Peter Brett - The Daylight War

‘That’s ridiculous!’ the greybeard cried, but he was stepping back, and Renna could see the lie in his eyes now, so clear that she wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. That day folk, even elders, could be just as bad as demons was no new lesson to her. Harl had been grey, and Raddock Lawry.

The man standing behind the cart ducked out of sight a moment, and then reappeared holding a crank bow. Two men came from the bushes, aiming drawn hunting bows at them. From around the bend behind them came three more men with spears, blocking their retreat. All were gaunt, with dark circles under their eyes and ragged, patched clothing.

Only the greybeard was unarmed. ‘Ent looking to hurt anyone, Tender,’ he said, putting his hat back on, ‘but these are desperate times, and you’re carrying an awful heavy load for a Tender and his …’ He squinted at Renna. She was dappled in shadows, obscuring the wards on her skin, but there was no missing the scandalous cut of her clothes. The man with the crank bow let out a low whistle, moving forward for a closer look.

‘Don’t go gettin’ any ideas, Donn,’ the greybeard warned, and the crank bowman checked himself.

The greybeard flicked his eyes back to Arlen. ‘In any event, we’ll be taking any food, blankets, or medicine you got, not to mention those big horses.’

Renna gripped her knife, but Arlen only chuckled. ‘Trust me, you wouldn’t want the horses.’

‘You don’t get to tell me what I want, Tender,’ the greybeard snapped. ‘Creator abandoned us a long time ago. Now you two get down off those horses or my men will fill you full of holes.’

Arlen was off Twilight Dancer in an instant. Renna barely saw him move as he closed the distance to the greybeard, catching him in a sharusahk choke hold and twisting the old man between him and the bowmen.

‘Like you said,’ Arlen said, ‘ent looking to hurt anyone. Just looking to be on my way. So why don’t you tell your men to …’

He was cut off as one of the bowmen let fly. Renna gasped, but Arlen snatched the arrow out of the air the way a quick man might snatch a horsefly.

‘This was apt to hit you more than me,’ Arlen noted, holding up the arrow in front of the greybeard. He tossed it aside.

‘Corespawn it, Brice!’ the greybeard shouted. ‘You trying to kill me?!’

‘Sorry!’ Brice cried. ‘Slipped!’

‘Slipped, he says,’ the greybeard muttered. ‘Creator help us.’

While all the attention was on the bowman, one of the spearmen took the opportunity to quietly move up behind Arlen. He was sneaky enough by day folk standards, but Renna didn’t cry an alarm. She could tell just from Arlen’s stance that he knew the man was coming. Was baiting it, even.

Just as the spearman lunged, Arlen shoved the greybeard away. The man put his spear horizontally over Arlen’s head, meaning to come up under his chin in a choke. Arlen grabbed the shaft, bending forward with a twist that turned all the man’s momentum against him, flipping him over to land heavily on his back. Arlen, now holding the spear in one hand, put his foot on the man’s chest and looked at the others.

In the struggle, his hood had come down, and the men gaped at the sight. ‘The Painted Man,’ Brice said, and all the bandits began to mutter among themselves.

After a moment, the greybeard remembered himself. ‘So you’re the one everyone says is the Deliverer.’ He squinted. ‘You don’t look like the Deliverer to me.’

‘Never said I was,’ Arlen said. ‘I’m Arlen Bales out of Tibbet’s Brook, and I ent gonna deliver anything but a whipping to anyone doesn’t start acting neighbourly right quick.’

The greybeard looked at him, and then around at his men. He waved a hand and they put their weapons up, all staring at Arlen, who glared back at them like Renna’s mam when she’d caught the girls at mischief and was readying a scolding.

Even the greybeard couldn’t weather that stare for long. He wiped the sweat from his weathered brow again, wringing his hat in his hands. ‘Ent gonna apologize,’ he said. ‘I got mouths to feed, and folk in need of proper succour. Done some things I’m not proud of to get by, but it ent from greed or malice. A man tends to forget himself when he’s been on the road a long time with nowhere to go.’

Arlen nodded. ‘Know what that’s like. What’s your name?’

‘Varley Oat,’ the greybeard said.

Arlen nodded at the surname. ‘You’re out of Oating, then? Three days’ north of Fort Rizon, past the Yellow Orchards?’

Varley’s eyes widened, but he nodded. ‘You come a long way from Oating, Varley,’ Arlen said. ‘How long you been on the road?’

‘Nigh three seasons. Since the Krasians took Fort Rizon,’ Varley said. ‘Knew the desert rats would come for us next, so I told folk to pack up everything they owned and set off right away.’

‘You Town Speaker?’ Arlen asked.

Varley laughed. ‘I was the Tender.’ He shrugged. ‘Guess I still am, after a fashion, though I been doubting there’s anyone watching from above.’

‘Know that feeling, too,’ Arlen said.

‘Whole village of Oating left together,’ Varley went on. ‘Six hundred of us. We had Herb Gatherers, Warders, even a retired Messenger to guide us. Plenty of supplies. Honest word, we started with more than we could carry. But that changed quick.’

‘Always does,’ Arlen said.

‘Desert rats came quickly,’ Varley said, ‘and their scouts were everywhere. Lost a lot of folk to the running, and a lot more to the winter. Krasians stopped chasing us eventually, but no one felt safe until we got to Lakton.’

‘But Lakton wouldn’t have you,’ Arlen guessed.

Varley shook his head. ‘We were looking a bit shabby by then. Folk would look the other way for a bit if we camped for a week in a fallow field or fished a bit in their pond, but no one was looking to take five hundred new folk into their town. Someone would accuse us of stealing something, and before you know it, whole town comes out with rakes and hoes to run us out.

‘Went on from there to the Hollow, where they’re taking in Rizonans by the thousand, but folk there were chewing bark and digging bugs just to fill their bellies, and the Cutters roam the refugee camps, looking for recruits to get themselves killed in the naked night. Some of us lost everything to the Krasians, and they want us to start fightin’ demons? Won’t be no one left.’

‘So you set off north,’ Arlen said.

Varley shrugged. ‘Seemed like the wisest course. I still had nigh three hundred folk to look after. Hollowers gave us a couple of warded spears and what help they could. Farmer’s Stump wasn’t half so kind, and the bastards in Fort Angiers turned us away at spearpoint. Heard there might be work up Riverbridge way, but that place was no better. Packed full. So now we’re here, and got nowhere else.’

‘Show me your camp,’ Arlen said. The bandit looked at him for a moment, then nodded and turned to his men. The cart was out of the mud in an instant, and they were soon travelling off road through a narrow pass in the trees. Arlen dismounted, leading Twilight Dancer by the reins. Renna did the same, laying a hand on Promise’s strong neck to guide her. The mare stomped and snorted when any of the men drew near, but she was growing used to Renna’s touch.

It was over an hour before the Oatingers’ camp came in sight, hidden well away from the road. Renna’s eyes widened at the ragtag collection of crudely patched tents and covered wagons, thick with the stench of sweat and human waste. Perhaps two hundred souls were gathered there. Varley’s men, ragged themselves, were the pick of the lot.

Women, children, and elderly stumbled about the camp, exhausted, filthy, and half starved. Many wore bandages, and most feet were wrapped in rags. Everyone was working — repairing and warding tattered and meagre shelters, tending gruel pots, airing laundry and scraping dishes, gathering firewood, preparing wardposts, tending scrawny livestock. The only idle were the sick and the wounded, housed under a poorly constructed rain shelter. Their moans of pain could be heard clear across the camp.