Peter Brett: Brayan's Gold

Well after dark, Arlen sat by the edge of the wardnet, watching One Arm and holding the thunderstick thoughtfully. In his other hand, he held the white-tipped match. His fingers itched to light it, and his other arm tensed, ready to throw. He pictured One Arm catching the stick in its jaws, and the explosion blowing the demon’s head apart. Pictured its headless body lying on the ground, oozing ichor.

But he kept hearing Curk’s voice in his head. Them sticks ent ours, boy. Curk might have been a coward in the end, but he was right about that. Arlen was no thief. He glanced at Sandar, surprised to find the man awake and staring at him.

“Know what you’re thinking,” Sandar said, “but there’s a lot of loose rock up mountain. Thunderstick’s more likely to cause a landslide than kill that demon.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” Arlen said.

Sandar grunted. “Honest word,” he agreed. “Been trying to figure out why you splinted my leg and put a cold cloth on my head when I’d’ve killed you dead and tossed you off a cliff.”

“Don’t want you dead,” Arlen said. “You can still sit a horse with that splint. You go back peaceful, and I’ll tell Malcum just enough so your license is all you lose.”

Sandar barked a laugh. “Ent Malcum I’m worried about, it’s Count Brayan. He gets wind I tried to rob him, and my head’ll be on a pike before the sun sets.”

“If the shipment gets through, I’ll see to it you keep your head,” Arlen said.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t trust that,” Sandar said.

Arlen shrugged. “Try and kill me again tonight if you’re up to it, but I warn you, I’m a light sleeper. Cross me again and I’ll break enough bones so you never sit a horse again, then drag you up to Brayan’s Gold with me to look the people you tried to rob in the eye.”

Sandar nodded. “Sleep easy, I’ll go back peaceful. Curk was right. You got a death wish, boy. Seen it before. Odds are you won’t live long enough to tell anyone anything.”

Arlen had already broken camp by the time the demons sank back down into the Core in the pre-dawn light. He and Sandar left the wardstone and parted ways as the sun crested the mountainside.

The temperature grew colder as he ascended the winding mountain path. Spring was on in full on the Milnese plain, but here patches of snow were still visible, and his armor no longer seemed so warm with the wind chilling the steel. He began walking for long periods each day, as much to keep his blood flowing as to take some of the load off Dawn Runner, valiantly doing the work of two horses. They moved slower as a result, but there were still hours left before dark when Arlen reached the next of Brayan’s great wardposts. He kept on, and camped at dusk behind his own circles. The following day he came upon the next post early, and the fourth right at dusk, making camp in its shelter.

The trail grew steeper, trees turning stunted and vegetation sparse amidst the rock and snow. The trail meandered, the never-ending wagon ruts skirting for miles around obstacles that had been too great for the trailblazers to cut or dig through. But still they climbed, and the weather grew colder. The ruts became indentations in the snow, and the trees vanished entirely.

He ceased trying to pass Brayan’s wardposts, so tired by day’s end that he was glad of their protection, though he often had to sweep the snow from them to restore full potency.

On his seventh day out from Miln, Arlen spotted the waystation Malcum had promised, far up the slope. It was a small structure, barely a hut, but after days of freezing cold, biting wind, and loneliness, Arlen was more than ready for a night indoors with someone to talk to.

“Ay, the station!” he cried, his call echoing off the stone facing above.

“Ay, Messenger!” a call came echoing back a moment later.

It was still the better part of an hour before Arlen reached the station, built into the side of the mountain. The warding on the building wasn’t elegant, but it was thorough, and contained many wards Arlen was not familiar with. He took out his journal to quickly sketch them.

The station keeper, a yellow-bearded man wrapped in a heavy jacket lined with nightwolf pelt and bearing Count Brayan’s arms came out to greet him. He was young, perhaps twenty winters, and carried no weapon. He strode right up to Arlen, extending a gloved hand to shake.

“You’re not Sandar,” he said, smiling.

“Sandar broke his leg,” Arlen said.

“There’s a Creator, after all,” the man laughed. “I’m Derek of the Goldmen.”

“Arlen Bales of Tibbet’s Brook,” Arlen replied, gripping the hand firmly.

“So you know what it’s like to live at the end of the world,” Derek said. “I want to hear all about it.” He clapped Arlen’s shoulder. “Coffee’s hot inside, if you want to go warm up. I’ll stable your horse and stow the cart.” It was only midday, but there was no question that Arlen would stay the night. Derek seemed as desperate for someone to talk to as Arlen.

“I’m warm enough to see the cargo stowed.” Arlen said, though his feet and hands ached from the cold, and he could no longer feel his face. After what happened with Sandar, he didn’t intend to let the crates of thundersticks out of his sight until they were under lock and key.

Derek shrugged. “You’re free to suffer as you like.” He took Dawn Runner’s bridle and led the way to a pair of wooden barn doors embedded in the rock face of the mountain.

“Quickly, now,” Derek said, as he grasped the great iron ring hanging from one of the doors, “don’t want to

let the heat escape.” He opened the door just enough to admit the cart, and Arlen quickly led Dawn Runner through. There was a moment of sweet warmth, but then an icy wind roared in through the door as Derek was pulling it shut behind them, stealing the comfort.

Shivering, Arlen found himself in a small chamber, walled at the far end with a curtain of thick, ragged furs. Oil lamps flickered on either wall.

Derek took a lamp and drew the curtain aside to allow them passage. Arlen gaped. The entryway was just an alcove at the far end of a vast chamber, cut deep into the mountainside. It was filled with pens to handle teams of animals, granaries for their feed, and stowing area for a dozen carts. It was mostly empty now, but Arlen could well imagine the bustle and energy that ran through this great room when a caravan was passing though.

By the time the cart and horse were stowed, Arlen was sweating in his armor again. He looked about the great chamber, but there was no sign of a furnace vent or fire.

“Why’s it so warm in here?” he asked.

Derek led him to the stone wall and knelt, pointing to a swirling pattern of wards painted at about knee height along the wall in either direction.

Arlen studied the pattern. It wasn’t complex, but it was brilliant. “Heat wards. So the corelings attack the station doors outside…”

“And their magic gets leeched in here to warm the walls,” Derek finished. “Some nights it gets hot as firespit, though. Almost rather be cold.” Arlen, stifling in his armor, understood completely.

They took a side door out of the chamber and into the station itself. The ceiling, walls, and floor were the living stone of the mountain, cut into long halls, doorways and chambers. Heat wards ran along the base of the walls here, too.