Peter Brett - The Desert Spear

"I'll see to it," Smitt said.

"Since when does the whole Hollow hop to your commands?" Marick asked with a grin.

Leesha looked at him. "I need to see to the wounded now, Master Marick, but I'll have many questions for you when I'm through."

"I'll be at your disposal," Marick said, bowing.

"Thank you," Leesha said. "It would help if you could gather the other leaders of your group who might have something to add to your story."

"Of course," Marick said.

"I'll settle them in the inn," Stefny, Smitt's wife, said. "Surely you could use a cold ale and a bite," she told the Messenger.

"More than you could imagine," Marick said. There were broken bones to set and infections to treat, many from blistered feet that had burst and been left untreated as folk spent more than a week on the road, knowing that to fall behind the main group meant almost certain death. More than a few of the travelers had coreling wounds, as well, from crowding into hastily put-together circles. It was a wonder any had made it to Deliverer's Hollow at all. She knew from their tales that many had not.

There were several Herb Gatherers of varying skill among the refugees, and after a quick check of their own state, Leesha put them to work. None of the women complained; it was ever the lot of the Herb Gatherer to put aside her own needs for those of her charges.

"We would never have made it without Messenger Marick," one woman said as Leesha treated her frostbitten toes. "He rode ahead each day and warded campsites for our group to succor when the corelings came. Wouldn't have lasted a night without him. He even felled deer with his bow and left them on the road for us to find."

By the time Rojer reappeared, the worst of the wounds had been treated. She left control of the hospit to Darsy and Vika and went with him to her office.

When the door closed behind them, Leesha slumped against Rojer, finally allowing her exhaustion to show. It was late in the afternoon, and she had been working for hours without a break, treating patients and fielding questions from apprentices and town elders alike. It would be dark in a few short hours.

"You need to rest," Rojer said, but Leesha shook her head, filling a basin with water and splashing it on her face.

"No time for it now," she said. "Have we found shelter for everyone?"

"Barely," Rojer said. "All told, there's more refugees than the entire population of Deliverer's Hollow twice over, and I've no doubt there will be more tomorrow. Folk have opened their homes, but Tender Jona still has people sleeping sitting up in his pews, just to keep a roof over them. If this keeps up, every inch of the greatward will be covered in makeshift tents by week's end."

Leesha nodded. "We'll worry over that come morning. Arlen is waiting at Smitt's?"

"The Painted Man is there," Rojer said. "Don't call him Arlen in front of those people."

"It's his name, Rojer," Leesha said.

"I don't care," Rojer snapped, surprising her with his vehemence. "These people need something bigger than themselves to believe in, and right now it's him. No one is asking you to call him Deliverer."

Leesha blinked, taken aback. "I've gotten used to everyone leaping when I say hop."

"Well you can trust me never to do that," Rojer said.

Leesha smiled. "I want it no other way. Come. Let's go see the Painted Man." The taproom of Smitt's Tavern was filled to capacity when Rojer and Leesha arrived, even though the new inn was twice the size it had been when it burned down the year previous.

Smitt nodded to them as they entered, and jerked his head toward the back room. They hurried through the crowd and ducked through the heavy door.

The Painted Man was in the room, pacing like an animal.

"I should be out hunting for more survivors before nightfall, not waiting on council meetings," he said.

"We 'll be as swift as we can," Leesha said, "but it's best we do this together."

The Painted Man nodded, though she could see his impatience in his clenching hands. Smitt entered a moment later, ushering in Marick, along with Stefny, Tender Jona, Erny, and Elona.

Marick stared at the Painted Man, though his hood was drawn and his tattooed hands were hidden in the voluminous sleeves of his robe.

"Are you…him?" Marick asked.

The Painted Man pulled back his hood, revealing his painted flesh, and Marick gasped.

"You the Deliverer, as they say?" Marick asked.

The Painted Man shook his head. "Just a man who learned to kill demons."

Jona snorted.

"Something caught in your throat, Tender?" the Painted Man asked.

"The other Deliverers never named themselves as such," Jona said. "They were all given the title by others." The Painted Man scowled at him, but Jona only bowed his head.

"I guess it doesn't matter," Marick said, though he sounded a little disappointed. "I didn't really expect you to have a halo."

"What happened?" the Painted Man asked.

"Twelve days ago, the Krasians sacked Fort Rizon," Marick said. "They came in the night, bypassed the hamlets, and took out the wall guards, opening the gates of the central city wide at the crack of dawn. We were all still in our beds when the killing started."

"They came in the night?" Leesha asked. "How is that possible?"

"They've got warded weapons that kill demons," Marick said, "same as you Hollow folk. They talk like there ent nothing in the world more important than demon killing, and taking Rizon was just something to keep them busy till the sun set."

"Go on," the Painted Man pressed.

"Well," Marick said, "it's clear their eyes were on the central grain silos, because they took those first. Their warriors killed any man that resisted, and bent any woman that looked old enough to bleed." He glanced at the women present, and his face flushed.

"It's no shock what men will do when they think they can get away with it," Elona said bitterly. "Get on with your tale, Messenger."

Marick nodded. "They must have killed thousands, that first morning, and took the city walls to keep the rest of us in. We were beaten, tied together, and dragged into warehouses like cattle."

"How did you escape?" the Painted Man asked.

"At first I didn't think any of the desert rats spoke a civilized tongue," Marick said. "I know a couple of sand words I picked up from other Messengers, but it's mostly curses, not much to start a conversation with. I figured I was done for, but after a day, a fat one came who spoke Thesan like a native. He started rounding up the royals, landowners, and skilled laborers, bringing them to the Krasian duke. I was among those."

"You saw their leader?" the Painted Man asked.

"Oh, I saw that big bastard all right," Marick said. "They brought me before him, bound and battered, and when he heard I was a Warder, he set me free like nothing had happened. Even gave me a purse of gold for my troubles! I think he meant for me to teach them our wards, but I was over the wall and out of the city at dawn the next morning."

"Their leader," the Painted Man pressed. "What was he wearing?"

Marick blinked. "Open white robe and head rag," he said, "with black underneath, like their warriors wear. And he wore a crown; that's how I knew he was their duke."

"A crown?" the Painted Man asked. "Are you sure? He didn't just have a jewel set in his turban?"

Marick nodded. "I'm sure. It was gold, and covered in jewels and wards. Ripping thing must have been worth more than every other duke 's crown combined."

"And this duke, did he speak our tongue?" the Painted Man asked.

"Better than some Angierians I know," Marick said.

"What was his name?" the Painted Man asked.

Marick shrugged. "Don't think anyone said it. They all called him some sand word. Shamaka, or somesuch. I figured it meant 'duke.' "