The Desert Spear

the day to make it before sunset.
    It was just as well. His farewell with Leesha had left him in a dark mood, and he welcomed the chance to show a few corelings the sun. Jardir had taught him the Krasian technique of embracing pain and it worked well enough, but there were few balms so sweet as choking the life from a demon with one’s bare hands.
    The Hollow was in good hands with Leesha, at least until the Krasians advanced. She was brilliant and a natural leader, respected by all and governed by a pure heart and good common sense. If she was not yet a better Warder than he was, she soon would be.
    And she’s beautiful,
he thought.
No denying that.
The Painted Man had traveled far and wide, and never seen her equal. Perhaps he could have loved her once, before Jardir had left him for dead in the sand. Before he had been forced to tattoo his flesh to survive.
    Now he was something less than human, and love had no place in his life.
    Night fell, but his warded eyes saw clearly in the dark. He touched Twilight Dancer’s barding and the wards there glowed softly granting night vision to the giant stallion as well. He kicked into a gallop as the corelings rose, but there were thick trees to either side of the road, and wood demons kept pace with him, leaping from branch to branch or running just inside the tree line. Their barklike armor made them almost invisible, but the Painted Man could see the aura of their magic glowing softly, and did not mistake them. Above, wind demons shrieked, following his course and attempting to match speed for a dive.
    The Painted Man let go the reins, steering the giant stallion with knees alone as he took up his great bow. A shriek from above provided ample warning, and he spun, putting a warded arrow through the head of a diving wind demon with an explosion of magic.
    The flash of light seemed to bring the wood demons all at once. They exploded from the trees all around him, shrieking their hatred and leading with teeth and talons.
    The Painted Man fired repeatedly, his warded arrows punching great, blackened holes in the corelings to either side. Twilight Dancer scattered those ahead, warded hooves sparking like festival crackers as they trampled through.
    The demons gave chase, loping alongside the galloping horse. The Painted Man shoved his bow back in the harness and took up a spear, spinning it in a blur as he stabbed at corelings coming from every direction. One got in close, but he kicked it in the face, the impact ward on his heel throwing it back with a flash.
    All along, Twilight Dancer continued to run.

    Charged from the night’s killing, they remained fresh and alert when the Riverbridges came into sight at dawn, though neither man nor steed had rested all night.
    It had been fifteen years since Riverbridge was destroyed. It had been a Milnese village then, but Rhinebeck had wanted a share of the bridge tolls, and had attempted to rebuild the village on the south side of the Dividing River.
    The Painted Man remembered the audience where Ragen had told Duke Euchor of Rhinebeck’s plan. The duke had raged and seemed ready to burn Fort Angiers to the ground rather than let Rhinebeck toll his bridge.
    And so arose two merchant towns, one on either side of the river and both calling themselves Riverbridge, with little love lost between them. There were garrisons for royal guardsmen, and mounted travelers were taxed on both sides of the river. Those who refused to pay could either hire a raft to ferry them and their goods—often for more than the tax—or swim.
    The Riverbridges were the only walled villages in all of Thesa. On the Milnese side, the walls were piled stone and mortar; on the Angierian side, great tarred logs, lashed tight. Both went right to the river’s edge, and the guards who patrolled the walltops often called curses to their counterparts across the water.
    The guards on the Angierian side had just opened the gate to greet the morning when the Painted Man rode through. His hands were gloved, and his hood pulled low to hide his face. It may have seemed odd to the guards, but he made no effort to explain himself, holding up Rhinebeck’s seal without slowing his steady pace. Royal Messengers were given free passage on both sides of the river. The guards grumbled at his rudeness but did not hinder him.
    There was fog in the morning air, and most of the Bridgefolk were still warming their porridge as the Painted Man passed through the towns, all but