City of Demons (4 page)

For the next two weeks, life seemed both better and worse for Garet. It was now easier to avoid his father and brothers. Indeed, it seemed that they were intent on avoiding him. Not a word was yelled at him during meals. No sting-bugs or other practical jokes tested his finely-developed sense of caution. His brothers even gave up using him as a training dummy. But this new freedom was tainted by the way they looked at him when they thought he wasn't looking back. He caught it from the corners of his eyes or in the reflection of the copper pot hanging again on its hook behind the table. Their eyes held fear and hatred. Fear? Of him? His mother's and Allia's treatment of him was unchanged, unless you could count a warm gratitude and pride that coloured every word or look his mother sent his way. His little sister seemed unaffected by these earthshaking events. She yowled and twisted, hugged and demanded as much or as little as before.
After all
, thought Garet, with one of the few smiles he had in those weeks
, what was a mere demon to a child who risked sudden death a dozen times a day?

As the moon passed into its dark phase, word came from Three Roads that Demonbanes had ridden from the cities of Old Torrick and Shirath. They came to track the demons that had attacked not only Hilly's farm but also farms and villages throughout the Midlands. Garet heard this from his mother, who had it from the tavern keeper's wife.

Returning from delivering eggs to the trading post, she told the family, “Trallet says there have been attacks all through the Midlands. Many have died. Pranix has gone to the Rivermeet.” She looked at Hilly. “Will you be going?” It was a direct question for someone who usually hedged her speech in ‘ifs' and ‘perhaps' to avoid challenging her violent mate. Since the demon's attack, Garet had seen his mother become more confident, as if she too were tired of her fears.

If it was a direct question, it was also a fair one. Hilly was the unofficial leader of the hill farmers near Three Roads, if only because his temper meant no one cared to disagree with him. The village of Bangt, where the North Ar was fed by the Plainscutter River, hosted the Rivermeet every year. The hill farmers would need representation, and none would trust Pranix, the tavern keeper who overcharged them for trade goods and underpaid them for their wool, to look after their best interests.

Hilly, however, sneered at the suggestion. “What can a hundred fat Southerners do about,” and here he stumbled, for he never spoke of that fearful night, “...about anything!” He stomped out the door, and the twins slouched after him.

His wife sighed and said, more to herself than to Garet, “They'll be off to the tavern now, trying to get free drinks.” Her expression showed that this was unlikely, and Garet had to agree; Pranix and Trallet's stinginess was legendary.

Garet also sighed. With Allia taking up so much of her mother's time, most of the work of the farm now fell on his own shoulders. His father and brothers disappeared for whole days at a time. He knew they did this to avoid him. He also knew that when it came time to dig up the root crops and store them, or plow the land in the spring, the farm would need their strength. Maybe he should leave, finally fulfil one of his daydreams and escape from this life. With so many said to be killed on the plains, there must be a place for a farm lad used to hard work. If their farm failed because he stayed, he would end up hurting his mother and Allia. He could not bear the thought of them with the pinched faces and bloated bellies of starvation. He remembered all too well the children of less fortunate farmers who came begging at the farm gate in the early spring when the poor suffered most. If Hilly was around he would chase them off with curses, but if his mother was alone, she would give them some of her gathered wild greens or a scrawny chicken to take back to their homesteads.

Garet's time in the sheep pasture was now spent considering possible, rather than imaginary, futures. These weeks were like living through the low part of winter, between the great events of harvest and spring. But in all the fantasies he had created on this boulder, he had never foreseen how frightening real change could be. Now that he had finally played the hero of his daydreams, he feared that his reward would be to lose all that he loved along with all that he hated.

A week after the news from Three Roads, strangers came riding between the low hills to the gate of Hilly's farm. From his perch on the sheep pasture boulder, Garet could see his father gesture angrily at the four figures, who had not bothered to dismount. The party consisted of an older man mounted on a tall black, a young woman or older girl on a smaller grey, and two boys, younger than Garet and riding together on a big, brown farm horse. The twins had swaggered over to join their father, and all three now seemed to be shouting at the older man. His father repeatedly pointed at himself and waved his arms. Whatever response he got must have displeased Hilly for he shook his fists at the unmoving figure on the black horse.

The girl urged her mount up beside his, crowding the twins back. The older man merely kicked the sides of the big black. Hilly jumped out of the way as the party rode through the gate and towards the farmhouse. For a long moment, Garet saw his father stare after the riders. Then, Hilly lifted his face to the sheep pasture. Across that great distance, father and son looked at each other. Garet ducked his head as his father spat in the dirt of the trail and turned away. With the twins following, Hilly walked quickly back the way the strangers had come, in the direction of Three Roads and the tavern.

His mother appeared at the door of the cabin, waving her hand to signal him down from the pasture. Garet eyed the sun, still too high above the hill's brow to bring in the sheep, and knew that he was being called to a meeting.
Perhaps the new life starts here
, he thought. A stray breeze played with the back of his neck. Nervously, he picked up a handful of stones and began the laborious process of aiming the sheep downhill.

When he had corralled the sheep and reached the cabin door, he saw his mother seated at the table with Allia twisting in her lap, facing the older man. Garet slipped quietly inside and made his way around the table to his mother's side. His back touched the heavy pot he had thrown at the demon, and for a wild moment, his hand itched to pick it up again and drive these strangers from the house.

The old man gave no indication that he felt endangered. Stiff as a plank, he sat across from Garet's mother and sipped his tea. There was no sign of the two younger boys, but the girl, tall, blond and no more than a year older than Garet, stood just as stiffly behind the grey-haired man. Garet couldn't help staring. Their clothing was well made but dusty. They each wore a coloured sash over a long, purple vest, a black, high-collared shirt, and grey trousers tucked into high, black boots. The girl's sash was green, the old man's blood red. The girl noticed his open examination and gave back an icy glare.

The old man put down his tea. “Mistress Allaina, at the tavern it is said that there was a demon slain here.”

Garet's mother straightened as if to match the posture of the man opposite and replied, “Yes sir.”

Garet prayed that she wouldn't expose his actions on that terrible night until they knew what these strangers wanted, but his worries were interrupted by an indignant outburst from the girl.

“A Bane of the Master Mandarack's rank is to be addressed as ‘Master', not ‘sir'—farmwife!” The last word was delivered dripping with contempt. She took a step forward and Garet, less intimidated by someone so near his own age and size, stepped up to shield his mother from her anger.

The old man raised his right hand, and Garet saw that the other hand lay twisted and curled in his lap, the whole arm seeming dead to use. The girl immediately stopped her forward motion and retreated to her station behind her “master”. She appeared to be grinding her teeth. Her blue eyes were blazing, and her blond hair, so typical among Southerners, shook in its braids.

“Salick,” said the seated man, his good hand still raised, “Mistress Allaina is from the North, and has—or so it is said at the tavern—lived isolated upon this farm since she came south.” He looked a question at Garet's mother. She gave a brief nod, and Garet was surprised to see that she was also angry. The old man continued, “It is neither surprising nor disrespectful that she is unaware of our traditions...or of how to speak in such a situation.”

The older woman blushed slightly, barely noticeable against her dark complexion, but Salick's fair skin turned dark red and Garet thought Master Mandarack's comments were more for her benefit than for his mother's. Having no other place to put her anger, the girl glared once more at Garet, but he had already returned to his mother's side, his attention back on Mandarack.

“I spoke to your husband.” Was that slight twist of his lips a judgement? “And he claimed to have killed the demon himself. Indeed, that is what we first heard in the tavern.” His hand rose again, this time to forestall Allaina's protest, which was accompanied by the rapid banging of Allia's spoon on the table. Mandarack patiently waited for the noise to end. “After a moment's speech with him, it was obvious that he was claiming another's due.” The man's eyes, grey as a threatening cloud, shifted to Garet. “But I think the one who did the deed is in this room.”

Garet felt his mother's hand grasp his own and, with that encouragement, he stepped forward.

“My lord,” he spoke as loudly as he could, “I killed the beast,” and here his voice faltered, “but I don't know how...”

Salick looked at him with open surprise, but Mandarack only nodded his head as if he had expected the demonslayer to be a skinny, ragged boy not yet seventeen.

“Demons destroy people by fear as much as by claw or beak, lad. Only those who can bear that fear become Demonbanes. Were you not afraid?” The pale eyes held him and demanded an answer.

Garet swallowed. “Yes, my lord, I was as afraid as the rest of my family.” He would not mention Allia's courage or her role in defeating the demon. He needed to find out their interest in him before he would risk his sister.

The old man raised the cup and took an appreciative sniff of the contents. “Mint, and strawberry leaves; a refreshing drink, Mistress.” He fixed Garet with his pale eyes again. “Lad, if you were as ‘afraid as the rest of your family', you would be dead, and I would now be hunting the beast through these dark hills. Were you afraid in,” he paused to find the right words, “a true proportion to the danger the demon represented?”

Garet thought for a moment before answering. “I feared it more than I thought I should, at least, when I had time to think about it.” He swallowed and continued, “But I thought it was only because I was a coward.” For some reason it became extremely important not to look at the young woman standing across from him.

Mandarack shook his head. “You are no coward,” he said firmly. “A demon's power is that it makes men and women fear it more than is...necessary. Much more.” He took another sip of tea. “Any of you, well almost any of you,” his lips twitched into a slight smile at Allia who lifted her spoon threateningly in response, “could have killed such a small demon as was described at the tavern.” He glanced over Garet's shoulder. “Your mother herself could have dispatched it with one good blow from that pot.”

Garet barely kept a smile from his own lips as Mandarack unknowingly named the very weapon he had used to dispatch the demon.

The old man continued, “No, it is not strength, or rough courage, or even the weapon that matters. Fear is the key. Demons are covered with it like a stench. It strikes all those who are near.” He raised his cup slightly off the table, as if in a subtle toast to the boy in front of him. “Only those who have known fear as a constant companion and refuse to give in to it can stand up to the special terror a demon brings.”

Mandarack stood, and the girl at his elbow opened the door in preparation for their leaving. It was obvious from her twitching nose that she wished to be gone from this poor house as soon as her master allowed it.

“Mistress Allaina,” Mandarack spoke to his mother as an equal and she rose and stood straighter than usual in acknowledgement, “the demons that have long plagued the cities of the South have appeared in the Midlands for the first time in history. We need all who can be trained to fight against them. It is the custom in the South to take those who can withstand a demon's fear and train them in the Banehall of their city.” He glanced around the cabin. “There has never been a need for a Banehall in the Midlands, so we are taking any likely candidates to Shirath for training. As you are a Northerner and a stranger to our customs, I feel that it is right that we should ask your leave to do so.”

Garet's mother swayed a bit and grasped the back of her chair with both hands. “You mean to take Garet to Shirath? How will he live? Who will care for him?”

Mandarack appeared not to hear Salick's snort. “Banes are well supported by the city they live in, Mistress,” he replied. “Your son, if he becomes a Bane, will never lack for food or the means to live. If he cannot pass our tests, I will guarantee his safe return to your farm.” He held his good hand out towards her. “It must be your decision, Mistress.”

It seemed an eternity of time to Garet as his mother stood looking at her son, searching his face, and perhaps looking inside her own heart for the strength to say what she must.

“My Lord Mandarack,” she said facing the grey-haired man again and putting her own hand in his, “as you have said, I do not know all your ways, but if you promise to give my son a better life than he would have here, you may take him.”

Mandarack merely nodded, but Salick's nose twitched again, and her expression seemed to say, “A better life than this? Any life would be better!”