds, he watched the giant rock demon stumble about. Again and again, One Arm attempted to grasp the spear and pull it free of the wound, but the wards along its length thwarted the demon. And all along, the magic continued to work, sparking in the wound and sending killing waves through the coreling’s body.

Arlen allowed himself a slight smile as One Arm collapsed to the ground, thrashing. But as he watched the demon’s flailing slow to twitching, he felt a great emptiness grow inside of him. He had dreamt of this moment countless times, of how it would feel, of what he would say, but it wasn’t like he imagined. Instead of elation, he felt depression and loss.

“That was for you, Mam,” he whispered as the great demon ceased to move. He tried to picture her, desperate to feel her approval, and he was shocked and ashamed when he could not remember her face. He screamed, feeling wretched and small under the stars.

Giving the demon a wide berth, Arlen made his way back to his supplies, binding his wounds. The stitches he made were crooked, but they held his wounds closed, and the hogroot poultice burned, the pain evidence of its need. Already the wound was infecting.

He found no sleep that night. If the pain of his wounds and the ache of his heart had not been sufficient to drive slumber away, a chapter of his life was about to end, and he was determined to see it through.

When the sun crested the dunes, it flooded Arlen’s camp with a speed that could only be found in the desert. The sand demons had already melted away, fleeing at the first hint of dawn. Arlen winced as he stood up, making his way from the circle to stand over One Arm, retrieving his spear.

Wherever the sun’s light touched, the black carapace smoked, then sparked and ignited. Soon the demon’s body was a funeral pyre, and Arlen stood watching, mesmerized. As the rock demon collapsed into ashes soon borne on the morning wind, he saw hope for the human race.

CHAPTER 19 THE FIRST WARRIOR OF KRASIA 328 AR

The desert road wasn’t really a road at all, simply a string of ancient signposts, some clawed and jagged, others half buried in sand, keeping a traveler from losing his way. It wasn’t all sand, as Ragen had once said, though there was enough of that to wander for days seeing naught else. On the outskirts ran hundreds of miles of hard, dust-choked flats, with sparse bits of dead vegetation clinging to cracked clay, too dry to rot. Apart from the shadows cast by dunes in the sea of sand, there was no shelter from the beating sun, so hot Arlen could not imagine it was the same body that brought cold light to Fort Miln. The wind blew continually, and he had to cover his face to keep from inhaling sand, his throat raw and dry.

The nights were worse, the heat leaching from the ground moments after the sun dipped below the horizon, welcoming the corelings into a cold, desolate place.

But even here, there was life. Snakes and lizards hunted tiny rodents. Carrion birds sought the corpses of creatures slain by corelings, or that wandered into the desert and could not find their way back out. There were at least two large oases, where a large body of water caused the surrounding soil to grow dense with edible vegetation, and others where a trickle from the rock or a pool of water no wider than a man’s stride supported a host of stunted plants and small creatures. Arlen had witnessed these desert dwellers burying themselves in the sand at night, resisting the cold with conserved heat and hiding from the demons that stalked the sands.

There were no rock demons in the desert, for there was not enough prey. No flame demons, because there was little to burn. Wood demons had no bark to blend into, no limbs to climb. Water demons could not swim through sand, and wind demons could find no perch. The dunes and desert flats belonged to sand demons alone. Even they were sparse in the deep desert, clustering mostly about the oases, but the sight of a fire would draw them from miles around.

Five weeks from Fort Rizon to Krasia, more than half of it through the desert, was more than many of the hardiest Messengers cared to contemplate. Despite Northern merchants offering exorbitant sums for Krasian silks and spice, few were desperate—or crazy—enough to go there.

For his own part, Arlen found the trip peaceful. He slept in his saddle during the hottest parts of the day, carefully wrapped in loose white cloth. He watered his horse frequently, and spread tarps beneath his portable circles at night to keep the wards from becoming obscured in the sand. He was tempted to lash out at the circling sand demons, but his wound had made his grip weak, and he knew that should the spear be pulled from his grasp, a common wind might lose it in the sand more surely than hundreds of years in a buried tomb.

Despite the cries of the sand demons, the nights seemed quiet to Arlen, used to the great roars of One Arm. He slept more peacefully on those nights than any spent outside before.

For the first time in his life, Arlen saw his path extend beyond being a glorified errand boy. He had always known he was destined for more than messaging; he was destined to fight. But he now realized it was more than that: He was destined to bring others to fight.

He was certain he could duplicate the warded spear, and was already pondering ways to adapt its wards to other weapons; arrows, staves, slingstones, the possibilities were endless.

In all the places he had seen, only the Krasians refused to live in terror of the corelings, and for that reason Arlen respected them above all. There were no people more deserving of this gift. He would show them the spear, and they would supply him with everything he needed to build them weapons to turn the tide of their nightly war.

The thoughts fled as Arlen caught sight of the oasis. The sand could reflect the sky’s blue and trick a man into rushing off the road to water that did not exist, but when his horse picked up the pace, Arlen knew it was real. Dawn Runner could smell the water.

Their water had been depleted the day before, and by the time they reached the small pool, both Arlen and his horse were sick with thirst. In unison, they dropped their heads to the cool water, drinking deeply.

When they had drunk their fill, Arlen refilled their waterskins and set them in the shade beneath one of the sandstone monoliths standing silent guard around the oasis. He inspected the wards cut into the stone, finding them intact, but with some signs of wear. The eternally blowing sand scratched at them little by little, wearing down the edges over time. He took out his etching tools, deepening and sharpening them to maintain the net.

While Dawn Runner grazed on scrub grass and the leaves of stunted bushes, Arlen harvested dates, figs, and other fruit from the oasis trees. He ate his fill, and set the rest where they could dry in the sun.

An underground river fed the oasis, and in years beyond memory, men had dug away the sand and cut the stone beneath, finally reaching the running water. Arlen descended the stone steps into a cool underground chamber and collected the nets stored there, tossing them into the water. When he left, he carried a satisfying catch of fish. He set aside a choice few for himself and cleaned the others, salting them and setting them alongside the fruit to dry.

Taking a forked tool from the oasis stores, he then searched around the stones, at last spotting telltale grooves in the sand. Soon he had a snake pinned with the forked stick, and snatched it by the tail, cracking it like a whip to kill it. There was likely a cache of eggs nearby, but he did not search them out. It would be dishonorable to deplete the oasis more than necessary. Again, he put part of the snake aside for his own uses, and set the rest to dry.

In a carved nook in one of the great sandstones, marked with the sigils of many Messengers, Arlen retrieved a cache of tough, dried fruits, fish, and meat left by the previous Messenger, and refilled his saddlebags. Once his harvest dried, he would replenish the nook for the next Messenger to succor here.

It was impossible to cross the desert without stopping at the Oasis of Dawn. The only source of water for over a hundred miles, it was the destination of every desert traveler in either direction. Most of these were Messengers, and therefore Warders, and over the years that exclusive society had marked their passing on the abundant sandstone. Dozens of names were cut into the stones; some were simply scratched print, while others were masterworks of calligraphy. Many Messengers included more than just their names, listing the cities they had visited, or the number of times they had succored at the Oasis of Dawn.

On his eleventh trip through the oasis, Arlen had long since finished carving his name and those of the living cities and villages he had visited, but he never stopped exploring, and always had something to add. Slowly, using beautiful scrolling letters, Arlen reverently inscribed “Anoch Sun” into the list of ruins he had seen. No other Messenger’s mark in the oasis made such a claim, and that filled him with pride.

The next day, Arlen continued to increase the oasis’ stores. It was a matter of honor among Messengers to leave the oasis stocked better than it was found, against the day when one of their number should stumble in too injured or sunstruck to gather for themselves.

That night, he composed a letter to Cob. He had written many such; they sat in his saddlebag, unsent. His words always felt inadequate to make up for abandoning his duties, but this news was too great not to share. He illustrated the wards on the spear’s tip precisely, knowing Cob could spread the knowledge to every Warder in Miln in short order.

He left the Oasis of Dawn first thing the next morning, heading southwest. For five days, he saw little more than yellow dunes and sand demons, but early on the sixth, the city of Fort Krasia, the Desert Spear, came into view, framed by the mountains beyond.

From afar, it seemed just another dune, sandstone walls blending with their surroundings. It was built around an oasis much larger than the Oasis of Dawn, fed, the ancient maps said, by the same great underground river. Its warded walls, carved rather than painted, stood proudly in the sun. High above the city flew Krasia’s banner, crossed spears over a rising sun.

The guards at the gate wore the black robes of dal’Sharum, the Krasian warrior caste, veiled against the ruthless sand. While not as tall as Milnese, Krasians were a head taller than most Angierians or Laktonians, hard with wiry muscle. Arlen nodded to them as he passed.

The guards raised their spears in return. Among Krasian men, this was the barest courtesy, but Arlen had worked hard to earn the gesture. In Krasia, a man was judged by the number of scars he carried and alagai—corelings—he had killed. Outsiders, or chin, as the Krasians called them, even Messengers, were considered cowards who had given up the fight, and were unworthy of any courtesy from dal’Sharum. The word “chin” was an insult.

But Arlen had shocked the Krasians with his requests to fight alongside them, and after he had taught their warriors new wards and assisted in many kills, they now called him Par’chin, which meant “brave outsider.” He would never be considered an equal, but the dal’Sharum had stopped spitting at his feet, and he had even made a few true friends.

Through the gate, Arlen entered the Maze, a wide inner yard before the wall of the city proper, filled with walls, trenches, and pits. Each night, their families locked safe behind the inner walls, the dal’Sharum engaged in alagai’sharak, Holy War against demonkind. They lured corelings into the Maze, ambushing and harrying them into warded pits to await the sun. Casualties were high, but Krasians believed that dying in alagai’sharak assured them a place at the side of Everam, the Creator, and went gladly into the killing zone.

Soon, Arlen thought, it will be only corelings that die here.

Just inside the main gate was the Great Bazaar, where merchants hawked over hundreds of laden carts, the air thick with hot Krasian spices, incense, and exotic perfumes. Rugs, bolts of fine cloth, and beautiful painted pottery sat beside mounds of fruit and bleating livestock. It was a noisy and crowded place, filled with shouted haggling.

Every other marketplace Arlen had ever seen teemed with men, but the Great Bazaar of Krasia was filled almost entirely with women, covered head to toe in thick black cloth. They bustled about, selling and buying, shouting at each other vigorously and handing over their worn golden coins only grudgingly.

Jewelry and bright cloth were sold in abundance in the bazaar, but Arlen had never seen it worn. Men had told him the women wore the adornments under their black, but only their husbands knew for sure.

Krasian men above the age of sixteen were almost all warriors. A small few were dama, the Holy Men who were also Krasia’s secular leaders. No other vocation was considered honorable. Those who took a craft were called khaffit, and considered contemptible, barely above women in Krasian society. The women did all the day-to-day work in the city, from farming and cooking to child care. They dug clay and made pottery, built and repaired homes, trained and slaughtered animals, and haggled in the markets. In short, they did everything but fight.

Yet despite their unending labor, they were utterly subservient to the men. A man’s wives and unmarried daughters were his property, and he could do with them as he pleased, even kill them. A man could take many wives, but if a woman so much as let a man who was not her husband look at her unveiled, she could—and often would—be put to death. Krasian women were considered expendable. Men were not.

Without their women, Arlen knew, the Krasian men would be lost, but the women treated men in general with reverence, and their husbands with near-worship. They came each morning to find the dead from the night’s alagai’sharak, and wailed over the bodies of their men, collecting their precious tears in tiny vials. Water was coin in Krasia, and a warrior’s status in life could be measured by the number of tear bottles filled upon his death.

If a man was killed, it was expected that his brothers or friends would take his wives, so they would always have a man to serve. Once, in the Maze, Arlen had held a dying warrior who offered him his three wives. “They are beautiful, Par’chin,” he had assured, “and fertile. They will give you many sons. Promise you will take them!”

Arlen promised they would be cared for, and then found another willing to take them on. He was curious about what lay under the Krasian women’s robes, but not enough to trade his portable circle for a clay building, his freedom for a family.

Following behind almost every woman were several tan-clad children; the girls’ hair wrapped, the boys in rag caps. As early as eleven, the girls would begin to marry and take on the black clothes of women, while the boys were taken to the training grounds even younger. Most would take on the black robes of dal’Sharum. Some few would come to wear the white of dama, and devote their lives to serving Everam. Those who failed at both professions would be khaffit, and wear tan in shame until they died.

The women caught sight of Arlen as he rode through the market, and began whispering to one another excitedly. He watched them, amused, for none would look him in the eye, or approach him. They hungered for the goods in his saddlebags—fine Rizonan wool, Milnese jewels, Angierian paper, and other treasures of the North—but he was a man, and worse, a chin, and they dared not approach. The eyes of the dama were everywhere.

“Par’chin!” a familiar voice called, and Arlen turned to see his friend Abban approach, the fat merchant limping and leaning heavily on his crutch.

Lame since childhood, Abban was khaffit, unable to stand among the warriors and unworthy to be a Holy Man. He had done well for himself, though, doing trade with Messengers from the North. He was clean-shaven, and wore the tan cap and shirt of khaffit, but over that he wore a rich headcloth, vest, and pantaloons of bright silk, stitched in many colors. He claimed his wives were as beautiful as those of any dal’Sharum.

“By Everam, it is good to see you, son of Jeph!” Abban called in flawless Thesan, slapping Arlen on the shoulder. “The sun always shines brighter when you grace our city!”

Arlen wished he had never told the merchant his father’s name. In Krasia, the name of a man’s father was more important than one’s own. He wondered what they would think if they knew his father was a coward.

But he clapped Abban on the shoulder in return, his smile genuine. “And you, my friend,” he said. He would never have mastered the Krasian tongue, or learned to navigate its strange and often dangerous culture, without the lame merchant’s aid.

“Come, come!” Abban said. “Rest your feet in my shade and wash the dust from your throat with my water!” He led Arlen to a bright and colorful tent pitched behind his carts in the bazaar. He clapped his hands, and his wives and daughters—Arlen could never tell the difference—scurried to open the flaps and tend to Dawn Runner. Arlen had to force himself not to help as they took the heavily laden saddlebags and carried them into the tent, knowing that the Krasians found the sight of a man laboring unseemly. One of the women reached for the warded spear, wrapped in cloth and slung from his saddle horn, but Arlen snatched it away before she could touch it. She bowed deeply, afraid she had given some insult.

The inside of the tent was filled with colorful silk pillows and intricately woven carpets. Arlen left his dusty boots by the flap and breathed deeply of the cool, scented air. He eased down onto the pillows on the floor as Abban’s women knelt before him with water and fruit.

When he was refreshed, Abban clapped his hands, and the women brought them tea and honeyed pastries. “Your trip through the desert passed well?” Abban asked.

“Oh, yes.” Arlen smiled. “Very well indeed.”

They made small talk for some time afterward. Abban never failed in this formality, but his eyes kept flicking to Arlen’s saddlebags, and he rubbed his hands together absently.

“To business then?” Arlen asked as soon as he judged it polite.

“Of course, the Par’chin is a busy man,” Abban agreed, snapping his fingers. The women quickly brought out an array of spices, perfume, silks, jewelry, rugs, and other Krasian craft.

Abban examined the goods from Arlen’s clients in the North while Arlen perused the items proposed for trade. Abban found fault with everything, scowling. “You crossed the desert just to trade this lot?” he asked in disgust when he was done. “It hardly seems worth the trip.”

Arlen hid his grin as they sat and were served fresh tea. Bidding always started this way.

“Nonsense,” he replied. “A blind man could see I have brought some of the finest treasures Thesa has to offer. Better by far than the sorry goods your women have brought before me. I hope you have more hidden away, because”—he fingered one carpet, a masterwork of weaving—“I’ve seen better carpets rotting in ruins.”

“You wound me!” Abban cried. “I, who give you water and shade! Woe am I, that a guest in my tent should treat me so!” he lamented. “My wives worked the loom day and night to make that, using only the finest wool! A better carpet you will never see!”

After that, it was only a matter of haggling, and Arlen had not forgotten the lessons learned watching old Hog and Ragen a lifetime ago. As always, the session ended with both men acting as if they had been robbed, but inwardly feeling they had gotten the better of the other.

“My daughters will pack up your goods and hold them for your departure,” Abban said at last. “Will you sup with us tonight? My wives prepare a table none in your North can match!”

Arlen shook his head regretfully. “I go to fight tonight,” he said.

Abban shook his head. “I fear you have learned our ways too well, Par’chin. You seek the same death.”

Arlen shook his head. “I have no intent to die, and expect no paradise in the next life.”

“Ah, my friend, no one intends to go to Everam in the flower of their youth, but that is the fate that awaits those who go to alagai’sharak. I can recall a time when there were as many of us as there are grains of sand in the desert, but now …” He shook his head sadly. “The city is practically empty. We keep the bellies of our wives fat with children, but still more die in the night than are born in the day. If we don’t change our ways, a decade from now Krasia will be consumed by the sand.”

“What if I told you I had come to change that?” Arlen asked.

“The son of Jeph’s heart is true,” Abban said, “but the Damaji will not listen to you. Everam demands war, they say, and no chin is going to change their minds.” The Damaji were the city’s ruling council, made up of the highest-ranked dama of each of the twelve Krasian tribes. They served the Andrah, Everam’s most-favored dama, whose word was absolute.

Arlen smiled. “I can’t turn them from alagai’sharak,” he agreed, “but I can help them win it.” He uncovered his spear and held it out to Abban.

Abban’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the magnificent weapon, but he raised his palm and shook his head. “I am khaffit, Par’chin. The spear is forbidden to my unclean touch.”

Arlen drew the weapon back and bowed low in apology. “I meant no offense,” he said.

“Ha!” Abban laughed. “You may be the only man ever to bow to me! Even the Par’chin need not fear offending khaffit.”

Arlen scowled. “You are a man like any other,” he said.

“With that attitude, you will ever be chin,” Abban said, but he smiled. “You’re not the first man to ward a spear,” he said. “Without the combat wards of old, it makes no difference.”

“They are the wards of old,” Arlen said. “I found this in the ruins of Anoch Sun.”

Abban blanched. “You found the lost city?” he asked. “The map was accurate?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” Arlen asked. “I thought you said it was guaranteed!”

Abban coughed. “Yes, well,” he said, “I trusted our source, of course, but no one has been there in more than three hundred years. Who is to say how accurate the map was?” He smiled. “Besides, it’s not like you were likely to come back for a refund if I was wrong.” They both laughed.

“By Everam, it is a fine tale, Par’chin,” Abban said when Arlen finished describing his adventure in the lost city, “but if you value your life, you will not tell the Damaji that you looted the holy city of Anoch Sun.”

“I won’t,” Arlen promised, “but surely they will see the value in the spear, regardless.”

Abban shook his head. “Even if they agree to grant you audience, Par’chin,” he said, “and I doubt they will, they will refuse to see value in anything a chin brings them.”

“You may be right,” Arlen said, “but I should at least try. I have messages to deliver to the Andrah’s palace, anyway. Walk with me.”

Abban held up his crutch. “It is a long way to the palace, Par’chin,” he said.

“I’ll walk slowly,” Arlen said, knowing the crutch had nothing to do with the refusal.

“You don’t want to be seen with me outside the market, my friend,” Abban warned. “That alone may cost you the respect you’ve earned in the Maze.”

“Then I’ll earn more,” Arlen said. “What good is respect, if I can’t walk with my friend?”

Abban bowed deeply. “One day,” he said, “I wish to see the land that makes noble men like the son of Jeph.”

Arlen smiled. “When that day comes, Abban, I will take you across the desert myself.”

Abban grabbed Arlen’s arm. “Stop walking,” he ordered.

Arlen obeyed, trusting in his friend though he saw nothing amiss. Women walked the street carrying heavy loads, and a group of dal’Sharum walked ahead of them. Another group was approaching from the other direction. Each was led by a dama in white robes.

“Kaji tribe,” Abban said, pointing with his chin at the warriors ahead of them. “The others are Majah. It would be best for us to wait here a bit.”

Arlen squinted at the two groups. Both were clad in the same black, and their spears were simple and unadorned. “How can you tell the difference?” he asked.

Abban shrugged. “How can you not?” he replied.

As they watched, one of the dama called something to the other. They faced off, and began to argue. “What do you suppose they’re arguing about?” Arlen asked.

“Always the same thing,” Abban said. “The Kaji dama believe sand demons reside on the third layer of Hell, and wind demons on the fourth. The Majah say the opposite. The Evejah is vague on the point,” he added, referring to the Krasian holy canon.

“What difference does that make?” Arlen asked.

“Those on the lower levels are furthest from Everam’s sight,” Abban said, “and should be killed first.”

The dama were screaming now, and the dal’Sharum on either side were clenching their spears in rage, ready to defend their leaders.

“They’ll fight one another over which demons to kill first?” Arlen asked, incredulous.

Abban spat in the dust. “The Kaji will fight the Majah over far less, Par’chin.”

“But there will be real enemies to fight once the sun sets!” Arlen protested.

Abban nodded. “And when it does, the Kaji and Majah will stand united,” he said. “As we say, ‘By night, my enemy becomes my brother.’ But sunset is still hours away.”

One of the Kaji dal’Sharum struck a Majah warrior across the face with the butt of his spear, knocking the man down. In seconds, all the warriors on each side were locked in combat. Their dama stood off to the side, unconcerned by and uninvolved in the violence, continuing to shout at one another.

“Why is this tolerated?” Arlen asked. “Can’t the Andrah forbid it?”

Abban shook his head. “The Andrah is supposed to be of all tribes and none, but in truth, he will always favor the tribe he was raised from. And even if he didn’t, not even he can end every blood feud in Krasia. You can’t forbid men from being men.”

“They’re acting more like children,” Arlen said.

“The dal’Sharum know only the spear, and the dama the Evejah,” Abban agreed sadly.

The men were not using the points of their weapons … yet, but the violence was escalating quickly. If someone did not intervene, there would surely be death.

“Don’t even think about it,” Abban said, gripping Arlen’s arm as he started forward.

Arlen turned to argue, but his friend, looking over his shoulder, gasped and fell to one knee. He yanked on Arlen’s arm to do the same.

“Kneel, if you value your hide,” he hissed.

Arlen looked around, spotting the source of Abban’s fear. A woman walked down the road, swathed in holy white. “Dama’ting” he murmured. The mysterious Herb Gatherers of Krasia were seldom seen.

He cast his eyes down as she passed, but did not kneel. It made no difference; she took no notice of either of them, proceeding serenely toward the melee, unnoticed until she was almost upon the men. The dama blanched when they saw her, shouting something to their men. At once, the fighting stopped, and the warriors fell over themselves to clear a path for the dama’ting to pass. The warriors and dama quickly dispersed in her wake, and traffic on the road resumed as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“Are you brave, Par’chin, or mad?” Abban asked, when she was gone.

“Since when do men kneel to women?” Arlen asked, perplexed.

“Men don’t kneel to dama’ting, but khaffit and chin do, if they are wise,” Abban said. “Even the dama and dal’Sharum fear them. It is said they see the future, knowing which men will live through the night and which will die.”

Arlen shrugged. “So what if they do?” he asked, clearly doubtful. A dama’ting had cast his fortune the first night he had gone into the Maze, but there had been nothing about the experience to make him believe she could actually see the future.

“To offend a dama’ting is to offend fate,” Abban said as if Arlen were a fool.

Arlen shook his head. “We make our own fates,” he said, “even if the dama’ting can cast their bones and see them in advance.”

“Well, I don’t envy the fate you will make if you offend one,” Abban said.

They resumed walking and soon reached the Andrah’s palace, an enormous domed structure of white stone that was likely as old as the city itself. Its wards were painted in gold, and glittered in the bright sunlight that fell upon its great spires.

But they had not set foot on the palace steps before a dama came rushing down to them. “Begone, khaffit!” he shouted.

“So sorry,” Abban apologized, bowing deeply, eyes on the ground, and backed away. Arlen stood his ground.

“I am Arlen, son of Jeph, Messenger from the North, known as Par’chin,” he said in Krasian. He planted his spear on the ground, and even wrapped it was clear what it was. “I bring letters and gifts for the Andrah and his ministers,” Arlen went on, holding up his satchel.

“You keep poor company for one who speaks our tongue, Northerner,” the dama said, still scowling at Abban, who groveled in the dust.

An angry retort came to Arlen’s lips, but he bit it back.

“The Par’chin needed directions,” Abban said to the dirt, “I only sought to guide …”

“I did not ask you to speak, khaffit!” the dama shouted, kicking Abban hard in the side. Arlen’s muscles bunched, but a warning glare from his friend kept him in place.

The dama turned back as if nothing had happened. “I will take your messages,” he said.

“The duke of Rizon asked that I deliver a gift to the Damaji personally,” Arlen dared.

“Not in this life will I let a chin and a khaffit enter the palace,” the dama scoffed.

The response was disappointing, but not unexpected. Arlen had never managed to see a Damaji. He handed over his letters and packages, scowling as the dama ascended the steps.

“I am sorry to say I told you so, my friend,” Abban said. “It did not help that I was with you, but I speak true that the Damaji would not suffer an outsider in their presence, even if he was the duke of your Rizon himself. You would have been politely asked to wait, and left forgotten on some silk pillow to lose face.”

Arlen gritted his teeth. He wondered what Ragen had done when he visited the Desert Spear. Had his mentor tolerated such handling?

“Now will you sup with me?” Abban asked. “I have a daughter, just fifteen and beautiful. She would make you a good wife in the North, keeping your home for you while you travel.”

What home? Arlen wondered, thinking of the tiny apartment full of books in Fort Angiers that he hadn’t been to in over a year. He looked at Abban, knowing his scheming friend was more interested in the trade contacts he could make with a daughter in the North than in her happiness or the upkeep of Arlen’s home, in any event.

“You honor me, my friend,” he replied, “but I’m not ready to quit just yet.”

“No, I rather thought not,” Abban sighed. “I suppose you will go to see him?”

“Yes,” Arlen said.

“He is no more tolerant of my presence than the dama,” Abban warned.

“He knows your value,” Arlen disagreed.

Abban shook his head. “He tolerates my existence because of you,” he said. “The Sharum Ka has wanted lessons in the Northern tongue ever since you were first allowed into the Maze.”

“And, Abban is the only man in Krasia who knows it,” Arlen said, “making him valuable to the First Warrior, despite being khaffit.” Abban bowed, but looked unconvinced.

They headed for the training grounds located not far from the palace. The city’s center was neutral territory for all tribes, where they gathered to worship and prepare for alagai’sharak.

It was late afternoon, and the camp bustled with activity. Arlen and Abban passed first through the workshops of the weaponsmiths and Warders, whose crafts were the only ones considered worthy of dal’Sharum. Beyond that stood the open grounds, where drillmasters shouted and men trained.

On the far side was the palace of the Sharum Ka and his lieutenants, the kai’Sharum. Second only to the immense palace of the Andrah, this great dome housed the most honored of all, men who had proven their valor on the battlefield time and time again. Below the palace was said to be a great harem, where they might pass on their brave blood to future generations.

There were stares and muttered curses as Abban limped by on his crutch, but none dared bar their way. Abban was under the protection of the Sharum Ka.

They passed lines of men doing spear forms in lockstep, and others practicing the brutal, efficient movements of sharusahk, Krasian hand combat. Warriors practiced marksmanship or threw nets at running spear boys, honing their skills for the night’s coming battle. Deep in the midst of this was a great pavilion, where they found Jardir going over plans with one of his men.

Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir was the Sharum Ka of Krasia, a title that translated into Thesan as “First Warrior.” He was a tall man, well over six feet, wrapped in black cloth and wearing a white turban. In some way Arlen did not fully understand, the title Sharum Ka was a religious one as well, signified by the turban.

His skin was a deep copper color, his eyes dark as his black hair, oiled back and hanging down his neck. His black beard was forked and impeccably trimmed, but there was nothing soft about the man. He moved like a raptor, swift and sure, and his wide sleeves were rolled back to reveal hard, muscular arms, crisscrossed with scars. He was not much past thirty.

One of the pavilion guards caught sight of Arlen and Abban as they approached, and bent to whisper in Jardir’s ear. The First Warrior turned from the chalked slate he was studying.

“Par’chin!” he called, spreading his arms with a smile and rising to meet them. “Welcome back to the Desert Spear!” He spoke in Thesan, his vocabulary and accent much improved since Arlen’s last visit. He caught Arlen in a firm embrace and kissed his cheeks. “I did not know you had returned. The alagai will quail in fear tonight!”

Upon his first visit to Krasia, the First Warrior had taken an interest in Arlen as an oddity, if nothing more, but they had bled for one another in the Maze, and in Krasia, that meant everything.

Jardir turned to Abban. “What are you doing here among men, khaffit?” he asked disgustedly. “I have not summoned you.”

“He’s with me,” Arlen said.

“He was with you,” Jardir said pointedly. Abban bowed deeply and scurried off as quickly as his lame leg would allow.

“I don’t know why you waste your time with that khaffit, Par’chin,” Jardir spat.

“Where I come from, a man’s worth does not end with lifting the spear,” Arlen said.

Jardir laughed. “Where you come from, Par’chin, they do not lift the spear at all!”

“Your Thesan is much improved,” Arlen noted.

Jardir grunted. “Your chin tongue is not easy, and twice as hard for needing a khaffit to practice it when you are away.” He watched Abban limp away, sneering at his bright silks. “Look at that one. He dresses like a woman.”

Arlen glanced across the yard at a black-swathed woman carrying water. “I’ve never seen a woman dressed like that,” he said.

“Only because you won’t let me find you a wife whose veils you can lift.” Jardir grinned.

“I doubt the dama would allow one of your women to marry a tribeless chin,” Arlen said.

Jardir waved his hand. “Nonsense,” he said. “We have shed blood together in the Maze, my brother. If I take you into my tribe, not even the Andrah himself would dare protest!”

Arlen wasn’t so sure about that, but he knew better than to argue. Krasians had a way of becoming violent if you challenged their boasts, and it might even be so. Jardir seemed equal to a Damaji, at least. Warriors obeyed him without question, even over their dama.

But Arlen had no desire to join Jardir’s tribe or any other. He made the Krasians uncomfortable; a chin who practiced alagai’sharak and yet kept company with khaffit. Joining a tribe would ease that discomfort, but the moment he did, he would be subject to the tribe’s Damaji, embroiled in their every blood feud, and never allowed to leave the city again.

“I don’t think I’m ready for a wife just yet,” he said.

“Well don’t wait too long, or men will think you push’ting,” Jardir said, laughing and punching Arlen’s shoulder. Arlen wasn’t sure what the word meant, but he nodded anyway.

“How long have you been in the city, my friend?” Jardir asked.

“Only a few hours,” Arlen said. “I just delivered my messages to the palace.”

“And already you come to offer your spear! By Everam,” Jardir cried to his fellows, “the Par’chin must have Krasian blood in him!” His men joined in his laughter.

“Walk with me,” Jardir said, putting his arm on Arlen’s shoulder and moving away from the others. Arlen knew Jardir was already trying to decide where he would best fit in the night’s battle. “The Bajin lost a Pit Warder last night,” he said. “You could fill in there.”

Pit Warders were among the most important of the Krasian soldiers, warding the demon pits used to trap corelings, and assuring that the wards activated after the demons fell in. It was risky work, for if the tarps used to disguise the pits didn’t fall in and reveal the wards fully, there was little to prevent a sand demon from climbing out and killing the Warder as he tried to uncover them. There was only one position with a higher mortality rate.

“Push Guard, I would prefer,” Arlen replied.

Jardir shook his head, but he was smiling. “Always the most dangerous duty for you,” he chided. “If you are killed, who will carry our letters?”

Arlen understood the sarcasm, even through Jardir’s thick accent. Letters meant little to him. Few dal’Sharum could even read.

“Not so dangerous, this night,” Arlen said. Unable to contain his excitement, he unrolled his new spear, holding it up to the First Warrior proudly.

“A kingly weapon,” Jardir agreed, “but it is the warrior that wins through in the night, Par’chin, not the spear.” He put his hand on Arlen’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Do not put too much faith in your weapon. I have seen warriors more seasoned than you paint their spears and come to a bitter end.”

“I did not make it,” Arlen said. “I found it in the ruins of Anoch Sun.”

“The birthplace of the Deliverer?” Jardir laughed. “The Spear of Kaji is a myth, Par’chin, and the lost city has been reclaimed by the sands.”

Arlen shook his head. “I’ve been there,” he said. “I can take you there.”

“I am Sharum Ka of the Desert Spear, Par’chin,” Jardir replied. “I cannot just pack a camel and ride off into the sand looking for a city that exists only in ancient texts.”

“I think I will convince you when night falls,” Arlen said.

Jardir smiled patiently. “Promise me that you will not try anything foolish,” he said. “Warded spear or no, you are not the Deliverer. It would be sad to bury you.”

“I promise,” Arlen said.

“Good, then!” Jardir clapped him on the shoulder. “Come, my friend, the hour grows late. You shall sup in my palace tonight, before we muster outside Sharik Hora!”

They supped on spiced meats, ground peas, and the paper-thin layers of bread the Krasian women made by spreading wet meal on hot, polished rocks. Arlen had a place of honor next to Jardir, surrounded by kai’Sharum and served by Jardir’s own wives. Arlen never understood why Jardir paid him so much respect, but after his treatment at the Andrah’s palace, it was most welcome.

The men begged stories of him, calling for the tale of One Arm’s crippling, though they had heard it many times. Always it was tales of One Arm, or Alagai Ka, as they called him. Rock demons were rare in Krasia, and as Arlen complied, his audience sat entranced by the tale.

“We built a new scorpion after your last visit, Par’chin,” one of the kai’Sharum told him as they sipped their nectar after the meal. “It can punch a spear through a sandstone wall. We will find a way to pierce Alagai Ka’s hide yet.”

Arlen chuckled and shook his head. “I’m afraid you will not see One Arm tonight,” he said, “or ever again. He has seen the sun.”

The eyes of the kai’Sharum bulged. “Alagai Ka is dead?” one asked. “How did you manage this?”

Arlen smiled. “I will tell you the tale after tonight’s victory,” he said. He stroked the spear next to him gently as he did, a gesture the First Warrior did not miss.

CHAPTER 20 ALAGAI’SHARAK 328 AR

“Great Kaji, Spear of Everam, grant strength to your warriors’ arms and courage to their hearts this night, as they go forth to your holy work.”

Arlen shifted uneasily as the Damaji bestowed the blessings of Kaji, the first Deliverer, on the dal’Sharum. In the North, claiming the Deliverer was just a mortal man might get you in a fist-fight, but it was no crime. In Krasia, such heresy was punishable by death. Kaji was Everam’s Messenger, come to unite all mankind against the alagai. They called him Shar’Dama Ka, First Warrior-Priest, and said he would return to unite man again one day, when they were worthy of Sharak Ka, the First War. Any who suggested otherwise came to a quick and brutal end.

Arlen was not such a fool as to voice his doubts about Kaji’s divinity, but the Holy Men still unnerved him. They always seemed to be looking for an excuse to take offense at him, the outsider, and giving offense in Krasia usually meant death for the offender.

But whatever discomfort Arlen might feel around the Damaji, he always swelled at the sight of Sharik Hora, the enormous domed temple to Everam. Literally meaning “Heroes’ Bones,” Sharik Hora was a reminder of what humanity was capable of, a building dwarfing any structure Arlen had ever seen. The Duke’s Library in Miln was tiny by comparison.

But Sharik Hora was impressive for more than its size. It was a symbol of courage beyond death, for it had been decorated with the bleached bones of every warrior who had died in alagai’sharak. They ran up the support beams and framed the windows. The great altar was made entirely of skulls, the pews out of leg bones. The chalice that worshippers drank water from was a hollowed skull resting in two skeletal hands, its stem the forearms, and its base a pair of feet. Each gigantic chandelier was made from dozens of skulls and hundreds of ribs, and the great domed ceiling, two hundred feet above, was covered in the skulls of the Krasians’ warrior ancestors, looking down and judging, demanding honor.

Arlen once tried to calculate how many warriors decorated the hall, but the task defeated him. All the cities and hamlets in Thesa, perhaps two hundred fifty thousand souls, could not have decorated a fraction of Sharik Hora. The Krasians were numberless, once.

Now all of Krasia’s warriors, perhaps four thousand in all, fit into Sharik Hora with room to spare. They gathered there twice each day, once at dawn and once at dusk, to honor Everam; to thank Him for corelings killed the previous night, and to beg His strength in killing them in the night to come. Most of all, though, they prayed for the Shar’Dama Ka to come again and begin Sharak Ka. To a one, they would follow him down into the Core itself.

Screams borne on the desert wind reached Arlen in the ambush pocket where he waited anxiously for the corelings to come. The warriors around him shifted their feet, offering prayers to Everam. Elsewhere in the Maze, alagai’sharak had begun.

They heard the reports as the Mehnding tribe positioned on the city walls cranked and fired their weapons, launching heavy stones and giant spears into the demon ranks. Some of these struck sand demons, killing or injuring them enough for their fellows to turn upon them, but the true purpose of the attack was to anger the corelings, stirring them into a frenzy. Demons were easily enraged, and once so, could be herded like sheep at the sight of prey.

When the corelings were boiling, the outer gates of the city opened, disabling the outer wardnet. Sand and flame demons charged through, wind demons gliding above them. Several dozen were usually allowed entrance before the gates closed and the net was reestablished.

Inside the gates stood a group of warriors, banging spear against shield. These men, known as Baiters, were mostly old and weak, expendable, but their honor knew no bounds. With shouts and whoops, they scattered at the demons’ charge, splitting up in a prearranged fashion to divide the demons and lead them deeper into the Maze.

Watchers atop the Maze walls took down wind demons with bolas and weighted nets. As they crashed to the ground, Stakers emerged from tiny, warded alcoves to pin them before they could free themselves, shackling their limbs to warded stakes that were hammered into the ground, preventing them from returning to the Core to flee the dawn.

Meanwhile, the Baiters ran on, leading the sand and occasional flame demons to their end. The demons could run faster, but they could not negotiate the sharp turns of the Maze as easily as men who knew every twist. When a demon got too close, the Watchers attempted to slow it with nets. Many of these attempts were successful. Many were not.

Arlen and the others in the Push Guard tensed, hearing the shouts as their Baiters approached. “Ware!” a Watcher called from above. “I count nine!”

Nine sand demons were far more than the usual two or three that reached an ambush point. Baiters attempted to whittle their numbers as they split up, so that an ambush seldom faced more than five. Arlen tightened his grip on the warded spear as the eyes of the dal’Sharum went wild with excitement. To die in alagai’sharak was to win entry into paradise.

“Lights!” came the call from above. As the Baiters led the demons into the ambush point, the Watchers lit blazing oil fires before angled mirrors, flooding the area with light.

Caught unawares, the corelings shrieked and recoiled. The light could not harm them, but it gave the exhausted Baiters time to escape. Prepared for the light, they flowed with practiced precision around the demon pits, dropping into shallow, warded trenches.

The sand demons recovered quickly and resumed their charge, oblivious to the path the Baiters had taken. Three of them ran right onto the sand-colored tarps that covered the two wide demon pits, shrieking as they fell into the twenty-foot holes.

The traps sprung, the Push Guard shouted and charged from their ambush pockets, spears leveled between circular, warded shields to drive the remaining corelings into the pits.

Arlen roared past his fears as he charged with the others, caught up in the beautiful madness of Krasia. This was how he imagined the warriors of old, shouting down the instinct to run and hide as they leapt into battle. For a moment, he forgot who and where he was.

But then his spear struck a sand demon and the wards flared to life, streaking silver lightning into the creature. It shrieked in agony, but was swept away by the longer spears to either side of Arlen. Dazzled by the flare of defensive wards, none of the other men even noticed.

Arlen’s group drove the two remaining demons they faced into the open pit on their side of the ambush point. The pit’s wards were a one-way kind known only in Krasia. Corelings could enter the ring, but not escape. Under the packed dirt of the pit floor lay quarried stone, cutting off their path to the Core and trapping them in the pits until dawn took them.

Looking up, Arlen saw the opposite side was not doing nearly so well. The tarp had snagged as it fell into their pit, leaving some of the wards covered. Before the Pit Warder could clear the block, the two corelings that had fallen in climbed through the gap, killing him.

The Push Guard on the far side of the ambush point had erupted into chaos, faced with five sand demons and lacking a working demon pit to drive them into. There were only ten men in that unit, and the demons were in their midst, slashing and biting.

“Retreat to the pocket!” the kai’Sharum on Arlen’s side ordered.

“The Core I will!” Arlen cried, charging across to aid the other group. Seeing an outsider display such courage, the dal’Sharum followed, the commander shouting at their backs.

Arlen paused only long enough to kick the tarp away from the demon pit and activate the circle. Barely missing a beat, he leapt into the melee, the warded spear alive in his hand.

He stabbed the first demon in the side, and this time the other men could not miss the flash of magic as the weapon struck home. The sand demon fell to the ground, mortally wounded, and Arlen felt a rush of wild energy flow through him.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and pivoted, his spear in line to block the razor teeth of another sand demon. The defensive wards along the spear’s length activated before the coreling could bite down, locking its mouth open. Arlen gave the spear a sharp twist and the magic flared, snapping the creature’s jaw.

A third demon charged, but Arlen’s limbs surged with power. He whipped the butt of his spear across, and the wards on its end sheared off half the coreling’s face. As it fell, he dropped his shield and twirled the spear in his hands, bringing it down hard to pierce the demon’s heart.

Arlen roared and looked about for another demon to fight, but the others had been driven into the pit. All about, men were staring at him in awe.

“What are we waiting for?” he cried, charging into the Maze. “We’ve alagai to hunt!”

The dal’Sharum, chanting, “Par’chin! Par’chin!” followed.

Their first encounter was a wind demon that swooped in, tearing the throat from one of Arlen’s followers. Before the creature could climb skyward again, Arlen threw his spear, blasting through the coreling’s head with a shower of sparks and dropping it to the ground.

Arlen retrieved his weapon and ran on, the wild magic of the spear sweeping him along like a berserker out of legend. As his band scoured the Maze, their numbers grew, and as Arlen slew demon after demon, more and more took up the chant of “Par’chin! Par’chin!”

Forgotten were the warded ambush pockets and escape pits. Gone was the fear and respect of the night. With his metal spear, Arlen seemed invulnerable, and the confidence he exuded was like a drug to the Krasians.

Flushed with the thrill of victory, Arlen felt as if he had broken from a chrysalis, made anew by the ancient weapon. He felt no fatigue, though he had been running and fighting for hours. He felt no pain, though he bore many scrapes and cuts. His thoughts were focused only on the next encounter, the next demon to kill. Each time he felt the surge of magic punch through a coreling’s armor, the same thought rang in his head. Every man must have one.

Jardir appeared before him, and Arlen, covered in demon ichor, thrust the spear high to salute the First Warrior. “Sharum Ka!” he cried. “No demon will escape your Maze alive tonight!”

Jardir laughed, thrusting his own spear into the air in response. He came and embraced Arlen like a brother.

“I underestimated you, Par’chin,” he said. “I won’t do so again.”

Arlen smiled. “You say that every time,” he replied.

Jardir nodded to the two sand demons Arlen had just slain. “This time, for sure,” he promised, returning the grin. Then he turned to the men following Arlen.

“Dal’Sharum!” he called, gesturing to the dead corelings. “Gather up these filthy things and haul them atop the outer wall! Our sling teams need target practice! Let the corelings beyond the walls see the folly of attacking Fort Krasia!”

A cheer rose from the men, and they hastened to his bidding. As they did, Jardir turned to Arlen. “The Watchers report there is still battle in one of the eastern ambush points,” he said. “Have you any fight left in you, Par’chin?”

Arlen’s smile was feral. “Lead the way,” he replied, and the two men ran off, leaving the others to their work.

They sprinted for some time, out to one of the farthest edges of the Maze. “Just ahead,” Jardir called, as they banked around a sharp corner into an ambush point. Arlen gave no thought to the quiet, his head filled with the stomp of his feet and the pounding of his blood.

But as he turned the corner, a leg shot out from the side, hooking his foot and sending him sprawling to the ground. He rolled as he struck, keeping a grip on his precious weapon, but by the time he regained his feet, men had blocked the point’s only exit.

Arlen looked around in confusion, seeing no sign of demons or fighting. He had found an ambush, but it was not for the corelings.

CHAPTER 21 ONLY A CHIN 328 AR

Sharum moved in to surround Arlen: Jardir’s elite. Arlen knew them all, men he had supped and laughed with that very evening, and fought beside many times before.

“What is this?” Arlen asked, though in his heart he knew full well.

“The Spear of Kaji belongs in the hands of the Shar’Dama Ka,” Jardir replied as he approached. “You are not he.”

Arlen clutched the spear as if afraid it might fly from his hands. The men that closed on him were the same warriors he had eaten with a few hours before, but there was no friendship in their eyes now. Jardir had done well in separating him from his supporters.

“It need not be this way,” Arlen said, backing away until the demon pit at the point’s center was at his heels. Distantly, he noted the hiss of a sand demon trapped within.

“I can make more of these,” he went on. “One for every dal’Sharum. That’s why I came.”

“We’re capable of doing that ourselves.” Jardir smiled, a cold split to his bearded face. His teeth flashed in the moonlight. “You cannot be our savior. You are only a chin.”

“I don’t want to fight you,” Arlen said.

“Then don’t, my friend,” Jardir said softly. “Give me the weapon, take your horse, and go with the dawn, never to return.”

Arlen hesitated. He had no doubt Krasia’s Warders could replicate the spear as well as he. In no time at all, the Krasians could turn the tide of their Holy War. Thousands of lives saved, thousands of demons killed. Did it matter who took the credit?

But there was more at stake than just credit. The spear was a gift not for Krasia, but for all men. Would the Krasians share their knowledge with others? If this scene was anything to go by, Arlen thought not.

“No,” he said. “I think I’ll have to keep it a little longer. Let me make one for you, and I’ll go. You’ll never see me again, and you’ll have what you want.”

Jardir snapped his fingers, and the men closed in on Arlen.

“Please,” Arlen begged. “I don’t want to hurt any of you.”

Jardir’s elite warriors laughed at that. They had all devoted their lives to the spear.

But so had Arlen.

“The corelings are the enemy!” he screamed as they charged. “Not me!” But even as he protested, he spun, diverting two spear tips with a twist of his weapon and kicking hard into the ribs of one of the men, sending him crashing into another. He dove into the rush, coming up in their midst, whirling his spear like a staff, refusing to use the point.

He cracked the end across one warrior’s face, feeling his jaw break, and dropped low as he followed through, smashing the metal spear like a club into another man’s knee. A spear thrust cut the air just above him as the warrior dropped screaming to the ground.

But unlike when he fought the corelings, the weapon now felt heavy in Arlen’s hands, the endless energy that had driven him through the Maze extinguished. Against men, it was just a spear. Arlen planted it on the ground and leapt into the air in a high kick to a man’s throat. The butt of the spear struck another’s stomach, doubling him over. The point gashed a third man’s thigh, making him drop his weapon to clutch the wound. Arlen retreated from the responding press, putting the demon pit at his back so they could not surround him.

“Again I underestimate you, though I promised I would not,” Jardir said. He waved, and more men came forward to add to the press.

Arlen fought hard, but the outcome was never in doubt. A shaft struck the side of his head, knocking him down, and the warriors fell on him savagely, raining blows upon him until he let go of the spear to cover his head with his arms.

As quickly as that, the beating stopped. Arlen was hauled to his feet, his hands pinned behind him by two thickly muscled warriors, as he watched Jardir bend over and pick up his spear. The First Warrior clutched his prize tightly and looked Arlen in the eyes.

“I am truly sorry, my friend,” he said. “I wish there could be another way.”

Arlen spat in his face. “Everam is watching your betrayal!” he shouted.

Jardir only smiled, wiping the spittle away. “Do not speak of Everam, chin. I am his Sharum Ka, not you. Without me, Krasia falls. Who will miss you, Par’chin? You will not fill so much as a single tear bottle.”

He looked to the men holding Arlen. “Throw him into the pit.”

Arlen had not recovered from the shock of impact when Jardir’s own fine spear dropped down to stick quivering in the dirt in front of him. Looking up the sheer twenty-foot walls of the pit, he saw the First Warrior looking down on him.

“You lived with honor, Par’chin,” Jardir said, “and so you may keep it in death. Die fighting, and you will awaken in paradise.”

Arlen snarled, looking at the sand demon on the other side of the pit as it rose into a crouch. A low growl issued from its muzzle as it bared rows of razor-sharp teeth.

Arlen rose to his feet, ignoring the pain in his bruised muscles. He reached slowly for the spear, keeping his eyes locked with the demon’s. His stance, neither threatening nor fearful, confused the creature, and it paced back and forth on all fours, unsure.

It was possible to kill a sand demon with an unwarded spear. Their small lidless eyes, normally protected by the bony ridges of their brow, went wide when they pounced. A precise thrust to that one vulnerable spot, if driven hard into the brain beyond, could kill the creature instantly. But demons healed with magical speed, and an imprecise thrust, or one that did not penetrate fully, would only enrage it further. Without a shield, in the dim light of the moon and oil lamps above, it was a nearly impossible task.

While the demon puzzled out his behavior, Arlen began to slowly drag the point of the spear in the dirt, scratching lines of warding directly in front of him, the coreling’s most likely path. The creature would quickly find its way around, but it might buy him time. Stroke by stroke, he cut the symbols into the dirt.

The sand demon drifted back to the pit walls, where the shadows thrown by the lamplight above were greatest. Its tan scales blended with the clay, making it nearly invisible. Only its wide, black eyes stood out, reflecting the scant light back at him.

Arlen saw the attack before it came. The demon’s corded muscles bunched and twitched as it tamped down its hind legs. He carefully positioned himself behind his completed wards and then broke eye contact, as if in submission.

With a growl that erupted into a roar, the coreling launched itself at him, more than a hundred pounds of talon, fang, and armored muscle. Arlen waited until it struck the wards, and as soon as they flared to life he thrust hard at the exposed eyes, the demon’s momentum adding power to his blow.

Watching from above, the Krasians cheered.

Arlen felt the spear point dig in, but not deeply enough before the thrust and the flare of magic threw the creature back across the pit, shrieking in pain. Arlen glanced at the spear, and saw the point had broken off. He saw it glinting in the moonlight from the demon’s eye as it shook off its pain and got its feet back under it. It clawed at its face, and the point came free. Already the bleeding had stopped.

The coreling growled low and began to slither toward him, crawling on its belly across the pit’s floor. Arlen let it stalk, racing to complete his semicircle. The demon pounced again, and again the makeshift wards flared, stopping it cold. Arlen thrust again, this time attempting to drive the broken point of the spear down its maw to the more vulnerable flesh of its throat. The coreling was too quick, catching Arlen’s spear in its jaws and pulling it from his grasp as it was thrown back again.

“Night,” Arlen cursed. His circle was far from complete, and without the spear, he had no hope of finishing it.

Recovering from the blow, the sand demon was completely unprepared as Arlen leapt from behind his wards and tackled it. Above, the spectators roared.

The coreling scratched and bit, but Arlen was quicker, maneuvering behind it to put his forearms under its armpits, locking his fingers behind its head. He drew himself up to his full height, lifting the demon from the ground.

Arlen was larger and heavier than the sand demon, but he could not match the sinewy strength of the coreling as it thrashed. Its muscles felt like the cables used in the quarries of Miln, and its back claws threatened to cut his legs to ribbons. He swung the creature about, slamming it into the wall of the pit. Before it could recover from the impact, he drew back and slammed it again. His grip was weakening against the powerful creature’s onslaught, so he threw his weight about one more time, hurling it into his wards. Magic brightened the pit, jolting the demon on impact, and Arlen snatched up the spear and darted back behind his wards before it could recover.

The enraged demon launched itself at the wards repeatedly, but Arlen quickly completed a makeshift semicircle with the pit wall at his back. There were holes in the net, but he hoped they were too small for the demon to find and squeeze through.

But hope failed a moment later, as the coreling leapt onto the pit wall, its talons digging into the clay. It moved along the side of the wall toward Arlen, bared fangs wet with drool.

Arlen’s hasty wards were weak, with a short radius of protection, not much higher than the demon could jump. It wouldn’t take the coreling long to realize it could climb above them.

Steeling himself, Arlen placed his foot over the ward nearest the wall, cutting off its magic. He kept his foot an inch off the floor, so as not to scuff the marking. He waited until the demon leapt, then stepped back, uncovering the ward.

The demon was halfway across when the net reactivated, banishing coreling flesh from its line. Half the creature fell into the circle with Arlen. Half dropped with a thump outside.

Even severed from its hindquarters, the coreling clawed and bit at Arlen as he scrambled away, keeping it back with his spear. He crossed the wards, trapping the sand demon’s torso in the semicircle, still twitching as it oozed black ichor into the dirt.

Arlen looked up, seeing the Krasians staring at him open-mouthed. He scowled and snapped the spear over his knee. Inspired by the demon, he jabbed the broken end high into the soft clay of the pit wall. He pulled hard, his biceps bulging, and as he began to rise, he swung his other arm up, sticking the spear’s broken head farther up the wall.

Hand over hand, Arlen climbed the twenty-foot wall of the pit. He gave no thought to what lay behind, or what waited above. He focused only on the task at hand, ignoring the burning strain of his muscles, the tearing of his flesh. As he crested the edge of the pit, the Krasians backed away, their eyes wide. Many of them invoked Everam and touched their foreheads and hearts, while others drew wards in the air to protect them as if he were a demon himself.

His limbs like jelly, Arlen struggled to his feet. He looked at the First Warrior through blurry eyes. “If you want me dead,” he growled, “you’ll have to kill me yourself. There are no more corelings left in the Maze to do your work for you.”

Jardir took a step forward, but hesitated at a murmur of disapproval from some of his men. Arlen had proven himself a warrior. Killing him now would not be honorable.

Arlen was counting on that, but before the men had time to think it through, Jardir snapped forward, striking him on the temple with the butt of the warded spear.

Arlen was knocked to the ground, his head ringing and the world spinning, but he spat and put his hands under himself, pushing hard against the ground to regain his feet. He looked up, only to see Jardir moving again. He felt the metal spear strike his face, and knew no more.

CHAPTER 22 PLAY THE HAMLETS 329 AR

Rojer danced as they walked, four brightly painted wooden balls orbiting his head. Juggling standing still was beyond him, but Rojer Halfgrip had a reputation to maintain, and so he had learned to work around the limitation, moving with fluid grace to keep his crippled hand in position to catch and throw.

Even at fourteen he was small, barely passing five feet, with carrot-red hair, green eyes, and a round face, fair and freckled. He ducked and stretched and turned full circles, his feet moving in tempo with the balls. His soft, split-toed boots were covered in dust from the road, and the cloud he kicked up hung around them, making every breath taste of dry dirt.

“Is it even worth it, if you can’t stay still?” Arrick asked irritably. “You look like an amateur, and your audiences won’t care for breathing dirt any more than I do.”

“I won’t be performing in the road,” Rojer said.

“In the hamlets you may,” Arrick disagreed, “there are no boardwalks there.”

Rojer missed a beat, and Arrick stopped as the boy frantically tried to recover. He regained control of the balls eventually, but Arrick still tsked.

“With no boardwalks, how do they stop demons rising inside the walls?” Rojer asked.

“No walls, either,” Arrick said. “Maintaining a net around even a small hamlet would take a dozen Warders. If a village has two and an apprentice, they count themselves lucky.”

Rojer swallowed back the taste of bile in his mouth, feeling faint. Screams over a decade old rang out in his head, and he stumbled, falling on his backside as balls rained down on him. He slapped his crippled hand against the dirt angrily.

“Best leave juggling to me and focus on other skills,” Arrick said. “If you spent half the time practicing singing as you do juggling, you might last three notes before your voice breaks.”

“You always said, ‘A Jongleur who can’t juggle is no Jongleur at all,’” Rojer said.

“Never mind what I said!” Arrick snapped. “Do you think Jasin ripping Goldentone juggles? You’ve got talent. Once we build your name, you’ll have apprentices to juggle for you.”

“Why would I want someone to do my tricks for me?” Rojer asked, picking up the balls and slipping them into the pouch at his waist. As he did, he caressed the reassuring lump of his talisman, tucked safely away in its secret pocket, drawing strength.

“Because petty tricks aren’t where the money is, boy,” Arrick said, drawing on his ever-present wineskin. “Jugglers make klats. Build a name, and you earn soft Milnese gold, like I used to.” He drank again, more deeply this time. “But to build a name, you have to play the hamlets.”

“Goldentone never played the hamlets,” Rojer said.

“Exactly my point!” Arrick shouted, gesticulating wildly. “His uncle might be able to pull strings in Angiers, but he has no sway in the hamlets. When we make your name, we’re going to bury him!”

“He’s no match for Sweetsong and Halfgrip,” Rojer said quickly, placing his master’s name first, though the buzz on the streets of Angiers of late had them reversed.

“Yes!” Arrick shouted, clicking his heels and dancing a quick jig.

Rojer had deflected Arrick’s irritation in time. His master had become increasingly prone to fits of rage over the last few years, drinking more and more as Rojer’s moon waxed and his own waned. His song was no longer so sweet, and he knew it.

“How far to Cricket Run?” Rojer asked.

“We should be there by lunchtime tomorrow,” Arrick said.

“I thought the hamlets could only be a day apart,” Rojer asked.

Arrick grunted. “The duke’s decree was that villages stand no farther apart than a man on a good horse might go in a day,” he said. “A fair bit farther than you get on foot.”

Rojer’s hopes fell. Arrick really meant to spend a night on the road with nothing between them and the corelings but Geral’s old portable circle, which hadn’t seen use in a decade.

But Angiers was no longer entirely safe for them. As their popularity grew, Master Jasin had taken a special interest in thwarting them. His apprentices had broken Arrick’s arm the year previous, and stolen the take more than once after a big show. Between that and Arrick’s drinking and whoring, he and Rojer rarely had two klats to click together. Perhaps the hamlets could indeed offer better fortune.

Making a name in the hamlets was a rite of passage for Jongleurs, and had seemed a grand adventure while they were safe in Angiers. Now Rojer looked at the sky and swallowed hard.

Rojer sat on a stone, sewing a bright patch onto his cloak. Like his other clothes, the original cloth had long since worn away, replaced a patch at a time until only the patches remained.

“Settup th’circle when yur done, boy,” Arrick said, wobbling a bit. His wineskin was nearly empty. Rojer looked at the setting sun and winced, moving quickly to comply.

The circle was small, only ten feet in diameter. Just big enough for two men to lie with a fire between them. Rojer put a stake at the center of the camp and used a five-foot string hooked to it to draw a smooth circle in the dirt. He laid the portable circle out along its perimeter, using a straightstick to insure that the warded plates lined up properly, but he was no Warder, and couldn’t be sure he had done it right.

When he was finished, Arrick stumbled over to inspect his work.

“Looksh right,” his master slurred, barely glancing at the circle. Rojer felt a chill on his spine and went over everything again to be sure, and a third time, to be positive. Still, he was uneasy as he built a fire and prepared supper, the sun dipping ever lower.

Rojer had never seen a demon. At least, not that he remembered clearly. The clawed hand that had burst through his parents’ door was etched forever in his mind, but the rest, even the coreling that had crippled him, was only a haze of smoke and teeth and horn.

His blood ran cold as the woods began to cast long shadows on the road. It wasn’t long before a ghostlike form rose up out of the ground not far from their fire. The wood demon was no bigger than an average man, with knobbed and barklike skin stretched hard over wiry sinew. The creature saw their fire and roared, throwing back its horned head and revealing rows of sharp teeth. It flexed its claws, limbering them for killing. Other shapes flitted on the edge of the firelight, slowly surrounding them.

Rojer’s eyes flicked to Arrick, who was drawing hard on his wineskin. He had hoped that his master, who had slept in portable circles before, might be calm, but the fear in Arrick’s eyes said differently. With a shaking hand, Rojer reached into his secret pocket and took out his talisman, gripping it tightly.

The wood demon lowered its horns and charged, and something surfaced in Rojer’s mind, a memory long suppressed. Suddenly he was three years old, watching over his mother’s shoulder as death approached.

It all came back to him in that instant. His father taking up the poker and standing his ground with Geral to buy time for his mother and Arrick to escape with him. Arrick shoving them aside as he ran to the bolt-hole. The bite that took his fingers. His mother’s sacrifice.

I love you!

Rojer gripped the talisman, and felt his mother’s spirit around him like a physical presence. He trusted it to protect him more than the wards as the coreling bore down on them.

The demon struck the wards hard. Rojer and Arrick both jumped as the magic flared. Geral’s web was etched in silver fire in the air for a brief instant, and the coreling was thrown back, stunned.

Relief was short-lived. The sound and light drew the attention of other woodies, and they charged in turn, testing the net from all sides.

But Geral’s lacquered wards held fast. One by one or in groups, the wood demons were thrown back, forced to circle angrily, searching in vain for weaknesses.

But even as corelings continued to throw themselves at him, Rojer’s mind was in another place. Again and again he saw his parents die, his father burned and his mother drowning the flame demon before shoving him into the bolt-hole. And over and over, he saw Arrick shove them aside.

Arrick had killed his mother. As surely as if he had done the deed himself. Rojer brought the talisman to his lips, kissing her red hair.

“What’s that you’re holding?” Arrick asked softly, when it became clear the demons could not break through.

At any other time, Rojer would have felt a stab of panic at his talisman’s discovery, but he was in a different place now, reliving a nightmare and desperately trying to sort out what it meant. Arrick had been like a father to him for over ten years. Could these memories really be true?

He opened his hand, letting Arrick see the tiny wooden doll with its bright red hair. “My mum,” he said.

Arrick looked sadly at the doll, and something in his expression told Rojer all he needed to know. His memory was true. Angry words came to Rojer’s lips, and he tensed, ready to charge his master, throw him from the circle and let the corelings have him.

Arrick lowered his eyes and cleared his throat, beginning to sing. His voice, soured by years of drink, took on something of its old sweetness as he sang a soft lullaby, one that tickled Rojer’s memory just as the sight of the wood demon had. Suddenly he remembered how Arrick had held him in the very circle they now sat in, singing the same lullaby as Riverbridge burned.

Like his talisman, the song wrapped itself around Rojer, reminding him how safe it had made him feel that night. Arrick had been a coward, it was true, but he had honored Kally’s request to take care of him, though it had cost him his royal commission and ruined his career.

He tucked his talisman away in its secret pocket and stared out into the night as images over a decade old flashed in his mind and he tried desperately to make sense of them.

Eventually, Arrick’s singing trailed off, and Rojer pulled himself from contemplation and fetched their cooking utensils. They fried sausages and tomatoes in a small skillet, eating them with hard, crusty bread. After supper, they practiced. Rojer took out his fiddle, and Arrick wet his lips with the last drops from his wineskin. They faced one another, doing their best to ignore the corelings stalking about the circle.

Rojer began to play, and all his doubts and fears fell away as the vibration of the strings became his world. He caressed a melody forth, and nodded when he was ready. Arrick joined him with a soft hum, waiting for another nod before beginning to sing. They played thus for some time, falling into a comfortable harmony honed by years of practice and performance. Much later, Arrick broke off suddenly, looking around.

“What is it?” Rojer asked.

“I don’t think a demon has struck the wards since we started,” Arrick said.

Rojer stopped playing, looking out into the night. It was true, he realized, wondering how he hadn’t noticed it before. The wood demons were crouched about the circle, motionless, but as Rojer met the eyes of one, it sprang at him.

Rojer screamed and fell back as the coreling struck the wards and was repelled. All around them the magic flared as the rest of the creatures shook off their daze and attacked.

“It was the music!” Arrick said. “The music held them back!”

Seeing the confused look on the boy’s face, Arrick cleared his throat, and began to sing.

His voice was strong, and carried far down the road, drowning out the demon roars with its beautiful sound, but it did nothing to keep the demons at bay. On the contrary, the corelings shrieked all the louder and clawed at the barrier, as if desperate to silence him.

Arrick’s thick eyebrows furrowed, and he changed tune, singing the last song he and Rojer had been practicing, but the corelings still swiped at the wards. Rojer felt a stab of fear. What if the demons found a weakness in the wards, like they had …

“The fiddle, boy!” Arrick called. Rojer looked dumbly down at the fiddle and bow still clutched in his hands. “Play it, fool!” Arrick commanded.

But Rojer’s crippled hand shook, and the bow touched string with a piercing whine, like fingernails on slate. The corelings shrieked, and backed a step away. Emboldened, Rojer played more jarring and sour notes, driving the demons farther and farther off. They howled and put clawed hands to their heads as if in pain.

But they did not flee. The demons backed away from the circle slowly until they found a tolerable distance. There they waited, black eyes reflecting the firelight.

The sight chilled Rojer’s heart. They knew he couldn’t play forever.

Arrick had not been exaggerating when he said they would be treated as heroes in the hamlets. The people of Cricket Run had no Jongleurs of their own, and many remembered Arrick from his time as the duke’s herald, a decade gone.

There was a small inn for housing cattle drivers and produce farmers heading to and from Woodsend and Shepherd’s Dale, and they were welcomed there and given free room and board. The whole town showed up to watch them perform, drinking enough ale to more than repay the innkeep. In fact, everything went flawlessly, until it came time to pass the hat.

“An ear of corn!” Arrick shouted, shaking it in Rojer’s face. “Whar we sposa to do wi’that?”

“We could always eat it,” Rojer offered. His master glared at him and continued to pace.

Rojer had liked Cricket Run. The people there were simple and good-hearted, and knew how to enjoy life. In Angiers, crowds pressed close to hear his fiddle, nodding and clapping, but he had never seen folk so quick to dance as the Runners. Before his fiddle was halfway from its case, they were backing up, making room. Before long, they were reeling and spinning and laughing uproariously, embracing his music fully and flowing wherever it took them.

They cried without shame at Arrick’s sad ballads, and laughed hysterically at their bawdy jokes and mummery. They were, in Rojer’s estimation, everything one could ask in an audience.

When the act was over, chants of “Sweetsong and Halfgrip!” were deafening. They were inundated with offers of lodging, and the wine and food overflowed. Rojer was swept behind a haystack by a pair of raven-eyed Runner girls, sharing kisses until his head spun.

Arrick was less pleased.

“How could I have forgotten what it was like?” he lamented.

He was referring, of course, to the collection hat. There was no coin in the hamlets, or little enough. What there was went for necessities, seed and tools and wardposts. A pair of wooden klats settled to the bottom of the hat, but that wasn’t even enough to pay for the wine Arrick had drunk on the journey from Angiers. For the most part, the Runners paid in grain, with the occasional bag of salt or spice thrown in.

“Barter!” Arrick spat the word like a curse. “No vintner in Angiersh will take payment in bagsh of barley!”

The Runners had paid in more than just grain. They gave gifts of salted meat and fresh bread, a horn of clotted cream and a basket of fruit. Warm quilts. Fresh patches for their boots. Whatever good or service they could spare was offered with gratitude. Rojer hadn’t eaten so well since the duke’s palace, and for the life of him he could not understand his master’s distress. What was coin for, if not to buy the very things that the Runners gave in abundance?

“Leasht they had wine,” Arrick grumbled. Rojer eyed the skin nervously as his master took a pull, knowing it would only amplify Arrick’s distress, but he said nothing. No amount of wine could distress Arrick so much as the suggestion that he should not drink so much wine.

“I liked it there,” Rojer dared. “I wish we could have stayed longer.”

“What d’you know?” Arrick snapped. “You’re jussa stupid boy.” He groaned as if in pain. “Woodsend’ll be no better,” he lamented, looking down the road, “and Sheepshagger’s Dale’ll be worsht of all! What wash I thinking, keeping this stupid circle?”

He kicked at the precious plates of the portable circle, knocking the wards askew, but he did not seem to notice or care, stumbling drunkenly about the fire.

Rojer gasped. Sunset was mere moments away, but he said nothing, darting over to the spot and frantically correcting the damage, glancing fearfully at the horizon.

He finished not a moment too soon. The corelings rose as he was still smoothing the rope. He fell back as the first coreling leapt at him, crying out as the wards flared to life.

“Damn you!” Arrick screamed at a demon as it charged him. The drunken Jongleur stuck his chin out in defiance and cackled as the coreling smashed against the wardnet.

“Master, please,” Rojer begged, taking Arrick’s arm and pulling him toward the center of the ring.

“Oh, Halfgrip knowsh besht, now?” he sneered, yanking his arm away and almost falling down in the process. “Poor drunk Shweetsong dun’t know t’keep away from coreling clawsh?”

“It’s not like that,” Rojer protested.

“Then wha’s it like?” Arrick demanded. “Y’think tha’ ’cos the crowds cheer yur name that y’d be anything without me?”

“No,” Rojer said.

“Damn right,” Arrick muttered, pulling again on his skin and stumbling away.

Rojer’s throat tightened, and he reached into his secret pocket for his talisman. He rubbed the smooth wood and silky hair with his thumb, trying to call upon its power.

“Tha’s right, call yer mum!” Arrick shouted, turning back and pointing at the little doll. “F’get who raised you, who taught you everything y’know! I gave up my life for you!”

Rojer gripped his talisman tighter, feeling his mother’s presence, hearing her last words. He thought again of how Arrick had shoved her to the ground, and an angry lump formed in his throat. “No,” he said. “You were the only one who didn’t.”

Arrick scowled and advanced on the boy. Rojer shrank back, but the circle was small, and there was nowhere to go. Outside the circle, demons paced hungrily.

“Gimme that!” Arrick shouted angrily, grabbing at Rojer’s hands.

“It’s mine!” Rojer cried. They struggled for a moment, but Arrick was larger and stronger, and had two full hands. He snatched the talisman away at last and threw it into the fire.

“No!” Rojer shouted, diving toward the flames, but it was too late. The red hair ignited immediately, and before he could find a twig to fish the talisman out, the wood caught. Rojer knelt in the dirt and watched it burn, dumbfounded. His hands began to shake.

Arrick ignored him, stumbling up to a wood demon that was hunched at the circle’s edge, clawing at the wards. “It’s your fault thish happened t’me!” he screamed. “Your fault I wash shaddled with an ungrateful boy and lost my commishon! Yoursh!”

The coreling shrieked at him, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. Arrick roared right back, smashing his wineskin over the creature’s head. The skin burst, spraying them both with blood-red wine and tanned leather.

“My wine!” Arrick cried, realizing suddenly what he had done. He moved to cross the wards as if he could in some way undo the damage.

“Master, no!” Rojer cried. He dove into a tumble, reaching up with his good hand to grab Arrick’s ratty ponytail as he kicked at the backs of his master’s knees. Arrick was yanked back away from the wards and landed heavily atop his apprentice.

“Get’cher handsh offa me!” Arrick cried, not realizing that Rojer had just saved his life. He gripped the boy’s shirt as he lurched to his feet, shoving him right out of the circle.

Coreling and human alike froze in that moment. Awareness dawned on Arrick’s face even as a wood demon shrieked in triumph and tamped down, launching itself at the boy.

Rojer screamed and fell back, having no hope of getting back across the wards in time. He brought up his hands in a feeble attempt to fend the creature off, but before the coreling struck, there was a cry, and Arrick tackled the demon, knocking it away.

“Get back to the circle!” Arrick cried. The demon roared and struck back hard, launching the Jongleur through the air. He bounced as he hit the ground, a flailing limb snagging the rope of the portable circle and pulling the plates out of alignment.

All around the clearing, other corelings began to race to the breach. They were both going to die, Rojer realized. The first demon made to charge at him again, but again Arrick grabbed at it, turning it aside.

“Your fiddle!” he cried. “You can drive them back!” As the words left his lips, though, the coreling’s talons dug deep into his chest, and he spit a thick bubble of blood.

“Master!” Rojer screamed. He glanced at his fiddle doubtfully.

“Save yourself!” Arrick gasped just before the demon tore out his throat.

By the time dawn banished the demons back to the Core, the fingers of Rojer’s good hand were cut and bleeding. It was only with great effort that he straightened them and released the fiddle.

He had played through the long night, cowering in the darkness as the fire died, sending discordant notes into the air to keep at bay the corelings he knew were waiting in the black.

There had been no beauty, no melody to fall into as he played, just screeches and dissonance; nothing to turn his thoughts from the horror around him. But now, looking at the scattered bits of flesh and bloody cloth that were all that remained of his master, a new horror struck, and he fell to his knees, retching.

After a time, his heaving eased, and he stared at his cramped and bloody hands, willing them to stop shaking. He felt flushed and hot, but his face was cold in the morning air, drained of blood. His stomach continued to roil, but there was nothing left in it to expel. He wiped his mouth with a motley sleeve and forced himself to rise.

He tried to collect enough of Arrick to bury, but there was little to be found. A clump of hair. A boot, torn open to get at the meat within. Blood. Corelings disdained neither bone nor offal, and they had fed in a frenzy.

The Tenders taught that corelings ate their victims body and soul, but Arrick had always said Holy Men were bigger liars than Jongleurs, and his master could spin a whopper. Rojer thought of his talisman, and the feeling of his mother’s spirit it brought. How could he feel her if her soul had been consumed?

He looked to the cold ashes of the fire. The little doll was there, blackened and split, but it crumbled away in his hands. Not far away, lying in the dirt, were the remains of Arrick’s ponytail. Rojer took the hair, more gray than gold now, and put it in his pocket.

He would make a new talisman.

Woodsend came into sight well before dusk, much to Rojer’s relief. He didn’t think he had the strength to last another night outside.

He had thought of turning back to Cricket Run and begging passage with a Messenger back to Angiers, but it would have meant explaining what happened, and Rojer wasn’t ready for that. Besides, what was there for him in Angiers? Without a license, he couldn’t perform, and Arrick had made enemies of any that might have completed his apprenticeship. Better to keep on to the ends of the world, where no one would know him and the guild could not reach.

Like Cricket Run, Woodsend was filled with good, solid folk who welcomed a Jongleur with open arms, too pleased to question the fortune that had brought an entertainer to their town.

Rojer accepted their hospitality with gratitude. He felt a fraud, claiming to be a Jongleur when he was only an unlicensed apprentice, but he doubted the Enders would care much if they knew. Would they refuse to dance to his fiddle, or laugh less at his mummery?

But Rojer didn’t dare touch the colored balls in the bag of marvels, and begged off from song. He flipped instead, tumbling and hand walking, using everything in his repertoire to hide his inadequacies.

The Enders didn’t press him, and that was enough for now.

CHAPTER 23 REBIRTH 328 AR

The bright sun brought Arlen back to consciousness. Sand stuck to his face as he lifted his head and spit grit from his mouth. Struggling to his knees, he looked around, but all he saw was sand.

They had carried him out onto the dunes and left him to die.

“Cowards!” he cried. “Letting the desert do your work does not absolve you!”

He quivered on his knees, trying to find the strength to stand while his body screamed at him to lie back down and die. His head was spinning.

He had come to help the Krasians. How could they betray him like this?

Don’t lie to yourself, a voice in his head said. You’ve done your share of betrayal. You ran from your father when he needed you most. Abandoned Cob before your apprenticeship was up. Left Ragen and Elissa without so much as an embrace. And Mery …

“Who will miss you, Par’chin?” Jardir had asked. “You will not fill so much as a single tear bottle.” And he was right.

If he were to die here, Arlen knew, the only ones who were likely to notice would be merchants more concerned with a loss of profit than his life. Perhaps this was what he deserved for abandoning everyone who had ever loved him. Perhaps he should just lie down and die.

His knees buckled. The sand seemed to pull at him, calling him to its embrace. He was about to give in when something caught his eye.

A few feet away, a skin of water rested in the sand. Had Jardir’s conscience gotten the better of him, or had one of his men looked back and taken pity on the betrayed Messenger?

Arlen crawled to the skin, clutching it like a lifeline. Someone might mourn him after all.

But it made little difference. Even if he returned to Krasia, no one would believe a chin over the Sharum Ka. On Jardir’s word, the dal’Sharum would kill Arlen without a thought.

So you should let them keep the spear you risked your life for? he asked himself. Let them keep Dawn Runner, your portable circles, and everything else you own?

The thought had Arlen clutching at his waist, and he realized with relief that he had not lost everything. There, still safe, was the simple leather bag he carried when fighting in the Maze. In it he kept a small warding kit, his herb pouch … and his notebook.

The notebook changed everything. Arlen had lost his other books, but all of them together were not worth this one. Since the day he left Miln, Arlen had copied every new ward he had learned into his notebook.

Including those on the spear.

Let them keep the ripping thing, they want it so much, Arlen thought. I can make another.

With a heave, he brought himself to his feet. He took the warm skin of water and allowed himself a short pull, then put it over his shoulder and climbed to the top of the nearest dune.

Shielding his eyes, he could see Krasia like a mirage in the distance, giving him bearings to head for the Oasis of Dawn. Without his horse, the trip would mean a week of sleeping unwarded in the desert. His water would be gone long before then, but he doubted it would matter. The sand demons would get him before he died of thirst.

Arlen chewed hogroot as he walked. It was bitter and made his stomach churn, but he was covered in demon scratches, and it helped keep them from infecting. Besides, without food, even nausea was preferable to pangs of hunger.

He drank sparingly, though his throat was dry and swollen. His shirt was tied around his head to ward off the sun, leaving his back vulnerable. His skin was blotched yellow and blue from the beating he had taken, and burned red atop that. Every step was agony.

Arlen kept moving until the sun was nearly set. He felt as if he had made no progress at all, but the long line of tracks blowing away behind him showed a surprising distance covered.

Night came, bringing corelings and bitter cold. Either was enough to kill him, so Arlen hid from both, burying himself in the sand to preserve body heat and hide from the demons. He tore a sheet from his notebook, rolling the paper into a slender breathing tube, but still he felt as if he were suffocating as he lay, terrified that the corelings might find him. When the sun rose and warmed the sand, he dug free of his sandy grave and stumbled on, feeling as if he had not rested at all.

So it went, day after day, night after night. He grew weaker as the days went by without food, rest, or more than a splash of water. His skin cracked and bled, but he ignored the damage and walked on. The sun beat down with increasing weight, and the flat horizon grew no closer.

At some point, he lost his boots. He wasn’t sure how or when. His feet were scraped raw from the hot sand, bleeding and blistered. He tore the sleeves from his shirt to bind them.

He fell with increasing frequency, sometimes getting right back to his feet, other times passing out and rising minutes or hours later. Sometimes, he would fall and continue tumbling all the way down a dune. Exhausted, he took it as a blessing, saving himself painful steps.

By the time the water ran out, he had lost count of the days. He was still on the desert path, but had no idea how far there was yet to go. His lips were split and dry, and even his cuts and blisters had ceased to ooze, as if all the liquid in his body had evaporated.

He fell again, and struggled to find a reason to get back up.

Arlen awoke with a start, his face wet. It was nighttime, and that should have filled him with terror, but he lacked the strength to fear.

He looked down, and saw that his face had been resting on the edge of the pool in the Oasis of Dawn, his hand in the water.

He wondered how he had gotten to be there. His last memory … he had no idea what his last memory was. The trip through the desert was a blur, but he didn’t care. He had made it. That was all that mattered. Within the warded obelisks of the oasis, he was safe.

Arlen drank greedily from the pool. A moment later, he vomited it up, and forced himself to sip slowly after that. When his thirst was quenched, he closed his eyes again, and slept soundly for the first time in over a week.

When he woke, Arlen raided the oasis’ stores. There were supplies as well as food: blankets, herbs, a spare warding kit. Too weak to forage, he spent several days simply eating the dried stores, drinking cool water, and cleansing his wounds. By then, he was able to gather fresh fruit. After a week, he found the strength to fish. Two, he could stand and stretch without pain.

The oasis had stores enough to get him out of the desert. He might be half dead when he crawled from the scorched clay flats, but he would be half alive, as well.

There were a handful of spears in the oasis’ stores, but compared to the magnificent metal weapon he had lost, sharpened wood seemed woefully inadequate. Without lacquer to harden the symbols, carved wards would mar with the first thrust through hard coreling scales.

What, then? He had wards that could burn the life from demons, but what good were they without a weapon to affix them to?

He considered painting stones with the attack wards. He could throw them, or even press them against the corelings by hand …

Arlen laughed. If he was going to get that close to a demon, he might as well paint the wards right onto his hands.

His laughter died as the thought germinated. Could it work? If so, he would have a weapon no one could steal, one no coreling could knock from his grasp or catch him without.

Arlen took out his notebook, studying the wards on the spear’s tip, and those at its butt. Those were the offensive wards; the wards on the shaft were defensive. He noted that the wards on the butt did not form a line by linking with others, as did the wards along the edge of the tip. They stood alone, the same symbol repeated around the circumference of the spear, and on the flat of its end. Perhaps the difference was one of cutting versus bludgeoning.

As the sun dipped lower, Arlen copied the bludgeoning ward in the dirt, over and over, until he felt confident. He took a brush and a paint bowl from his warding kit, carefully painting the ward onto the palm of his left hand. He blew on it softly until it was dry.

Painting his right hand was trickier, but Arlen knew from experience that with concentration, he could ward equally well with his left hand, though it took longer.

As darkness descended, Arlen gently flexed his hands, making sure the movement would not crack or peel the paint. Satisfied, he went to the stone obelisks that warded the oasis, watching the demons circle the barrier, smelling prey just beyond their reach.

The first coreling to catch sight of him was a specimen of no particular note: a sand demon about four feet in length, with long arms and bunched, muscular legs. Its barbed tail slithered back and forth as it met Arlen’s eyes.

A moment later, it launched itself at the wardnet. As it leapt, Arlen stepped aside and reached out, partially covering two wards. The net broke and the coreling tumbled past him, confused at the lack of resistance. He quickly drew his hand back, reestablishing the net. Whatever happened, the demon would not survive. Either it would perish fighting Arlen, or it would kill him and die when the sun rose and it could not escape the heavily warded oasis.

The demon righted itself and turned back, hissing as it bared rows of teeth. It circled, its corded muscles tensing as its tail flicked sharply. Then, with a catlike roar, it pounced again.

Arlen met it head-on, holding his hands with palms out, his arms longer than the demon’s. The creature’s scaled chest struck the wards, and with a flash and a howl of agony, the coreling was thrown back. It struck the ground hard, and Arlen could see thin wisps of smoke rising from the point of contact. He smiled.

The demon got back to its feet and began circling again, this time more cautiously. It was unaccustomed to prey fighting back, but it soon regained its courage, leaping to the attack again.

Arlen caught the coreling’s wrists and fell back, kicking it in the stomach and flipping it over him. As he made contact, the wards flared, and he could feel the magic working. It did not burn him, though the coreling’s flesh sizzled at the touch, but there was a tingle of energy in his hands, as if they had lost circulation and gone prickly. The feeling shot up his arms like a shiver.

They both rose quickly, and Arlen returned the coreling’s growl with one of his own. The demon licked at its scorched wrists, trying to soothe them, and Arlen could see grudging respect in its eyes. Respect and fear. This time, he was the predator.

His confidence was almost the death of him. The demon shrieked and lunged, and this time, Arlen was too slow. Black talons raked across his chest as he tried to twist out of the way.

He punched out in desperation, forgetting that the wards were on his palms. His knuckles scraped against the coreling’s gritty scales, tearing skin, but the blow had little effect. With a backhanded swat, the sand demon sent him sprawling to the ground.

The next moments were desperate, as Arlen scrambled and rolled to avoid its slashing claws, razor teeth, and whipping spiked tail. He started to rise, but the demon coiled and pounced on him, bearing him back to the ground. Arlen managed to get his knee between them, holding the creature back, but its hot, fetid breath washed across his face as its fangs closed not an inch from his face.

Arlen bared his own teeth in as he boxed the demon’s ears. The coreling shrieked in pain as the wards flared, but Arlen held on tightly. Smoke began to drift from the grip as the light brightened. The demon thrashed madly, claws tearing at him in a desperate attempt to escape.

But Arlen had it now, and he would not let go. Every moment he held on, the tingling in his palms grew in intensity, as if gaining momentum. He squeezed his hands together, and was amazed when they grew closer, as if the creature’s skull was softening, liquefying.

The coreling’s assault slowed, and Arlen rolled to the side, reversing the pin. The demon’s claws closed weakly about his arms, trying to pull them away, but it was no use.

With a final flex of his muscles, Arlen brought his hands together, crushing the coreling’s head in an explosion of gore.

CHAPTER 24 NEEDLES AND INK 328 AR

Arlen couldn’t sleep that night, though it was not from the throbbing of his wounds. All his life he had dreamt of the heroes in Jongleurs’ tales, donning armor and fighting corelings with warded weapons. When he found the spear, he thought that dream was within his grasp, but when he reached for it, it slipped through his fingers and he stumbled into something new.

Nothing, not even that night in the Maze when he had felt invincible, could compare with the sensation of facing a coreling on its own terms and feeling the tingle in his flesh as his magic burned its life away. He hungered for that feeling again, and that hunger put all his former desires in a new light.

Looking back at his visit to Krasia, Arlen realized that it wasn’t as magnanimous as he had believed. Whatever he had told himself, he had wanted to be more than a weaponsmith, or one fighter among many. He had wanted glory. Fame. He had wanted to go down in the histories as the man who had given men back the fight.

As the Deliverer, even?

The thought disturbed him. For the salvation of humanity to mean anything, for it to last, it had to come from everyone, not just one man.

But did humanity even want to be saved? Did they deserve it? Arlen didn’t know anymore. Men like his father had lost the will to fight, content to hide behind wards, and what he had seen in Krasia, what he now saw in himself, made Arlen wonder about those who had not.

There could never be peace between Arlen and the corelings. He knew in his heart he could never sit safe behind his wards and let them dance in peace now that he had another choice. But who would stand by his side and fight? Jeph had struck him at the idea. Elissa had scolded him. Mery had shunned him. The Krasians had tried to kill him.

Ever since the night he had seen Jeph watch his wife be cored from the safety of his porch wards, Arlen had known that the corelings’ greatest weapon was fear. What he hadn’t understood was that fear took many forms. For all his attempts to prove otherwise, Arlen was terrified of being alone. He wanted someone, anyone, to believe in what he was doing. Someone to fight with, and for.

But there was no one. He saw that now. If he wanted companionship, he would have to slink back to the cities and accept it on their terms. If he wanted to fight, he had to do it alone.

The sense of power and elation, so fresh in his mind, faded. He curled up slowly, gripping his knees, and stared out over the desert, looking for a road where there was none.

Arlen rose with the sun and padded to the pool to rinse his wounds. He had stitched and poulticed them before bedding down, but one could never be too careful with wounds from a coreling. As he splashed the cool water on his face, his tattoo caught his eye.

All Messengers had tattoos, marking their city of origin. It was a symbol of how far they had traveled. Arlen remembered that first day when Ragen showed him his, the city in the mountains that graced the flag of Miln. Arlen had meant to get that same tattoo when he completed his first job. He went to a tattooist, ready to be marked forever a Messenger, but he had hesitated. Fort Miln was home to him in many ways, but it was not where he had come from.

Tibbet’s Brook had no flag, so Arlen took the crest of Earl Tibbet himself, lush fields split by a stream that fed a small lake. The tattooist took his needles and imprinted that reminder of home on Arlen’s shoulder for all time.

For all time. The notion lingered in Arlen’s mind. He had watched the tattooist closely. The man’s art was not so different from that of a Warder: precise markings, painstakingly placed with no room for error. There were needles in Arlen’s herb pouch, and ink in his warding kit.

Arlen started a small fire, recalling every moment spent with the tattooist. He passed his needles through the flames, and poured a bit of thick, viscous ink into a small bowl. He wrapped thread about the needles to prevent them from piercing too deeply, and carefully studied the contours of his left hand, noticing every wrinkle and shift as it flexed. When he was ready, he took a needle, dipped it in the ink, and set to work.

It was slow going. He was forced to pause frequently to wipe his palm clear of blood and excess ink. He had nothing but time, though, so he worked with care, his hand steady. By midmorning, he was satisfied with his warding. He poulticed the hand and wrapped it carefully, then went about replenishing the oasis’ stores. He worked hard the rest of the day, and the day after that, knowing that he would need as much as he could carry before he left.

Arlen remained in the oasis for another week, warding his skin in the mornings and gathering food in the afternoons. The tattoos on his palms healed rapidly, but Arlen did not stop there. Remembering the skinned knuckles from punching the sand demon, he warded those of his left hand, waiting only for the scabs on his right to fall away before he did those as well. No coreling would ever shrug away one of his punches again.

As he worked, he ran through his battle with the sand demon repeatedly, remembering how it moved, its strength and speed, the nature of its attacks, and the signals that heralded them. He made careful notes of his recollections, studying them and considering how his reactions could have been better. He could not afford to stumble anymore.

The Krasians had honed the brutal yet precise moves of sharusahk into an art form. He began to adapt the moves, and the placement of his tattoos, so the two would act as one.

When Arlen finally left the Oasis of Dawn, he ignored the path entirely, cutting straight across the sand toward the lost city of Anoch Sun. He took as much dried food as he could carry. Anoch Sun had a well, but no food, and he planned to be there for some time.

Even as he left, Arlen knew that his water would not last all the way to the lost city. Spare skins at the oasis were few, and it might take as much as two weeks to reach the city on foot. His water wouldn’t last a week.

But never once did he look back. There’s nothing behind me, he thought. I can only go forward.

As dusk spread darkness across the sand, Arlen took a deep breath and continued on, not bothering to set camp. The stars were clear over the cloudless desert, and it was easy to keep his sense of direction; easier, in fact, than it was during the day.

There were few corelings so far out in the desert. They tended to congregate where there was prey, and prey was scarce on the barren sands. Arlen walked for hours in the cold moonlight before a demon caught his scent. He heard its cries long before the creature appeared, but he did not flee, for he knew it could track him, nor did he try to hide, for he had much farther to go that night. He stood his ground as the sand demon came bounding over the dunes.

When Arlen met the creature’s gaze calmly, the coreling paused, confused. It growled at him, clawing the sand, but Arlen only smiled. It roared a challenge, but Arlen did not react at all. Instead, he focused on his surroundings: the flashes of movement in the periphery of his vision; the whisper of the wind and the scrape of sand; the scent upon the cold night air.

Sand demons hunted in packs. Arlen had never seen one of them alone before, and he doubted this one was now. Sure enough, while his attention had been fixed upon the snarling, shrieking creature before him, two more demons, as silent as death, had circled around to either side, nearly invisible in the darkness. Arlen pretended not to notice them, keeping eye contact with the coreling in front of him as it drew closer and closer.

The attack came, as expected, not from the posturing sand demon before him, but from those off to the sides. Arlen was impressed with the cunning the corelings showed. Out on the sands, he supposed, where one could see far in every direction and the slightest sound could carry miles on the wind, it was necessary to develop instincts for misdirection when on the hunt.

But while Arlen had not yet become the hunter, neither was he easy prey. As the two sand demons leapt at him from either side, foretalons reaching, he darted forward, toward the demon that had been serving as the distraction.

The two attacking demons veered off, barely avoiding a collision, while the other backed away in surprise. It was fast, but not as fast as Arlen’s left hook. The wards on his knuckles flared, a sizzling blow that rocked the demon back on its heels, but Arlen did not stop there. He snapped his right hand onto the coreling’s face, pressing the ward tattooed on his palm against its eyes. The ward activated, burning, and the creature shrieked and lashed out blindly.

Anticipating the move, Arlen threw himself backward. He hit the ground in a roll and came back up a few feet away from the blinded creature, facing the other two corelings as they launched themselves his way.

Again, Arlen was impressed. Not to be fooled twice, the corelings did not attack in unison, staggering their strikes so he could not play them against one another.

The tactic worked against the demons, though, for it allowed Arlen to focus upon them one at a time. As the first reached for him, he stepped right up, inside its grasp, and boxed its ears. The explosion of magic collapsed the demon to the sand, where it shrieked and writhed in agony, clutching at its head.

The second demon was close behind the first, and Arlen had no time to dodge or strike. Instead, remembering another trick from the last encounter, he caught the creature’s wrists and threw himself onto his back, kicking upward. The sharp scales of the sand demon’s abdomen cut through the wrappings on his feet and into the flesh beneath, but it did not prevent Arlen from using the creature’s own momentum to hurl it away. The one he had blinded continued to flail about, but it was little threat.

Before the thrown demon could recover, Arlen pounced on the one writhing on the ground, digging his knees into its back and ignoring the pain as its scales cut into him. He caught the coreling about the throat with one hand, and pressed the other hard into the back of its head. He felt the magic beginning to build, but was forced to relinquish his hold too soon in order to roll out of the way as the coreling he had thrown renewed its assault.

Arlen came back to his feet, and he and the sand demon circled one another warily. It charged, and Arlen bent his knees, ready to sidestep the slashing claws, but the demon stopped short, snapping its stout, powerful frame about like a whip. Its thick tail collided with Arlen’s side, sending him sprawling.

He hit the ground and rolled to the side just in time as the heavy, ridged end of the tail thudded into the sand where his head had been. He rolled back, narrowly avoiding the next blow. As the sand demon retracted its tail for another strike, Arlen managed to grasp it. He squeezed, feeling the ward tingle in his palm, then grow warm as the magic gathered. The demon howled and thrashed, but Arlen held fast, locking his other hand just below the first. He quickstepped to keep out of reach as the magic intensified, finally burning right through the tail, popping the ridged end off in an ichorous splatter.

Arlen was thrown by the severance, and the coreling, free again, whirled on him and attacked. Arlen caught one of its wrists in his left hand and jabbed his right elbow into the creature’s throat, but the unwarded blow had little effect. The demon flexed its sinewy arms, and Arlen again found himself flying through the air.

As the creature pounced, Arlen called upon his last reserves of strength and met it head-on, locking his hands around its throat and bearing it backward. The coreling’s talons ripped at his arms, but Arlen’s limbs were longer, and it could not reach his body. They struck the ground hard, and Arlen brought his knees up to the coreling’s arm joints, pinning the limbs with his weight as he continued to choke, feeling the magic swell with every passing second.

The coreling thrashed about, but Arlen only squeezed harder, burning through its scales and into the vulnerable flesh beneath. Bones cracked, and his fists closed.

He rose from the now-headless demon, and looked to the others. The one whose ears he had boxed was crawling weakly away, its will for the fight gone. The blind demon had vanished, but Arlen was untroubled by that fact. He didn’t envy the crippled creature its trip back to the Core. Most likely, its fellows would tear it to pieces.

He finished off the demon limping pathetically in the sand, bandaged his wounds, and then, after a short rest, picked up his roll of provisions and headed on toward Anoch Sun.

Arlen traveled night and day, taking his sleep in the shadow of the dunes when the sun was highest. On only two other nights was he forced to fight; once against another pack of sand demons, and once against a lone wind demon. The others he passed unmolested.

Without the weight of the sun upon him, he covered more distance by night than by day. He was windburned and raw by his seventh day out of the oasis, his feet blistered and bleeding and his water gone, but new strength flowed into him as Anoch Sun came into view.

Arlen refilled his skins at one of the few working wells, drinking deeply, and then set to warding the building that led into the catacombs where he had found the spear. In some of the nearby collapsed buildings, wooden support beams were left exposed, and in the dryness of the desert, they remained intact. Arlen harvested these, along with the sparse scrub brush, for fires. The three torches left at the oasis and the handful of candles in his warding kit would not last long, and there was no natural light below.

He rationed his dwindling supply of food carefully. The edge of the desert, and the nearest hope of more, was at least five days from Anoch Sun on foot, perhaps three if he traveled at night as well as day. That didn’t give him much time, and there was a lot to do.

For the next week, Arlen explored the catacombs, carefully copying new wards wherever he found them. He found more of the stone coffins, but none contained weapons like the first one he’d found. Still, there was an abundance of wards etched upon the coffins and pillars, and more were painted into stories upon the walls. Arlen could not read the pictograms, but he understood much from the body language and expressions on the sequential images. The works were so intricate that he could make out some of the wards on the weapons the warriors carried.

There were new breeds of corelings in the pictures, as well. A series of images showed men killed by demons that looked human, save for their teeth and claws. One central image showed a thin coreling with spindly limbs and a scrawny chest, its head enormous for its body, standing before a host of demons. The coreling faced off against a robed man who stood before a like number of human warriors. The faces of the two were contorted as if in a contest of wills, but they stood well apart. A halo of light surrounded them, as their respective armies looked on.

Perhaps most striking about the image, the man held no weapon. The light emanating from him seemed to be from a ward painted—tattooed?—upon his forehead. Arlen looked to the next image, and saw the demon and its host flee as the humans raised their spears in triumph.

Arlen copied the ward from the man’s forehead carefully into his notebook.

Days passed, and food dwindled. If he stayed in Anoch Sun any longer, he would starve before he found more. He decided to leave at first light for Fort Rizon. Once he reached the city, he could secure a bank note against his accounts to cover a horse and supplies to return.

But it galled him to leave having barely scratched the surface of Anoch Sun. Many tunnels had collapsed, requiring time to dig through, and there were many more buildings that might have entrances to underground chambers. The ruins held the key to destroying demonkind, and this was the second time his stomach had forced him to abandon them.

The corelings rose while he was lost in thought. They came in numbers to Anoch Sun, despite the lack of prey. Perhaps they thought the buildings might one day attract more men, or perhaps they took pleasure in dominating a place that had once stood in defiance of their kind.

Arlen rose and walked to the edge of his wards, watching the corelings dance in the moonlight. His stomach rumbled, and he wondered, not for the first time, at the nature of demons. They were magical creatures, immortal and inhuman. They destroyed, but they did not create. Even their corpses burned away instead of rotting to feed the soil. But he had seen them feed, seen them shit and piss. Was their nature entirely outside the natural order?

A sand demon hissed at him. “What are you?” Arlen asked, but the creature only swiped at the wards, growling in frustration and stalking away when they flared.

Arlen watched it go, his thoughts dark. “To the Core with it,” he muttered, leaping out from the protection of his wards. The coreling turned just in time to take a blow from Arlen’s warded knuckles. His punches struck the unsuspecting creature like thunderbolts. Before it knew what had hit it, the demon was dead.

Other corelings approached at the sound, but they moved warily, and Arlen was able to dart back to the building and cover his wards long enough to drag his victim through.

“Let’s see if you can’t give something back, after all,” Arlen told the dead creature. Using cutting wards painted onto a sharp piece of obsidian, he opened up the sand demon, surprised to find that beneath the hard armor its flesh was as vulnerable as his. The muscle and sinew was tough, but not so much more than that of any beast.

The stench of the creature was terrible. The black ichor that served as its blood stank so badly that Arlen’s eyes teared and he gagged. Holding his breath, he cut meat from the creature, and shook it vigorously to remove the excess fluid before setting it over his small fire. The ichor smoked and eventually burned away, the smell of the cooking flesh becoming tolerable.

When it was cooked through, Arlen held up the dark, foul meat, and the years melted away, casting him back to Tibbet’s Brook, and the words of Coline Trigg. He had caught a fish that day, but its scales were brown and sickly, and the Herb Gatherer had made him throw it back. “Never eat something that looks sick,” Coline had said. “What you put in your mouth becomes a part of you.”

Will this become a part of me, too? he wondered. He looked at the meat, mustered his nerve, and put it in his mouth.