Free City of Demons by Kevin Harkness Page B

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.
    â€œNo,” 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.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œBashers 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.