come and test the wards every night, even if it takes a hundred years for one to fail.”
“Night, that’s no comfort,” Derek said.
“We’re not meant to be comfortable, so long as night reigns,” Arlen said, looking back out the window. “Is it just rock and wind demons up this high, then?”
“And snow demons,” Derek said. “They rise even higher, where the snow never melts, but they’ll drift down in a winter storm.”
“You’ve seen snow demons?” Arlen asked, gaping at him.
“Oh, sure,” Derek said, but under Arlen’s glare, his expression grew less confident. “Once,” he amended. “I think.”
“You think?” Arlen asked.
“Window was foggy from the heat wards,” Derek admitted.
Arlen raised an eyebrow, but Derek only shrugged. “I’m not looking to spin you some ale story. Maybe I saw one, maybe I didn’t. Don’t matter. I ent gonna stop drawing the wards. Jongleurs say that’s what did us in, the first time. I’ll keep drawing wards even if I never see a coreling again so long as I live. Tell my kids and grandkids to do the same.”
“Honest word,” Arlen agreed. “Will you teach me the snow wards?”
“Ay, I’ve some slate and chalk over there,” Derek said, pointing. He tapped out his pipe as Arlen fetched the items, handing them to Derek and looking on eagerly as he drew.
He was surprised to see that the basic ward of forbidding for snow demons was an alteration of the water demon ward—lines flowing out to make the ward look almost like a snowflake. Derek continued to draw, and Arlen, a skilled Warder, quickly saw how the energy would move through the net. His hand moved of its own accord, inscribing perfect copies and notes in his journal.
* * * * *
Arlen was back in the feathered bed when One Arm tracked him to the station. He heard the demon’s keening clearly, and the thunderous cracks as it tested the wards. The station was well protected, but with the giant rock demon powering the heat and light wards, the room grew continually hotter and brighter until it seemed he was standing in the sun at noon on a cloudless summer day in Soggy Marsh. Arlen lay bathed in sweat, the steam filtering in from the yard making everything damp. He would be sanding rust from his armor for days when he got home.
Finally, when sleep seemed impossible, he got up and began inscribing Derek’s snow wards into his portable circles until morning. Derek was unable to sleep either, and had the cart hitched and ready to go. Arlen was on his way the moment the sun touched the mountainside.
As the keeper had warned, the going was much harder now. The cold of the road was welcome at first after the stifling heat of the station, but it wasn’t long before the chill crept back into his bones, especially with his cloak and underclothes damp. An icy rime soon built up on his breastplate, and try as he might, Arlen could not seem to draw a full breath. Even Dawn Runner wheezed and gasped. They moved at a crawl, and though it had only been a few miles, they came to the next wardpost late in the day. Arlen had no desire to press on further.
The next day was harder still. His lungs had started to grow accustomed to the altitude overnight, but the trail continued to climb.
“There must be a lot of gold up there,” Arlen told Dawn Runner, “to make this trip worth it.” He immediately regretted the statement, not for lack of truth, but because the simple act of speaking aloud burned his lungs.
There was nothing for it but to press on, so Arlen put his head down and ignored the biting wind and drifts of powdery snow that came up to his knees in places. The wagon ruts vanished and the trail became all-but invisible, though markers were hardly needed. There was only one passable direction, bounded by the mountainside and a sheer cliff.
By afternoon, Arlen’s entire body burned for lack of air, and the weight of his armor was unbearable. He would have taken it off, but he feared that if
“Night, that’s no comfort,” Derek said.
“We’re not meant to be comfortable, so long as night reigns,” Arlen said, looking back out the window. “Is it just rock and wind demons up this high, then?”
“And snow demons,” Derek said. “They rise even higher, where the snow never melts, but they’ll drift down in a winter storm.”
“You’ve seen snow demons?” Arlen asked, gaping at him.
“Oh, sure,” Derek said, but under Arlen’s glare, his expression grew less confident. “Once,” he amended. “I think.”
“You think?” Arlen asked.
“Window was foggy from the heat wards,” Derek admitted.
Arlen raised an eyebrow, but Derek only shrugged. “I’m not looking to spin you some ale story. Maybe I saw one, maybe I didn’t. Don’t matter. I ent gonna stop drawing the wards. Jongleurs say that’s what did us in, the first time. I’ll keep drawing wards even if I never see a coreling again so long as I live. Tell my kids and grandkids to do the same.”
“Honest word,” Arlen agreed. “Will you teach me the snow wards?”
“Ay, I’ve some slate and chalk over there,” Derek said, pointing. He tapped out his pipe as Arlen fetched the items, handing them to Derek and looking on eagerly as he drew.
He was surprised to see that the basic ward of forbidding for snow demons was an alteration of the water demon ward—lines flowing out to make the ward look almost like a snowflake. Derek continued to draw, and Arlen, a skilled Warder, quickly saw how the energy would move through the net. His hand moved of its own accord, inscribing perfect copies and notes in his journal.
* * * * *
Arlen was back in the feathered bed when One Arm tracked him to the station. He heard the demon’s keening clearly, and the thunderous cracks as it tested the wards. The station was well protected, but with the giant rock demon powering the heat and light wards, the room grew continually hotter and brighter until it seemed he was standing in the sun at noon on a cloudless summer day in Soggy Marsh. Arlen lay bathed in sweat, the steam filtering in from the yard making everything damp. He would be sanding rust from his armor for days when he got home.
Finally, when sleep seemed impossible, he got up and began inscribing Derek’s snow wards into his portable circles until morning. Derek was unable to sleep either, and had the cart hitched and ready to go. Arlen was on his way the moment the sun touched the mountainside.
As the keeper had warned, the going was much harder now. The cold of the road was welcome at first after the stifling heat of the station, but it wasn’t long before the chill crept back into his bones, especially with his cloak and underclothes damp. An icy rime soon built up on his breastplate, and try as he might, Arlen could not seem to draw a full breath. Even Dawn Runner wheezed and gasped. They moved at a crawl, and though it had only been a few miles, they came to the next wardpost late in the day. Arlen had no desire to press on further.
The next day was harder still. His lungs had started to grow accustomed to the altitude overnight, but the trail continued to climb.
“There must be a lot of gold up there,” Arlen told Dawn Runner, “to make this trip worth it.” He immediately regretted the statement, not for lack of truth, but because the simple act of speaking aloud burned his lungs.
There was nothing for it but to press on, so Arlen put his head down and ignored the biting wind and drifts of powdery snow that came up to his knees in places. The wagon ruts vanished and the trail became all-but invisible, though markers were hardly needed. There was only one passable direction, bounded by the mountainside and a sheer cliff.
By afternoon, Arlen’s entire body burned for lack of air, and the weight of his armor was unbearable. He would have taken it off, but he feared that if
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