Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  “Goodbye, little Whisper,” she said. “You’re the only one I will miss here.”

  For the first time in almost two moons, she reached the city gates of Pahmey, the blue archway towering, its bricks embossed with golden dragons, stars, and moons.

  “I entered these gates a proud woman of Eloria, the daughter of a soldier,” she said to her invisible friend. “I leave in rags, dirty and alone and famished.”

  Her eyes stung as she walked under the archway, stepped between the guards, and left the city of Pahmey.

  She walked across the docks, worming between sailors, merchants, and beggars. A dozen ships sailed ahead in the river, and a hundred were moored along the docks. The moonlight shone on sails, figureheads, and the jewels of wealthy captains. Fishermen sorted their catches upon the boardwalk, and the scent of fish filled the air.

  “Goodbye, Pahmey,” Koyee whispered and looked over her shoulder, giving the city of crystal and glass a last look.

  She approached the dock where she had moored Lodestar. She walked past cogs, junk ships, and a fisherman’s raft. She reached the peg where she had tethered her boat … and froze.

  Lodestar was gone.

  Koyee rolled her eyes and blew back a strand of hair. “Oh, Eelani, you’re so silly. You chose the wrong dock.”

  She returned to the boardwalk and walked along the river, scanning the rows of vessels. Yet still she could not see her boat.

  “This isn’t funny, Eelani!” she said, her pulse quickening. “Do you see our boat?”

  She walked faster. Soon she was running. She raced along every dock, scanning every boat. A hundred were moored here, and she passed by each one a dozen times. She raced along the boardwalk, searching for missing piers, but found none.

  She fell to her knees.

  “Lodestar is gone,” she whispered. “It was stolen.”

  Of course. Of course it had been stolen! Most other ships here were guarded or secured with chain and padlock. Yet Koyee was from Oshy, a village where nobody ever stole a thing.

  “I think if we learned anything on the streets of Pahmey, Eelani, it’s that everyone steals here.” With a deep sigh, she sat upon the dock, dangled her feet over the water, and closed her eyes. “What do we do now?”

  Her friend embraced her cheek, warm and comforting. Koyee took deep breaths, forcing her fear away. Fear would not help now.

  “Fate is punishing us,” she said. “We stole and now we’re paying for our sins. We’ll have to catch a ride with somebody else upriver. Maybe we can sneak onto another boat.” She bit her lip and groaned. “By the stars, no, that won’t work. Summer just started. Boats won’t sail to Oshy for moons and moons.” She grumbled, cursing the small size of her village; boats replenished Oshy with supplies only twice a year. She rose to her feet and looked along the river. “We’ll just have to walk. It’ll be a long walk…”

  Her belly grumbled. A woman walked by, carrying a basket of clacking clams. A young boy was shucking oysters by a wall. The smell of fried fish rose in the distance, and Koyee’s mouth watered. Once more, she had no food left and only one copper coin. She had hoped to fish along the river, using the net and rod upon the Lodestar. Now Koyee didn’t know where her next meal would be found.

  “It would take a full moon to walk home, Eelani,” she said, her spirits sinking. “I can’t walk as fast as I sail. I can’t fish without my gear. I don’t know how we’ll survive the journey.” She lowered her head. “We could try to catch spiders or worms on the way, or hope we come across migrating stonebeasts, but … it’s more likely we’d find not a morsel.”

  The realization slowly sank in.

  She was trapped here.

  She looked back at the city and a lump filled her throat.

  “Is this our fate? To live in the muck again?” She rose to her feet, squared her jaw, and dried her eyes. “I will not walk with you along the river until you die of starvation, Eelani. We’ll still go home. Instead of fishing on the way, we’ll just have to pack enough supplies. We’ll return to Pahmey for only an hourglass turn—that’s all, I promise you—and collect what we need. A fishing rod. Enough food to last a moon, in case we can’t catch our meals. But no more stealing, Eelani.” She shook her head vigorously. “Fate has punished us for our sins, and now we must find what we need honestly.”

  She wasn’t sure how she would do that … but she didn’t want to worry Eelani. Her invisible friend was worried enough as it was.

  She walked back to the city gates. She reached into her pocket and produced her last coin. With a sigh, she paid her toll and reentered Pahmey.

  She wandered the streets but refused to let despair overwhelm her. She pursed her lips.

  “All right, Eelani, we’ll never find enough money to buy a new boat, but we can buy a fishing rod. We’ll need jars of mushrooms too. And we’ll need a pack for carrying it all.” Wind blew between the houses and she shivered. “And if we can, we’ll buy a cloak. We just need enough for thirty hourglass turns; it won’t take longer to walk home.”

  Once she was back in Oshy, she wasn’t sure how she’d survive there either. Without a boat or a father to help her, would she simply starve in her village? She pushed that worry out of her mind. She still had friends in Oshy; they’d help her. Poor villagers were often kinder than wealthy city folk.

  She ambled through the marketplace. A hundred peddlers shouted around her, calling out their wares, selling everything from roasted silkworms to bronze cutlery. When a child knocked into a cart, spilling its mushrooms across the street, Koyee was tempted to grab some along with a horde of other thieves. She forced herself away.

  “No more stealing, Eelani. I know you’re hungry, but we have to be honest now. Fate punished us for stealing once, and I won’t steal again.” She sighed and tried to ignore the tightness in her belly and the delicious smells in her nostrils. “We’ll have to find work.”

  She had no trade but fishing, but hunger drove her onward. It took her away from the marketplace, across the city’s crest, and downhill again to the northern slopes. The river was distant here, and its smells and sounds had faded. Along the northern walls, cramped together like bones in a bag, festered Soot Valley. Here did Pahmey toil. Smiths, masons, tanners, weavers, cobblers, and dozens of other masters labored here in squat shops. Gone were the glass bricks of the southern neighborhoods. Workshops here were built of black stone, rising three or four stories tall. Koyee heard hammers banging on anvils, smelters simmering, animals squealing in butcher shops, and the clang of a thousand tools. Oil, grease, tallow, blood, and countless other scents rose from the shadows. Everywhere she looked, grime covered Soot Valley, a cloak of filth. Hundreds of chimneys pumped out blue, green, and black smoke.

  Koyee stood above the neighborhood, hesitating, but then nodded.

  “We’ll find work here, Eelani. I’m a fisherman’s daughter from Oshy. I don’t fear hard work. It will only be until we earn enough money to leave.”

  With a deep breath, she walked down into the grime, shadows, and smoke.

  She approached a smelter first, a wide building of sooty walls. When she stepped inside, she nearly choked. A dozen men, clad in grimy robes, were shoving wheelbarrows of iron ore. Great cauldrons, taller than her, bubbled over fires. Ladders and pipes ran everywhere, and smoke filled the air. Molten metal bubbled and flowed, its smell burning Koyee’s nostrils, and she covered her nose.

  “Work?” said the master smelter and snorted. “This is no place for a little girl. Run along and find a seamstress to work for.” He turned toward workers who were leaning over a cauldron. “Men! No. Not yet—try that one.”

  Koyee left the workshop, thankful to escape the smell. She tried a butcher shop next, only to be turned away again. A smithy, a glassmaker, and a brickmaker yielded no better results, scoffing at the fisherman’s girl who knew nothing of their trades. A chandler chased her away with a stick, accusing her of coming to steal his wares. A gem cutter was kinder, but he could offer K
oyee only apprenticeship, not coins. A tanner gave her a bowl of stew and a listening ear, but he could not afford to hire her.

  Koyee wandered among the workshops, head hung low.

  “It’s useless, Eelani,” she said, eyes stinging with smoke. “They want me to know their trades already, they want me to apprentice for free, or they chase me away with sticks.” She sighed. “At least we got a bowl of stew. I want to work hard, but it won’t be for somebody else, it seems. We’ll have to create our own trade. And not thieving!”

  She yawned and stretched. She was tired, but she could not sleep yet. She had lingered here too long. Her hourglass lay in her pocket; she didn’t know how long she’d been wandering here, but it felt like at least an hourglass turn.

  Her eyelids heavy, she wandered into a new neighborhood, a nest of twisting streets along the eastern hillsides. Tall, narrow houses rose around her, built of stone, dusty glass, and sometimes just leather stretched over bone frames. Wires hung between the roofs, holding tin lanterns that swayed, casting green and orange lights. Outside dozens of shops, merchants sold fabrics, beads, buttons, and needles. Koyee saw silks and furs of every color, some simple, others ornate and embroidered with sky or sea motifs. Shoppers roamed the streets, caressing fabrics and haggling over their price. Inside several shops, tailors were measuring their patrons and recommending fabrics. The poor folk bought simple white fabrics, but the wealthy bought ornate robes of blue, gold, and green that shimmered in the moonlight.

  “Do you think anyone here will offer me work, Eelani?”

  As Koyee wandered between the fabric shops, music filled her ears. She turned toward the sound. The smallest man she’d ever seen—he was barely taller than her waist—stood at a corner, playing a lute and singing. His white beard rolled across the ground like a scroll, and he wore green and yellow motley. A pewter dish lay at his feet, and passersby tossed in coins.

  Koyee’s eyes widened.

  “Look, Eelani! Look at all those coins.” When she felt invisible hands tug her head, she rolled her eyes. “No, I don’t mean we’ll steal them. I mean … this is what we need to do. We’ll have enough money in no time.” She tapped her chin. “Of course, there is one snag in the plan. We don’t have a musical instrument, nor would we know how to play one. But how hard could it be?”

  She watched the little man play, wishing she had money to give him, but nothing filled her pocket but her hourglass. When he had finished one song and was stretching his fingers, Koyee gingerly approached.

  “Dear master musician,” she said, “you play beautifully. I have no coin to pay you, but I promise that if you help me, I will return with payment. Where did you buy your lute? I would very much like to buy one too.”

  The little man smiled at her, revealing a golden tooth. “Try Yatana’s shop,” he said, his voice as high pitched as his tautest lute string. “Walk up the road, turn left twice, then turn right at the well, and you’ll see it there. Tell him Little Maniko sent you. I would be happy to give you lessons for a few copper coins.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Little Maniko. I promise that when I can, I will pay you.”

  She followed the instructions, got lost twice, but finally made her way to a narrow street. Dusty awnings stretched overhead, hiding the sky. Only three lanterns swung here on a wire, casting pale light across cobblestones and narrow buildings of green, opaque glass. One building, tall and narrow and topped with bronze tiles, bore an iron sign shaped as a lute. Koyee stepped inside, entering a dusty, warm chamber.

  Shelves filled the room, brimming with pipes, lutes, drums, flutes, and horns. Candles burned between them, wax melting like snake skins. In silver plates lay gems, beads, rare coins, geodes, and river stones.

  “Hello?” Koyee said and sneezed in the dust. “Is anyone here?”

  The shopkeeper emerged from behind a pile of leather-bound books. He was a tall, elderly man with long white hair, a thin nose, and a beard strewn with beads. His one eye was large and bright; the other was hidden behind a scarf.

  “What is the easiest instrument here to play?” Koyee asked.

  He blinked at her, moving his eye up and down, taking in her bare feet, muddy legs, and ragged fur tunic.

  “Do you have money?” he rasped.

  Koyee sighed, reached into her pocket, and pulled out her hourglass. Her heart twisted. Her father had gifted her this timepiece, and she had carried it with her for years. Head lowered, she held it out.

  “I will trade you this for an instrument,” she said. “It’s worth a lot. It’s a rare masterwork.”

  The elderly shopkeeper took the hourglass, tilted it a few times, and tapped it.

  “Simple glass and simple sand,” he said. “You can buy these for a single copper at the market.” He shook his head and sighed. “Let me see what I can find for you, young waif.”

  Koyee waited, twisting her fingers, wondering how difficult playing a lute could be. She looked at a few on a shelf, filigree coiling across their frames. It hurt to give up her hourglass, but these lutes were beautiful too, and with the coins a lute could earn, she could return home. She moved her fingers as if already practicing her instrument.

  Finally the old man returned, shuffling his slippers. In his gnarled hand he held a simple bone flute.

  “Here, little urchin. For your hourglass, I will trade you this.”

  Koyee raised an eyebrow. “Is that it? This is only … the cheapest instrument you have. It’s not even brass. It’s nothing but a bone with some holes!”

  He nodded. “And you are offering nothing but an hourglass. A lute costs three silver coins. If you ever have that much money, you may return to purchase one.”

  Koyee’s eyes widened. “Three silver coins! I could practically buy a boat for that. Who has three silver coins?”

  He glared at her. “Not filthy, barefoot urchins covered in grime. Do you want this flute or not? If you will not trade, take your hourglass and leave.”

  Koyee groaned, stamped her feet, and was prepared to leave in a huff. And yet she could not. She needed an instrument—even a humble bone flute—more than a timepiece. The stew had given her some strength, but she was hungry and thirsty again, and her tunic hung loosely across her thin frame.

  With a sigh, she took the flute from his hand.

  “I will return for that lute someday,” she said and left the shop.

  Outside on the quiet, dark street, she dusted the flute against her tunic, only smearing it with more dirt. She raised it to her lips, winced at the tangy taste, and gave it a blow. A shower of dust and cobwebs flew out, thick with baby spiders. Koyee grimaced, shook the flute wildly, and blew again.

  A quavering note emerged, the sound of a hungry babe crying for milk.

  Koyee shook the flute again, blew into its finger holes, and tried a few more notes. It sounded awful, something between a dying rat and a squeaking wheel stuck in mud. She lowered the flute and sighed.

  “Oh, Eelani, I think people will pay us to be silent.” She blew back a lock of hair. “It might just work.”

  She made her way back to the fabric district. At the end of the street, Little Maniko still stood playing his lute. Koyee stationed herself at a busy corner, cleared her throat, and began to play.

  Her music did not improve, and several people winced as they walked by. She tried to play an old tune her father had taught her, but didn’t know where to place her fingers. And so she resigned herself to simple puffs, emitting random sounds as best she could.

  Before anyone could toss her a coin, Maniko came lolloping toward her.

  “Little girl, little girl!” he said, struggling to hold his beard up from the muck; its tip still trailed along the ground. “You cannot play here.”

  She lowered her flute. “Why not?”

  As tall as her waist, he shooed her back. “This is Little Maniko’s street. We buskers never share a street. You must find your own place.” His voice softened and he lowered his hands. “I’m sorry, little gi
rl, but you cannot share my turf. You should try the marketplace. There are many streets there where you can play.”

  Koyee thought back to the market, remembering the jugglers, puppeteers, and singers who performed at most street corners. She chewed her lip, wondering if all that turf was taken too.

  “Thank you, Little Maniko,” she said and bowed her head. “Perhaps we can meet again and you can teach me a few things.”

  He sighed and reached out his hand. “Here, show me this flute.”

  She handed it to him. He cleaned its tip against his vest, then brought it to his lips. Koyee gasped and her eyes widened. Beautiful music emerged from the flute! The little man’s fingers moved so quickly she barely saw them. He played a song of moonlight, of birds in the night, of dancing spirits on distant stars. Tears filled Koyee’s eyes.

  “I … I thought the flute was broken,” she said.

  He smiled and patted her hand. “Here, let me show you one or two things—a free lesson.”

  She sat down beside him. Her belly rumbled, and she needed food and drink badly, and her head felt light with hunger. But she forced herself to listen, to move her fingers as he taught her, and soon she was playing a simple tune. Her fingers, though longer and slimmer than his, seemed so clumsy. Because of the scar, which lifted the corner of her mouth, she struggled to close her lips around the flute, and some air kept escaping out the side. And yet she kept practicing as Maniko patiently guided her.

  It was an old tune called “Sailing Alone”, fitting for a fisherman’s daughter, and finally Koyee could play it without error. When she played the music on her own, without Maniko’s fingers guiding hers, a passerby tossed her a copper coin.

  “You are a natural, Koyee Mai!” the little man said. “Go and play your music. Make Little Maniko proud, and perhaps someday we will play together.”

  She smiled and kissed his forehead. “Thank you, Little Maniko.”

  She tried to give him the coin, but he brushed it away.

  “This money is yours. Now go! Make beautiful music.”

  She left the street, trudging through the alleys back toward the city’s south. Her pockets and belly were empty. She had lost her hourglass, but she had her flute, she had hope, and she had a new friend.