Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  “A beacon of light in the darkness,” he said softly into the night wind. “Here is our prize.”

  His ship, the River Raven, sailed smoothly along the river, the current taking them toward the distant lights. The water was a mile wide; sailing along the northern bank, Ceranor could only glimpse the southern lands when moonlight glinted against boulders. He sailed ahead of his fleet, and when he looked behind him, he saw a hundred ships following, the Ardish navy in all its might.

  “My king,” said Torin, coming to stand beside him. “We cannot repeat what happened at the village. We cannot slaughter these people mindlessly, soldiers and civilians alike.”

  Ceranor turned to look at the boy. It had been ten hourglass turns since they’d burned the village, and Torin still seemed shaken. Rather than stare at the distant city in delight, the boy’s eyes filled with shadows. His face seemed milky pale in the moonlight, and even the lamps that hung from the River Raven’s masts, casting warm light, could not hide his pallor.

  “You have my word.” Ceranor nodded. “What happened at the village was unfortunate. We were too eager to fight; we destroyed when we should have conquered. But this city…” He looked back at the distant lights and inhaled deeply. “This city is a great prize—not to crush, but to cherish, to keep safe. This will be a place of jewels and gold and wealth. Do you see the little lights on the river? Those are ships, Torin. Elorian ships bearing the treasures of the night. They will be ours.”

  Torin said nothing, only stared ahead, face blank.

  He has no lust for conquest, Ceranor thought. He is still a gardener at heart; he feels lost in a barren land where no tree, flower, or grass can grow.

  Ceranor thought back to his own youth. When he’d been eighteen, the same age as Torin now, he’d fought his first battle, an ugly affair in the southern jungles of Naya. Their horses and carriages had gotten bogged down in the swamps. Mud had filled their armor and insects had laid eggs in their skin. The southern warriors, clad in tiger furs, had ripped through the Ardish infantry. Ceranor had marched south a callow youth; he returned to Arden scarred and hardened, mourning the loss of his friends, his heart tempered like his blade.

  Torin’s spirit will be forged here, Ceranor thought. He is soft now, and he is afraid, but this land will make him a man.

  “I wish your father were here with us, Torin,” he said to the boy. “The men loved him. I miss him. I know you do too.” He placed a hand on Torin’s shoulder. “I cannot bring him back, but I promise you—in this battle, I will watch over you as a father.”

  Finally Torin looked at him, eyes haunted. “What would my father say if he were here? Would he celebrate this conquest, or would he ask you to sail back home?”

  Ceranor leaned across the railing. “Torin, if we sail back now, we will not have a home to return to. Mageria nearly crushed us in the last war; their wizards have since been mustering more magic. In the north, the snowy barbarians shouted for war. In the south, the jungle warriors craved our blood. This war sent them all into the night.” Ceranor swept his arm across the barren landscape. “They now march across lifeless plains; they find only rock and dust to conquer. But this city ahead…” He pointed at the growing cluster of light. “If the Ardish fleet can capture this city, we will have its jewels, its steel, its gold. Those of its warriors who lay down their arms will be allowed to serve us. Arden will emerge victorious, the greatest kingdom of Dayside. No more will our enemies threaten us. No more will our commoners, hungry and afraid, demand the blood of their king. Arden will be safe.”

  “And Eloria will crumble,” Torin said softly. “Thus will we buy our safety—with the defeat of another race.”

  Ceranor nodded. “That is how the world has always worked, Torin. The mighty raven leads his flock by pecking the weaker birds. There is only security in strength. There is only might in conquest. Gardeners foster flowers, greenery, and butterflies. Kings must deal with blood.”

  Torin opened his mouth as if to speak and then shut it. His eyes narrowed and he stared over the king’s shoulder. He pointed upward.

  “My king! A light in the sky.”

  Ceranor turned, looked into the night sky, and frowned. A light indeed shone there, but it was not as distant as the moon or stars. Whatever it was, it came gliding from the east, heading toward their fleet. Ceranor’s eyes had spent five decades gazing upon a sunlit world; it took a moment to focus on what floated above.

  “It looks like a boat,” he said, unable to hide the awe from his voice. “A boat in the sky.”

  Only it wasn’t a boat, not truly. Instead of a hull, it had merely a large basket. Instead of sails, it was topped with a round patchwork of cloth; it looked like a great, upside down sack. A single Elorian stood in the basket, and a fire burned beside him, filling the round patchwork with light. The vessel glided to fly directly above them, a good thousand yards above.

  Ceranor understood.

  “A spy,” he said, grabbed his bow, and nocked an arrow. “A spy in a flying demon ship. Men, shoot it down!”

  He fired his arrow. His archers shot around him. Ceranor stared upward, scowling. The demon ship, however, flew too high. The arrows arched and came falling down; they vanished into the river.

  As the men shot more arrows, the flying vessel turned and began drifting back toward the city.

  “Whatever sorcery they use,” Ceranor said, “it gave them a good look at us.” He clutched his bow. “Dark magic cannot save them, not from our might. Their eyes in the sky will only foster their fear.” He stared toward the city, jaw tight. “Look, Torin. Towers appear.”

  As the fleet sailed closer, details emerged. It seemed to Ceranor that a wall surrounded the city, a black ring. A hill rose within, its towers rising, tall and thin and lit. Upon the hilltop, a central tower rose silver and bright; a dome topped it like a moon. Smaller towers clustered all around, green and white and blue. The structures seemed made of crystal and glass; they glowed with inner light. The river ran south of the city, dotted with lanterns; a hundred or more ships sailed there. The village had given Ceranor little treasure; only a few sacks of crayfish, some coins, and a handful of jewels.

  But this place … this place will make me an emperor.

  Ceranor turned to face his men. Two hundred soldiers crowded the deck of the River Raven, clad in steel and bearing swords, shields, and bows. Hundreds more waited in its hull. Twenty thousand more troops sailed behind his flagship; the fleet stretched a mile along the river, its hundreds of masts rising like a forest, their lanterns bright.

  “Men of sunlight!” Ceranor called out. “We bring light to the darkness. We sail toward a great city of gold, crystal, and jewels. We will liberate this city from the night. We will bring it light and justice, and its treasures will be ours.” He drew his sword and raised the blade. “You will fight well! You will fight bravely. I, King Ceranor, fight with you. Torin Greenmoat, son of the great hero Teramin, fights with you. For the sun! For light! We will be victorious!”

  They raised their swords and shouted together. “For light!”

  All across the fleet they chanted and brandished their weapons, twenty thousand warriors, noble and strong. Their cries rolled across the landscapes of night.

  “This city will be ours!” Ceranor cried, and they cheered.

  He turned back toward the distant lights. With every breath, the city grew closer, and more details emerged; he could see smaller houses now, pagodas, and snaking streets. He could see the sails of their ships. The city was massive; it seemed thrice the size of Kingswall, the largest city in Arden.

  “Hundreds of thousands must live here,” he said. “They will be ours to govern.”

  Torin looked back at the fleet. “My king, only part of our army sails on these ships. Should we not anchor down and wait for our infantry and cavalry?”

  Ceranor shook his head. “We have all we need to take this city. Our infantry marches across the plains; they won’t be here for two hourglass turns. Wh
en they arrive, we will welcome them through this city’s gates.” He clutched Torin’s arm. “We are the fabled Ardish armada. We are the vanguard. We are the spearhead, the conquerors of darkness. Fight by my side, and we will be heroes of daylight. All other kings will bow before us. Ready your sword, Torin Greenmoat. War is here.”

  Feet scuffled across the deck, and Bailey Berin came racing up toward them. Her eyes flashed and her braids flounced. She had joined their army wearing the crude armor of the outposts. Ceranor had outfitted her with true steel; she now wore a fine breastplate, and a cloak of black and gold draped across her shoulders. She clutched a shield, its surface sporting a raven upon a golden field, and drew her sword.

  “I am with you, Torin,” she said and raised her chin. She turned toward the king. “Without me, he’d fall into the water.” She looked over her shoulder and shouted out. “Hem, Cam! I told you to stay with me. To me, boys!” She patted her thigh. “To me!”

  The two young villagers stumbled forth, panting. Ceranor had outfitted them in new armor and cloaks, yet even shiny steel couldn’t hide their countryside awkwardness. Ceranor smiled thinly—his second smile in long years.

  They remind me of my own youth, he thought. Wasn’t I clumsy when I was their age … but still eager for the fight?

  “You are blessed to have such close friends, Torin,” he said. “Now look! A boat sails our way. First blood will soon spill.”

  Ceranor’s heart pumped and he inhaled deeply, savoring the cold air. This was what he lived for—not stuffy courts, not twisting politics, not silly young wives—but this … the open air, the anticipation of blood, and the thrill of looming battle.

  The boat sailing their way was small, hardly more than a humble pontoon. Poles rose from its corners, supporting a silk canopy. A battened sail billowed upon its mast, sporting a circle within a star. Lanterns floated above the hull, tethered to the railing with strings, casting green and red lights that glimmered on the river; the lanterns seemed to use the same magic as the flying ship.

  Ceranor nodded at the archers who stood to his left. They nodded back and drew arrows.

  When Ceranor returned his eyes ahead, the pontoon was closer, and he could discern figures standing at its prow. This was no military ship. Three Elorians stood there, elders clad in blue silken robes, their beards flowing down to their slippers. They held out strings of gems, chains of gold and silver, and amulets.

  “We might not even have to fight for this treasure,” Ceranor said, raising his eyebrows. “The night folk bring us their jewels willingly, it would seem.”

  The ships sailed closer together—a fleet of mighty warships sailing east and a single pontoon, barely larger than a carriage, sailing to meet them. Upon their boat, the Elorian elders smiled. Silver stars and moons gleamed upon their robes, and beads shone around their necks. The sight of Elorians still unnerved Ceranor; their eyes were as large and green as limes—freakish things. Ceranor’s own eyes could only see where lanterns glowed; he had a feeling these Elorians could see across the plains as clearly as in daylight.

  It makes them dangerous foes, he thought, then let his eyes linger upon the jewels they bore. Wealthy foes.

  One of the elders called out to them, voice pleasant. He spoke in a language Ceranor could not understand; its syllables flowed from sound to sound, full of vowels and almost no consonants he could recognize, a language like wind on water. The elders held out their jewels and smiled.

  “They’re welcoming us,” Torin said, his voice barely a whisper. “We burned their village, yet they welcome us peacefully. They offer us gifts.”

  “They seek not to welcome us,” Ceranor said, “but to appease us. They see our mighty fleet, and they know they cannot defeat us. They seek to send us away with a few trinkets.” He looked up at the crystal city that rose several miles away. “But we will have more than the few jewels three elders can bear. Arden will have the wealth of this mighty city.”

  The Elorian boat reached them, swaying in the water, its silken canopy strewn with golden stars, moons, and fish. The elders smiled up at them.

  “Let them on board!” Ceranor cried out. “They bear gifts. Lower the plank!”

  Sailors bustled about, and soon a wooden plank ran down from the River Raven to the smaller ship. The elders stood upon their deck, smiling up, but did not climb onto the larger vessel.

  “They’re afraid,” Torin said. “They smile but fear fills their eyes.”

  “They should be afraid,” said Ceranor. “They face the might of the sun. Come with me, Torin. We’ll climb aboard their vessel and accept their treasure. It would be a pity to sink a boat laden with jewels.”

  Hand clutching his sword’s hilt, Ceranor crossed the deck of his flagship, stepped onto the plank, and walked down toward the Elorian pontoon. Behind him, he heard Torin’s footsteps as the boy followed.

  When he reached the pontoon, the elders smiled and bowed their heads, jewels and chains still in their hands. Ceranor stepped on board. The deck seemed made of clay molded around a metal frame; it thumped hollowly with every step. Lanterns glowed along the railings, shaped as faces with bright eyes and mocking mouths. Torin came to stand beside him, face somber.

  “Sen sen,” said one of the Elorians, hand raised in welcome. He was an ancient creature, his pale face wrinkled like a raisin, his beard white and flowing. He held the gifts out toward Ceranor. “Tinshay Eloria.”

  Ceranor took the jewels, strings of gems, and golden chains. He bowed his head.

  “Sen sen,” he said, guessing—hoping—that meant ‘hello.’ “I am King Ceranor of Arden, a kingdom of Timandra. My companion is Torin Greenmoat.”

  The elders brought forth more gifts. One held out a chest full of golden coins. They spoke more in their lilting language, bowing their heads and smiling. They seemed like servile pups groveling before a larger dog, Ceranor thought. It pleased him.

  “Imagine the treasures in this city, Torin!” he said, pointing at the cluster of lights, which still lay on the horizon. “This land is wealthier than we imagined.”

  Finally the elders’ smiles faded. Their eyes darkened. They shook their heads and pointed west, away from the city. Their voices grew more vigorous.

  “Loy Pahmey,” one said firmly, blocking the view of the city with his body. “Loy. Loy! Timandra loy Pahmey.”

  “My king,” Torin said, stepping closer to Ceranor. “They are telling us that their city is forbidden. Loy probably means no. The city is probably named Pahmey.” The boy turned back toward the Elorians, pointed at the city, and asked, “Pahmey?”

  The elders nodded, then pointed westward, back toward distant Timandra. They spoke some more; Ceranor could understand none of it, but he knew what they were saying.

  “They want us to sail back,” he said. “Do you see, son? They hoped to appease us with gifts, then send us on our way.” Ceranor sighed. “It is sad. We have a hundred ships; they cannot hope to oppose us. We’ll take these elders back to the River Raven and chain them in the brig; they will become our servants. We will keep their ship; it’s a useful vessel.”

  Torin swallowed, looked at the Elorians, and pointed at Pahmey again.

  “You must let us sail in peacefully,” he said to the elders. “Do you understand?” Torin gestured with his hands, mimicking a ship sailing through a gate. “Let us into Pahmey and we won’t harm you. You must let us in peacefully or we will fight.”

  The Elorians only shook their heads more vigorously, looking distraught. They spoke louder; Ceranor only understood “no” and “Pahmey” over and over.

  He placed his hand on Torin’s shoulder.

  “Come now, it’s no use, son. They don’t understand. They are simpletons; I doubt Elorians have more sense than children. We’ll take them back to our ship.” Ceranor reached out toward the Elorians and gestured for them to follow. “Come, my friends! Return with me to my flagship.”

  The Elorians recoiled and reached into their robes. They produced m
ore jewels and held them forth.

  Whistles sounded.

  Shards tore through the night.

  An arrow slammed into one Elorian’s chest.

  Ceranor inhaled sharply and drew his sword. Before he could react, two more arrows whistled. Two more Elorians fell, clutching their chests.

  Blood splashed the deck. One of the elders managed to crawl to the railing, and two more arrows slammed into his back. With his dying breath, the bearded Elorian untied a red lantern. The light floated away from the ship, rising like a phoenix, the color of blood.

  Growling, Ceranor spun around toward the River Raven. Sailith monks stood above, clad in yellow robes, bows in hand. Ferius stood among them, teeth bared, and lowered his bow.

  “Are you safe, my king?” the monk called down from the larger ship, though no concern filled his voice, only restrained glee.

  Damn the man!

  “I needed them alive!” Ceranor shouted up at him.

  Ferius only smirked. “They were reaching into their robes for weapons, my king. I had to keep you safe.”

  “They were reaching for gifts, you fool.”

  Teeth bared, Ceranor turned back toward the Elorians. All three lay dead. Torin knelt above them, fists clenched.

  “Now do you see, my king?” the boy said, voice strained. “Now do you see the evil we bring with us? These monks will spark a flame to burn us all. We could have entered the city peacefully. We could havenegotiated.”

  Ceranor forced himself to swallow down his anger. Evil or not, the Sailith Order was almost as strong as the crown; they were a beast that needed constant feeding. Here, bleeding upon the Elorian deck, were three more logs for their fire.

  “Come with me, Torin. Back to our ship. We sail on.” Ceranor looked toward the cluster of towers, bridges, and glass domes. “We sail to Pahmey.”