The Warded Man (Demon Cycle, #1)(77)

“Hey!” he cried, stepping from his circle and waving his arms. “Hey, ugly!”

“Arlen, get back in your ripping circle!” Cob screamed, but it was too late. The rock demon’s head whipped around at the sound of Arlen’s voice.

“Oh yeah, you heard,” Arlen murmured, his face flushing hot and then immediately going cold. He glanced past the ward-posts. The corelings were growing bold as the magnesium began to die down. Stepping in there would be suicide.

But Arlen remembered his previous encounters with the rock demon, and how it jealously regarded him as its own. With that thought, he turned and ran past the wardposts, catching the attention of a hissing flame demon. The coreling pounced, eyes aflame, but so did One Arm, driving forward to smash the lesser demon.

Even as it whirled back to him, Arlen was diving back past the wardposts. One Arm struck hard at him, but light flared, and it was thwarted. Cob had restored his post, establishing the net. One Arm shrieked in rage, pounding at the barrier, but it was impenetrable.

He ran to Ragen’s side. Cob swept him into a hug, and then cuffed him on the ear. “You ever pull a stunt like that again,” the master warned, “and I’ll break your scrawny neck.”

“I was s’posed to protect you …” Ragen agreed weakly, his mouth twitching in a smile.

There were still corelings loose in the city when Vincin and Jone dismissed the Warders. The remaining guardsmen helped the Herb Gatherers transport the wounded to the city’s hospits.

“Shouldn’t someone hunt down the ones that got away?” Arlen asked as they eased Ragen into the back of their cart. His leg was splinted, and the Herb Gatherers had given him a tea to numb the pain, leaving him sleepy and distant.

“To what end?” Cob asked. “It would only get the hunters killed, and make no difference in the morning. Better to get inside. The sun will do for any corelings left in Miln.”

“The sun is still hours away,” Arlen protested as he climbed into the cart.

“What do you propose?” Cob asked, watching warily as they rode. “You saw the full force of the Duke’s Guard at work tonight, hundreds of men with spears and shields. Trained Warders, too. Did you see a single demon killed? Of course not. They are immortal.”

Arlen shook his head. “They kill each other. I’ve seen it.”

“They are magic, Arlen. They can do to one another what no mortal weapon can.”

“The sun kills them,” Arlen said.

“The sun is a power beyond you or me,” Cob said. “We are simply Warders.”

They turned a corner, and gasped. An eviscerated corpse was splayed in the street before them, its blood painting the cobbles red. Parts of it still smoldered; the acrid stench of burned flesh was thick in the air.

“Beggar,” Arlen said, noting the ragged clothes. “What was he doing out at night?”

“Two beggars,” Cob corrected, holding a cloth over his mouth and nose as he gestured at further carnage not far off. “They must have been turned out of the shelter.”

“They can do that?” Arlen asked. “I thought the public shelters had to take everyone.”

“Only until they fill up,” Cob said. “Those places are scant succor, anyhow. The men will beat each other over food and clothes once the guards lock them in, and they do worse to the women. Many prefer to risk the streets.”

“Why doesn’t someone do something about it?” Arlen asked.

“Everyone agrees it’s a problem,” Cob said. “But the citizens say it is the duke’s problem, and the duke feels little need to protect those who contribute nothing to his city.”

“So better to send the guard home for the night, and let the corelings take care of the problem,” Arlen growled. Cob had no reply save to crack the reins, eager to get off the streets.

Two days later, the entire city was summoned to the great square. A gibbet had been erected, and upon it stood Warder Macks, who had been on duty the night of the breach.

Euchor himself was not present, but Jone read his decree: “In the name of Duke Euchor, Light of the Mountains and Lord of Miln, you are found guilty of failing in your duties and allowing a breach in the wardwall. Eight Warders, two Messengers, three Herb Gatherers, thirty-seven guardsmen, and eighteen citizens paid the price for your incompetence.”

“As if making it nine Warders will help,” Cob muttered. Boos and hisses came from the crowd, and bits of garbage were flung at the Warder, who stood with his head down.

“The sentence is death,” Jone said, and hooded men took Macks’ arms and led him to the rope, putting the noose around his neck.

A tall, broad-shouldered Tender with a bushy black beard and heavy robes went to him and drew a ward on his forehead. “May the Creator forgive your failing,” the Holy Man intoned, “and grant us all the purity of heart and deed to end His Plague and be Delivered.”

He backed away, and the trapdoor opened. The crowd cheered as the rope went taut.

“Fools,” Cob spat. “One less man to fight the next breach.”

“What did he mean?” Arlen asked. “About the Plague and being delivered?”

“Just nonsense to keep the crowd in line,” Cob said. “Best not to fill your head with it.”