The demon shrieked and let go its grip, and Arlen shoved it away. It landed on its back, and Arlen saw his blood ward blacken the white scales, then burst into a flame that consumed the demon like sunlight. He was left panting in the snow, bloodied and torn, but very much alive as he watched the thrashing snow demon immolated in fire.
He stumbled quickly back to the campsite, breathing a great sigh of relief when he was once again within the safety of his circles. He needed a prybar to get some of the pieces of his armor off, but there was no choice, as the twisted metal cut off his blood flow in more than one place, and cut into his skin in others. He lit the fire he had wisely laid in advance, and spent the rest of the night huddled by it, trying to restore feeling to his arm as he stitched his flesh.
Feeling slowly returned to his numb arm, bringing with it a maddening pain as if he had been burned. But through it all, he was smiling. He hadn’t killed the demon he set out to, but he had killed one nonetheless, and that was more than anyone he had ever known could claim. Arlen welcomed the pain, for it meant he was alive when he had no right to be.
Arlen led Dawn Runner down the steep trails the next morning, happy to walk and keep his blood pumping. Late in the day, there came a cry behind him.
“Messenger!”
Arlen turned to see Derek running hard after him. He stopped and the keeper soon caught up, stumbling to a stop. Arlen caught him with his good arm and set him to hang on Dawn Runner’s saddle, red-faced and panting. His eye was blue and swollen where Arlen had punched him.
“You’re a long way from the station,” Arlen said, when the keeper caught his breath.
“Whole mountain heard those thundersticks in the night, and the slide that followed,” Derek said. “I took my skis and went looking for you.”
“Why?” Arlen asked.
Derek shrugged. “Figured either you were dead, and I should try and send your bones to your mother, or alive, and needing some help. You ent my favorite person, Messenger, but anyone deserves that much.”
“That would have taken you to the site of the avalanche, six hours back,” Arlen said, “where you would have seen my tracks, and known I was all right. Why keep on?”
Derek looked at his feet. “I knew you were right yesterday, about me not standing by my own. I think that’s what got me so mad. Then when I saw what was left of the demon you killed, it was like a kick in the stones. Dunno what came over me, I just kept on going while my nerve held. Figure the caravan will think I’m dead, but they’ll still have to get Stasy out of Brayan’s Gold before her belly swells. I’ll go to Miln and wait for her.”
Arlen smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.
Cob was berating one of the apprentices when Arlen returned to the shop. Arlen’s master was always snappish when he was worried. He looked up at the door chime and saw Arlen standing there, Derek in tow. The irritation left his face, and the apprentice wisely used the distraction to vanish into the back room.
“You made it back,” Cob grunted, heading to sit at his workbench without pausing for so much as a handshake.
Arlen nodded. “This is Derek, out of Brayan’s Gold. He’s got a steady warding hand, and could use some work.”
“You’re hired,” Cob said, picking up his etching tool. He pointed his leathery chin at Arlen’s left arm, missing its armor and bound in a sling. “What happened?”
“You now know someone who’s met a snow demon firsthand,” Arlen said.
Cob shook his head and laughed aloud, bending over his work.
“Should’ve known if they were out there, you’d find one,” he muttered.
Copyright
Brayan’s Gold Copyright © 2011 by Peter V. Brett.
All rights reserved.
Dust jacket and interior illustrations Copyright © 2011
by Lauren K. Cannon. All rights reserved.
Electronic Edition
ISBN
9781596064577
Subterranean Press
PO Box 190106
Burton, MI 48519
www.subterraneanpress.com
