Peter Brett - The Warded Man

The sun was there to greet them, bright and blessed, and the Warded Man felt himself become solid again as the creature burst into flames. It clawed at the ground, but he held it fast.

When he finally released the charred husk, he was oozing blood everywhere. Leesha ran to him, but he pushed her away, still reeling in horror. What was he, that he could find a path down into the Core? Had he become a coreling himself? What kind of monster would a child of his tainted seed turn out to be?

“You’re hurt,” she objected, reaching for him again.

“I’ll heal,” he said, pulling away. The gentle, loving voice he had used just minutes before was gone now, back to the cold monotone of the Warded Man. Indeed, many of his smaller cuts and scrapes were already crusting over.

“But …” Leesha protested, “what about …?”

“I made my choice a long time ago, and I chose the night,” the Warded Man said. “For a moment I thought I could take it back, but …” He shook his head. “There’s no going back now.”

He picked up his robe, heading for the small cold stream nearby to wash his wounds.

“Corespawn you!” Leesha cried at his back. “You and your mad obsession!”

Rojer was still asleep when they returned. They changed their muddy clothes silently, backs to one another, and then Leesha shook Rojer awake while the Warded Man saddled the horses. They ate a cold breakfast in silence, and were on the road before the sun had risen far. Rojer rode behind Leesha on her mare, the Warded Man alone on his great stallion. The sky was heavy with cloud, promising more rain to come.

“Shouldn’t we have passed a Messenger headed north by now?” Rojer asked.

“You’re right,” Leesha said. She looked up and down the road, worried.

The Warded Man shrugged. “We’ll reach Cutter’s Hollow by high sun,” he said. “I’ll see you there, and be on my way.”

Leesha nodded. “I think that’s best,” she agreed.

“Just like that?” Rojer asked.

The Warded Man inclined his head. “You were expecting more, Jongleur?”

“After all we’ve been through? Night, yes!” Rojer cried.

“Sorry to disappoint,” the Warded Man replied, “but I’ve business to attend.”

“Creator forbid you go a night without killing something,” Leesha muttered.

“But what about what we discussed?” Rojer pressed. “Me traveling with you?”

“Rojer!” Leesha cried.

“I’ve decided it’s a bad idea,” the Warded Man told him. He glanced at Leesha. “If your music can’t kill demons, it’s no use to me. I’m better off on my own.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Leesha put in. Rojer scowled at her, and her cheeks burned. He deserved better, she knew, but she could offer no comfort or explanation when it was taking all her strength to hold back tears.

She had known the Warded Man for what he was. As much as she’d hoped otherwise, she had known his heart might not stay open for long, that all they might have was a moment. But oh, she had wanted that moment! She had wanted to feel safe in his arms, and to feel him inside her. She stroked her belly absently. If he had seeded her and she had found herself with child, she would have cherished it, never questioning whom the father might be. But now … there were pomm leaves enough in her stores for what must be done.

They rode on in silence, the coldness between them palpable. Before long, they turned a bend and caught their first glimpse of Cutter’s Hollow.

Even from a distance, they could see the village was a smoking ruin.

Rojer held on tightly as they bounced along the road. Leesha had kicked into a gallop upon seeing the smoke, and the Warded Man followed suit. Even in the damp, fires still burned hungrily in Cutter’s Hollow, casting billows of greasy black smoke into the air. The town was devastated, and again Rojer found himself reliving the destruction of Riverbridge. Gasping for breath, he squeezed his secret pocket before remembering that his talisman was broken and lost. The horse jerked, and he snapped his hand back to Leesha’s waist to keep from being thrown.

Survivors could be seen wandering about like ants in the distance. “Why aren’t they fighting the fires?” Leesha asked, but Rojer merely held on, having no answer.

They pulled up as they reached the town, taking in the devastation numbly. “Some of these have been burning for days,” the Warded Man noted, nodding toward the remains of once-cozy homes. Indeed, many of the buildings were charred ruins, barely smoking, and others still were cold ash. Smitt’s tavern, the only building in town with two floors, had collapsed in on itself, some of the beams still ablaze, and other buildings were missing roofs or entire walls.

Leesha took in the smudged and tear-streaked faces as she rode deeper into town, recognizing every one. All were too occupied with their own grief to take notice of the small group as they passed. She bit her lip to keep from crying.

In the center of town, the townspeople had collected the dead. Leesha’s heart clenched at the sight: at least a hundred bodies, without even blankets to cover them. Poor Niklas. Saira and her mother. Tender Michel. Steave. Children she had never met, and elders she had known all her life. Some were burned, and others cored, but most had not a mark on them. Fluxed.

Mairy knelt by the pile, weeping over a small bundle. Leesha felt her throat close up, but somehow managed to get down from her horse and approach, laying a hand on Mairy’s shoulder.

“Leesha?” Mairy asked in disbelief. A moment later she surged to her feet, wrapping the Herb Gatherer in a tight hug, sobbing uncontrollably.

“It’s Elga,” Mairy cried, referring to her youngest, a girl not yet two. “She … she’s gone!”

Leesha held her tightly, cooing soothing sounds as words failed her. Others were taking note of her, but kept a respectful distance while Mairy poured out her grief.

“Leesha,” they whispered. “Leesha’s come. Thank the Creator.”

Finally, Mairy managed to collect herself, pulling back and lifting her smudged and filthy apron to daub at her tears.

“What’s happened?” Leesha asked softly. Mairy looked at her, eyes wide, and tears filled them again. She trembled, unable to speak.

“Plague,” said a familiar voice, and Leesha turned to see Jona approaching, leaning heavily on a cane. His Tender’s robes had been cut away from one leg, the lower half splinted and wrapped tight in bandages stained with blood. Leesha embraced him, glancing meaningfully at the leg.

“Broken tibia,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “Vika’s seen to it.” His face grew dark. “It was one of the last things she did, before she succumbed.”

Leesha’s eye’s widened. “Vika’s dead?” she asked in shock.

Jona shook his head. “Not yet, at least, but the flux has got her, and the fever has her raving. It won’t be long.” He looked around. “It may not be long for any of us,” he said in a low voice meant for Leesha alone. “I fear you’ve chosen an ill time for your homecoming, Leesha, but perhaps that too is the Creator’s plan. Had you waited another day, there might not have been a home for you to come to.”

Leesha’s eyes hardened. “I don’t want to hear any more nonsense like that!” she scolded. “Where is Vika?” She turned a circle, taking in the small crowd. “Creator, where is everyone? ”

“The Holy House,” Jona said. “The sick are all there. Those that have recovered, or been blessed not to fall prey at all, are out collecting the dead, or mourning them.”

“Then that’s where we’re going,” Leesha said, tucking herself under Jona’s arm to support him as they walked. “Now tell me what’s happened. Everything.”