The Warded Man

trudged on. He understood how lucky he was. And how stupid. Wards in the dirt were untrustworthy. Even Ragen said that. What would he have done if the wind had marred them, as his father threatened?
    Creator, what if it had rained?
    How many nights could he survive? Arlen had no idea what lay over the next hill, no reason to think that there was anyone between here and the Free Cities, which, by all accounts, were weeks away.
    He felt tears welling in his eyes. Brutally, he wiped them off, growling in defiance. Giving in to fear was his father’s solution to problems, and Arlen already knew it didn’t work.
    “I’m not afraid,” he told himself. “I’m not.”
    Arlen pressed on, knowing the lie for what it was.
    Around midday, he came to a rocky stream. The water was cold and clear, and he bent to drink. The move sent lances of pain through his back.
    He had done nothing for the wounds. It wasn’t as if he could stitch them closed as Coline might. He thought of his mother, and how when he came home with cuts or scrapes the first thing she did was wash them out.
    He stripped off his shirt, finding the back torn and soaked through with blood, now crusted and hard. He dunked the shirt and watched as dirt and blood washed downstream. He laid his clothes out on the rocks to dry, and lowered himself into the cold water.
    The chill made him wince, but it soon numbed the pain in his back. He scrubbed as best he could, gently washing out the stinging wounds until he could stand it no more. Shivering, he climbed from the stream and lay on the rocks by his clothes.
    He awoke some time later with a start. Cursing, he saw that the sun had moved far across the sky, and that the day was nearly done. He could travel a little farther, but he knew the risk would be a foolish one. Better to spend the extra time on his defenses.
    Not far from the stream was a wide area of moist soil, and the sod pulled free easily, clearing him a space. He tamped down the loose dirt, smoothed it, and set to warding. He drew a wider circle this time, and then, after checking it thrice, drew another concentric ring within the first for added safety. The moist dirt would resist the wind, and the sky showed no threat of rain.
    Satisfied, Arlen dug a pit and gathered dry twigs, building a small fire. He sat in the center of the inner circle as the sun dipped, trying to ignore his hunger. He doused the fire as the red sky grew lavender, then purple, breathing deeply to steady his pounding heart. At last, the light vanished and the corelings rose.
    Arlen held his breath, waiting. Finally, a flame demon caught his scent, and raced at him with a shriek. In that moment, the terror of the previous night came rushing back to him, and Arlen felt his blood go cold.
    The corelings were oblivious to his wards until they were upon them. With the first flare of magic, Arlen breathed his relief. The demons clawed at the barrier, but they could not pass.
    A wind demon, flying up high where the wards were weak, passed the first ring, but it smashed into the second as it swooped down at him, landing hard in the space between. Arlen struggled to maintain his calm as it lurched to its feet.
    It was bipedal, with a long, thin body, and spindly limbs that ended in six-inch hooked claws. The undersides of its arms and the outsides of its legs were webbed with a thin, leathery membrane, supported by flexible bones jutting from the creature’s sides. The demon was barely taller than an adult man, but its spread wings spanned twice its height, making it seem huge in the sky. A curving horn grew from its head, bent back and webbed like its limbs to form a ridge down its back. Its long snout held rows of inch-long teeth, yellow in the moonlight.
    The coreling moved clumsily on land, despite its graceful mastery of the air. Up close, the wind demons were not nearly as impressive as their cousins. Wood and rock demons had impenetrable armor and otherworldly strength to power their thick claws. Flame demons were faster than any man, and spat fire that could set anything alight. Wind demons … Arlen thought Ragen could puncture one of those thin wings with a hard stab of his spear, crippling it.
    Night , he thought, I’m pretty sure I could do it myself .
    But he didn’t have a spear, and impressive or not, the coreling could still kill him, if his inner wards did not hold. He tensed as it drew close.
    It swiped the hooked talon at the end of its wing at him, and Arlen