Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  “Do you know where you first erred?” Velixar asked.

  Darius rolled his eyes. More questions. Always questions.

  “I suppose you’ll say when I refused to kill my friend?” he said, his voice full of sarcasm.

  “No, that was just a symptom of a greater failure. It is when you treated him as your equal, as your friend. Call me a liar, and doubt my wisdom, but did you ever do the same to Jerico? You overlooked his lies. You forgave his belief in the false god. You treated him as one of your own, and in turn, spat in the face of Karak. Ashhur is the enemy. You cannot serve Karak and refuse that simple truth.”

  “No,” Darius said, wishing he could call for the guards. “No. You’re wrong. Karak doesn’t want murder. He doesn’t want bloodshed. He wants order! He wants peace!”

  Velixar stood. All trace of humor left him. When he spoke, there was no mockery, no anger. Instead, Darius heard something all the more frightening: certainty.

  “My eyes are everywhere,” he said. “I watched you kill the paladin, Pallos. Answer me this one question truthfully, and I will let you be. What happened when you killed him? What happened when your blade cleaved through Pallos’s neck?”

  Darius fought against the memory. He had tried to think it made no sense, that it had been a hallucination, a delusion, a deception. The weight of it crushed him, and when he looked into Velixar’s eyes, he knew he could not lie, so he said nothing, for what else could he say?

  But Velixar knew. No smiles. No bragging. He spoke quietly, almost gently.

  “Your blade burned with Karak’s fire, didn’t it? At that glorious moment, you felt the presence of your god.”

  Darius felt tears slide down his face.

  “I did,” he said, his voice cracking.

  “You took the life of a paladin of Ashhur, and Karak blessed you for it. The truth could not be any simpler. Do you still deny me?”

  He wanted to. He needed to. Shaking his head, Darius clung to the last vestige of his faith.

  “Killing Jerico would have been wrong,” he said. “You will never convince me otherwise.”

  Velixar put his back to him, and as the shadows swirled about, he spoke.

  “I will not be the one to convince you, Darius. You will do that on your own. When you do, I will be waiting, and I will welcome you back to the glory of Karak with open arms.”

  The shadows thickened, and then Velixar was gone. Darius jolted, as if he’d been asleep the whole while. Tears remained on his face. In the corner, the jailor snored.

  “Damn you, Jerico,” Darius whispered. “I hope you live. I hope you live a thousand years for the suffering I must endure.”

  He slept, not long, and not comfortably. His dreams were dark, and Karak’s contempt filled them with shadows and fire.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kalgan sat beside him when Jerico came to, his consciousness swimming to the surface amid an ocean of pain.

  “How long?” Jerico asked, lying very still, which kept the pain at its least.

  “Just a few hours,” Kalgan said. “You’re tougher than you look.”

  “Thanks, I guess. Water?”

  A bony hand pressed against his back as he sat up. Every movement made his leg ache, but he was thirsty, and refused to let the pain control him. He accepted a small wooden cup and drank. It tasted strangely bitter, but he downed it anyway.

  “There’s a few herbs in there to help you,” Kalgan said, taking back the cup. “Some you’ve heard of, and some I doubt you’ve ever seen before. You’ll sleep well, and it’ll dull the pain. Ignore any strange hallucinations it gives you.”

  Already he felt his head turning light, and he tried to protest.

  “I shouldn’t … things like that…”

  “Spare me, Jerico. Even in your sleep, you moaned with pain.”

  Jerico breathed in deep and tried to relax. Best he could tell, he was back in the same hut, and when he glanced left, he saw the patched up hole that had been his exit earlier. Beth was gone, and he hoped that meant her recovery was going well.

  “Your ability to heal,” Kalgan said, settling into his chair and resting his hands on his lap. “Can you use it on yourself?”

  “In a way,” Jerico said. His throat felt dry despite the drink, and his tongue thick. His pain was dulling, though, which was nice. “It requires concentration, and if the pain is bad…”

  “Which it is. I thought so. You won’t be going anywhere for a few days. I suspect you’ll be up and about faster than any man has right to, but it won’t be today. I already told Kaide as much.”

  “Kaide?” Jerico started to sit up, but his stomach lurched, and the whole room swayed as if the world had begun to shake. He lay back down, deciding such complicated actions like sitting up or talking could probably be done slowly, or later.

  “Yes, he seemed quite worried for you. Not that you’d get better, but that you’d run off. I told him you had a few days to recover, and I considered that generous. Most men would have never walked again, and those that did would use a cane. Your kneecap is in pieces, paladin. As for the flesh around it, well … I wouldn’t look if I were you. Not until you’re ready to use Ashhur’s magic to remedy it.”

  “Not … magic…”

  Kalgan laughed, and Jerico chuckled along with him despite his sour mood.

  “Call it what you want, but Kren did something to your leg when he touched you, that much I’m certain. I thought of cutting it off completely, to be honest. If I hadn’t seen what you’d done for Beth, I’d have already brought out the knife.”

  “How is Beth?” Jerico asked after a moment to catch his breath. He felt a heaviness settling over him, like an invisible blanket weighted on all sides. He wanted to lie still, and do nothing, but he refused to cooperate.

  “Still asleep, but in her own bed. Poor girl, to suffer such a cruel fate from a little thing like a spider. Some parts of life are lost to her, but she’s resilient, got that much from her father. She’ll find a way to thrive, and the people of this village love her. Don’t worry about her fate, just concentrate on your own.”

  Ignoring Kalgan’s earlier advice, Jerico sat up again. His eyes didn’t want to open, but after a moment, he rubbed them with his fingers and then pulled aside his blanket. Seeing his leg, he turned to one side and vomited. Kalgan cursed up a storm.

  “What’d I tell you?” Kalgan said. He left, then returned with a handful of dirt and sawdust to scatter atop the vomit.

  “Does it smell of rot?” Jerico asked, pulling the blanket back over.

  “No. For that, I guess you can be thankful.”

  Jerico laughed.

  “Aye. Thankful. If you don’t mind, I’m going back to sleep.”

  “Do you want me to splint the leg?”

  Jerico thought of the black tissue around his swollen kneecap, the blue veins streaking outward in all directions.

  “No,” he said. “Don’t touch it. Ashhur help me, I don’t want to think of the pain.”

  Jerico slept, and when he awoke again, night had fallen. Several new blankets lay over him, and despite their cover, he felt cold all over. Kalgan’s chair was empty beside him.

  “Kalgan?” he asked anyway. His jaw trembled, but at least his head felt somewhat clear from whatever concoction of herbs the old man had given him. No one responded, and that was fine. He’d need silence for what would follow.

  “Please be with me, Ashhur,” he whispered as he shoved blanket after blanket aside. Shivers assaulted him, and he knew without a doubt he was with fever. No matter. He’d manage. Swallowing down his fear, he pulled away the last blanket, revealing his leg. This time he refused to look away from the swelling, bruises, and puss. His leg shook along with the rest of his body, and the movement awoke spikes of pain that nearly made him pass out. Gritting his teeth, he gently touched his knee with his fingertips.

  Closing his eyes, he began his prayers to his deity. The broken bones would have to wait, for the curse of Karak was embe
dded in his flesh. If it’d been delivered to his chest or throat, he’d have been killed within an hour, if not instantly. At his leg, safely away from his lungs and heart, he’d survived, but it was only a matter of time. It was that curse he needed to banish. He tried to focus on it as he had done with Beth, but he felt drained, empty. Every shake of his fingers added to the pain, and his concentration repeatedly faltered. He wanted to lie down and sleep away the hours, but he knew it would only get more difficult with time.

  “Please,” Jerico whispered, panic starting to creep into his heart. “I don’t know if I’m the last. I don’t know what happened at the Citadel. But you can’t have abandoned us. I just … I can’t believe that. Send me to my death if so, but otherwise, heal this damned leg of mine. I can’t do it on my own. I can’t.”

  Kren’s words echoed in his head, strangely powerful.

  My faith is stronger!

  Perhaps so, but it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t let such a young whelp like him win. He wouldn’t let him claim his leg, let alone his life, even if he had to demand the healing from Ashhur. Once more Jerico prayed, unable to hear his own words through the blood pounding in his ears. He prayed until he felt no pain, heard no sound, felt no chill.

  Sleep took him.

  * * * * *

  Four days later, Jerico limped through the streets of Stonahm. Since healing Beth, he’d been treated the hero, and his belly was full of mulberry pie and sweet autumn cider. He wasn’t completely sure it lacked any spirits, but he hoped Ashhur would be lenient.

  “Good to see you about!” a man cried, and Jerico waved back politely, not having a clue as to his name. Slowly he headed toward the northern reaches of the town. The grass was much taller, and it felt uncomfortable brushing against his knee. He ignored it.

  North of the town was a pond fed fresh water from a small stream, which often dried up completely until heavy rains came in the spring. The stream kept the water fairly clean, and the people of Stonahm cut the grass low about, swimming and bathing in its waters. Jerico found a log by the side and sat down, beyond relieved to take the weight off his leg. Waiting there for him was Beth, dressed in a pretty yellow dress.

  “Thought you might not show,” she said, smiling at him.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you’re old. Old people don’t heal as fast as young people. That’s what Kalgan says.”

  Jerico laughed.

  “That so? Kalgan may be right, but you’re wrong about me. I’m hardly old. See any grey hairs on my head?”

  She rolled her eyes, obviously not impressed with his defense. Jerico laughed again, then quieted. His eyes fell on her left arm, which was hidden by a long sleeve that, while matching in color, was clearly a new addition. Reaching over, he carefully folded the sleeve twice, revealing the stump ending at the elbow.

  “You shouldn’t hide it,” he said.

  “Ma says…” She blushed and looked away. “Ma says if I don’t, the boys won’t like talking to me, and no one will want to marry me.”

  He gently tucked a finger underneath her chin and forced her to look at him.

  “Smile, and those boys will see nothing but how beautiful you are.”

  Her blush deepened.

  “Are you ready for your exercises?” she asked.

  Jerico took in a deep breath, then sighed.

  “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

  Beside the log was a simple creation Jerico had asked Kalgan to make for him. It was a heavy stone with a hole in its center. Through that hole Kalgan had threaded strong rope, forming a second loop along the top. It was that loop Jerico stuck his foot through, sliding it up to his ankle. Shifting his weight on the log until he was comfortable, he nodded to let Beth know he was ready.

  “Any song in particular you’d like?” she asked.

  “Sing your favorite. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.”

  The second day he’d been bedridden, though his skin had mostly healed, and only the bones needed to be knit back together. Beth had recovered from the bite, and come to him to express her thanks. While he lay there, still battling fever, she’d sung softly to him. Several times he’d drifted off to the sound of her voice, and awoken later to hear the same crystalline beauty. Because of her injury, she’d been excused from nearly all her chores, so when he’d begun preparing his recovery, she’d offered to help.

  Beth sang a song of a highwayman in love with a forest maiden, and the whole while, Jerico struggled to lift the stone. He pretended the pain was an enemy, but if it truly was an enemy, it was defeating him. Kren’s blow had eradicated much of his muscle, and while he’d tended it best he could, the newly healed flesh still felt withered, unreliable. Sweat dripped down his neck as he lifted again and again, sometimes pulling it an inch or two off the ground, sometimes not even budging it. Whenever he could, he focused on the lyrics instead of his pain. By the time Beth’s song ended, he slumped, leaning back on his arms.

  “Enough,” he said. “I need a moment to breathe.”

  Beth nodded and said nothing. As he recovered, Jerico glanced at her, and finally decided to ask about something that had been bothering him.

  “That boy, Ricky, he came to us in the forest when you were bitten. I thought I heard he was your brother, yet later Kaide said you were his only child left.”

  Jerico felt awkward asking, and was relieved when Beth rolled her eyes, clearly having had this conversation before.

  “Ricky’s not my real brother, nor is Ma … Beverly my real mother.”

  Jerico nodded. He’d met Beverly, a plain but kind woman who was Ricky’s mother. She’d come to thank him for what he’d done, once Kalgan had allowed people to visit.

  “What happened to your mother?”

  Beth brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Do you want another song?” she asked.

  Jerico nodded.

  “Faster tempo, if you would.”

  This time she sang a ditty that’d be right at home in a tavern, and he forced the stone from the ground every single repetition. His knee burned, and the muscles of his lower leg quivered, but he did not relent.

  When the fifth song was done, they called it quits. With Beth’s help, Jerico limped down to the pond and splashed water across his face and neck, then dipped his leg below the cold surface. After another few minutes, he tried to stand on his own. He wobbled. Beth went to steady him, but he pushed her away.

  “Should have taken Kalgan’s offer up for a cane,” he muttered. He’d made his way to the pond just fine, and by Ashhur, he was going to walk back to town as well.

  “Maybe I should have sung shorter songs,” she said as Jerico took another pained step.

  “Then I would have made you sing more of them. I’m not daft, girl.”

  At her angry frown, he laughed.

  “Sorry. You’re right. Tomorrow, I won’t push myself so hard. I promise.”

  “You said that yesterday, and you had to rest three times on the way back.”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  “You did, and you broke your promise again today. Some paladin you are.”

  Jerico feigned a hurt look, and then he took another step, and feigning was no longer required. Step by step, they made their way back to the village. Jerico had every intention of collapsing back in his bed and sleeping for ten hours, but as they reached the edge of town, he heard a sound that made his stomach harden.

  “What’s going on?” Jerico asked, his voice low.

  “Knights from Yellow Castle,” Beth said. “Please, Jerico, go back. My father says…”

  He gently pushed her aside and turned the corner.

  A man and a woman were there, the woman standing before the door to her home, which was shut behind her. Already parts of her dress were torn. The man towered over her, wearing chainmail and carrying a sword that swung from his hip, still sheathed. Her kissed her on the neck as she pleaded with him to stop.

  “Tithes and taxes,” the knight
said. “You know you need to pay the lord his due.”

  When she turned away from him, he slapped her with his hand, which still wore a gauntlet. The metal bruised her face, and blood dripped from her swollen lip. Jerico took a step closer, unnoticed by either. Stunned, he looked about. They were not in hiding. At least three people walked past, and they kept their eyes ahead, refusing to even look. Anger swelled in Jerico’s chest. He turned back around the corner, a fire in his eyes. Beth saw him and paled.

  “Please, you can’t interfere. You can’t!”

  “I can.” He hobbled to a pen currently empty of animals, which were still out in the fields. Resting against one side was a shovel, and he took it. Its handle was long, sturdy. Maybe not as potent a weapon as his mace, but it’d do. Beth stepped back, chewing on her fingernails. Limping around the corner, Jerico thought he must look the most pathetic savior, but it didn’t matter. He would not stand by and watch, no matter the reason, no matter what the rest of the village thought or did.

  The woman’s blouse was mostly torn, exposing one of her breasts. The knight had cast aside his gauntlets, one hand holding her wrist against the house, the other feeling wherever he wished. Jerico limped closer. The woman saw him, and her eyes widened. He swung. The flat side of the shovel connected with the back of the knight’s head, which slammed forward, striking the door. His legs went weak, and he collapsed onto his rear. The woman stood shocked still, sobbing.

  “Cover yourself,” Jerico said to her. “And go to friends, or family. Now.”

  She pulled at her dress and rushed away, too scared to say a word. Jerico stood before the knight, holding the shovel in both hands. He kept his movements still, not wanting to reveal the weakness of his knee.

  “You bastard,” the knight said, spitting blood. “I’ll gut you for that. This is Lord Sebastian’s land, his town, and his fucking taxes.”

  “Were you looking for coins down her blouse?”

  The knight grinned, revealing red-stained teeth.

  “You really think you’re gonna walk away from this? You’re a farmer with a shovel.”

  He stood and drew his sword. His stance was uneven, his balance clearly shaken, no doubt from the blows to his head. Jerico shifted, planting his weight on his good leg.