Peter V. Brett - The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold - Stories from The Demon Cycle series

Late in the day, they reached the point where Royal joined with the next mountain in the range, and there stood a great clearing surrounding a gigantic wardpost made of crete, standing twenty feet high. The wards were so large a whole caravan could succor underneath them.

‘Amazing,’ Arlen said. ‘Must’ve cost a fortune to have that cast and hauled out here.’

‘A fortune to us is just copper lights to Count Brayan,’ Curk said.

Arlen hopped down from the cart and went over to inspect the great post, noting the hard way the dirt in the clearing was packed, indentations telling the tale of hundreds of firepits and stakes put down by Messengers, caravan crews, and settlers over the years. The site was freshly used even now, smelling faintly of woodsmoke from a previous night’s fire.

As he studied the wardpost, Arlen noticed a brass plaque riveted into the base of the post. It read: Brayan’s Mount.

‘Count Brayan owns the whole mountain?’ Arlen asked.

Curk nodded. ‘When Brayan asked permission to mine all the way out here, the Duke laughed and gave him the whole damn mountain for a Jongleur’s song. Euchor didn’t know that Countess Mother Cera, Brayan’s wife, had found tale of a gold mine on the peak in an old history.’

‘Reckon he’s not laughing now,’ Arlen said.

Curk snorted. ‘Now Brayan owns half the crown’s debt, and Mother Cera’s arse is the only one in the city Euchor’s afraid to pinch.’ They both laughed as Arlen began to climb the post, clearing windblown leaves and even a fresh bird’s nest from the wards.

It was a cold spring night, but the post radiated heat, drawn from the demons that attempted to breach its radius. The forbidding waned the further one got from the post, but it easily extended fifty feet in every direction. Even One Arm could not approach.

The next morning, they began to ascend the winding road that would twist around the entire mountain three times, getting ever narrower, rockier, and colder, before it brought them to Brayan’s mine. It was around midday when they approached a large rock outcropping, and a shrill whistle cut the air. Arlen looked up just as something struck the bench between him and Curk, blasting through the wood like a rock demon’s talon.

‘That was just a sign to let you know we mean business,’ a man said, stepping out from around the rock face. He wore thick coveralls and a miner’s helm with candle cup. A kerchief was tied across his nose to cover the rest of his face. ‘Fella atop them boulders can thread a needle with his crank bow.’

Arlen and Curk glanced up and saw there was indeed a man kneeling atop the rocks, his face similarly covered as he pointed a heavy crank bow at them. A spent bow lay at his side.

‘Corespawn it,’ Curk spat. ‘Knew this would happen.’ He lifted his hands high.

‘He only has one shot,’ Arlen murmured.

‘One’s all he needs,’ Curk muttered back. ‘Crank bow this close’ll go through even your fancy armor like it was made of snow.’

They turned their eyes back to the man on the road. He carried no weapons, though he was followed by two men with hunter’s bows nocked and drawn, and they by half a dozen thick-armed men with miner’s picks. All wore the candled helms with kerchiefs across their faces.

‘Ent lookin’ to shoot anyone,’ the bandit leader said. ‘We ent corelings, just men with families to feed. Everyone knows you Messengers get paid in advance and keep your own bags on your horses. You unhitch that cart and go on about your business. We ent looking to take what’s yours.’

‘I dunno,’ said one of the men with picks, as he strode up to where Arlen sat. ‘Might need to take that shiny warded armor, too.’ He tapped Arlen’s breastplate with his weapon, putting a second scratch in the steel, next to the one Curk had made.

‘The Core you will,’ Arlen said, grabbing the pick haft just under the head. He yanked it back and put his steel-shod boot in the face of the man as he was pulled forward. Teeth and blood arced through the air as the man hit the ground hard.

Arlen tossed the pick down the mountain and had his shield and spear out in an instant. ‘Only thing anyone comes near this cart will be taking is my spear in their eye.’

‘You crazy, boy?’ Curk demanded, his hands still lifted. ‘Gonna get killed over a cart?’

‘We promised to see this cart to Brayan’s Mine,’ Arlen said loudly, never taking his eyes off the bandits, ‘and that’s what we’re going to do.’

‘This ent a game, boy,’ bandit leader said. ‘A crank bow bolt will punch right through that shield.’

‘Your bowman had best hope so,’ Arlen said, loud enough for the bowman to hear, ‘or we’ll see if he can dodge a spear without falling off those rocks and breaking his neck.’

The leader stepped up and grabbed the arm of the bandit Arlen had kicked, hauling him to his feet and shoving him back towards the others in one smooth motion.

‘That one’s an idiot,’ he told Arlen, ‘and he don’t speak for us. I do. You keep your armor. We don’t even need your cart. Just a few crates off the back, and we’ll let you ride on safe and sound.’

Arlen stepped into the back of the cart, putting his boot on a crate of thundersticks with a thump. ‘These crates? You want I should just kick ’em off the cart?’ Curk gave a shout and backpedaled, falling from his seat. Everyone jumped.

The leader held up his hand, patting the air. ‘No one’s sayin’ that. You know just what it is you’re carryin’, boy?’

‘Oh, I know,’ Arlen said. He kept his shield up as he squatted, setting down his spear and pulling out a thunderstick. It was two inches in diameter and ten long, wrapped in a dull gray paper that belied the power within. A thin fuse of slow burning twine hung from one end.

‘I’ve a match, to go with it,’ Arlen said, holding the thunderstick up for all to see.

The bandits on the ground all took several steps back. ‘You be careful now, boy,’ the leader said. ‘Them things don’t always need a spark to go off. Ent wise, swingin’ it around.’

‘Best keep your distance, then,’ Arlen said. For a moment, silence fell as he and the bandit leader locked stares. Then came a sudden snapping sound, and everyone jumped.

Arlen looked over to see that Curk had cut his horse from the cart harness and was swinging into the saddle. He readied his spear and shield, and turned to face the bandits. Arlen saw doubt in the bandit leader’s eyes, and smiled.

But Curk kept his speartip down, and Arlen felt his momentary advantage vanish.

‘Don’t want no part of some thunderstick showdown!’ Curk shouted. ‘I got years of drinking ahead of me, and fifteen hundred suns to pay for it!’

The bandit leader gave a start, but then he nodded. ‘Smart man.’ He signaled the others to move back, giving Curk an open path back down the road. ‘You stay smart, and keep on riding when you see the wardpost.’

Curk looked at Arlen. ‘Can’t handle a scratch on your armor, but you’ll blow yourself to bits over a cart? You ent right in the head, boy.’ He kicked his horse hard, and in moments he had vanished back down the trail. Even the sound of his galloping hoofbeats quickly faded.

‘Ent too late to do the same,’ the bandit leader said, turning back to Arlen. ‘You ever seen what a thunderstick can do to a man? What you’ve got in your hand’ll blow you apart so there’s nothing to burn at the funeral. Tear that pretty warded armor of yours like paper.’

He gestured down the trail where Curk had ridden. ‘Get on your horse and go. You can even take that stick in your hand for insurance.’

But Arlen made no move to get off the cart. ‘Who told you we were coming? Was it Sandar? If I find his leg ent really broken, I’ll break it for him.’