Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels

by David Dalglish

  Kadee’s brown eyes shone with the love of a mother for a child; an only child, a special one. The hint of a smile touched her lips and she gave the slightest of nods before retreating like the sun behind a cloud.

  Shadrak felt the warmth of her presence, felt himself smiling and shook his head. She’d done it again. He could never refuse her in life, and in death she was just as persuasive. Turning back the way he’d come, he started to retrace his steps, all the while working out what to tell the guild and what he could safely leave out.

  He’d have plenty of time for that, though, ‘cause first he had to make a detour. Still had the little matter of imperial goons coming to his house with the contract to kill Bovis Rayn. Couldn’t have people knowing where he lived, and it was about time he paid them a return visit. Begged the question, though, how they’d found him in the first place, why they’d not gone through the guild. Or maybe they had. Maybe the guild had gone to them, in which case someone was trying to expose him, weaken his position. All part of the constant in-fighting that weeded out the weak from the strong. There was no honor among assassins, which was a good thing. At least when he found out who it was that had betrayed him, there’d be no need to give a warning.

  RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL

  Shader’s coat grew sodden and heavy, his hat lank and misshapen. Clinging clay slurped at his boots, the rain falling in sheets that pocked the track with puddles. Clouds smothered the sky with a roiling black blanket and wind buffeted the grass-trees, their leaves fanning and flapping, anchored by stunted trunks.

  Splash, slurp, splash. Splash, slurp, splash: steps like the beating of a diseased heart sloshing bad blood through clogged arteries. The sound took hold like a mantra, drawing him to the still center where the storm was muffled and comforting outside the walls of perception.

  The waters of the Soulsong were swollen and dangerous, yet there were tents pitched along the bank, hunched figures running between them, shouts merging with the howling wind. Swinging lanterns cast their eerie glow across the precarious village, half a dozen hemming the platform of a swaying watchtower. To the northeast, Shader could just make out the dark outline of Sarum, the spires of its Old World buildings stabbing the sky in retaliation for the downpour.

  A burly spearman struggled towards him, cloak snapping like a lateen, dragging him the other way. Rain pattered against his helm, streamed down the nose-guard and soaked into his beard.

  “Corporal Farley, Fifth Regiment, Imperial. Where you heading?”

  “Business at the abbey,” Shader shouted above the squall.

  “Best tell them to stay away from Sarum. Plague’s hit. No one gets in or out.”

  “I’ll let them know.” Not that it was necessary. No one had left Pardes for a very long time. No one, that is, besides Shader.

  “Evil bastard of a plague.” Another soldier approached, a captain judging by his epaulets. “Glad I ain’t in there. Captain Janks, Imperial Fifth. Off to the abbey, you say? What business could be so urgent it can’t wait till tomorrow?”

  “I was gonna ask him that,” Farley said, ramming the haft of his spear into the mud and doing his best to stand up straight.

  The blast of a horn had everyone turning. Soldiers, bent double against the gusting winds, scurried from their tents and ran along the bank in the direction of the ocean.

  “What is it?” Shader asked Captain Janks, who was wrapping his cloak about him like a shroud as he headed after the others.

  “Mawgs, most likely. Shoggers are getting cocky again. Been driving ‘em off all the way down the coast.”

  “Mind if I join you?” The chill of anticipation ran up and down Shader’s spine, fuelled by flashing images of Oakendale’s dead, steaming pools of gore staining the streets.

  “You know what you’re asking?”

  Shader pulled back his coat a little way to reveal the hilt of his longsword. “I know evil and how to deal with it.”

  “Right y’are.” Janks slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t s’pose another pair of hands is gonna hurt any.”

  They ducked into the wind to catch up with the group of soldiers gathering at the base of the lookout tower.

  Janks cupped his hands and threw his head back. “What is it? Mawgs?”

  “No, sir!” the horn-blower yelled back, pointing to the west. “There’s a boat coming up the river.”

  Even as he spoke, it drifted into sight, prow low in the water, lone mast supporting a patchwork sail. Mist partially obscured the view, but as the craft approached, Shader spotted a stout figure at the helm. Devilish horns glinted in the lamplight spilling from the mast. As it drew nearer, though, he saw that it was a helmed human, dwarfish and powerfully built, with a great mane of gray hair and a long braided beard. He wore a dark habit beneath a pale cloak embroidered with a red cross. The wind tore at his garments, revealing glimpses of heavy banded armor underneath. The dwarf held a war hammer aloft, the boat seemingly steering itself.

  “Shog me,” Janks said. “It’s the Fallen.”

  Resounding murmurs came from the soldiers. Shader shrugged and shook his head.

  “Maldark the Fallen.” The captain’s voice quavered. “It’s said he’s sailed the waterways of Sahul since the Reckoning.”

  “Shall we stop him, sir?” asked Corporal Farley.

  “I’m not sure that we could.” Janks turned to watch the boat float silently past in the direction of Sarum.

  “What’s he doing here?” Shader thought aloud.

  “Who knows?” The captain continued to stare after the boat. “Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think, that the Fallen arrives right on the heels of the plague?”

  “Sorcery?” Shader’s fingers curled around the hilt of the gladius.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But one thing’s for sure: wherever the Fallen’s seen, death’s not far behind. Stand down, everyone!” Janks called over the wind. “You need a tent for the night?”

  “I’ll press on to the abbey.”

  “Suit yourself. Tell me one thing, though, “fore you do. You a Nousian?”

  Shader felt his face tighten, his mind racing for the right response. The captain was watching him as if he already knew the answer.

  “Don’t worry. We’ve got no orders on that account. Reckon the Sicarii get paid more than enough for that job. You’ll get no trouble from me.” He leaned in closer. “Haven’t the stomach for it. I’m curious, mind, as to what business a fighting man has at the abbey.”

  “As am I, Captain. As am I.”

  Shader shook Janks’s hand and set off along the bank. He headed west until he came to a wooden bridge, slipping and sliding his way across the Soulsong and into the shelter of Darling Wood. A path through the trees opened upon a scree slope ascending to the lone spire of Pardes.

  * * *

  The Gray Abbot observed the approach of the figure through the storm. He sat motionless as the gargoyles flanking him atop the tower, wind and rain lashing the parapet, but leaving him dry and unruffled. Idly, he fingered the amber eye of the wooden Monas nestled in the folds of his habit. His thoughts labored through strands of memories clinging like cobwebs heavy with the husks of insects. Images of brothers long since turned to dust; reconstructions of the faces of family and friends that had been erased by the centuries; and something older, just below the surface: the specter of Otto Blightey, invisible, sunken like a crocodile in a muddy creek.

  The revered friar had once held sway with the chief powers of Nousia, even the Ipsissimus himself. His influence had extended with his longevity, a perdurance that had been widely seen as the fruit of holiness. The Gray Abbot shuddered at the emerging memory.

  Was he so different?

  Thoughts of the nefarious friar often dominated his meditations and he’d long since given up trying to banish them. He was astute enough to discern the warnings his unconscious was sending him with increasing frequency. He understood that every soul, no matter how holy, always harbored a shadow side.


  “No.” He throttled the thought before it led him where he didn’t want to go. “I am not like Blightey.”

  Deep breathing settled his nerves, blunted his fears. It was the instant relief he used to feel upon sipping his first wine of the day. With calm restored, it was easy to assert that the memories need not refer to his shadow side; they could equally be interpreted as a warning against judging Blightey too harshly. Perhaps the connection between the Gray Abbot and this specter from the past lay in the ultimate goodness of their intentions, the only difference being that, for Blightey, the ends had uncompromisingly dictated the means.

  He turned at the sound of the door slamming in the wind. Frater Elphus bustled out into the cold, fat fingers tugging his cloak about his ample frame.

  “Frater Shader is back, Pater Abbot. Should we let him in?”

  The Gray Abbot shifted his focus back to the external world and sighed. Another ghost, this one from the more recent past, began to intrude upon his consciousness.

  “Would you leave a brother out in the cold?”

  Elphus lowered his eyes and scurried back inside wrestling the door shut. The Gray Abbot sighed again and became aware that he was chewing his bottom lip.

  “Ain,” he shivered, rubbing his arms. “It’s freezing.”

  Rising from his stony perch, he moved effortlessly against the wind, the door opening for him like a welcoming friend. Back inside the abbey, the weight of the feelings of the brothers bore down upon him and he once more felt his age. Reaching for the rope railing, he made his arduous descent of the spiraling stairs and hobbled along endless corridors under the gaze of statues of the Luminaries and the Dark Mother of Ain until he came to the chapel. He’d occupied the same choir stall for centuries, and it was here that he always returned when he needed guidance. Lowering himself onto the hard wooden pew, he let the words of prayer spill forth of their own accord.

  * * *

  Shader paused before the wrought iron gates of the abbey. Aeterna seemed suddenly even more remote than the other side of the world. It was as if he had never left Pardes, as if the time at Oakendale, the weeks of travel and the tournament had been a tantalizing dream.

  You will live and die here, Frater Trellian had told him when he’d first arrived as a postulant. Pardes is your tomb; here you will be buried with Nous.

  The romance of sharing the death of the Son of Ain had carried him through the first few months, but deep down he’d always known it was a temporary arrangement. Simplicity and contemplation drew him like a moth to the flame, but he’d recoiled from the burn.

  Lifting the latch with tremulous fingers, he pushed through the gate and closed it behind him. One last trip, he’d told the Gray Abbot; a final expiation, then he could accept the cold hand of Nous. The tournament was supposed to end his life of action, lay to rest the striving for excellence. Reach the heights and then abandon the old life. No regrets, no wondering what he might have achieved.

  His feet scuffed against the stone path wending towards the abbey doors. The final steps of Deacon Shader leaving the world of conflict, power and struggle. He walked the way of the luminary one dragging footfall at a time. Resounding steps. Deliberate. Gallows steps.

  Maybe he should have stayed at Oakendale. They’d been good times; some of the best. Shader had moved into the Old Mint, which had been disused since the end of the Sarum gold rush. The locals had fed him at the request of the village council, but the initial gratitude of the people towards their liberator had soon worn thin. Resentment surfaced towards the man who lived among them, ate their food, but did no work. He’d meditated upon the advice of Luminary Tajen, for whom work was as crucial as prayer, and determined to earn his keep. He founded the White Order to bring both Ain and security to the village, and to oppose all manner of evil, wherever they should find it. A bit idealistic, maybe, but if you didn’t differentiate between what was for Nous and what was against him early on then you gave the Demiurgos his opportunity. The young of the shire, devoid of hope for a better future, had flocked to him.

  The White Order’s numbers quickly swelled like the waters of the Delling in winter. He’d started the recruits off on horsemanship, something the locals already knew a lot about. Next had come sword practice, something they wanted to know a lot about; and then he’d introduced the Liber and the unraveling of knots on the prayer cord. Create a bridge for people to cross, Adeptus Ludo used to say, hook them with what they know, what they desire, and then lead them to Nous as meek as little lambs. This was to be an Order purer than even the renowned Elect, a beacon of holiness in a distant outpost, whose light would be seen from Aeterna like that of a far off star.

  Gaston had taken to it like a fish to water. This was a much more palatable approach to his father’s newly acquired religion. Bovis hadn’t approved, though, forced Gaston to make a choice. The lad had put his trust in Shader, dreamed of being like the Elect, of perhaps one day serving in Aeterna. Probably wouldn’t have gone down well with the Ipsissimus—a renegade knight training an unauthorized Order—but Shader never said anything to discourage him. All Gaston’s trust, his hard work and dedication, the loss of his family. Shader sighed. In a few more years the lad would have made a fine knight, but instead, Shader had abandoned him along with all the others. Promised them the life eternal and then left them in the same life of drudgery he’d just saved them from.

  Everything had been going according to Ain’s will. Everything, that is, except Rhiannon.

  * * *

  The Gray Abbot watched Shader remove his rain-drenched hat and coat, revealing a white tunic with an embroidered red Monas over a mail hauberk. The embellished scabbards of two exquisite swords were belted to his waist. Apparently the trip to Aeterna had resolved nothing. A shame, but not a surprise. Some men are born wolves. Even if they suppress their true nature, they seldom make good contemplatives. You only needed to look at Blightey to see that. The human obsession with immortality and control buried beneath the soil of sanctity only to fight its way to the surface as a spray of strangling creepers, weeds that still infected the Templum today.

  Shader’s face was gaunt as a skull, cold eyes glinting from shadowy sockets. Black hair framed sunken cheeks, splaying across his shoulders, the barest suggestion of a widow’s peak retreating from a high forehead. His shoulders were square like a swimmer’s, waist narrow, legs long and terminating in knee-length boots of worn leather. White hands ridged with veins hovered defensively over the pommels of both swords, betraying the discomfort that his lips failed to utter.

  Shader pivoted with practiced grace and reached up to hang his coat on the peg by the door—an unconscious gesture, no doubt, but further indication that he was not staying. Even here in Pardes, he moved lightly on the balls of his feet, the fruit of years of training that refused to give ground to the disciplines of the abbey.

  “Your friend Aristodeus came to see me during your stay in Oakendale,” the Gray Abbot addressed Shader’s back. The knight stood motionless, prompting him to go on. “You are not surprised?”

  “He travels a lot.”

  The Gray Abbot pressed his palms together beneath his nose. “He struck me as rather paternalistic, mapping out the best path for his son.”

  “That’s why my father employed him.”

  “Interesting. The guidance of a parent is a mixed blessing, don’t you think? Tajen wrote that it is our duty to obey, irrespective of whether the parent is right or wrong.”

  “But that obligation ends with the death of the parent,” Shader finished for him.

  “Quite, but was he speaking literally or figuratively? I suppose we’ll never know. What we have, though, is a conflict between heart and duty.”

  The Gray Abbot opened the door to the long corridor flanked by the cells of the brothers. He gestured Shader inside and followed him, letting the door slam behind.

  “Entrance halls are places of ambivalence,” he explained. “Neither one thing nor the other.” He glanced at Shader
for a reaction, but the knight seemed lost in his own thoughts.

  “Did Aristodeus say he wanted me here?”

  “Not exactly. My guess is that he wanted you to imbibe the sanctity of the abbey. Probably sees it as character building. I am not altogether foolish, my friend. I’ve lived a long time—perhaps even longer than he has. I’ve seen many things, witnessed great events, acts of surpassing goodness and deeds of unimaginable evil. There are those who would take a stronger stand against the wrongs of the world than I have done.”

  Shader stopped to lean against the door of a cell. He fixed the Gray Abbot with an intense blue stare. In the flickering torchlight of the corridor he looked spectral, unearthly, a being not quite suited to the world he found himself in.

  “If we are the hands and feet of Nous…”

  “Why does evil go unpunished? Injustice go unchecked?” The Gray Abbot tried not to appear smug, but the conversation was unfurling just as he’d hoped.

  “Pater Abbot, I am a fighter through and through. I cannot stand by whilst the poor are enslaved, children are harmed, women raped.”

  “You have seen all this?”

  “Some, but that is not my point. The world is full of evil and yet the Templum does nothing, except when the threat’s on its own doorstep. The only reason we were sent against Blightey at Trajinot is because Latia would have been next.”

  The Gray Abbot clapped a hand on the knight’s shoulder and they continued their stroll along the rows of cells.

  “Luminary Narcus wrote that shame often leads us to criticism of the Templum.” He held his breath, waiting for the explosion he assumed would come. It wouldn’t be the first time. Shader was riddled with the pride that strengthened a warrior, but was deadly to a monk. Surprisingly, he just smiled and shook his head.

  “You read me too well, Pater Abbot.”

  “Rhiannon?”

  Shader shuddered as he drew in a deep breath. “Is it possible to atone for such sin? It feels as if my soul is partway to the Abyss.”

  The Gray Abbot laughed—he hoped it was a gentle, well-meaning laugh. “Frater, it is no sin to love a woman. Ain would be a capricious god indeed if that were the case.”