Free City of Demons by Kevin Harkness

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.
    â€œWooden 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.”
    â€œLook 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.”
    â€œBut 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.
    â€œMaster 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