Messenger’s Legacy (7 page)

Ragen had expected a sense of melancholy when the great walls of Miln finally came into sight, but found his heart lifting instead. Yes, he was leaving the world behind, but maybe Relan had the right of that. His friend had always been devoted to his family first. What better way could Ragen honour him than to stop his wandering and cherish his own family?

He entered the city looking forwards, not back.

He made his way into the warding district where Cob kept his shop, a quick stop before returning home for good. Arlen was polishing his armour when Ragen entered the shop.

‘If you paid half the attention to that girl of yours you do to that armour, you’d have her eating out of your hand.’

Arlen looked up smiling. ‘If that ent the night calling it dark, dunno what is. Might have more time for Mery if I wasn’t waiting on Lady Elissa in your place.’

Just her name sent a thrill through Ragen. ‘She is well? The child …’

‘Looks like she swallowed the base of a snowman,’ Arlen said, ‘but the Gatherer says everything’s sunny.’ He turned to give a shout into the back. ‘Cob! Ragen’s back!’

A moment later, the grizzled old Warder appeared. ‘Ragen! How was your last tour?’

‘Easy and safe, for my part,’ Ragen said.

‘Did you make it all the way to the desert?’ Arlen asked.

Ragen shook his head. ‘Settled for a night on Lookout Hill.’

Arlen’s smile soured. ‘Been settling for looks too long. Can’t wait till I get my licence and can see for myself. Going to go places no Messenger’s ever been.’

‘You want to be Marko Rover, then?’ Ragen said.

Arlen shrugged. ‘Every Messenger wants to be Marko Rover.’

‘Ay, the boy has the right of that,’ Cob said. ‘Used to beg the Jongleurs for tales of the Rover when I was a lad.’

Ragen nodded. ‘Fair and true. The tales tell of the wondrous places Marko went, but they always seem to leave out the weights his heart brought home.’

‘Are you saying it’s not worth it?’ Arlen asked.

‘Creator, no.’ Ragen winked. ‘I’ve got letters in my bag from half the Merchants and Royals south of the Dividing, asking for Arlen Bales to take my summer run to Lakton.’

Arlen’s eyes widened. ‘Honest word?’

Ragen nodded. ‘With Count Brayan in your corner after your mad adventure to his mines, Guildmaster Malcum will have a hard time refusing.’

Arlen leapt to his feet with a whoop. It was so unlike the serious boy that Ragen did not know how to react. He looked to Cob, finding the old Warder equally dumbfounded.

‘Elissa won’t like it,’ Ragen said. ‘Nor Mery, I imagine.’

‘They won’t hear it from you,’ Arlen said, taking in both men with his gaze. ‘Neither of you. I’ll tell them when I’m ready.’

Ragen nodded. ‘Now all that’s left is for me to decide what to do with the rest of my life.’

‘I’ve some thoughts on the matter,’ Cob said, ‘since you’ve all but ensured I’m losing my partner.’

M
udboy watched the bog demon prowl the refuse mounds from the safety of one of his many hogroot patches.

‘Hogroot grows angrily as a weed,’ his mother used to say. Simple cuttings grew stalks of their own in almost any soil. In the fertile ground of the dump they spread like firespit, choking out other plants to form islands of safety in the naked night.

The cory sniffed, finding the first rat, blood still warm on its fur. The demon gave an excited croak, catching the rat on a talon and tossing it into its open maw. It bit once and swallowed the creature whole.

Mudboy kept perfectly still. The demon was mere feet from him, but it heard nothing – saw nothing. The hog resin and mud on his clothes blended him perfectly with his surroundings, and the stink of him was enough to turn any demon’s nose.

Some cories were content to rise in the same place every night, hunting within a small radius and sinking back down in the same spot at dawn. Mudboy knew the ones in the area, and where they were apt to be found.

Other demons tended to roam, falling back to the Core wherever their wandering left them and rising in the same spot that night. This one had been drifting closer for days. Mudboy had planted clusters of hogroot at every approach, but the dump drew cories like standing water drew skeeters. Cories hungered for human flesh most of all, and the dump was thick with people stink.

Mudboy dug pits, laid tripwires, and even burned hog smoke in its path, but despite his every incentive to hunt elsewhere, the bog demon had got uncomfortably close to the briar patch, his hidden lair. It couldn’t be allowed to stay.

The rat had barely been a mouthful, but a few feet away the cory found the next one, and another a few yards from there, leading it inexorably towards the precipice where the waste cart dumped.

Mudboy shook his head. It was the third time this particular demon had wandered into the dump and been lured to the exact same spot. Father said cories had brains as tiny as a shelled pea. He shifted his grip on the old broomstick fitted to the head of his father’s spear and slipped his arm into the mended straps of the shield, wondering if this one would ever learn.

Already the bog demon was beginning to stumble. The rats were poisoned with a mix of skyflower and tampweed. A single rat had little effect, but after five it would be clumsy and slower.

Slower, but not slow. Even the slowest, stupidest cory could tear him to pieces if he was not swift and precise. He had seen firsthand what they could do.

You must always respect the
alagai
, my son,
father had said,
but you should never be ruled by your fear of them.

Mudboy embraced his fear and was moving in an instant, swift and silent as a bird. The demon was looking away, and would never know he was there. It would see only the flash of magic as it struck the shield, and then it would be flying over the edge.

But as the demon reached for the final rat, it paused, as if remembering. Mudboy picked up speed. It was smarter than he thought. Next time he would need a new trick.

Even drugged, the demon was fast. Its head snapped around, seeing him coming in time to dig hind claws into the ground, swiping with its front talons.

Unable to stop in time, Mudboy tumbled into a roll, ducking the talons by inches. He pulled up just short of the precipice and turned just as the bog demon hawked and spat.

He ducked behind his shield, but the mucky phlegm spattered off the surface, droplets hitting him on the face and body. He could feel it burning, eating away at his flesh.

Keeping his eyes shut, Mudboy dropped his spear, grabbing damp clumps of soil and rubbing them into his face until the burning cooled. He kept his shield up, but he had lost the advantage, and both of them knew it. The bog demon covered the distance between them in one great hop, landing in front of him with a terrifying croak.

It struck fast, but the blow skittered off the wards on the shield. With his free hand Mudboy reached into his pocket, grabbing a fistful of hogroot powder. He threw it in the demon’s face as it inhaled to croak at him again.

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.