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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way,’ Arlen said, backing away until the demon pit at the point’s centre was at his heels. Distantly, he noted the hiss of a sand demon trapped within.
‘I can make more of these,’ he went on. ‘One for every dal’Sharum. That’s why I came.’
‘We’re capable of doing that ourselves,’ Jardir smiled, a cold split to his bearded face. His teeth flashed in the moonlight. ‘You cannot be our saviour. You are only a chin.’
‘I don’t want to fight you,’ Arlen said.
‘Then don’t, my friend,’ Jardir said softly. ‘Give me the weapon, take your horse, and go with the dawn, never to return.’
Arlen hesitated. He had no doubt Krasia’s Warders could replicate the spear as well as he. In no time at all, the Krasians could turn the tide of their Holy War. Thousands of lives saved, thousands of demons killed. Did it matter who took the credit?
But there was more at stake than just credit. The spear was a gift not for Krasia, but for all men. Would the Krasians share their knowledge with others? If this scene was anything to go by, Arlen thought not.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll have to keep it a little longer. Let me make one for you, and I’ll go. You’ll never see me again, and you’ll have what you want.’
Jardir snapped his fingers, and the men closed in on Arlen.
‘Please,’ Arlen begged. ‘I don’t want to hurt any of you.’
Jardir’s elite warriors laughed at that. They had all devoted their lives to the spear.
But so had Arlen.
‘The corelings are the enemy!’ he screamed as they charged. ‘Not me!’ But even as he protested, he spun, diverting two speartips with a twist of his weapon and kicking hard into the ribs of one of the men, sending him crashing into another. He dived into the rush, coming up in their midst, whirling his spear like a staff, refusing to use the point.
He cracked the end across one warrior’s face, feeling his jaw break, and dropped low as he followed through, smashing the metal spear like a club into another man’s knee. A spear thrust cut the air just above him as the warrior dropped screaming to the ground.
But unlike when he fought the corelings, the weapon now felt heavy in Arlen’s hands, the endless energy that had driven him through the Maze extinguished. Against men, it was just a spear. Arlen planted it on the ground and leapt into the air in a high kick to a man’s throat. The butt of the spear struck another’s stomach, doubling him over. The point gashed a third man’s thigh, making him drop his weapon to clutch the wound. Arlen retreated from the responding press, putting the demon pit at his back so they could not surround him.
‘Again I underestimate you, though I promised I would not,’ Jardir said. He waved, and more men came forward to add to the press.
Arlen fought hard, but the outcome was never in doubt. A shaft struck the side of his head, knocking him down, and the warriors fell on him savagely, raining blows upon him until he let go of the spear to cover his head with his arms.
As quickly as that, the beating stopped. Arlen was hauled to his feet, his hands pinned behind him by two thickly muscled warriors, as he watched Jardir bend over and pick up his spear. The First Warrior clutched his prize tightly and looked Arlen in the eyes.
‘I am truly sorry, my friend,’ he said. ‘I wish there could be another way.’
Arlen spat in his face. ‘Everam is watching your betrayal!’ he shouted.
Jardir only smiled, wiping the spittle away. ‘Do not speak of Everam, chin. I am his Sharum Ka, not you. Without me, Krasia falls. Who will miss you, Par’chin? You will not fill so much as a single tear bottle.’
He looked to the men holding Arlen. ‘Throw him into the pit.’
Arlen had not recovered from the shock of impact when Jardir’s own fine spear dropped down to stick quivering in the dirt in front of him. Looking up the sheer twenty-foot walls of the pit, he saw the First Warrior looking down on him.
‘You lived with honour, Par’chin,’ Jardir said, ‘and so you may keep it in death. Die fighting and you will awaken in paradise.’
Arlen snarled, looking at the sand demon on the other side of the pit as it rose into a crouch. A low growl issued from its muzzle as it bared rows of razor-sharp teeth.
Arlen rose to his feet, ignoring the pain in his bruised muscles. He reached slowly for the spear, keeping his eyes locked with the demon’s. His stance, neither threatening nor fearful, confused the creature, and it paced back and forth on all fours, unsure.
It wasn’t easy, but it was possible to kill a sand demon with an unwarded spear. Their small lidless eyes, normally protected by the bony ridges of their brow, went wide when they pounced. A precise thrust to that one vulnerable spot, if driven hard into the brain beyond, could kill the creature instantly. But demons healed with magical speed, and an imprecise thrust, or one that did not penetrate fully, would only enrage it further. Without a shield, in the dim light of the moon and oil lamps above, it was a nearly impossible task.
While the demon puzzled out his behaviour, Arlen began to slowly drag the point of the spear in the dust, scratching lines of warding directly in front of him, the coreling’s most likely path. The creature would quickly find its way around, but it might buy him time. Stroke by stroke, he cut the symbols into the ground.
The sand demon drifted back to the pit walls, where the shadows thrown by the lamplight above were greatest. Its tan scales blended with the clay, making it nearly invisible. Only its wide, black eyes stood out, reflecting the scant light back at him.
Arlen saw the attack before it came. The demon’s corded muscles bunched and twitched as it tamped down its hind legs. He carefully positioned himself behind his completed wards and then broke eye contact, as if in submission.
With a growl that erupted into a roar, the coreling launched itself at him, more than a hundred pounds of talon, fang, and armoured muscle. Arlen waited until it struck the wards, and as soon as they flared to life he thrust hard at the exposed eyes, the demon’s momentum adding power to his blow.
Watching from above, the Krasians cheered.
Arlen felt the spearpoint dig in, but not deeply enough before the thrust and the flare of magic threw the creature back across the pit, shrieking in pain. Arlen glanced at the spear, and saw the point had broken off. He saw it glinting in the moonlight from the demon’s eye as it shook off its pain and got its feet back under it. It clawed at its face, and the point came free. Already the bleeding had stopped.
The coreling growled low and began to slither towards him, crawling on its belly across the pit’s floor. Arlen let it stalk, racing to complete his semicircle. The demon pounced again, and again the makeshift wards flared, stopping it cold. Arlen thrust again, this time attempting to drive the broken point of the spear down its maw to the more vulnerable flesh of its throat. The coreling was too quick, catching Arlen’s spear in its jaws and pulling it from his grasp as it was thrown back again.
‘Night,’ Arlen cursed. His circle was far from complete, and without the spear, he had no hope of finishing it.
Recovering from the blow, the sand demon was completely unprepared as Arlen leapt from behind his wards and tackled it. Above, the spectators roared.
The coreling scratched and bit, but Arlen was quicker, manoeuvring behind it to put his forearms under its armpits, locking his fingers behind its head. He drew himself up to his full height, lifting the demon from the ground.
Arlen was larger and heavier than the sand demon, but he could not match the sinewy strength of the coreling as it thrashed. Its muscles felt like the cables used in the quarries of Miln, and its back claws threatened to cut his legs