Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels

by David Dalglish

  “I don’t mind not insulting you,” she said with a deep breath. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders. “It seems to be the sort of habit that grows on you after a while.”

  “The wager ended yesterday.”

  “You’re aggravatingly daft. I can’t believe the best stratagem you could come up with to defeat the Dragonlord involved running him into the ground at terminal velocity.” She exhaled, fury spent.

  He cocked his eyebrow in deep amusement. “Actually, I lied: the bet ends tomorrow. I win.”

  “You bastard,” she hissed. She glared at him for a moment before a laugh escaped her lips. Her expression softened. “Don’t change the subject. You took a very great risk in bringing the Dragonlord crashing to the ground with you on his back.”

  “First of all,” Cyrus said, “he told me he was going to take me up to where there was no air to breathe and kill me — so I really didn’t have much of a choice. Second,” he said with a tremendous and self-satisfied grin, “I didn’t know you cared. You are so up and down — first you seem like you hate me, then you tell me you don’t, and that I’m ‘a man Sanctuary can rely on’ and then you go cold again. Could you find some stability in your reaction to me?”

  “I will… try,” she said with a thin smile.

  “That will do for now.” He returned her smile and felt a flush color his cheeks. “I’m still feeling a bit weak…”

  “I’m not surprised,” she returned, blue eyes locked on his. “You did plummet to your death yesterday. Perhaps you should rest for a while.”

  He did not break her gaze. It was pleasant, looking into her eyes. “Before I go,” he said, and reached into his belt, drawing her sword with a flourish. “I couldn’t have done it without this.” He turned the sword so that he gripped the blade, pointing the hilt toward her.

  She flushed. “Thank you for returning it to me. Could you leave it outside my quarters? I think I’ll be out here for a bit longer and I don’t want to carry it up when I go.”

  “Sure.” He nodded, waving it in the air to the side of them. “Heavy, but perfectly balanced.” He peered at the elaborate carvings on the blade. “It looks old.”

  She smiled. “It is. You really should rest.”

  “I think perhaps you’re right. I’m going to go sleep for a bit longer.” With a sweeping bow that made her giggle behind her hand, he walked away. He looked back once to find her still watching him. Her cheeks blushed and she looked away, back toward the waterfall.

  When he reached his chambers, he opened the door to find the lamps already lit. He shut the door and unstrapped his armor, fitting it piece by piece onto the shelves and bust set aside for it. “Where’s my helm?” he wondered, then saw it on the bed next to a small parcel. Eyes narrowed in curiosity, he picked it up and unwrapped the small silk ribbon that encircled the box. He pulled the top off of it to find—

  —the Serpent’s Bane. His eyes widened, and he turned it over and over in his hands, scarcely believing it to be the real thing. He looked into the box once more to find a small note in unfamiliar handwriting that was neat but nondescript.

  Just because you give your all

  doesn’t mean you have to lose it all.

  One hand stroked his chin as he stared down at the unsigned note. A smile crept across his face; deep, sincere and spreading from the corners of his mouth as he contemplated the possibilities in front of him.

  EPILOGUE

  Sanctuary stood before him, massive and foreboding. A fog had crept over the plains, blown by the wind. He looked at the ancient gates as he walked through them, feeling like a man stepping into his past, something he’d left far behind. Crumbling stones greeted him on the path to the entrance and the tall wooden doors had been torn from their hinges in the last attack.

  The hallowed halls were silent when he walked through them. The foyer was abandoned, dark and filled with shadow. Each footstep was measured, every sensation was catalogued. Remembering the happier times, he cast his eyes to the lounge; scorch marks were all that was to be found there. He strode past the grand doors to the Great Hall. Massive tables overturned, the stained glass windows broken. He felt a pain deep inside and knew it was not physical.

  Walking to the staircase, he climbed to nearly the top. Stepping out in front of the Council chamber, the ghost of a smile flitted across his features as he shouldered his way into the room.

  It was more damaged than he could have imagined. The table, the rectangular one that had replaced the round one of old, was splinters. Chairs were completely upended or destroyed entirely. Tapestries had been torn from the walls, and the few remaining were not without damage. The windows were completely destroyed, flooding the room with fog and a brilliant view of the shrouded Plains of Perdamun.

  Quelling his emotions, the warrior picked his way through the wreckage to far side of the room. He opened the door to the Council Archives, and beheld the smell of old parchment. This was the most intact room he had seen thus far. “Maybe the gods are with me,” he said, mocking voice echoing in the empty room.

  He rifled through the books until he found one that interested him. Dragging one of the surviving comfortable chairs from the Council Chamber into the Archive, he sat down, opening the book to the first page.

  The Journal of Vara — An Account of My Days With Sanctuary

  Cyrus browsed the book, skipping through large parts of it, eventually finding what he was looking for.

  Today I attended a dragon expedition gone horribly wrong. I was approached while in the markets of Reikonos by one of the most annoying disgraces to the title of paladin that I have ever observed. This bejeweled buffoon observed me in close attendance to Niamh and Orion, as well as Selene and asked if we would assist in mounting a strike upon a dragon in the Mountains of Nartanis.

  “I don’t think so,” I sniffed. I confess, this highborn piece of flotsam irked me, as all do who measure themselves by class. One of the benefits of being born and raised in Termina is a healthy disrespect for the accoutrements of the elven caste system beloved by the rest of our dying kingdom.

  There was a flicker in her eyes as she recognized me. “Vara?” she said. “You’re Vara!”

  “I’ll thank you to keep your voice down,” I ordered. Funny image: me, a Terminan ordering a highborn elf to shut her mouth. She did. I looked around, a bit embarrassed at being recognized. I could tell by Orion’s reaction that Selene had told him about me; he was utterly unsurprised.

  “Where are you planning to attack?” Niamh intervened.

  The elf’s chin jutted out. “We’re planning an assault on the den of Ashan’agar, the former dragon king. There will be much in the way of treasure…” She prattled on and on for several more minutes, but when Orion offered her counsel on defeating the Dragonlord, her ears were suddenly deaf to even my entreaties.

  I eyed her army as she walked away after we had told her we were uninterested. There were a large number of them, many fresh faced and innocent looking. As an emotion, I find pity most annoying; you cannot feel pity for someone who is at the same level as you. It requires you to look down on someone and consider yourself their superior in some way. I felt a great swell of pity for that army of hers. The odds were against them in their experience, in their leader — they seemed destined to die.

  I caught a glimpse of a warrior, clad in black armor, across the mass of people. I hate human warriors. I find their arrogance to be nearly unmatched — in fact, only by my own. This human, however… there was something so familiar about him. He reminded me so of… you know who. I tried to look closer, but I couldn’t. Not without stalking up to him in the middle of Reikonos Square and grabbing his face so I could examine it.

  It was for he I felt the greatest pity. I am young, but as an elf, I will look young when that warrior turns one hundred. He was young in appearance and fact. He was familiar to me in a way I can’t describe. Call it elven intution but I knew that I had to save his life.

  “I cannot a
bide such a waste,” I said under my breath.

  “It’s a shame,” Niamh said. “They’ll all be dead soon enough.”

  “We have things to accomplish today,” Orion said.

  “We should go along and save all we can when things go awry,” I said. It was not one of my better ideas. If you had asked me in that moment why I was suggesting this, I could not have defined it for you. If you had picked that warrior out of his group of friends, dragged him over to me and forced me to explain exactly, precisely, what it was about him that was causing me to (somewhat uncharacteristically, even for a crusader) lead my party into gravest danger against such odds, I could not have told you in that moment why.

  “Are you mad?” Orion said, amazed. “This is certain death! Even a noble paladin must recognize such a hopeless cause.”

  “I recognize no cause as hopeless,” I said, surprised to find it true. Perhaps I was not as cynical as I believed.

  “They will die and they will take us with them,” Orion said. Selene stood at his shoulder, expression neutral. “That interferes with my other plans for today.”

  “Niamh can stand ready to teleport us out when things go wrong.” I exhaled, annoyed at having to convince this tree herding so-called officer of Sanctuary to behave with honor. “We can save at least some of them.”

  “No.” Orion shook his head. “We’re a group and I say we vote — and I vote nay.”

  Niamh looked at him. “I vote we go. This is our purpose in Sanctuary, remember? We help those who can’t help themselves, and I don’t think I’ve seen a more obvious group in that department.”

  “I think it’s obvious I vote yes,” I said. All of us turned to Selene, who had frozen in place. Her expression was peaceful, but her eyes were closed in deep contemplation. After a moment, she spoke.

  “We follow shelas’akur,” Selene whispered. Orion’s face fell, but he gritted his teeth and came along.

  When we reached the depths of the cave, Orion introduced himself to several people, trying to make inroads to save us time when the moment came that we had to take over to save their lives. When he began a conversation with the warrior, I was in a position to look at him, observe him. I fear I might have stared a bit too much, however.

  He really did look a bit like… you know.

  In battle, he was brave. I’m not reticent about fighting, but the warrior killed a rock giant singlehandedly through brilliant positioning. He’s a bit more action than brains, and I let him know that, but in truth… he is strong and skilled. He fought the Dragonlord from underneath with me and survived. More than that, he somehow resisted the Dragonlord’s coercion spell, his hypnosis. I had been told that it never failed against our races, that if you looked into the eyes of Ashan’agar, he would own you down to your very soul, forever.

  The warrior not only shrugged off the coercion — he struck the Dragonlord’s eye from his body. Impressive. I have no idea how he managed to avoid becoming a slave to Ashan’agar’s will.

  Naturally, I did not let the warrior know I found any of this impressive in the least. When it comes to a warrior such as this, too much reckless confidence can lead to quick death. Orion began to fawn over this warrior, Cyrus, begging him to join Sanctuary. I, on the other, was much more reserved in my reaction. I suspect he may even have found me to be a bit cold.

  If only he knew.

  Cyrus looked up from the journal. The script was beautiful, flowing. He flipped ahead, finding a passage of great interest, and stopped to read.

  Alaric gauged my reaction carefully. “If you say there is something… special about this warrior, I believe you.”

  “There is,” I said. “He is… he reminds me of… but he’s not the same as…” My voice trailed off. My thoughts were chaotic, annoying. My mind was so firmly under my control until he showed up on that damned dragon expedition. “He somehow broke through Ashan’agar’s mind control.”

  Alaric’s reaction was immediate. “How?” the Ghost demanded.

  My eyes fell in embarrassment. “I don’t know.”

  He leaned forward, hands crossed in front of him on the table in the Council Chambers. “Very interesting. I confess, I had met one other with that particular strength, but that was…” a smile crossed his face, “…long ago.” He stood. “Very well. This warrior bears watching, then.”

  Cyrus frowned and looked up from the journal. The skies had begun to darken, lengthening the shadows in the room. The fireplace sprung to light, followed by the mystical torches, one by one around the room. With a smile of appreciation, Cyrus continued his reading by the firelight. He skimmed until another passage caught his eye.

  “He’s going to die!” I shouted at Alaric. The innkeeper in Nalikh’akur was a man of great discretion, and had shown me the utmost respect since our arrival, having known I was shelas’akur on sight. I heard the back door open and shut as he left me to my conflict with my Guildmaster. “He’s going to die right here in this inn, and there’s not a damn thing any of us can do about it!”

  “This one has great strength: I doubt a simple fever will claim him.” Alaric studied me, his eye fixed on mine.

  “While I will agree he is easily as stubborn as twelve mules, that does not make him immune to the laws of nature, Alaric.”

  Alaric eyed me carefully. “Your conduct toward this warrior is most bizarre, my friend. You spar, you attack, you remonstrate and verbally eviscerate the man, yet in private you defend his conduct, his character and praise him with words that, were they to come out in public, would make you blush.” He folded his arms. “I am quite used to defending you for your verbal tirades but I am quite unused to you being less than candid with someone in this way.”

  I looked down, unable to meet his gaze. “I… my history, as you know, is somewhat complicated.”

  A nod. “I know.”

  “I cannot… explain what it is about him,” I said, searching for the words.

  A twinkle filled the old paladin’s eye. “I believe I could find a word, if pressed into choosing one.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I told him, a bit cross.

  “You will continue to attend him?” Alaric gazed at me with that eye that bored into my very soul.

  “Until he’s fully recovered,” I agreed without hesitation.

  The Ghost pursed his lips as he pondered his next words. “I will send Curatio to aid you as soon as I can spare him.” His hand came up to forestall the protest already making its way to my lips. “He is a healer. He can help. Cyrus’s life is at stake.”

  I nodded in surrender.

  Alaric turned to leave, placing his helm back on his head. As he turned to go, he paused and looked back at me. “I offer you this final piece of advice in the spirit of our longstanding friendship. Since the day we have met, I have had nothing but the utmost respect and affection for you…”

  I blinked, not quite sure what to say.

  “I tell you this now: however you feel about this man, know that the way you are treating him is driving him down the road of hating you.” I bit my lip. “You cannot spew the venom that you do and then be sweet and kind behind his back and expect to have any sort of relationship — friendship or otherwise.” The Ghost’s eye narrowed. “If you ever mean to be closer to him than you are, you must stop,” he sighed, “or at least try to cut back — on the biting repartee.” He left without another word.

  I hate crying. And yet, after he left, I sat in the chair next to Cyrus and wept for the next three hours, staring at the warrior the whole time.

  Cyrus blinked in astonishment as he pictured Alaric and Vara sparring at the inn in Nalikh’akur. Flipping a few more pages he found an entry that looked as though it had water spilled on it, then dried. Streaks had caused the ink to run.

  I am actually crying as I write this. Damn the man. Damn him for scaring the hell out of me. When he vanished out of sight on the back of the Dragonlord, Vaste and I scanned the sky continuously. I confess, with great difficulty, that I was worr
ied.

  A small speck caught my eye first. “Over there!” I shouted as it grew in size. I realized it was the Dragonlord spiraling to the ground. “My gods, he’s actually done it,” I breathed.

  “It would appear there’s more to our warrior friend than meets the eye,” Vaste said.

  “Or less,” I said without any conviction. “It could be less,” I said in reaction to Vaste’s look. He didn’t believe me. Hell, I didn’t believe me. I took off toward the nearest peak, crossing hills for a closer look as the dragon continued to plummet. The descent slowed at the end but a tremendous crash could be heard throughout the mountains.

  As soon as the impact was assured, I began an immediate descent of the slope in the direction of the sound, panic filling my senses. It took long minutes over the uneven ground of the Mountains of Nartanis, as well as much grumbling from Vaste (“Couldn’t we have just fought the dragon on the Plains of Perdamun?”) before we reached the site of the Dragonlord’s landing.

  When I crested the last hill, my breath caught in my chest. Ashan’agar was stretched on his belly across the small valley, one wing ripped from his body and the other twisted at a sickening angle. The Dragonlord was breathing, a sad, rattling sound, and both his eyes were now missing. Without thought to my own safety, I ran down the hill, tripping several times and cutting my hand on one boulder.

  I reached the dragon, who had moved only slightly since I had started my descent. Forgetting myself and that I had no weapon, I ran to the Dragonlord’s neck. “Where is he?” I asked, only then remembering I had no sword.

  “Dead,” came a rattling pronouncement from the blinded Dragonlord. “I am triumphant.”

  “Triumphant? You are blinded and dying!” I spat at him. Rage filled me. “Know this, Dragonlord: you were bested by a human warrior who fought you without assistance from any other. If that is your version of triumph then I would hate to be defeated under your definition.”