Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels

by David Dalglish

  Theodore turned towards the shaman’s spirit-form. “Don’t fret about me, old friend. I’m ready for my rightful home.”

  “That is good. Many dream of forever, which statue can give. Eye of Eingana—” He indicated the amber set at the center of the Monas’s circular head. “—can heal, yet you choose death.”

  “There are better things than to simply endure,” Theodore said.

  “Not all Ipsissimi were of same mind. Most used Eingana’s power, caused much trouble, but even so they are back in ground.”

  “Whereas you, without a piece of the statue, haven’t aged a day in centuries.” Theodore grew suddenly serious. “Something seeks the eye, always has. We Ipsissimi have lived in fear of it coming in our lifetime. That’s why I haven’t used it. Nothing to do with sanctity.” Well, he supposed it could have been, judging by what others said, but how could he tell? It was difficult to be objective about these matters. Hard to see himself quite as holy as he was supposed to be—had to be, when you looked at it. Sanctity went with the office, each incumbent donning it along with the white robes and biretta.

  “Gods of my people have a name for this fear.” Huntsman frowned. “Sektis Gandaw. They say that is why statue broke into pieces, so he not find it whole.”

  “Thought he vanished during the Reckoning.” To be remembered only by those with unnaturally long lifespans, or those entrusted with knowledge of the Ancients by the Templum. Sektis Gandaw had passed from history into myth. “Why did you entrust one of Eingana’s eyes to the Ipsissimi?”

  “Was where it wished to be.” A mischievous grin spread across Huntsman’s face. “Maybe it was frightened of dark.”

  “A Dreamer goddess seeking refuge in the heart of the Templum? I’d find it heart-warming were she not in the form of a serpent.”

  Huntsman chuckled. “Snakes sacred to us. Eingana has power over life and death. She gave birth to a child, part ape, part dog. It is his dreams Barraiya People walk with.” A mask of seriousness settled over the shaman’s face. “Two pieces of statue are missing.”

  Theodore felt a shudder run through his spirit body.

  “My gods say it is not Sektis Gandaw, but if statue’s power continues to be used, he will know of it. Has been a vision.”

  Theodore frowned at that, but gestured for Huntsman to go on.

  “A boy has seen dark things. My gods burned beneath Homestead. Something is coming. I fear this. Maybe even Sektis Gandaw himself. Maybe unweaving of all things.”

  “Can you find the pieces?”

  “I have their scent, but others have it, too. Mawgs hunt beneath Sarum and a Nousian seeks piece taken from Gray Abbot.”

  “One of the brothers?”

  Huntsman shook his head. “One of your Elect.”

  “But I have no knights in Sahul. Unless… The Keeper of the Sword of the Archon.” Exemptus Silvanus’s man should have found him by now. “So, Deacon Shader went back to Pardes.” An obvious move and one surely anticipated by Investigator Shin. “But what does this mean? Coincidence? What is he doing back in Sahul?”

  Huntsman cocked his wizened head. “I ask this, too. He stayed long time in village. Made boys into knights, gave them swords and armor; trained them like your fellahs.”

  Theodore snorted. Hubris. Vanity. It was no wonder… He cut off the train of thought with a silent plea to Ain.

  “Bald Clever Man also unhappy about this,” Huntsman said.

  “Aristodeus?”

  The shaman nodded, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Asked me to speak with Shader’s woman.”

  “Woman?” The sooner Shin returned him to Aeterna, and more importantly the sword, the better.

  “She … say no to him. Your Shader far too holy. She know that now. She have better life at Templum of Knot in Sarum.”

  Theodore didn’t miss the slightly sardonic tone. “What does this have to do with Aristodeus?” The meddling philosopher already carried too much sway in Aeterna. What was he doing popping up in Sahul on the other side of the world?

  “Cannot tell.” Huntsman spread his hands. “Aristodeus is mystery. My gods tell me he once walked within Dreaming and fell. Fell long way. They say his heart good, but they fear his pride. He crosses worlds with a thought, but leaves no footprints.”

  The man had wormed his way into the Aeternam archives and dined regularly with the exempti. Theodore was starting to wonder who carried more influence in the Templum. “These two missing pieces, couldn’t you use mine to locate them?”

  The shaman raised his palms, his spirit form starting to fade. “Power would pass between all three. Sektis Gandaw is not blind. Keep Monas close. Wear it when you sleep. It will speak, if you have ears to listen. I fear time is coming, my friend, when I will need to ask for your help.”

  The air shimmered and Huntsman was gone. Silvery motes swirled in his wake for an instant and then they too melted away.

  Later that night, Theodore awoke soaked in icy sweat. He rolled painfully from his bed and poured himself a brandy. Something had entered his dreams, something that wouldn’t reveal itself to his surface consciousness, but he could still feel it squatting upon his soul. Somehow, out of the dread came a sense of purpose, a feeling that he had spied upon the machinery of fate and knew what must be done. Looking at the glowing amber set within his Monas, Theodore’s mind threw up images of red desert and brilliant blue skies. Something was communicated between him and the eye of Eingana, though how he couldn’t say. He felt it calling him, leading him to Sahul, pleading with him to confront the end of all things.

  TO FIGHT FOR AIN

  Gaston stood in the stirrups and looked back along the column of knights riding single file across the red dust, chainmail shining, surcoats the virgin white of Nous. Fifty of the best recruits; the most committed; the most accomplished.

  They rode well, he nodded his approval; no more slouching in the saddle, no more idle talk. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought them veterans, professional soldiers and not the impoverished farm-boys he’d grown up with. His father should have been proud. Not just of Gaston leading such an impressive force, but because they wore the Monas, the symbol of Nous; the symbol he’d lost his life for. But he’d have objected, wanted things done his way, same as ever. There’s more than one way to Nous, Shader always said. Takes the sword and the Monas.

  Gaston was sure that was why Aristodeus had come to him—because Shader had let the side down. Because Gaston was Bovis Rayn’s son. Because he had zeal for Nous and he knew how to swing a blade. He’d seen the philosopher once with Shader, right after he’d driven off the mawgs. Even so, finding the old man sitting in his darkened living room had been such a shock that, at first, he’d not recognized him. Gaston had turned to run, jumping to the conclusion that Halligan had grown some balls and come to arrest him—arrest him for what he’d done to Rhiannon. To her family. Before he’d reached the door, Aristodeus had laughed—like he knew what had happened; knew and didn’t care. “The sheriff won’t trouble you, Gaston,” he’d said. “Oh, he was going to. He’d even started putting together a posse to confront you, but he’s a reasonable man, and an agreement has been reached. I’m sure the same can be said of you. I’m sure you’re a reasonable man, too.” Gaston hadn’t liked the philosopher’s tone. It was amiable enough, but there was something jarring, an implied threat, and a smug certainty that he had Gaston under his thumb.

  Assemble the White Order.

  The words were still clear in his mind, the pounding of his heart just as strong.

  The Templum of the Knot is in danger. The priests need you. Shader needs you.

  He couldn’t face Shader, not now.

  Atonement, Gaston. Atonement and forgiveness. I have glimpsed these things, even though they lie ahead. We must respond to the future; shape it.

  He still wasn’t sure that was possible; his stomach still tightened when he let the memories surface; his eyes still filled with tears; and he still wanted to hurt himself—only
that wasn’t the Nousian way.

  Nous will forgive.

  It wasn’t just absolution from Nous that he wanted, though, but it didn’t seem likely Rhiannon could ever forgive him when he couldn’t forgive himself.

  There’d been one more reason to lead the men to Sarum, one more thing Aristodeus had told him that had fired Gaston’s blood: whatever the threat facing Shader, a Sicarii was involved in it; a man as short as a child; white faced and red eyed, he’d said. A man called Shadrak the Unseen: the man who had killed his father. Unseen no bloody longer, Gaston reckoned. Couldn’t exactly miss a face like that.

  “We’re within a mile of the suburbs,” Barek said, riding up alongside, his horse lathered with white sweat. “Imperial troops are stationed along the river between us and the city. They’re letting no one in or out.”

  “Is there a way round?”

  “None that I could see. Think they know we’re coming?”

  Gaston shook his head, wincing at the pain from his swollen nose. The stitches were pulling something terrible; should have got someone other than Justin to sew him up. “How?”

  Barek shrugged. “Well, maybe there’s something else going on. Mawgs, perhaps.”

  “How did they appear? Ready for battle?”

  “Don’t think so. Most were still sleeping, the rest setting fires for breakfast.”

  Gaston was only half-listening. Aristodeus’s voice was foremost in his mind, firm, sure, and prophetic.

  The Templum needs you.

  They couldn’t turn back now. Strong leaders are decisive, Shader always said. Fortune favors the brave.

  “Move the column into a diamond.”

  “We’re not going to attack?” Barek’s mouth hung open. “Shouldn’t we talk to—”

  “Do it!”

  Barek stiffened and rode back down the column, barking orders to the men.

  “Surely he doesn’t think we can just ride up and ask them nicely to let us in,” Justin said, cantering up from behind.

  “What do you think?” Gaston watched over his shoulder as Barek spoke to the men, grasping hands and patting backs. A leader should gain the affection of his men, Shader had said; but where that wasn’t possible he should force their respect.

  “I think what you think, man—boss, or whatever we’re supposed to call you. Grand master? General?”

  “Gaston will do just fine.” At least until he’d had a chance to earn a title. The last thing he needed was for the men to think him a pompous prat. He knew what these blokes admired. Actions, not words, would win their loyalty. Fancy titles would gain him nothing but coarse Sahulian satire.

  Gaston picked at his stitches, trying to think what Shader would have done. He shut his eyes and muttered a swift prayer to Ain. If this was the wrong path, surely there would be a sign, a pang of conscience, some sort of clarity.

  The pounding of approaching hooves snapped him back to alertness, and he became aware he was chewing his left knuckle.

  Barek drew up and saluted. “The men are in formation. We await your order.”

  Do you? Gaston couldn’t bring himself to meet Barek’s gaze. He swiveled in the saddle to take in the men and horses formed up in a tight rhombus, perfectly still, perfectly disciplined. Were they ready? There was no way of telling. They’d had the training, they knew the drills; what they had to learn next was something that couldn’t be taught. Gaston felt his heartbeat hammering away inside his ribcage, his doubts growing. Without further thought, he did what he always did when shitting himself: turned it into rage.

  “Advance!” he bellowed, spurring the mare into a gallop and not even checking to see if the others were following.

  * * *

  Captain Janks was right thankful for the change in the weather. The men were sick of the pissing drizzle, the sullen clouds brooding overhead, gray and unbroken. The sun now blazed nakedly, the sky an empty blue brilliance. And, bloody hell, his mood had perked up with it.

  He stopped in his morning tour of the camp to bend down and scratch at a mosquito bite on his ankle, the biggest pain on this mad-arsed assignment. Crackpot bloody emperor sticking his bloody nose in where it’s not bloody wanted. And who always gets the blame? Not him, that’s for sure. Too busy dreaming up more imaginary threats to the empire or jumping at his own shadow on the palace walls. Poor bastard probably couldn’t even take a shit without shoving his head down the pan to look for assassins.

  The bulk of Janks’s force was camped between the Soulsong Ford and the Old Sarum Road. Archers were stationed in wooden towers at intervals along the bank, right up as far as the Western Ocean, and anybody coming from the east would have to enter open ground before they could approach the city. They’d be mown down before they reached the gates.

  Not that anyone was likely to approach Sarum, Janks thought wryly. The biggest threat was from the poor bleeders fleeing the plague and spreading it beyond the city. Surprisingly few had tried, and those that had were soon persuaded that their chances of survival were greater if they just stayed where they were.

  Looking back over the huddle of tents, watching his troops queuing for their beans and rye bread and then lounging on the still damp grass to eat lazily, he chuckled to himself. Ordinarily, he thought, such complacency would be intolerable, but not today. The men deserved a break after the misery of the rain and a job that made them as popular as fly-strike on mutton.

  He wandered from the camp, crested a small hill and strolled amongst the trees of Blood Wood, where crimson blossom clung to the gum trees like a cloak of velvet.

  Stopping for a piss, he became aware of a distant pounding, gathering pace, rolling towards him like a colossal wave. A dust cloud billowed from the trees. Janks could make out dark figures astride horses, the glint of steel. He buckled his belt, shaking his head at the absurdity of charging a unit through a forest. The riders were close enough for him to see the red symbols on their surcoats, their formation ragged and starting to fan out, more through necessity than design. He was about to step into their path to chastise their leader when he suddenly came to his senses. There were no cavalry this side of Jorakum, and the riders weren’t dressed in imperial black.

  By the time he’d started to run back to camp, the riders were upon him. A white-cloaked youngster galloped towards him at full pelt. Janks turned and tugged at his sword, but the scabbard was all twisted up on his belt. Before he had it half drawn, the rider leaned over in the saddle and slashed a blade across his face. At first Janks thought he’d been blinded, but then he realized blood was pouring into his eyes from a gash to his forehead. No matter how much he rubbed them, they wouldn’t clear. The sound of trampling hooves was all around him. He turned to the left, turned right, back to the left again. A hard hit to the shoulder spun him to the ground. He tried to rise, but something crunched into his head…

  * * *

  Barek spurred his horse on as the imperial troops abandoned their breakfasts and ran for their weapons. Some were better prepared and unleashed a score of arrows into the front riders. A handful of knights dropped from their horses, and one of the beasts fell, its legs folding under it, an arrow lodged in its throat. Barek’s mount swerved to avoid it, but the knight behind crashed into the fallen horse and was thrown headlong from the saddle. Chaos rolled through the following knights and the charge faltered.

  What the bloody heck was Gaston doing? Barek had assumed the plan would be to ride east of the encampment before risking a gallop across the open ground towards Sarum. A few men might have fallen to arrow fire, but most would have reached the city, where the soldiers wouldn’t dare follow.

  A swordsman ran at Barek, slashing wildly towards his waist. Barek parried the blow, but numbness ran up his arm from its force. He rode on, knocking another man from his feet before following the path Gaston was cutting through the surprised soldiers. The five knights who had speared the charge with him were down, screaming, groaning, crying like babies. Gaston hacked about like an invincible god of wa
r, but his horse was hit bad, lurching drunkenly, blood gushing from its flank.

  Gaston leapt from the saddle and snatched up a sword dropped by one of his victims. He stood his ground armed with two weapons as a dozen imperial troops closed in for the kill. Barek glanced back to see their fellow knights still struggling to regain control over their mounts, sorely pressed by fire from a group of archers. An arrow thrummed past his ear, lodged in the throat of one of the lads, red spurting like a geyser. Cramp took hold of Barek’s guts. He looked away, thought he was gonna shit himself.

  Gaston roared something, fighting furiously, twin blades a silvery arc clashing against metal or ripping through flesh. He was hopelessly outnumbered, but was just about holding his own. He’d already put down three of the bastards.

  Justin rode up alongside Barek, bleeding from half a dozen light wounds, his sword red to the hilt. “Gaston!”

  “I’ll go to him,” Barek said. “You help the others.”

  Justin heeled his steed towards the archers and Barek muttered a hurried prayer then charged the group surrounding Gaston. His horse reared up, smashing its hooves into a soldier’s head, shattering bone and spraying blood. Barek rolled from the saddle, jarring his knee as he hit the ground. He clambered to his feet, sword-arm hanging limp and useless. Two men sprang at him swinging steel. Switching to his left hand he parried the first and slashed clumsily at the second. The man leapt back, giving Barek time to find his balance. A whisper of movement to his right caused him to spin in time to see another soldier fall, blood pumping from a severed arm.

  Gaston slid beside him. “You hurt?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the half dozen opponents still standing.

  “Sword arm’s dead.” Barek wrinkled his nose, gave the barest shrug. “But I’m good.”

  Gaston grinned, his eyes sparkling. The remaining soldiers made a concerted attack and Gaston sprang to meet them, his blades a glittering blur. Barek swung at a big bloke trying to outflank Gaston, taking him on the back of the legs and sending him crashing headlong into another. Gaston batted a thrust aside and plunged his second blade into his assailant’s belly. The man crumpled, catching a handful of his spilling guts. Seeing the momentary vulnerability, the other soldiers surged in, but Barek threw himself in their path hacking about wildly.