Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  And they died.

  They died by the thousands.

  The oil spilled. The hand cannons fired. Elorians brought catapults to the walls, and boulders rained down upon the enemy, crushing Timandrians in their steel like crayfish under hammers. With arrow, with oil, with stone and with gunpowder, they tore them down.

  Koyee screamed as she fought, weary and hoarse, her temple blazing where an arrow had scratched her, and light filled her heart.

  “You killed my father,” she said, teeth grinding, heart hammering. “Now we slay you all. You crushed our fleet, but now you crash against our walls, demons.”

  Smoke and ash hid the moon, but moonlight shone in Koyee’s breast. For so long, she had tried to warn Eloria of the threat. For so long, she had lived in squalor, ignored, an urchin caked in mud, treated like some mad prophet. But now Eloria was roused. Now the night rose. Now Koyee fought for her home, and she knew they would win.

  Countless corpses piled up below. Koyee fired an arrow, slew another man, and nodded.

  “Now you will learn, demons, that the night does not burn.”

  Before she could nock another arrow, trumpets blared in the west.

  Koyee turned her head … and lost her breath.

  “Stars above,” she whispered.

  As around her soldiers fired arrows, slaying Timandrians at the southern gates, Koyee left her post. She raced along the wall between archers. She reached the western battlements where few sentinels stood.

  There, upon the western plains, they marched.

  “There are tens of thousands,” she said and trembled. “Maybe hundreds of thousands.”

  And Koyee knew: The Timandrian fleet, a hundred ships of war, was only the vanguard. The true army, the infantry of the sun, was only now arriving.

  “They are as many as the stars,” she whispered. “They are as many as beads of light upon the Inaro. This is an enemy we cannot defeat.” She raised her bow. “Yet I will fight them still.” She raised her voice and shouted, a cry that rang out over the battle, a cry she thought could reach the stars and moon. “The sunlit demons rise in the west! Hark, Eloria! Enemy in the west—bring arrows and oil!”

  She returned her eyes to the approaching army. With every breath, they grew closer, and her heart sank deeper. Thousands of them rode beasts—great, towering beasts as large as nightwolves, their necks long and maned. Countless more marched behind the riders, stretching into the horizon. They moved in perfect formation, bearing swords and torches, their lights filling the night like the dusk. Their war drums boomed. Their chants—”Timandra! Timandra!”—rolled across the plains. Towers moved among them, great constructions of wood and leather upon wheels, siege engines taller than the walls of Pahmey. Catapults rolled. Hundreds of wagons trailed behind.

  This was not merely a force to drown a fleet or smash through gates. It was not even a force to crush a city.

  “This is an army to light all of Eloria,” Koyee whispered. “Eelani, I’m afraid.”

  Elorian soldiers gathered around her, clad in steel scales, spears and bows in hand. At the gates, the armies still clashed. Upon the western walls, what soldiers could be spared mustered. Koyee looked across the battlements.

  How many men fight with me? she thought. A thousand? Two thousand?

  That was all Pahmey had. It was all that could hold back the day.

  “We need aid,” she whispered. “We need soldiers from other cities. We need armies from across Qaelin, from across all Eloria.” Her eyes stung. “We cannot face the daylight alone.”

  Clouds and smoke hid the moon. It began to rain, the drops tasting of ash, stinging hot against her tongue. The patter of water on steel rose like spirit drumming.

  The forces below grew closer, their fires bright, and their drums beat louder than the rain, and their horns tore through the night like dying animals. They howled, their small eyes all but invisible, their faces twisted in furor. Among them moved strange monks in yellow robes, their standards bearing golden suns. Their riders raised spears and shouted for blood. Their towers of wood and leather moved forward, wheels creaking, and Koyee saw men atop them, swords and shields bright.

  Koyee raised her chin. “Be with me, stars of Eloria. Be with me in my fight and in my death.”

  She pulled back her bowstring.

  Around her, a thousand other archers aimed.

  The rain fell. The enemies marched closer until they stood outside the walls, spreading across the land, a sea of soldiers and riders and siege machines. The drumbeats stopped, the horns were lowered, and silence fell across the land, eerie after so much battle.

  “For Eloria,” Koyee whispered … and loosed her arrow.

  Before her missile could hit its target, the army below surged. The battle flared with the might of ten thousand cannons.

  The Elorian arrows rained down, slaying hundreds, but the enemy still stormed forth. Trebuchets twanged below and boulders flew. Koyee ducked and winced. One boulder tumbled over her head, and when she looked over her shoulder, she saw it crash into buildings. A second boulder slammed into the battlements only fifty yards away; it smashed through the wall, scattering bricks and bodies. Blood rained onto the streets behind the walls.

  “Archers, do not fear the fire!” Koyee shouted. She shot another arrow. “Warriors of Eloria—do not fear the day! Fight! Slay them!”

  Arrows flew from below. Ballistae and catapults fired. Boulders slammed into soldiers, into buildings, into the wall. Shards of iron, each larger than Koyee’s entire body, sailed over her head to shatter buildings behind her. Bricks rained. Men screamed. Merlons tumbled down to the plains, burying Timandrians. And still the enemy attacked.

  The siege towers moved forward, drawn by great, brown beasts larger than any Koyee had ever seen, horns growing from their triangular heads. The wheels of the towers creaked, each twice her height. Upon each wooden structure, a score of Timandrians stood, firing arrows, swords at their sides. Their missiles flew around Koyee. They slammed into a man at her side, punching through his scale armor; he fell.

  Koyee ducked behind a merlon. She leaned over her comrade; he lay dead. Wincing, Koyee pulled the man’s helmet off and placed it over her own head. It wobbled, too large, but Koyee strapped it down as tight as she could. She rose with an arrow nocked and fired. The projectile whistled through the air and slammed into a Timandrian upon a siege tower, sending him plummeting a hundred feet to the ground.

  “Hit the towers!” she shouted. “Warriors of Eloria, shoot them dead!”

  At her sides, Elorians loaded wall-mounted catapults. Boulders flew and crashed into siege towers, scattering chips of wood and bodies. Three Elorians lit bronze cannons. The smell of gunpowder flared, and iron rounds blasted out, slamming into the siege engines. Thousands of arrows filled the sky, firing both ways. Men fell dead below and upon the walls.

  Through fire, arrows, and tumbling boulders, three siege towers reached the walls. Three planks clanked down onto the battlements. A hundred Timandrians, covered in steel, raced onto the walls of Pahmey.

  Koyee slung her bow across her shoulder and drew her father’s sword.

  “Be with me, Father,” she whispered. “Be with me, starlight of Eloria.”

  Timandrians raced across the battlements toward her.

  Still wearing the silk dress of a yezyana, a dead man’s helmet on her head, Koyee screamed and swung her sword.

  The sunlit demons towered above her. She was a slight woman, thin and short; they were broad and tall. Their swords swung down, doubled edged and wide, longer than her katana. A man rushed at her. With a shout, she raised her blade, parrying a blow. The enemy’s sword was so large she thought it could snap her blade.

  She screamed and swung Sheytusung down. The Timandrian blocked the blow and sparks showered. When he swung again and Koyee parried, she fell to her knees. Pain raced up her arm. With her left hand, she grabbed the shield of a fallen soldier and raised it overhead. When the enemy blade slammed i
nto the metal, Koyee leaped sideways, swung her sword, and slammed the blade into her opponent’s armor.

  His steel barely even dented; it seemed thicker than Elorian armor, a plate of metal that she thought could block cannonfire. Koyee blocked another blow, screamed, and placed her back to the battlements. She shoved forward, shield held before her.

  The Timandrian teetered on the edge. Koyee gave another shove to her shield and sent him tumbling down into Pahmey. He crashed to the streets, a hunk of steel, and blood seeped from his armor.

  Panting, Koyee glanced around her. All across the walls, the battle raged. Swords rang. Men tumbled from the battlements and blood splashed. Another Timandrian raced toward her, laughing as he fought, and their swords locked.

  They fought for what seemed an eternity. Swords rang and blood spilled and catapults fired. Arrows covered the night sky. For every Timandrian slain, ten more emerged. They leaped from siege towers. They climbed great ladders, and for every ladder the Elorians sent tumbling down, two more rose. A boulder blasted a hole through the walls a hundred yards north of Koyee, and men fought upon the rubble. All around the city walls, wherever Koyee raced, she saw them spreading into the horizon, an endless sea of the demons, swarms of steel and torches, a light that never seemed to end.

  Timandrians parted below, chanting as they wheeled forth a great contraption on ten wheels, a beast of wood and metal larger than a whale. Poles topped the machine, and chains hung from them. Upon the chains swung a battering ram painted black, shaped as the cruel bird the enemy called “Raven.” Its beak thrust out, forged of iron and lit with firelight. Its eyes burned, two obsidian gems. Its claws reached out, cruel as swords. The Timandrians wheeled their champion over hills of bodies, tugged the great Raven back, and sent it swooping. The battering ram slammed into the city gates, showering fragments of metal.

  Koyee fired down her arrows. Around her, what remained of the defenses—barely a hundred bloodied men—fired with her. And still the iron raven swung. Its beak and claws tore through the gates, bending and snapping metal. The Timandrians cheered as their ram shattered the doors, and Koyee knew: It was over.

  “Down into the streets!” she shouted, voice hoarse with smoke. Blood dripped from her head across her shoulder. “Fight them in the city, warriors of Eloria! Give them no rest! Fight them in every alley.”

  She raced down the wall, sword and shield raised, to see the enemy march through the shattered gates.

  Dozens entered through the archway, swords and armor bright, their torches lit. Behind them, a hundred thousand more spread across the night.

  Koyee walked down the street and faced them. Around her, a mere hundred Elorian soldiers gathered, their armor dented, their wounds bleeding, their arms shaking with weakness. Koyee’s heart thrashed and her legs shook, but she refused to run. She stood firmly, facing the horde at the gates, and raised her sword.

  “I am Koyee of Eloria!” she called out to them. “I am a warrior of the night. I am a huntress of the moonlit plains. This is my city. This is my land. You cannot enter. Return to the day! This city is forbidden to you. You cannot enter. We are the night!”

  Their eyes mocked her and they brandished their swords. They marched toward her, and Koyee raised her chin and prepared to kill and die.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  BETWEEN WISDOM AND WOLVES

  As they rode on, Okado wanted to sing for glory, to brandish his sword, to shout until he was hoarse about courage and honor and their rise to might. Yet as the Chanku Clan continued along the plains, down to half their strength, he could not stop seeing the dead.

  The heat of battle had stirred him; tiger fangs, enemy spears, and spraying blood were fuel to a warrior’s flames. It was the silence after the battle that still pierced him. The riders who would never more sing. The wolves who lay on their sides, blood trickling from their silenced jaws. The eyes staring at him, still and glassy. Five thousand riders and five thousand wolves had fallen upon the plains—riders of the Chanku Pack, warriors of the Qaelin nation, proud Elorians of the dark half of the world.

  Five thousand gone.

  He looked at Suntai, who rode beside him, and saw the same ghosts in her eyes. In those large, indigo orbs they were still dying—so many of their brothers and sisters.

  The remainder of their warriors rode behind them. Okado moved his wolf to press up against Suntai’s. He spoke in a low voice for only her ears.

  “Yorashi wanted us to travel south,” he said. “He wanted to forget Pahmey and its glory. He wanted to seek a life of peace.” His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. “Suntai … was I wrong to refuse him?”

  She raised her chin, reached out, and clasped his arm. “You are our alpha now. You proved your strength. We will follow you.”

  Strength. What was strength when five thousand lay dead? When he returned to their crater, in victory or defeat, he would find children, elders, and parents all grieving for their fallen. How would his strength help them then?

  He gritted his teeth.

  “Yes, Suntai, I am strong.”

  He cursed himself for his moment of weakness. What kind of alpha spoke of mourning, of uncertainty, of cowardice? Okado would not hold his new title for long if the others knew his doubts. His new beta, the brutish Juro, would slay him, feed his heart to his wolf, and rule instead.

  For we are the pack. All we know is strength. That strength will see us triumph … or die in the dark.

  They traveled across the land, bloodied but still holding their heads high, until they saw the Inaro River, its water silver in the moonlight. Another mile and the city of Pahmey appeared in the distance, bright upon the northern riverbanks.

  First its towers rose from the horizon, shining like crystals growing from a cave floor. Blue, green, and pale pink, they reached toward the sky, hands calling lost children home. The tallest among them held a glass dome; from this tower the Chanku ancestors had once ruled, and now the cruel elders reigned.

  “Behold the light of Pahmey,” Okado said softly. “Behold our home that was lost, our home that we will reclaim.”

  As the pack kept moving, the city kept rising, revealing a hill covered with houses, temples, and pagodas with tiers of tiled roofs. Another mile, and they could see the city walls … and for the second time since leaving the crater, Okado lost his breath.

  He tugged the reins, halting his mount.

  “Stars of the wolf,” Suntai whispered at his side, coming to a stop beside him.

  Okado stared, unable to breathe, unable to move.

  We did not defeat the armies of sunlight, he realized. We only severed a single arm from a beast of endless tentacles.

  A hundred thousand troops or more gathered around Pahmey, their torches burning, a swarm of ants surrounding a fallen morsel. They sailed upon the river on a hundred ships, each topped with three masts, each large enough to hold a thousand men. They covered the plains, their armor bright, slamming against the walls. Their catapults fired. Their siege towers, as tall as the fabled walls of Pahmey, held archers and swordsmen. Their banners fluttered in the wind, showing black birds against golden fields. It was a different clan that swarmed below—not the clan of the tiger—but they too were Timandrians. They too were warriors of sunlight.

  His fellow wolves came to stand around him. They stared across the water as the sunlit demons crushed the city of Pahmey.

  “The Pahmey elders never summoned these demons,” Okado said, and that fear grew inside him. “They never sent the army our way.” He looked at his mate. “This is no battle between Chanku and Pahmey. This is an invasion of day into night.”

  The enemy’s distant chants of “Timandra!” rolled across the water. Their horns blared and their drums beat. Their shouts rose and fell like stormy waves. For miles, their torchlight spread. Their boulders and arrows covered the sky, pounding the city. The people of Pahmey fought with cannons, bows, and swords, but could not hold back the storm. Even from here, a mile across
the water, Okado could smell the blood and death.

  He raised his sword, then lowered it. He opened his mouth to shout for victory, then closed it. He let Refir take a step toward the water, ready to swim across, then pulled the wolf back. That old fear flared, no longer icy cold, but all consuming, indistinguishable from heat, burning him and freezing his innards all at once.

  I am a warrior! called a voice inside him. I am an alpha! How can I know fear? How can I turn away from battle?

  His clan was watching him, awaiting his order, awaiting his charge at the enemy. Okado could barely breathe. He could not stop his fists from shaking, and he knew the clan noticed. Murmurs rose among them. If he was weak, they would tear him apart. If he could not storm to war, the strongest and bravest among them, they would feed his heart to the wolves.

  He looked at the host ahead, a landscape of demons. Upon the plains, only ten thousand Timandrians had halved his clan. Here ahead waited a host ten times the size, and Okado knew: We cannot win this battle.

  He knew his duty. He knew the code of Chanku honor. Dare I disobey my honor now … to save the lives of my warriors, even if they slay me for it?

  “Riders!”

  The distant, sputtering voice rose from the river. Okado squinted and saw the swimmer. The man looked ready to drown. He slapped at the water, an arrow in his shoulder, spitting out water. He cried out to them, a young Elorian man, face pale and lips blue.

  “Riders of Eloria!”

  Okado turned to his riders. “Wait here.”

  The fear still coursing through him, he spurred his wolf. Refir was wounded, but he raced into the water and began to swim, Okado on his back. The current tugged them eastward, but Refir swam mightily. The water rose up to Okado’s waist, icy cold. The drowning man gave a last sputter and wave and then sank; only the arrow embedded in his shoulder remained above the surface.

  “Refir, grab him!” Okado said.

  The wolf swam faster, sank his head into the water, and tugged back. In his jaws, he held the drowning man’s collar. The man was still alive, coughing water, his blood trickling. Okado pulled him onto the saddle.