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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scream from Wonda. The choir loft railing shattered, and beams of wood came crashing down, killing the one unfortunate man directly below and wounding another. A huge shape dropped into their midst, howling as it landed on another patient, tearing out her throat before she even knew what had struck her.
The wood demon rose to its full height, huge and terrible, and Leesha felt her heart stop. She and Darsy froze, Smitt a dead weight between them. The spear that the Painted Man had given her leaned against a wall, far from reach, and even if she had it in her hands, she doubted it would do much to slow the giant coreling. The creature shrieked at them, and she felt her knees turn to water.
But then Rojer was there, interposing himself between her and the demon. The coreling hissed at him, and he swallowed hard. Every instinct told him to run and hide, but instead he tucked his fiddle under his chin, and brought bow to string, filling the Holy House with a mournful, haunting melody.
The coreling hissed at the Jongleur and bared its teeth, long and sharp as carving knives, but Rojer did not slow his playing, and the wood demon held its ground, cocking its head and staring at him curiously.
After a few moments, Rojer began to rock from side to side. The demon, its eyes locked on the fiddle, began to do the same.
Encouraged, Rojer took a single step to the left.
The demon mirrored him.
He stepped back to the right, and the coreling did the same.
Rojer went on, walking around the wood demon in a slow, wide arc. The mesmerized beast turned as he went, until it was facing away from the shocked and terrified patients.
By then, Leesha had set Smitt down and retrieved her spear. It seemed little more than a thorn, the demon’s reach far longer, but she stepped forward nonetheless, knowing she would never get a better chance. She gritted her teeth and charged, burying the warded spear in the coreling’s back with all her might.
There was a flash of power and a burst of ecstasy as the magic ran up her arms, and then Leesha was thrown back. She watched as the demon screamed and thrashed about, trying to dislodge the glowing spear still sticking from its back. Rojer dodged aside as it crashed into the great doors in its death-throes, breaking open the portal even as it fell dead.
Demons howled with glee and charged the opening, but they were met by Rojer’s music. Gone was the soothing, hypnotizing melody, replaced by sharp and jarring sounds that had the corelings clawing at their ears as they stumbled backwards.
‘Leesha!’ The side door opened with a crash, and Leesha turned to see the Painted Man, awash in demon ichor and his own blood, burst into the room, looking about frantically. He saw the wood demon lying dead, and turned to meet her eyes. His relief was palpable.
She wanted to throw herself into his arms, but he turned and charged for the shattered doors. Rojer alone held the entrance, his music holding the demons back as surely as any wardnet. The Painted Man shoved the wood demon’s corpse aside, pulling the spear free and throwing it back to Leesha. Then he was gone into the night.
Leesha looked out upon the carnage in the square, and her heart clenched. Dozens of her children lay dead and dying in the mud, even as the battle continued to rage.
‘Darsy!’ she cried, and when the woman rushed to her side, they ran out into the night, pulling wounded inside.
Wonda lay gasping on the ground when Leesha reached her, her clothes torn and bloody where the demon had clawed her. A wood demon charged them as she and Darsy bent to lift her, but Leesha pulled a vial from her apron and threw it, shattering the thin glass in its face. The demon shrieked as the dissolvent ate away its eyes, and the two Herb Gatherers hurried away with their charge.
They deposited the girl inside and Leesha shouted instructions to one of her assistants before running out again. Rojer stood at the entrance, the screeching of his fiddle forming a wall of sound that held the way clear, shielding Leesha and the others who began to drag the wounded inside.
The battle waxed and waned through the night, allowing exhausted villagers time to stagger back to their circles or into Holy House to catch their breath or gulp down a swallow of water. There was an entire hour when not one demon could be seen, but another after that when a large pack that must have come running from miles away fell upon them.
The rain stopped at some point, but no one could recall quite when, too preoccupied with attacking the enemy and helping the wounded. The cutters formed a wall at the great doors, and Rojer roamed the square, driving demons back with his fiddle as the wounded were collected.
By the time dawn’s first light peeked over the horizon, the mud of the square had been churned into a foul stew of human blood and demon ichor; bodies and limbs were scattered everywhere. Many jumped in fright as the sun struck the demon corpses, setting their flesh alight. Like bursts of liquid demonfire from all over the square, the sun finished the battle, incinerating the few demons that still twitched.
The Painted Man looked out at the faces of the survivors, half his fighters at least, and was amazed at the strength and determination he saw. It seemed impossible that these were the same people who were so broken and terrified less than a day before. They might have lost many in the night, but the Hollowers were now stronger than ever.
‘Creator be praised,’ Tender Jona said, staggering out into the square on his crutch, drawing wards in the air as the demons burned in the morning light. He made his way to the Painted Man, and stood before him.
‘This is thanks to you,’ he said.
The Painted Man shook his head. ‘No. You did this,’ he said. ‘All of you.’
Jona nodded. ‘We did,’ he agreed. ‘But only because you came and showed us the way. Can you still doubt this?’
The Painted Man scowled. ‘For me to claim this victory as my own cheapens the sacrifice of all that died during the night,’ he said. ‘Keep your prophecies, Tender. These people do not need them.’
Jona bowed deeply. ‘As you wish,’ he said, but the Painted Man sensed the matter was not closed.
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Leesha waved as Rojer and the Painted Man rode up the path. She set her brush back in its bowl on the porch as they dismounted.
‘You learn quickly,’ the Painted Man said, coming up to study the wards she had painted on the rails. ‘These would hold a horde of corelings at bay.’
‘Quickly?’ Rojer asked. ‘Night, that’s undersaid. It’s not been a month since Leesha couldn’t tell a wind ward from a flame.’
‘He’s right,’ the Painted Man said. ‘I’ve seen five-year journeyman Warders whose lines weren’t half so neat.’
Leesha smiled. ‘I’ve always been a quick study,’ she said. ‘And you and my father are good teachers. I only wish I had bothered to learn sooner.’
The Painted Man shrugged. ‘Would that we all could go back and make decisions based on what was to come.’
‘I think I’d have lived my whole life different,’ Rojer agreed.
Leesha laughed, ushering them inside the hut. ‘Supper’s almost ready,’ she said, heading for the fire. ‘How did the village council meeting go?’ she asked, stirring the steaming pot.
‘Idiots,’ the Painted Man grumbled.