Peter Brett: The Warded Man

A Krasian warrior was taught from birth that the path to salvation lay in killing alagai. When Jardir called for them to leap from the safety of their wards, they did so without hesitation, fighting and dying secure in the knowledge that they were serving Everam and would be rewarded in the afterlife.

The Warded Man feared the Hollowers would lack the same unity of purpose, failing to commit themselves to the fight, but watching as they scurried to and fro, readying themselves, he thought he might perhaps be underestimating them. Even in Tibbet’s Brook, everyone came and stood by their neighbors in hard times. It was what kept the hamlets alive and thriving, despite their lack of warded walls. If he could keep them occupied, keep them from despairing when the demons rose, perhaps they would fight as one.

If not, everyone in the Holy House would die this night.

The strength of Krasia’s resistance was due as much to Kaji’s second law, choosing terrain, as it was the warriors themselves. The Krasian Maze was carefully designed to give the dal’Sharum layers of protection, and to funnel the demons to places of advantage.

One side of the Holy House faced the woods, where wood demons held sway, and two more faced the wrecked streets and rubble of the town. Too many places for corelings to take cover or hide. But past the cobbles of the main entrance lay the town square. If they could funnel the demons there, they might have a chance.

They were unable to clean the greasy ash off the rough stone walls of the Holy House and ward it in the rain, so the windows and great doors had been boarded and nailed shut, hasty wards chalked onto the wood. Ingress was limited to a small side entrance, with wardstones laid about the doorway. The demons would have an easier time getting through the wall.

The very presence of humans out in the naked night would act as a magnet to demons, but nevertheless, the Warded Man had taken pains to funnel the corelings away from the building and flanks, so that the path of least resistance would drive them to attack from the far end of the square. At his direction, the villagers had placed obstacles around the other sides of the Holy House, and interspersed hastily made wardposts, signs he had painted with wards of confusion. Any demon charging past them to attack the walls of the building would forget its intent, and inevitably be drawn toward the commotion in the town square.

Beside the square on one side was a day pen for the Tender’s livestock. It was small, but its new wardposts were strong. A few animals milled around the men erecting a rough shelter within.

The other side of the square had been dug with trenches quickly filling with mucky rainwater, to urge flame demons to take an easier path. Leesha’s oil was a thick sludge atop the water.

The villagers had done well in enacting Kaji’s third law, preparation. Steady rain had made the square slick, a thin film of mud forming on the hard packed dirt. The Warded Man’s messenger circles were set about the battlefield as he had directed, points of ambush and retreat, and a deep pit had been dug and covered with a muddy tarp. Thick, viscous grease was being spread on the cobbles with brooms.

And the fourth law, attacking the enemy in a way they would not expect, would take care of itself.

The corelings would not expect them to attack at all.

“I did as you asked,” a man said, approaching him as he pondered the terrain.

“Eh?” the Warded Man said.

“I’m Benn, sir,” the man said. “Mairy’s husband.” The Warded Man just stared. “The glassblower,” he clarified, and the Warded Man’s eyes finally lit with recognition.

“Let’s see, then,” he said.

Benn produced a small glass flask. “It’s thin, like you asked,” he said. “Fragile.”

The Warded Man nodded. “How many did you and your apprentices have time to make?” he asked.

“Three dozen,” Benn said. “May I ask what they’re for?”

The Warded Man shook his head. “You’ll see soon enough,” he said. “Bring them, and find me some rags.”

Rojer approached him next. “I’ve seen Leesha’s spear,” he said. “I’ve come for mine.”

The Warded Man shook his head. “You’re not fighting,” he said. “You’re staying inside with the sick.”

Rojer stared at him. “But you told Leesha …”

“To give you a spear is to rob you of your strength,” the Warded Man cut him off. “Your music would be lost out in the din outside, but inside, it’ll prove more potent than a dozen spears. If the corelings break through, I’m counting on you to hold them back until I arrive.”

Rojer scowled, but he nodded, and headed into the Holy House.

Others were already waiting for his attention. The Warded Man listened to reports on their progress, assigning further tasks that were leapt to immediately. The villagers moved with hunched quickness, like hares ready to flee at any moment.

No sooner than he had sent them off, Stefny came storming up to him, a group of angry women at her back. “What’s this about sending us up to Bruna’s hut?” the woman demanded.

“The wards there are strong,” the Warded Man said. “There is no room for you in the Holy House or Leesha’s family home.”

“We don’t care about that,” Stefny said. “We’re going to fight.”

The Warded Man looked at her. Stefny was a tiny woman, barely five feet, and thin as a reed. She was well into her fifties; her skin was thin and rough, like worn leather. Even the smallest wood demon would tower over her.

But the look in her eyes told him it didn’t matter. She was going to fight no matter what he said. The Krasians might not allow women to fight, but that was their failing. He would not deny any who were willing to stand in the night. He took a spear off his cart and handed it to her. “We’ll find you a place,” he promised.

Expecting an argument, Stefny was taken aback, but she took the weapon, nodding once and moving away. The other women came in turn, and he handed a spear to each.

The men came at once, seeing the Warded Man handing out weapons. The cutters took their own axes back, looking at the freshly painted wards dubiously. No axe blow had ever penetrated a wood demon’s armor.

“Won’t need this,” Gared said, handing back the Warded Man’s spear. “I ent one for spinning a stick around, but I know how to swing my axe.”

One of the cutters brought a girl to him, perhaps thirteen summers old. “My name’s Flinn, sir,” the cutter said. “My daughter Wonda hunts with me sometimes. I won’t have her out in the naked night, but if ya let her have a bow behind the wards, you’ll find her aim is true.”

The Warded Man looked at the girl. Tall and homely, she had taken after her father in size and strength. He went to Twilight Dancer and pulled down his own yew bow and heavy arrows. “I won’t need these tonight,” he said to her, and pointed to a high window at the apex of the Holy House’s roof. “See if you can pry loose enough boards to shoot from there,” he advised.

Wonda took the bow and ran off. Her father bowed and backed away.

Tender Jona limped out to meet him next.

“You should be inside, and off that leg,” the Warded Man said, never comfortable around Holy Men. “If you can’t carry a load or dig a trench, you’re only in the way out here.”

Tender Jona nodded. “I only wanted to have a look at the defenses,” he said.

“They should hold,” the Warded Man said with more confidence than he felt.

“They will,” Jona said. “The Creator would not leave those in His house without succor. That’s why He sent you.”

“I’m not the Deliverer, Tender,” the Warded Man said, scowling. “No one sent me, and nothing about tonight is assured.”