Free The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold by Peter V. Brett

search for a weakness, even smashing the stump of its crippled arm against the wardnet.
    “It’ll tire out and quit the racket soon enough,” Curk grunted and rolled over, throwing the blanket over his head.
    But One Arm continued to circle, hammering at the wards over and over until the wardlight seemed perpetual, the flashes of darkness like eye blinks. Arlen studied the demon in the illumination, looking for a weakness, but there was nothing.
    Finally Curk sat up. “What in the Core is the matter with that crazy…” His eyes widened as he caught a clear look at One Arm. “That’s the demon from the breach last year. The one-armed rock that stalks Jongleur Keerin for crippling it.”
    “Ent after Keerin,” Arlen said. “It’s after me.”
    “Why would it…” Curk began, but then his eyes widened in recognition.
    “You’re him,” Curk said. “The boy from Keerin’s song. The one he saved that night.”
    Arlen snorted. “Keerin couldn’t save his own breeches from a soiling if he was out in the naked night.”
    Curk chuckled. “You expect me to believe you’re the one that cut that monster’s arm off? Demonshit.”
    Arlen knew he shouldn’t care what Curk thought, but even after all these years, it grated on him that Keerin, a proven coward, had taken credit for his deed. He turned back to the demon and spat, his wad of phlegm striking the coreling’s thigh. One Arm’s rage quadrupled. It shrieked in impotent fury, hammering even harder at the wards.
    All the color drained from Curk’s face. “You crazy boy, provoking a rock demon?”
    “Demon was already provoked,” Arlen pointed out. “I’m just showing it’s personal.”
    Curk cursed, throwing aside his blankets and reaching for his jug. “Last run I do with you, boy. Never get to sleep now.”
    Arlen ignored him, continuing to stare at One Arm. Hatred and revulsion swirled around him like a cloud of stink as he tried to imagine a way to kill the demon. He had never seen nor heard of anything that could pierce a rock demon’s armor. It was only an accident of magic that severed the demon’s arm, and not something Arlen would bet his life on the odds of repeating.
    He looked back at the cart. “Would a thunderstick kill it, you think? They’re meant to break rocks.”
    “Them sticks ent toys, you crazy little bugger,” Curk snapped. “They can do ya worsen any rock demon. And even if you’ve got a night wish and want to try anyway, they ent ours. If they count sticks and it don’t meet the tally that left Miln, even by one, it’s worse for our reputation than if we lost the lot.”
    “Just wondering,” Arlen said, though he cast a longing look at the cart.
    * * * * *
    It was quiet the next day, as they rode across the southern base of Mount Royal—the western sister of Mount Miln—whose eastern facing was filled with small mining towns. But the number of signposts dwindled as they made their way to the western face, and the road became little more than wagon ruts leading a path through the wilderness, with a few rare forks.
    Late in the day, they reached the point where Royal joined with the next mountain in the range, and there stood a great clearing surrounding a gigantic wardpost made of crete, standing twenty feet high. The wards were so large a whole caravan could succor underneath them.
    “Amazing,” Arlen said. “Must’ve cost a fortune to have that cast and hauled out here.”
    “A fortune to us is just copper lights to Count Brayan,” Curk said.
    Arlen hopped down from the cart and went over to inspect the great post, noting the hard way the dirt in the clearing was packed, indentations telling the tale of hundreds of firepits and stakes put down by Messengers, caravan crews, and settlers over the years. The site was freshly used even now, smelling faintly of woodsmoke from a previous night’s fire.
    As he studied the wardpost, Arlen noticed a brass plaque riveted into the base of the post. It read: