The Demon Cycle Books 1-3 and Novellas: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear, The Daylight War plus The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold and Messenger’s Legacy

He did not hesitate, pulling away from Leesha and pressing the advantage. He was naked, but that meant nothing. He had been fighting naked since he first warded his flesh.

He spun a full circuit, driving his heel into the coreling’s jaw. There was no flare of magic, his wards covered in mud, but with his enhanced strength, the demon might as well have been kicked by Twilight Dancer. It stumbled back, and the Painted Man roared and advanced, knowing full well the damage it could do if given a moment to recover.

The coreling was big for its breed, standing near to eight feet, and strength for strength, the Painted Man was over-matched. He punched and kicked and elbowed, but there was mud everywhere, and almost all his wards were broken. Barklike armour tore his skin, and his blows were to no lasting effect.

The coreling spun, whipping its tail into the Painted Man’s stomach, blasting the breath from his body and throwing him down. Leesha screamed again, and the sound drew the demon’s attention. With a shriek, it launched itself at her.

The Painted Man scrambled after the beast, grabbing its trailing ankle just before it could reach her. He pulled hard, tripping the demon, and they wrestled frantically in the mud. Finally, he managed to hook his leg under its armpit and around its throat, locking with his other leg as he squeezed. With both hands, he held one of its legs bent, preventing the demon from rising.

The coreling thrashed and clawed at him, but the Painted Man had leverage now, and the creature could not escape. They rolled about for long moments, locked together, before the sun finally crested the horizon and found a break in the clouds. The barklike skin began to smoke, and the demon thrashed harder. The Painted Man tightened his grip.

Just a few moments more …

But then something unexpected happened. The world around him seemed to grow misty; insubstantial. He felt a pull from deep below the ground, and he and the demon began to sink.

A path opened to his senses, and the Core called to him.

Horror and revulsion filled him as the coreling dragged him down. The demon was still solid in his grip, even if the rest of the world had become only a shadow. He looked up, and saw the precious sun fading away.

He grasped at the lifeline, releasing his leglock and pulling hard on the demon’s limb, dragging it back up towards the light. The coreling struggled madly, but terror gave the Painted Man new strength, and with a soundless cry of determination, he hauled the creature back to the surface.

The sun was there to greet them, bright and blessed, and the Painted Man felt himself become solid again as the creature burst into flames. It clawed at the ground, but he held it fast.

When he finally released the charred husk, he was oozing blood everywhere. Leesha ran to him, but he pushed her away, still reeling in horror. What was he that he could find a path down into the Core? Had he become a coreling himself? What kind of monster would a child of his tainted seed turn out to be?

‘You’re hurt,’ she objected, reaching for him again.

‘I’ll heal,’ he said, pulling away. The gentle, loving voice he had used just minutes before had changed back to the cold monotone of the Painted Man. Indeed, many of his smaller cuts and scrapes were already crusting over.

‘But …’ Leesha protested, ‘what about …?’

‘I made my choice a long time ago, and I chose the night,’ the Painted Man said. ‘For a moment I thought I could take it back, but …’ He shook his head. ‘There’s no going back now.’

He picked up his robe, heading for the small cold stream nearby to wash his wounds.

‘Corespawn you!’ Leesha cried at his back. ‘You and your mad obsession!’

30 (#)

Plague (#)

332 AR

Rojer was still asleep when they returned. They changed their muddy clothes silently, backs to one another, and then Leesha shook Rojer awake while the Painted Man saddled the horses. They ate a cold breakfast in silence, and were on the road before the sun had risen far. Rojer rode behind Leesha on her mare, the Painted Man alone on his great stallion. The sky was heavy with cloud, promising more rain to come.

‘Shouldn’t we have passed a Messenger headed north by now?’ Rojer asked.

‘You’re right,’ Leesha said. She looked up and down the road, worried.

The Painted Man shrugged. ‘We’ll reach Cutter’s Hollow by high sun,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you there, and be on my way.’

Leesha nodded. ‘I think that’s best,’ she agreed.

‘Just like that?’ Rojer asked.

The Painted Man inclined his head. ‘You were expecting more, Jongleur?’

‘After all we’ve been through? Night, yes!’ Rojer cried.

‘Sorry to disappoint,’ the Painted Man replied, ‘but I’ve business to attend.’

‘Creator forbid you go a night without killing something,’ Leesha muttered.

‘But what about what we discussed?’ Rojer pressed. ‘Me travelling with you?’

‘Rojer!’ Leesha cried.

‘I’ve decided it’s a bad idea,’ the Painted Man told him. He glanced at Leesha. ‘If your music can’t kill demons, it’s no use to me. I’m better off on my own.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Leesha put in. Rojer scowled at her, and her cheeks burned. He deserved better, she knew, but she could offer no comfort or explanation when it was taking all her strength to hold back tears.

She had known the Painted Man for what he was. As much as she’d hoped otherwise, she had known his heart might not stay open for long, that all they might have was a moment. But oh, she had wanted that moment! She had wanted to feel safe in his arms, and to feel him inside her. She stroked her belly absently. If he had seeded her and she had found herself with child, she would have cherished it, never questioning who the father might be. But now … there were pomm leaves enough in her stores for what must be done.

They rode on in silence, the coldness between them palpable. Before long, they turned a bend and caught their first glimpse of Cutter’s Hollow.

Even from a distance, they could see the village was a smoking ruin.

Rojer held on tightly as they bounced along the road. Leesha had kicked into a gallop upon the seeing the smoke, and the Painted Man followed suit. Even in the damp, fires still burned hungrily in Cutter’s Hollow, casting billows of greasy black smoke into the air. The town was devastated, and again Rojer found himself reliving the destruction of Riverbridge. Gasping for breath, he squeezed his secret pocket before remembering that his talisman was broken and lost. The horse jerked, and he snapped his hand back to Leesha’s waist to keep from being thrown.

Survivors could be seen wandering about like ants in the distance. ‘Why aren’t they fighting the fires?’ Leesha asked, but Rojer merely held on, having no answer.

They pulled up as they reached the town, taking in the devastation numbly. ‘Some of these have been burning for days,’ the Painted Man noted, nodding towards the remains of once-cosy homes. Indeed, many of the buildings were charred ruins, barely smoking, and others still were cold ash. Smitt’s tavern, the only building in town with two floors, had collapsed in on itself, some of the beams still ablaze, and other buildings were missing roofs or entire walls.

Leesha took in the smudged and tear-streaked faces as she rode deeper into town, recognizing every one. All were too occupied with their own grief to take notice of the small group as they passed. She bit her lip to keep from crying.

In the centre of town, the townspeople had collected the dead. Leesha’s heart clenched at the sight: at least a hundred bodies, without even blankets to cover them. Poor Niklas. Saira and her mother. Tender Michel. Steave. Children she had never met, and elders she had known all her life. Some were burned, and others cored, but most had not a mark on them. Fluxed.

Mairy knelt by the pile, weeping over a small bundle. Leesha felt her throat close up, but somehow managed to get down from her horse and approach, laying a hand on Mairy’s shoulder.

‘Leesha?’ Mairy asked in disbelief. A moment later she surged to her feet, wrapping the Herb Gatherer in a tight hug, sobbing uncontrollably.

‘It’s Elga,’ Mairy cried, referring to her youngest, a girl not yet two. ‘She … she’s gone!’

Leesha held her tightly, cooing soothing sounds as words failed her. Others noticed her, but kept a respectful distance while Mairy poured out her grief.

‘Leesha,’ they whispered. ‘Leesha’s come. Thank the Creator.’

Finally, Mairy managed to collect herself, pulling back and lifting her smudged and filthy apron to dab at her tears.