Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  She pushed open the thick wooden door to the cottage of the man she hated most. Unlike the door to her home, this one was smooth and oiled, not a sliver in sight. It wasn’t just well kept, it was an overt sign to everyone in the village that the occupants were better than everyone else.

  “She’s gone,” Tressa announced as she strode into the cottage.

  A man sat at a polished stone table. He wiped his hands over his plate, then delicately licked the tip of each fingertip while glancing up at her. Tressa’s stomach turned. Every gesture he made came off as lascivious. He had offered to couple with her more than once, assuring her that he could get her belly to swell with his seed. Tressa had successfully avoided him, with the help of Granna. For an old woman, she had been formidable. Her small stature belayed her inner strength.

  “Then I will call a council meeting.” Udor stood, pushing his chair away from the table with his ample arse. “Now that Sophia’s gone, we can start to make better decisions about the future of our village. No more weeping about the past. No more attempts at escape. It’s time we move away from silly tales and make a future for ourselves here.”

  Tressa held back a sigh. The last thing she wanted was to be sent out into the fog, never to return. But Granna hadn’t even been dead for an hour. Surely a meeting could wait until people were given the chance to mourn her. She’d only given Udor the courtesy of a personal notification because he would be the next leader, not because she wanted to escape the fog.

  “Dear Tressa.” He ambled over to her, his arms outstretched. She stood still, stiffly, not accepting or rejecting the hug he bestowed upon her. She forced herself to remain neutral. “Why did you come to me so quickly, if not to start the process of changing our laws? You don’t want to leave. I can make that requirement go away. You can stay here, live a long life with a boy you fancy.” He leaned over, his lips tickling the edge of her ear. “Or with me. You cannot be my first wife, but you could be my second. No one else will have you now. Nineteen and no children? You’re too old for one of the eligible young men. Forgo the surname of Webb and take River. Just say the word, and I, and my name, are yours.”

  Tressa recoiled, heaving out of his embrace. She didn’t want him, never had, but he knew, as well as everyone else in the village, that she didn’t want to put one toe into the fog. No one did.

  Yet no one ever stood up to Granna’s rule.

  She was a gentle woman, but crossing her was a mistake. Anyone who did paid for it with their lives. Maybe not their own, but their child, being sent into the fog. Granna was ruthless in her decisions, never second-guessing herself, never allowing anyone to question her. After all, she was the only one left, the only one who remembered the day the village was trapped behind the misty wall.

  “I only thought you should hear it from me,” Tressa said. She couldn’t look him in the face. Instead, she stared at her leather slippers. The long toe with the curl at the end of his shoe nearly touched the tip of hers. She shuffled backward, putting more distance between them. “Granna’s death will mean many things to many people. As the new leader of our village, I came to you first.”

  Udor had long ago declared himself Granna’s successor. Though Granna had never openly agreed to it, she privately told Tressa that no one else had the influence to lead their people into a new future. It was Udor, or it was no one, no matter how disgusting.

  Maybe that’s why Granna had been so insistent on Tressa leaving during her nineteenth year. She never wanted Udor to touch her great granddaughter.

  Udor stroked the length of Tressa’s long raven hair. “I am ruler now, aren’t I? And you were supposed to leave tomorrow. You don’t have to go. Say the word and I will make sure you never have to worry about leaving the safety of our village again.”

  Tressa backed away, fumbling for the door. “I must attend to Granna’s body now. Make sure everything is done properly.”

  “Of course, of course. I will call a council meeting before sunset to determine the new course of our village.” His caterpillar eyebrows came together and his eyes narrowed. “Our fates have all changed this day.”

  Tressa nodded, then let herself out. She slammed the door behind her. Leaning up against it, her chest rose and fell at a rapid pace. She dropped her head, rested her face in her hands, and let the tears fall unbidden.

  “Are you okay,” a tender voice asked.

  Tressa looked up, her hair covering her soaked cheeks. “Bastian.” She took in a deep, shuddering breath, attempting to calm herself. He’d already reached out to her once, and she’d shrugged him away. He shouldn’t be following her. Not today. Not ever. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. Granna just died…”

  “Don’t call her that.” Tressa shot an irritated look at Bastian. “She wasn’t your family. She was mine. Like everyone else in this rat-infested village, you can refer to her as Sophia.”

  “Tressa, don’t do this. Not now.” He reached out, but fell short of actually touching her arm.

  She glanced at his fingers. Dirt was embedded under the nails of his strong hand. She knew without looking how muscular his arms were. Following the contours of his limbs would only remind her of what she could never have again. She hadn’t just coupled with Bastian. She had loved him deeply since she was just a little girl. As children, he’d brought her daises from the meadow, promising her that someday they’d be married. All he had to do was get her with child.

  But he hadn’t. Vinya had been the willing recipient of his seed. The bearer of his daughter. His bond-mate for life. Tressa’s barren womb had sealed their fate a few years ago when she didn’t get pregnant during their sanctioned time together. Granna had comforted her through it. Every morning, they drank tea, laughing at first about how lucky Tressa had been to pull Bastian’s ribbon from the basket. As time went on, and Tressa showed no sign of pregnancy, their morning ritual turned to one of quiet sadness. Then acceptance when their three months together expired. That was when Vinya pulled his ribbon. Within a month, her courses had stopped and she was successful at what Tressa could never do.

  Tressa had somehow skipped over the part where she felt anger. There was only a deep, abiding sadness. One she couldn’t stomach in Bastian’s presence.

  “I have to take care of Granna’s body.” Tressa moved to the side. Granna’s death, Udor’s advances, and now Bastian’s concern. She needed to get away, but living in a trapped village, there was nowhere she could go to be alone.

  “Uncle Adam is already there. One of the children was sent to fetch him after you emerged from the cottage. He will care for Sophia, just as he’s cared for all of our dead since you and I were just children.” Bastian’s eyes softened. They’d always reminded Tressa of the meadow in spring. The same meadow where he’d picked flowers for her. The meadow where she shared her first kiss. Not just with Bastian, but with anyone. His eyes held too many memories for her.

  “Still, she is my only kin. I should be there. Watch over her. If you’ll excuse me.” Tressa picked up her dress a little to keep it away from her feet, then took off in a run. Away from Bastian and Udor. Toward the only person who’d so intimately shared her past and future, and now had left Tressa alone and adrift.

  Arriving outside her cottage in a cloud of dust and dirt, Tressa was glad to see the crowd had dispersed. The shock of Granna’s death would wear off quickly. It was expected, had been for many years now. Yet she’d managed to hang on. Many whispered it was her will to raise Tressa that kept her alive. But Tressa knew different. It was Granna’s heart’s desire to see them escape from their village. Deep in her soul, she believed they’d find a way out. She wanted to live to see it with her own eyes.

  Whether it was for vindication for all of the people she’d sent to their deaths beyond the fog, or because her fighting spirit wouldn’t give up until she’d reunited her people with those who’d left them behind, Tressa wasn’t sure. Granna never expressed her feelings on those she sent into the fog. She refus
ed to speak of it and Tressa had stopped asking many years ago. While Granna’s joy was infectious, and Tressa loved reveling in it, her silence carried the weight of the world, a weight Tressa knew she wasn’t strong enough to bear.

  And now that she was alone, she had a choice to make. Allow Udor to influence the council and cancel the yearly trek into the fog or believe in Granna’s deathbed ramblings, that somehow Tressa was destined to leave and, perhaps, to survive?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Bastian watched Tressa run away. Same as always. Unless their best friend Connor was there, Tressa wouldn’t stand in Bastian’s presence any longer than necessary. Not even today, when she needed him.

  He turned to the direction of his cottage, not eager to go home. He’d been at the forge for a couple hours, pounding out metal for the farmers’ tools. He was ready for a break, but hearing of Sophia’s death was not what he anticipated for the day.

  Bastian’s intention had been to grab a snack and a long drink of water, but going back to his cottage meant facing his wife.

  They had come together the same way every other couple in the village had. Once the council checked the lineage charts, they placed ribbons with the eligible men’s names written on them. The woman would choose a ribbon and that man would be her mate for three months. If the woman conceived, they were bonded. If not, the process began again.

  Bastian had his chance with Tressa. He’d loved her too and when it was confirmed she hadn’t conceived, both of their worlds fell apart. They were forced to move on with others. His coupling with Vinya was successful the first month—and he’d hated himself every moment of it. It felt like a betrayal.

  He walked through the town, invisible to everyone despite his height and red hair. Silence was his way and people had learned to ignore him. They spoke in whispers, everyone concerned with what was to come next. Bastian couldn’t be bothered with it. As long as the fog surrounded Hutton’s Bridge, nothing mattered. He was trapped.

  The door swung open before he could place hand on the handle.

  “Bastian. You’re late. I’ve had your snack waiting for some time. Why can’t you ever do anything right?” Vinya sighed and stepped out of the way. Her eyes, so accusing, raked down his chest. “And you’re filthy. Can’t you ever remember to wash before coming home? I work so hard to maintain this dump you call a cottage, just so my daughter and I have a decent place to live. Maybe you could be respectful of us for once?”

  Bastian nodded. He’d learned long ago that words wouldn’t soothe her feral soul. Vinya was determined to strip away any semblance of manhood he had. At first he found her attitude amusing. Now he wished her lips would fall off.

  Ignoring her huffing, he sat down at the table next to his daughter, Farah. “How are you, baby girl?” He ruffled her curls.

  Vinya slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t touch her with your filthy hands.”

  “Good, Papa.” Farah ignored her mother too. At two, she’d already learned to cope with the circumstances. “Wanna nut?” She held out a walnut in her tiny hand.

  Bastian’s fingertips were almost as big as her palm. He plucked the nut and tossed it in the air, catching in it in his mouth. Farah squealed and clapped.

  “Again! Again!” She scrambled for another nut.

  Vinya slapped Farah’s backside with the broom bristles. “Stop it, now. Go lay down for a nap.” Farah nodded, dropped a quick kiss on Bastian’s cheek, and ran through the door to her little room.

  “You don’t have to be so harsh with her, Vinya.” Bastian said between mouthfuls of bread. “She’s still a baby.”

  “Speaking of babies…” Vinya sat down at the table next to him. “It’s about time we try to conceive a second. Our village needs children to survive.” She reached out, running her fingertips along his arm. “It’s been so long since —”

  Bastian looked up at her. Vinya had loosened her top. She dipped her chin and fluttered her eyelashes at him. Long ago, that move worked. He was younger. More eager. Trying to drown out his frustration about losing Tressa.

  Now he didn’t want anything to do with Vinya.

  “Sophia died.”

  Vinya’s hand snapped back as if he’d burned her. “Finally. That woman was too old. Taking up resources the rest of us need.”

  Bastian held back the urge to slap her. He’d never raised a hand to anyone, much less Vinya, but there were moments he fantasized about it. “She was loved deeply by many in this village.”

  Vinya snorted.

  “What?” He asked even though he knew he shouldn’t.

  “You’re only worried about your precious little Tressa. Just like always.” Vinya stood up and continued sweeping the floor. The dirt among the rushes didn’t stand a chance against her fury. “Well, after tomorrow that won’t be a problem anymore. Maybe once the fog swallows her, you’ll be back in my bed. She’ll be forgotten and we can finally have a proper marriage.”

  Bastian stood up, wiped the crumbs off his hands over the plate, and placed it in the washbin. He scrubbed with the cloth, sure he would wear a hole in the metal plate. “You shouldn’t speak of death like that.”

  It had been gnawing on his soul. Every day since Tressa’s name was chosen three months ago. He’d sought her out repeatedly, but never had the strength to say what he wanted. That he missed her. He loved her. He wanted her to stay in the village and live a long life even if he could never touch her again.

  “I can’t wait for Tressa to die.” Vinya stood defiant, her hands clutching the broom’s handle. “I’ll finally have you all to myself.”

  Bastian glared at Vinya. “You will never have me. Never again. You make me sick.” He tossed the plate on the table. It slipped and fell to the floor. Neither made a move to pick it up. Bastian strode across the room and through the doorway. He slammed the door behind him, not caring who saw.

  She’d gone too far.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tressa stepped into the cottage she’d grown up in. The dark wooden walls had always formed a cocoon of happiness for her and Granna. The joyous air in their home had been sucked into Granna with her final inhalation. She probably hadn’t meant to take it with her. Or maybe it had wafted out of her with each exhalation, and now that she was gone, it wouldn’t enter again.

  Adam stood over her great grandmother, rubbing oil into her skin, bringing back the luster that had left her. “She’ll look exactly as she did before her death,” Adam said without looking over his shoulder. His red hair seemed dull in the dim light. “During the public viewing, everyone will remember her just as she was. You, unfortunately, will only remember the way she looked at the moment of her death.” He wasn’t one to offer lies for comfort. Tressa appreciated it.

  “I assumed as much.” She made her way around the table to Granna’s bedside. Yes, Adam had brought some color back to Granna’s face. She would make a good showing to the people of Hutton’s Bridge. They would remember her fondly. “While I hope someday that memory will fade, the way her chest collapsed, and the life flew out of her, I won’t ever regret a moment of it. Granna was my only family. I’m glad I was there for her in her last moments.”

  Adam wiped his hand on a towel hanging from the waist of his breeches. “Need a hug?” He held his arms out.

  Tressa hadn’t known her father. He’d volunteered to enter the fog after her mother died. Adam never had children of his own, so he became a bit of a father figure to Tressa. She stepped into his embrace, laying her head on his shoulder. Even though he was Bastian’s uncle, they looked nothing alike, except for their red hair. Adam was thin where Bastian was muscular, short where Bastian was tall. Yet they both held such special places in her heart.

  Memories crashed through her mind. At six, she fell off a fence and skinned her knee. Adam had carried her back to Granna’s cottage, wiping her tears with his sleeve. He’d been kind and gentle to her when others hadn’t. They’d been too busy with their own families, their own children, to help out an orphan
.

  Nothing was more important in her village than family. They kept careful records of lineages, to ensure their lines remained untainted. With such a small population of only a couple hundred, it would be too easy to interbreed. Since they had no way of bringing in new people, each coupling was engineered. Yes, they chose a ribbon from a basket, but the ribbons weren’t placed by chance. It was carefully done, with forethought and planning.

  Adam rubbed Tressa’s back, bringing her to the present. “We’ll all miss Sophia. She may have been a bit of a tyrant, but she had a good heart.”

  Tressa stepped back, placing a hand on Granna’s. It was now crossed over her stomach with her other arm. A pose of no return. She wasn’t far enough gone yet to be chilled, but without the life searing through her veins, she felt no more alive than the clothes Tressa wore.

  “I know she did. Udor’s going to try to change things. He might outlaw entering the fog.”

  Adam opened his mouth, then hesitated. “You’re supposed to be a part of it tomorrow, right?”

  Tressa nodded without looking at Adam. She straightened Granna’s light linen dress. Summer or winter, Granna still wore the same type of dress. It was as if she didn’t feel the cold.

  “I am.” Tressa motioned at Granna. “Do you mind if I do her hair? She didn’t feel up to it this morning.”

  “Of course. People might not recognize her without it.”

  Adam had already swept Granna’s thick hair over her shoulder. Tressa weaved Granna’s hair in an intricate pattern Granna had spent her life perfecting. She’d taught it to Tressa as a young girl. She’d spent hours practicing with ribbons to get the pattern just right.

  When Granna said Tressa could try it on her own hair, she’d gotten nervous and tangled it up so badly that Granna couldn’t fix it. Tressa had cried as Granna chopped her dark hair off. It fell to the floor in clumps.

  “No need for tears,” Granna had told her. “Hair always grows back.”