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. Peter V. Brett
aim was true. Darsy cried out in pain, covering her head with her arms.
‘Off with you!’ Bruna shouted again. ‘I have sick to tend!’
Darsy growled and got to her feet. Leesha feared she might strike the old woman, but instead she ran off. Bruna let fly a stream of curses at Darsy’s back.
Leesha held her breath and kept to her knees, inching away. Just as she thought she might escape, Bruna took notice of her.
‘You, Elona’s brat!’ she shouted, pointing her gnarled stick at Leesha. ‘Finish laying the fire and set my tripod over it!’
Bruna turned back to the wounded, and Leesha had no choice but to do as she was told.
Over the next few hours, Bruna barked an endless stream of orders at the girl, cursing her slowness, as Leesha scurried to do her bidding. She fetched and boiled water, ground herbs, brewed tinctures, and mixed balms. It seemed she never got more than halfway though a task before the ancient Herb Gatherer ordered her on to the next, and she was forced to work faster and faster to comply. Fresh wounded streamed in from the fires with deep burns and broken bones from collapses. She feared half the village was aflame.
Bruna brewed teas to numb pain for some and drug others into a dreamless sleep as she cut them with sharp instruments. She worked tirelessly: stitching, poulticing, and bandaging.
It was late afternoon when Leesha realized that not only were there no more injuries to tend, but the bucket line was gone, as well. She was alone with Bruna and the wounded, the most alert of whom stared off dazedly into space thanks to Bruna’s herbs.
A wave of suppressed weariness fell over her, and Leesha fell to her knees, sucking in a deep breath. Every inch of her ached, but with the pain came a powerful sense of satisfaction. There were some that might not have lived, but now would, thanks in part to her efforts.
But the real hero, she admitted to herself, was Bruna. It occurred to her that the woman had not ordered her to do anything for several minutes. She looked over, and saw Bruna collapsed on the ground, gasping.
‘Help! Help!’ Leesha cried. ‘Bruna’s sick!’ New strength came to her, and she flew to the woman, lifting her up into a sitting position. Hag Bruna was shockingly light, and Leesha could feel little more than bone beneath her thick shawls and wool skirts.
Bruna was twitching, and a thin trail of spit ran from her mouth, caught in the endless grooves of her wrinkled skin. Her eyes, dark behind a milky film, stared wildly at her hands, which would not stop shaking.
Leesha looked around frantically, but there was no one nearby to help. Still holding Bruna upright, she grabbed at one of the woman’s spasming hands, rubbing the cramped muscles. ‘Oh, Bruna!’ she pleaded. ‘What do I do? Please! I don’t know how to help you! You must tell me what to do!’ Helplessness cut at Leesha, and she began to cry.
Bruna’s hand jerked from her grasp, and Leesha cried out, fearing a fresh set of spasms. But her ministrations had given the old Herb Gatherer the control to reach into her shawl, pulling free a pouch that she thrust Leesha’s way. A series of coughs wracked her frail body, and she was torn from Leesha’s arms and hit the ground, flopping like a fish with each cough. Leesha was left holding the pouch in horror.
She looked down at the cloth bag, squeezing experimentally and feeling the crunch of herbs inside. She sniffed it, catching a scent like potpourri.
She thanked the Creator. If it had all been one herb, she would have never been able to guess the dose, but she had made enough tinctures and teas for Bruna that day to understand what she had been given.
She rushed to the kettle steaming on the tripod and placed a thin cloth over a cup, layering it thick with herbs from the pouch. She poured boiling water over the herbs slowly, leaching their strength, then deftly tied the herbs up in the cloth and tossed it into the water.
She ran back to Bruna, blowing on the liquid. It would burn, but there was no time to let it cool. She lifted Bruna in one arm, pressing the cup to her spit-flecked lips.
The Herb Gatherer thrashed, spilling some of the cure, but Leesha forced her to drink, the yellow liquid running out of the sides of her mouth. She kept twitching and coughing, but the symptoms began to subside. As her heaves eased, Leesha sobbed in relief.
‘Leesha!’ she heard a call. She looked up from Bruna, and saw her mother racing towards her, ahead of a group of townsfolk.
‘What have you done, you worthless girl?’ Elona demanded. She reached Leesha before the others could draw close and hissed, ‘Bad enough I have a useless daughter and not a son to fight the fire, but now you’ve gone and killed the town crone?’ She drew back her hand to smack at her daughter, but Bruna reached up and caught Elona’s wrist in her skeletal grip.
‘The crone lives because of her, you idiot!’ Bruna croaked. Elona turned bone-white and drew back as if Bruna had become a coreling. The sight gave Leesha a rush of pleasure.
By then, the rest of the villagers had gathered around them, asking what had happened.
‘My daughter saved Bruna’s life!’ Elona shouted, before Leesha or Bruna could speak.
Tender Michel held his warded Canon aloft so all could see the holy book as the remains of the dead were thrown on the ruin of the last burning house. The villagers stood with hats in hand, heads bowed. Jona threw incense on the blaze, flavouring the acrid stench permeating the air.
‘Until the Deliverer comes to lift the Plague of demonkind, remember well that it was the sins of man that brought it down!’ Michel shouted. ‘The adulterers and the fornicators! The liars and thieves and usurers!’
‘The ones that clench their rears too tight,’ Elona murmured. Someone snickered.
‘Those leaving this world will be judged,’ Michel went on, ‘and those who served the Creator’s will shall join with him in Heaven, while those who have broken his trust, sullied by sins of indulgence or flesh, will burn in the Core for eternity!’ He closed the book, and the assembled villagers bowed in silence.
‘But while mourning is good and proper,’ Michel said, ‘we should not forget those of us the Creator has chosen to live. Let us break casks and drink to the dead. Let us tell the tales of them we love most, and laugh, for life is precious, and not to be wasted. We can save our tears for when we sit behind our wards tonight.’
‘That’s our Tender,’ Elona muttered. ‘Any excuse to break open a cask.’
‘Now, dear,’ Erny said, patting her hand, ‘he means well.’
‘The coward defends the drunk, of course,’ Elona said, pulling her hand away. ‘Steave rushes into burning houses, and my husband cringes with the women.’
‘I was in the bucket line!’ Erny protested. He and Steave had been rivals for Elona, and it was said that his winning of Elona was more to do with his purse than her heart.
‘Like a woman,’ Elona agreed, eyeing the muscular Steave across the crowd.
It was always like this. Leesha wished she could shut her ears to them. She wished the corelings had taken her mother, instead of seven good people. She wished her father would stand up to her for once; for himself, if not his daughter. She wished she would flower soon, so she could go with Gared and leave them both behind.
Those too old or young to fight the flames had prepared a great meal for the village, and they laid it out as the others sat, too exhausted to move, and stared at the smouldering ashes.
But the fires were out, the wounded bandaged and healing, and there were hours before sunset. The Tender’s words took the guilt from those relieved to be alive, and Smitt’s strong Hollow ale did the rest. It was said that Smitt’s ale could cure any woe, and there was much to cure. Soon the long tables rang with