The Demon Cycle Books 1-3 and Novellas: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear, The Daylight War plus The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold and Messenger’s Legacy. Peter V. Brett
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the city, either. Unbidden, he saw Jaycob crumple to the ground, and heard Jasin’s laughter. He could have sought justice after the attack, but he chose to flee, instead. He was forever fleeing, and letting others die in his stead. His hand searched for a talisman that was no longer there as he stared down at the fire.
‘Was I wrong?’ the Painted Man asked. ‘Shall we go back to our camp?’
Rojer swallowed. ‘As soon as I have what belongs to me,’ he decided.
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Leesha awoke to a soft nickering. She opened her eyes to see Rojer brushing down the russet mare she had purchased in Angiers, and for a moment, she dared think the last two days a dream.
But then Twilight Dancer stepped into view, the giant stallion towering over the mare, and it all came rushing back.
‘Rojer,’ she asked quietly, ‘where did my horse come from?’
Rojer opened his mouth to reply, but the Painted Man strode into the camp then, with two small rabbits and a handful of apples. ‘I saw your friends’ fire last night,’ he explained, ‘and thought we would travel faster all ahorse.’
Leesha was quiet a long time, digesting the news. A dozen emotions ran through her, many of them shameful and unsavoury. Rojer and the Painted Man gave her time, and she was thankful for that. ‘Did you kill them?’ she asked at last. A cold part of her wanted him to say yes, even though it went against everything she believed; everything Bruna had taught her.
The Painted Man looked her in the eye. ‘No,’ he said, and an immense relief flooded through her. ‘I scattered them long enough to steal the horse, but that was all.’
Leesha nodded. ‘We’ll send word of them to the Duke’s magistrate with the next Messenger to pass through the Hollow.’
Her herb blanket was rolled crudely and strapped to the saddle. She pulled it off and examined it, relief washing over her as she found most of the bottles and pouches intact. They had smoked all her tampweed, but that was easy enough to replace.
After breakfast, Rojer rode the mare while Leesha sat behind the Painted Man on Twilight Dancer. They travelled swiftly, for there were clouds gathering, and threat of rain.
Leesha felt like she should have been afraid. The bandits were alive and ahead of them. She remembered the leering face of the black-bearded man and the raucous laughter of his companion. Worst of all, she remembered the terrible weight and dumb, violent lust of the mute.
She should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. Even more than Bruna, the Painted Man made her feel safe. He did not tire. He did not fear. And she knew without a doubt that no harm could ever come to her while she was under his protection.
Protection. It was an odd feeling, needing protection, like something out of another life. She had been protecting herself for so long, she had forgotten what it was like. Her skills and wits were enough to keep her safe in civilized places, but those things meant little in the wild.
The Painted Man shifted, and she realized she had tightened her hands around his waist, pressing close to him with her head resting on his shoulder. She pulled away, so caught up in her embarrassment that she almost didn’t see the hand, lying in the scrub at the side of the road.
When she did, she screamed.
The Painted Man pulled up, and Leesha practically fell off the horse, rushing to the spot. She brushed the weeds aside, gasping as she realized the hand wasn’t attached to anything, bitten clean off.
‘Leesha, what is it?’ Rojer cried, as he and the Painted Man ran to her.
‘Were they camped near here?’ Leesha asked, holding up the appendage. The Painted Man nodded. ‘Take me there,’ Leesha ordered.
‘Leesha, what good could …’ Rojer began, but she ignored him, keeping her eyes locked on the Painted Man.
‘Take. Me. There.’ she said. The Painted Man nodded, putting down a stake and tying the mare’s reins to it.
‘Guard,’ he said to Twilight Dancer, and the stallion nickered.
They found the camp soon after, awash in blood and half-eaten bodies. Leesha lifted her apron to cover her mouth against the stench. Rojer retched and ran from the clearing.
But Leesha was no stranger to blood. ‘Only two,’ she said, examining the remains with feelings too mixed for her to begin to sort.
The Painted Man nodded. ‘The mute is missing,’ he said. ‘The giant.’
‘Yes,’ Leesha said. ‘And the circle as well.’
‘The circle, as well,’ the Painted Man agreed after a moment.
The heavy clouds continued to gather as they made their way back to the horses. ‘There’s a Messenger cave ten miles up the road,’ the Painted Man said. ‘If we press hard and skip lunch, we should make it there before the rain comes. We’ll have to take refuge until the storm passes.’
‘The man who kills corelings with his bare hands is afraid of a little rain?’ Leesha asked.
‘If the cloud is thick enough, corelings might rise early,’ the Painted Man said.
‘Since when are you afraid of corelings?’ Leesha pressed.
‘It’s stupid and dangerous to fight in the rain,’ the Painted Man said. ‘Rain makes mud, and mud obscures wards and ruins footing.’
They were barely settled in the cave before the storm struck. Drenching sheets of rain turned the road to mud and the sky went dark, save for the sharp strikes of lightning. The wind howled at them, punctuated by roaring thunder.
Much of the cave mouth was warded already, symbols of power etched deeply into the rock, and the Painted Man quickly secured the rest with a cache of wardstones left within.
As the Painted Man predicted, a few demons rose early in the false dark. He watched grimly as they crept out from the darkest parts of the wood, relishing their early release from the Core. The brief flashes of light outlined their sinuous forms as they frolicked in the wet.
They tried to break into the cave, but the wards held strong. Those that ventured too close regretted it, greeted with a jab from the scowling Painted Man’s spear.
‘Why are you so angry?’ Leesha asked, drawing bowls and spoons from her bag as Rojer worked to light a small fire.
‘Bad enough they come at night,’ the Painted Man spat. ‘They’ve no right to the day.’
Leesha shook her head. ‘You’d be happier if you could accept what is,’ she advised.
‘I don’t want to be happy,’ he replied.
‘Everyone wants to be happy,’ Leesha scoffed. ‘Where’s the cookpot?’
‘In my bag,’ Rojer said. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘No need,’ Leesha said, rising. ‘Mind the fire. I’ll fetch it.’
‘No!’ Rojer cried, but even as he leapt to his feet, he saw he was too late. Leesha drew forth his portable circle with a gasp.
‘But …’ she stammered, ‘… they took this!’ She looked at Rojer, and saw his eyes flick to the Painted Man.