The Daylight War
Page 18

Just as the spearman lunged, Arlen shoved the greybeard away. The man put his spear horizontally over Arlen’s head, meaning to come up under his chin in a choke. Arlen grabbed the shaft, bending forward with a twist that turned all the man’s momentum against him, flipping him over to land heavily on his back. Arlen, now holding the spear in one hand, put his foot on the man’s chest and looked at the others.
In the struggle, his hood had come down, and the men gaped at the sight. ‘The Painted Man,’ Brice said, and all the bandits began to mutter among themselves.
After a moment, the greybeard remembered himself. ‘So you’re the one everyone says is the Deliverer.’ He squinted. ‘You don’t look like the Deliverer to me.’
‘Never said I was,’ Arlen said. ‘I’m Arlen Bales out of Tibbet’s Brook, and I ent gonna deliver anything but a whipping to anyone doesn’t start acting neighbourly right quick.’
The greybeard looked at him, and then around at his men. He waved a hand and they put their weapons up, all staring at Arlen, who glared back at them like Renna’s mam when she’d caught the girls at mischief and was readying a scolding.
Even the greybeard couldn’t weather that stare for long. He wiped the sweat from his weathered brow again, wringing his hat in his hands. ‘Ent gonna apologize,’ he said. ‘I got mouths to feed, and folk in need of proper succour. Done some things I’m not proud of to get by, but it ent from greed or malice. A man tends to forget himself when he’s been on the road a long time with nowhere to go.’
Arlen nodded. ‘Know what that’s like. What’s your name?’
‘Varley Oat,’ the greybeard said.
Arlen nodded at the surname. ‘You’re out of Oating, then? Three days’ north of Fort Rizon, past the Yellow Orchards?’
Varley’s eyes widened, but he nodded. ‘You come a long way from Oating, Varley,’ Arlen said. ‘How long you been on the road?’
‘Nigh three seasons. Since the Krasians took Fort Rizon,’ Varley said. ‘Knew the desert rats would come for us next, so I told folk to pack up everything they owned and set off right away.’
‘You Town Speaker?’ Arlen asked.
Varley laughed. ‘I was the Tender.’ He shrugged. ‘Guess I still am, after a fashion, though I been doubting there’s anyone watching from above.’
‘Know that feeling, too,’ Arlen said.
‘Whole village of Oating left together,’ Varley went on. ‘Six hundred of us. We had Herb Gatherers, Warders, even a retired Messenger to guide us. Plenty of supplies. Honest word, we started with more than we could carry. But that changed quick.’
‘Always does,’ Arlen said.
‘Desert rats came quickly,’ Varley said, ‘and their scouts were everywhere. Lost a lot of folk to the running, and a lot more to the winter. Krasians stopped chasing us eventually, but no one felt safe until we got to Lakton.’
‘But Lakton wouldn’t have you,’ Arlen guessed.
Varley shook his head. ‘We were looking a bit shabby by then. Folk would look the other way for a bit if we camped for a week in a fallow field or fished a bit in their pond, but no one was looking to take five hundred new folk into their town. Someone would accuse us of stealing something, and before you know it, whole town comes out with rakes and hoes to run us out.
‘Went on from there to the Hollow, where they’re taking in Rizonans by the thousand, but folk there were chewing bark and digging bugs just to fill their bellies, and the Cutters roam the refugee camps, looking for recruits to get themselves killed in the naked night. Some of us lost everything to the Krasians, and they want us to start fightin’ demons? Won’t be no one left.’
‘So you set off north,’ Arlen said.
Varley shrugged. ‘Seemed like the wisest course. I still had nigh three hundred folk to look after. Hollowers gave us a couple of warded spears and what help they could. Farmer’s Stump wasn’t half so kind, and the bastards in Fort Angiers turned us away at spearpoint. Heard there might be work up Riverbridge way, but that place was no better. Packed full. So now we’re here, and got nowhere else.’
‘Show me your camp,’ Arlen said. The bandit looked at him for a moment, then nodded and turned to his men. The cart was out of the mud in an instant, and they were soon travelling off road through a narrow pass in the trees. Arlen dismounted, leading Twilight Dancer by the reins. Renna did the same, laying a hand on Promise’s strong neck to guide her. The mare stomped and snorted when any of the men drew near, but she was growing used to Renna’s touch.
It was over an hour before the Oatingers’ camp came in sight, hidden well away from the road. Renna’s eyes widened at the ragtag collection of crudely patched tents and covered wagons, thick with the stench of sweat and human waste. Perhaps two hundred souls were gathered there. Varley’s men, ragged themselves, were the pick of the lot.
Women, children, and elderly stumbled about the camp, exhausted, filthy, and half starved. Many wore bandages, and most feet were wrapped in rags. Everyone was working – repairing and warding tattered and meagre shelters, tending gruel pots, airing laundry and scraping dishes, gathering firewood, preparing wardposts, tending scrawny livestock. The only idle were the sick and the wounded, housed under a poorly constructed rain shelter. Their moans of pain could be heard clear across the camp.
Arlen led Twilight Dancer through the camp, his back stiff as he looked in the lost and tired eyes of the people. They started when they caught sight of his warded face, and began to whisper among themselves, but none had the courage to approach him as he passed.
They came to the shelter for the sick, and Renna choked on the sight like it was demon meat. Almost two dozen folk spread out on narrow cots, covered in bloody bandages, filthy and reeking. Two of the patients had soiled themselves, and another was covered in her own sick. None of them looked apt to recover.
One frazzled woman attempted vainly to tend them all. Her grey hair was pulled in a tight bun, and her narrow face pinched. She wore no pocketed apron on her worn dress.
‘Creator, they don’t even have a proper Gatherer,’ Arlen whispered.
‘My wife, Evey,’ Varley grunted. ‘She ent an Herb Gatherer, but serves as one, for those in need.’ Evey looked up, and her eyes widened in shock as she took in Arlen’s and Renna’s warded skin.
Arlen went to his saddlebag and fetched his herb pouch. ‘I’ve some Gatherer’s art, particularly when it comes to coreling wounds. Like to help if I might.’
Evey fell to her knees. ‘Oh, please, Deliverer! We’ll do anything!’
Arlen’s brows knit in sudden anger. ‘You can start by not acting the fool!’ he snapped. ‘I ent no Deliverer. I’m Arlen Bales out of Tibbet’s Brook, and I’m just looking to help as I can.’
Evey looked as if he had slapped her. Her pale cheeks grew a bright red, and she got quickly to her feet. ‘I’m sorry … I don’t know what came over me …’
Arlen reached out, squeezing her shoulder. ‘You don’t have to explain. Know the ale stories the Jongleurs spin about me. But I’m here to tell you I’m a man like any other. Just learned some old world tricks folk these days have forgotten.’