Peter Brett - The Warded Man

“If you haven’t noticed,” the Warded Man replied, “the corelings have been at war with us for centuries. Is it so wrong to take the fight to them?”

“You think yourself the Deliverer, then?” Leesha asked.

The Warded Man scowled. “Waiting for the Deliverer has left humanity crippled for three hundred years,” he said. “He’s a myth. He’s not coming, and it’s time people saw that and began standing up for themselves.”

“Myths have power,” Rojer said. “Don’t be so quick to dismiss them.”

“Since when are you a man of faith?” Leesha asked.

“I believe in hope,” Rojer said. “I’ve been a Jongleur all my life, and if I’ve learned one thing in twenty-three years, it’s that the stories people cry for, the ones that stay with them, are the ones that offer hope.”

“Twenty,” Leesha said suddenly.

“What?”

“You told me you were twenty.”

“Did I?”

“You’re not even that, are you?” she asked.

“I am!” Rojer insisted.

“I’m not stupid, Rojer,” Leesha said. “I’ve not known you three months, and you’ve grown an inch in that time. No twenty-year-old does that. What are you? Sixteen?”

“Seventeen,” Rojer snarled. He threw down his bowl, spilling the remaining broth. “Does that please you? You were right to tell Jizell you were nearly old enough to be my mother.”

Leesha stared at him. She opened her mouth to say something sharp, but closed it again. “I’m sorry,” she said instead.

“And you, Warded Man?” Rojer asked, turning to him. “Will you add ‘too young’ to your list of reasons why I shouldn’t travel with you?”

“I became a Messenger at seventeen,” the man replied, “and I was traveling much younger than that.”

“And how old is the Warded Man?” Rojer asked.

“The Warded Man was born in the Krasian desert, four summers ago,” he replied.

“And the man beneath the wards?” Leesha asked. “How old was he when he died?”

“It doesn’t matter how many summers he had,” the Warded Man said. “He was a stupid, naive child, with dreams too big for his own good.”

“Is that why he had to die?” Leesha asked.

“He was killed. And yes.”

“What was his name?” Leesha asked quietly.

The Warded Man was quiet a long time. “Arlen,” he said finally. “His name was Arlen.”

When the Warded Man awoke, the storm had broken temporarily, but gray clouds hung heavy in the sky, promising more rain to come. He looked into the cave, his warded eyes easily piercing the dark, and made out the two horses and the sleeping Jongleur. Leesha, however, was missing.

It was early still; the false light before true sunrise. Most of the corelings had likely fled to the Core long since, but with the heavy cloud, one could never be sure. He rose to his feet, tearing away the bandages Leesha had tied the night before. The wounds were all healed.

The Herb Gatherer’s path was easy to follow in the thick muck, and he found her not far off, kneeling on the ground picking herbs. Her skirts were hiked up far above her knees to keep them from the mud, and the sight of her smooth white thighs made him flush. She was beautiful in the predawn light.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said. “The sun’s not yet risen. It’s not safe.”

Leesha looked at him, and smiled. “Are you in a position to lecture me on putting myself in danger?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. “Besides,” she went on when he made no reply, “what demon could harm me with you here?”

The Warded Man shrugged, squatting beside her. “Tampweed?” he asked.

Leesha nodded, holding up the rough-leafed plant with thick, clustered buds. “Smoked from a pipe, it relaxes the muscles, inducing a feeling of euphoria. Combined with skyflower, I can use it to brew a sleeping potion strong enough to put down an angry lion.”

“Would that work on a demon?” the Warded Man asked.

Leesha frowned. “Don’t you ever think of anything else?” she asked.

The Warded Man looked hurt. “Don’t presume to know me,” he said. “I kill corelings, yes, and because of that, I have seen places no living man remembers. Shall I recite poetry I’ve translated from ancient Rusk? Paint for you the murals of Anoch Sun? Tell you of machines from the old world that could do the work of twenty men?”

Leesha laid a hand on his arm, and he fell silent. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was wrong to judge. I know something of the weight of guarding the knowledge of the old world.”

“It’s no hurt,” the Warded Man said.

“That doesn’t make it right,” Leesha said. “To answer your question, I honestly don’t know. Corelings eat and shit, so it reasons they can be drugged. My mentor said the Herb Gatherers of old took great tolls in the Demon War. I have some skyflower. I can brew the potion when we get to Cutter’s Hollow, if you like.”

The Warded Man nodded eagerly. “Can you brew me something else, as well?” he asked.

Leesha sighed. “I wondered when you would ask that,” she said. “I won’t make you liquid demonfire.”

“Why not?” the Warded Man asked.

“Because men cannot be trusted with the secrets of fire,” Leesha said, turning to face him. “If I give it to you, you will use it, even if it means setting half the world on fire.”

The Warded Man looked at her, and made no reply.

“And what do you need it for, anyway?” she asked. “You already have powers beyond anything a few herbs and chemics can create.”

“I’m just a man …” he began, but Leesha cut him off.

“Demonshit,” she said. “Your wounds heal in minutes, and you can run as fast as a horse all day without breathing hard. You throw wood demons around as if they were children, and you see in the dark as if it were broad day. You’re not ‘just’ anything.”

The Warded Man smiled. “There’s no hiding from your eyes,” he said.

Something about the way he said it sent a thrill through Leesha. “Were you always this way?” she asked.

He shook his head. “It’s the wards,” he said. “Wards work by feedback. Do you know this word?”

Leesha nodded. “It’s in the books of old-world science,” she said.

The Warded Man grunted. “Corelings are creatures of magic,” he said. “Defensive wards siphon off some of that magic, using it to form their barrier. The stronger the demon, the stronger the force that repels it. Offensive wards work the same way, weakening the corelings’ armor even as it strengthens the blow. Inanimate objects cannot hold the charge long, and it dissipates. But somehow, every time I strike a demon, or one strikes me, I absorb a little of its strength.”

“I felt the tingle that first night, when I touched your skin,” Leesha said.

The Warded Man nodded. “When I warded my flesh, it wasn’t only my appearance that became … inhuman.”

Leesha shook her head, taking his face in her hands. “our bodies are not what make us human,” she whispered. “You can take your humanity back, if only you wish it.” She leaned closer, and kissed him softly.

He stiffened at first, but the shock wore off, and suddenly he was kissing her back. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth to him, her hands caressing the smoothness of his shaved head. She could not feel the wards, only his warmth, and his scars.

We both have scars, she thought. His are just laid bare to the world.

She leaned backward, pulling him with her. “We’ll get muddy,” he warned.

“We’re already muddy,” she said, falling onto her back with him atop her.

Blood pounded in Leesha’s ears as the Warded Man kissed her. She ran her hands over his hard muscles and opened her legs, grinding her hips into his.