Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels

by David Dalglish

  “As the presumptive General you will need to spearhead this recruiting effort,” Alaric began without preamble. The knight looked up at the warrior, meeting his gaze with his one good eye. “I doubt you will be back for several months, if you’re to go to all the far off places that other guilds won’t.”

  Cyrus blinked. “Are you sending me because I’m the best person for the task at hand or are you trying to put some distance between myself and Vara?”

  Alaric leaned back in his chair, studying the warrior. “Your internecine squabbles do not concern me — at least not at their current level of intensity.” The paladin smiled ruefully. “Should they grow to be much more tempestuous, I may become concerned, but we are not quite at that juncture yet. No,” he finished, “I believe that when it comes to communicating the vision of the road we have ahead, both pitfalls and possibilities, you will be best for the job.”

  “Very well,” Cyrus nodded. After a moment’s pause, he asked, “Has she always been this… difficult?”

  Alaric thought carefully for a moment before he answered. “Her skill with a sword is almost equal to her skill with her tongue — but the latter is sharper, I fear,” said Alaric. “In you she has finally found someone who will neither be intimidated by her forceful personality nor wear down from the constant sustained attack that she can muster.”

  The paladin cast a sidelong glance out the window, gazing at passing clouds. “Vara,” he said without expression, “is the closest I’ve seen to somebody embodying the essence of a storm.” The paladin held up his hands. “Do not read more into that than what I have said. She is very much like a daughter to me since the day I found her, wounded and on the verge of death.”

  “So that’s why she dislikes me so much? Because I’m not intimidated by her and because I won’t back down?” Cyrus chuckled.

  “No,” Alaric said with a smile. “You assume too much. I never said she disliked you.”

  “If that’s what she does to people she likes,” Cyrus said, brow furrowed, “I don’t want to know how she treats her enemies.”

  “Nor did I say she likes you,” the paladin continued. “Let us focus on the task at hand. It would be best for you to travel with another guild member and leave tonight.”

  “Here’s your helm, what’s your hurry?” Cyrus said with a touch of sarcasm. “Who should I take with me and where should I begin?”

  “For the next thirty days you should head north, stopping at every village along the way. I will send druids and wizards in advance of you, to give word that you will be coming, and to set up times that you will be there to meet with interested parties. In a little over a month you will be in Reikonos. From there I want you to head east to the dwarven capital of Fertiss, then south into the Gnomish Dominions. Go through the Mountains of Nartanis and along the northern edge of the Inculta Desert, seeing the people of the villages along that line.”

  The paladin stopped for a moment, considering. “That will take a further three months. Once you reach the village of Taymor, at the far western edge of the desert, on the shores of the Bay of Lost Souls, you will teleport to the oasis in the middle of the desert and you can visit the settlements of the tribes there before teleporting to the Elven Kingdom in the west. It will take you a month to make your way through the Kingdom properly.”

  “That…” Cyrus said without emotion, “…is an aggressive schedule.”

  “I will send aid to you throughout but it needs to be done and I know of no one better than you to carry out this mission,” the Ghost said. “As you leave these villages we will set up times for a druid or wizard to pick up potential candidates and bring them back to Sanctuary, where we will work with them in your absence on basic training and getting to know them and their character.”

  Cyrus frowned. “What’s the hurry?”

  Alaric brought his hands together and steepled his fingers. “The news that Ferocis has been stolen from the titans, by itself, would be of no great concern. People steal things of value on a regular basis. However when two godly weapons are stolen and a third changes hands mysteriously in a short window of time I become concerned.”

  Cyrus’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Let’s say someone was stealing these weapons. What would they use them for?”

  Alaric was lost in thought for a moment. “They are weapons that bear immense power. The fraction of godhood that imbues each weapon would bring the wielder greater strength, speed, dexterity — mystical shielding to absorb damage they would take.” Alaric sighed. “In short, a fighter equipped with one of these weapons would be able to take on an army and emerge victorious if they were skilled in battle. If it were possible, I should like to put one of these weapons in your hands and turn you loose on the Goblin Imperium.”

  “If these weapons are that powerful, why didn’t the titans or the goblins have their most skilled warriors wielding them?”

  “It is a double-edged sword, if you’ll forgive the metaphor.” Alaric pulled his hands apart. “Yes, it increases the strength of the fighter using it, but should that person fall, the weapon can be lost and you would face a much worse foe.” Alaric sighed. “The fear that it would be used against them has kept the Scimitar of Air and the Spear of Water under very close guard by their respective kingdoms for a long time.” He shuddered. “I do not care to consider the consequences should someone retrieve all of these weapons.”

  “Why does it matter?” Cy asked, confused. “They’ve got one god’s weapon; didn’t you say that’s enough to defeat an army?”

  “Yes,” Alaric said. “So far they have acquired three of six. Can you imagine they will stop halfway to getting them all?”

  “How many do you really need?”

  “It would depend on your ultimate goal. One would suffice for a loner; someone only looking out for him or herself. They would be able to win any duel they fought, commit any crime, escape from any lawful authority that decided to pursue them. But consider what you would be able to achieve with six superior fighters, each holding one of these weapons. If they fought together, as comrades, it is possible they could even conquer the world.”

  Cyrus shuddered at the thought of facing six skilled and nearly invincible combatants. “Where is the Scepter of Fire — Torris, I think it’s called?”

  Alaric nodded. “That was last said to be possessed by the dragons in Hewat.” The Ghost smiled. “Any fool that would steal from a city of dragons is unlikely to survive the attempt.” Alaric turned his gaze to the window. “But not knowing the foe that we face makes that assumption rather foolish, doesn’t it?”

  “What should we do?” A steely determination filled the warrior.

  Alaric turned back to Cyrus. “Our purpose remains unchanged. We are in no position to fight even a group of six that possess these weapons. They are imbued with the magic of the gods, and in order to face an enemy of this magnitude, we will need a true army. Your mission must begin as quickly as possible.”

  Cyrus nodded. As he turned to leave, he looked back. “You still didn’t answer about who I should take with me.”

  The Guildmaster looked at him, face inscrutable. “I think it would be best to have different people with you throughout the journey. For the first leg, between here and Reikonos, I would suggest J’anda. It will make things go smoother in your efforts to recruit dark elves.”

  Cyrus nodded. “Then I will take J’anda, so long as he’s willing.”

  “Before you go,” Alaric stopped him as he turned to leave, “I am certain you are fully capable of doing this. Are you certain you are willing? Because this will not be easy; it will tax you and only one who fully believes in the purpose of this mission will succeed in swaying others to our cause.”

  Cyrus looked at the Ghost, eyes burning. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done.”

  A smile creased the knight’s worn features. “Then go, my friend, and let us make Sanctuary strong once more.” The Ghost took a deep breath. “Because if we
are right, I suspect that soon we will need that strength.

  27

  Cyrus set off the next morning on horseback with J’anda as his travel companion on the road toward Reikonos. Every day, they would stop in at least one village, following a plan drawn out by Alaric. They had large meetings to drum up interest and then follow-up talks with a number of locals throughout their journey, and as soon as they were done, they would leave.

  The meetings always seemed to take longer than the time Alaric had allotted for them, and by the second week they were exhausted, having traveled through the night regularly to make their next destination on time.

  One night, they had found themselves about to be attacked by a group of highwaymen outside of a village called Prehorta, between Sanctuary and Reikonos. The enchanter had caught the bandits with his mesmerization spell and they stood motionless as Cyrus killed them one by one.

  “How does that spell work?” Cyrus asked, curiosity overcoming his fatigue. They had moved down the road and set up camp for the night. They sat around the fire, and he looked at the dark elf, who merely smiled back.

  “Would you like to see?” J’anda said.

  “Yes, I would.”

  Before J’anda could raise his hand, there was a cracking of twigs in the underbrush behind them. The warrior leapt to his feet, sword in hand. Cyrus could feel his pulse racing, all trace of tiredness gone as he peered into the darkness, trying to see what was coming their way. The sounds grew louder and closer, soft footsteps walking through the wet grass — whoever it was drew near.

  With a start, Cyrus lowered his sword. “You,” he said, irritated at being startled, words almost an accusation.

  “Me,” Vara said, striding slowly out of the darkness, armor glinting in the light of the campfire.

  Cyrus regarded her with suspicion. “How did you find us?”

  She pointed at the campfire. “It’s not difficult when you set out a beacon that says, ‘Here I am! Come slit my throat and steal my belongings!’“ Instead of favoring him with a look of usual disdain, it was a bit more impish. “It’s a bit of a mystery to me how you’ve survived to the ripe old age you have.”

  He snorted. “Says the she-elf. What are you, a thousand years old?”

  “Hardly.” She took a step closer to him. “If I were human, how old would you guess I am?”

  “I would assume you were a teenager,” he shot back. “And that’s based on maturity.”

  “What makes you think,” she said, voice soft, “I’m not?”

  “I’m waiting for the insult,” he said. Where had J’anda gone?

  “I’ve grown tired of insulting you. It’s far too easy.” She walked past him, and he felt her hand land on his side, putting a gentle pressure on it, even through the layers of armor.

  A chill ran down his spine at her touch. “What are you doing?” he said, alarmed, fighting his instinct to take a step back.

  “Shhh,” she told him, and he felt her other hand land on his side, undoing the strap of his armor and reaching under the chain mail beneath, finding his flesh and caressing it. “Aren’t you tired of fighting? It’s all just masquerade.” She slid around to his front as his breastplate and backplate hit the ground. Her fingers found their way into his hair, running through it as she brought his mouth to hers.

  Cyrus put aside his shock, completely wrapped up in her kiss. She was soft and it had been… over a year, at least. Another surprise hit him: he found he wanted her desperately. He returned her kiss with a passion he could not have imagined, and he felt her other hand working, heard pieces of armor hit the ground and then he felt her pull away from him. Cyrus opened his eyes to see her standing before him, expression filled with the same almost indescribable look he had glimpsed on the day they met.

  He drank in the sight of her, eyes dancing, hair gleaming in the firelight. Her hand came to rest on his chest and he felt a rush as she leaned into him. Their kisses were hungry and she continued to undress him, helping him slide the chain mail over his head and then he felt his skin against hers. He pulled back from her embrace, reflecting that Andren had been right in what he’d said so long ago; that what he saw now might be the sweetest sight known to man. Her arms wrapped around him and pulled him close once more; now there was nothing between them but the cool night air as they sank onto his bedroll.

  A sudden shock ran through Cyrus, and a feeling that he was spinning, then he was sitting upright once more, next to the campfire, J’anda looking at him with pity. “Sorry,” the enchanter said with a little embarrassment. “I apologize for bringing you out of the trance at such a moment, but you were resisting the spell.”

  Cyrus’s breath was ragged, coming in gasps. “That… was what being mesmerized is like?”

  “Yes,” the dark elf said. “It shows you the deepest desires of your heart and brings them to you in a way that seems plausible to your mind. The spell keeps your mind trapped in your dream so you are unaware of the world outside. The stronger the enchanter,” he said with a smile, “the stronger the effect of the illusion.”

  “Does it feel different than when you are charmed?”

  “Much,” J’anda said with a smile. “It takes a much stronger will to resist mesmerization. You broke out of it, which is… unusual.”

  The warrior had caught his breath. “Can you see what is happening in the mind of the person you’ve mesmerized?”

  “Yes,” J’anda said with reluctance after a moment’s pause. “I don’t create the illusion but I help give it form. The magic exposes their heart’s desire, and I help craft the illusion to give it to them.”

  Cyrus stared straight ahead, stunned. “So the deepest desire of my heart is…” His words trailed off and they sat without speaking. Cyrus finally looked up after being lost in thought. “Did you know?” he asked J’anda. The enchanter raised an eyebrow. “What I would see? Did you know before you cast the spell, before it told you my ‘heart’s desire’?”

  The enchanter smiled. “As they say in Saekaj, where there is heat, there is fire, no?”

  “We’ve certainly had a fair exchange of heat.”

  “You maintain your free will during the course of the enchantment. Your reaction was genuinely yours.” The dark elf shrugged. “If you’d like, you could simply say to yourself that you are a man who has been without the company of a woman for far too long, and she was likely the first woman on your mind.”

  Cyrus’s hands covered his face. “This must happen often if you’re that skilled at coming up with a lie people can tell themselves to feel better after they find out…” Cyrus’s words drifted off as he pondered the implications of what came next, “…what they truly want.”

  J’anda laughed, cutting himself off abruptly after Cyrus sent him a pitiable look. “Ah,” the enchanter said, coughing, and turned serious. “It happens more than you think. The greater danger is that there are people in Sanctuary that ask me to mesmerize them so that they can have that moment of bliss, and they don’t want to leave the illusion.” The dark elf looked a bit downtrodden for a moment. “I’ve had to tell someone before that I cannot do this for them, ever again. It was… heartbreaking,” the enchanter said in a tone that left no doubt that it was just as he had described. “If you want my advice about Vara…”

  “I don’t think that would be wise,” Cyrus said. “Vara and I are not a healthy match for each other. It would be best if I just buried it.”

  “You never know,” J’anda said. “Perhaps her ire for you is cover?”

  “I doubt it,” Cyrus said with certainty.

  “As you say.”

  They did not speak of it again until the night J’anda returned to Sanctuary. They were in the Great Square of Reikonos, and had said their farewells. “Tell whoever is coming to join me that I’ll meet them here at midday. If they come before that, tell them to come to the old Kings of Reikonos guildhall in the slums.”

  “The slums?” The enchanter raised an eyebrow, one of his favored e
xpressions. “Hardly the place for so skilled an envoy to spend his night.”

  Cyrus smiled at the enchanter. “Couldn’t have done it without you. Your illusions give you great adaptability when it comes to finding common ground with whoever you’re talking to.”

  “Ah, but you see,” J’anda said with a glint in his eyes, “that is not the illusion; that is simply me.”

  “I believe that,” Cyrus said with sincerity. “Take care, my friend. I know you’ll do your best to take the people we’ve recruited and help turn them into a capable force by the time I get back.”

  “You take care as well,” J’anda said. “If Alaric is correct, we shall need all the help we can get to deal with whatever danger awaits from these weapons.” After a moment’s thought, he said to the human, “About your illusion, your ‘heart’s desire’…”

  Cyrus shook his head impatiently. “I won’t dwell on it. It will never happen.”

  “I see,” J’anda said, with sad eyes. “You should always be careful when saying the word ‘never.’ Such an ugly word; a killer of all possibilities. In the dark elven tongue, ‘never’ is a word that doesn’t exist — we would say, ‘It’s an unlikely thing,’ or ‘It seems improbable,’ but there is no word for ‘impossible’ or ‘never’, because the things you decide are never going to happen,” the enchanter said with an undisguised smile, “have a way of happening when you least expect them to.”

  With a flourish, J’anda cast the return spell and vanished in a burst of light. While the light of the spell receded from his eyes, the enigmatic smile that the enchanter had flashed him as he left and the words that he said echoed in the warrior’s mind for the rest of the night.

  28

  Cyrus blinked the sleep out of his eyes as he fought his way to consciousness. For a moment he was confused, awakening in the Kings of Reikonos guildhall. The sun was barely showing through the wood panels that made up the building. Due to the canyon-like nature of the slums, the appearance of sunlight meant that it was close to midday. Cyrus fought the urge to return to sleep and strapped on his armor and scabbard before bolting out the door.