Peter Brett: The Warded Man

The Warded Man nodded, squeezing her hands in return. “You’re right,” he said. “The Hollow survived that first night as much because of you and Rojer as me. I’d be a fool not to accept your help now.”

Leesha stepped forward, reaching into his hood. Her hand was cool on his face, and for a moment, he leaned into it. “This hut is big enough for two,” she whispered.

His eyes widened, and she felt him go tense.

“Why does that terrify you more than facing down demons?” she asked. “Am I so repulsive?”

The Warded Man shook his head. “Of course not,” he said.

“Then what?” she asked. “I won’t keep you from your war.”

The Warded Man was quiet for some time. “Two would soon become three,” he said at last, letting go of her hands.

“Is that so terrible?” Leesha asked.

The Warded Man took a deep breath, moving away to another table, avoiding her eyes. “That morning when I wrestled the demon …” he said.

“I remember,” Leesha prompted, when he did not go on.

“The demon tried to escape back to the Core,” he said.

“And tried to take you with it,” Leesha said. “I saw you both go misty, and slip beneath the ground. I was terrified.”

The Warded Man nodded. “No more than me,” he said. “The path to the Core opened up to me, calling me, pulling me down.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Leesha asked.

“Because it wasn’t the demon, it was me,” the Warded Man said. “I took control of the transition; dragged the demon back up to the sun. Even now, I can feel the pull of the Core. If I let myself, I could slip down into its infernal depths with the other corelings.”

“The wards …” Leesha began.

“It’s not the wards,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m telling you it’s me. I’ve absorbed too much of their magic over the years. I’m not even human anymore. Who knows what kind of monster would spring from my seed?”

Leesha went to him, taking his face in her hands as she had that morning they made love. “You’re a good man,” she said, her eyes welling with tears. “Whatever the magic has done to you, it hasn’t changed that. Nothing else matters.”

She leaned in to kiss him, but he had hardened his heart to her, and held her back.

“It matters to me,” he said. “Until I know what I am, I can’t be with you, or anyone.”

“Then I’ll discover what you are,” Leesha said. “I swear it.”

“Leesha,” he said, “you can’t …”

“Don’t you tell me what I can’t do!” she barked. “I’ve had enough of that from others to last a lifetime.”

He held up his hands in submission. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Leesha sniffed, and closed her hands over his. “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “This is a condition to diagnose and cure, like any other.”

“I’m not sick,” the Warded Man said.

She looked at him sadly. “I know that,” she said, “but it seems you don’t.”

Out in the Krasian desert, there was a stirring on the horizon. Lines of men appeared, thousand upon thousand, swathed in loose black cloth drawn about their faces to ward off the stinging sand. The vanguard was composed of two mounted groups, the smaller riding light, quick horses, and the larger upon powerful humped beasts suited to desert crossings. They were followed by columns of footmen, and they, in turn, by a seemingly endless train of carts and supplies. Each warrior carried a spear etched with an intricate pattern of wards.

At their head rode a man dressed all in white, atop a sleek charger of the same color. He raised a hand, and the horde behind him halted and stood in silence to gaze upon the ruins of Anoch Sun.

Unlike the wood and iron spears of his warriors, this man carried an ancient weapon made of a bright, unknown metal. He was Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir, but his people had not used that name in years.

They called him Shar’Dama Ka, the Deliverer.

End Book I