Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  “That’s servant’s work,” Salick hissed. She looked at Garet, her anger at him forgotten in her general disgust with the Torrick Banehall. “Garet, you are to do no such work while you are here. No first level Bane should have the time or energy for the setting of tables!”

  “Am I a Black Sash, Salick?” he asked carefully, hoping for an answer and not another eruption.

  “Yes, Garet, you are a Black Sash,” Mandarack answered in her stead. “And, as Salick has instructed you, you will not do servant’s work, even if you are told to by the Master of this Hall!”

  “But you should get some proper clothes,” Salick said, and looked to Mandarack, who nodded before he walked off down the hallway. Salick looked around for someone to help them. The hall was deserted. The Black Sashes had finished their work and run up the stairs. Her face reddening, Salick opened her mouth to shout when a voice called out.

  “Don’t yell! I’m sorry I’ve left you standing here, but everything has been in an uproar for the last month.” A short young man wearing a sash of muted gold trotted out of the hallway. “Please forgive us, Green, but this place is currently held together with string and spit, as they say.” He grinned at them and introduced himself. “I am Boronict, and I’m at your service.” His head bobbed up and down in a quick acknowledgement of his guests.

  Salick introduced herself and the younger Banes and, somewhat impatiently, requested rooms, water to wash with, and a set of clothes for Garet.

  “Of course,” the young man said. “Please follow me!” He led them up the stairs into a warren of halls and rooms, most of them, it seemed, unused. He directed Salick to a dormitory for female Banes, but Marick spoke up quickly when the Gold turned to the three boys.

  “Don’t worry, Boronict. I’ve already found a place for us.” He shepherded the other two past the surprised young man and down another hallway. Stopping at a narrow door, he pushed it open on squeaking hinges and pulled Garet and Dorict inside. “I found this while waiting for you snails. Now, this is comfort!” He flopped down on a sagging bed, sending up a fountain of dust from the mattress.

  Dorict dropped the packs on the floor, creating another cloud. “Marick, why did you bring us to this rat hole?” A row of beds took up one wall. A small hearth and a curtained window faced the door, and a jumble of mismatched dressers, desks, and wobbly chairs took up the rest of the space. The stocky Bane wrinkled his nose at the musty smell of the long-abandoned room.

  “Use your head for something other than eating, Dorict! Boronict would probably put us in with a bunch of lowly Black Sashes.” He grinned at Garet. “No offence,” he said, making a great show of adjusting his own blue sash. “And if he did, we’d probably have to go to early practice tomorrow. And we’d probably have to fight our way to the best beds.” He swept back the curtains and the late afternoon light flooded the room through cracked window panes. “In here, we can at least be near each other.”

  “A comfort, I’m sure,” his friend replied and pulled a mattress off a bed to beat the dust from it. “Garet, open those windows before we choke to death.”

  Garet did so, then helped the younger boy kick and punch the mattresses, taking the opportunity to ask more questions. “Dorict, I know that a Black Sash is lower than a Blue, and that a Red Sash is the highest.”

  Marick interrupted. “Not really. A Banehall master has a red sash with black borders.”

  Dorict ignored him. “That’s right. Black sashes are for beginners just entering the Banehall.”

  “That’s so they can wipe their hands on them after dinner and not look messy. Blacks are usually just kids,” Marick explained.

  Dorict continued ignoring him. “Blacks study the basics of demons, some have to be taught to read and write. That takes a while. They also have to get in physical shape for the next stage.”

  “Much harder for some than for others, I’m sure,” Marick observed.

  His overweight friend was hitting the mattress harder than necessary, but didn’t lose his train of thought. “Blue Sashes train in basic weapons and tactics. When they’re proficient, they become Greens.” A silence followed. Dorict and Garet turned towards the youngest Bane, expecting another comment, but Marick merely grinned and stuck his tongue out at them.

  Scowling, Dorict resumed his explanation. “Greens help Golds with patrols and learn how to track demons outside the walls. Golds, like Boronict, patrol the fields and wards. When they’re good enough, they might lead teams to make kills, but mostly they assist the Masters.” He glared at Marick, waiting for either sarcasm or silence. The young Bane replied with a rude gesture.

  “Garet,” Dorict growled, “please take this fool out to find your uniform before I see how much dust I can beat out of him!”

  Marick bowed; he liked nothing better than getting his usually placid friend’s goat, and led Garet out the door. They went down several halls, turning and twisting until Garet was totally lost.

  “Marick,” he complained, “do you really know where you’re going?”

  “Of course. I used to live here, you know.”

  Garet stopped in surprise and put a hand on the Blue’s shoulder. “Then why are you now at Shirath Banehall?”

  “Had to leave,” the cheerful Bane answered as he resumed his trot along the hallway. “Misunderstanding with the Masters here.”

  As they reached the end of the hall and stopped at a massive iron-studded door, Garet mused that it would be very easy to arrive at a misunderstanding with his chaotic little companion. Pushing open the heavy door, Marick and Garet entered a large, low room lit weakly by the angled light from its high windows. Every surface—tables, side boards, and chairs—was covered with the Banehall’s stores. Pots and pans tumbled onto the floor to fight for space with stacks of linen writing-sheets, piles of paired boots, and twisted wreaths made of different coloured sashes.

  Marick approached an older master sitting behind one of the burdened tables. As they neared him, Garet was shocked to see that the right side of his face was furrowed by deep scars. The old wound sealed his eye socket and his right sleeve was pinned and empty.

  “Marick, is that you?” the old man inquired waspishly. He glared at the boy from his good eye. “How did you get back here?”

  “I’m just passing through to Shirath, Master Senerix,” the young Bane assured him. “This is a new Bane, Garet. Master Mandarack wants a uniform for him.”

  The glare remained on Marick. “If Mandarack is his master, than Shirath can cloth him.” He took up his quill and continued writing on the sheet in front of him.

  “Of course, Master,” Marick said agreeably. “But if the Hallmaster comments on Garet’s lack of proper clothing at dinner tonight, should I direct him to you for an explanation?”

  Senerix stopped writing but refused to look up. After a moment, and very unwillingly it seemed, he rasped out, “Very well, but from the used piles.” The quill pointed to a far corner. “If Mandarack wants new clothes, he can provide them himself.”

  Garet stiffened at the rudeness of the man and steeled himself to make some reply. What grated most was Senerix’s total dismissal of him. He didn’t enjoy being the topic of a conversation when he should have been a participant. However, Marick obviously knew the old man too well to challenge his petty victory and, after a hasty bow, dragged Garet over to a pile of hand-me-downs in various stages of disrepair. He kept Garet over on Senerix’s blind side and began a loud, rambling lecture about the generosity of the Torrick Banehall while they rummaged through the pile. Another Bane, a Green, came in with a new pile of sheets to drop on Senerix’s desk. The sheets slid over onto the floor, and Senerix spluttered angrily at the young woman.

  “Now!” whispered Marick and dived for the piles of new clothes, stuffing a tunic, pants, and black sash down the front of Garet’s wool shirt. He hastily measured a pair of shiny new boots against Garet’s foot and, tucking them under his arm, bolted for the door with Garet in panicked pursuit. A querulous vo
ice rose behind them, but Marick’s twisting and turning soon had them out of danger.

  The two thieves didn’t stop until they had burst though the door of their room, startling Dorict who was in the midst of laying a fire in the hearth.

  The stout boy gasped, hand on his chest. “Marick! You’ll be my death one day!” Dorict said, and fell back onto one of the considerably cleaner beds.

  “Did you think I was a demon coming to get you?” Marick laughed at his friend. “Besides, what are you doing lighting a fire when it’s summer?”

  “Trying to drive the mustiness out of this room. We won’t sleep in this smell.”

  Marick nodded. “Oh yes! I found this in the storeroom.” He pulled a short candle out of his pocket and passed it under Garet’s nose. It had the aroma of sweet herbs. “Senerix’s rat-hole could use a little freshening up too, but I’m sure he won’t miss just one candle.” He handled it over to Dorict, who quickly lit it from the small blaze he had built. Immediately, the air seemed more fragrant, and the mustiness was driven away.

  “That’s nice,” observed Marick, “much better than that perfume in the market! Now Garet, let’s get you looking like a proper Bane.” He pulled out the stolen articles from inside Garet’s shirt and smoothed them out on the bed.

  Garet changed quickly, while Dorict, with Marick’s unhelpful suggestions, laid out their bedding. The loose grey pants felt no different than the ones he had brought from the farm, except that they bore no patches or tears. The high-necked tunic, on the other hand, was a revelation in luxury. Made out of a soft, thin cloth for which he had no name, it settled its black length over him like a cool wave. He buttoned up the collar and wished for a mirror to catch the expression on his own face as much as for the look of all this finery. The vest, purple and trimmed with gold thread at the collar, followed. Finally, Dorict helped him arrange the black sash around his shoulder. He then assisted him with the boots, which for all their shine, were stiff and uncomfortable. Marick then turned Garet towards the window, which the fading light outside the Hall had turned into a cracked and wavy mirror.

  “Now, here’s a Bane!” exclaimed Marick. Dorict nodded, just as pleased with the effect.

  Who is that person, Garet thought, looking at the strange image facing him. Where is the farm boy? He smiled at the thought of the sheep’s reaction to his new clothing, and the dignified young man in the window smiled back at him. Am I a Bane now? He tentatively reached out a hand towards the reflection, and Marick slapped it playfully.

  “Don’t worry! It’s not an illusion. You’re one of us now.” He punched Garet on the shoulder.

  “Of course,” Marick added, in a voice remarkably like Mandarack’s, “as a mere Black Sash, you will have to obey our every whim.” Dorict sniffed at this frippery.

  Garet smiled with them and adjusted his sash, feeling his future in the weight of his new clothes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A CHANGE OF MASTERS

  The evening began as an exercise in staying out of sight. Garet refused to leave the room until driven out by his growling stomach. He slunk down the stairs behind Dorict and Marick. As they entered the wide dining hall, he pulled them to the last table, far away from Senerix. The scarred Bane sat behind a long, polished table on a dais at the front of the dining hall. He was hunched in his chair, scanning the room with his good eye. Garet ducked and took a chair that allowed him to sit with his back to the man they had cheated. Marick sat beside him, also hiding his face from the high table. Dorict, the only one with a clear conscience, sat across from them.

  The table was loaded with steamed greens and salt beef. Bread was piled in central dishes and the quick hands of the Black and Blue Sashes surrounding the Shirath Banes scattered them with showers of crumbs as they tore it into individual portions. Dorict used his size to shoulder up to the platter and retrieve a whole loaf, round and with a rough letter cut into the brown top.

  “That’s the sign for a Banehall,” Marick informed Garet as the apprentices divided the loaf into three roughly equal pieces.

  “I thought it meant treasure hall,” he replied, holding his piece up to Marick’s to examine the complicated, and now somewhat mangled glyph. “See here. The box on the right means hall, doesn’t it? But the left hand part means gold or treasure.”

  Dorict looked at Garet as if he had grown wings. “You can read!” he exclaimed, shocked out of his usual calmness. “How under Heaven did you ever learn to read on that pesthole of a farm?”

  Garet blushed. It was not a skill he boasted about, mainly because his father had no taste for “scribblings ‘n time wasting.” His mother had taught him to draw the symbols common to both the South and the North. She had spent many mornings with him, before he had been old enough for much farm work, dipping her long finger in water and tracing each word on the table top. He had practiced this skill on the hillside, scratching lines in the dirt to escape the mind-numbing boredom of watching sheep chew their mouthfuls of grass. Trying to remember enough symbols to write out one of his mother’s complex Northern songs of dragon fighters or forest magic had pleased his mind in a way that herding sheep never could. His mother’s pride in his ability and her joy at being able to pass on the learning of her own childhood had strengthened the bond between them. Was she thinking of him now, he wondered.

  “I learned from my mother,” Garet said, and the sad shading of his tone prevented even Marick from ribbing him about his surprising skill.

  Dorict only said, “Blame the baker’s hand. That’s ‘claw’, not ‘gold’ on the side.”

  As they ate their dinner with a speed possible only to young boys, Garet twisted his head around to catch glimpses of the high table. It was occupied solely by Red Sashes. A portly man sat at its centre, his belly straining at a red sash bordered in black. He shovelled his food as if he were trying to match Garet and his friends, despite his grey hair and wobbling jowls. Mandarack sat to one side of him but only picked at his plate. A slight woman with grey hair cut shorter than he had ever seen on a woman was leaning over and talking to him. Mandarack engaged her in quiet conversation throughout the meal. Garet was curious but didn’t dare observe them more closely for fear Senerix would spot his turned face. Dorict ignored their plea to spy for them while he ate but was more accommodating when he had finished his second plate.

  “They’re still talking,” Dorict reported in a low voice. “Isn’t she the weapons trainer for Torrick?”

  Marick risked another look and nodded. “That’s right. Corix. She’s a terror to her students and very unfair to the younger Banes!”

  “In other words, she didn’t let you get away with anything, eh?” Dorict smiled and continued his report. “Two other Reds are leaning in for a listen. Now she’s waved Boronict over.”

  “Why him?” Marick demanded. “He’s only a Gold.”

  “I’m sure your old teacher won’t mind if you ask her,” Dorict offered and smiled at Marick’s answering glare. “Now shut up and let me look. Hmmm. Boronict’s gone out of the hall. Some Golds are following him. Now she’s talking to Furlenix, the Hallmaster. They’re arguing…well, you can hear it yourself.”

  Dorict was right. The Hallmaster’s voice was loud enough to be clear even at the back of the hall.

  “This is Torrick Banehall! Not Shirath!” His jowls shook as his words rang out over the hushed dining hall. “Master Mandarack’s advice is not welcome!”

  Their caution forgotten, Marick and Garet joined the whole hall in staring as Mandarack rose, nodded calmly at the sputtering Hallmaster, and left with Corix at his side. There was a flurry of indecision at the high table. In the end, the outraged Hallmaster was left with only Senerix and a few other ancient Reds sitting forlornly at the high table.

  “Come on,” whispered Marick as he grabbed his friends’ arms and dragged them into the crowd of different coloured sashes funnelling through the dining hall doors. They had barely squeezed through the opening when Garet felt a hand fall on
his shoulder. He froze, expecting the rasping, querulous voice of Senerix demanding back his new uniform, but it was Salick’s voice that cut above the hubbub and arguments swelling around them.

  “Come on! Let’s find some place where we can talk,” she shouted.

  Marick led them through the press of bodies and up the stairs. The halls were no less crowded here. Golds ran back and forth with scrolls of paper. Knots of older Reds argued among themselves, the lesser ranks looking nervously on. With a few twists and turns, the Shirath apprentices were safely inside the room the three younger Banes had appropriated.

  “I would guess that Marick has something to do with this,” Salick said, looking around appreciatively: a small fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth, the beds were free of dust and covered with their own blankets while the mismatched chairs were drawn cozily around a table near the hearth. “Quite homey. And to think I’m sharing a room half this size with three other Greens!”

  “You can bunk with us, Salick,” Marick quickly offered. “No one will know in this mess. But tell us what you think is happening!”

  Salick took a chair and looked out on the candle lit windows in the houses across the fountain square. “I think Mandarack proposed something—I wasn’t near enough at my table to hear what—but I’m sure that’s what started this riot.” She looked sharply at Marick. “Go find Boronict. He’s friendly to us, and he might know what’s going on.”

  She had hardly finished speaking before Marick was out the door. Dorict closed it hurriedly before the arguments and what sounded like fist fights entered the room. Had they just heard the thud of someone hitting the wall?

  “Salick,” Garet asked, “why is there any argument at all? I mean, isn’t Furlenix in charge of this Banehall?”