Messenger’s Legacy

  A heavy knot formed in Ragen’s throat as he looked at the burned-out house. The Boggers had thrown water on the last embers, and the whole yard was filled with the acrid stink of fire and blood.

  It was a stench Ragen was sorry to say he knew too well. Every Messenger did. But no matter how many times it happened, it was never something you got used to.

  Like ghosts, he could see the Damaj family running through the yard and taking ease on the porch, enjoying the long summer evenings.

  Now the Boggers were laying their few remains on a bonfire pallet under the supervision of the local Tender, who was struggling to piece the bodies together enough for a proper pyre.

  It was too much. Ragen stumbled down from his horse and bent almost double, putting his head between his knees, struggling to breathe.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up at Tender Heath’s kind gaze. There were tears in Heath’s eyes, too.

  Ragen swallowed hard, his voice coming out a croak. ‘Anyone get out alive?’

  Heath gave a tired shrug. ‘Only found pieces enough for one twin, but it might be parts from two for all I know.’

  Ragen nodded. ‘Couldn’t tell where one of those ripping boys ended and the other began even when they were alive.’

  Heath grunted, as close to a laugh as one could get with such dark humour. ‘No sign at all of Briar.’

  Ragen looked up at that. ‘Have you organized a search?’

  Heath nodded. ‘Got folk searching the bog, but …’ He shrugged. ‘Boy was small. Good-sized demon could have swallowed him whole.’

  It was true enough, but Ragen wouldn’t let himself believe it. Relan was his friend, and if two of his sons might still be out there, hurt and scared, he owed it to his friend to find them.

  ‘Hold the pyre,’ he said. ‘Going to have a look myself.’

  Heath nodded. ‘We’ll take the pallet to the Holy House so I can scatter the ashes on warded ground. I can give you till dusk horn.’

  The Damaj yard had been churned by the feet of countless Boggers come to help or gawk, but in the garden Ragen found what he was looking for. Footprints. Dawn and Briar, from the look. Dawn had left the boy in the hogroot patch. Smart.

  Then she had run back inside to be cored.

  Ragen breathed through the tears. Briar had made it out of the house to a safe space, but the heat and smoke must have been terrible. A careful search found where he had stumbled from the garden, running for the refuse cart, and from there, into the bog.

  It was an hour before Ragen picked up the trail again, spotting the sugar candies lying in the dirt, covered in ants. Briar’s prints were all around the base of the goldwood tree.

  ‘Briar?’ he called into the boughs. ‘You up there, boy?’

  When there was no reply, Ragen sighed, catching the lowest branch and pulling himself up. This would hurt on the morrow.

  The hollow in the branches where Briar had spent the night was easy enough to spot. A twist of corn husk from a sugar candy was stuck to a bed of churned leaves, and the nook stank of hogroot.

  He lost the trail from there, wandering for hours in the bog, calling Briar’s name. He searched the dump as well, knowing how much time the Damaj boys spent there, but still there was no sign.

  The Great Horn sounded, signalling the dusk, and Ragen mounted Nighteye with a heavy heart, riding hard back to the Holy House. If there had been a single sign of the boy since he left the goldwood, Ragen would have set his circles and waited all night, listening for cries.

  But it was pointless. Much as it cut at him, Ragen knew the truth. He might have made it further than most, but a boy of six, out in the naked night?

  Briar was dead.

  Boggers might not visit the Holy House every week, but the whole town would come to pay respects at a funeral pyre, even for a family that had never quite fitted in. They were sombre out of respect, but there were few tears apart from Ragen and the Tender. Only Tami Bales wept openly.

  As folk were exiting the service, Masen Bales spat. ‘Least I don’t owe that mudlover Dawn eight shells any more.’ His brothers chuckled.

  Ragen took a firm grip on the man’s shirt, holding him in place for the punch. He felt a crack, and bits of tooth flew from Masen’s mouth.

  The other Bales men ran to defend Masen, but Ragen grabbed Masen’s arm, ducking into a throw that slammed him into his brothers and brought them all down in a heap.

  ‘You’ll pay ten each to the Holy House for their grave marker,’ Ragen growled, ‘or Creator is my witness, I’ll see none of you ever get mail again.’

  Marta Speaker was there in an instant. She interposed herself between them, but it was hard to tell whose side she was on, glaring at all the men equally. ‘That ent going to be necessary, Messenger.’ She looked to the Bales brothers. ‘You heard the man. You men can’t respect the dead, then go on home and find your purses.’

  The men didn’t move, and Ragen wondered if pride might demand a battle they were bound to lose. He almost wished they would come at him. A few broken bones would teach them to respect the dead, and remind them they were lucky to be alive.

  The other Boggers watched the scene impassively. More than one likely shared Masen’s sentiment, but none were stupid enough to cross a Messenger, especially one of Ragen’s stature. Fortunes rose and fell on a Messenger’s goodwill.

  Tender Heath joined Marta, putting his hands on his hips and staring down the Bales men. The flames of the pyre roared behind him, adding a looming presence. Masen’s brothers tipped their hats and left on the quick. Masen spat a wad of blood and waved for his family to do the same.

  ‘The Holy House offers you succour tonight, Messenger,’ Heath said, when the fire had burned down.

  ‘Grateful, Tender,’ Ragen said. ‘Got a jug of Krasian spirits I meant for Relan. Be honoured if you’d have a drink with me.’

  Heath coughed, looking at the tiny cup in disbelief. ‘Hits harder than a pint of my best ale, and tastes like firespit. Drink like this ought to be illegal.’

  Ragen chuckled. ‘It is. The dama will cut the thumbs off anyone caught selling it, and even being caught with some will earn you a whipping.’

  Heath shook his head. ‘Impossible. Relan said it was a popular drink in Krasia.’

  Ragen poured another round, clicking tiny cups with the Tender before they both drank. ‘Krasia’s just like everywhere else, Tender. Got their holy and their hypocrites. The Evejah says drinking spirits is a sin—’

  ‘Creator forbid,’ Heath said.

  ‘—but that doesn’t mean everyone listens.’ Ragen stared into his empty cup. ‘Relan ever tell you why he left Krasia?’

  Heath nodded. ‘They lock their warriors in a maze full of demons each night, and treat those that flee like refuse. He said you offered something better, and risked your life to sneak him past the gates.’

  Ragen laughed. ‘That what he told you? Ay, it’s true after a fashion, but it puts quite a shine on things. Truer is I’d never seen Relan in my life when I left Fort Krasia that morning. Put hard miles between me and the city till nearly dusk, then unhitched the cart and set up my portable circles.’

  He poured two more cups of couzi. ‘So I’m starting a fire and putting the kettle on when out of the shadows walks this Sharum in full warrior blacks, spear and shield in hand. Scared the piss out of me. Went for my spear, but even after hanging onto my cart axle all day, he picked off my thrusts like I was an apprentice still using a training spear. Don’t think I’d have had a chance if he’d been fresh.’

  Heath took the offered cup. ‘What happened?’

  Ragen shrugged. ‘He gave me a good whack with the spear that sent me sprawling. Might’ve killed me if he’d taken advantage, but he just lowered his spear and waited. Realized then he wasn’t attacking me, just defending himself. Coreson didn’t speak a word of Thesan, but I knew the market pidgin well enough for us to stumble through half a conversation. Begged me to take him north, and we ended up rid
ing together almost three seasons before your pretty Gatherer caught his eye.’

  Heath nodded. ‘Whole town was in an uproar when they asked me to wed them. Don’t think I would have done it if Relan had converted just for her.’

  ‘He was on his way to converting before we were out of the desert,’ Ragen said. ‘Relan didn’t want to die in the Maze, but he wanted to be right with the Creator. You gave that to him. I remember how he cried after you made the signs and blew incense over him.’

  Ragen lifted his cup. ‘Seemed like every year there were more of them in that little house. And now it’s empty.’

  ‘To Relan and the Damaj family,’ Heath said as they clicked and drank. He looked at the cup curiously. ‘It tastes …’

  ‘Like cinnamon,’ Ragen agreed. ‘Only you’ve got to be rot drunk to notice.’

  Heath stoppered the jug. ‘Best leave off a bit, then. Want to keep my wits about me tonight, and blow the horn every hour.’

  The Tenders of the Creator lived by the Law of Succour, that said the Holy House must be a place of refuge from the night at any hour. There were few Warders in the world who could match the powerful script Tenders learned as acolytes. Church wards were much harder to draw, but the complex nets were impenetrable, rebounding a coreling’s attacks back on them with such force that a determined demon might beat itself to death at the wardwall without ever breaking through.

  The path to the front doors was lit with lamplight through the night, to aid those running for succour, and never locked. Tenders lived by simple means, and had little to steal in any event.

  The Great Horn was blown each evening an hour before dusk, and again at sunset, to show the way to those in need. If the Tender meant to blow it throughout the night …

  ‘You still think Briar might be out there?’ Ragen asked.

  Heath looked at the clock and pushed unsteadily to his feet. ‘When I asked Relan why he was willing to foreswear the Evejah and follow the Canon, he told me, “I see now that if Everam’s power is infinite, then even Nie exists only at his sufferance. And so the alagai must come at his will. What can this be, save punishment for our sins?”’

  Ragen frowned. ‘You’ll forgive me, Tender, but I’ve never held to that. Creator loves us, it’s said. What loving being would set the corelings on us?’

  ‘It’s a paradox,’ Heath agreed. ‘One better men than us have argued through the ages. But the Canon and Evejah both agree that the Creator’s power is infinite.’ He stumbled over to the Great Horn, pausing to wet his lips. ‘We live in the real world, and make our choices based on what’s in front of us, but we can always pray for a miracle.’

  He drew a powerful breath, and blew.

  Ragen went hunting for Briar the next day, and the day after that, but he found no further sign. Perhaps the Creator could grant miracles, but if so, he was stingy with them.

  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.’

  4

  Mudboy

  333 AR Autumn

  Mudboy 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 fitte
d 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.