Messenger’s Legacy Page 5

  The demon choked, clutching its throat, and Mudboy danced around it, putting his shoulder to the shield as he ploughed ahead, knocking it off the ledge.

  He stood at the cliff’s edge, watching as the demon shrieked and tumbled down the steep, garbage-strewn slope into the bog far below. The slime and muck gave no purchase to the demon’s scrabbling talons as it disappeared into the fog.

  The fall couldn’t do any permanent harm to the demon – nothing could, really – but it got it away from his home, which was all that really mattered. Climbing back up would be all but impossible. The cory would shake itself off and wander into the bog. It might be months before he saw this particular demon again, if ever.

  His face was still burning despite the cool mud, and looking down, Mudboy saw droplets of bogspit on his clothes, smoking as they burned. There was a broken half-barrel he used to catch rainwater, and he ran for it, dunking his head and scrubbing away the rest of the muck.

  He touched his face, flinching back at the sting.

  Stupid, he thought. Your fault. Careless.

  He’d need to mix a poultice.

  When he saw the moon had set, Mudboy lifted the compress from his face, flexing his jaw experimentally to pull at the skin. It was red and raw where the bogspit struck, but the quick application of mud staved off the worst of it. The piecemeal smock of salvaged leather he wore under his clothes was pockmarked with a dozen tiny holes, some burned clear through the thick hide.

  His mother would have said to keep the poultice on for the rest of the night, but it was Seventhday, and his mouth watered at the thought of the Offering.

  He slipped out of the briar patch, moving the broken table that served as his door just enough to slip out, then pushed it back in place, covering the small entrance in the nook behind the largest of the refuse heaps.

  He crouched as he moved, the hogroot tall enough to hide him completely. He broke off a few leaves as he went, crushing them in his hands and rubbing them on his clothes to freshen the scent. The cloth was stained nearly black, as much resin as thread by now.

  He stepped around the hidden demon pit, and nimbly hopped over the tripwire, pausing to scan the area from between the stalks before stepping from safety.

  No cories.

  He made his way down the road, passing many dark and silent cottages – the inhabitants long since asleep. Demons prowled the village, but Mudboy knew their habits, passing largely unnoticed.

  The few cories that sniffed the air quickly turned away, often with a sneeze. Hogroot soup, his usual dinner, made even his sweat and breath repellent to the cories. Those few that noticed him tended to leave him alone, unless he was fool enough to get too close.

  They were thicker by the Holy House. The yard was lit with lanterns, drawing the demons away from the village proper. Cories circled the edge of the wardwall, occasionally causing a flare of magic as they swiped at it in frustration.

  Lone cories kept their distance, but a group could surround him, and they were more aggressive in packs.

  But there was bread and ale on the other side of those demons.

  You have to be bold, his father said. When I was in Sharaj, the boy who was too timid went hungry.

  The Tender laid the Offering on the altar at Seventhday service, a loaf warm from the oven on a covered platter and ale still foaming in a lidded mug. Ancient wards of protection were etched into the pewter, guarding gifts of comfort and nourishment to any who might come to the Holy House in search of succour.

  After a day, the bread began to harden and the ale was flat, but that first night …

  His mouth watered again. The bread crust would be crisp, the meat beneath soft and chewy. The ale would tickle his throat with bubbles. The taste of them was the closest Mudboy ever felt to Heaven.

  And so he came to the Holy House once a week, if not to pray. His father would have spat at the disrespect, but he was dead and could no longer scold. Mudboy knew the Creator would not be pleased at his theft of the gifts of succour, but what had Everam ever done for him, save take his family away? Bread and ale were poor compensation, but compared to the cold vegetables and raw meat he usually ate, it was a feast worth risking a few cories for.

  Mudboy crouched low, circling the wall until he was out of sight of the window. He waited for a gap in the circling demons, then darted in. The wards chiselled deep into the wall made perfect hand and footholds, and he was over it in seconds, dropping down amidst the markers where the Tender buried the ashes of the dead. The lamplight in the yard cast the names etched into the stones in shadow, but Mudboy needed no light to find his family’s marker.

  Miss you, he thought, running his fingers over the notches he’d made in the stone, one for every winter they’d been gone. There were nine now. The faces of his family were hazy in his mind’s eye, but the emptiness of their loss had not lessened.

  He kept to the shadows of the markers as he crossed the yard, in case the Tender was secretly watching from another window. In moments he had his back to the Holy House wall, inching his way around to where the wing joined the main structure, forming an L. The low sill of a window on the first floor was perfect to launch himself across to catch the sill of one on the second. As with the outer wall, chiselled wards gave him all the hold he needed to scale the rest of the way to the roof.

  The Tender had been trying for years to discover who took the Offering each week. It had become something of a game between them. The Tender had put bells on the doors and windows, but had yet to realize his weekly visitor was using the horn tower at the centre of the peaked roof.

  Mudboy paused, looking out over Bogton. The many cottages of the town were dark, but it was a clear night, and in the light of the moon he could see far, all the way to Masen Bales’ farm. The old man still owed his family eight shells for Maybell, and Mudboy took it in milk once a week. It wasn’t stealing, really, and was a chance for a glimpse of Tami. She got prettier every year. Boys had already come to court, but that was all for now. He could still watch her sometimes, and dream of what could have been.

  With a sigh he slipped through the tower door and padded quietly down the steps. His shoes were mismatched, but they fitted well enough, worn and softened with use. There was not so much as a whisper as he passed through the vestry and into the nave.

  The lamp at the head of the altar was always burning at night, a guide like those in the yard to those in need of succour. The light struck the altar table and pulpit, casting long, deep shadows for Mudboy to follow to his prize. He kept his eyes on the choir loft where the Tender liked to hide, but there was no sound or sign of movement. The Tender drank ale while he waited, and was usually fast asleep this late.

  He lifted the pewter mug first, thumbing open the lid and drinking deeply, letting the bubbles tickle his throat and the alcohol soothe the pain of the night’s encounter. Then he reached for the bread tray.

  There was a ringing as he lifted the lid. The Tender had affixed a bell underneath, where it could not be seen.

  Mudboy’s eyes flicked to the choir loft. Nothing. The shadows were just a few feet away. If he was quick …

  But then the vestry door slammed open, revealing Tender Heath, a look of triumph on his round red face.

  They stood frozen for a moment, the Tender’s eyes widening from victory to shock.

  ‘Briar?’

  5

  A Last Run

  333 AR Autumn

  Ragen rapped on the side of his carriage and Robbert, the guard riding outside, leaned down in his saddle. ‘What’s the hold up?’

  Robbert sat high, looking out over the traffic clogging the streets of Miln. He shrugged. ‘Messenger day. Must be some news from the south causing a fuss.’

  Ragen hated the carriage. Time was, he would be the one out in the saddle, escorting carriages.

  Now I’m the cargo, he mused, looking to the growing belly under his robes. He was fit for fifty-two, but he was nothing like he had once been.

 
He had prospered beyond his wildest dreams in partnership with Cob, and when the cancer took his friend and mentor, he had taken over the Warder’s Guild in a landslide. Worried once about his future on retirement, now he was one of the richest and most powerful Merchants in the city.

  At last they made it back to Cob’s shop.

  Cob’s shop. It was legally his now, and Elissa had run it for years, but it was still Cob’s shop in his mind, and he had never changed the sign out front stating as much.

  Elissa looked up at the ringing of the door’s bell, her face brightening into a smile that washed away his melancholy. A Mother now, she could have done anything with her life after she graduated the Mother’s School and had her peerage restored.

  After years of ignoring them in favour of her sisters, Elissa’s widowed mother, Countess Tresha, had begun paying calls again. She wanted Elissa to follow her into politics, and had been stunned when Elissa refused in favour of running the warding business with Ragen.

  Seeing the shop empty, Ragen flipped the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and went to his wife. He was about to step behind the counter and take her into his arms when there was a pounding at the door. He turned just as it burst open and Derek Gold appeared, looking haggard and out of breath. He still had his armour on, Messenger satchel dusty from the road.

  ‘Derek!’ Elissa cried. ‘We thought you weren’t due back until tomorrow.’

  ‘Cracked the reins to get here early,’ Derek said. ‘News’ll be all over the city tomorrow. Wanted you to hear it from me first.’

  Ragen caught the tension in his voice. ‘What news?’

  ‘Might want to sit down first,’ Derek warned. ‘And if you’ve been saving any Sweetwell poteen, now might be a good time to crack the seal.’

  Elissa came out from behind the counter. ‘Stop stalling, Derek. What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve news of Arlen,’ Derek said.

  Word had reached Fort Miln that Arlen Bales was the Warded Man, but Derek knew him from before. The two had met years ago, back when Derek had been a station watchman for Count Brayan’s gold mine, and Arlen an apprentice Messenger. Arlen had returned with Derek in tow, and the man had worked in the warding shop for years before joining the Messenger’s Guild. Now Derek worked weekly mail between Fort Miln and Riverbridge.

  ‘What news?’ Ragen demanded. ‘Is he all right?’

  Derek shook his head. ‘He fought the Demon of the Desert on a mountaintop. They say he pitched them both over a cliff, rather than lose.’

  Ragen flushed. ‘They? Who’s they?’ He knew how quickly rumours could start, and could not believe it.

  ‘Ent just hearsay,’ Derek said. ‘Count Thamos wrote the account himself. Saw an official copy.’

  Ragen immediately looked to Elissa. She thought Arlen as much her child as any she had borne herself. She stood there, silent, numb.

  He went to her. ‘He’ll be all right. There must be some mistake. Arlen’s strong. He’s smart, he can’t …’

  The words choked off with a sob as the truth hit home. Not even Arlen could leap off a mountain and live to tell the tale.

  Arlen was dead. The bravest man he’d ever met. His apprentice. His ward.

  His son.

  He shook, eyes blurring, but Elissa was there in an instant, holding him steady, gentling his hair with soothing words. He had thought to be strong for her, but it was the other way around.

  ‘I’ve got to get home,’ Derek said, obviously uncomfortable with the display. ‘Stasy ought to hear the news as well.’ He opened his satchel, leaving a tied bundle of letters on the counter. ‘Brought the mail.’

  The tears caught up to Elissa that night, after the children were in bed. They had both taken too much wine at dinner, and Elissa cried herself to sleep in Ragen’s arms.

  Ragen’s eyes were dry. Part of him still could not believe he had wept at all. When was the last time he’d shed a tear? He didn’t know he still had it in him.

  He was angry now, though at whom or what he did not know. His muscles were bunched as if for a fight, but there was no foe, nothing for him to revenge himself upon. Arlen was gone and there was nothing to be done about it.

  He lay awake for hours, tossing and turning, but still sleep would not find him. At last he could stand it no more, and slipped out of bed so as not to disturb Elissa.

  The halls of his manse were empty so late at night, dark with the shutters closed tight against the chill mountain air. But Ragen had never feared the dark. He drifted along silently in the blackness, trailing fingers lightly along the wall until he reached his office. He went inside and shut the door, then flipped the switch to turn on the lectric lights.

  He went to his desk, opening the drawer where he kept the last of the Sweetwell poteen, priceless now that the corelings had taken Sweetwell.

  He struck the seal with his knife, cracking the hard wax, and pulled the stopper. Without bothering with a glass, he took a pull straight from the jug.

  And coughed, spitting out half the mouthful. Night, he’d forgotten how strong it was!

  He took a cup and poured another measure, cutting it with water. It burned on the way down, but left a numbness in its wake. A numbness Ragen hoped would soon spread throughout his body.

  He saw Margrit had left the bundle of letters on his desk, and cut the string. A few more cups of poteen and a reading of his investment tallies should be enough to finally put him down for the night.

  Ragen sat back in his chair as he thumbed through the letters. Most were the usual business, though a few held more personal correspondence. The seal on one in particular caught his eye. How long since he had thought of Bogton?

  He broke the seal, reading:

  Messenger Ragen,

  Blessings of the Creator upon you. It is my sincere wish this missive finds you in good health.

  Out of consideration for your brave concern and pressing need on the night of tragedy, I inform you that Briar Damaj is alive – or was as of a few weeks prior to my writing this, when I caught him stealing the Offering from my altar. He fled the scene, and has not returned since.

  The boy was covered in filth, and he stank. I believe he has been living like an animal in the bog, hiding in the muck from hunting demons. I’ve spent weeks searching for sign of him or his den, but the wetland is vast and treacherous. Last week I stepped in a sinkhole and broke my leg. Forced to abandon my search, I was lucky to make it back alive.

  With the Krasian invasion of Rizon and the warnings from the Mistress of the Hollow that further incursion is to come, none of the Boggers will aid in my search for a half-Krasian boy. Half the town is convinced that Relan was a spy sent to mark a path for his desert masters.

  Please, Messenger. Briar is alone in the naked night. You and I are all he has left. Any aid you can offer in bringing him safely behind the wards will be returned upon you a hundredfold in Heaven.

  In humility,

  Tender Heath

  Bogton Holy House

  Laktonian Ministry

  Year 333 After the Return

  Ragen read the letter a second time, and a third, but his eyes kept going back to two short sentences.

  Briar Damaj is alive.

  Briar is alone in the naked night.

  The door opened, and Elissa stood there, wrapped in a dressing gown. ‘I woke and you weren’t in bed.’

  Ragen looked at her. ‘I need to go to Lakton.’

  Elissa blinked, waiting as if unsure if she had heard correctly. When Ragen did not elaborate, she crossed her arms. ‘Why?’

  It was never a good sign. Elissa could be stubborn as a rock demon when her arms crossed. Ragen held out the letter, steeling himself for the fight to come.

  ‘I have to go,’ Ragen said softly when she finished reading.

  ‘Of course you do,’ Elissa said.

  ‘I know it seems impossible, a boy surviving the naked night,’ Ragen said.

  ‘Arlen did it,’ Elissa said.

&nbs
p; ‘Arlen was twice Briar’s age, and a fair Warder,’ Ragen said. ‘And he would have died, if I hadn’t found him.’

  ‘So now you need to go and find this one,’ Elissa said. ‘Old as you are, you think you’ve time for one last adventure.’

  ‘I won’t be in danger,’ Ragen said. ‘Euchor has built waystations all the way to Riverbridge, and Arlen himself warded my spear. I’ll take Derek with me. He’ll be happy for the excuse to flee Count Brayan’s manse.’

  It was true enough. Derek’s wife Stasy had managed to keep her peerage despite marrying a Servant on account of her powerful uncle, but while the count accepted the union – and even pulled strings to get Derek respectable work and a rise to Merchant class – both Brayan and Derek were happier when the man was far from Miln.

  ‘I know,’ Elissa said.

  Ragen’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why aren’t you arguing? Telling me to send someone else? Threatening to leave before I get back?’

  Elissa crossed her arms again. ‘Because this time I’m coming with you.’

  Ragen argued, of course. An endless debate that lasted the two days it took them to prepare for the journey, and right up to the city gates. But the outcome had never really been in doubt. Elissa was resolute, and more, Ragen found he wanted her to come. Wanted her to see the wide world that had kept them apart for so many years. Perhaps then she would understand.

  But though he wanted Elissa with him, he wanted her safe. He hired a team of guards to dissuade bandits, armed and armoured with no expense spared. He sent word ahead to Euchor’s waystations, reserving rooms and supplies. Derek was all too happy to join them, adding another familiar face to the group.

  The first night they took refuge at the inn at Harden’s Grove. The Grove had a low wardwall to hold out land demons, though wind demons could still swoop into its streets at night. The inn was well warded, but there were occasional cracks and flashes of light as demons tested the forbidding.

  Elissa jumped with each flare, and Ragen stroked the spear Arlen had warded for him. It would bite coreling flesh, Arlen had promised, and Ragen knew better than to doubt the man. Part of him longed to put it to use, to kill a demon after a lifetime of hiding behind the wards. A greater part, wiser, hoped he would never have need to put the weapon to the test.