still taking her with us? Even now?’
‘Life goes on, Arlen,’ his father said. ‘You’re almost a man, and a man needs a wife.’
‘Did you arrange one for both of us?’ Arlen blurted.
‘What?’ Jeph asked.
‘I heard you and Ilain last night!’ Arlen screamed. ‘You’ve got another wife all ready! What do you care about Mam? You’ve already got someone else to take care of your thingie! At least, until she gets killed too, because you’re too scared to help her!’
Arlen’s father hit him; a hard slap across the face that cracked the morning air. His anger faded instantly, and he reached out to his son. ‘Arlen, I’m sorry …!’ he choked, but the boy pulled away and jumped off the cart.
‘Arlen!’ Jeph cried, but the boy ignored him, running as hard as he could for the woods off to the side of the road.
Arlen ran through the woods as fast as he could, making sharp, sudden turns, picking his direction at random. He wanted to be sure his father couldn’t track him, but as Jeph’s calls faded, he realized his father wasn’t following at all.
Why should he bother? he thought. He knows I have to come back before nightfall. Where else could I go?
Anywhere. The answer came unbidden, but he knew in his heart that it was true.
He couldn’t go back to the farm and pretend everything was all right. He couldn’t watch Ilain claim his mother’s bed. Even pretty Renna, who kissed so softly, would only be a reminder of what he had lost, and why.
But where could he go? His father was right about one thing. He couldn’t run forever. He would have to find succour before dark, or the coming night would be his last.
Going back to Tibbet’s Brook was not an option. Whoever he sought succour from would drag him home by the ear the next day, and he’d be switched for the stunt with nothing to show.
Sunny Pasture, then. Unless Hog was paying them to carry something, almost no one from Tibbet’s Brook ever went there, unless they were Messengers.
Coline had said Ragen was heading to Sunny Pasture before returning to the Free Cities. Arlen liked Ragen, the only elder he’d ever met who didn’t talk down to him. The Messenger and Keerin were a day and more ahead of him, and mounted, but if he hurried, perhaps he could catch them in time and beg passage to the Free Cities.
He still had Coline’s map, strung around his neck. It showed the road to Sunny Pasture, and the farms along the way. Even deep in the woods, he was pretty sure which way was north.
At midday he found the road, or rather the road found him, cutting straight across the woods ahead of him. He must have lost his sense of direction in the trees.
He walked on for a few hours, but he saw no sign of a farm, or the old Herb Gatherer’s home. Looking at the sun, his worry increased. If he was walking north, the sun should be off to his left, but it wasn’t. It was right in front of him.
He stopped and looked at the map, and his fears were confirmed. He wasn’t on the road to Sunny Pasture, he was on the road to the Free Cities. Worse, after the road split off from the path to Sunny Pasture, it went right off the edge of the map.
The idea of backtracking was daunting, especially with no way to know if he could make it to succour in time. He took a step back the way he had come.
No, he decided. Going back is Da’s way. Whatever happens, I’m going forward.
Arlen started walking again, leaving both Tibbet’s Brook and Sunny Pasture behind. Each step was lighter and easier than the one before.
He walked for hours more, eventually leaving the trees behind and entering grassland: wide, lush fields untouched by plough or grazing. He crested a hilltop, breathing deeply of the fresh, untainted air. There was a large boulder jutting from the ground, and Arlen scrambled on top of it, looking out at a wide world that had always been beyond his reach. There was no sign of habitation, no place to seek succour. He was afraid of the coming night, but it was a distant feeling, like knowing you would grow old and die one day.
As the afternoon turned to evening, Arlen began looking for places to make his stand. A copse of trees held promise; there was little grass beneath them, and he could draw wards in the soil, but a wood demon might climb one of the trees, and drop into his warding ring from above.
There was a small, stony hillock free of grass, but when Arlen stood on top of it, the wind was strong, and he feared it might mar the wards, rendering them useless.
Finally, Arlen came to a place where flame demons had set a recent blaze. New buds had yet to pierce the ash, and a scuff of his foot found hard soil beneath. He cleared the ash from a wide area and began his warding circle. He had little time, so he kept it small, not wanting his haste to make him careless.
Using a sharp stick, Arlen drew the sigils in the dirt, gently blowing away loose scrapings. He worked for over an hour, ward by ward, stepping back frequently to assure himself that they were aligned properly. His hands, as always, moved with confidence and alacrity.
When he finished, Arlen had a circle six feet in diameter. He checked the wards three times, finding no error. He put the stick in his pocket and sat at the circle’s centre, watching the shadows lengthen and the sun dip low, setting the sky awash with colour.
Perhaps he would die tonight. Perhaps not. Arlen told himself it did not matter. But as the light waned, so too did his nerve. He felt his heart pounding, and every instinct told him to leap to his feet and run. But there was nowhere to run to. He was miles away from the nearest place of succour. He shivered, though it was not cold.
This was a bad idea, a tiny voice whispered in his mind. He snarled at it, but the brave front did little to loosen his knotting muscles as the last rays of the sun winked out, and he was bathed in darkness.
Here they come, that frightened voice in his head warned, as the wisps of mist began to rise from the ground.
The mist coalesced slowly, demon bodies gaining substance as they slipped from the ground. Arlen rose with them, clenching his small fists. As always, the flame demons came first, scampering about in delight, trailing flickering fire as they went. These were followed by the wind demons, which immediately ran and spread their leathery wings, leaping into the air. Last came the rock demons, laboriously hauling their heavy frames from the Core.
And then the corelings saw Arlen and howled with delight, charging the helpless boy.
A swooping wind demon struck first, raking its hooked wing claws to tear out Arlen’s throat. Arlen screamed, but sparks flew as the talons struck his wards, deflecting the attack. Momentum carried the demon on, and its body slammed into the shield only to be hurled back in a shimmering burst of energy. The creature howled as it struck the ground, but it pulled itself upright, twitching as energy danced across its scales.
Next came the nimble flame demons, the largest no bigger than a dog. They skittered forward, shrieking, and began clawing at the shield. Arlen flinched each time the wards flared, but the magic held. When they saw that Arlen had woven an effective net, they spat fire at him.
Arlen was wise to the trick, of course. He had been warding since he was old enough to hold a stick of charcoal, and he knew the wards against firespit. The flames were turned as effectively as the claws. He didn’t even feel the heat.