Marick had soon recovered his good humour. He found Garet’s endless curiosity and Salick’s determined patience hilarious. From his position, perched behind Dorict on the stout mare, he would ask his much less patient companion outrageous questions. He had run out of questions about Dorict’s parents, siblings, cousins of various degrees, and had just finished exploring his feelings about personal hygiene. Dorict endured the assault with mounting irritation.
“Tell me, friend Dorict, what is that thing at the end of your arm? You know, with the five fingers?” Marick spoke loudly enough for the two older apprentices riding ahead of him to hear his innocent tones. He continued his imitation, “Tell me, good sir, what is its use?”
Even Salick had to laugh when Dorict showed him one such use by reaching back and twisting his tormentor’s ear. After yelping and breaking free, Marick asked, with even more innocence if possible dripping from his words, “Pray sir, and what purpose does that action serve?”
Dorict growled, driven to a rare state of exasperation, “With you, it serves no purpose at all. Fool!” He squeezed the reins in his hand and looked appealingly at Salick and Garet.
“Marick!” Salick had erased the smile from her face and spoke sternly to the irrepressible boy. “Recite the names of Banehall Lords from the Founding onward.”
Marick put on a face of pure suffering and started the list. “Shirath Banehall was founded in the First year by Banfreat the Baker. He was followed by Moret, the son of a lord, and then by…” The boy’s voice droned on in the background and Dorict looked his thanks at Salick.
“How many Banehall Lords are there?” Garet asked.
Salick replied, “Seventy-four. So you can continue with your questions. I’m sure you have more,” she added dryly.
Garet reddened but pressed on. He would not waste this opportunity to prepare himself for whatever awaited him in Shirath. Behind him, Marick droned on, “…and he was replaced by Torinix, who often drank to excess, and later by Sharict, who weighed five hundred pounds…” Dorict’s pained expression showed his opinion of Marick’s changes to the list, but he obviously preferred the droning character assassination to another torrent of foolish questions. The mare clopped along happily, ignoring both its passengers and revelling in the absence of the weight of the demon’s corpse. When they had returned from the farmstead, Salick had removed the Shrieker’s jewel, larger and smoother than the one she had cut out earlier, and rolled the now harmless corpse over the lip of the embankment into the trees, covering it with loose dirt and leaves. The bag with the two jewels now jounced and skipped effortlessly at the end of the mare’s rope.
“Salick,” Garet began, “you’ve told me about the city, and I thank you, but I think I must see it at work for it to make sense to me.” Salick considered this and nodded at the logic of it. He continued, “But there are other things I need to know. If I am to be a Demonbane,” a glance at the tall girl showed no objection, “I need to know about the Banehall.”
Although Salick rolled her eyes, she appeared to enjoy playing the expert to Garet’s ignorance. She glanced up at the position of the sun and decided that there was time for a long explanation before their noon break. A glance ahead at Mandarack to make sure she was not needed was followed by a quick order directed to Marick to begin his list again, “Properly, this time!”
Satisfied, she continued, “When the demons came to the South, six hundred years ago,” her voice dropping again into the rhythm of an oft-told tale, “those men and women who could bear to face them joined together to protect their families and neighbours. We did not live in large cities in those days. Each lord lived in a high-walled keep and fought for land to give to his supporters and to house his serfs and slaves. There was no peace in those days, and any lord strong enough or arrogant enough could call himself a king. Such men use fear on others, but have little need to conquer it within themselves, so they were among the first to die or be driven from their homes.”
She paused, closing her eyes to search for the thread of the tale, and Garet imagined her sitting on the floor as a child, long arms wrapped around her knees, listening to her parents’ stories as he had listened to his mother’s songs. Salick opened her eyes again. “A third of the people died. A third fled to the North, preferring to fight the great dragons and suffer through the deep snows of winter.” Here she looked at Garet, studying his black hair, rare in the South, and darker skin. Garet suspected she was looking for the Northerner in him, and he refrained from telling her that most Northerners were as blond as she was.
“The last group, only a third of the people who had lived in this land before the demons came, banded around those few who could fight back. These men and women became the Demonbanes, and were honoured in the land. They hunted down the demons, following the wake of their fear.”
Garet thought of the great sweep of crows fleeing the Basher Demon the night before.
“No family was safe without a Bane nearby, so all the South—farmers with their cows, weavers with their cats, lords with their hunting falcons—gathered into five great cities: Solantor the Great, where the High King lives; high-walled Illick; Akalit, the city of music; Shirath of the two banks; and Old Torrick.” Her voice lost its cadence and she continued conversationally, “I love Shirath, but one day I hope to visit the Banehall in Solantor. They say the market is bigger than all of Shirath, and the palace walls are draped in cloth-of-gold.” She paused, perhaps embarrassed to forget her role as teacher. “Each city took only as much land as could be patrolled by its Banes. The nobles who survived were each given a section of the city to rule. The king’s family was chosen from them.”
Garet considered this. “Do the lords still fight each other?” The closest thing in his experience to such a ‘Lord’ was Pranix, the Three Roads tavern keeper. Such a man would never allow another to rule over him. And if all lords were like this, then only blood could set a crown on a king’s head.
“No,” Salick replied, “the king prevents it.”
“There are sixteen lords and only one king,” argued Garet. “What prevents the lords from killing the king if they wish it?”
“We support the king.”
Ah, Garet thought, of course. The Ward Lords might squabble and brawl like his brothers at a harvest festival, but the Demonbanes were the foundation of the city, more powerful and more necessary than either the lords or the king himself. Without considering the diplomacy of his question, he blurted out, “Why don’t the Banehalls rule the cities then?”
Salick seemed shocked by the suggestion. “We are Banes, not kings!” Seeing Garet’s confusion, she relented and tried to explain, “Garet, you cannot be a Bane and any other thing. There is no time. There are no Bane-tailors or Bane-merchants. We train; we patrol; we fight. That is our life. If we stop to live any other life, people die.” She looked at her master, his horse reined in for a moment while he drank from a leather flask. “Not that there aren’t some Masters who would make better kings than many whose bottoms have warmed the Shirath throne!”
Mandarack signalled a general halt, and the horses were led down to the river to drink. They had already passed several more houses this day, each abandoned but with no sign of a demon’s attack.
Dorict pulled out the last of the Three Roads food and said, “I hope we get to the crossing today, or we’ll have a hungry night.” Broad shouldered and stout, Dorict did not sound as if he enjoyed the prospect of a missed meal. When the horses had finished drinking, he took the reins from Garet and led both mounts back up to the prairie to graze.
“If only Dorict could eat grass, he could always be happy here.” Marick had divided the food and now stood there holding out Garet’s portion.
Although still wary of Marick’s knife-like jibes, Garet decided to risk asking why they couldn’t cross the river now. They had passed two or three places already that the horses could have managed.
Marick surprised him with a straightforward answer. “This isn’t th
e right river!” He waved a hand at the nearest bend. “This little thing is called the Plainscutter. It joins the North Ar at a town called Bangt. That’s the only place to ferry across the North Ar for fifty miles. We don’t really want to cross the river, but a barge should be waiting there to take us to Torrick.” Then the sly smile returned to his face. “Unless, of course, you have become too attached to riding.”
To his own surprise, Garet laughed and was rewarded with a friendly punch from the younger boy. Something had changed between him and his new companions. What had been, at best, a reluctant tolerance of his presence had become acceptance. Ever since he had seized the shaft of that trident, to join three other pairs of arms twisting in and around each other, his status had risen from that of a backcountry farm boy who claimed to have killed a demon, and a small one at that, to what Master Mandarack had called him as they stood beside the hulking body of the farm-destroyer, a Demonbane.
Marick continued, “I doubt that you’ll have to give up your horse tonight though.” He looked at the low angle of the sun. “I’m sure Salick will convince the Master to halt for the night if we find shelter.”
“Why?” asked Garet. “Wouldn’t it be better to be in a safe place, rather than camp out here and meet another demon?”
Marick stretched his short body into an uncanny imitation of the lean Salick. Speaking through his nose, he lectured Garet, “My dear boy, you are not thinking like a Demonbane. It is our job to kill demons, not hide from them!” With a grin, the boy continued in his normal tone. “And better any demon runs into us than some poor farmer chasing his cows. Besides, Mandarack may fight like a demon himself, but he’s older than time, and had best take it easy.”
Anything further that Marick might have said was cut off by two slim hands coming up from behind him and grabbing his ears. He started to twist, but the fingers only squeezed tighter.
“Ow! Salick! What are you trying to do? I can’t be a Bane if I’ve got no ears, can I?” he protested as the tall girl dragged him to his feet.
“Well, my little Bane, if you’ve got time to gossip, I suppose I’ll just have to find a job for you.” Her eyes were narrowed and her cheeks red. Garet guessed that she had overheard Marick’s remarks about Mandarack. “Something to get your mind off your betters, I think.” She handed him the hatchet. “Start finding wood for tonight’s fire. You can carry it beside the horses until we reach some shelter.”
Marick, instead of protesting at the unfairness of his punishment, merely winked at Garet and whispered to him, “That’ll teach me to keep my mouth shut or my eyes open.” The boy trotted off to where the trees straggled over the lip of the river valley.
Unpredictable, thought Garet. He could never guess what Marick’s reaction would be in any situation, but he found himself liking the young Bane more and more. What would it have been like to have him for a brother instead of Galit and Gitel? More practical jokes maybe. But they might have been ones you could laugh at too, and maybe you could play one yourself and get a laugh back instead of a beating.
Salick interrupted his thoughts. “Don’t listen to Marick’s foolishness. He rattles on like the Ar in spring flood!”
Garet had to ask, “Is Master Mandarack really all right?” The old Bane was responsible for this new life of companionship and adventure. What would happen to him if Mandarack died?
Salick puffed up, ready to attack and then seemed to deflate. She answered in a lowered voice. “Marick was right about one thing, the Master is no longer young.” She glanced around to make sure they were alone. “It’s true that I worry about him; he takes too much on himself. If we don’t look after him, well…we should find a place to rest for the night.”
Garet was surprised at the trust she was showing in him, to reveal so much of her fears. “He’s like your father, isn’t he?” he ventured.
Salick gave a half-hearted bristle and grumbled, “Better than my own father, anyway.” She stomped off towards the horses and called to Dorict to help her re-load the bags.
And mine too, Garet thought.
They rode on for the rest of the afternoon but found no likely place to rest. Now many of the homesteads were a mess of tumbled turf walls and charred roof-beams. Others had a stink of death about them that hurried the small party on. As the sun dipped towards the west, they came upon a farmhouse that appeared to have escaped the demons’ attacks. Larger than most, the simple corral typical of Midland farms was here replaced by a substantial barn and several sheds. The house itself was timber framed with thick walls made of pressed mud and clay. The outside was whitewashed and glowed in the low rays of the sun. Instead of thatch, curved red tiles covered the roof. Everything spoke of prosperity and comfort, down to the broad vegetable garden flanking the painted wooden door.
“No dead cattle, no corpses. A cheerful place to rest. Shall we, Master?” Marick asked as he trotted alongside the horses, branches bundled under each arm.
Mandarack nodded and dismounted slowly from his horse. Garet guessed that the effort of killing the demon and travelling across these plains had indeed taken a toll on the old man’s body.
“It will do. Salick, scout the area. Take Garet with you.” The Banemaster walked towards the well, but Marick dropped the wood with a crash and ran ahead of him to lower the bucket and draw up water for his master to drink.
The truth is in the deed, thought Garet. No matter what the impudent boy said, he loved his master as much as Salick did. He dismounted and followed his tutor in a wide circle around the farm. Salick stopped often to examine tracks on the ground, but to Garet they looked like the tracks of cows and dogs. Reassured, they moved on to examine the barn then returned to the house.
A resident cat acted as their host that evening, giving its haughty approval to their presence by rubbing against their legs and hopping into their laps at the least convenient moments. Marick put his wood in the hearth and lit the fire while Dorict searched for some food. Luckily, the speed of the owner’s departure meant that some provisions had been left behind. The stout boy, much cheered by what he found, began peeling potatoes and carrots.
Garet was used to kitchen work and lent a hand. The vegetables were soon cubed and boiled in a blackened pot over the fire while Dorict rolled out flour and water into thin disks. “If we had some herbs,” the young Bane told Garet, “and some honey, I could show you the bread we eat in Shirath.”
“There’s green onions in the garden,” Garet offered. He pulled some from the wreckage of the hastily dug plot, another sign of the speed with which the farmer had left. The chopped green stems were added to the flat bread, along with a touch of sugar that Salick had found in the bottom of a crock. Dorict set them in a frying pan that he had heated in the centre of the coals, and a wonderful aroma soon filled the abandoned house. They sat down to a better supper than Garet had tasted since their journey began.
Filled to the brim with Dorict’s cooking, the Banes sought an early bed. Mandarack took his blanket to a back room that must have once housed the farmer and his wife. Salick, Dorict, and Marick arranged cushions and rugs around the banked fire and soon drifted off to sleep. Garet had a problem. The cat was firmly planted in his lap and showed no signs of moving. After waiting until all his companions were breathing deeply, he gently lifted the cat down to the still form of Marick. The creature gave him one unfathomable look from its green eyes and then snuggled against the boy’s chest.
Garet crept about looking for another rug to cushion the polished plank floor. He had not had a chance to examine the house before this, what with helping Dorict prepare supper, and he was struck with how familiar the place looked. It had the same basic arrangement as his own home: a long bottom floor, although the lower sleeping quarters were here enclosed by a plastered wall; a loft that had once held beds small enough to be put on the owner’s cart when he fled this place; a kitchen hearth no deeper or wider than his mother’s; and here and there, an abandoned pot or wooden spoon that touched his heart wi
th their homely familiarity. He reached down and picked up a straw doll, wrapped in a bit of cloth for a dress. Garet held the lost thing and thought of his sister calling his name to come play. He put the doll back where he had found it and, picking up a straw mat rolled up in the corner, turned to join the others in sleep. He saw a gleam in the fire’s uncertain light but couldn’t tell if the two eyes looking at him were the cat’s or Marick’s. Whoever they belonged to, they shut again and Garet drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER SIX
AN UNFRIENDLY WAGER
The next morning saw the party of Banes finally arrive at the village of Bangt. Mandarack had roused them at dawn, and they had chewed on Dorict’s slightly stale disks of bread while riding. The trail widened as it joined other tracks heavy with the prints of cattle and the ruts of laden carts. Here the river they had followed for two days, the Plainscutter, met the North Ar, making it wider and calmer for a part of its journey to the western sea. The foamed staircase of rapids and the sandbars upriver to the east, which confounded even the smallest boats upstream, disappeared. Here, the river matured into a stately, sober current that minded its manners until it quickened again at the great falls near Old Torrick.
At Bangt, plainsmen and traders could cross on barges hauled to the other side by thick ropes. It was a small place, by the standards of the South, but Garet had never seen so many people in his life. Once a village little bigger than Three Roads, Bangt had swelled to become a crowded refugee camp. The appearance of the demons had finally driven the scattered humanity of the plains together. Farming families, who had once dotted the prairie on isolated homesteads, now huddled around the few wooden buildings that made up the original village. Every available patch of ground grew a makeshift tent crafted from canvas, rough-cut boards, or even sheaves of bound wheat. Small children sat in front of these poor shelters, thumbs in mouths, as if still stunned by the loss of their homes. A gang of men and women were pulling logs from rafts nosed into the riverbank. These logs, probably cut in the foothills Garet had so recently left, were being used to raise a wooden palisade around both Bangt and its mass of uprooted humanity.
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