The Desert Spear

gasped collectively.
    Carpets, rich and thick, woven in faded design from ages past, covered the stone floor. The walls were hung with dozens of paintings of forgotten people and events, masterworks in gilded frames, along with metal-framed mirrors and polished furniture. Treasures lay piled in rain barrels around the room, filled to bursting with ancient gold coins, gems, and jewelry. Machines of unknown purpose lay partially disassembled alongside great marble statues and busts, musical instruments, and countless other riches. There were bookshelves everywhere.
    “How is this possible?” Leesha asked.
    “Corelings care little for riches,” the Painted Man said. “Messengers picked the easily accessible ruins clean, but there are countless places they’ve never been, whole cities lost to demons and swallowed up by the land. I’ve tried to preserve whatever survived the elements.”
    “You’re richer than all the dukes combined,” Rojer said in awe.
    The Painted Man shrugged. “I have little use for it. Take whatever you like.”
    Rojer gave a whoop and ran through the room, running his fingers through piles of coins and jewelry, picking up statuettes and ancient weapons. He played a tune on a brass horn, then gave a cry and ducked behind a broken statue, reappearing with a fiddle in his hands. The strings had rotted away, but the wood was still strong and polished. He laughed aloud, holding the prize up in delight.
    Gared looked around the room. “Liked the other room better,” he told Wonda, and she nodded her agreement.

    The gates of Fort Angiers were closed.
    “During the day?” Rojer asked in surprise. “They’re usually open wide for the loggers and their carts.” He sat now in the driver’s seat of the cart from the Painted Man’s keep, pulled by Leesha’s horse. She sat beside him, in front of several bags of books and other items used to disguise the cart’s false bottom. The hidden hold was filled with warded weapons and more than a little gold.
    “Maybe Rhinebeck’s taking the Krasian threat more seriously than we thought,” Leesha said. Indeed, as they drew closer to the city, they saw guards armed with loaded crank bows patrolling the walltop, and woodworkers carving arrow slits at the lower levels of the wall. Where the gate had once had a single pair of guards, now there were several, standing alert with their spears at the ready.
    “Marick’s tale likely set things in a frenzy,” the Painted Man agreed, “but I’ll wager those guards are there more to prevent thousands of refugees from pouring into the city than they are to ward off any Krasian attack.”
    “The duke couldn’t possibly refuse all those people succor,” Leesha said.
    “Why not?” the Painted Man said. “Duke Euchor lets the Beggars of Miln sleep on the unwarded streets every night.”
    “Ay, state your business!” a guard called as they approached. The Painted Man pulled his hood lower and drifted toward the back of the group.
    “We come by way of Deliverer’s Hollow,” Rojer said. “I’m Rojer Halfgrip, licensed to the Jongleurs’ Guild, and these are my companions.”
    “Halfgrip?” one guard asked. “The fiddler?”
    “The same,” Rojer said, lifting the newly strung fiddle the Painted Man had given him.
    “Saw you play once,” the guard grunted. “Who are the others?”
    “This is Leesha, Herb Gatherer of Deliverer’s Hollow, formerly of the hospit of Mistress Jizell in Angiers,” Rojer said, gesturing to Leesha. “The others are Cutters come to guard us on the road; Gared, Wonda, and, er…Flinn.”
    Wonda gasped. Flinn Cutter was her father’s name, a man killed in the Battle of Cutter’s Hollow less than a year earlier. Rojer immediately regretted the improvisation.
    “Why’s he all covered?” the guard asked, pointing his chin at the Painted Man.
    Rojer leaned in close, dropping his voice to a whisper. “He’s badly demon-scarred, I’m afraid. Doesn’t like people looking on his deformity.”
    “It true what they say?” the guard asked. “Do they kill corelings in the Hollow? They say the Deliverer has come there, bringing with him the battle wards of old.”
    Rojer nodded. “Gared here has killed dozens himself.”
    “What I wouldn’t give to have my spear warded to kill demons,” one guard said.
    “We ’ve come to trade,” Rojer said. “You’ll have your wish soon enough.”
    “That what you got in the cart?” the guard asked. “Weapons?” As he