Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  Koyee entered the corridor, hoping to collect more fallen nibbles. Shoppers moved around her, carrying tin baskets, haggling and filling their receptacles with feasts. Koyee approached a stall built of bones, tendons, and leather, its shelves displaying an array of live crabs. She dared to hope one of the critters would fall off and race toward her.

  A shadow darted at her side. A small figure bumped into her, then raced on.

  Koyee had barely taken another step when the shadow reached the stall of crabs, grabbed one of the animals, and darted off into the distance. Koyee caught but a glimpse of the thief—a little girl with a mousy face, her two front teeth missing.

  Koyee gasped. The crab-merchant cursed, whipped around the stall, and began shouting and pointing at the fleeing pilferer.

  “Stop that child! Stop her!”

  When Koyee glanced back at the stall, hoping to find an escaped crab, her eyes widened.

  Three other children crept toward the stall, cloaked in gray, and began stuffing crabs into sacks. The merchant was still shouting and pointing toward the fleeing girl, several steps away from his wares.

  Koyee could not afford to hesitate. She slunk forward and reached for a crab.

  “No!” whispered one of the children, eyes wide in gaunt cheeks. A scar ran down his temple, and he was missing one ear. “Not for you.”

  The boy looked up, grimaced, and motioned to his friends. They retreated from the stall, slinking into an alleyway.

  Koyee glanced up to see the merchant returning. Quick as a striking snake, she grabbed a crab and scurried back.

  “Thieves!” The merchant’s eyes widened. “Urchins everywhere. Robbers!”

  He reached for a cleaver. Koyee didn’t wait to see him wield it.

  She raced into the alleyway, following the one-eared boy. She glimpsed him vanishing around a barrel and followed. She rounded a corner, saw an open doorway, and darted inside. Ahead, past shelves of fabrics, several shadows scurried out a second door, heading into another alleyway.

  “Thieves!” cried a voice behind.

  Koyee ran behind the fleeing children, her breath ragged. The crab snapped its claws in her hand. Finally, in a dusty alley full of old women weaving silks, she paused and caught her breath.

  The sounds of pursuit had faded. Koyee stood for long moments, panting. Her head spun and her knees would not stop trembling; whether from fear, hunger, or thirst, she didn’t know.

  “We made it, Eelani,” she said and took a shaky breath. “We’re safe.”

  Before she could take another breath, a hand reached out and plucked the crab straight from her grasp.

  “Hey!” Koyee cried, spun sideways, and saw the one-eared boy vanishing with her prize.

  She chased him, shaking her fist.

  “That’s mine!” she said.

  He scampered away. Several other shadows darted at his side, mere ghosts in the night. But Koyee was a huntress; she had spent her youth stalking beasts on the stone plains. The soft city folk could not catch these children, but she followed them doggedly, racing through alleys, doorways, and crowded streets.

  The children reached a wall of glass bricks, and Koyee grinned savagely, sure that she had trapped them. But they only scampered up the wall, moving as quickly as spiders, and leaped onto the roof.

  Cursing, she chased them. She placed her hands against the wall, seeking purchase between the bricks, and began to climb. The ascent was more difficult than she’d expected. Koyee grumbled. Her feet scuffled against the wall, seeking cracks for her toes. Her sword swung across her back. She climbed a few more bricks and almost slipped, but her hunger drove her onward. She feared that hunger more than falling.

  She reached the roof, grabbed a tile, and tugged herself up with a grimace.

  The tile came free.

  Koyee yelped and, for an instant, she fell through open air.

  A hand reached out, grabbed her wrist, and stopped her fall.

  “You clumsy fool!” said the one-eared boy above. “What kind of thief are you? Is it worth dying for a crab?”

  He pulled her, straining against her weight. Koyee gasped for air, head spinning. She grabbed the roof again and pulled herself onto the tiles. She leaned over, dizzy, and breathed raggedly.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “I…”

  Before she could complete her sentence, the boy darted away again. He jumped off the roof, landed on an awning, and scampered into the shadows below. Koyee stumbled along the roof, leaned across the other side, and beheld a graveyard nestled between old warehouses. A shadow scuttled among the tombstones—the boy with her crab.

  Koyee paused and sucked in her breath. She had always feared graveyards; while she had never seen a ghost herself, her brother used to scare her with their stories, and that fear lingered. This graveyard seemed even stranger than the one in Oshy. Its tombstones tilted, craggy and twisted like old men of stone. Wisps fluttered between them and wails rose, metallic and echoing—the cries of the world beyond.

  Koyee ground her teeth, forcing down her fear. “If I don’t get my meal back, I’ll become a ghost myself.”

  She took a deep breath and tightened her lips. Wincing, she leaped off the roof and thudded against the awning. She rolled off and slammed onto the ground. Her breath left her lungs with a short “Oof!”

  She pushed herself up, groaning, and wobbled forward. Her head spun and her legs shook. She could not keep this up for long. She would have returned to the market and tried to steal again, but she no longer knew her location. She was fully, utterly lost.

  She stumbled into the graveyard and wandered among its tombstones. No lanterns shone here. Only the stars lit this place, and even Koyee’s eyes—sharper than most—could barely pierce the darkness. The wails rose louder here, and the wisps fluttered across her face. Cold sweat covered Koyee and she shivered, but then she tilted her head and raised an eyebrow.

  “Wind chimes,” she said, staring up at them. “Wind chimes and silk scarves. Fake ghosts.” She raised her voice. “Where are you, thief? Speak to me.”

  The tombstones rose around her, tall and narrow as men. The rune of Qaelin, a moon within a star, gleamed upon them. Wind whistled, mist swirled, and an owl hooted.

  The thief was gone.

  Koyee let out a long breath, and her eyes dampened. She was lost. She was cold. She was so hungry she could think of nothing else. Her quest seemed hopeless, and she slumped down onto her backside, leaned against a tombstone, and sighed.

  “What do we do now, Eelani?” she whispered. “I feel like we’ve failed our village.”

  Her invisible friend nuzzled against her cheek, a hint of warmth like the breath of a loving pet.

  A voice spoke ahead, startling her.

  “You’re quick. What gang are you?”

  Koyee opened her eyes to see the one-eared boy regarding her. She leaped to her feet, drew her sword, and pointed the blade at him. He couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven. At sixteen and a full five feet tall, Koyee towered over him.

  “Return my crab,” she said.

  He shook his head. “We created the distraction. You fed on our turf. What gang are you?”

  Three more children stepped from behind tombstones, joining the one-eared boy. One was the mousy girl with the missing teeth; she looked no older than five or six. Her knees were skinned, her eyes were afraid, and she still clutched a sack of live crabs. Two other children were tall, dour twins with shaved heads, almost old enough to be called youths. One held a club and the other a knife. They stepped toward her, and Koyee spun from side to side, slicing the air with her sword.

  “Stay back!” she said.

  But the one-eared boy took a step closer.

  “You entered our domain, and now you will answer to us,” he said. “I am Earwig. We are the Dust Face Ghosts. What gang are you?” He spat. “Black Snakes? The Stone Brothers? Who?”

  She glared, pointing her sword from one child to another. They all wore rags an
d dirt smeared their faces. Scrapes and scars covered their bodies.

  “I don’t belong to any gang,” Koyee said, not bothering to mask her disgust. “Now share those crabs with me, or I’ll slice you to ribbons.”

  The mousy girl, the smallest of the bunch, whimpered and stepped back, tears filling her eyes. The twins, however, growled and stepped closer, raising their weapons; they were younger than Koyee, but taller and wider. She growled back, sword raised.

  “Well then,” Koyee said, smiling crookedly, “who wants to taste this steel first?”

  Her heart thudded. She had never felt this angry, this violent, but her stomach needed that food, and she was willing to fight for it. The thieves stepped closer and Koyee steeled herself for battle.

  A loud voice rose from the shadows.

  “Clubhand! Sharpstone! Step back and lower your weapons.” A shadow stirred behind a tombstone. “Whisper, give her a crab. One of them is hers.”

  The thieves muttered, one of them spat, and another tossed down his club with a curse. The mousy girl—Whisper—shivered and opened the sack. She tossed a crab toward Koyee, daring not step closer. Koyee caught it with one hand.

  “Who’s back there?” Koyee said, speaking to the shadows. “Do you lead these children? Come face me.”

  The mist parted. A young woman emerged from around a tombstone, her white hair woven into a hundred braids. Clad in a tunic of patches, she was missing her left arm, and scars ran along her left thigh. In her right hand, she held a spear, and daggers hung from her belt.

  “I am Longarm. We are the Dust Face Ghosts, and you are alone.” The young woman stepped closer, her eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head. “The scars on your face. Did you earn them in battle?”

  Koyee stiffened. She didn’t like people staring at her scars, let alone discussing them, but then again—every one here had scars of their own. She growled at Longarm.

  “I battled a nightwolf. I slew him, but not before he gave me these. I now wear his fur as my tunic.”

  Longarm placed a finger under Koyee’s chin, raised her head, and turned her cheek into the moonlight. She nodded in approval.

  “I will name you Halfsmile,” she said, “for your scar raises your lips in a smirk.”

  Koyee bared her teeth. “I have a real name. I am—”

  “You are Halfsmile,” Longarm said. “We have no real names here. You will be one of us. You are fast and brave, and you carry sharp steel. We need more fighters.” She gestured at the younger children. “These ones are sneaky and fast, but only the twins and I know how to fight.” She turned toward Whisper. “Start a fire! Cook these crabs. Halfsmile will eat with us.”

  The last thing Koyee wanted was to remain in a graveyard, surrounded by thieves. The first thing she wanted was to eat. Hunger overcame her fear, and soon Koyee found herself sitting by a campfire, filthy thieves around her, eating boiled crabs and drinking icy water.

  “I’m not one of you,” she mumbled through a mouthful of crab meat. “So stop calling me Halfsmile.”

  But the children only reached out, touched the scar raising the corner of her mouth, and laughed.

  “Halfsmile, Halfsmile!” they said. “Welcome to the Dust Face Ghosts.”

  Koyee swallowed and sighed. She decided to stay for only a while longer, only until the city elders agreed to see her. She ate among the graves, her sword across her back, and thought of home.

  Had more Timandrians emerged from the dusk? Were her fellow villagers safe? Oshy seemed so far away, a different world, and the old Koyee—the fisherman’s daughter—seemed a different person.

  I miss you, Oshy, she thought. I miss you, Father.

  She reached for another crab, huddled closer to the others for warmth, and let nothing but thoughts of food and fire fill her mind.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CLOAKS AND ARROWS

  Torin was standing on the Watchtower when trees creaked below, howls rose, and robed figures burst out from the dusk.

  His heart leaped into a gallop, and he fumbled for his bow and arrows. He cursed as the bow slipped from his fingers to clatter against the battlements. The yelps rose below, wordless battle cries, the sound of rabid dogs. Fingers shaking, Torin lifted his bow, pulled an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it. He leaned across the battlements, aiming his arrow below.

  The four figures raced from the shadowy trees, heading toward Fairwool-by-Night. They wore black robes, and hoods hid their faces. Each man held a bow with a flaming arrow, and swords swung upon their hips. They shouted as they ran, clearing the trees and racing across a rye field toward the village.

  “Elorian soldiers,” Torin whispered. It was as he’d feared. They wanted revenge for their burnt brother.

  Torin closed one eye, aimed at a man, and fired.

  His arrow whistled down, flew by an Elorian, and slammed into the earth.

  Torin cursed. As he drew a second arrow, he shouted down the tower.

  “Bailey! Bailey, where are you? Elorians attack!”

  He fired another arrow, missed again, and growled. The Elorians were only heartbeats away from the village now. Torin spun toward the western merlons. Fairwool-by-Night lay in the valley below. A few villagers had heard the shouts; they emerged from their cottages and looked around, confused.

  “Elorians attack!” Torin shouted. “Village Guard—to the rye field!”

  He spun back toward the field; it lay south of him between the tower and the river. The four Elorians, clad in their black robes, stood among the rye stalks. They tugged back their bowstrings, aiming their flaming arrows.

  They fired.

  Torin cursed and shot his own arrow.

  His missile flew true. It slammed into the chest of an Elorian below, but then clattered to the ground. The man hissed and remained standing; he must have been wearing armor under his robes.

  Panting, Torin followed the path of the flaming arrows. The projectiles flew toward the village. Two clattered down into the empty square. The others hit a cottage roof, and the thatch caught fire.

  “Village Guard!” Torin shouted, nocking another arrow.

  He saw Bailey racing through the village below, drawing her sword and heading toward the field. She shouted battle cries and her braids swung madly. Slim Cam and beefy Hem emerged from The Shadowed Firkin, the village tavern. They held mugs of ale, and Hem was still chewing a turkey leg.

  “Boys, to the rye field!” Torin shouted from above, waving madly. “Elorians!”

  He turned to fire another arrow. The Elorians were racing forward again, heading toward the village. Bailey was still running toward them, screaming and brandishing her sword.

  Torin froze. With his aim, he was as likely to hit Bailey as the Elorians. He yowled in frustration, tossed down his bow and arrows, and began racing down the tower stairwell.

  At once he regretted it. He should have stayed upon the battlements, waiting for a better shot. That would’ve been the wiser action, the one his father would’ve taken. But clanking down the stairwell, his sword thumping against his thigh, he dared not turn back. Bailey was running alone to attack four armed demons; he had to fight at her side, wise or not.

  He reached the ground level, burst out of the tower, and raced down Watcher’s Hill. His boots tore up grass and his heart thudded. Smoke rose from the village below; two more cottages were burning. Ahead in the field, Bailey was already clashing swords with the Elorians. She was fighting two at once; Torin no longer saw the other two.

  Running as fast as he could, Torin drew his sword. His boot slammed into a rock. He nearly slipped and impaled himself, but managed to keep running, moving downhill and into the field. The sprouting rye, still green and short, bobbed up and down around him.

  He raced toward the melee. Blood was dripping down Bailey’s thigh. She spun in circles, swinging her sword, holding the two Elorians back. The robed creatures had dropped their bows and were lunging with swords.

  Heart in his mouth, Torin reached th
e battle and swung his sword.

  A hooded figure spun toward him. A blade thrust. Torin clenched his teeth and parried. The two swords clanged together.

  Torin was no swordsman. He was only a gardener; he didn’t know how to swing this blade. He fought with pure instinct, driving his blade down. The Elorian parried. Light pierced its hood, revealing a pewter mask, perhaps built to protect its pale skin from the Timandrian sunlight. Their blades clashed again. Bailey fought ahead, grunting as she swung her sword, her blood trailing down her thigh.

  High-pitched yowls rose from the village.

  With a hiss, the creature Torin dueled stepped back. He glared at Torin through his mask’s eye-holes, then raced around him, heading toward the cottages.

  Torin stood panting, torn between chasing the Elorian and helping Bailey. He chose Bailey. He stepped toward her, ready to fight with her, only to see her standing over a corpse. She tugged her sword from the fallen Elorian; it came free slick with blood. More blood dripped down her leg.

  Merciful Idar, he thought, for a moment frozen, only able to stare. She killed a man. He wasn’t sure when the Elorian had ceased being a creature and became a man—perhaps only when it lay dead in blood.

  Torin met Bailey’s eyes and saw the same horror in them. She stared back for only an instant, but that instant seemed to last for years, and it spoke of countless nightmares.

  “Bailey, you’re hurt,” he said, wincing at the sight of her blood.

  She spat into the rye. “I’m fine. After him!”

  She began to run in pursuit of the Elorian whom Torin had dueled. Torin joined her, arms pumping. His side ached, and his breath blazed in his lungs. The Elorian was racing across the field, heading toward the cottages. Five roofs now blazed, maybe more, and black smoke curled skyward. Screams rose from the village. Torin ran as fast as he could, but the Elorian and Bailey were faster, and soon he was trailing behind.

  When he finally crossed the fields and burst into the village, he entered a world of smoke, blood, and fire.