The Warded Man by Peter V. Brett Page A

the way. Even deep in the woods, he was pretty sure which way was north.
    At midday he found the road, or rather the road found him, cutting straight across the woods ahead of him. He must have lost his sense of direction in the trees.
    He walked on for a few hours, but he saw no sign of a farm, or the old Herb Gatherer’s home. Looking at the sun, his worry increased. If he was walking north, the sun should be off to his left, but it wasn’t. It was right in front of him.
    He stopped and looked at the map, and his fears were confirmed. He wasn’t on the road to Sunny Pasture, he was on the road to the Free Cities. Worse, after the road split off from the path to Sunny Pasture, it went right off the edge of the map.
    The idea of backtracking was daunting, especially with no way to know if he could make it to succor in time. He took a step back the way he had come.
    No , he decided. Going back is Da’s way. Whatever happens, I’m going forward .
    Arlen started walking again, leaving both Tibbet’s Brook and Sunny Pasture behind. Each step was lighter and easier than the one before.
    He walked for hours more, eventually leaving the trees behind and entering grassland: wide, lush fields untouched by plow or grazing. He crested a hilltop, breathing deeply of the fresh, untainted air. There was a large boulder jutting from the ground, and Arlen scrambled atop it, looking out at a wide world that had always been beyond his reach. There was no sign of habitation, no place to seek succor. He was afraid of the coming night, but it was a distant feeling, like knowing you would grow old and die one day.
    As the afternoon turned to evening, Arlen began looking for places to make his stand. A copse of trees held promise; there was little grass beneath them, and he could draw wards in the dirt, but a wood demon might climb one of the trees, and drop into his warding ring from above.
    There was a small, stony hillock free of grass, but when Arlen stood atop it, the wind was strong, and he feared it might mar the wards, rendering them useless.
    Finally, Arlen came to a place where flame demons had set a recent blaze. New buds had yet to pierce the ash, and a scuff of his foot found hard dirt beneath. He cleared the ash from a widearea and began his warding circle. He had little time, so he kept it small, not wanting his haste to make him careless.
    Using a sharp stick, Arlen drew the sigils in the dirt, gently blowing away loose scrapings. He worked for over an hour, ward by ward, stepping back frequently to assure himself that they were aligned properly. His hands, as always, moved with confidence and alacrity.
    When he finished, Arlen had a circle six feet in diameter. He checked the wards three times, finding no error. He put the stick in his pocket and sat at the circle’s center, watching the shadows lengthen and the sun dip low, setting the sky awash with color.
    Perhaps he would die tonight. Perhaps not. Arlen told himself it did not matter. But as the light waned, so too did his nerve. He felt his heart pounding, and every instinct told him to leap to his feet and run. But there was nowhere to run to . He was miles away from the nearest place of succor. He shivered, though it was not cold.
    This was a bad idea , a tiny voice whispered in his mind. He snarled at it, but the brave front did little to loosen his knotting muscles as the last rays of the sun winked out, and he was bathed in darkness.
    Here they come , that frightened voice in his head warned, as the wisps of mist began to rise from the ground.
    The mist coalesced slowly, demon bodies gaining substance as they slipped from the ground. Arlen rose with them, clenching his small fists. As always, the flame demons came first, scampering about in delight, trailing flickering fire as they went. These were followed by the wind demons, which immediately ran and spread their leathery wings, leaping into the air. Last came the rock demons, laboriously hauling their heavy