The Warded Man

begged, squeezing her shoulder.
    Leesha ignored him, curled up tight, shaking as she wept. Rojer stroked her back and whispered comfort to her, subtly tugging her dress back down. Whatever place her mind had retreated to in order to withstand the ordeal, she was reluctant to leave it. He tried to hold her in his arms, but she shoved him violently away, curling right back up, wracked with tears.
    Leaving her side, Rojer picked through the dirt, gathering what few things had been left them. The bandits had dug through their bags, taking what they wanted and tossing the rest, mocking and destroying their personal effects. Leesha’s clothing lay scattered in the road, and Rojer found Arrick’s brightly colored bag of marvels trampled in the muck. Much of what it had contained was taken or smashed. The painted wooden juggling balls were stuck in the mud, but Rojer left them where they lay.
    Off the road where the mute had kicked it, he spied his fiddle case, and dared to hope they might survive. He rushed over to find the case broken open. The fiddle itself was salvageable with a little tuning and some new strings, but the bow was nowhere to be found.
    Rojer looked as long as he dared, throwing leaves and underbrush in every direction with mounting panic, but to no avail. It was gone. He put the fiddle back in its case and spread out one of Leesha’s long skirts, bundling the few salvageable items within.
    A strong breeze broke the stillness, rustling the leaves of the trees. Rojer looked up at the setting sun, and realized suddenly, in a way he had not before, that they were going to die. What did it matter if he had a bowless fiddle and some clothes with him when it happened?
    He shook his head. They weren’t dead yet, and it was possible to avoid corelings for a night, if you kept your wits. He squeezed his fiddle case reassuringly. If they lived through the night, he could cut off a lock of Leesha’s hair and make a new bow. The corelings couldn’t hurt them if he had his fiddle.
    To either side of the road, the woods loomed dark and dangerous, but Rojer knew corelings hunted men above all othercreatures. They would stalk the road. The woods were their best hope to find a hiding place, or a secluded spot to prepare a circle.
    How? that hated voice asked again. You never bothered to learn .
    He moved back to Leesha, kneeling gently by her side. She was still shuddering, crying silently. “Leesha,” he said quietly, “we need to get off the road.”
    She ignored him.
    “Leesha, we need to find a place to hide.” He shook her. Still no response. “Leesha, the sun is setting!”
    The sobbing stopped, and Leesha raised wide, frightened eyes. She looked at his concerned, bruised face, and her face screwed up as her crying resumed.
    But Rojer knew he had touched her for a moment, and refused to let that go. He could think of few things worse than what had happened to her, but getting torn apart by corelings was one of them. He gripped her shoulders and shook her violently.
    “Leesha, you need to get ahold of yourself!” he shouted. “If we don’t find a place to hide soon, the sun is going to find us scattered all over the road!”
    It was a graphic image, intentionally so, and it had the desired effect as Leesha came up for air, gasping but no longer crying. Rojer dried her tears with his sleeve.
    “What are we going to do?” Leesha squeaked, gripping his arms painfully tight.
    Again, Rojer called upon the image of Marko Rover, and this time it came readily. “First, we’re going to get off the road,” he said, sounding confident when he was not. Sounding as if he had a plan when he did not. Leesha nodded, and let him help her stand. She winced in pain, and it cut right through him.
    With Rojer supporting Leesha, they stumbled off the road and into the woods. The remaining light dropped dramatically under the forest canopy, and the ground crackled beneath their feet with twigs and dry leaves. The place smelled sickly sweet with rotting vegetation. Rojer hated the woods.
    He scoured his mind for the tales of people who had survived the naked night, sifting for words with a ring of truth, searching for something, anything, that could help them.
    Caves were best, the tales all agreed. Corelings preferred to hunt in the open, and a cave with even simple wards across the front was safer than attempting to hide. Rojer could recall at least three consecutive wards from his circle. Perhaps enough to ward a cave