Messenger Runs E-Book

Peter V. Brett

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: The Demon Cycle
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 353

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Collected for the first time in one volume, Messenger Runs includes the novellas, short stories, and deleted scenes from Peter V. Brett's internationally bestselling Demon Cycle—The Great Bazaar, Brayan's Gold, and Messenger's Legacy—gorgeously illustrated by Dominik Broniek, as well as a comprehensive grimoire of magic wards. In Brayan's Gold and The Great Bazaar, follow the adventures of young Arlen Bales, who would one day become the legendary Warded Man. Arlen knows Messenger work is dangerous. They must brave the demon-infested nights, delivering mail and sometimes dangerous cargo to remote locations. Already, a vengeful rock demon stalks him for cutting off its arm. Yet like so many before him, Arlen seeks the legendary lost fighting wards—a way to finally face the demons on their own terms. There were countless ruins of the old world between the walled Free Cities. Could one of them hold the key to humanity's survival? In Messenger's Legacy, enjoy a tale of Ragen, Arlen's mentor, pulled from retirement to bring home Briar Damaj, the child of a lost friend, who was given up for dead at six summers after he fled into the night during the demon attack that killed his family, a decade earlier. Yet somehow the boy survived all those years, alone in the naked night. Messenger Runs can be enjoyed as standalone tales or as part of the larger Demon Cycle series, which has sold over 4 million copies in 27 languages worldwide.

Leseprobe

Messenger RunsA Demon Cycle Omnibus

Copyright © 2010, 2011, 2014 by Peter V. Brett

All rights reserved.

First collected together as an ebook in 2024 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

The Great Bazaar and Other Stories previously published in limited hardcover by Subterranean in 2010, and in an omnibus with Brayan's Gold published by Tachyon Publications in 2015.

Brayan's Gold previously published in limited hardcover by Subterranean in 2011, and in an omnibus with The Great Bazaar and Other Stories published by Tachyon Publications in 2015.

Messenger’s Legacy previously published in limited hardcover by Subterranean in 2014. Messenger’s Legacy is based on the short story Mudboy, first published in Shawn Speakman’s Unfettered anthology, 2013.

Ward artwork designed by Lauren K. Cannon, copyright © Peter V. Brett

Cover art by Dominik Broniek, copyright © Peter V. Brett

Interior illustrations by Dominik Broniek

ISBN 978-1-625676-70-2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

49 W. 45th Street, Suite 5N

New York, NY 10036

awfulagent.com/ebooks

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Copyright

Table of Contents

Brayan’s Gold

Holiday in Tibbet’s Brook

The Great Bazaar

Messenger’s Legacy

About the Author

Also by Peter V. Brett

For Matt

Introduction to Brayan’s Gold

It’s all Matt’s fault.

Seriously. This novella probably wouldn’t exist had not my friend and longtime beta-reader, Matt Bergin, demanded it.

He had been reading an early draft of The Great Bazaar, and in it, I have Arlen reference one of his past misadventures where he encounters a snow demon without having the proper wards to protect himself.

“When did Arlen meet a snow demon?” Matt asked. “Did I miss that story?”

“There’s no story,” I said. “I just like reminding people that Arlen had a ton of adventures back when he was young and working for the Messenger’s Guild.”

“Well, you’ve gotta write it, now,” Matt said.

“Why?” I asked. I kind of liked the cryptic reference.

“Dude,” Matt said. “You’re passing up a chance to write about snow demons?”

It was a compelling argument, but I was swamped and couldn’t get to it. I put the idea aside for over a year, but that whole time, I kept thinking about damned snow demons, and knew I would soon have poor Arlen’s teeth chattering.

In the short break I allowed myself between finishing The Desert Spear and formally starting The Daylight War, I wrote this story, Brayan’s Gold, the second stand-alone tale set in the world of the Demon Cycle.

I really enjoy this format, as it gives me a chance to tell short adventure stories that don’t fit into the larger novels, offering newcomers an introduction to the series and some of its characters, longtime readers a broader look at the world, and impatient fans a coreling fix in the long wait between novel publications. Subterranean Press has been amazing in helping share these tales in beautiful limited edition books that feel as personal to me as the stories themselves.

This volume is extra special, because in addition to the story, it has a cover illustration and interior art by the incredibly talented Lauren K. Cannon (www.navate.com), who has been designing wards and doing paintings for my website ever since I first sold The Warded Man back in 2007. Lauren has done an amazing job of bringing my characters and symbol magic to life, and it was a pleasure to work with her again on this project.

So if you are a newcomer or an old friend, welcome. I hope you enjoy Brayan’s Gold.

And if you don’t…blame Matt.

Peter V. BrettAugust, 2010www.petervbrett.com

Brayan’s Gold

324 AR

“HOLD still,” Cob grunted as he adjusted the armor.

“Ent easy when a steel plate’s cutting into your thigh,” Arlen said.

It was a cool morning, dawn still an hour away, but Arlen was already sweating profusely in the new armor—solid plates of hammered steel linked at the joints by rivets and fine interlocking rings. Beneath, he wore a quilted jacket and pants to keep the plates from digging into his skin, but it was scant protection when Cob tightened the rings.

“All the more reason to make sure I get this right, Cob said. “The better the fit, the less likely that will happen when you’re running from a coreling on the road. A Messenger needs to be quick.”

“Don’t see how I’ll be anything near quick wrapped in bedquilt and carrying seventy pounds of steel on my back,” Arlen said. “And this corespawned thing’s hot as firespit.”

“You’ll be glad for the warmth on the windy trails to the Duke’s Mines,” Cob advised.

Arlen shook his head and lifted his heavy arm to look at the plates where he had painstakingly fluted wards into the steel with a tiny hammer and chisel. The symbols of protection were powerful enough to turn most any demon blow, but as much as he felt protected by the armor, he also felt imprisoned by it.

“Five hundred suns,” he said wistfully. That was how much the armorer had charged—and taken months in the making. It was enough gold to make Arlen the second-richest man in Tibbet’s Brook, the town where he had grown up.

“You don’t go cheap on things that might mean your life,” Cob said. He was a veteran Messenger, and spoke from experience. “When it comes to armor, you find the best smithy in town, order the strongest they’ve got, and bugger the cost.”

He pointed a finger at Arlen. “And always…”

“…ward it yourself,” Arlen finished with his master, nodding patiently. “I know. You’ve told me a thousand times.”

“I’ll tell it to you ten thousand more, if that’s how long it takes to etch it into your thick skull.” Cob picked up the heavy helmet and dropped it over Arlen’s head. The inside was layered in quilt as well, and it fit him snugly. Cob rapped his knuckles hard against the metal, but Arlen heard it more than he felt it.

“Curk say which mine you’re off to?” Cob asked. As an apprentice, Arlen was only allowed to travel on guild business accompanied by a licensed Messenger. The guild had assigned him to Curk, an aging and often drunk Messenger who tended to work only short runs.

“Euchor’s coal,” Arlen said. “Two nights travel.” Thus far, he had only made day-trips with Curk. This was to be the first run where they would have to lay out their portable warding circles to fend off the corelings as they slept by the road.

“Two nights is plenty, your first time,” Cob said.

Arlen snorted. “I stayed out longer than that when I was twelve.”

“And came out of that trip with over a yard of Ragen’s thread holding you together, I recall,” Cob noted. “Don’t go getting swollen because you got lucky once. Any Messenger alive will tell you to stay out at night when you have to, not because you want to. The ones that want to always end up cored.”

Arlen nodded, though even that felt a little dishonest, because they both knew he did want to. Even after all these years, there was something he knew he needed to prove. To himself, and to the night.

“I want to see the higher mines,” he said, which was true enough. “They say you can look out over the whole world from their height.”

Cob nodded. “Won’t lie to you Arlen. If there’s a more beautiful sight than that, I’ve never seen it. Makes even the Damaji Palaces of Krasia pale.”

“They say the higher mines are haunted by snow demons,” Arlen said. “With scales so cold your spit will crack when it hits them.”

Cob grunted. “The thin air is getting to the folks up there. I Messaged to those mines a dozen times at least, and never once saw a snow demon, or heard tale of one that bore scrutiny.”

Arlen shrugged. “Doesn’t mean they’re not out there. I read in the Library that they keep to the peaks, where the snow stays year round.”

“I’ve warned you about putting too much faith in the Library, Arlen,” Cob said. “Most of those books were written before the Return, when folks thought demons were just ale stories and felt free to make up whatever nonsense they saw fit.”

“Ale stories or no, we wouldn’t have rediscovered wards and survived the Return without them,” Arlen said. “So where’s the harm in watching out for snow demons?”

“Best to be safe,” Cob agreed. “Be sure to look out for talking Nightwolves and fairy pipkins, as well.”

Arlen scowled, but Cob’s laugh was infectious, and he soon found himself joining in.

When the last armor strap was cinched, Arlen turned to look in the polished metal mirror on the shop’s wall. He was impressive looking in the new armor, there could be no doubt of that, but while Arlen had hoped to cut a dashing figure, he looked more like a hulking metal demon. The effect was only slightly lessened when Cob threw a thick cloak over his shoulders.

“Keep it pulled tight as you ride the mountain path,” the old Warder advised. “It’ll take the glare off the armor, and keep the wind from cutting through the joints.”

Arlen nodded.

“And listen to Messenger Curk,” Cob said. Arlen smiled patiently.

“Except when he tells you something that I taught you better,” Cob amended. Arlen barked a laugh.

“It’s a promise,” he said.

They looked at each other for long moments, not knowing whether to clasp hands or hug. After a moment they both grunted and turned away, Arlen for the door and Cob for his workbench. Arlen looked back when he reached the door, and met Cob’s eyes again.

“Come back in one piece,” Cob ordered.

“Yes, Master,” Arlen said, and stepped out into the pre-dawn light.

ARLEN WATCHED THE great square in front of the Messengers’ Guildhouse as men argued with merchants and stocked wagons. Mothers moved about with their chalked slates, witnessing and accounting the transactions. It was a place pulsing with life and activity, and Arlen loved it.

He glanced at the great clock over the Guildhouse doors, its hands telling the year, month, day, and hour, down to the minute. There was another great clock at the Guildhouse in every Free City, all of them set to the Tender’s Almanac, which gave the times of sunrise and sunset for the coming week that were chalked beneath the clock face. Messengers were taught to live by those clocks. Punctuality, or better yet early arrival, was a point of pride.

But Curk was always late. Patience had never been one of Arlen’s virtues, but now, with the open road beckoning, the wait seemed interminable. His heart thudded in his chest and his muscles knotted with excitement. It had been years since he last slept unprotected by warded walls, but he had not forgotten what it was like. Air had never tasted so good as it had on the open road, nor had he ever felt so alive. So free.

At last, there was a weary stomp of booted feet, and Arlen knew from the smell of ale that Curk had arrived before he even turned to the man.

Messenger Curk was clad in beaten armor of boiled leather, painted with reasonably fresh wards. Not as strong as Arlen’s fluted steel, but a good deal lighter and more flexible. His bald pate was ringed by long blond hair streaked with gray, which fell in greasy gnarls around a weathered face. His beard was thick and roughly cropped, matted like his hair. He had a dented shield strapped to his back and a worn spear in his hand.

Curk stopped to regard Arlen’s shining new armor and shield, and his eyes took a covetous gleam for an instant. He covered it with a derisive snort.

“Fancy suit for an apprentice.” He poked his spear into Arlen’s breastplate. “Most Messengers need to earn their armor, but not Master Cob’s apprentice, it seems.”

Arlen batted the speartip aside, but not before he heard it scratch the surface he had spent countless hours polishing. Memories came to him unbidden: the flame demon he struck from his mother’s back as a boy, and the long cold night they spent in the mud of an animal pen as the demons danced about testing the wards for a weakness. Of the night he had accidentally cut the arm from a fifteen foot tall rock demon, and the enmity it bore him to this day.

He balled a fist, putting it under Curk’s hooked nose. “What I done or not ent your business, Curk. Touch my armor again and the sun as my witness, you’ll be spitting teeth.”

Curk narrowed his eyes. He was bigger than Arlen, but Arlen was young and strong and sober. Perhaps that was why he stepped back after a moment and nodded an apology. Or perhaps it was because he was more afraid of losing the strong back of an apprentice Messenger when it came time to load and unload the carts.

“Din’t mean nothin’ by it,” Curk grumbled, “but you ent gonna be much of a Messenger if you’re afraid to get your armor scratched. Now lift your feet. Guildmaster wants to see us before we go. Sooner we get that done, sooner we can be on the road.”

Arlen forgot his irritation in an instant, following Curk into the Guildhouse. A clerk ushered them right into Guildmaster Malcum’s office, a large chamber cluttered with tables, maps, and slates. A former Messenger himself, the guildmaster had lost an eye and part of his face to the corelings, but he continued to Message for years after the injury. His hair was graying now, but he was still a powerfully built man, and not one to cross lightly. A wave of his pen could bring dawn or dusk to a Messenger’s career, or crush the fortune of a great house. The guildmaster was at his desk, signing what seemed an endless stack of forms.

“You’ll have to excuse me if I keep signing while we talk,” Malcum said. “If I stop even for an instant, the pile doubles in size. Have a seat. Drink?” he gestured to a crystal decanter on the edge of his desk. It was filled with an amber liquid, and there were glasses besides.

Curk’s eyes lit up. “Don’t mind if I do.” He poured a glass and threw it back, grimacing as he filled another near to the rim before taking his seat.

“Your trip to Duke’s Coal is postponed,” Malcum said. “I have a more pressing assignment for you.”

Curk looked down at the crystal glass in his hand, and his eyes narrowed. “Where to?”

“Count Brayan’s Gold,” Malcum said, his eyes still on the papers. Arlen’s heart leapt. Brayan’s Gold was the most remote mining town in the duchy. Ten nights’ travel from the city proper, it was the sole mine on the third mountain to the west, and higher up than any other.

“That’s Sandar’s run,” Curk protested.

Malcum blotted the ink on a form, turning it over onto a growing stack. His pen darted to dip in the inkwell. “It was, but Sandar fell off his ripping horse yesterday. Leg’s broke.”

“Corespawn it,” Curk muttered. He drank half his glass in one gulp and shook his head. “Send someone else. I’m too old to spend weeks on end freezing my arse off and gasping for breath in the thin air.”

“No one else is available on short notice,” Malcum said, continuing to sign and blot.

Curk shrugged. “Then Count Brayan will have to wait.”

“The count is offering one thousand gold suns for the job,” Malcum said.

Both Curk and Arlen gaped. A thousand suns was a fortune for any Message run.

“What’s the claw?” Curk asked suspiciously. “What do they need so badly it can’t wait?”

Malcum’s hands finally stopped moving, and he looked up. “Thundersticks. A cartload.”

Curk shook his head. “Ohhh, no!” He downed the rest of his glass and thumped it on the guildmaster’s desk.

Thundersticks, Arlen thought, digesting the word. He had read of them in the Duke’s Library, though the books containing their exact composition had been forbidden. Unlike most other flamework, thundersticks could be set off by impact as well as spark, and in the mountains, an accidental blast could cause an avalanche even if the explosion itself didn’t kill.

“You want a rush job, carrying thundersticks?” Curk asked incredulously. “What’s the corespawned hurry?”

“Spring caravan came back with a message from Baron Talor reporting a new vein; one they need to blast into,” Malcum said. “Brayan’s had his Herb Gatherers working day and night making thundersticks ever since. Every day that vein goes uncracked, Brayan’s clerks tally up the gold he’s losing, and he gets the shakes.”

“So he sends a lone man up trails full of bandits who will do most anything to get their hands on a cartload of thundersticks.” Curk shook his head. “Blown to bits or robbed and left for the corelings. Hardly know which is worse.”

“Nonsense,” Malcum said. “Sandar made thunderstick runs all the time. No one will know what you’re carrying save us three and Brayan himself. Without guards, no one seeing you pass will think you’re carrying anything worth stealing.”

Curk’s grimace did not lessen. “Twelve hundred suns,” Malcum said. “You ever seen that much gold in one place, Curk? I’m tempted to squeeze into my old armor and do it myself.”

“I’ll be happy to sit at your desk and sign papers, you want one last run,” Curk said.

Malcum smiled, but it was the look of a man losing patience. “Fifteen, and not a copper light more. I know you need the money, Curk. Half the taverns in the city won’t serve you unless you’ve got coin in hand, and the other half will take your coin and say you owe a hundred more before they’ll tap a keg. You’d be a fool to refuse this job.”

“A fool, ay, but I’ll be alive,” Curk said. “There’s always good money in carrying thundersticks because sometimes carriers end up in pieces. I’m too old for demonshit like that.”

“Too old is right,” Malcum said, and Curk started in surprise. “How many message runs you got left in you, Curk? I’ve seen the way you rub your joints in bad weather. Think about it. Fifteen hundred suns in your accounts before you even leave the city. Keep away from the harlots and dice that empty Sandar’s purse, and you could retire on that. Drink yourself into oblivion.”

Curk growled, and Arlen thought the guildmaster might have pushed him too far, but Malcum had the look of a predator sensing the kill. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked a drawer in his desk, pulling out a leather purse that gave a heavy clink.

“Fifteen hundred in the bank,” he said, “plus fifty in gold to settle your accounts with whichever creditor is lingering by your horse today, looking to catch you before you leave.”

Curk groaned, but he took the purse.

THEY HITCHED THEIR horses to Brayan’s cart, but in Messenger style, kept them saddled and packed in addition to the yoke. They might require speed if a wheel cracked close to dusk.

The cart looked like any other, but a hidden steel suspension absorbed the bumps and depressions of the road with nary a jostle to the passengers and cargo, keeping the volatile thundersticks steady. Arlen hung his head over the edge to look at the mechanics as they rode.

“Quit that,” Curk snapped. “Might as well wave a sign we’re carrying thundersticks.”

“Sorry,” Arlen said, straightening. “Just curious.”

Curk grunted. “Royals all ride around town in fancy carts suspended like this. Wouldn’t do for some well-bred Lady to ruffle her silk petticoats over a bump in the road, now would it?”

Arlen nodded and sat back, breathing deeply of the mountain air as he looked over the Milnese plain spread out far below. Even in his heavy armor, he felt lighter as the city walls receded into the distance behind them. Curk, however, grew increasingly agitated, casting suspicious eyes over everyone they passed and stroking the haft of his spear, lying in easy reach.

“There really bandits in these hills?” Arlen asked.

Curk shrugged. “Sometimes mine townies short on one thing or another get desperate, and everyone is short on thundersticks. Just one of the corespawned things can save a week’s labor, and costs more than townies see in a year. Word gets out what we’re carryin’, every miner in the mountains will be tempted to tie a cloth across his nose.”

“Good thing no one knows,” Arlen said, dropping a hand to his own spear.

But despite their sudden doubt, the first day passed without event. Arlen began to relax as they moved past the main roads miners used and headed into less traveled territory. When the sun began to droop low in the sky, they reached a common campsite, a ring of boulders painted with great wards encircling an area big enough to accommodate a caravan. They pulled up and unhitched the cart, hobbling the horses and checking the wards, clearing dirt and debris from the stones and touching up the paint where necessary.

After their wards were secure, Arlen went to one of the firepits and laid kindling. He pulled a match from the drybox in his belt pouch and flicked the white tip with his thumbnail, setting it alight with a pop.

Matches were expensive, but common enough in Miln and standard supply for Messengers. In Tibbet’s Brook where Arlen was raised, though, they had been rare and coveted, saved only for emergencies. Only Hog who owned the General Store—and half the Brook—could afford to light his pipe with matches. Arlen still got a little thrill every time he struck one.

He soon had a comfortable fire blazing, and pan fried some vegetables and sausage while Curk sat with his head propped against his saddle, pulling from a clay jug that smelled more like an Herb Gatherer’s disinfectant than anything fit for human consumption. By the time they had eaten it was full dark and the rising had begun.

Mist seeped from invisible pores in the ground, reeking and foul, slowly coalescing into harsh demonic form. There were no flame demons in the cold mountain heights, but wind demons materialized in plenty, as did a few squat rock demons—no bigger than a large man, but weighing thrice as much, all of it corded muscle under thick slate armor. Their wide snouts held hundreds of teeth, bunched close like nails in a box. Wood demons stalked the night as well, taller than the rock demons at ten feet, but thinner, with barklike armor and branch-like arms.

The demons quickly caught sight of their campfire and shrieked in delight, launching themselves at the men and horses. Silver magic spiderwebbed through the air as the corelings reached the wards, throwing the force of the demons’ attack back at them and knocking more than a few to the ground.

But the demons didn’t stop there. They began to circle, striking at the forbidding again and again as they searched for a gap in the field of protection.

Arlen stood close to the wards without shield or spear, trusting in the strength of the magic. He held a stick of graphite and his journal, taking notes and making sketches as he studied the corelings in the flashes of wardlight.

Eventually, the corelings tired of their attempts and went off in search of easier prey. The wind demons spread their great leathery wings and took to the sky, and the wood demons vanished into the trees. The rock demons lumbered off like living avalanches. The night grew quiet, and without the light of the flaring wards, darkness closed in around their campfire.

“Finally,” Curk grunted, “we can get some sleep.” He was already wrapped in his blankets, but now he corked his jug and closed his eyes.

“Wouldn’t count on that,” Arlen said, standing at the edge of the firelight and looking back the way they had come. His ears strained, picking up a distant cry he knew too well.

Curk cracked an eye. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There’s a rock demon coming this way,” Arlen said. “A big one. I can hear it.”

Curk tilted his head, listening as the demon keened again. He snorted. “That demon’s miles from here, boy.” He dropped his head back down and snuggling into his blankets.

“Don’t matter,” Arlen said. “It’s got my scent.”

Curk snorted, eyes still closed. “Your scent? What, you owe it money?”

Arlen chuckled. “Something like that.”

Soon, the ground began to tremble, and then outright shake as the gigantic one-armed rock demon bounded into view.

Curk opened his eyes. “That is one big ripping rock.” Indeed, One Arm was as tall as three of the rock demons they had seen earlier. Even the stump of its right arm, severed at the elbow, was longer than a man was tall. One Arm had followed Arlen ever since he had crippled it, and Arlen knew it would continue to do so until one of them was dead.

But it won’t be me, he promised the demon silently as their eyes met. If I do nothing else before I die, I will find a way to kill you.

He raised his hands and clapped at it, his customary greeting. The coreling’s roar split the night, and darkness vanished as the powerful demon struck hard at the wardnet with its talons. Magic flared bright and strong, throwing the demon back, but it only spun, launching its heavy, armored tail into the wards. Again the magic rebounded the blow. Arlen knew the shock of magic was causing the demon agonizing pain, but One Arm did not hesitate as it lowered its spearlike horns and charged the wards, causing a blinding flash of magic.

The demon shrieked in frustration and came again, circling and attacking with talon, horn, and tail, in its search for a weakness, even smashing the stump of its crippled arm against the wardnet.

“It’ll tire out and quit the racket soon enough,” Curk grunted and rolled over, throwing the blanket over his head.

But One Arm continued to circle, hammering at the wards over and over until the wardlight seemed perpetual, the flashes of darkness like eye blinks. Arlen studied the demon in the illumination, looking for a weakness, but there was nothing.

Finally Curk sat up. “What in the Core is the matter with that crazy…” His eyes widened as he caught a clear look at One Arm. “That’s the demon from the breach last year. The one-armed rock that stalks Jongleur Keerin for crippling it.”

“Ent after Keerin,” Arlen said. “It’s after me.”

“Why would it…” Curk began, but then his eyes widened in recognition.

“You’re him,” Curk said. “The boy from Keerin’s song. The one he saved that night.”

Arlen snorted. “Keerin couldn’t save his own breeches from a soiling if he was out in the naked night.”

Curk chuckled. “You expect me to believe you’re the one that cut that monster’s arm off? Demonshit.”

Arlen knew he shouldn’t care what Curk thought, but even after all these years, it grated on him that Keerin, a proven coward, had taken credit for his deed. He turned back to the demon and spat, his wad of phlegm striking the coreling’s thigh. One Arm’s rage quadrupled. It shrieked in impotent fury, hammering even harder at the wards.

All the color drained from Curk’s face. “You crazy boy, provoking a rock demon?”

“Demon was already provoked,” Arlen pointed out. “I’m just showing it’s personal.”

Curk cursed, throwing aside his blankets and reaching for his jug. “Last run I do with you, boy. Never get to sleep now.”

Arlen ignored him, continuing to stare at One Arm. Hatred and revulsion swirled around him like a cloud of stink as he tried to imagine a way to kill the demon. He had never seen nor heard of anything that could pierce a rock demon’s armor. It was only an accident of magic that severed the demon’s arm, and not something Arlen would bet his life on the odds of repeating.

He looked back at the cart. “Would a thunderstick kill it, you think? They’re meant to break rocks.”

“Them sticks ent toys, you crazy little bugger,” Curk snapped. “They can do ya worsen any rock demon. And even if you’ve got a night wish and want to try anyway, they ent ours. If they count sticks and it don’t meet the tally that left Miln, even by one, it’s worse for our reputation than if we lost the lot.”

“Just wondering,” Arlen said, though he cast a longing look at the cart.

IT WAS QUIET the next day, as they rode across the southern base of Mount Royal—the western sister of Mount Miln—whose eastern facing was filled with small mining towns. But the number of signposts dwindled as they made their way to the western face, and the road became little more than wagon ruts leading a path through the wilderness, with a few rare forks.

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 Gold,” 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.”

“Don’t matter who told us,” the bandit said. “No one’s going to think you didn’t do your duty. You done Messengers proud, but you ent gonna win this. What do you care, if Count Brayan sees a dip in his ledgers? He can afford it.”

“Don’t care about Count Brayan,” Arlen admitted. “But I care about my promises, and I promised to get this cart and everything on it to his mines.”

The men spread out, three picks and a bowman at either end of the road. “That ent gonna happen,” the bandit leader said. “You try to move that cart, we shoot your horse.”

Arlen glanced at the bowmen. “Shoot my horse and it’ll be the last thing you ever do,” he promised.

The bandit sighed. “So where does that get us, ’cept half hour closer to dark?”

“How close are you willing to get?” Arlen asked. He rapped his gauntlet against his scratched breastplate. “I’ll stand here in my ‘pretty warded armor’ right until the rising.”

He looked out over the bandits, all of them on foot and none carrying so much as a pack. “You, I expect, need to get on back to succor at Brayan’s Wardpost before dark. That’s why you told Curk to keep on riding, and it’s at least five hours walk back the way we came. Wait too long, and you won’t make it in time. Is it worth it to get cored over a few boxes of thundersticks when you have families to feed?”

“All right, we tried to do it easy,” the bandit leader said. “Fed, shoot him.” Arlen ducked under his shield, but there was no immediate impact.

“You said no names, Sandar!” the crank bowman cried.

“Ent gonna matter, you idiot, once you put a bolt through this head,” Sandar snapped.

Arlen started. Of course. He had never met Sandar, but it made perfect sense. He shifted his shield so he could see the bandit. “You faked the break so you could ride out a day early and ambush your own shipment.”

Sandar shrugged. “Ent like you’re gonna live to tell anyone.”

But still there was no shot from above. Arlen dared to peek over his shield. Fed’s hands shook, his aim veering wildly, and finally he put up the weapon.

“Corespawn it, Fed!” Sandar shouted. “Shoot!”

“Suck a demon’s teat!” Fed shouted back. “I didn’t come out here to shoot some boy. My son’s older’n him.”

“Boy had his chance to walk away,” Sandar said. Some of the others grunted in agreement, including the man Arlen had kicked.

“Don’t care,” Fed called. “‘No one gets hurt’, you said. ‘Just a dip in some Royal’s ledger.’” He pulled the bolt from his bow and slung the weapon over his shoulder, picking up the spare as well. “I’m done.” He moved to pick his way down the outcropping.

One of the other bowmen eased his draw as well. “Fed’s right. I’m sick of eatin’ gruel as anyone, but I ent lookin’ to kill over it.”

Arlen looked for the last bowman’s reaction, but the man only sighted and fired.

He got his shield up in time, but it was a heavy bow, and the shield was only a thin sheet of hammered steel riveted onto wood, meant more to defend against corelings and nightwolves than arrows. The arrowhead made it through before the shaft caught fast, puncturing the side of Arlen’s cheek. He stumbled back and almost lost his balance, squeezing the thunderstick so hard he was afraid it would go off in his hand. Everyone tensed.

But Arlen caught himself and straightened, turning to reveal the match clutched in his shield hand. He struck it with his thumb, and it lit with a pop.

“I’m going to light the fuse before the match burns my finger,” he said, waving the thunderstick, “and then I’m going to throw it at anyone still in my sight.”

A couple of men turned and ran outright. Sandar’s eyes narrowed, but at last he lifted his kerchief to spit, and whistled for the rest to follow him as he headed down the road.

The match did end up burning Arlen’s hand, but he never needed to light the fuse. A few minutes later he was back on his way up the mountain. Dawn Runner was not pleased about pulling the entire load, but it could not be helped. He didn’t think the bandits would be able to follow him on foot, but he kept the thunderstick and his drybox close to hand, just in case. It was nearing dark when he made it to the next wardpost.

Sandar was waiting.

THE MESSENGER HAD shed his miner’s disguise, clad now in battered steel mail and carrying a heavy spear and shield. He sat atop a powerful destrier, much larger than a sleek courser like Dawn Runner. With a horse like that, and no cart to slow him or limit his path, it wasn’t surprising that he had gotten ahead of Arlen.

“Had to be a goody, dincha?” Sandar asked. “Couldn’t leave it alone. Guild is insured. You’re insured. You could’ve ridden off with Curk. The only loser would have been Count Brayan, and that bastard’s got gold comin’ out his arse.”

Arlen just looked at him.

“But now,” Sandar raised his spear. “Now I have to kill you. Can’t trust you to keep your mouth shut otherwise.”