The Demon.

Brayan's Gold.

Peter V. Brett.

For Matt.

Raised on a steady diet of fantasy novels, comic books, and Dungeons & Dragons, Peter V. Brett has been writing fantasy stories for as long as he can remember. He received a bachelor of arts degree in English literature and art history from the University at Buffalo in 1995, then spent more than a decade in pharmaceutical publishing before returning to his bliss. He lives in Brooklyn with his wife, daughter, and an evil cat named Jinx. You can visit Peter on the web at www.petervbrett.com.

Introduction.

Itas all Mattas fault.

Seriously. This novella probably wouldnat exist had not my friend and longtime beta-reader, Matt Bergin, demanded it.

He had been reading an early draft of The Great Bazaar, and in it, I have Arlen reference one of his past misadventures where he encounters a snow demon without having the proper wards to protect himself.

aWhen did Arlen meet a snow demon?a Matt asked. aDid I miss that story?a aThereas no story,a I said. aI just like reminding people that Arlen had a ton of adventures back when he was young and working for the Messengeras Guild.a aWell, youave gotta write it, now,a Matt said.

aWhy?a I asked. I kind of liked the cryptic reference.

aDude,a Matt said. aYouare pa.s.sing up a chance to write about snow demons?a It was a compelling argument, but I was swamped and couldnat get to it. I put the idea aside for over a year, but that whole time, I kept thinking about d.a.m.ned snow demons, and knew I would soon have poor Arlenas

teeth chattering.

In the short break I allowed myself between finishing The Desert Spear and formally starting The Daylight War, I wrote this story, Brayanas Gold, the second stand-alone tale set in the world of the Demon Cycle.

I really enjoy this format, as it gives me a chance to tell short adventure stories that donat fit into the larger novels, offering newcomers an introduction to the series and some of its characters, longtime readers a broader look at the world, and impatient fans a coreling fix in the long wait between novel publications. Subterranean Press has been amazing in helping share these tales in beautiful limited edition books that feel as personal to me as the stories themselves.

This volume is extra special, because in addition to the story, it has a cover ill.u.s.tration and interior art by the incredibly talented Lauren K. Cannon (www.navate.com), who has been designing wards and doing paintings for my website ever since I first sold The Warded Man back in 2007. Lauren has done an amazing job of bringing my characters and symbol magic to life, and it was a pleasure to work with her again on this project.

So if you are a newcomer or an old friend, welcome.

I hope you enjoy Brayanas Gold.

And if you donatablame Matt.

Peter V. Brett.

August, 2010.

www.petervbrett.com.

324AR.

aHold still,a Cob grunted as he adjusted the armor.

aEnt easy when a steel plateas cutting into your thigh,a Arlen said.

It was a cool morning, dawn still an hour away, but Arlen was already sweating profusely in the new armora"solid plates of hammered steel linked at the joints by rivets and fine interlocking rings. Beneath, he wore a quilted jacket and pants to keep the plates from digging into his skin, but it was scant protection when Cob tightened the rings.

aAll the more reason to make sure I get this right, Cob said. aThe better the fit, the less likely that will happen when youare running from a coreling on the road. A Messenger needs to be quick.a aDonat see how Iall be anything near quick wrapped in bedquilt and carrying seventy pounds of steel on my back,a Arlen said. aAnd this coresp.a.w.ned thingas hot as firespit.a aYouall be glad for the warmth on the windy trails to the Dukeas Mines,a Cob advised.

Arlen shook his head and lifted his heavy arm to look at the plates where he had painstakingly fluted wards into the steel with a tiny hammer and chisel. The symbols of protection were powerful enough to turn most any demon blow, but as much as he felt protected by the armor, he also felt imprisoned by it.

aFive hundred suns,a he said wistfully. That was how much the armorer had chargeda"and taken months in the making. It was enough gold to make Arlen the second-richest man in Tibbetas Brook, the town where he had grown up.

aYou donat go cheap on things that might mean your life,a Cob said. He was a veteran Messenger, and spoke from experience. aWhen it comes to armor, you find the best smithy in town, order the strongest theyave got, and b.u.g.g.e.r the cost.a He pointed a finger at Arlen. aAnd alwaysaa aaward it yourself,a Arlen finished with his master, nodding patiently. aI know. Youave told me a thousand times.a aIall tell it to you ten thousand more, if thatas how long it takes to etch it into your thick skull.a Cob picked up the heavy helmet and dropped it over Arlenas head. The inside was layered in quilt as well, and it fit him snugly. Cob rapped his knuckles hard against the metal, but Arlen heard it more than he felt it.

aCurk say which mine youare off to?a Cob asked. As an apprentice, Arlen was only allowed to travel on guild business accompanied by a licensed Messenger. The guild had a.s.signed him to Curk, an aging and often drunk Messenger who tended to work only short runs.

aEuchoras coal,a Arlen said. aTwo nights travel.a Thus far, he had only made day-trips with Curk. This was to be the first run where they would have to lay out their portable warding circles to fend off the corelings as they slept by the road.

aTwo nights is plenty, your first time,a Cob said.

Arlen snorted. aI stayed out longer than that when I was twelve.a aAnd came out of that trip with over a yard of Ragenas thread holding you together, I recall,a Cob noted. aDonat go getting swollen because you got lucky once. Any Messenger alive will tell you to stay out at night when you have to, not because you want to. The ones that want to always end up cored.a Arlen nodded, though even that felt a little dishonest, because they both knew he did want to. Even after all these years, there was something he knew he needed to prove. To himself, and to the night.

aI want to see the higher mines,a he said, which was true enough. aThey say you can look out over the whole world from their height.a Cob nodded. aWonat lie to you Arlen. If thereas a more beautiful sight than that, Iave never seen it. Makes even the Damaji Palaces of Krasia pale.a aThey say the higher mines are haunted by snow demons,a Arlen said. aWith scales so cold your spit will crack when it hits them.a Cob grunted. aThe thin air is getting to the folks up there. I Messaged to those mines a dozen times at least, and never once saw a snow demon, or heard tale of one that bore scrutiny.a Arlen shrugged. aDoesnat mean theyare not out there. I read in the Library that they keep to the peaks, where the snow stays year round.a aIave warned you about putting too much faith in the Library, Arlen,a Cob said. aMost of those books were written before the Return, when folks thought demons were just ale stories and felt free to make up whatever nonsense they saw fit.a aAle stories or no, we wouldnat have rediscovered wards and survived the Return without them,a Arlen said. aSo whereas the harm in watching out for snow demons?a aBest to be safe,a Cob agreed. aBe sure to look out for talking Nightwolves and fairy pipkins, as well.a Arlen scowled, but Cobas laugh was infectious, and he soon found himself joining in.

When the last armor strap was cinched, Arlen turned to look in the polished metal mirror on the shopas wall. He was impressive looking in the new armor, there could be no doubt of that, but while Arlen had hoped to cut a dashing figure, he looked more like a hulking metal demon. The effect was only slightly lessened when Cob threw a thick cloak over his shoulders.

aKeep it pulled tight as you ride the mountain path,a the old Warder advised. aItall take the glare off the armor, and keep the wind from cutting through the joints.a Arlen nodded.

aAnd listen to Messenger Curk,a Cob said. Arlen smiled patiently.

aExcept when he tells you something that I taught you better,a Cob amended. Arlen barked a laugh.

aItas a promise,a he said.

They looked at each other for long moments, not knowing whether to clasp hands or hug. After a moment they both grunted and turned away, Arlen for the door and Cob for his workbench. Arlen looked back when he reached the door, and met Cobas eyes again.

aCome back in one piece,a Cob ordered.

aYes, Master,a Arlen said, and stepped out into the pre-dawn light.

Arlen watched the great square in front of the Messengersa Guildhouse as men argued with merchants and stocked wagons. Mothers moved about with their chalked slates, witnessing and accounting the transactions. It was a place pulsing with life and activity, and Arlen loved it.

He glanced at the great clock over the Guildhouse doors, its hands telling the year, month, day, and hour, down to the minute. There was another great clock at the Guildhouse in every Free City, all of them set to the Tenderas Almanac, which gave the times of sunrise and sunset for the coming week that were chalked beneath the clock face. Messengers were taught to live by those clocks. Punctuality, or better yet early arrival, was a point of pride.

But Curk was always late. Patience had never been one of Arlenas virtues, but now, with the open road beckoning, the wait seemed interminable. His heart thudded in his chest and his muscles knotted with excitement. It had been years since he last slept unprotected by warded walls, but he had not forgotten what it was like. Air had never tasted so good as it had on the open road, nor had he ever felt so alive. So free.

At last, there was a weary stomp of booted feet, and Arlen knew from the smell of ale that Curk had arrived before he even turned to the man.

Messenger Curk was clad in beaten armor of boiled leather, painted with reasonably fresh wards. Not as strong as Arlenas fluted steel, but a good deal lighter and more flexible. His bald pate was ringed by long blond hair streaked with gray, which fell in greasy gnarls around a weathered face. His beard was thick and roughly cropped, matted like his hair. He had a dented shield strapped to his back and a worn spear in his hand.

Curk stopped to regard Arlenas shining new armor and shield, and his eyes took a covetous gleam for an instant. He covered it with a derisive snort.

aFancy suit for an apprentice.a He poked his spear into Arlenas breastplate. aMost Messengers need to earn their armor, but not Master Cobas apprentice, it seems.a Arlen batted the speartip aside, but not before he heard it scratch the surface he had spent countless hours polishing. Memories came to him unbidden: the flame demon he struck from his motheras back as a boy, and the long cold night they spent in the mud of an animal pen as the demons danced about testing the wards for a weakness. Of the night he had accidentally cut the arm from a fifteen foot tall rock demon, and the enmity it bore him to this day.

He balled a fist, putting it under Curkas hooked nose. aWhat I done or not ent your business, Curk. Touch my armor again and the sun as my witness, youall be spitting teeth.a Curk narrowed his eyes. He was bigger than Arlen, but Arlen was young and strong and sober. Perhaps that was why he stepped back after a moment and nodded an apology. Or perhaps it was because he was more afraid of losing the strong back of an apprentice Messenger when it came time to load and unload the carts.

aDinat mean nothina by it,a Curk grumbled, abut you ent gonna be much of a Messenger if youare afraid to get your armor scratched. Now lift your feet. Guildmaster wants to see us before we go. Sooner we get that done, sooner we can be on the road.a Arlen forgot his irritation in an instant, following Curk into the Guildhouse. A clerk ushered them right into Guildmaster Malc.u.mas office, a large chamber cluttered with tables, maps, and slates. A former Messenger himself, the guildmaster had lost an eye and part of his face to the corelings, but he continued to Message for years after the injury. His hair was graying now, but he was still a powerfully built man, and not one to cross lightly. A wave of his pen could bring dawn or dusk to a Messengeras career, or crush the fortune of a great house. The guildmaster was at his desk, signing what seemed an endless stack of forms.

aYouall have to excuse me if I keep signing while we talk,a Malc.u.m said. aIf I stop even for an instant, the pile doubles in size. Have a seat. Drink?a he gestured to a crystal decanter on the edge of his desk. It was filled with an amber liquid, and there were gla.s.ses besides.

Curkas eyes lit up. aDonat mind if I do.a He poured a gla.s.s and threw it back, grimacing as he filled another near to the rim before taking his seat.

aYour trip to Dukeas Coal is postponed,a Malc.u.m said. aI have a more pressing a.s.signment for you.a Curk looked down at the crystal gla.s.s in his hand, and his eyes narrowed. aWhere to?a aCount Brayanas Gold,a Malc.u.m said, his eyes still on the papers. Arlenas heart leapt. Brayanas Gold was the most remote mining town in the duchy. Ten nightsa travel from the city proper, it was the sole mine on the third mountain to the west, and higher up than any other.

aThatas Sandaras run,a Curk protested.

Malc.u.m blotted the ink on a form, turning it over onto a growing stack. His pen darted to dip in the inkwell. aIt was, but Sandar fell off his ripping horse yesterday. Legas broke.a aCoresp.a.w.n it,a Curk muttered. He drank half his gla.s.s in one gulp and shook his head. aSend someone else. Iam too old to spend weeks on end freezing my a.r.s.e off and gasping for breath in the thin air.a aNo one else is available on short notice,a Malc.u.m said, continuing to sign and blot.

Curk shrugged. aThen Count Brayan will have to wait.a aThe count is offering one thousand gold suns for the job,a Malc.u.m said.

Both Curk and Arlen gaped. A thousand suns was a fortune for any Message run.

aWhatas the claw?a Curk asked suspiciously. aWhat do they need so badly it canat wait?a Malc.u.mas hands finally stopped moving, and he looked up. aThundersticks. A cartload.a Curk shook his head. aOhhh, no!a He downed the rest of his gla.s.s and thumped it on the guildmasteras desk.

Thundersticks, Arlen thought, digesting the word. He had read of them in the Dukeas Library, though the books containing their exact composition had been forbidden. Unlike most other flamework, thundersticks could be set off by impact as well as spark, and in the mountains, an accidental blast could cause an avalanche even if the explosion itself didnat kill.

aYou want a rush job, carrying thundersticks?a Curk asked incredulously. aWhatas the coresp.a.w.ned hurry?a aSpring caravan came back with a message from Baron Talor reporting a new vein; one they need to blast into,a Malc.u.m said. aBrayanas had his Herb Gatherers working day and night making thundersticks ever since. Every day that vein goes uncracked, Brayanas clerks tally up the gold heas losing, and he gets the shakes.a aSo he sends a lone man up trails full of bandits who will do most anything to get their hands on a cartload of thundersticks.a Curk shook his head. aBlown to bits or robbed and left for the corelings. Hardly know which is worse.a aNonsense,a Malc.u.m said. aSandar made thunderstick runs all the time. No one will know what youare carrying save us three and Brayan himself. Without guards, no one seeing you pa.s.s will think youare carrying anything worth stealing.a Curkas grimace did not lessen. aTwelve hundred suns,a Malc.u.m said. aYou ever seen that much gold in one place, Curk? Iam tempted to squeeze into my old armor and do it myself.a aIall be happy to sit at your desk and sign papers, you want one last run,a Curk said.

Malc.u.m smiled, but it was the look of a man losing patience. aFifteen, and not a copper light more. I know you need the money, Curk. Half the taverns in the city wonat serve you unless youave got coin in hand, and the other half will take your coin and say you owe a hundred more before theyall tap a keg. Youad be a fool to refuse this job.a aA fool, ay, but Iall be alive,a Curk said. aThereas always good money in carrying thundersticks because sometimes carriers end up in pieces. Iam too old for demons.h.i.t like that.a aToo old is right,a Malc.u.m said, and Curk started in surprise. aHow many message runs you got left in you, Curk? Iave seen the way you rub your joints in bad weather. Think about it. Fifteen hundred suns in your accounts before you even leave the city. Keep away from the harlots and dice that empty Sandaras purse, and you could retire on that. Drink yourself into oblivion.a Curk growled, and Arlen thought the guildmaster might have pushed him too far, but Malc.u.m had the look of a predator sensing the kill. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked a drawer in his desk, pulling out a leather purse that gave a heavy clink.

aFifteen hundred in the bank,a he said, aplus fifty in gold to settle your accounts with whichever creditor is lingering by your horse today, looking to catch you before you leave.a Curk groaned, but he took the purse.

They hitched their horses to Brayanas cart, but in Messenger style, kept them saddled and packed in addition to the yoke. They might require speed if a wheel cracked close to dusk.

The cart looked like any other, but a hidden steel suspension absorbed the b.u.mps and depressions of the road with nary a jostle to the pa.s.sengers and cargo, keeping the volatile thundersticks steady. Arlen hung his head over the edge to look at the mechanics as they rode.

aQuit that,a Curk snapped. aMight as well wave a sign weare carrying thundersticks.a aSorry,a Arlen said, straightening. aJust curious.a Curk grunted. aRoyals all ride around town in fancy carts suspended like this. Wouldnat do for some well-bred Lady to ruffle her silk petticoats over a b.u.mp in the road, now would it?a Arlen nodded and sat back, breathing deeply of the mountain air as he looked over the Milnese plain spread out far below. Even in his heavy armor, he felt lighter as the city walls receded into the distance behind them. Curk, however, grew increasingly agitated, casting suspicious eyes over everyone they pa.s.sed and stroking the haft of his spear, lying in easy reach.

aThere really bandits in these hills?a Arlen asked.

Curk shrugged. aSometimes mine townies short on one thing or another get desperate, and everyone is short on thundersticks. Just one of the coresp.a.w.ned things can save a weekas labor, and costs more than townies see in a year. Word gets out what weare carryina, every miner in the mountains will be tempted to tie a cloth across his nose.a aGood thing no one knows,a Arlen said, dropping a hand to his own spear.

But despite their sudden doubt, the first day pa.s.sed without event. Arlen began to relax as they moved past the main roads miners used and headed into less traveled territory. When the sun began to droop low in the sky, they reached a common campsite, a ring of boulders painted with great wards encircling an area big enough to accommodate a caravan. They pulled up and unhitched the cart, hobbling the horses and checking the wards, clearing dirt and debris from the stones and touching up the paint where necessary.

After their wards were secure, Arlen went to one of the firepits and laid kindling. He pulled a match from the drybox in his belt pouch and flicked the white tip with his thumbnail, setting it alight with a pop.

Matches were expensive, but common enough in Miln and standard supply for Messengers. In Tibbetas Brook where Arlen was raised, though, they had been rare and coveted, saved only for emergencies. Only Hog who owned the General Storea"and half the Brooka"could afford to light his pipe with matches. Arlen still got a little thrill every time he struck one.

He soon had a comfortable fire blazing, and pan fried some vegetables and sausage while Curk sat with his head propped against his saddle, pulling from a clay jug that smelled more like an Herb Gathereras disinfectant than anything fit for human consumption. By the time they had eaten it was full dark and the rising had begun.

Mist seeped from invisible pores in the ground, reeking and foul, slowly coalescing into harsh demonic form. There were no flame demons in the cold mountain heights, but wind demons materialized in plenty, as did

a few squat rock demonsa"no bigger than a large man, but weighing thrice as much, all of it corded muscle under thick slate armor. Their wide snouts held hundreds of teeth, bunched close like nails in a box. Wood demons stalked the night as well, taller than the rock demons at ten feet, but thinner, with barklike armor and branch-like arms.

The demons quickly caught sight of their campfire and shrieked in delight, launching themselves at the men and horses. Silver magic spiderwebbed through the air as the corelings reached the wards, throwing the force of the demonsa attack back at them and knocking more than a few to the ground.

But the demons didnat stop there. They began to circle, striking at the forbidding again and again as they searched for a gap in the field of protection.

Arlen stood close to the wards without shield or spear, trusting in the strength of the magic. He held a stick of graphite and his journal, taking notes and making sketches as he studied the corelings in the flashes of wardlight.

Eventually, the corelings tired of their attempts and went off in search of easier prey. The wind demons spread their great leathery wings and took to the sky, and the wood demons vanished into the trees. The rock demons lumbered off like living avalanches. The night grew quiet, and without the light of the flaring wards, darkness closed in around their campfire.

aFinally,a Curk grunted, awe can get some sleep.a He was already wrapped in his blankets, but now he corked his jug and closed his eyes.

aWouldnat count on that,a Arlen said, standing at the edge of the firelight and looking back the way they had come. His ears strained, picking up a distant cry he knew too well.

Curk cracked an eye. aWhatas that supposed to mean?a aThereas a rock demon coming this way,a Arlen said. aA big one. I can hear it.a Curk tilted his head, listening as the demon keened again. He snorted. aThat demonas miles from here, boy.a He dropped his head back down and snuggling into

his blankets.