Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  “Wooden walls!” mocked Marick as the group made its way to the hustle of activity along the river. “A Basher would smash through that in a minute.”

  “Look before you talk,” Dorict replied dryly. He pointed to the patch of ground before a completed section of the wall. A group of boys, too young to lift the heavy timbers making up the wall, were busy sharpening six-foot long stakes. The stakes were planted, sharpened ends angling out and up, in a broad belt protecting the palisade. In front of that, another group of teens laboured in a half-dug ditch. “Even a Basher would have a hard time building up enough speed for a charge. We might learn something from these Midlanders.”

  “But they’ve pointed them the wrong way,” Salick noted. “They’ll never trap a demon with the spikes facing out, could they, Master?”

  Mandarack had paused to examine the defenses. “They build against their fear,” he replied. “When a Banehall is established here, we will teach them how to guard against demons.” He slapped the neck of his horse with the reins, but the party’s forward progress was interrupted by the flustered arrival of a young woman, dressed as a Bane and in age a match for Salick.

  “Master Mandarack!” She stopped to catch her breath but flashed a smile, first at Salick, then at the younger Banes. “You’re here! The barge is ready to take you on to Torrick. Supplies are hard to get.” She waved towards the mass of refugees while gulping for more air. “But there’s enough to get you to the Banehall.” Her message delivered, she straightened and stood respectfully, waiting for a reply. She was a typical Southerner, blond hair, tall and slim, with bright, blue eyes. She noticed Garet’s examination and smiled again, revealing dimples in her cheeks. Garet blushed and looked away.

  One of the great trials of Garet’s existence, at least from his point of view, had been the lack of young women in his life. Aside from his mother and sister, he might go weeks without seeing another woman of any age. The other farmers kept their daughters away from Three Roads and from other farmers’ sons, so the only example of the other sex he had a chance to see had been the women who worked in the tavern at Three Roads. But they were wolf-like, eyeing the passing traders as if they were dinner, and therefore more frightening than attractive. Trallet, the tavern keeper’s wife, was the worst of these. She covered her face in rouge and powders to hide her age, but she achieved only a harsh mockery of youth. Salick, the only other young woman he knew, was Trallet’s opposite. She disdained makeup and hid what might have been a pretty face behind such deadly seriousness that he did not dare to think of her romantically. Besides, his relationship with her was now one of student to teacher, a relationship she was unlikely to let him forget.

  The young woman standing in front of them now, long braids whipping around her cheeks in the prairie wind, wore neither rouge nor a grim expression. She smiled, not to entice him, but from a pure love of this moment in her life: the blue sky, the excitement of the camp around them, and meeting old friends, for she and Salick now hugged each other and fell to talking. For perhaps the first time in his life, Garet understood just what beauty meant. He blushed even more and busied himself with a perfectly good knot on his horse’s rein.

  “Vinir! I didn’t know you were sent here.” Salick looked happier than Garet had ever seen her. She grabbed Vinir by her shoulders, giving the other Bane a shake.

  “Easy there!” Vinir replied, freeing herself and brushing the hair out of her eyes. “I need to complete my duties. Master, is there anything else you’ll need?”

  Mandarack shook his head. “No, Vinir. Tell me, are you to be posted here permanently?”

  “No, Master!” the reply was emphatic. “I have no wish to live in a wooden city.” She reached over and ruffled Marick’s hair, acknowledging his nod of agreement. “Besides, I’m really only here to help the Golds and Reds.” She scanned the horizon beyond the camp. “They’re still out, hunting down the last few demons or guarding the feeding cattle.” With a slight bow to the Master, she motioned to a narrow lane between the tents, and the party followed her.

  The press of people parted like a bubble around them and Garet wondered nervously if the refugees blamed the Banes for the arrival of the demons. Mothers cowered as they approached and held their children to themselves as if the Banes were demons themselves. He caught at the reins of his mount, and the mare flicked its head about, rolling its eyes nervously. An old man spat on the ground but turned and vanished into a tattered tent. Garet swallowed. He felt his shoulders shaking and then caught himself. Why was he so on edge? The people avoiding the party looked as afraid as he felt. With the beginnings of understanding, he turned and saw that Dorict had moved from his distant position in the rear to right behind Garet.

  Was Dorict afraid of losing them in the crowd? The usually calm boy’s face was strained and sweating. In his arms, he held a coil of rope and the ragged sheepskin bundle containing the demons’ jewels. Garet swallowed. He slowed his breath and tried to see this anxiety as a thing outside himself, emanating from those two small spheres the younger Bane carried. Ignoring the reactions of the people around him, he concentrated until he could will the jangling of his nerves to stop.

  They ate a quick meal on the riverbank near the docks. Mandarack had directed Dorict to tie the sheepskin package by its long rope to the bow post of the barge they were soon to board.

  “Isn’t there a place prepared for…” Salick pointed with her chin at the young Bane tying off the rope.

  “Not yet,” Vinir replied. “There’s been no time for anything but saving as many people as possible. We may have to send them down to Old Torrick for a while,” she added between mouthfuls of warm bread stuffed with spiced beef. She handed another piece to Marick, who had not stirred from her side since they started eating.

  All too soon, Vinir saw them off at the ferry dock, hugging Salick and weeping in a way Garet found confusing. His mother had not wept at his departure. Girls were perhaps more complex than he had thought.

  The flat-bottomed boat they had been lent was a cargo barge, one of many that Salick assured him travelled back and forth to Old Torrick without accident or loss of life. Garet distrusted the craft right away. He had never been on a boat, the streams near his home were small enough to be jumped over, and it felt very strange to have the boards beneath his feet tip back and forth. Capable of carrying many tons of wheat or other goods, this barge was empty except for the Banes, their meagre luggage, and the four young men assigned by the village elders to work the long, sweeping oars. With a chorus of good-natured curses and insults, the oarsmen bade goodbye to their fellows on other boats and, with their muscles bulging under their tunics, forced the barge out into the slow current.

  Garet sat in the bow and watched that current bear branches, leaves, and himself down the river. After initial misgivings, he had to admit that this form of transportation was much more comfortable than riding a horse. He had not been heartbroken when they left their mounts with Vinir. This floating was especially easier on his backside. He could sit with his legs stretched on the bench seat, a saddlebag or blanket for a pillow, and look at the trees leaning out over the water on either side. A breeze ruffled his hair and, rocked by the river, Garet fell into a state of neither waking nor sleeping, a state of near perfect rest, while the oarsmen lazily swung their oars to keep the barge off the muddy banks.

  With the river so willing to do most of the work, the young men leaned on their oars as much as they pushed them, putting their shoulders into it only when the boat was in danger of grounding. Between these bursts of energy, they gossiped and laughed at each other’s rude jokes.

  Marick cocked an ear critically at the Midlanders’ attempts at humour but soon rolled his eyes at their crudeness and lack of imagination. Dorict, like Garet, seemed lulled into a trance-like state by their gentle passage. Salick and Mandarack were quietly discussing the battle with the demon two nights before. Vinir’s eyes had widened at the report of their encounter with the Basher. “You, just
a Green and these two Blues, and him just a…” she stopped, stalled by Garet’s lack of formal status. “You actually killed a Basher?” Her reaction led Garet to suppose that the lower ranks did not usually fight demons. But, he reasoned sleepily, with the Midlands overrun for the first time in hundreds of years, the Banes of the Southern cities might be spread too thinly to follow old rules. He closed his eyes but kept his ears open to listen to Mandarack instruct Salick.

  “No,” the dry voice was a welcome alternative to the rough laughter of the oarsmen, “if you had attacked the demon’s body from behind, I doubt that the combined strength of all four of you would have punctured its skin. And the attempt alone would not have even distracted the demon.”

  “I think that I would be distracted by a trident in the, ah, back,” Salick replied.

  Garet’s ears pricked up. Not only was the subject fascinating, but also this was the first time he had heard Salick contradict her master, even if indirectly. He waited for Mandarack’s response.

  “Bashers are stronger than most other demons, but they have simpler minds. They can only concentrate on one thing at a time. If there is a threat, or a potential meal, in front of them, nothing on earth can distract them. That is why your entanglement worked. It had no concern at all for its legs. Although,” he added, “you were even more successful than I expected. Compared to what you were able to accomplish, stabbing it would have been as helpful as a mosquito bite.” He held up two fingers. “Whenever two Banes must take on a large demon, one Bane traps, and the other kills.” Garet opened one eye a crack. Mandarack had leaned back against the gunwale and closed his eyes, signifying that the lesson was over.

  The harsh laughter of the boatmen erupted again, and Garet heard the word ‘Demonbane’ punctuating their mockery. The muscular young men had made no secret of their surprise at the less than heroic appearance of these demon hunters. The leader of the group, a broad-shouldered brawler with a bent nose, spoke again, loudly enough to be easily heard by the Banes at the opposite end of the barge.

  “Demons must be as dangerous as worms if a skinny little crow like that can eat them up!” Garet reddened, knowing that his black hair, so unusual in the South, made him the ‘crow.’

  “Heaven’s shield!” the young man continued. “A broomstick girl, three puppies, and an ancient! Not a one of them would be a match for my own granny. And she’s eighty-three!” More jeering laughter.

  Marick started up, a biting retort on his lips, only to be restrained by Salick’s warning hand on his shoulder. They both looked to Mandarack for advice or censure, but the old man’s eyes were still closed, and his grey head rested on the palm of his good hand.

  “Easy, Marick.” Dorict had left his contemplation of the water to warn his mercurial friend. “This lot has obviously never met a demon. I expect most of the survivors haven’t. They’ve only heard of them, or they wouldn’t be alive to mock us.”

  Salick took up the argument. “I agree. Marick, they’ve never experienced the demon’s fear. And, if they’re from upriver, we’re probably the first Demonbanes they have ever had a good look at. If you returned here in a year, they’d show you as much respect as you’d receive on the streets of Solantor itself!”

  “All right!” The small Bane shrugged off Salick’s hand. “It’s just hard to get along with such fools!”

  Garet was a little surprised to see the lack of sympathy in Dorict’s and Salick’s faces, until he remembered the idiotic pranks Marick had subjected them to on their journey across the prairie.

  Dorict, a hint of satisfaction in his voice, observed, “Well, as a fool yourself, you’d probably get along with them better than anyone else.”

  Marick’s answering glare suddenly dissolved into a thoughtful expression. Then he grinned, and when he saw Dorict’s worried reaction, transfigured his face into a picture of pure innocence. Now even Salick looked nervous. As Marick casually climbed over the bulkheads towards the curious oarsmen, Garet realized that he was starting to worry too. Only Mandarack seemed unconscious of the approaching disaster.

  Marick’s actions, however, seemed as innocent as his expression. He made himself at home in the stern and, as the sun slipped over the top of its arc and the shadows of trees lengthened on the river, mixed easily with the young men. He laughed at their poor jokes and readily agreed with their outrageous conceptions of what life was like in the great cities of the South. When they mocked him about his small size, he nodded sadly and praised their great height and bulging muscles.

  The three young Banes seated in the bow, filled with nervous anticipation, watched Marick ingratiate himself with the plainsmen. By the time the sun in its descent turned the river from silver to gold, the oarsmen had steered the conversation again to the matter of killing demons.

  “Well, my little warrior,” teased the Midlander with the bent nose, “frighten us with a tale of all the terrible demons you have slain.” Loud snorts and digging elbows were exchanged by his friends.

  Marick leaned in towards the group and lowered his voice as if he were dispensing a great secret. “Most people don’t know this, but demons are not all that hard to kill.”

  Dorict and Salick looked at each other.

  The young men leaned into their new friend’s circle of confidence and nodded for him to go on. Trapped, thought Garet.

  “We Banes really do have an easy life,” Marick continued in his conspiratorial stage-whisper, “free food and lodging, people bowing down to us, women…” At that point, the four young men turned their heads to look at Salick. Garet felt a hot flush of anger and was surprised at the strength of his reaction. He needn’t have bothered though. Salick’s eyes would have frozen fire, and the four young men quickly turned back to Marick.

  “In fact, all we need to get our pay, and that is no small amount,” a pause to wink at his listeners, “is bring back a small trophy from the poor creatures.”

  Dorict and Salick looked questions and incomprehension at each other.

  Marick pointed to the rope tied to the bow post. The bundle containing the demon jewels was so light that it drifted well ahead of the heavy barge.

  “The trophies we collected on this trip are in a package at the end of that rope. We sometimes use them to play a wagering game in the Banehalls.” Marick grinned up at the large Midlander. “Of course, you have to be brave to try it.”

  The other three oarsmen immediately dared their leader to display his courage. He waved them off and put his beefy hand on Marick’s slight shoulder. “How much money do you have to wager, little demon killer?” The oarsmen were busy emptying out their waist pouches and adding their copper coins to make a small pile in the big man’s other hand.

  Marick looked contrite. “I’m afraid this trip has exhausted all my own money, friend. But!” He hopped his way back to the bow and, grabbing the startled Garet, pulled him over the benches to confront the Midlanders.

  “My friend Garet still has some coins left,” Marick reached for Garet’s pouch, “don’t you?”

  Garet could only stand there as Marick casually emptied his pouch of the few coins his mother had pressed into his hand when he left the farm. They were Northern coins that Garet realized his mother must have hidden from her husband for all the years she had lived in the South. Their dragon symbols and heroes’ profiles caught the ruddy light as they lay in Marick’s palm.

  Marick made a great show of examining them. “I make this out to be four silvers, don’t you?”

  The oarsmen, unwilling to reveal their ignorance about foreign exchange rates, nodded sagely. Their leader counted out the equivalent in coppers bearing the gate of Old Torrick on one side and a crown on the other. Marick piled them together with Garet’s coins on the bench that ran across the barge at midships. He motioned Dorict to pull in the rope. Dorict looked to Salick, who looked to Mandarack and found him still asleep. She bit her lip and, after a long hesitation, nodded at Dorict. The stout boy shrugged and pulled on the rope. The packag
e rose dripping from the water and with slow, deliberate fingers, Dorict untied the sheepskin and gave it to Marick’s hands.

  The young Bane’s smile seemed a little forced as he returned to the waiting Midlanders, but his voice had lost none of its persuasiveness. “Now both of you hold out your hands. That’s it, hold them steady now.”

  The slow dread that accompanied the closeness of the jewels was at least familiar to Garet. He willed his breath to slow and his pulse to stop beating at his temples. The Midlander looked green but kept a shaking hand outstretched. Marick, his grin changing from friendly to contemptuous, dropped the jewels, one in each of the player’s hands.

  The touch of the jewel on his flesh constricted Garet’s chest and seized his heart in a rough grip. Knowing he had conquered the dread before, he willed himself to relax to the point where he could breathe again. When, after a time he could not calculate, he had some control of himself, he looked over at his opponent.

  Marick was taunting the man who had dared to insult a Demonbane: “Why, what’s wrong, friend. A big barge-hauler such as yourself can’t be afraid, can you?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Could it be that a little crow is braver than a huge pig like yourself?”

  Garet tried to focus on the Midlander. The change in the man was sickening. His tanned face had turned pale. His eyes, so confident before, were starting out of his head. His teeth were clenched so tightly that a thin trickle of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. With a thrill of horror, no doubt exaggerated by the jewel in his own hand, Garet saw that his opponent wasn’t breathing. His lips were blue, and he was beginning to sway on his feet.