Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  He looked across the room, wanting to drink to clear the bile from his throat, but daring not; he would need his senses. Each one of these kings ruled armies primed for war. Together they could devastate Arden as the kingdom of the raven struggled to recover from its woes.

  “Have you summoned us here to weep?” demanded one king, a red-headed man clad in tiger furs. Two spears and a shield hung across his back, and beads filled his fiery beard. He was King of Naya, the jungle realm south of the Sern River, land of the tiger. “I have traveled for many days, and I am hungry. Will you not serve us food?”

  “He speaks wisdom!” shouted another king, a tall man with shaggy blond hair, a walrus mustache, and a horned helmet. He was King of Orida, the northern island kingdom of the orca, ruler of seafarers and raiders. “I desire no talk; first let us feast. Bring us some meat fresh off the bone.”

  Other kings voiced their approval. The King of Daenor, the western coast of crocodiles, muttered that he’d not traveled two months to stare at a barren table. The King of Sania, the southern island of elephants, smoothed his clanking garment of gold and silver beads, licked his lips, and spoke of tasting the delicacies of the north.

  Ceranor stood, flummoxed, moving his head from side to side. The feast he had planned was still cooking, and the bizarre humor of the situation nearly stilled his heart.

  I survived wars, hungry commoners, and power-craving monks, he thought. I never imagined my downfall would be a late dinner.

  Finally a voice rose, thin and soft like a sharpening stone against a blade, cutting through the ruckus. All other voices died. Ceranor’s hackles rose, and his teeth ached as if the voice had loosened them. He turned to see a man regarding him. Though he must have sat there the whole time, for no seats had been empty, Ceranor had not noticed him until now, as if the man had blended into the others, a whisper under screams, a shadow in a cavern, a smile behind the blade of a killer.

  “Calm your bellies, close your mouths, and open your ears,” said the man, his voice but a gentle hiss, a pleasant voice that just hinted of malice. “We are guests in a hall of kings, not a tavern.” He bowed his bald head. “Please, King Ceranor, speak.”

  Ceranor’s heart sank. Here sat the King of Mageria, the land west of Arden, a realm of plains and towering mountains. Unlike the others, this man wore only a white robe; he could have easily passed for a humble philosopher. And yet Ceranor thought him the most powerful of the kings; the lands of Mageria were revered for their magic, and their warriors fought not only with blades, but with bolts of lighting and arrows of power.

  Twenty years ago, Ceranor thought, I found your armies in this very palace. I found the corpse of our old king bloodied at your feet. Ceranor couldn’t help but clench his fists. With an army of twenty thousand, Ceranor had driven the enemy out of Arden. He had since sat upon the throne himself, a soldier turned king … and he had since waited for these enemies to return.

  The kings fell silent, and Ceranor spoke again.

  “I’ve not summoned you here to weep,” he said. “I’ve summoned you here to find solutions to our problems. Our fields wilt and our people riot. In all eight kingdoms, hunger rips through towns, farms, and villages. The plague still rages in Naya and in Daenor; many fear it will return to the rest of us. Our armies have grown large and our generals thirst for war; our troops still clash at our borders. This cannot continue. This risks all our thrones.”

  The King of Verilon snorted and slammed down his mug. “My throne is safe; I am no weak southerner.”

  This time Ceranor could not curb his anger. “Last time our armies met in battle, the forces of Arden marched halfway through your forests and burned half your kingdom. None of us is safe.” He looked toward the other kings. “You have fought Arden in the past, and we defeated you. Yet now we face a common danger—the threat of hungry, frightened people. They are a force greater than any army. A raging peasant with a hungry belly is more powerful than ten armed knights. I’ve called this council to tell you: Timandra must fight united. All eight sunlit kings must face the darkness together. Let us join our armies. Let us rally our people around a common cause, turning their rage away from us. Let us march into the night itself, our banners flying high, and conquer the land of shadows.”

  For a long time, silence filled the hall.

  Then all seven began to shout, shake their heads, or laugh. Some cried out that Eloria was but a dead land, that the night dwellers were but a myth, a story told to frighten children. Others sighed and said it was a pointless adventure, that Eloria was too cold, too dark, too dangerous.

  Ceranor raised his voice.

  “You have seen my city!” he said. “You rode through its streets and saw its people burn fires. They scream with fury. Yet not against me. Against Eloria. Against the darkness. My throne is safe so long as my people hate somebody else. Are your thrones as secure?” He balled his fists. “You muster armies, but if you attack Arden, you gain nothing. If you attack Eloria with me, you gain something far more valuable than my lands.” He forced himself to smile thinly. “You gain a scapegoat. Join me, my friends. Together we will do something that has never been done. We will conquer the night.”

  Finally they fell silent and stared. And Ceranor knew he had them.

  The scents of cooking meats filled his nostrils, and he turned to see servants entering the room, carrying dishes of roast boars, stewed greens, and steaming pies.

  “Ah!” he said and rubbed his hands together. “The food has arrived.”

  * * * * *

  “Will they join us, Your Highness?” said the monk. “Will they fight?”

  Ceranor sat upon his throne, an artifact of oak, ivory, and gold that rose upon a dais. He had never liked this seat. Twenty years ago, he had found the old king dead at its base, body mangled and burned. With his armies, Ceranor—a young commander—had driven the Magerians from this hall. He had taken the throne for himself, but he rarely sat upon it. It still felt foreign. He still felt more a soldier than a king.

  But this man I will place before my throne, Ceranor thought, staring at the robed figure. This man must gaze at me from below. This man must never forget that I am King of Arden and he is lowly.

  “Yes, Ferius,” he said and couldn’t help but grimace; the man’s very name tasted foul. “The seven other kings will fight with me. All suffer the rage of hungry commoners. All seek a scapegoat.”

  Below the throne’s dais, Ferius clutched his yellow robes. His beady eyes, far-set and pale blue, blazed with hatred.

  “The Sailith Order cares not for commoners or the concerns of kings,” he said, and though standing several feet below, his eyes met Ceranor’s gaze; there were few who dared meet the gaze of a king. “The Sailith Order cares only for the light of the sun … and for the extinction of the demons.”

  Ceranor stared upon this man and saw only hatred, only lust for blood.

  A useful fool, the king thought. The Sailith bred hatred, and hatred could be funneled. Hatred could be directed away from a throne and toward the shadows.

  Ferius is all passion, while I am reason, Ceranor thought. Ferius is a fiery heart; I am a cold mind. And that is why I sit here and he stands below.

  “Do any suspect it was you who slew the girl in the dusk?” he asked.

  Ferius shook his head. He licked his chops like a snake, tongue darting.

  “None know, Your Highness. The girl was but a filthy orphan. Nobody saw me drag her into the shadows. Nobody heard her scream as I took her life.” He sucked in his breath, seeming to be in rapture. “Her death will pave the way to light.”

  “Yes, that’s all fine,” Ceranor said, impatient. The monk’s fervor disgusted him, the passion of a beast; a true man crushed emotion and let logic reign. “Ferius, how ruthless are the Elorians? You fought them in Fairwool-by-Night. Who are we facing?”

  Ferius snorted. “I fought them? No, Your Highness. The cowards never did attack the village, even after we returned the bones of their s
lain.”

  Ceranor sucked in his breath and rose from his throne. “You told me that Fairwool-by-Night burned! You said that fifteen died. Now you tell me the Elorians never attacked?”

  A hiss fled the monk’s lips like steam fleeing a kettle. “My monks and I had to disguise ourselves as Elorians and burn the village ourselves.” He laughed, a sound like ice cracking. “I dare say that answers your question about the Elorians, Your Highness. They are cowards and weak. Our armies will crush them.”

  “My armies, Ferius, not ours.” Ceranor narrowed his eyes. “You are playing with a dangerous fire. Slaying an orphan and blaming Eloria is one thing. Burning half a village? You go too far, monk. I ordered you to start a war, not slay fifteen of my people.”

  Ferius did something no other man in Arden would dare. He snarled at the king. His eyes burned. His face twisted into a rabid mask. His lack of eyebrows, his high forehead, and his sharpened teeth made him look more a reptile than a man.

  “I did what I had to!” he said. “The death of one child, as sweet as it was, was not enough. Fairwool-by-Night had to burn. Since the Elorians were too cowardly to burn it themselves, I had to. I am following the will of Sailith. The Elorians are fully evil. I will do whatever I must to destroy them.” He cackled. “And already the news spreads. Merchants sail from Fairwool-by-Night with the tidings. I myself have shouted it from the balconies of Kingswall. The rage grows strong, Your Highness; with this rage, we will smite the demons.”

  Ceranor stood, hand on hilt, staring down at the man. Ferius stood several feet below the dais, but he gazed up with the ferocity of a beast about to strike. Even upon his throne, clad in armor, bearing a crown and sword, Ceranor felt his blood freeze.

  Merciful Idar, he thought. Fifteen of my people slain …

  He had fostered the Sailith fire, thinking he could tame it, but that fire was now spreading too wide for his liking.

  He sat back down. “Do any suspect you? When you burned my houses and butchered my people, did any see your face?”

  Ferius spat—right onto the marble tiles of the throne room, an offense that would cost most men their heads.

  “One suspects. Bailey Berin, the mayor’s daughter, has accused me of the deaths. I took care of that problem. I imprisoned her here in this city; she languishes in the dungeons of the Sunlit Temple. A boy traveled here with her, one Torin Greenmoat.” He snorted. “A weak fool, though I spared him the dungeon. He is the son of your savior; consider his freedom my gift to you, Your Highness.”

  Ceranor did not miss the scorn in the monk’s voice, did not miss the implication of weakness.

  “I will deal with Bailey,” the king said. “She is not yours to imprison; she’s the daughter of one of my nobles. And I will deal with young Torin too. Ferius, they are my concern now, both of them. You’ve done your task. Stay away from those two; they are under my protection. Now leave my hall.”

  Smiling thinly, Ferius sketched an elaborate bow; his every movement dripped mockery. He turned to leave, then looked over his shoulder back at the king.

  “Your Highness,” he said, “for my service, I ask for but one reward.”

  Ceranor squared his jaw. “What is that?”

  The monk stepped closer to the throne and clenched his fists. “When we invade Eloria, I want to slay them all.” His mouth watered and his voice twisted. “We will not just conquer them. We will not just punish them. I want them all dead. Every last one.”

  Ceranor froze, for a moment not even able to breathe. Yes, this fire was blazing too bright.

  He stepped down the dais. He marched toward Ferius. The monk was nearly a foot shorter, but wide of shoulders and jaw, and he stood his ground.

  “It is the King of Arden,” Ceranor said, “who will decide who lives and who dies. Remember this, Ferius the Monk. Now leave this place. Return to your temple; that is the place you govern, not the palace.”

  Ferius gave a toothy smile, but his eyes remained cold. With a flourish, he spun on his heel, robes swaying. He marched out of the hall.

  For a long time, Ceranor remained standing below his throne, silent and still.

  “Invading Eloria might not be enough to appease the Sailith,” he whispered to this hall’s ghosts of fallen kings. “They will demand genocide.”

  He returned to his throne. He sat, wondering how much longer he could cling to his power, and sighed.

  “Being a soldier was easy,” he muttered to himself. “Being a king will kill me yet.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE KING’S COMMAND

  In the palace gardens, surrounded by flowers and birds and beauty, Torin met the King of Arden to discuss a war.

  “Torin!” said the king, walking down a garden path. “It’s good to see you, son.”

  Despite the welcoming words, no warmth filled Ceranor’s voice. His face remained hard, the lips down turned in a perpetual frown, the eyes cold and black. Torin knew to expect this; his father had often told tales of how King Ceranor never laughed, never smiled, never drank, and never seemed to enjoy anything but a good scowl. Torin had not seen the man in years, not since the king had visited Fairwool-by-Night for Teramin Greenmoat’s funeral. Aside from a little more gray in his hair, he hadn’t changed.

  He wasn’t much older than me when my father saved his life, Torin reflected. He could have died in the snow decades ago, skull shattered by a Verilish hammer. And yet this man lives on, and my father lies dead.

  Torin made to kneel, but Ceranor grabbed his shoulders, tugged him up, and gripped his arm. He nodded firmly.

  “Come now, you need not kneel before me,” he said. “I am a king now and you a gardener, but we are both soldiers at heart.”

  Torin wasn’t so sure about that, but he only bowed his head. “Your Highness, it’s good to see you too.”

  The king scrutinized him. “You’ve grown since I last saw you. You look like your father.”

  Torin laughed weakly. “My father, they said, stood taller than every man in Arden’s army. I’m short and too thin.” His laughter died, and he took a deep breath. “Your Highness, I have so much to say. I came here as fast as I could. I…”

  He didn’t know where to start. So many words rose in his mouth they jammed, leaving him speechless. Should he begin by accusing Ferius of masterminding a war? Should he argue for peace? Should he plead that the king send men to free Bailey from the dungeon?

  “I know, son,” Ceranor said. “You don’t have to speak. I know why you’re here.” The king sighed and they began walking down a pebbly path between hedges. “I know of your friend Bailey. I know of your conflict with Ferius. I know of what happened at Fairwool-by-Night. We’ll sort this mess out.”

  Torin blurted out, “What happened at Fairwool could have been avoided. I don’t know what Ferius told you, but I know what I saw. The man is a snake. He goaded the Elorians again and again like a man goads a war dog before a fight. He lusts for war; all his work in our village has been to start one. My king, war need not happen. We can still achieve peace with the Elorians.”

  The king stopped by a hedge of peonies, watching a bumblebee fly from flower to flower. “Torin, war is already upon us. I’ve met with the other Sunlit Kings here in our city, and we’ve all agreed: The threat of Eloria must finally be dealt with.” He turned his cold, hard eyes upon Torin. “We will march into their darkness and we will defeat them. This cannot be avoided.”

  Torin froze. He couldn’t even gasp. All the greenery, flowers, and beauty around him darkened. He felt as if he stood back in the dusk.

  “My king!” he said. “You cannot do this! I’ve seen an Elorian. I’ve fought one. I know we can make peace with them. Don’t let Ferius poison your mind—”

  “My mind is my own,” the king said sternly, but then his voice softened. “Torin, son, I hate war more than anyone. I have fought wars before. I fought in the snows of Verilon with your father. I fought the Nayans in their southern jungles. I fought the Magerians, the most ru
thless of our enemies, in these very gardens. I do not lust for battle, but neither will I fear one. Your father fought bravely as well; he did not fear to fight.”

  Torin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He lowered his head and clenched his fists at his sides.

  “My father always told me that the wisest warrior knows when not to fight.” He looked up at the king from under his eyebrows. “If he were here, he would call for peace.”

  The king’s frown deepened, and they kept walking down the path. Goldfinches and grackles flew overhead, landed upon the grass, and pecked for seeds. A dogwood rustled.

  “We walk here surrounded with life, light, and beauty,” said Ceranor. “I chose to meet you here, for I know of your love for things green and growing. Yet across the border, in the darkness, evil brews. Ferius is a violent man; that I know. He lusts for blood; I do not share his passion. Yet I am afraid, Torin. I know it’s strange for you to hear. I know you see me as a hero, as a strong and noble king, yet even I am afraid.” He shook his head sadly. “Eloria attacked your home. I fear that they muster for more violence. Do you not believe that they are evil, Torin?” He turned to look at him, eyes narrowed. “Do you not believe that the Elorians crave our blood?”

  The king’s eyes were so cold Torin was surprised they didn’t wilt the gardens. He looked down at the pebbly path.

  “I don’t know, Your Highness,” he said honestly. “All I know is that for years, until Ferius arrived in my village, we lived peacefully alongside them.”

  “And that peace shattered. Do not blame Ferius for the crimes of the night. That is like blaming a wild dog for barking at a forest fire.” They walked under an archway bedecked with vines, heading toward a fountain. “Torin, you hate violence and you love peace. Those are qualities I admire and share. You are cold water to temper Ferius’s flames. Which is why I want you with us. March with me into Eloria. Fight at my side. Swing your sword with mine and speak your wisdom into my ear.”