The Demon Cycle Books 1-3 and Novellas: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear, The Daylight War plus The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold and Messenger’s Legacy. Peter V. BrettЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘To this day,’ Cob said, ‘I can’t sleep more than an hour without starting awake, reaching for my spear. Yes, I was a Messenger. A damned good one and luckier than most, but I still would not wish it on anyone. Messengering may seem glorious, but for every man who lives in a manse and commands respect like Ragen here, there are two dozen rotting on the road.’
‘I don’t care,’ Arlen said. ‘It’s what I want.’
‘Then I’ll make a deal with you,’ Cob sighed. ‘A Messenger must be, above all, a Warder, so I’ll apprentice you and teach you to be one. When we have time, I’ll teach you what I know of surviving the road. An apprenticeship lasts seven years. If you still wish to be a Messenger then … well, you’re your own man.’
‘Seven years?’ Arlen gawked.
Cob snorted. ‘You don’t pick up warding in a day, boy.’
‘I can ward now,’ Arlen said defiantly.
‘So Ragen tells me,’ Cob said. ‘He also tells me you do it with no knowledge of geometry or wardtheory. Eyeballing your wards may not get you killed tomorrow, boy, or next week, but it will get you killed.’
Arlen stomped a foot. Seven years seemed like an eternity, but deep down he knew the master was right. The pain in his back was a constant reminder that he wasn’t ready to face the corelings again. He needed the skills this man could teach him. He didn’t doubt that there were dozens of Messengers who fell to the demons, and he vowed not to become one of them because he was too stubborn to learn from his mistakes.
‘All right,’ he agreed finally. ‘Seven years.’
320 to 325
After the Return
320 AR
‘There’s our friend again,’ said Gaims, gesturing into the darkness from their post on the wall.
‘Right on time,’ Woron agreed, coming up next to him. ‘What do you s’pose he wants?’
‘Empty my pockets,’ Gaims said, ‘you’ll find no answers.’
The two guards leaned against the warded rail of the watchtower and watched as the one-armed rock demon materialized before the gate. It was big, even to the eyes of Milnese guards, who saw more of rock demons than any other type.
While the other demons were still getting their bearings, the one-armed demon moved with purpose, snuffling about the gate, searching. Then it straightened and struck the wood, testing the wards. Magic flared and threw the demon back, but it was undeterred. Slowly, the demon moved along the wall, striking again and again, searching for a weakness until it was out of sight.
Hours later, a crackle of energy signalled the demon’s return from the opposite direction. The guards at other posts said that the demon circled the city each night, attacking every ward. When it reached the gate once more, it settled back on its haunches, staring patiently at the city.
Gaims and Woron were used to this scene, having witnessed it every night for the past year. They had even begun to look forward to it, passing the time on their watch by betting on how long ‘One Arm’ took to circle the city, or whether he would head east or west to do so.
‘I’m half-tempted to let ’im in, just t’see what he’s after,’ Woron mused.
‘Don’t even joke about that,’ Gaims warned. ‘If the watch commander hears talk like that, he’ll have both of us in irons, quarrying stone for the next year.’
His partner grunted. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘you have to wonder …’
That first year in Miln, his twelfth, passed quickly for Arlen as he grew into his role as an apprentice Warder. Cob’s first task had been to teach him to read. Arlen knew wards never before seen in Miln, and Cob wanted them committed to paper as soon as possible.
Arlen took to reading voraciously, wondering how he had ever gotten along without it. He disappeared into books for hours at a time, his lips moving slightly at first, but soon he was turning pages rapidly, his eyes darting across the page.
Cob had no cause to complain; Arlen worked harder than any apprentice he had ever known, staying up late in the night etching wards. Cob would often go to his bed thinking of the full day’s work to come, only to find it completed when the sun’s first light flooded the shop.
After learning his letters, Arlen was put to work cataloguing his personal repertoire of wards, complete with descriptions, into a book the master purchased for him. Paper was expensive in the sparsely wooded lands of Miln, and a whole book was something few commoners ever saw, but Cob scoffed at the price.
‘Even the worst grimoire’s worth a hundred times the paper it’s written on,’ he said.
‘Grimoire?’ Arlen asked.
‘A book of wards,’ Cob said. ‘Every Warder has theirs, and they guard their secrets carefully.’ Arlen treasured the valuable gift, filling its pages with a slow and steady hand.
When Arlen had finished plumbing his memory, Cob studied the book in shock. ‘Creator, boy, do you have any idea what this book is worth?’ he demanded.
Arlen looked up from the ward he was chiselling into a stone post, and shrugged. ‘Any greybeard in Tibbet’s Brook could teach you those wards,’ he said.
‘That may be,’ Cob replied, ‘but what’s common in Tibbet’s Brook is buried treasure in Miln. This ward here,’ he pointed to a page. ‘Can it truly turn firespit into a cool breeze?’
Arlen laughed. ‘My mam used to love that one,’ he said. ‘She wished the flame demons could come right up to the windows on hot summer nights to cool the house with their breath.’
‘Amazing,’ Cob said, shaking his head. ‘I want you to copy this a few more times, Arlen. It’s going to make you a very rich man.’
‘How do you mean?’ Arlen asked.
‘People would pay a fortune for a copy of this,’ Cob said. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t even sell at all. We could be the most sought-after Warders in the city if we kept them secret.’
Arlen frowned. ‘It’s not right to keep them secret,’ he said. ‘My da always said wards are for everyone.’
‘Every Warder has his secrets, Arlen,’ Cob said. ‘This is how we make our living.’
‘We make our living etching wardposts and painting doorjambs,’ Arlen disagreed, ‘not hoarding secrets that can save lives. Should we deny succour to those too poor to pay?’
‘Of course not,’ Cob said, ‘but this is different.’
‘How?’ Arlen asked. ‘We didn’t have Warders in Tibbet’s Brook. We all warded our own homes, and those who were better at it helped those who were worse without asking anything