Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  Here I glimpsed tattered blankets and bed stuffs heaped around the floor and a scattering of personal belongings set atop wooden boxes or hung from the walls. Images and symbols had been painstakingly etched into the stone of ceiling and walls. There was a snarling bear’s head, a leaping deer, and various other woodland creatures. In the center of the wall, one particular carving stood out, taking precedence over the others, a large impression of a man’s hand, colored in red. I would have looked at that longer, but Brig never slowed, tugging me along at his side, and we left this area behind us.

  The rushing, roaring sound I had been vaguely aware of since waking became louder now. We passed a small opening, through which a faint glow of daylight penetrated, and I had a brief glimpse of a foaming waterfall sheeting down over this window to the outside. Brig allowed me no opportunity to gape and the waterfall slipped out of my sight as quickly as it had appeared, its roar fading as we distanced ourselves from it.

  Ahead, I caught sight of another small pinpoint of daylight. This grew larger as we approached, until it proved to be a man-sized hole, through which I could see trees and greenery. Brig pushed me out this exit ahead of him, and I stepped into the soft glow of early morning.

  I stood in a large clearing, ringed on two sides by pines and giant elder trees and backed by the great formation of red rock behind me. A deep, clear stream ran along one side of the clearing, fed by the waterfall tumbling from the rocks over the cave. A fire pit marked the center of the camp, and a number of men sat around the flames, resting on overturned logs or on bare earth. There were about a dozen outlaws in the camp, some of them eating or busying themselves with chores, others sitting back at their ease. One carried an armload of fresh kindling. A pair of others tended the campfire and the kettle bubbling over it.

  The scent emanating from that stewpot made my stomach rumble, but my companion dragged me past it. I was led straight across the clearing and into the shadow of the trees. Here a man wearing nothing but his breeches sat on an overturned keg. His back was toward us and he leaned forward to study his reflection on the surface of a polished copper plate that had been nailed onto the tree before him. At our approach, he didn’t pause from the task of scraping stubble from his chin with a sharpened blade.

  I studied the back of his head with less interest than I would have felt for a taste of whatever had been cooking in that stewpot. His black hair was cropped so close you could see the shape of his skull. His arms and back were well muscled, but I thought, if standing, he would probably be the shortest man present. I found him less impressive than the red-haired giant, Dradac, or even Brig at my side.

  “So. This is the source of all the trouble, is it?” the stranger asked, finally turning to look me over.

  I was startled by the intensity of his deeply set jewel-green eyes, which stood out starkly against tanned skin. Such bright eyes were rare in magickless people. His face was long and narrow, his cheekbones prominent above a sharply crooked nose that looked as if it had been broken many times. Several small scars decorated his face and a number of larger ones were visible across his chest.

  Even newly awakened to my magic as I was, I sensed there was something dangerous about this man, that he had the power to make people think and do as he chose. Under his penetrating gaze, I forsook my attempt to stare him down and ducked behind Brig’s leg to hide. It was a reaction so natural in the face of this stranger and his cold eyes that I was scarcely even aware of doing it.

  The motion did not escape notice. The jewel-eyed man laughed—a harsh barking sound that held no warmth. “You see that, men?” He raised his voice to the nearest outlaws. “The runt is frightened of me. Am I such a terrible sight, then? Brig, a fine pet you’ve taken in. I’ve seen dead fish with more backbone.” Then, “Look me in the eye, child!” he demanded sternly of me. “Do you know who I am?”

  I stared at him, silent.

  He seemed not to mind. If anything, I thought he enjoyed my nervousness as he said, “I am the outlaw leader they call Rideon the Red Hand. Or simply the Hand to my more intimate friends and enemies. And how did I come by that name, you must be asking yourself?”

  He leaned in close, as if about to impart a secret, and answered his own question. “I’ll tell you how. I earned it by hard deeds and rebellion against the Praetor’s laws. Look here at these hands, child.”

  I stared at the hands he extended palms upward and saw nothing remarkable. They were dirty, work-roughened hands with short, uneven nails.

  “There’s blood on them!” he barked suddenly so that I flinched.

  I didn’t see any blood but thought it might make him angry if I said so. He leaned back and regarded me as if disappointed by my lack of reaction. I had no notion what he expected of me and we simply stared at one another until he seemed to tire of it, asking abruptly, “What name does your family call you by, girl?”

  I was too uneasy to speak, but an observer behind us put in with a laugh, “Brig calls her Little Dog.”

  We had become the center of attention in the camp and the other outlaws stopped their tasks to observe our encounter. The outlaw named Rideon appeared to enjoy having an audience.

  “Dog, eh? I think I would call her a little rabbit. She has all the pluck of one.”

  A round of amused laughter followed this statement and when it died, Rideon addressed Brig. “And what exactly do you plan on doing with this child? I’m given to understand it was your notion to bring her here.”

  There was no mistaking the displeasure in his voice.

  Brig was prepared for the question. “She can’t stay among us; I understand that well enough. I figure I’ll search around for any family to claim her. If I can’t find any living, I’ll leave her in one of the woods villages, where folk will surely see that she’s not allowed to starve.”

  Rideon said flatly, “I’ve a more practical solution. Drown her.”

  Brig didn’t seem to know what to make of that. “You’re jesting,” he said, but he sounded uncertain.

  “Not at all. It’d be simple enough. We’ve a convenient stream on hand. No, wait… We wouldn’t want to foul the drinking water, would we? Better yet, break her neck and bury her someplace away from camp.”

  Brig sounded dismayed. “I could never do that. Not to a little one.”

  A threatening note crept into Rideon’s voice. “Are you refusing to obey your captain’s orders?”

  The surrounding outlaws moved back a little, bloodthirsty anticipation in their eyes.

  Brig appeared to choose his words carefully. “No,” he responded at length. “Not refusing, just asking for a reason. Why should she die? What harm is she to anyone?”

  At his mild response, the tension in the air subsided and Rideon leaned back to study the bald man thoughtfully. “Very well,” he said. “I’m a reasonable man and I’ve no objection to answering an honest question. The truth is, you’ve only yourself to thank for the girl’s fate. She must die because she’s seen too much—things we can’t afford to have become common knowledge. I shouldn’t have to explain the obvious to you. Just imagine, wouldn’t the Fists love to know where we’re hiding?”

  “But she’s so small,” Brig argued. “She slept in my arms most of the journey and could never find her way here again, let alone lead others. Who would listen to such a child anyway?”

  Rideon considered me. There was no dislike in his eyes. To either like or dislike me wasn’t worth his effort, any more than he would have troubled himself to bear ill will toward an ant. “You’re certain she couldn’t return, leading our enemies along behind her?” he asked. “Certain enough to risk all our lives on it?”

  “I’m sure of it,” Brig said.

  I stood by quietly, listening to this exchange but not feeling terribly afraid for my life. I instinctively trusted Brig to protect me. It hardly occurred to me to wonder if or why he would.

  Brig continued. “It’s not a far walk to Coldstream, and if I travel all night after dropping h
er there, I can be back at camp by morning.”

  “And leave others to do your duties and take over your watch for you, I suppose?”

  Brig had no answer planned for that, but one of his comrades saved him by speaking up. “I’ll stand in for him,” the outlaw said. “It’s only for a day anyway. We done rescued the runt from starving on the road. It’s only fitting we see her through to safety.”

  There arose a noise of general agreement at these words.

  Rideon looked around him and must have seen the novelty of a generous deed appealed to his followers. The dangerous spark fled from his eyes and he appeared reconciled to the idea.

  “Of course it is fitting. We will do right by the child,” he said, as though the plan had been his own, and he told Brig to make preparations for our journey straight away.

  Now that my fate was decided, I lost interest in the big peoples’ conversation. The other spectators also appeared to grow bored as they realized there would be no physical confrontation between Brig and their captain, and they drifted away.

  My belly loudly proclaimed its emptiness and, propelled by my hunger, I wandered from Brig’s side and over to the campfire. The redheaded giant, Dradac, and some others were seated on stumps before the flames. Dradac was occupied with fletching a stack of shaved wooden shafts at his feet. He whistled a cheerful tune as he worked and, observing my longing looks toward the stewpot, soon took pity on me.

  “Hungry, little dog?” he asked.

  When I nodded eagerly, he spooned up a portion of warm venison stew into a carved wooden bowl.

  “Don’t feed the hound, Dradac. It’ll think it can hang around the table,” another outlaw joked as I fell to.

  But the giant only laughed and refilled my bowl each time it came up empty, until I could hold no more. I was just setting my bowl aside when Brig appeared out of nowhere to collect me, and we left the camp, setting off on a long trek through the forest.

  Here my clearest memories of that time come to an end. I recall nothing of the journey to the woods village of Coldstream, nor of Brig setting me down near its sheltering walls and shooing me in the proper direction. All I know is the tale I grew up hearing from the outlaws of how Brig made the return journey alone that night and of how, within two days time, I showed up at their camp again. Everyone said I must have put my nose to the ground like a true hound and traced Brig’s tracks.

  Further attempts were made to pry me from my chosen home. But I clung to the leg of Brig, whom I had claimed as mine, and resisted relocation so loudly and vehemently the brigands were moved by my determination—or perhaps merely exhausted by it. “It’s a ferocious little hound you’ve got there, Brig,” one outlaw remarked admiringly.

  Eventually, Rideon was called in to make his wishes known. I remember huddling against Brig, shivering and half-frozen after my return trek from the woods village. I stared up at the outlaw leader and Rideon the Red Hand gazed down on me coldly.

  He spared us a long suspense, declaring emotionlessly, “The hound may stay. From this day on, she will live and work among us and be treated as one of ours. And, as she cannot remain a hound forever, today I also give her a name. Ilan, after a faithful tracker I once had. That stenched dog could trail a mole through a snowstorm.”

  “What changed your mind about the girl?” Brig asked. “Why is she to stay?”

  Rideon glared. “Because if we attempt to remove her, she’ll only continue returning to us, thanks to your refusal to dispose of her. Also, because morale is low and the child’s spirit appeals to the men. But most of all, because I order it.”

  After this there could be no further discussion of the matter. I stayed. Although the decision came from Rideon, the other outlaws appeared generally in agreement that I was to be Brig’s responsibility. After all, it was to him I’d attached myself, so it was only natural he should have the care of me.

  During this space of time, all that had previously occurred in my life swiftly came to seem like a distant memory and, plunging into a new world, I lost sight of anything connected with the old.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Memories of my early days among the band of forest brigands are hazy. Seasons changed, the weather warmed to summer, and then winter stole over the land again. My first winter in Dimmingwood was a hard one. Food was scarce that year and I was not yet accustomed to living outdoors in such weather. Brig worried aloud over how skinny I grew and seemed to think I would die when I succumbed to my first winter chill. But soon, winter’s icy grip was lifted from the province and spring found me alive and thriving.

  I set into my new existence with enthusiasm. I loved the woods and the forest creatures, loved the scent of pine and the rustle of the wind in the treetops. This world of leaf and shadow, bramble and stream, quickly became mine. There were no other children here and only one or two women came and went around the camp, but I never felt lonely.

  Brig was my closest companion and I followed at his heels sunup to sundown, drinking in all I saw. I learned early to tell one tree from another, until I knew my way around the wood better than many of the grown men. Soon, Brig was training me to track and hunt small game.

  My skill in another area was expanding as well. Now that my magical talent had prematurely awakened, it refused to fall dormant again and made itself known in a series of unpleasant ways. My sickness that first winter was more than an ordinary chill. I was alternately hot and cold, shivering and feverish. Too weak to stand, I lay miserably on a deerskin pallet in the shelter of the cave for weeks. Weight dropped off me until I was little more than a wraith, and evil dreams plagued me in the night. Not dreams of home or of my mother, but twisted, confused nightmares I could scarcely recall upon waking. I always awoke trembling, with a premonition of doom hanging over me, as if the dreams foreshadowed terrible events to come. Occasionally, I visited a strange place while I slept, a world of paths and mists, but when I woke, I could never remember much of what I saw there.

  By the end of the first winter month, I began to improve, to Brig’s obvious relief. But I didn’t emerge from the illness unchanged. I regained my strength and my weight, but a strange new effect came about. One moment I would be stirring a pot of stew at the fire. The next, I would become abruptly aware that Brig was angry and fighting with someone, though it was happening at such a distance I couldn’t possibly see or hear anything of the disagreement. I simply felt his anger. Other times, I might be sleeping and would wake suddenly, startled by the sense of a pair of men approaching camp from the south. It usually proved to be just two of our members returning from a long hunt, but it was disturbing that I should know of their coming before they were near enough for our sentries to spot them.

  If my mother or anyone else with the magic had been present, I could have spoken to them of this. But as it was, I was surrounded by magickless and there was no one to guide me. I had come into my magic early and, doubtless, my parents had thought they had plenty of time ahead to prepare me for this. There was only one person I could go to now.

  When I revealed what I was going through to Brig, he seemed disturbed. Frightened even. He knew no way to help me with this problem—and a problem it obviously was in his mind.

  “But I’ll take care of you, Ilan,” he assured me, “and between the two of us we’ll find our way through this.”

  He made me swear I would never speak of my magical abilities to anyone else and suggested I cease using them. I told him that was impossible. The magic had come to me and though I might have given it up to please Brig if it were in my power, something told me it would never give me up.

  I didn’t understand Brig’s fear of magic. I had little knowledge of the cleansings happening throughout the province and rarely remembered the strange words of the Fist who had chased me into the woods on the night of my parents’ deaths. For now, I knew only that Brig appeared anxious and disappointed with me.

  Over time, I grew accustomed to my new abilities and developed a limited understanding of
what I could and couldn’t do with them. My main talent was sensing other presences around me. At odd moments I was also granted flickering glimpses of people’s emotions, which often helped me guess at their plan or intent before it became clear to others.

  In those days I spent nearly every waking moment in the company of the bald, bearded outlaw and he, as if sensing my need for the stability he offered, didn’t begrudge me his time. If for any reason he was unavailable, Dradac would step into his place as my caretaker.

  I was growing and quickly learning to care for myself. As the youngest member of the outlaw band, I often fell into the role of camp drudge, but I considered hauling water, scrubbing crockery, and running messages a small price to pay for the excitement and adventure of living among the brigands. I was a pet to a handful of the men like Brig, who had once had children or younger siblings. Even the sterner outlaws were won over by my admiration and fascination with everything they did. They regaled me with exaggerated tales, saved choice bits of food for me, and would bring me little trinkets when they returned from their forays.

  And so time ran on, the days so full from dawn to dusk that the passing years felt like moments. I could no longer recall vividly the faces of my parents, except in the rare nightmare, and on the occasions when I thought of the little farm where I’d once lived, my memories were hazy, less real than any dream.

  I still possessed my mother’s brooch. Brig had found it on me at some time or other and had thoughtfully stored it away until I was old enough to have it. The circumstances surrounding that trinket were still confused in my mind, but I always regarded it with a touch of reverence. It was a treasure from a past I only dimly recalled, to be pulled out occasionally and wondered at, then tucked safely away again. Once, I had examined it closely enough to find it had tiny writing engraved across the back. But I could neither write nor read and knew no one who could, so the meaning of the letters on the brooch remained a mystery.