âMost donât,â Rusco said. âIâll sell the moons to them ⦠say at the cost of five credits.â
âSo Rusco Hog skims from both sides of the deal?â Ragen asked.
Hog smiled.
Arlen was excited during the ride back. Old Hog had promised to let him see the Jongleur for free if he spread the word that Keerin would be entertaining in the Square at high sun the next day for five credits or a silver Milnese moon. He wouldnât have much time; his parents would be readying to leave just as he and Ragen returned, but he was sure he could spread the word before they pulled him onto the cart.
âTell me about the Free Cities,â Arlen begged as they rode. âHow many have you seen?â
âFive,â Ragen said, âMiln, Angiers, Lakton, Rizon, and Krasia. There may be others beyond the mountains or the desert, but none that I know have seen them.â
âWhat are they like?â Arlen asked.
âFort Angiers, the forest stronghold, lies south of Miln, across the Dividing River,â Ragen said. âAngiers supplies wood for the other cities. Farther south lies the great lake, and on its surface stands Lakton.â
âIs a lake like a pond?â Arlen asked.
âA lake is to a pond what a mountain is to a hill,â Ragen said, giving Arlen a moment to digest the thought. âOut on the water, the Laktonians are safe from flame, rock, and wood demons. Their wardnet is proof against wind demons, and no people can ward against water demons better. Theyâre fisher-folk, and thousands in the southern cities depend on their catch for food.
âWest of Lakton is Fort Rizon, which is not technically a fort, since you could practically step over its wall, but it shields the largest farmlands youâve ever seen. Without Rizon, the other Free Cities would starve.â
âAnd Krasia?â Arlen asked.
âI only visited Fort Krasia once,â Ragen said. âThe Krasians arenât welcoming to outsiders, and you need to cross weeks of desert to get there.â
âDesert?â
âSand,â Ragen explained. âNothing but sand for miles in every direction. No food nor water but what you carry, and nothing to shade you from the scorching sun.â
âAnd people live there?â Arlen asked.
âOh, yes,â Ragen said. âThe Krasians used to be even more numerous than the Milnese, but theyâre dying off.â
âWhy?â Arlen asked.
âBecause they fight the corelings,â Ragen said.
Arlenâs eyes widened. âYou can fight corelings?â he asked.
âYou can fight anything, Arlen,â Ragen said. âThe problem with fighting corelings is that more often than not, you lose. The Krasians kill their share, but the corelings give better than they get. There are fewer Krasians every year.â
âMy da says corelings eat your soul when they get you,â Arlen said.
âBah!â Ragen spat over the side of the cart. âSuperstitious nonsense.â
They had turned a bend not far from the Cluster when Arlen noticed something dangling from the tree ahead of them. âWhatâs that?â he asked, pointing.
âNight,â Ragen swore, and cracked the reins, sending the mollies into a gallop. Arlen was thrown back in his seat, and took a moment to right himself. When he did, he looked at the tree, which was coming up fast.
âUncle Cholie!â he cried, seeing the man kicking his feet as he clawed at the rope around his neck.
âHelp! Help!â Arlen screamed. He leapt from the moving cart, hitting the ground hard, but he bounced to his feet, darting towards Cholie. He got up under the man, but one of Cholieâs thrashing feet kicked him in the mouth, knocking him down. He tasted blood, but strangely there was no pain. He came up again, grabbing Cholieâs legs and trying to lift him up to loosen the rope, but he was too short, and Cholie too heavy besides, and the man continued to gag and jerk.
âHelp him!â Arlen cried to Ragen. âHeâs choking! Somebody help!â
He looked up to see Ragen pull a spear from the back of the cart. The Messenger drew back and threw with hardly a moment to aim, but his aim was true, severing the rope and collapsing poor Cholie onto Arlen. They both fell to the ground.
Ragen was there in an instant, pulling the rope from Cholieâs throat. It didnât seem to make much difference, the man still gagged and clawed at his throat. His eyes bulged so far it looked as if they would pop right out of his head, and his face was so red it looked purple. Arlen screamed as he gave a tremendous thrash, and then lay still.
Ragen beat Cholieâs chest and breathed huge gulps of air into him, but it had no effect. Eventually, the Messenger gave up, slumping in the dust and cursing.
Arlen was no stranger to death. That spectre was a frequent visitor to Tibbetâs Brook. But it was one thing to die from the corelings or from a chill. This was different.
âWhy?â he asked Ragen. âWhy would he fight so hard to survive last night, only to kill himself now?â
âDid he fight?â Ragen asked. âDid any of them really fight? Or did they run and hide?â
âI donât â¦â Arlen began.
âHiding isnât always enough, Arlen,â Ragen said. âSometimes, hiding kills something inside of you, so that even if you survive the demons, you donât really.â
âWhat else could he have done?â Arlen asked. âYou canât fight a demon.â
âIâd sooner fight a bear in its own cave,â Ragen said, âbut it can be done.â
âBut you said the Krasians were dying because of it,â Arlen protested.
âThey are,â Ragen said. âBut they follow their hearts. I know it sounds like madness, Arlen, but deep down, men want to fight, like they did in tales of old. They want to protect their women and children as men should. But they canât, because the great wards are lost, so they knot themselves like caged hares, hiding terrified through the night. But sometimes, especially when you see loved ones die, the tension breaks you and you just snap.â
He put a hand on Arlenâs shoulder. âIâm sorry you had to see this, boy,â he said. âI know it doesnât make a lot of sense right now â¦â
âNo,â Arlen said, âit does.â
And it was true, Arlen realized. He understood the need to fight. He had not expected to win when he attacked Cobie and his friends that day. If anything, he had expected to be beaten worse than ever. But in that instant when he grabbed the stick, he hadnât cared. He only knew he was tired of just taking their abuse, and wanted it to end, one way or another.
It was comforting to know he wasnât alone.
Arlen looked at his uncle, lying in the dust, his eyes wide with fear. He knelt and reached out, brushing his eyes closed with his fingertips. Cholie had nothing to fear any longer.
âHave you ever killed a coreling?â he asked the Messenger.
âNo,â Ragen said, shaking his head. âBut Iâve fought a few. Got the scars to prove it. But I was always more interested in getting away, or keeping them away from someone else, than I was in killing any.â
Arlen thought about that as they wrapped Cholie in a tarp and put him in the back of the wagon, hurrying back to the Cluster. Jeph and Silvy had already packed the cart and were waiting impatiently to leave, but the sight of the body defused their anger at Arlenâs late return.
Silvy wailed and threw herself on her brother, but there was no time to waste, if they were to make it back to the farm by nightfall. Jeph had to hold her back as Tender Harral painted a ward on the tarp and led a prayer as he tossed Cholie into the pyre.
The survivors who werenât staying in Brine Cutterâs house were divided up and taken home with the others. Jeph and Silvy had offered succour to two women. Norine Cutter was over fifty summers old. Her husband had died some years back, and she had lost her daughter and grandson in the attack. Marea Bales was old, too; almost forty. Her husband had been left outside when the others drew lots for the cellar. Like Silvy, both slumped in the back of Jephâs cart, staring at their knees. Arlen waved goodbye to Ragen as his father cracked the whip.