The Warded Man by Peter V. Brett Page A

knew in his heart that it was true.
    He couldn’t go back to the farm and pretend everything was all right. He couldn’t watch Ilain claim his mother’s bed. Even pretty Renna, who kissed so softly, would only be a reminder of what he had lost, and why.
    But where could he go? His father was right about one thing. He couldn’t run forever. He would have to find succor before dark, or the coming night would be his last.
    Going back to Tibbet’s Brook was not an option. Whoever he sought succor from would drag him home by the ear the next day, and he’d be switched for the stunt with nothing to show.
    Sunny Pasture, then. Unless Hog was paying them to carry something, almost no one from Tibbet’s Brook ever went there, unless they were Messengers.
    Coline had said Ragen was heading to Sunny Pasture before returning to the Free Cities. Arlen liked Ragen, the only elder he’d ever met who didn’t talk down to him. The Messenger and Keerin were a day and more ahead of him, and mounted, but if he hurried, perhaps he could catch them in time and beg passage to the Free Cities.
    He still had Coline’s map, strung around his neck. It showed the road to Sunny Pasture, and the farms along 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 wide area 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