happened?’ Leesha asked.
‘The story goes that the dockmasters of Lakton sent spies to steal his combat wards,’ Rojer said. ‘A dozen men, all armed and armoured. Those he didn’t kill were crippled for life.’
‘Creator!’ Leesha gasped, covering her mouth. ‘What kind of monster are we travelling with?’
‘Some say he’s part demon himself,’ Rojer agreed, ‘the result of a coreling raping a woman on the road.’
He started suddenly, his face colouring as he realized what he’d said, but his thoughtless words had the opposite effect, breaking the spell of her fear. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Others say he’s no demon at all,’ Rojer pressed on, ‘but the Deliverer himself, come to lift the Plague. Tenders have prayed to him and begged his blessings.’
‘I’d sooner believe he’s half coreling,’ Leesha said, though she sounded less than sure.
They travelled on in uncomfortable silence. A day ago, Leesha had been unable to get a moment’s peace from Rojer, the Jongleur constantly trying to impress her with his tales and music, but now he kept his eyes down, brooding. Leesha knew he was hurting, and part of her wanted to offer comfort, but a bigger part needed comfort of her own. She had nothing to give.
Soon after, the Painted Man rode back to them. ‘You two walk too slow,’ he said, dismounting. ‘If we want to save ourselves a fourth night on the road, we’ll need to cover thirty miles today. You two ride. I’ll run alongside.’
‘You shouldn’t be running,’ Leesha said. ‘You’ll tear the stitches I put in your thigh.’
‘It’s all healed,’ the Painted Man said. ‘Just needed a night’s rest.’
‘Nonsense,’ Leesha said, ‘that gash was an inch deep.’ As if to prove her point, she went over to him and knelt, lifting the loose robe away from his muscular, tattooed leg.
But when she removed the bandage to examine the wound, her eyes widened in shock. New, pink flesh had already grown to knit the wound together, her stitches poking from otherwise healthy skin.
‘That’s impossible,’ she said.
‘It was just a scratch,’ the Painted Man said, sliding a wicked blade through the stitches and picking them out one by one. Leesha opened her mouth, but the Painted Man rose and went back to Twilight Dancer, taking the reins and holding them out to her.
‘Thank you,’ she said numbly, taking the reins. In one moment, everything she knew about healing had been called into question. Who was this man? What was he?
Twilight Dancer cantered down the road and the Painted Man ran alongside in long, tireless strides, easily keeping pace with the horse as the miles melted away under his warded feet. When they rested, it was from Rojer and Leesha’s desire and not his. Leesha watched him subtly, searching for signs of fatigue, but there were none. When they made camp at last, his breath was smooth and regular as he fed and watered his horse, even as she and Rojer groaned and rubbed the aches from their limbs.
There was an awkward silence about the campfire. It was well past dark, but the Painted Man walked freely about the camp, collecting firewood and removing Twilight Dancer’s barding, brushing the great stallion down. He moved from the horse’s circle to their own without a thought to the wood demons lurking about. One leapt at him from the cover of the brush, but the Painted Man paid no mind as it slammed into the wards barely an inch from his back.
While Leesha prepared supper, Rojer limped bowlegged around the circle, attempting to walk off the stiffness of a day’s hard riding.
‘I think my stones are crushed from all that bouncing,’ he groaned.
‘I’ll have a look, if you like,’ Leesha said. The Painted Man snorted.
Rojer looked at her ruefully. ‘I’ll be all right,’ he managed, continuing to pace. He stopped suddenly a moment later, staring down the road.
They all looked up, seeing the eerie orange light of the flame demon’s mouth and eyes long before the coreling itself came into sight, shrieking and running hard on all fours.
‘How is it that the flame demons don’t burn the entire forest down?’ Rojer wondered, watching the trailing wisps of fire behind the creature.
‘You’re about to find out,’ the Painted Man said. Rojer found the amusement in his voice even more unsettling than his usual monotone.
The words were barely spoken before howls heralded the approach of a pack of wood demons, three strong, barrelling down the road after the flame demon. One of them had another flame demon hanging limply from its jaws, dripping black ichor.
So occupied was the flame demon with outrunning its pursuers, it failed to notice the other wood demons gathering in the scrub at the edges of the road until one pounced, pinning the hapless creature and eviscerating it with its back talons. It shrieked horribly, and Leesha covered her ears from the sound.
‘Woodies hate flame demons,’ the Painted Man explained when it was over, his eyes glinting in pleasure at the kill.
‘Why?’ Rojer asked.
‘Because wood demons are vulnerable to demonfire,’ Leesha said. The Painted Man looked up at her in surprise, then nodded.
‘Then why don’t the flame demons set them on fire?’ Rojer asked.
The Painted Man laughed. ‘Sometimes they do,’ he said, ‘but flammable or no, there isn’t a flame demon alive that’s a match in a fight with a wood demon. Woodies are second only to rock demons in strength, and they’re nearly invisible within the borders of the forest.’
‘The Creator’s Great Plan,’ Leesha said. ‘Checks and balances.’
‘Nonsense,’ the Painted Man countered. ‘If the flame demons burned everything away, there would be nothing left for them to hunt. Nature found a way to solve the problem.’
‘You don’t believe in the Creator?’ Rojer asked.
‘We have enough problems already,’ the Painted Man answered, and his scowl made it clear that he had no desire to pursue the subject.
‘There are some that call you the Deliverer,’ Rojer dared.
The Painted Man snorted. ‘There’s no Deliverer coming to save us, Jongleur,’ he said. ‘You want demons dead in this world, you have to kill them yourself.’
As if in response, a wind demon bounced off Twilight Dancer’s wardnet, filling the area with a brief flash of light. The stallion dug at the soil with his hooves, as if eager to leap from the circle and do battle, but he stayed in place, waiting for a command from his master.
‘How is it the horse stands so unafraid?’ Leesha asked. ‘Even Messengers stake down their horses at night to keep them from bolting, but yours seems to want to fight.’
‘I’ve been training Twilight Dancer since he was foaled,’ the Painted
