Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  He watched the released moth flutter into the distance. With his mismatched eyes, Torin felt linked to this animal with mismatched wings. Perhaps the entire world was like that small, insignificant creature, torn in two, floating through some vast sky, one wing light and one dark.

  “It’s pretty,” Hem said, watching the moth flutter away.

  Cam rolled his eyes. “Merciful Idar, you’re a man of the Village Guard, and you’re about as big as an ox. You shouldn’t think butterflies are pretty.”

  The lumbering baker thrust out his bottom lip. “It’s a moth, not a butterfly. And you’re about as small as a moth yourself, so be quiet.”

  Torin stood watching until the moth disappeared into the distance, then tightened his lips. The villagers had gone farther east along the river, and he rushed to catch up. Cam and Hem hurried at his side, their swords clanking and their boots thumping.

  Soon the last grass and bushes faded. The sun touched the horizon behind them, an orange disk, casting long shadows. Another mile and the sun would disappear, and they would reach Eloria itself. Torin had seen that land from the hilltop, and the memory still haunted him. He had no wish to actually set foot in the night. He raced ahead, whipping around the villagers, and approached Ferius.

  The monk led the procession, lamp held high. The light gleamed against his waxy skin. His tongue licked his teeth. He reminded Torin of some diseased snake slithering toward a mouse.

  “Ferius, you’ve taken them far enough,” he said. “Stop this madness. Another mile and we’ll emerge from the dusk into Nightside itself.”

  The monk turned toward him, and his lips twisted into a grin. He hissed between his teeth.

  “Do you fear the darkness, little child?”

  “I do. And so should you.” Torin swallowed. “You didn’t see Yana’s body. You didn’t see her wounds. Ferius, if you take us any deeper into this darkness, you’ll be accountable for any other deaths.”

  Ferius’s grin widened. “Oh, innocent child of daylight. What do you know of death? I will not shy away from the dark. I will not live an ideal, oblivious life in the sunlight, not when evil lurks so near to home.” He brandished his lamp. “The followers of Sailith are brave, and we do not fear the shadow. We march to banish it. To bring light.” He raised his voice. “We will burn the enemy with the fires of the sun!”

  Torin shook his head. “You’re mad.”

  Ferius didn’t seem to hear him. The monk marched on and the mob followed. Torin tried to speak to them. He tried to turn them back. Yet their souls were swayed; he could not stop them. Orange light still glowed in the west, but in the east, the sky turned a deep indigo like a bruise. The Nighttower rose upon the distant hill, a shard like a stalagmite. The moon emerged above the steeple, casting a silvery ring. Seeing this god of night, the people gasped and pointed, but they did not slow.

  “Do not fear the shadows!” Ferius said. “Our lamps burn bright, and we will find those who hurt us. We will burn them.”

  They kept moving. Torin was wondering if he should grab Ferius and pull him back, despite the man’s bulky frame, when he saw the figure ahead.

  He froze and stared.

  A lone fisherman stood in the night, his rod held over the river. The moon rose behind him, silhouetting a slender form. Even from this distance, Torin could see the figure’s eyes; they shone like two coins.

  Torin’s heart leaped into his throat.

  “An Elorian,” he whispered.

  At his side, Cam and Hem gave strangled gasps. Steel hissed as the two young men drew their swords. Torin held his own hilt, but he did not draw the blade. The figure ahead seemed peaceful, a graceful being like a heron upon the water. The Elorian stood alone, staring at the approaching crowd.

  The villagers saw him, their step slowed, and they began to mutter, whisper, and point. Torin heard grumbles of “night demon” and “one of them” and even “murderer.” More than rage, fear twisted their voices. The fisherman only stood still in the distance, staring at them, perhaps wondering whether they were friend or foe.

  “He’s no threat,” Torin said softly. “He’s only a fisherman who wandered too close the border. He—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, Ferius howled.

  The monk had been howling for hours now, but this sound was different. It was the sound of an enraged beast, a battle cry, the roar of a madman lusting for blood. Ferius raised his lamp overhead, and the light burst out, shooting a glowing ring across the barren landscape. At his sides, his monks raised their own lamps and began to chant. Their song echoed, deep and rumbling.

  “Timandra will rise!” Ferius cried. “Our light will bathe the world. Eloria must fall!” He turned toward his followers. “People of Fairwool-by-Night, do not fear this creature. Seize him so we may judge him in the daylight.”

  Emboldened by the light, the villagers quickened their step, surging along the riverbanks toward the lone figure.

  “Ferius, enough of this!” Torin said. He ran toward the monk but could not reach him; the crowd of villagers was too thick. He tried to grab at them instead. “Jorin, listen to me, stop this madness—you’re a blacksmith, not a warrior. Talina, you’re a milkmaid, not a fighter. Return to your home.”

  Nobody seemed to notice him. Their voices rose louder and rage twisted their faces. Their eyes burned and their weapons gleamed. Torin looked up at the lone Elorian. The fisherman still stood frozen, watching them approach.

  “Run,” Torin whispered. “Run, you fool. Why do you wait for them?”

  As they drew closer, Torin got a better look at the Elorian, and it froze his breath. The man was ghostly pale, his skin pure white. His large ears protruded from long, smooth hair the color of the moon. He wore white robes embroidered with silver thread, but his feet were bare. Strangest of all were his eyes. Torin gasped to see them. Many people mocked Torin for having unusually large eyes, but this man’s orbs were twice the size. They peered right at him, blue and piercing.

  They have owl eyes, he thought and shivered. The stories are true.

  Ferius’s pace increased until he was running. His monks ran chanting at his side, and the villagers followed. Voices rang out hoarsely.

  “For sunlight!” one man shouted.

  “For Yana!” cried another.

  “Burn the creature!”

  The mob raced forward, but the Elorian only stood still.

  Run! Torin thought. Why do you stand here? Run!

  He stared at the Elorian, and again the creature met his gaze. Torin saw no emotion in those large blue eyes. He wondered if Elorians were no wiser than beasts.

  That was when he saw the distant glints farther down the river.

  The villagers were too enraged to see; they were focused on the Elorian fisherman. But Torin saw what lay ahead in the darkness, and he exhaled slowly. He understood.

  Several miles away, huts rose along the river. Soft lights glowed there, mere specks like the stars above.

  “A fishing village,” Torin whispered to himself. “He’s protecting his home.”

  When the mob was heartbeats away, the Elorian reached behind his back. He grabbed a hilt and drew a long blade. Torin’s own sword, like all those from his kingdom, was broad and straight and doubled-edged. Its crossguard flared out, and leather wrapped around its hilt. The Elorian’s blade, however, was thin and curved. Its guard was but a small disk, and silk wrapped around its hilt. The blade gleamed in the moonlight, revealing mottles in the steel.

  “Capture the beast!” Ferius cried, stepping back and letting the mob swarm.

  With a shrill cry like a swooping falcon, the Elorian swung his blade. Blood sprayed in a mist, and a villager fell, his chest sliced open.

  “Stop!” Torin shouted and trudged forward, barreling between villagers. “Lay down your weapons and end this! Cam, Hem—with me. Let’s break this up.”

  Two villagers dragged the dead man back. Two more lunged at the Elorian, swinging sickles. The pale, large-
eyed figure leaned backward, dodging the blades. He leaped up, knees bent, his silken robes fluttering. His sword swung in an arc, and both villagers fell, clutching their chests. Blood spurted between their fingers.

  Torin froze, and his sword wavered in his hand. The Elorian moved like dandelion seeds in the wind. He seemed almost to have no weight. He lunged through the air, blade glimmering as it swung down. A villager raised a cleaver, trying to defend himself. The Elorian’s sword—a masterwork of pale beauty—knocked the crude blade aside, and this villager too fell, blood gushing.

  Torin stared, heart fluttering. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his breath rose to a pant.

  This demon will kill us all, he thought.

  His legs felt frozen. Sweat drenched him. Torin did not think he could move.

  My father would know what to do, he thought. My father was a great soldier, a war hero, the man who saved the king’s life. Torin clenched his jaw. I cannot let his spirit down.

  He snapped out of his paralysis. He raced forward, raised his sword, and placed himself between the villagers and the Elorian.

  “Enough of this!” he said. “Villagers, stand back. Lower your weapons.” He stared into the Elorian’s eyes, wondering how much the creature understood. “Elorian, sheathe your blade. Enough blood has spilled.”

  The Elorian stared at him, those glowing orbs betraying no emotion. Torin shuddered; no humanity seemed to fill this creature.

  The Elorian raised his sword.

  He leaped again.

  He swung his blade toward Torin.

  In the instant of that blade swinging down, Torin saw his life flash before his eyes. It was far too short and far too uneventful. He raised his sword to parry.

  The two blades clanged together.

  Their eyes met again, and for a heartbeat they stood with locked blades—a young man of sunlight, clad in wool and steel, his hair brown and his skin tanned; and a dweller of the night, clad in silk, hair long and pale, skin white, eyes as large as chicken eggs.

  They pulled their swords apart, and the blades swung and clashed again, ringing across the desolate landscape. The villagers howled behind, and the Elorian raised his blade high, and Torin knew that he would die here in the wilderness on the border of night.

  He clutched his sword, prepared to parry as many blows as he could before the creature cut him down.

  He swung his blade.

  A shadow slunk behind his foe.

  The Elorian raised his blade higher, preparing another swing, when the shadow pounced.

  His yellow robes fluttering, Ferius sprang up behind the Elorian. His oil lantern blazed in his hand, showering sparks. The monk slammed the lamp down, shattering it against the Elorian’s head.

  Glass shards flew and burning oil spilled.

  The Elorian’s hair ignited. Smoke rose and the smell invaded Torin’s nostrils.

  Still the creature’s blade swung down, but the blow was weak. Torin lashed his own blade, and his parry caught the Elorian’s hand, nicking his fingers.

  The curved sword flew and clattered down against the riverbank.

  “Take him alive!” Ferius said. “Drag him back to daylight.”

  The villagers swarmed onto the lone warrior, kicking and tugging and twisting his arms. Still the Elorian’s hair crackled. A dozen hands grabbed the Elorian. A boot kicked him down. A club swung onto the creature’s back, and Torin grimaced to hear the thud and crack.

  Ferius knelt over the fallen warrior, grinning like a vulture hunched over prey. The monk rummaged through the Elorian’s robes, hissed, and raised a metal star, a hole in its center. It looked like the weapon Torin had found in Yana’s neck.

  “Lift the demon!” Ferius said, the throwing star raised in his hand, his face twisted. “Bring him back to Fairwool-by-Night. He will stand trial for the murder of Yana.”

  A few villagers lifted the bodies of their fallen. Others grabbed the Elorian and manhandled him forth, kicking and spitting upon him.

  “I don’t know who’s worse,” said Cam, coming to stand beside Torin. The young shepherd’s face was pale. “The Elorian demon or that snake Ferius.”

  Hem stood shivering, eyes wide with fear. “They’re both horrible. I want to go home.” He looked pleadingly at Torin. “Can we go home now? Please?”

  Torin looked back east toward the distant village of Elorians. He reckoned that about twenty huts rose there, maybe more. Lights twinkled in their windows, and a boat seemed to sway by a dock. Torin wondered if this village was like Fairwool-by-Night, full of humble people afraid of the other side.

  “Come on, Tor,” said Cam and held his arm. “It’s time to go home.”

  Torin nodded and turned away. They walked back west, following the mob and their prisoner, moving along the river until daylight shone once more, but Torin still felt cold.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RAVEN’S FLIGHT

  The Elorian stood tied to the pyre, his arms and legs bound to a pole, his feet resting upon kindling. Ferius stood before the prisoner, holding a crackling lamp.

  “We shall now decide,” Ferius announced, “whether this beast shall live or die.”

  The entire village had come to watch the trial. If only fifty folk had invaded Eloria to snatch this prisoner, all five hundred Fairwoolians, it seemed, wanted to watch him judged. They stood in the village square, a pebbly expanse. A single tree grew here, the old maple Torin had fallen off so often, his bad eye draining his depth perception. A ring of cottages surrounded the square, built of wattle-and-daub and topped with thatch.

  Among the cottages rose the Sailith temple, the only structure built of stone. A golden sunburst crowned its steeple. Outside the temple gates rose a marble statue; it depicted a handsome Timandrian warrior, clad in armor and bearing a sword, stepping upon a fallen Elorian. While the marble Timandrian exuded beauty and nobility, the Elorian figure seemed twisted, its face locked in a grimace, its spine ridge bulging, its tongue dangling.

  Torin looked at the statue, then returned his eyes to the living Elorian. While the marble figure seemed base and devious, the Elorian tied to the pyre seemed meek, almost pitiful. All his hair had burned off, and burn marks ran across his scalp. Bruises and cuts covered his flesh. He squirmed and squinted in the sun, his oversized eyes narrowed to mere slits. Ferius and his monks had tied the creature here only hours ago, yet already the Elorian’s skin was reddening in the sunlight.

  “This is madness,” Bailey said, standing at Torin’s side. “This is disgusting.”

  Shaken after the raid, Cam and Hem had both volunteered for Watchtower duty, freeing Bailey to stand here in the square. Torin’s only other ally in the village, the elderly Lord Kerof, had not come to the trial; he lay abed in his home, frail and trembling with the cough.

  Torin looked at his foster sister and felt some of his own shakiness leave him. The world seemed an ugly place of late, but Bailey was still beautiful and strong. Freckles lay strewn across her cheeks, and her golden braids shone in the sunlight. She wore her breastplate, green leggings, and tall leather boots. Her sword hung from her belt, her quiver hung across her back, and she clutched her bow.

  She is too tall and too taunting and too mischievous, Torin thought. But now I’m glad that she’s standing beside me.

  “Do you think he’s the one who killed Yana?” he asked her.

  She snorted, watching the monks chant. “Ferius and his cronies want a show, that’s all. This is simply their way of consolidating power in our village.” She turned toward him, her brown eyes flashing. “Don’t you remember the days before Ferius was here? Back before the plague?”

  Torin watched a bee fly toward a dandelion that grew between cobblestones. “I do. Everyone in Fairwool-by-Night followed the old Idarith faith. Things seemed more peaceful then.” He sighed. “But things always seem more peaceful in memory, don’t they?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Winky! Don’t you see what he’s doing? Ferius uses disaster to rally more po
wer. Who did he blame for the plague?”

  “Elorians,” Torin replied.

  She nodded. “Who did he blame for the drought the following year? Elorians again. Every time disaster strikes, Ferius blames them … and more people follow him. Already half the villagers have joined his temple, leaving the old god. And this? This is just another way for him to gain more power. Yana’s death is just one more tragedy for him to exploit.”

  It was Torin’s turn to roll his eyes. “But Bailey, the Elorians did kill Yana. We were there. We saw her dead. We saw the Elorian star embedded into her neck.”

  She grabbed his collar. “Did we see them kill her? For all we know, Ferius could have murdered Yana and framed the Elorians.”

  Torin looked back over at Ferius. The monk was preaching to the people, listing the sins of Eloria. Indeed, he was again mentioning the plague, the drought, and a dozen other tragedies big and small, everything from spring frosts to stillborn lambs. Eloria, he cried out, caused all these evils with their dark magic.

  “Look, the man is a snake,” Torin said. “I don’t doubt that. But preaching hatred is one thing. What you’re talking about is murder. Even Ferius isn’t capable of that.”

  She raised her eyebrows and gestured at the pyre. “Well, it looks like he’s about to murder somebody right now.”

  Ferius was parading around the pyre, lamp held high. The villagers crowded around him, fists raised, shouting with every offense Ferius announced.

  “For the sin of plague that slithered through our town, a venomous snake biting man, woman, and child, I decree this creature guilty.” The crowd roared, and Ferius spoke louder. “For the rot that creeps across our gardens, for the drought that dries our farms, and for the pestilence of crows that eat our seeds, I decree this creature … guilty!”

  The villagers shook their fists, faces red as they shouted for blood. The Elorian stood watching the crowd, tied to the pyre, and finally Torin saw emotion in those oversized eyes.