Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  Hem himself wore his old woolen tunic, the same one he’d left Fairwool-by-Night with. The pack had no other riders his size; no armor would fit him. It was bad enough being larger than everyone else and riding the worst wolf; without proper attire, he stood out like a frog in a bowl of bread rolls.

  “Bailey, please,” he said. “Can we switch wolves?”

  She groaned. “Hem! I swear. If you don’t hurry up, I will clobber you to bits. The Timandrian army chases us, and if you can’t keep up with everyone else, maybe you should just go join the Sailith monks. You won’t have to ride any wolves then.”

  Hem lowered his gaze, blinking furiously. “It’s not fair,” he whispered, but his voice was too soft for anyone to hear.

  Being here with Bailey was awful. Just awful. They had been traveling along Sage’s Road for an entire month now—perhaps the worst month of his life—and they were barely halfway to the capital. The Elorian riders only gaped at or ignored him. Only Bailey talked to him, and when she did, her words were scornful.

  I miss home, Hem thought, eyes stinging and nose sniffling. I miss Cam and Torin. When Bailey would yell at all of us together, it wasn’t so bad. But now it’s only me here to soak up her anger.

  “That’s it, Hem!” Bailey said, face twisted in disgust. “You’re just sniffling like a pup. Man up! I’m riding ahead to be near Okado. Catch up when you learn how to ride.”

  Shaking her head sadly, she spurred her wolf. The silver beast burst into a run, racing between thousands of other nightwolves and disappearing into the crowd.

  “Fine, go to your Okado!” Hem shouted after her. “Forget your friend, why don’t you? I’ve only known you all my life.”

  At least, he had meant to shout those words. In actuality, they came out barely a whisper; he doubted even his wolf heard him.

  Hem sighed, reached down from the saddle, and patted the animal’s fluffy flank. “At least you’re still my friend.”

  The wolf twisted his head around and licked Hem’s fingers. It warmed Hem’s heart until he noticed that the movement caused the wolf to walk in circles.

  “No, boy, no! Forward.” Hem pointed ahead at the pack, which was moving farther away. “Go!”

  As the poor beast resumed trudging forward, Hem gazed around him at Sage’s Road. The highway stretched eastward across the Qaelish Empire; the riders called it the longest road in all Eloria. Most of the way was unpaved—here the road was nothing but milestones spread across dark, lifeless plains. Some hourglass turns, the road was smooth and flat, coiling around hills and through rocky fields. They had passed several villages along those stretches, humble communities built around wells and caves. Most of the time they simply traveled through hilly darkness, and there was nothing for Hem to see but the stars.

  Snorts rose behind him.

  Hem turned and sucked in his breath.

  Another scout was returning from the west. This Elorian wore no armor; he rode bare-chested and barebacked for speed. His wolf panted, eyes narrowed as his paws raced across the plains. With a gust that fluttered Hem’s hair, the wolf raced by him and toward the vanguard of the pack.

  Hem gulped. He hated when scouts returned from the west. Every time they did, they spoke dire news. The last rider had reported a huge host—hundreds of thousands strong—heading east along the road behind them. They bore the raven flags of Arden, but many other sigils too. Burly men astride bears rode there, dark wizards who could snap bones from afar, and armies bearing the sigils of strange animals the Elorians did not recognize.

  “All the kingdoms of Timandra are marching behind us,” Hem said and shuddered. “How can we stop them?”

  He wished they were in Yintao already. The riders said that Yintao, capital of Qaelin, had high walls and many soldiers. Perhaps Hem would feel safer there. He wouldn’t have to ride his wolf any longer. And maybe even Bailey, secure behind the walls, would calm down and treat him kindly. The road to Yintao still stretched for many miles—it would take another month to reach that city—and Hem wondered if he’d die of fright and loneliness by then.

  His joints were aching and his belly rumbling when horns blared, calling to set camp. Hem breathed out a shaky breath of relief. Riding was painful, and it was often a whole hourglass turn between their times of rest. The riders ahead halted, dismounted, and began to unpack their supplies. Tents rose and men lit braziers. Soon the smells of roasting meats and mushrooms filled the camp. Riders sat down with their families to eat, pray, and sleep.

  Hem found a flat boulder for himself. He dismounted his wolf and sat down with a groan. He wanted to find Bailey and share a meal with her but decided against it. These past few turns, it seemed Bailey only wanted to spend time with Okado; the two could talk for hours about wars and battles and other things that scared Hem. Right now he preferred being alone. Being lonely wasn’t much fun, but it was better than sitting next to Bailey and Okado and feeling ignored.

  He looked around him. Thousands of Elorians spread across the field, talking with their families and friends, eating from the cooking meat. Some were warriors of the pack, clad in steel, weapons across their backs. Others were children, nursing mothers, and elders; they wore only furs and leathers. Hem felt too shy to approach any of the campfires; whenever he had tried to join a group, he ended up stammering and forgetting most of the Qaelish he’d learned. Instead, he reached into his pack and rummaged around for his own food.

  He produced salted sausages, a wheel of cheese, a few limes, a pack of crackers, and a jar of figs—Timandrian goods that ships would regularly bring into Pahmey before the monks had destroyed the city. Hem didn’t have much of the stuff left, and once it was gone, it would be Elorian food or starving. He was determined to enjoy his last few meals of home. He was biting into his first fig when he saw her, lost his breath, and nearly choked.

  “It’s her,” he whispered, juice dripping down his chin.

  He had seen the omega girl—the reason he had joined this exodus in the first place—only twice since leaving the crater, always at a distance. He had almost approached both times, but had felt too shy. Now she was bustling about only a few yards away, carrying a pile of bowls and mugs. As always, her snowy hair lay in tangles across her face, and holes filled her fur tunic.

  And as before, her fellow riders—the same old group—were tormenting her.

  “Here, omega!” called one, the tall woman from before. “Come here, dog. Serve me my meal.”

  As the girl rushed toward the woman, a man from behind cried out, “How dare you serve her first? You know I outrank her. Come, omega! Come here before I lash you.”

  The poor girl rushed from rider to rider, not knowing who to serve first. Drops of stew flew from the bowls she carried, only enraging her tormentors further. One woman rose to her feet, drew her sword, and lashed the poor girl across the legs with the back of her blade.

  Hem had seen enough. An enraged cry left his throat with bits of half-chewed fig, sounding like something between a growl and a yelp. He rose to his feet, leaving his meal upon the boulder, and rushed toward the omega.

  “Leave her alone!” he said, turning from one rider to another. “She’s not your slave. Come get your food if you like, but don’t force her to race around like … like…”

  He gulped. In his initial burst of rage, courage had come easily enough. Now, with all eyes upon him, Hem felt his fear rise. The words would no longer come. A hundred riders or more stared at him—the five or six tormentors and many riders behind them. They were all silent, staring incredulously.

  At his side, the omega—hair still hiding her face—gave a squeak. She rushed from rider to rider, quickly setting down her bowls of stew. The riders were too busy gaping at Hem to torment her. With another squeak, the young woman raced away into the shadows.

  Hem bit his lip, wiped sweat off his brow, and hurried back toward his boulder. He quickly snatched his food, stuffed it back into his pack, and lolloped after the omega. Soon she disappeared i
nto the crowd. Hem wanted to call her name but didn’t know it. Many riders crowded around him, and most Elorians—with their pale skin, large eyes, and white hair—looked the same to him.

  “Omega!” he called out, wishing he knew her true name, feeling rather silly as soon as the word left his mouth.

  Finally he caught a glimpse of her ahead. With a flutter of hair and fur, she disappeared behind a few tall boulders.

  Sweat on his brow, his heart pounding, Hem lumbered after her. He was panting when he made it around the boulders, and as his pack bounced upon his back, he was sure he’d smashed every cracker inside.

  He saw the omega there. She stood beside a short, frail nightwolf that looked in even worse condition than Hem’s; it seemed to badly need a good meal. The young woman was hugging the animal and whispering into its ear.

  “I…” Hem panted and wiped his brow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you off.”

  The young woman looked at him, her hair falling back from her face. For the first time, Hem got a good look at her.

  He lost his breath.

  She was beautiful.

  Maybe not beautiful like Bailey, who had full lips and golden hair, and not beautiful like Suntai, who had those wise indigo eyes and high cheekbones. This young woman looked mousy; her nose was thin and upturned, her mouth was very small, and her eyes were close-set and blinked too much. But Hem thought her beautiful nonetheless, a special kind of beauty he suspected others wouldn’t appreciate, but a beauty that pierced his heart and sent it galloping.

  “You’re not scary,” the young woman said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “The others are. But you’re not. At least, not that I can tell. My eyesight isn’t very good, but you seem friendly.”

  Hem couldn’t help but smile—a smile he suspected looked too big and goofy. He took another step toward her.

  “I’m Hemstad Baker. Most people just call me Hem. What’s your name?”

  She blinked several times as if trying to bring him into focus. “My name is Kira. And this is my wolf, Yuan. She is very old and her eyesight is bad too.” Kira kissed the wolf. “We’re both omegas—me among the riders, she among the nightwolves. She’s my only friend.”

  Hem thought he knew something about having few friends. “Well, maybe I can be your friend.” He reached into his pack and pulled out the crackers; they had indeed crumbled. “Would you like something to eat? Yuan can have some too. I also have figs and other food from Timandra.”

  Kira gasped and took a step back. “You … you are from Timandra?” She began to shiver.

  Hem reached out to her. “Don’t be scared! Don’t run again. Please. I thought … I thought you saw. I mean, my hair is dark and my skin isn’t pale. I look nothing like an Elorian. I—oh, your eyesight. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you couldn’t see me that well. Can I step a little closer and maybe you’ll get a better look?”

  She shuddered but nodded. Hem stepped closer until they stood only a foot apart. She looked up at him, barely a third his size, her head no taller than his shoulders. Slowly a smile trembled across her lips, and she reached up to touch his cheek.

  “I think you’re handsome,” she said.

  Joy burst through Hem like figs inside his mouth. Handsome! No woman had ever called him handsome before. Back in Timandra, most women mocked him whenever he approached; even his mother would always call him a clumsy ox. He felt his cheeks flush, and his tongue felt too heavy for words. Unable to speak, he reached into his pack and began pulling out more food.

  “Here, let’s eat,” he said.

  She smiled and nodded. “Okay. Can we sit down first?”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  They sat down cross-legged, and Hem set out a spread. He’d been hoarding these treats from home, knowing they wouldn’t last long, but couldn’t bear to see Kira and her wolf go hungry—both looked far too thin.

  “These are figs,” Hem said, pointing at the fruit. “And these are pork sausages. I don’t think you have pork here in the night. And oh! This is a jar of strawberry jam; it’s good on the crackers, see?”

  As he kept pointing at item after item, talking faster and faster, Kira simply looked at him and smiled silently. It felt good to have somebody just listen. Back home, whenever he started discussing food, Bailey would groan, Cam would mock his girth, and even Torin wouldn’t pay attention. When Bailey spoke of her adventures in the countryside or Torin talked about his gardens, that was all fine, but they never paid attention to the things Hem loved. Having Kira sit here beside him, leaning gently in his direction, listening raptly and smiling at him … well, that felt even better than being back in the tavern at Fairwool-by-Night. Maybe this journey wasn’t so bad after all.

  He was about to explain about honey, and he was working at unscrewing the jar, when the snorts sounded behind him.

  Kira saw them first, gasped, and scuttled several feet back on her bottom. Hem turned, saw the girl’s tormentors, and the food turned to ash in his mouth.

  “We didn’t say you could leave,” said one of the group, a broad man with large blue eyes. “Come back here, omega, and clean our bowls.” He raised a leather strap. “Now! Or I’ll beat you and your wolf, you dirty little cockroach.”

  Kira only cowered, raising her arms over her face. The man stepped forward and brought the lash down. Leather cracked against flesh.

  Hem placed his jar of honey down.

  He rose to his feet.

  Very calmly, he walked toward the man and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “What do you want, whale?” the man said with a sneer.

  Hem’s fist drove into the rider’s face.

  The man collapsed, squealing and clutching his face. Blood spurted between his fingers. Several of his friends rushed forth, cursing and shouting. Hem spun toward them, fists raised.

  “Stand back!” he shouted, hating that his voice sounded so high-pitched, that his knees shook. “Stand back or I’ll punch you too. I’m bigger than you and can beat you all.” He punched the air a few times. “Leave Kira alone.”

  Kira leaped to her feet at his side. She rushed toward the man who’d whipped her and kicked him, driving her foot into his belly. The man doubled over and Kira kicked him again, then froze, covered her mouth, and fled behind her wolf.

  Hem stood with fists raised. His knees shook but he wouldn’t back down. For an instant, he was sure the group would attack him, and he was prepared to die defending the woman he loved—and at that moment, Hemstad Baker did love her, and he felt rather like a hero from the old stories Bailey would tell in the tavern, a noble knight defending a damsel.

  He punched the air again, and the fallen man—blood leaking from his nose—ran away, calling for his friends to follow. Spitting Hem’s way, the villains turned to leave. They vanished into the crowd of riders and wolves.

  Hem collapsed onto the ground.

  His heart beat madly, threatening to burst from his chest, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  “Moldy bread rolls, that was a close one.” He turned toward Kira. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you badly?”

  Kira shook her head, her hair falling over her face again. She twisted her toes, bit her lip, then stepped toward him. Blushing, she leaned down, kissed his cheek, then squeaked in fright. With a few leaps, she fled into the shadows.

  That kiss sent more trembles, excitement, and terror into Hem’s heart than the fight. He fell onto his back, stretched out his arms, and stared up at the stars. A grin spread across his face. At that moment, Hemstad Baker loved the night more than all the jars of honey and mugs of ale in the world.

  * * * * *

  She stood in the camp, sweat dampening her hair, and swiped her sword again and again. With every swing, she grunted and imagined the blade tearing into Ferius.

  “I already slew several of your monks with this blade, Ferius,” she said and swung again; the blade whistled through the air. “You’re next on its list.”

  H
er arms were tired and sweat soaked her brow, but she kept swinging. She vowed to train with her blade every time the Chanku Pack set camp. When she met Ferius again—and she knew the monk was following them—she would be ready.

  “Torin only wounded you.” Bailey growled as she sliced the air. “I’m not as friendly.”

  She wore Chanku armor—scales over a silk tunic, vambraces and greaves, and a wolf’s head helm. She had tossed her old armor into the Inaro River when fleeing on the boat, hoping to lighten the load, and only now she realized how important that move had been. She had left the old Bailey to drown in those waters. The girl she had been—a naive child of sunlight—was as gone as that steel. Here she was a warrior of the night.

  “You swing well.” The voice rose behind her. “You will be a warrior yet.”

  Braids swinging, Bailey spun around to see Okado watching her. She sneered at him, blade raised, and blinked sweat out of her eyes.

  “I am a warrior already. I slew many enemies with this blade.”

  Okado only smiled, the smile of a carpenter seeing the whittling of a child. Bailey fumed. She had spent her life among the boys of Fairwool-by-Night, a group of bakers and shepherds and gardeners. She had led them easily enough, always the tallest, strongest, and bravest among them. Yet Okado would not be as easy to impress. He stood taller than her, his shoulders wide, his face exuding relaxed confidence. He wore armor similar to hers, and two katanas hung from his belt. Something about his large eyes, thin lips, and good looks—damn it, Bailey had to admit that was part of it—unnerved her.

  “Your sword is crude.” He sounded more amused than scolding. “A hunk of metal with no elegance or speed. You swing it as if you’re hacking meat, not battling a warrior.”

  She sliced the air. Her blade swung only inches away from him, but he didn’t flinch.

  “This blade has shed the blood of Sailith,” she said. “Its thirst is not yet quenched. I’m as much a warrior as you, rider.”