She didnât need to finish the sentence. Survivors of a demon attack had a way of dying soon after. Not all, or even most, but enough. Some of them took their own lives, and others simply stared blankly, refusing to eat or drink until they wasted away. It was said you did not truly survive an attack until a year and a day had passed.
âThere are still a dozen unaccounted for,â Selia said, but with little hope in her voice.
âWeâll dig them out,â Jeph agreed grimly, looking at the collapsed houses, many still smouldering. The Cutters built their homes mostly out of stone to protect against fire, but even stone would burn if the wards failed and enough flame demons gathered in one place.
Jeph joined the other men and a few of the stronger women in clearing the rubble and carting the dead to the pyre. The bodies had to be burned, of course. No one would want to be buried in the same ground the demons rose out of each night. Tender Harral, the sleeves of his robe rolled up to bare his thick arms, lifted each into the fire himself, muttering prayers and drawing wards in the air as the flames took them.
Silvy joined the other women in gathering the younger children and tending to the wounded under the watchful eye of the Brookâs Herb Gatherer, Coline Trigg. But no herbs could ease the pain of the survivors. Brine Cutter, also called Brine Broadshoulders, was a great bear of a man with a booming laugh who used to throw Arlen into the air when they came to trade for wood. Now Brine sat in the ashes beside his ruined house, slowly knocking his head against the blackened wall. He muttered to himself and clutched his arms tightly, as if cold.
Arlen and the other children were put to work carrying water and sorting through the woodpiles for salvageable lumber. There were still a few warm months left to the year, but there would not be time to cut enough wood to last the winter. They would be burning dung again this year, and the house would reek.
Again Arlen weathered a wave of guilt. He was not in the pyre, nor banging his head in shock, having lost everything. There were worse fates than a house smelling of dung.
More and more villagers arrived as the morning wore on. Bringing their families and whatever provisions they could spare, they came from Fishing Hole and Town Square; they came from the Bogginâs Hill, and Soggy Marsh. Some even came all the way from Southwatch. And one by one, Selia greeted them with the grim news and put them to work.
With more than a hundred hands, the men doubled their efforts, half of them continuing to dig as the others descended upon the only salvageable structure left in the Cluster: Brine Cutterâs house. Selia led Brine away, somehow supporting the giant man as he stumbled, while the men cleared the rubble and began hauling new stones. A few took out warding kits and began to paint fresh wards while children made thatch. The house would be restored by nightfall.
Arlen was partnered with Cobie Fisher in hauling wood. The children had amassed a sizable pile, though it was only a fraction of what had been lost. Cobie was a tall, thickly built boy with dark curls and hairy arms. He was popular amongst the other children, but it was popularity built at othersâ expense. Few children cared to weather his insults, and fewer still his beatings.
Cobie had tortured Arlen for years, and the other children had gone along. Jephâs farm was the northernmost in the Brook, far from where the children tended to gather in Town Square, and Arlen spent most of his free time wandering the Brook by himself. Sacrificing him to Cobieâs wrath seemed a fair trade to most children.
Whenever Arlen went fishing, or passed by Fishing Hole on the way to Town Square, Cobie and his friends seemed to hear about it, and were waiting in the same spot on his way home. Sometimes they just called him names, or pushed him, but other times he came home bloody and bruised, and his mother shouted at him for fighting.
Finally, Arlen had enough. He left a stout stick hidden in that spot, and the next time Cobie and his friends pounced, Arlen pretended to run, only to produce the weapon as if from thin air and come back at them swinging.
Cobie was the first one struck, a hard blow that left him crying in the dirt with blood running from his ear. Willum received a broken finger, and Gart walked with a limp for over a week. It had done nothing to improve Arlenâs popularity amongst the other children, and Arlenâs father had caned him, but the other boys never bothered him again. Even now, Cobie gave him a wide berth and flinched if Arlen made a sudden move, even though he was bigger by far.
âSurvivors!â Bil Baker called suddenly, standing by a collapsed house at the edge of the Cluster. âI can hear them trapped in the root cellar!â
Immediately, everyone dropped what they were doing and rushed over. Clearing the rubble would take too long, so the men began to dig, bending their backs with silent fervour. Soon after, they broke through the side of the cellar, and began hauling out the survivors. They were filthy and terrified, but all were very much alive: three women, six children, and one man.
âUncle Cholie!â Arlen cried, and his mother was there in an instant, cradling her brother, who stumbled drunkenly. Arlen ran to them, ducking under his other arm to steady him.
âCholie, what are you doing here?â Silvy asked. Cholie seldom left his workshop in Town Square. Arlenâs mother had told the tale a thousand times of how she and her brother had run the farrierâs shop together before Jeph began breaking his horsesâ shoes on purpose for a reason to come court.
âCame to court Ana Cutter,â Cholie mumbled. He pulled at his hair, having already torn whole clumps free. âWeâd just opened the bolt-hole when they came through the wards â¦â His knees buckled, pulling Arlen and Silvy down with his weight. Kneeling in the dust, he wept.
Arlen looked at the other survivors. Ana Cutter wasnât among them. His throat tightened as the children passed. He knew every one of them; their families, what their houses were like inside and out, their animalsâ names. They met his eyes for a second as they went by, and in that moment, he lived the attack through their eyes. He saw himself shoved into a cramped hole in the ground while those unable to fit turned to face the corelings and the fire. Suddenly he started gasping, unable to stop until Jeph slapped him on the back and brought him to his senses.
They were finishing a cold midday meal when a horn sounded on the far side of the Brook.
âNot two in one day?â Silvy gasped, covering her mouth.
âBah,â Selia grunted. âAt midday? Use your head, girl!â
âThen what â¦?â
Selia ignored her, rising to fetch a horn blower to signal back. Keven Marsh had his horn ready, as the folks from Soggy Marsh always did. It was easy to get separated in the marshes, and no one wanted to be wandering lost when the swamp demons rose. Kevenâs cheeks inflated like a frogâs chin as he blew a series of notes.
âMessenger horn,â Coran Marsh advised Silvy. A greybeard, he was Speaker for Soggy Marsh and Kevenâs father. Arlen didnât know him, so he was a Marsh or a Watch. They tended to keep to themselves. âThey probâly saw the smoke. Kevenâs telling âem whatâs happened and where everyone is.â
âA Messenger in spring?â Arlen asked. âI thought they come in the fall after harvest. We only finished planting this past moon!â
âMessenger never came last fall,â Coran said, spitting foamy brown juice from the root he was chewing through the gap of his missing teeth. âWe been worried sumpinâ happened. Thought we might not have a Messenger bring salt till next fall. Or maybe that the corelings got the Free Cities and weâs cut off.â
âThe corelings could never get the Free Cities,â Arlen said.
âArlen, shush your mouth!â Silvy hissed. âHeâs your elder!â
âLet the boy speak,â Coran said. âEver bin to a free city, boy?â he asked Arlen.
âNo,â Arlen admitted.
âEver know anyone who had?â
âNo,â Arlen said again.
âSo what makes you such an expert?â Coran asked. âEnt no one been to one âcept the Messengers. Theyâre the only ones what brave the night to go so far. Whoâs to say the Free Cities ent just places like the Brook? If the corelings can get us, they can get them, too.â
âOld Hog is from the Free Cities,â Arlen said. Rusco Hog was the richest man in the Brook. He ran the general store, which was the crux of all commerce in Tibbetâs Brook.
âAy,â Coran said, âanâ old Hog told me years ago that one trip was enough for him. He meant to go back after a few years, but said it wasnât worth the risk. So you ask him if the Free Cities are any safer than anywhere else.â
Arlen didnât want to believe it. There had to be safe places in the world. But again the image of himself being thrown into the cellar flashed across his mind, and he knew that nowhere was truly safe at night.
The Messenger arrived an hour later. He was a tall man in his early thirties, with cropped brown hair and a short, thick beard. Draped about his broad shoulders was a shirt of metal links, and he wore a long dark cloak with thick leather breeches and boots. His mare was a sleek brown courser. Strapped to the horseâs saddle was a harness holding a number of different spears. His face was grim as he approached, but his shoulders were high and proud. He scanned the crowd and spotted the Speaker easily as she stood giving orders. He turned his horse towards her.
Riding a few paces behind on a heavily laden cart pulled by a pair of dark brown mollies was the Jongleur. His clothes were a brightly coloured patchwork, and he had a lute resting on the bench next to him. His hair was a colour Arlen had never seen before, like a pale carrot, and his skin was so fair it seemed the sun had never touched it. His shoulders slumped, and he looked thoroughly exhausted.
There was always a Jongleur with the annual Messenger. To the children, and some of the adults, the Jongleur was the more important of the two. For as long as Arlen could remember, it had been the same man, grey-haired but spry and full of cheer. This new one was younger, and he seemed sullen. Children ran to him immediately, and the young Jongleur perked up, the frustration melting from his face so quickly Arlen began to doubt it was ever there. In an instant, the Jongleur was off the cart and spinning his coloured balls into the air as the children cheered.
Others, Arlen among them, forgot their work, drifting towards the newcomers. Selia whirled on them, having none of it. âThe day is no longer because the Messengerâs come!â she barked. âBack to your work!â
There were grumbles, but everyone went back to work. âNot you, Arlen,â Selia said, âcome here.â Arlen pulled his eyes from the Jongleur and went to her as the Messenger arrived.
âSelia Barren?â the Messenger asked.
âJust Selia will do,â Selia replied primly. The Messengerâs eyes widened, and he blushed, the tops of his pale cheeks turning a deep red above his beard. He leaped down from his horse and bowed low.
âApologies,â he said. âI did not think. Graig, your usual Messenger, told me thatâs what you were called.â
âItâs pleasing to know what Graig thinks of me after all these years,â Selia said, sounding not at all pleased.
âThought,â the Messenger corrected. âHeâs dead, maâam.â
âDead?â Selia asked, looking suddenly sad. âWas it â¦?â
The Messenger shook his head. âIt was a chill took him, not corelings. Iâm Ragen, your Messenger this year, as a favour to his widow. The guild will select a new Messenger for you starting next fall.â