gasped. Sunset was mere moments away, but he said nothing, darting over to the spot and frantically correcting the damage, glancing fearfully at the horizon.
He finished not a moment too soon. The corelings rose as he was still smoothing the rope. He fell back as the first coreling leapt at him, crying out as the wards flared to life.
‘Damn you!’ Arrick screamed at a demon as it charged him. The drunken Jongleur stuck his chin out in defiance and cackled as the coreling smashed against the wardnet.
‘Master, please,’ Rojer begged, taking Arrick’s arm and pulling him towards the centre of the ring.
‘Oh, Halfgrip knowsh besht, now?’ he sneered, yanking his arm away and almost falling down in the process. ‘Poor drunk Shweetsong dun’t know t’keep away from coreling clawsh?’
‘It’s not like that,’ Rojer protested.
‘Then wha’s it like?’ Arrick demanded. ‘Y’think tha’ ’cos the crowds cheer yur name that y’d be anything without me?’
‘No,’ Rojer said.
‘Damn right,’ Arrick muttered, pulling again on his skin and stumbling away.
Rojer’s throat tightened, and he reached into his secret pocket for his talisman. He rubbed the smooth wood and silky hair with his thumb, trying to call upon its power.
‘Tha’s right, call yer mum!’ Arrick shouted, turning back and pointing at the little doll. ‘F’get who raised you, who taught you everything y’know! I gave up my life for you!’
Rojer gripped his talisman tighter, feeling his mother’s presence, hearing her last words. He thought again of how Arrick had shoved her to the ground, and an angry lump formed in his throat. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You were the only one who didn’t.’
Arrick scowled and advanced on the boy. Rojer shrank back, but the circle was small, and there was nowhere to go. Outside the circle, demons paced hungrily.
‘Gimme that!’ Arrick shouted angrily, grabbing at Rojer’s hands.
‘It’s mine!’ Rojer cried. They struggled for a moment, but Arrick was larger and stronger, and had two full hands. He snatched the talisman away at last and threw it into the fire.
‘No!’ Rojer shouted, diving towards the flames, but it was too late. The red hair ignited immediately, and before he could find a twig to fish the talisman out, the wood caught. Rojer knelt in the dirt and watched it burn, dumbfounded. His hands began to shake.
Arrick ignored him, stumbling up to a wood demon that was hunched at the circle’s edge, clawing at the wards. ‘It’s your fault thish happened t’me!’ he screamed. ‘Your fault I wash shaddled with an ungrateful boy and lost my commishon! Yoursh!’
The coreling shrieked at him, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. Arrick roared right back, smashing his wineskin over the creature’s head. The skin burst, spraying them both with blood-red wine and tanned leather.
‘My wine!’ Arrick cried, realizing suddenly what he had done. He moved to cross the wards as if he could in some way undo the damage.
‘Master, no!’ Rojer cried. He dived into a tumble, reaching up with his good hand to grab Arrick’s ratty ponytail as he kicked at the backs of his master’s knees. Arrick was yanked back away from the wards and landed heavily on top of his apprentice.
‘Get’cher handsh offa me!’ Arrick cried, not realizing that Rojer had just saved his life. He gripped the boy’s shirt as he lurched to his feet, shoving him right out of the circle.
Coreling and human alike froze in that moment. Awareness dawned on Arrick’s face even as a wood demon shrieked in triumph and tamped down, launching itself at the boy.
Rojer screamed and fell back, having no hope of getting back across the wards in time. He brought up his hands in a feeble attempt to fend the creature off, but before the coreling struck, there was a cry, and Arrick tackled the demon, knocking it away.
‘Get back to the circle!’ Arrick cried. The demon roared and struck back hard, launching the Jongleur through the air. He bounced as he hit the ground, a flailing limb snagging the rope of the portable circle and pulling the plates out of alignment.
All around the clearing, other corelings began to race to the breach. They were both going to die, Rojer realized. The first demon made to charge at him again, but again Arrick grabbed at it, turning it aside.
‘Your fiddle!’ he cried. ‘You can drive them back!’ As the words left his lips, though, the coreling’s talons dug deep into his chest, and he spit a thick bubble of blood.
‘Master!’ Rojer screamed. He glanced at his fiddle doubtfully.
‘Save yourself!’ Arrick gasped just before the demon tore out his throat.
By the time dawn banished the demons back to the Core, the fingers of Rojer’s good hand were cut and bleeding. It was only with great effort that he straightened them and released the fiddle.
He had played through the long night, cowering in the darkness as the fire died, sending discordant notes into the air to keep at bay the corelings he knew were waiting in the black.
There had been no beauty, no melody to fall into as he played, just screeches and dissonance; nothing. Nothing to turn his thoughts from the horror around him. But now, looking at the scattered bits of flesh and bloody cloth that were all that remained of his master, a new horror struck, and he fell to his knees, retching.
After a time, his heaving eased, and he stared at his cramped and bloody hands, willing them to stop shaking. He felt flushed and hot, but his face was cold in the morning air, drained of blood. His stomach continued to roil, but there was nothing left in it to expel. He wiped his mouth with a motley sleeve and forced himself to rise.
He tried to collect enough of Arrick to bury, but there was little to be found. A clump of hair. A boot, torn open to get at the meat within. Blood. Corelings disdained neither bone nor offal, and they had fed in a frenzy.
The Tenders taught that corelings ate their victim’s body and soul, but Arrick had always said Holy Men were bigger liars than Jongleurs, and his master could spin a whopper. Rojer thought of his talisman, and the feeling of his mother’s spirit it brought. How could he feel her if her soul had been consumed?
He looked to the cold ashes of the fire. The little doll was there, blackened and split, but it crumbled away in his hands. Not far away, lying in the dust, were the remains of Arrick’s ponytail. Rojer took the hair, more grey than gold now, and put it in his pocket.
He would make a new talisman.
Woodsend came into sight well before dusk, much to Rojer’s relief. He didn’t think he had the strength to last another night outside.
He had thought of turning back to Cricket Run and begging passage with a Messenger back to Angiers, but it would have meant explaining what happened, and
