The Desert Spear
Page 144
“I came from the Free Cities to teach the good people of Tibbet’s Brook to kill demons!” he shouted. “But so far, I’ve seen no ‘good people.’ Good people do not feed helpless girls to the corelings! Good people do not stand by while someone is cored!” As he spoke, he continued to turn his horse back and forth, meeting as many eyes as possible.
“She wern’t no helpless girl, Messenger!” Raddock Lawry shouted, coming to the fore of those from Fishing Hole. “She’s a cold killer, and the council voted to have her staked for it.”
“Ay, they did,” the Painted Man agreed loudly. “And none stood up against them for it.”
“Folk trust in their Speakers,” Raddock said.
“That true?” the Painted Man asked the crowd at large. “You folk trust your Speakers?”
There was a chorus of passionate Ays from every section. The folk of Tibbet’s Brook were proud of their boroughs and the surnames they shared.
The Painted Man nodded. “Then I reckon it’s your Speakers I’ll test.” He leapt down from the horse and, from the harnesses on Twilight Dancer’s saddle, selected ten light spears he stuck point-down to stand quivering in the dirt.
“Every man or woman of the town council who stands with me and fights tonight, or their heir if they’re killed, will get a battle-warded spear,” he said, raising one of the weapons, “and the secrets of combat warding, so they can make their own.”
There was a shocked silence as everyone looked to their Speaker.
“Kin we have some time to think on it?” Mack Pasture asked. “Don’t care to be hasty.”
“Of course,” the Painted Man said, looking at the sky. “I’d say you have…ten minutes. By this time tomorrow, I intend to be back on the road to the Free Cities.”
Selia Barren came out of the crowd. “You expect us, the Brook’s elders, to stand in the naked night with naught but them spears?”
The Painted Man looked at her, still tall and intimidating after all these years. She’d switched his backside more than once, and always for his own good. The idea of standing up to Selia Barren was more alien to him than staring down a rock demon, but this time it was her that needed a switching.
“It’s a sight more’n you gave Renna Tanner,” he said.
“Not all of us voted her out, Messenger,” Selia said.
The Painted Man shrugged. “You let it happen, all the same.”
“Ent no one above the law,” Selia said. “When the council voted, we had to put the town first, no matter how we felt.”
The Painted Man spat at her feet. “The Core with your law, if it says to throw your neighbor to the night! You want to put town first, come out here and show you can get as you give. Elsewise, I’ll take my spears and go.”
Selia’s eyes narrowed, and then she picked up her skirts, striding firmly into the square. There were gasps of shock from all sides, but Selia ignored them, taking up one of the spears. She was followed immediately by Tender Harral and Brine Broadshoulders. The giant Cutter took up his spear with a hungry look in his eyes. The Squares and Cutters gave a cheer.
“Anyone else have a question?” the Painted Man asked, looking around. As a boy in Tibbet’s Brook, he’d had no voice, but now he finally meant to speak his mind. The crowd had suddenly become animated, but he picked the Speakers out easily, islands in the brook.
“Reckon I do,” Jeorje Watch said.
The Painted Man faced him. “Ask, and I’ll answer with honest word.”
“How are we to know you’re really the Deliverer?” Jeorje asked.
“Like I said, Tender,” the Painted Man said, “I ent. Just a Messenger.”
“The Messenger of whom?” Jeorje asked.
The Painted Man hesitated, seeing the trap. If he said no one, many would assume it was because he was a Messenger of the Creator. His best choice would be to name Euchor as his patron. Tibbet’s Brook was technically part of Miln, and the people would assume the combat wards were a gift of his. But he had promised to speak honest word.
“No patron for this message,” he admitted. “Found the wards in a ruin of the old world, and took it upon myself to spread them to all good folk, so we can start fighting back.”
“The Plague cannot end without the coming of the Deliverer,” Jeorje said, as if the Painted Man were caught in a logic trap.
But the Painted Man simply shrugged, handing Jeorje a warded spear. “Could be it’s you. Kill a demon and find out.”
Jeorje dropped his walking stick and took the weapon, a hard glint in his eyes.
“Seen a hundred years and more of the Plague,” he said. “Seen everyone I know pass on, even my own grandkin. Always wondered why it was, Creator kept me alive so long when he called so many others to his side. Reckon it was on account of me having something left to do.”
“They say in Fort Krasia that a man can’t get to Heaven, ’less he takes a coreling with him,” the Painted Man said.
Jeorje nodded. “Wise folk.” He went to stand beside Selia, and the Watches all drew wards in the air as he passed.
Rusco Hog stomped into the square next, rolling his sleeves up thick and meaty arms. He grabbed a spear of his own.
“Da, what are you doing?” his daughter Catrin cried, running out to grasp his arm.
“Use your head, girl!” Hog snapped. “Anyone selling warded weapons is gonna make a fortune!” He yanked his arm away and went to stand by the other Speakers.
There was movement from the Marsh contingent, where Coran Marsh sat in a hard-back chair. “My da can’t even stand without his cane,” Keven Marsh called. “Let me fight for him.”
The Painted Man shook his head. “Spear’s as good a cane as any for a man thinks he can sit in council and play Creator.” The Marshes began to shake their fists and shout angrily at him, but the Painted Man ignored them, keeping his eyes on Coran, daring him to step forward. The aged Marsh Speaker scowled, but he stood up from his chair and hobbled slowly over to take a spear. He left his cane on the ground beside Jeorje’s walking stick.
The Painted Man’s eyes came to Meada Boggin as she broke an embrace with her son and strode out of the cluster from Boggin’s Hill. She looked to Coline as she passed, but the Herb Gatherer shook her head. “I got sick to tend,” she said, “not to mention any of you lucky enough to make it back out of there.”
Mack Pasture shook his head as well. “Ent fool enough to step over them wards,” he said. “Got folk and livestock dependin’ on me. Din’t come here to be cored.” He stepped back, and there was a roar of discontent from Baleses and Pastures alike.
“Let us call a new Speaker, if this one ent got the sack!” someone cried.
“Why should I?” the Painted Man shot back at them. “None of you had the sack to stand up for Renna Tanner!”
“That ent true!” Renna called, and the Painted Man turned to her in surprise. She met his eyes with a hard look. “Jeph Bales stood in front of a flame demon for me not five nights hence.”
All eyes turned to Jeph, who shrank under the glare. The Painted Man felt like Renna had kicked him in the teeth, but his father was under the test now, and he wanted to know the result more than any.
“She wern’t no helpless girl, Messenger!” Raddock Lawry shouted, coming to the fore of those from Fishing Hole. “She’s a cold killer, and the council voted to have her staked for it.”
“Ay, they did,” the Painted Man agreed loudly. “And none stood up against them for it.”
“Folk trust in their Speakers,” Raddock said.
“That true?” the Painted Man asked the crowd at large. “You folk trust your Speakers?”
There was a chorus of passionate Ays from every section. The folk of Tibbet’s Brook were proud of their boroughs and the surnames they shared.
The Painted Man nodded. “Then I reckon it’s your Speakers I’ll test.” He leapt down from the horse and, from the harnesses on Twilight Dancer’s saddle, selected ten light spears he stuck point-down to stand quivering in the dirt.
“Every man or woman of the town council who stands with me and fights tonight, or their heir if they’re killed, will get a battle-warded spear,” he said, raising one of the weapons, “and the secrets of combat warding, so they can make their own.”
There was a shocked silence as everyone looked to their Speaker.
“Kin we have some time to think on it?” Mack Pasture asked. “Don’t care to be hasty.”
“Of course,” the Painted Man said, looking at the sky. “I’d say you have…ten minutes. By this time tomorrow, I intend to be back on the road to the Free Cities.”
Selia Barren came out of the crowd. “You expect us, the Brook’s elders, to stand in the naked night with naught but them spears?”
The Painted Man looked at her, still tall and intimidating after all these years. She’d switched his backside more than once, and always for his own good. The idea of standing up to Selia Barren was more alien to him than staring down a rock demon, but this time it was her that needed a switching.
“It’s a sight more’n you gave Renna Tanner,” he said.
“Not all of us voted her out, Messenger,” Selia said.
The Painted Man shrugged. “You let it happen, all the same.”
“Ent no one above the law,” Selia said. “When the council voted, we had to put the town first, no matter how we felt.”
The Painted Man spat at her feet. “The Core with your law, if it says to throw your neighbor to the night! You want to put town first, come out here and show you can get as you give. Elsewise, I’ll take my spears and go.”
Selia’s eyes narrowed, and then she picked up her skirts, striding firmly into the square. There were gasps of shock from all sides, but Selia ignored them, taking up one of the spears. She was followed immediately by Tender Harral and Brine Broadshoulders. The giant Cutter took up his spear with a hungry look in his eyes. The Squares and Cutters gave a cheer.
“Anyone else have a question?” the Painted Man asked, looking around. As a boy in Tibbet’s Brook, he’d had no voice, but now he finally meant to speak his mind. The crowd had suddenly become animated, but he picked the Speakers out easily, islands in the brook.
“Reckon I do,” Jeorje Watch said.
The Painted Man faced him. “Ask, and I’ll answer with honest word.”
“How are we to know you’re really the Deliverer?” Jeorje asked.
“Like I said, Tender,” the Painted Man said, “I ent. Just a Messenger.”
“The Messenger of whom?” Jeorje asked.
The Painted Man hesitated, seeing the trap. If he said no one, many would assume it was because he was a Messenger of the Creator. His best choice would be to name Euchor as his patron. Tibbet’s Brook was technically part of Miln, and the people would assume the combat wards were a gift of his. But he had promised to speak honest word.
“No patron for this message,” he admitted. “Found the wards in a ruin of the old world, and took it upon myself to spread them to all good folk, so we can start fighting back.”
“The Plague cannot end without the coming of the Deliverer,” Jeorje said, as if the Painted Man were caught in a logic trap.
But the Painted Man simply shrugged, handing Jeorje a warded spear. “Could be it’s you. Kill a demon and find out.”
Jeorje dropped his walking stick and took the weapon, a hard glint in his eyes.
“Seen a hundred years and more of the Plague,” he said. “Seen everyone I know pass on, even my own grandkin. Always wondered why it was, Creator kept me alive so long when he called so many others to his side. Reckon it was on account of me having something left to do.”
“They say in Fort Krasia that a man can’t get to Heaven, ’less he takes a coreling with him,” the Painted Man said.
Jeorje nodded. “Wise folk.” He went to stand beside Selia, and the Watches all drew wards in the air as he passed.
Rusco Hog stomped into the square next, rolling his sleeves up thick and meaty arms. He grabbed a spear of his own.
“Da, what are you doing?” his daughter Catrin cried, running out to grasp his arm.
“Use your head, girl!” Hog snapped. “Anyone selling warded weapons is gonna make a fortune!” He yanked his arm away and went to stand by the other Speakers.
There was movement from the Marsh contingent, where Coran Marsh sat in a hard-back chair. “My da can’t even stand without his cane,” Keven Marsh called. “Let me fight for him.”
The Painted Man shook his head. “Spear’s as good a cane as any for a man thinks he can sit in council and play Creator.” The Marshes began to shake their fists and shout angrily at him, but the Painted Man ignored them, keeping his eyes on Coran, daring him to step forward. The aged Marsh Speaker scowled, but he stood up from his chair and hobbled slowly over to take a spear. He left his cane on the ground beside Jeorje’s walking stick.
The Painted Man’s eyes came to Meada Boggin as she broke an embrace with her son and strode out of the cluster from Boggin’s Hill. She looked to Coline as she passed, but the Herb Gatherer shook her head. “I got sick to tend,” she said, “not to mention any of you lucky enough to make it back out of there.”
Mack Pasture shook his head as well. “Ent fool enough to step over them wards,” he said. “Got folk and livestock dependin’ on me. Din’t come here to be cored.” He stepped back, and there was a roar of discontent from Baleses and Pastures alike.
“Let us call a new Speaker, if this one ent got the sack!” someone cried.
“Why should I?” the Painted Man shot back at them. “None of you had the sack to stand up for Renna Tanner!”
“That ent true!” Renna called, and the Painted Man turned to her in surprise. She met his eyes with a hard look. “Jeph Bales stood in front of a flame demon for me not five nights hence.”
All eyes turned to Jeph, who shrank under the glare. The Painted Man felt like Renna had kicked him in the teeth, but his father was under the test now, and he wanted to know the result more than any.
