Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels

by David Dalglish

  “No,” the man said, grabbing her by the arm and reaching for Darik. Sofiana held her crossbow outstretched to keep it away from the man. Darik didn’t know whether to keep running toward the tower, or obey. “Come on, then, boy, before I give you a whipping.”

  “It’s all right, Traint,” a voice boomed. Hoffan strode toward them from the darkness. “They’re with me.” His voice was worried.

  Hoffan led them to the Eagle Tower. At the top, archers fired arrows into the darkness. Whelan was nowhere in sight, but Markal overlooked the battle. The wizard gave them a glance, then turned back to the action below.

  The boom sounded again, and Darik saw the cause. A dozen Veyrians bashed at the door with a battering log. Other men held aloft a platform topped by shields, deflecting most of the arrows. Every so often, a lucky shot slipped through the platform and a man fell to the ground, or scrambled backwards with an arrow in his shoulder. But every time that happened, another man ran toward the doors with his shield held overhead until he reached the safety of the battering platform.

  Hoffan’s men clumped inside the bailey, ready to fight back any breach of the gates. Whelan strode amongst them, shouting instructions and encouragement. A cauldron of oil bubbled on a fire burning just beyond Whelan’s men, while men turned a spigot on the cauldron and carried buckets of oil to the walls.

  Outside the castle, beyond bow shot, a row of torches lit the road leading up from the Way; Cragyn’s army readied a charge for when the doors broke. More fires burned all along the Tothian Way.

  “Why aren’t we doing anything?” Darik asked, concerned at the lack of response.

  “We could stop them, but as soon as we show our weapons, we lose the advantage. There’s no reason to panic. They’ll never break through unless they find something bigger than that stick to poke at us,” Hoffan said.

  “And here it comes,” Markal announced.

  Four giants carried an iron-headed ram between them. They pushed aside the men crowding the pathway. Horses snorted nervously and one danced out of the way, only to slide down the slope while the man on its back threw himself clear. Flailing, the horse screamed and disappeared from sight. The giants wore heavy armor and helmets that deflected the hail of arrows that challenged their advance. The Veyrians at the gate hastily retreated with their own battering ram. Another boom sounded, this one louder.

  Markal said, “We need more wizards.”

  Hoffan pulled nervously at his beard. “Whelan said you’d be enough.”

  “Of course he would say that. But what you really need is Nathaliey or Chantmer the Tall.”

  Hoffan listened to the ram boom again, then turned to Markal and smiled. “Not enough. The doors will hold.”

  “No, nothing can destroy those doors,” Markal agreed. “But they might break the hinges. And if the hinges break—”

  A light gathered back at the enemy’s army and Darik saw four men huddle together with a light in their hands. It grew larger until it illuminated their faces, clenched together in concentration. The men wore long robes inscribed with writing and cartouches. Dark wizards. The light spread toward the walls.

  The giants roared and smashed their ram into the doors with new ferocity. Darik felt the light wash up the walls, sending a surge of strength through his body. What strength would the magic give the giants, who bathed in its full power?

  The Veyrians who’d stepped aside, still holding their ram but no longer protected by the platform, galloped forward, impossibly fast for the terrain and ignoring the swarm of arrows. They threw themselves against the door. The giants bashed again. A scream of stressed iron filled the air. The doors would not hold long under the twin assaults.

  “Now?” Hoffan asked Markal. “Now?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  Hoffan cupped his hands to his mouth and turned toward the men in the bailey. “Now!” The men below shouted to others.

  Hot oil and pitch poured from arrow loops and murder holes in the wall. The men and giants below shouted and danced backwards, but others rushed to take their place. Arrows cut them down before they reached the doors.

  “Move back!” Markal shouted.

  They gave him space. The wizard held out his right hand, muttering words under his breath. A light flashed from his palm to the ground. Pitch and oil ignited in a fireball, and a wave of heat washed up the side of the castle.

  Men screamed and scrambled away from the fire. A giant, flames roaring like a torch from his head to his boots, ran toward his army, knocking into men and beast and setting them afire. Two horses fell down the slope, taking riders with them. The giant himself lurched from the path, scorching the grass as he fell.

  There was more magic in Markal’s action than a mere spark for oil and pitch. The fire roiled back from the doors toward the enemy forces like water pouring down a hill. The Veyrians had broken ranks when the burning giant ran amongst them, but now they lost all discipline. With nowhere to go, footmen and cavalry fought each other out of the way, knocking people over the edge, burning, and screaming. Some of the cavalry speared their hapless companions on foot to drive them from the path.

  At the castle, water poured from arrow loops to protect the gates, but the fire ball continued its way through the enemy.

  The castle gates swung open, and Whelan led Montcrag’s defenders on the attack. They drove a wedge through the enemy, killing scores, and sending man and horse tumbling from the road. The Veyrians fled before this attack, turning nothing but their own backs to defend against Montcrag’s swords. Whelan’s men drove the enemy to the Tothian Way before returning.

  The fighting had lasted only thirty minutes, but when it ended, burned bodies and battering rams lay in a charred mass before the gates. As many as a hundred more soldiers lay dead along the path and strewn down the hillside. Darik could see none of Whelan’s men among them. A few had sustained serious wounds, but not many. Darik and Sofiana joined the others in a triumphant shout.

  “Hah!” Hoffan said when they finished cheering. “So much for the vaunted armies of Veyre.” He clapped Markal on the shoulder so hard he nearly knocked the wizard over, then eyed the man’s withered right hand. Markal staggered under the blow, face completely drained of strength.

  “Don’t worry,” Darik offered at Hoffan’s concerned look. “His hand will heal.”

  Dawn crept over the horizon. Darik had hoped the victory would send Cragyn’s armies back to the valley, or that they would simply continue along the Tothian Way, leaving Montcrag alone. But instead, Veyrians kept gathering along the Way.

  A thunderclap broke the sky. The castle walls shook, throwing men to the ground. Darik staggered backwards and his ears rang. A terrific wrenching sound split the air and the gates burst inward on their hinges. Veyrians rushed up the road from the Way, swords drawn.

  Darik looked down at the shattered remains of the gates in dismay. Those doors had stood for a thousand years and yet lay splintered into kindling. He didn’t understand. Markal had declared the doors impervious to assault and nobody had touched them.

  Markal answered the question. “The dark wizard.” His face was pale. “He’s here.”

  The archers in the tower shot arrows as fast as they could toward the soldiers charging the gates. The man next to Hoffan screamed, an arrow embedded in his neck. A brave enemy archer stood at the base of the Eagle Tower, shooting up at them. Sofiana slipped a bolt into her crossbow, cranked the handle, then coolly leveled the bow at the man and fired. She buried her shot, and the man fell backwards, clutching at his chest.

  A steady stream of arrows chopped down the first wave of cavalry, and of the second group, only one reached the green. He was dragged from his horse by half a dozen men and dispatched. By now, however, a perimeter of archers encircled themselves about the outer wall, shooting back at the men above them. They had a decided disadvantage, trying to shoot into the air from an unprotected position, but their ever-increasing strength forced Hoffan’s archers to keep low, and drew
away firepower.

  A small but growing band of footmen and horse fought their way into the bailey green. At first, Whelan’s men attacked each foe with overwhelming numbers, but soon, the battle broke into a general melee. Now that they were evenly matched, the Veyrians proved their worth. Slowly, the battle turned in their favor.

  Hoffan pulled his sword from its scabbard, then turned to Darik. “Can you fight, boy?”

  Darik hesitated. No, he couldn’t fight. He remembered his clumsy attack when guildmaster Fenerath took him for a slave in his father’s manor.

  “Boy?” Hoffan demanded, sharper this time. He pulled out a second blade, this one shorter, a parrying weapon and held it out to Darik, hilt-first.

  “I can,” Darik said, grabbing the sword. He followed Hoffan down the tower stairs. Markal and Sofiana stayed above.

  The sword was still too long and it felt heavy and strangely balanced. He’d had training with a rapier as a child, and even a little with the scimitar, but those were stabbing and cutting weapons. This was a chopping weapon, designed to separate bone from sinew. He followed Hoffan onto the green.

  The battle was about to be lost. Montcrag still maintained a slight edge in numbers, but they slowly lost ground and men. Some looked ready to flee, although there was nowhere to run. Hoffan bellowed in rage, throwing himself into the fray. The sight of him fighting by their side encouraged his men.

  Whelan himself emerged from the rear, fighting into the heart of the enemy forces. His sword glowed in hand. Soultrup cut down any who dared stand in the man’s way. The enemy shrank back and Hoffan started a shout that spread across the green.

  Darik still stood next to the bailey, unsure what to do. A man in black and gold spotted him and came to attack. He was taller than Darik and wore a breastplate and helmet and showed a gap-toothed grin as he sized up his opponent. He swung his sword at the boy’s head. Darik lifted his sword just in time, but was driven backwards, jolting his shoulder. He attempted a counterattack, but the man knocked it aside easily. His enemy brought the sword around again, and this time Darik stood on uneven footing and fell to his knee. With a shout of triumph, the man swept aside Darik’s sword and prepared for the killing blow.

  Whelan appeared from nowhere, driving the man backwards. Whelan’s second blow broke down the man’s defenses and the third finished him. By now, Hoffan’s men regained the upper hand and sealed the entrance to the castle with more burning oil.

  Montcrag’s archers dropped the enemy with a steady rain of arrows. At last, Veyre’s captains ordered a retreat. The green was clear again. Hoffan’s men let out another shout, but much weaker than before. There was no attempt to drive the enemy back to the Tothian Way a second time. It would not be long before Cragyn attacked again. Indeed, the enemy gathered just out of bow shot, organizing into ranks, and bolstered by more giants.

  Whelan found Darik. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you stay where it was safe?”

  Darik struggled to regain his breath. “Hoffan needed me.”

  “He did? Is that what he said? I’ll wring his neck.” He turned to go.

  “No,” Darik said, catching him by the arm. “I wanted to help. When everyone else is fighting for their lives, I can’t hide in the corner.”

  Whelan considered for a moment, then nodded. “Well said. Where’s Ninny?”

  “In the tower. With Markal.”

  “Good. Stay here. If you’re going to fight, we’ll get you a proper sword and armor. Oh, and teach you how to hold that thing. You can’t swing it around like a stick.” He ran toward the gates.

  Darik stood gasping, struggling against the shakes. The man who’d nearly killed him swam in a pool of blood a few feet away. That dead body could have been his own.

  He was stung by Whelan’s criticism, but also hoped he’d crossed a hurdle in the man’s eyes. Darik had hardly proven himself a hero, but he’d stood next to the men and fought, and it was exhilarating. And, Whelan had as much as promised to train him in swordsmanship.

  Darik joined the others at the gates. They pulled a cart in front of the door and stacked enemy bodies into a makeshift wall. Almost twenty of Montcrag’s men lay dead, far fewer than the enemy, but Hoffan had started with fewer than a hundred defenders, while the enemy had almost unlimited resources.

  Hoffan was giving the order to bring barrels to the barricade when the third attack came. Darik joined the row of pikes bristling through the wagon. He took up a pike and braced himself. Grim faces surrounded him, dirty, wounded, and tired. Some of them were criminals or escaped slaves from the khalifates, and like Darik, knew what awaited them if captured. They’d be led in chains to Veyre and sent to the mines. If lucky.

  It started with a fireball against the cart. The cart burst into flames, filling the air with smoke and the stench of burning bodies. The heat drove them back from the barricade, and shouts sounded from beyond the destroyed gates. Arrows flew through the air from walls and through the gates and an instant later three giants tore apart the remains of the makeshift barricade. Footmen and cavalry burst through the wreckage and grappled with the defenders. Veyrian cavalry impaled themselves on the defensive perimeter of pikes, but sheer numbers drove the pikemen back into the bailey.

  “The towers!” Whelan shouted.

  Darik and the others fought their way to the towers. The archers on the walls stopped trying to keep the enemy from reaching the castle, concentrating instead on protecting the men fleeing to the towers. Upon reaching the towers, the defenders pulled the doors shut and barred them. Darik made his way to the top of the Eagle Tower and joined his companions.

  The enemy didn’t immediately assault the towers, but took the lower buildings against the walls, and positioned themselves behind a wall of shields.

  The green was unrecognizable from yesterday. The ground was torn and muddy, while dead men and horses lay everywhere. Broken bits of the cart still burned inside the gates. Wounded men from Cragyn’s army hurried to the protection of the buildings before the archers could finish them.

  The dark wizard strode through this wreckage. Darik recognized him immediately from his commanding presence and by the swirl of light about his body. No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t so much light as something that sucked the light from the sky. Unlike his men, he stood in the open. Arrows flew at him from all around, but they dropped harmlessly at his feet.

  “Watch the wizard,” Whelan warned.

  “He’s spent,” Markal said. “He used it to break down the gates. No, he has no more magic than I do right now.”

  “But the arrows can’t hit him,” Darik protested.

  “An illusion of power. He’s wearing a magical cloak, as a shield. Perhaps the wizard made the cloak, perhaps it is a relic like Whelan’s sword, but it is the cloak itself turning our arrows.”

  Hoffan ordered his men to stop shooting. Emboldened by Markal’s words, he leaned over the edge of the rampart. “You might take us,” he shouted to the dark wizard. “But it will cost you dearly. Why not continue on your way? We’ll agree not to hinder your men.”

  “So you will swear your allegiance to me?”

  Hoffan balked. “I didn’t say that. I bow to no man.”

  Cragyn laughed. “Then we have no deal.”

  Hoffan let out his own laugh, which sounded more confident than Darik felt. “Very well. I promise you will leave Montcrag a shadow of your former strength.”

  If Hoffan meant to cast doubt, he succeeded. Some of the attackers murmured amongst themselves. They did, however, keep entering the green.

  Hoffan turned to one of his men and said quietly, “Tell the men not to shoot until I give the word. Let the enemy pack the green and every one of our arrows will draw blood. If they storm the towers, we pour burning oil down the stairs. We’ll cut off entry or exit from the green and slaughter them to the last man. Thrice beaten, they won’t attack a fourth time. Go.”

  Hoffan’s man climbed down the stairs, emerging on the ca
stle walls a minute later, where he spread the news. Hoffan looked back to Cragyn. “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll continue our slaughter of your men. We have powers we’ve only begun to tap.”

  Cragyn looked unconcerned by Hoffan’s speech. “I suppose you’re talking about that old fool Markal. Yes, that’s right, I see you up there, wizard. I also know about your meddling in Balsalom. The stench of your weak magic was all over the place like a dog who pisses on every street corner.”

  Markal smiled. “Still bitter that we cast you from the Order?”

  “The Order? A bunch of old men fretting over power they don’t dare to wield. Following a dead philosopher who was only half a man when he was still alive. And you, wizard, shouldn’t you be hiding behind Chantmer the Tall?”

  Markal’s voice grew cold. “You overextend yourself. And you peril your life by maligning the Order.”

  “Overextend myself? Peril my life? Look east, you old fool.”

  Darik followed the gaze of the others and was dismayed by what he saw. Dark shapes flew in the east, soaring up from the plains toward the castle. Dragon wasps! A dozen of them, ridden by their masters, the dragon kin, who were themselves armed with spears. As they approached, wasp and kin screamed in unison. Wails of despair sounded in the towers and on the walls, while the enemy below shouted.

  “The bows!” Whelan cried. “You can bring them down.”

  They drew their bows too late. The dragon wasps drew upon them. One of the creatures landed on the walls, knocking an archer from his feet. Its snakelike neck darted back and forth, jaws clamping down on the man’s face and neck. The dragon kin riding this beast jumped from his mount to finish the archer with his spear. Other dragon wasps darted at the men on the walls, knocking some over the edge, and overwhelming others. The archers got off a few shots, but the defense was wild. Back and forth wasps swooped in a series of crazy, high-speed assaults.

  The dragon kin might have been human, but their face paint and ragged, dyed hair made them look like demons. One leered at Darik as it swooped past. Sofiana shot at it with her crossbow, but the shot went wide.