The Warded Man
Page 57
He ran to Ragen’s side. Cob swept him into a hug, and then cuffed him on the ear. “You ever pull a stunt like that again,” the master warned, “and I’ll break your scrawny neck.”
“I was s’posed to protect you …” Ragen agreed weakly, his mouth twitching in a smile.
There were still corelings loose in the city when Vincin and Jone dismissed the Warders. The remaining guardsmen helped the Herb Gatherers transport the wounded to the city’s hospits.
“Shouldn’t someone hunt down the ones that got away?” Arlen asked as they eased Ragen into the back of their cart. His leg was splinted, and the Herb Gatherers had given him a tea to numb the pain, leaving him sleepy and distant.
“To what end?” Cob asked. “It would only get the hunters killed, and make no difference in the morning. Better to get inside. The sun will do for any corelings left in Miln.”
“The sun is still hours away,” Arlen protested as he climbed into the cart.
“What do you propose?” Cob asked, watching warily as they rode. “You saw the full force of the Duke’s Guard at work tonight, hundreds of men with spears and shields. Trained Warders, too. Did you see a single demon killed? Of course not. They are immortal.”
Arlen shook his head. “They kill each other. I’ve seen it.”
“They are magic, Arlen. They can do to one another what no mortal weapon can.”
“The sun kills them,” Arlen said.
“The sun is a power beyond you or me,” Cob said. “We are simply Warders.”
They turned a corner, and gasped. An eviscerated corpse was splayed in the street before them, its blood painting the cobbles red. Parts of it still smoldered; the acrid stench of burned flesh was thick in the air.
“Beggar,” Arlen said, noting the ragged clothes. “What was he doing out at night?”
“Two beggars,” Cob corrected, holding a cloth over his mouth and nose as he gestured at further carnage not far off. “They must have been turned out of the shelter.”
“They can do that?” Arlen asked. “I thought the public shelters had to take everyone.”
“Only until they fill up,” Cob said. “Those places are scant succor, anyhow. The men will beat each other over food and clothes once the guards lock them in, and they do worse to the women. Many prefer to risk the streets.”
“Why doesn’t someone do something about it?” Arlen asked.
“Everyone agrees it’s a problem,” Cob said. “But the citizens say it is the duke’s problem, and the duke feels little need to protect those who contribute nothing to his city.”
“So better to send the guard home for the night, and let the corelings take care of the problem,” Arlen growled. Cob had no reply save to crack the reins, eager to get off the streets.
Two days later, the entire city was summoned to the great square. A gibbet had been erected, and upon it stood Warder Macks, who had been on duty the night of the breach.
Euchor himself was not present, but Jone read his decree: “In the name of Duke Euchor, Light of the Mountains and Lord of Miln, you are found guilty of failing in your duties and allowing a breach in the wardwall. Eight Warders, two Messengers, three Herb Gatherers, thirty-seven guardsmen, and eighteen citizens paid the price for your incompetence.”
“As if making it nine Warders will help,” Cob muttered. Boos and hisses came from the crowd, and bits of garbage were flung at the Warder, who stood with his head down.
“The sentence is death,” Jone said, and hooded men took Macks’ arms and led him to the rope, putting the noose around his neck.
A tall, broad-shouldered Tender with a bushy black beard and heavy robes went to him and drew a ward on his forehead. “May the Creator forgive your failing,” the Holy Man intoned, “and grant us all the purity of heart and deed to end His Plague and be Delivered.”
He backed away, and the trapdoor opened. The crowd cheered as the rope went taut.
“Fools,” Cob spat. “One less man to fight the next breach.”
“What did he mean?” Arlen asked. “About the Plague and being delivered?”
“Just nonsense to keep the crowd in line,” Cob said. “Best not to fill your head with it.”
CHAPTER 12
LIBRARY
321 AR
ARLEN WALKED EXCITEDLY behind Cob as they approached the great stone building. It was Seventhday, and normally he would have been annoyed at skipping his spear practice and riding lessons, but today was a treat too fine to miss: his first trip to the Duke’s Library.
Ever since he and Cob had begun brokering wards, his master’s business had soared, filling a much-needed niche in the city. Their grimoire library had quickly become the largest in Miln, and perhaps the world. At the same time, word had gotten out about their involvement in sealing the breach, and never ones to miss a trend, the Royals had taken notice.
Royals were an irritation to work with, always making ridiculous demands and wanting wards put where they didn’t belong. Cob doubled, then tripled his prices, but it made no difference. Having one’s manse sealed by Cob the Wardmaster had become a status symbol.
But now, called upon to ward the most valuable building in the city, Arlen knew it had been worth every moment. Few citizens ever saw inside the library. Euchor guarded his collection jealously, granting access only to greater petitioners and their aides.
Built by the Tenders of the Creator before being absorbed by the throne, the library was always run by a Tender, usually one with no flock save the precious books. Indeed, the post carried more weight than presiding over any Holy House save for the Grand Holy House or the duke’s own shrine.
They were greeted by an acolyte, and ushered to the office of the head librarian, Tender Ronnell. Arlen’s eyes darted every where as they walked, taking in the musty shelves and silent scholars who roamed the stacks. Not including grimoires, Cob’s collection had contained over thirty books, and Arlen had thought that a treasure. The Duke’s Library contained thousands, more than he could read in a lifetime. He hated that the duke kept it all locked away.
Tender Ronnell was young for the coveted position of head librarian, still with more brown in his hair than gray. He greeted them warmly and sat them down, sending a servant to fetch some refreshment.
“Your reputation precedes you, Master Cob,” Ronnell said, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses and cleaning them on his brown robe. “I hope you will accept this assignment.”
“All the wards I’ve seen so far are still sharp,” Cob noted.
Ronnell replaced his glasses and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “After the recent breach, the duke fears for his collection,” he said. “His Grace desires … special measures.”
“What kind of special measures?” Cob asked suspiciously. Ronnell squirmed, and Arlen could tell that he was as uncomfortable making the request as he expected them to be in filling it.
Finally, Ronnell sighed. “All the tables, benches, and shelves are to be warded against firespit,” he said flatly.
Cob’s eyes bulged. “That would take months!” he sputtered. “And to what end? Even if a flame demon made it so deep into the city, it could never get past the wards of this building, and if it did, you’d have greater worries than the bookshelves.”
“I was s’posed to protect you …” Ragen agreed weakly, his mouth twitching in a smile.
There were still corelings loose in the city when Vincin and Jone dismissed the Warders. The remaining guardsmen helped the Herb Gatherers transport the wounded to the city’s hospits.
“Shouldn’t someone hunt down the ones that got away?” Arlen asked as they eased Ragen into the back of their cart. His leg was splinted, and the Herb Gatherers had given him a tea to numb the pain, leaving him sleepy and distant.
“To what end?” Cob asked. “It would only get the hunters killed, and make no difference in the morning. Better to get inside. The sun will do for any corelings left in Miln.”
“The sun is still hours away,” Arlen protested as he climbed into the cart.
“What do you propose?” Cob asked, watching warily as they rode. “You saw the full force of the Duke’s Guard at work tonight, hundreds of men with spears and shields. Trained Warders, too. Did you see a single demon killed? Of course not. They are immortal.”
Arlen shook his head. “They kill each other. I’ve seen it.”
“They are magic, Arlen. They can do to one another what no mortal weapon can.”
“The sun kills them,” Arlen said.
“The sun is a power beyond you or me,” Cob said. “We are simply Warders.”
They turned a corner, and gasped. An eviscerated corpse was splayed in the street before them, its blood painting the cobbles red. Parts of it still smoldered; the acrid stench of burned flesh was thick in the air.
“Beggar,” Arlen said, noting the ragged clothes. “What was he doing out at night?”
“Two beggars,” Cob corrected, holding a cloth over his mouth and nose as he gestured at further carnage not far off. “They must have been turned out of the shelter.”
“They can do that?” Arlen asked. “I thought the public shelters had to take everyone.”
“Only until they fill up,” Cob said. “Those places are scant succor, anyhow. The men will beat each other over food and clothes once the guards lock them in, and they do worse to the women. Many prefer to risk the streets.”
“Why doesn’t someone do something about it?” Arlen asked.
“Everyone agrees it’s a problem,” Cob said. “But the citizens say it is the duke’s problem, and the duke feels little need to protect those who contribute nothing to his city.”
“So better to send the guard home for the night, and let the corelings take care of the problem,” Arlen growled. Cob had no reply save to crack the reins, eager to get off the streets.
Two days later, the entire city was summoned to the great square. A gibbet had been erected, and upon it stood Warder Macks, who had been on duty the night of the breach.
Euchor himself was not present, but Jone read his decree: “In the name of Duke Euchor, Light of the Mountains and Lord of Miln, you are found guilty of failing in your duties and allowing a breach in the wardwall. Eight Warders, two Messengers, three Herb Gatherers, thirty-seven guardsmen, and eighteen citizens paid the price for your incompetence.”
“As if making it nine Warders will help,” Cob muttered. Boos and hisses came from the crowd, and bits of garbage were flung at the Warder, who stood with his head down.
“The sentence is death,” Jone said, and hooded men took Macks’ arms and led him to the rope, putting the noose around his neck.
A tall, broad-shouldered Tender with a bushy black beard and heavy robes went to him and drew a ward on his forehead. “May the Creator forgive your failing,” the Holy Man intoned, “and grant us all the purity of heart and deed to end His Plague and be Delivered.”
He backed away, and the trapdoor opened. The crowd cheered as the rope went taut.
“Fools,” Cob spat. “One less man to fight the next breach.”
“What did he mean?” Arlen asked. “About the Plague and being delivered?”
“Just nonsense to keep the crowd in line,” Cob said. “Best not to fill your head with it.”
CHAPTER 12
LIBRARY
321 AR
ARLEN WALKED EXCITEDLY behind Cob as they approached the great stone building. It was Seventhday, and normally he would have been annoyed at skipping his spear practice and riding lessons, but today was a treat too fine to miss: his first trip to the Duke’s Library.
Ever since he and Cob had begun brokering wards, his master’s business had soared, filling a much-needed niche in the city. Their grimoire library had quickly become the largest in Miln, and perhaps the world. At the same time, word had gotten out about their involvement in sealing the breach, and never ones to miss a trend, the Royals had taken notice.
Royals were an irritation to work with, always making ridiculous demands and wanting wards put where they didn’t belong. Cob doubled, then tripled his prices, but it made no difference. Having one’s manse sealed by Cob the Wardmaster had become a status symbol.
But now, called upon to ward the most valuable building in the city, Arlen knew it had been worth every moment. Few citizens ever saw inside the library. Euchor guarded his collection jealously, granting access only to greater petitioners and their aides.
Built by the Tenders of the Creator before being absorbed by the throne, the library was always run by a Tender, usually one with no flock save the precious books. Indeed, the post carried more weight than presiding over any Holy House save for the Grand Holy House or the duke’s own shrine.
They were greeted by an acolyte, and ushered to the office of the head librarian, Tender Ronnell. Arlen’s eyes darted every where as they walked, taking in the musty shelves and silent scholars who roamed the stacks. Not including grimoires, Cob’s collection had contained over thirty books, and Arlen had thought that a treasure. The Duke’s Library contained thousands, more than he could read in a lifetime. He hated that the duke kept it all locked away.
Tender Ronnell was young for the coveted position of head librarian, still with more brown in his hair than gray. He greeted them warmly and sat them down, sending a servant to fetch some refreshment.
“Your reputation precedes you, Master Cob,” Ronnell said, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses and cleaning them on his brown robe. “I hope you will accept this assignment.”
“All the wards I’ve seen so far are still sharp,” Cob noted.
Ronnell replaced his glasses and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “After the recent breach, the duke fears for his collection,” he said. “His Grace desires … special measures.”
“What kind of special measures?” Cob asked suspiciously. Ronnell squirmed, and Arlen could tell that he was as uncomfortable making the request as he expected them to be in filling it.
Finally, Ronnell sighed. “All the tables, benches, and shelves are to be warded against firespit,” he said flatly.
Cob’s eyes bulged. “That would take months!” he sputtered. “And to what end? Even if a flame demon made it so deep into the city, it could never get past the wards of this building, and if it did, you’d have greater worries than the bookshelves.”
