The Warded Man

demon.
    The rock demon roared and beat its thick, armored chestwith gigantic fists, its horned tail lashing back and forth. It knocked the other corelings aside, claiming the prey for itself.
    The Warded Man showed no fear as he approached the monster. He gave a high-pitched whistle, and set his feet, ready to spring when the demon attacked.
    But before the rock demon could strike, two massive spikes burst from its breast, sizzling and sparking with magic. The Warded Man struck quickly, driving his warded heel into the coreling’s knee and collapsing the monster to the ground.
    As it fell, Leesha saw a monstrous black form behind it. The beast kicked away, pulling its horns free, and then reared up with a whinny, driving its hooves into the coreling’s back with a thunderclap of magic.
    The Warded Man charged the remaining demons, but the corelings scattered at his approach. A flame demon spat fire at him, but the man held up his spread hands, and the blast became a cool breeze as it passed through his warded fingers. Shaking with fear, Rojer and Leesha followed him into his camp, stepping into his circle of protection with enormous relief.
    “Twilight Dancer!” the Warded Man called, whistling again. The great horse ceased its attack on the prone demon and galloped after them, leaping into the ring.
    Like its master, Twilight Dancer looked like something out of a nightmare. The stallion was enormous, bigger by far than any horse Leesha had ever seen. Its coat was thick, shining ebony, and its body was armored in warded metal. The barding about its head had been fitted with a long pair of metal horns, etched with wards, and even its black hooves had been carved with the magic symbols, painted silver. The towering beast looked more demon than horse.
    Hanging from its black leather saddle were various harnesses for weapons, including a yew bow and a quiver of arrows, long knives, a bola, and spears of various lengths. A polished metal shield, circular and convex, was hooked over the saddle horn, ready to be snatched up in an instant. Its rim was etched with intricate wards.
    Twilight Dancer stood quietly as the Warded Man checked it for wounds, seeming unconcerned with the demons that lurked just a few feet away. When he was assured that his mount was unharmed, the Warded Man turned back to Leesha and Rojer,who stood nervously in the center of the circle, still reeling from the events of the last few minutes.
    “Stoke the fire,” the man told Rojer. “I’ve some meat we can put on, and a loaf of bread.” He moved toward his supplies, rubbing at his shoulder.
    “You’re hurt,” Leesha said, coming out of her shock and rushing over to inspect his wounds. There was a cut on his shoulder, and another, deeper gash on his thigh. His skin was hard, and crisscrossed with scars, giving it a rough texture, but not unpleasant to the touch. There was a slight tingle in her fingertips as she touched him, like static from a carpet.
    “It’s nothing,” the Warded Man said. “Sometimes a coreling gets lucky and catches a talon on flesh before the wards drive it away.” He tried to pull away, reaching for his robe, but she was not to be put off.
    “No wound from a demon is ‘nothing,’” Leesha said. “Sit down and I’ll dress these,” she ordered, ushering him over to sit against a large stone. In truth, she was almost as frightened of the man as she was of the corelings, but she had dedicated her life to helping the injured, and the familiar work took her mind away from the pain that still threatened to consume her.
    “I’ve an herb pouch in that saddlebag,” the man said, gesturing. Leesha opened the bag and found the pouch. She bent to the fire’s light as she rooted through the contents.
    “I don’t suppose you have any pomm leaves?” she asked.
    The man looked at her. “No,” he said. “Why? There’s plenty of hogroot.”
    “It’s nothing,” Leesha mumbled. “I swear, you Messengers seem to think that hogroot is a cure for everything.” She took the pouch, along with a mortar and pestle and a skin of water, and knelt beside the man, grinding the hogroot and a few other herbs into a paste.
    “What makes you think I’m a Messenger?” the Warded Man asked.
    “Who else would be out on the road alone?” Leesha asked.
    “I haven’t been a Messenger in years,” the man said, not flinching at all as she cleaned out the wounds and applied the stinging paste. Rojer narrowed his eyes as he