Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels

by David Dalglish

  All works in this collection are copyrighted by their respective authors.

  DEFENDER

  ROBERT J. CRANE

  A LEGACY OF LIGHT

  DANIEL ARENSON

  THE WHITE TREE

  EDWARD W. ROBERTSON

  THE DARK CITADEL

  MICHAEL WALLACE

  SWORD OF THE ARCHON

  D. P. PRIOR

  THE WEIGHT OF BLOOD

  DAVID DALGLISH

  RAVENWOOD

  NATHAN LOWELL

  DEFENDER

  THE SANCTUARY SERIES: VOLUME ONE

  ROBERT J CRANE

  2nd Edition

  Copyright Robert J. Crane, 2011-12

  All rights reserved

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or physical editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For information regarding permissions, please contact cyrusdavidon@gmail.com.

  Find Robert J. Crane online at

  http://www.robertjcrane.com

  Dedicated to the memory of Joe Cook — a true warrior.

  PROLOGUE

  The blood pounded in his ears as he rode his horse into the wind. We’re close to the end now, he thought. The Plains of Perdamun had been set upon by a blustery autumn wind. It whipped across the front gate of Reikonos, through the crops of the farmers’ fields, all the way to the valleys and passes of the Heia Mountains. It was an ill wind, out of the north, from beyond the Torrid Sea, and it smelled of decay.

  Nestled at the split of the river Perda at the place where the northern branch flowed to the Torrid Sea and the eastern tributary flowed into the Bay of Lost Souls, there was a crater in the ground. Gaping, enormous, the only signifying mark on it was a simple headstone with an engraving that in beautiful, flowing script explained how the crater came to be in the midst of the smooth, unbroken grounds of the plains.

  From across the lonely fields came the black cloaked figure on a white horse, making his way toward the scar in the ground. His traveling cloak revealed boots of metal, and hands that were encased in gauntlets. The hood of the cloak was raised and no helmet could be seen underneath. He rode to the edge of the crater and dismounted. With a gentle stroke across the back of the horse he walked away, a few murmured words in its ear; it whinnied at him in a friendly way.

  He stared across the gap for a moment before his eyes came back to rest on the monument. Granite, glorious, a testament to the courage and fortitude of a group of fighters so noble that it took the power of the very gods themselves to wipe them from the lands of Arkaria. A feeling stirred, deep in his soul, one not felt in…years. One of longing, of regret, of the barest, most skeletal sense of fear. The last sensation was the most curious, since the tall, cloaked stranger had not felt afraid for a very, very long time.

  He shook it off. He had seen great and terrible things in his time, and this was not nearly the worst of trials he had faced. Tracing his way back to the horse, he reached into a saddle bag and pulled out a leather bound tome. The worn cover indicated that the volume was hundreds, possibly even thousands of years old. A string marked the spot in the book that he was searching for, and once opened, he knelt and began to murmur an incantation. Reaching under his armor, his hand clutched something close to his chest. Invoking powers he had never before called upon, he whispered,

  “I invoke thee who hear my plea,

  I request thy aid,

  For those who are soon to die.”

  Closing the book, he centered his vision upon the crater. A flash lit his eyes as powerful magics moved before him. Seconds later, another flash. Then another, then lightning, radiating from the crater’s center — a shockwave of energy issued forth followed by a loud CRACK! that shook the countryside. The traveler, already kneeling, caught himself with his right hand, moved by the release of power before him.

  An ethereal vision confronted him — like wisps of smoke, something began to wave and drift in the crater. Growing more solid, lines took shape and what began as the faintest afterimage became a building. It contained elegant lines and stones, archways and towers, but had a distinctly different appearance than a castle — it was made for a different purpose than housing an army and protecting its subjects — and was fading into view where once there was only the nothingness of the crater.

  The traveler rose from the ground, cloak left behind him. His blackened armor glinted in the overcast day. His swords marked him as a warrior. His eyes surveyed the scene before him as though he were seeing a long lost friend.

  And for the first time in long memory, the warrior smiled.

  8 YEARS EARLIER

  1

  Flames lit every surface in the caves and lava floes burned all around him, like some version of the Realm of Death he had heard tales of in his youth. There were flames leaping out of holes in the walls and floor like fiery stalagmites. Cyrus Davidon stood in the midst of it all, minding his steps very carefully, lest his black armor end up blacker still from an inadvertent scorching.

  The sweat rolled off his face as he surveyed the group around him. Over one hundred adventurers, all with common purpose. They had come to this place intending to slay a dragon. There was some nobility in that, Cyrus reflected, but it was diminished by the fact that the dragon was trapped in these depths and not a threat to anyone but those looking for it. Which meant that most of them were here for the dragon’s sizeable treasure hoard.

  “There’s nothing like fighting for your life with a small army of opportunists to watch your back, is there?” Cyrus murmured.

  “You’re not joking. It makes you wonder if there’s even one of this lot we can trust,” came the voice of Narstron a dwarf who had traveled with Cyrus for many seasons and had shared a great many adventures with him.

  “Trust is earned, not given. This group is so raw they’ll be dead before they even prove themselves,” came the voice on the other side of Narstron. Andren was an elf by nature and a healer by trade, a spell caster with the ability to bind wounds through magical means. “This lot has seen far too few seasons — and this is likely their last. Dragons aren’t to be trifled with.” He peered at Cyrus with his eyes narrowed. “You’d better have a damned good reason for accepting the invitation of a stranger in the square to come on this mass suicide.”

  “I do.” Cyrus looked around, body tense, eyes coming to rest on the expedition’s leader. She was an elf, her armor was encrusted with rare gemstones.

  “I have to believe,” Narstron said, “that the placement of those gemstones has to cut down on the effectiveness of her armor by a good margin.”

  Andren snorted. “If that highborn elitist trash’s armor has ever seen combat I’ll eat the dragon we’re going to face in one bite.”

  She had approached them in the square of the human capital of Reikonos, inviting them to join an army she had assembled for the purpose of killing this dragon. “He’s a tremendous threat to all life,” she’d begun after introducing herself as Angelique. “He was the Dragonlord of the southern lands, King of all the dragons, and intent on leading his people in a march to war against all the northern kingdoms — the elves, the humans, t
he dwarves, the dark elves, even the gnomes!”

  “What’s this dragon’s name?” Cyrus had asked her, eyes squinting against the midday sun in the square.

  “Ashan’agar.” Her voice was almost reverent.

  Cyrus’s pupils dilated. His breath hung in his throat.

  Narstron shook his head. “I think we’ll pass—”

  “We’ll go,” Cyrus had answered, cutting off Narstron.

  “Splendid.” The elf clapped, such was her enthusiasm. “The treasure hoard for this dragon is supposed to be quite rich, and of course we’ll split it equally, of course, after I take my fee for leading this expedition…”

  That had been hours ago. Narstron brought Cyrus back to the present, in the fire light of the cave. “She’s abrasive, even for an elf.” He turned to Andren. “Why is it elves have no problem condemning other, younger races for their faults but praise is quick to flow and judgment slow to come when it’s one of your own?”

  “Don’t go lumpin’ me in with her lot.” Andren eyed the dwarf in accusation. “She may be elven royalty. No low-born elf — you know, like me,” he said with a touch of pride, “would ever lead the way she’s doing it.”

  Narstron laughed. “How many elven royals are in your kingdom anyway? A hundred thousand?”

  “Eh, a little over five thousand members of the royal family — and that’s for the whole kingdom,” Andren said.

  “Makes me wonder how you get anything done.”

  “Halt!” Angelique held her gem-studded gauntlet aloft in a motion to halt the march. They were in a wide cavern, with considerable webbing in the corners of the room. There was no lava or fire, which was the first room without it that they had seen since entering the caves. “We need to address some basics before we go any further. I know that some of you are new, haven’t seen much combat.” She sniffed and made a face, as though she was trying to get the stench of something unpleasant out of her nostrils.

  She droned for a few minutes about basic matters of combat in confined spaces. Cyrus took the time to look around at their army. It was a distinct mix of different races. He noted that the largest part of it was composed of dwarves, elves and humans.

  Though he hadn’t noticed them earlier, there were three gnomes cloistered nearby. Quite small compared to a human of his stature, gnomes were often skilled in the magical arts. Cyrus also caught sight of two dark elves — blue skinned, a little shorter than humans, with pointed ears and white hair.

  Cyrus’s exposure to dark elves was limited. Although the city of Reikonos had a healthy dark elf population, they were ostracized, unwelcome in many shops, and forced to live in a specific section of the slums. Conversely, humans and regular elves were killed if they approached dark elven cities.

  Most of the army seemed to be listening intently as Angelique walked them through such basics as minding your footing, sticking together as a group during battle and allowing time for the healers to assist the injured. Tuning her out, Cyrus realized that many of these adventurers had joined singly, rather than in groups as he had. Only a very few parties were banded together, seeming like islands in the middle of an ocean of people.

  In the closest group to his, only a few feet away his eye caught those of a human man who had a bow slung across his back and two short swords in scabbards hanging from his belt. A slight smile permeated his lips as he met Cyrus’s gaze. He touched two fingers to his head in a subtle salute to the warrior. A ranger, Cyrus thought; a wanderer of the wilds.

  The ranger had three companions with him. The first was an elven woman whose sash and robes identified her as a healer, like Andren, tasked with mending wounds. Her face was expressionless.

  The elf to her right was also a woman but wore the markings of a druid, a spell caster with the ability to control the power of nature itself. She had flaming red hair, almost the color of the lava and a bright smile that greeted Cyrus as he made eye contact with her.

  Their third companion was wearing heavy armor that was molded to her form, but she was obscured by the shadows lingering around her. In the semi-darkness of the cave, Cyrus could see nothing of her face and only her silhouette told him she was female.

  “Not bad,” Narstron said under his breath, looking into the shadows at the armored figure.

  “How can you tell?” Cyrus looked at him in confusion.

  Andren and Narstron exchanged a look and chuckled before the dwarf answered. “You humans can’t see in the dark for shite.”

  The ranger stepped forward to introduce himself. “I’m Orion.” He was confident and at ease.

  “Cyrus Davidon. These are my compatriots.” He introduced the ranger to his band. “We’re the Kings of Reikonos.”

  “Kings of Reikonos?” Orion looked at him with uncertainty. “Is that a guild name?”

  Cyrus nodded, burying his unease at having such a bold name. “Interesting,” Orion said, voice sincere. “I can’t say I’m familiar with you. Where’s your guildhall?”

  Cy held back a slight flinch. Many guilds were bands of adventurers, and had great halls with enormous quarters for each of their members. The Kings of Reikonos had an old horse barn that had been refitted into a military barracks before being abandoned. It was in the slums of Reikonos. “We’re not far from the markets and the square.”

  “Ah, centrally located. We’re a bit off the beaten path in the Plains of Perdamun, about five hundred miles south of Reikonos.” Favoring Cyrus with a smile, he gestured to the regal looking healer in his party. “This is my wife, Selene.”

  Turning to indicate the red-haired druid: “And this is Niamh.” She flashed a smile at their party. “Hiding in the shadows over there is Vara.” The silhouette gestured in what might have been a wave; it was difficult to tell for human eyes in the darkness.

  “So,” he turned back to face them and lowered his voice, “what do you think of the leadership thus far?”

  “I’m still waiting to see some leadership,” Andren said. They all got a chuckle out of that.

  Finishing his laugh, Orion’s face turned serious. “We’re in for some rough times very soon. I know these caves and we are walking into great danger. There is a nest of spiders nearby,” he indicated the webs on the walls, “that are the size of dwarves. Beyond this room are the dragon’s guardians — rock giants that are at least ten feet tall, with a skin so thick it resists fire. This dragon, Ashan’agar, has a powerful hypnotic magic — he controls everything in these caves.”

  He paused for a moment to let it sink in. “With an inexperienced group such as this and incompetent leadership it will be a miracle if this assault works. Stick close to us,” he said, and the confidence he spoke with made Cyrus think that the army was listening to the wrong leader.

  As if to punctuate Orion’s observations, the expedition leader’s words intruded into his thoughts. “…I don’t know exactly what we’ll be facing ahead from the dragon, but I predict that as dragons are solitary creatures, we’ll have a clear path to the dragon’s den.”

  Cyrus looked at Orion in alarm. “Don’t you think you should tell her?”

  The ranger looked amused. “I offered to counsel her with experience. She said she had it under control. I’ve walked in the shadows of these caves and she hasn’t,” he said with a trace of sarcasm, “but she has it ‘under control’.” He snorted. “I’m here to help save these people when things go wrong, lest they all die.”

  2

  Cyrus felt a twinge of fear at Orion’s words. Human warriors were trained by the Society of Arms in Reikonos and didn’t feel fear easily, nor often. From the earliest days of youth in the Society, they had a culture based around combat. If you won, you won. If you lost, you fought harder the next time. If you died you went off to the afterlife. Cyrus had feared neither death nor pain for himself since he was six summers old, and still didn’t.

  He looked at Narstron and Andren. On the outside they looked confident. He knew that inside, each was roiling. Though he never admitted i
t publicly, Narstron had once confessed that he knew that Cyrus was a better warrior — not because the human was taller or stronger, but because the fearlessness that the Society of Arms had instilled gave him an edge in combat that allowed him to make a commitment to battle that could only come from being willing to die at any moment.

  Narstron didn’t feel that, nor did Andren. They would fight for their comrades, but to die in a battle for the sake of battle? Only a true warrior — and a devotee of Bellarum, the God of War — could ever feel good about that. Faith in the God of War had been hammered into him in the Society from an early age.

  But this fear wasn’t fear for self, Cyrus realized. It was fear for those around him. He was their leader, and he brought them to this place. If either of them died, he was responsible. He choked on the bitter aftertaste of that thought.

  A commotion broke his reverie. He watched as a spider half the size of a man spun down on a web and pincered one of the gnomes from above. Blood flew in a line, splattering across the floor, searing as it hit the hot rock. Cyrus jumped forward, along with a few others, dismembering the arachnid. Cries from behind him — and then to the side — caused him to look around.

  The top of the chamber rose to a peak, and though it was too dark for his eyes to see the detail of the ceiling, he could see movement. The dome of the cavern was covered in the spiders.

  Orion was at his side. “There are too many.” The ranger’s eyes were fixed; staring up at the imminent danger. Warriors and rangers took positions at the edge of the army, protecting the spell casters from the encroaching spiders.

  “This way!” Angelique ordered from (far) behind him. Cy caught a glimpse of her in retreat, leading the spell casters toward the dragon’s den. Shrugging at Narstron and Orion, they backed in unison out the door and onto a massive bridge that stretched for several hundred feet across a lake of lava.