Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  “Yes,” Ferius continued, his back to Torin, disgust twisting his voice. “You can’t even understand my words, can you? But I know who you are. I have seen you lurking in your village. You have her eyes. The eyes of my harlot mother.”

  Torin lost his breath. His heart skipped a beat. His brow furrowed in disbelief.

  Ferius snorted. “It’s a sad thing, is it not? I will not speak of this to my people. But here I speak to a dying wretch; I will feed this secret into your ears, then crush your skull, drowning the truth in your blood. Yes, we share a mother, savage. But not a father. My father was a traitor. A child of sunlight who slunk into the shadows, courting our mother, paying with gold and jewels to enter her bed.” Ferius shook and his voice twisted with rage. “I killed my father for that sin. And I will kill you, my half-sister. My blood is dirty, but I will purify the world of your filth. I will kill every one of you savages for what you’ve done.”

  Torin could not help himself. The words fled his lips. “You’re half-Elorian.”

  The monk froze. He spun around, tears on his cheeks.

  Their eyes met across the street.

  Ferius sucked in his breath, and slowly a grin spread across his face, revealing his small teeth.

  “Torin the Gardener,” he said. “And so … you’ve heard my little secret. And so … you’ve chosen to die.” Ferius took a step away from the wounded girl toward him. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for long years.”

  Torin looked down at the wounded girl, Ferius’s half-sister. Her eyes had opened, and she stared at him. Her lavender eyes were twice the size of his. Recognition filled them—she remembered him!—then rage … and finally shock.

  “I’m here to help you,” he said to her, not knowing if she understood. He looked back up at Ferius and pointed his sword at the monk. “Your poison has caused enough death, Ferius. Your words have sunken fleets, smashed a city, and slaughtered children here upon this very street. And why? Because your blood is mixed? Because you’re ashamed of your dark half? It ends here. I will end it.”

  Ferius laughed. “And so the gardener who fashioned himself a soldier is revealed as a traitor. Your punishment shall be death. I will deal it myself. Come to die.”

  He stepped away from the girl, moving toward Torin. Lips tight, Torin stepped over corpses toward the monk.

  With a banshee cry, Ferius leaped forward. His robes fluttered. His mace came swinging down.

  Torin stepped aside. The mace missed him by an inch. Torin thrust his sword, but Ferius was too fast. The monk swung his mace again, parrying the blade. Torin jumped back and attacked again. The two weapons clashed.

  They fought between corpses and scattered fires. They fought with fury, weapons lashing in the darkness, steel clanging, eyes narrowed and jaws clenched. They fought the duel they should have fought a year ago—a fight for the wounded woman, a fight for Eloria, and a fight for home … for a village burned and twisted into hatred. It was the battle of Torin’s life.

  I fight for you, Father, he thought as he thrust his sword, keeping the mace at bay. I fight with the courage you gave me.

  The tall, blue birds screeched in their pen, wingless and unable to flee. The mace swung, and Torin scampered backward. His heels nearly hit the wounded woman. She lay on the ground, bleeding and moaning, too hurt to rise. Torin did not even know her name, but he sensed the goodness in her; he was linked to this woman, and he could not fail here, he could not let her die.

  Ferius kept moving forward, step by step. His mace kept swinging, faster and faster. Torin checked what blows he could, but had to keep walking backward. Finally his back hit a wall. Ferius grinned and swung his weapon. Torin had nowhere to retreat. With a shout, he raised his sword to meet the mace.

  The flanged head drove through his blade like an axe through a branch.

  Torin’s sword shattered.

  Shards flew across the square. One drove into Torin’s leg and he screamed.

  Ferius hissed through a grin, spraying saliva. Torin thrust his hilt—it ended with a stub of steel. The monk pulled back, but not fast enough; the shattered stub lashed across his cheek. Blood spurted.

  The grin left the monk’s face. Ferius swung his mace again.

  Torin screamed.

  The monk was aiming for his head. When Torin leaped sideways, the mace’s flanges drove into his shoulder. They punched through his armor and into his flesh.

  Blinded by pain, Torin lashed the remains of his sword, hoping to scratch Ferius again. He saw only the driving mace. Pain exploded across his forearm. His armor bent. The flanges tore into his flesh, and Torin screamed again. He raised his arms above his head, protecting his face, and felt the mace drive into his side. His armor creaked and pain bloomed, a bolt of fire spreading through him.

  He fell to his knees.

  He looked up to see Ferius grinning down at him, holding his bloodied weapon.

  “And now, Torin…” the monk said. “Now you die.”

  He raised the mace high.

  A shadow rose behind him.

  Dragging herself forward, panting and bloodied, the Elorian woman lashed her katana.

  Ferius screamed and fell to his knees. The Elorian blade emerged from his thigh, slick with blood. Still crawling, the young woman pulled the sword free. Trembling, her one arm hanging at an odd angle, the woman rose to her feet. As Ferius wailed on his knees, clutching his wound, the Elorian stood on trembling legs and raised her sword.

  With a cry like a dying boar, Ferius swung his mace toward her.

  The weapon slammed into the woman’s chest.

  Torin grimaced to hear ribs crack, a sound like snapping twigs.

  The woman stood for an instant longer, looking down, seeming almost confused. Her katana clattered to the ground. She followed a heartbeat later.

  Torin roared with rage.

  “You killed her!” He leaped forward. “Ferius, you bastard, you killed her!”

  He thrust his shattered sword. Only two inches of steel remained upon the hilt, but he drove both into Ferius’s back.

  The monk screamed. He spun around, trying to block another attack. Torin drove the hilt forward again, slicing Ferius’s hand. Blood sprayed and Ferius dropped his mace.

  Terror filled the monk’s eyes.

  Yellow robes stained red, he jumped over the Elorian woman and began to run. His blood trailed behind.

  Torin’s wounds blazed and bled. He wanted to fall down, curl up, and die. But he forced himself onward. He raced across the square, boots slipping in blood, chasing Ferius.

  I can’t let him get away. If he escapes now, he’ll be back with more monks. He’ll kill me and everyone in this city.

  “Ferius, come face me, coward!” he shouted, yet the monk still ran, blood dripping.

  As he passed by the corral of towering birds, Ferius yanked at the gate. The monk leaped into the corral, whipping the birds into a frenzy. They shrieked, clacked their beaks at the sky, and stamped their feet. Ferius ran between them, kicking the animals.

  With shrieks, the birds emerged from their corral and stampeded across the square … toward Torin.

  “Ferius!”

  Torin kept running and the birds slammed into him. Twenty or more ran around him, each taller and heavier than him. Their talons clattered against the cobblestones and the littered corpses. Their voices bugled in fright and their eyes spun madly. Their feathery flanks thudded against Torin. He could see nothing but their feathers and terrified faces.

  Torin fell. A talon pressed against his side, and he cried out in pain. When finally the stampede had passed him, disappearing into the distance, Ferius—monk of sunlight, slayer of innocents, half-Elorian—was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE DUSKMOTH

  Coughing and wheezing, Torin pushed himself onto his elbows, then rose to his feet. Blood, death, and feathers covered the small square. He began to stumble down the street, wanting to keep seeking Ferius, but a moan rose behind him. H
e spun around and his eyes dampened.

  “You’re still alive,” he whispered.

  The woman lay on her back, eyes half open, mouth working silently. Blood soaked her silken dress. She still held her sword.

  Torin raced toward her and knelt. He touched her cheek and she met his gaze.

  “I’m going to help you,” he said. His wounds blazed, but the sadness for this woman, for this city, for all the lands of night eclipsed his pain. “I’m going to get you to safety.”

  Delicately, worried he would aggravate her wounds, he placed his arms around her. She looked up at him. A scar tugged the corner of her mouth, twisting her lips, but she managed a soft smile.

  That smile shot relief, beauty, and joy through Torin with more vigor than pain or sadness could ever muster. She perhaps shared a mother with Ferius, but she felt fully good, her soul shining pure through her eyes. Torin’s heart beat faster and he struggled to his feet, holding the woman in his arms. She felt no heavier than a doll.

  “Sen sen,” she said softly. “Sen sen, Torin.”

  He laughed softly and tears stung his eyes.

  “You heard my name? Yes, I’m Torin. What’s your name?”

  Though she did not speak his tongue, she smiled up at him, held in his arms, her own eyes damp.

  “Koyee,” she said, pointing at herself.

  He took several steps, holding her. “Koy, where can I—”

  “Koyee.” She smiled weakly. “Ko-yee.”

  He corrected himself. “Koyee. Where can I find a healer? Do you understand? Healer?”

  He didn’t know if she understood his words, but her hand rose. Shakily, she pointed down the street.

  She wants me to take her there.

  Torin walked, carrying her in his arms. They left the square and moved down a network of alleyways. She kept guiding him through the labyrinth. At every alley’s mouth, Torin saw cobbled boulevards where troops marched, waving the raven banners and chanting for victory. Koyee led him along twisting, shadowy corridors, some barely three feet wide. They moved through the dregs, heading uphill toward the crystal towers.

  With every step, Koyee felt lighter in his arms, and her eyes narrowed further. She lay limp, her breathing soft, growing softer as her blood trickled.

  “I will heal you,” Torin swore as he walked, limping now, their blood mingling. “I swear to you, Koyee, I will not let you die. I will not.” His eyes stung and he gritted his teeth. “I came here into the night for you. I came here because I couldn’t forget your eyes, not from the first time I saw you. I won’t let you die.”

  She opened those lavender eyes, gazed at him, and smiled as if she understood. Her eyes closed. Her head tilted back. He shook her in his arms.

  “Stay awake, Koyee! Don’t fall asleep. Look at me!” He jostled her; she was so frail. His voice was choked. “You have to show me where to go.”

  She blinked at him. She could not even raise her finger to point, only gestured with her eyes. He kept walking.

  They walked for what seemed like miles through the labyrinth of glass and stone, climbing the hill, until buildings grew taller, their facades columned, their windows wide. The towers rose ahead, brighter than the moon. Green, blue, and white, they pierced the night sky. The tallest among them—it must have risen a thousand feet tall—ended with a glass dome. Boulevards stretched here, each full of marching Timandrians, but Koyee kept them to the side streets where no troops moved.

  She took him to a small building of black stone. They walked down the alley and approached the back door.

  “Is this your home, Koyee?” he asked.

  She blinked at him weakly and her lips moved, struggling to form words.

  “Home,” she whispered, speaking in his tongue, her accent heavy.

  When he pulled the door open, green smoke spilled out. He stepped inside to find a chamber full of lamps, beds, and hookahs of gurgling purple liquid. Several young women huddled in the corner, clad in silks and jewels, peering out a window and whispering. At the sound of Torin entering, they spun toward him. Their eyes widened.

  “She needs help!” Torin said, holding Koyee in his arms. “She needs healing.”

  The women ran toward him, eyes teary, chattering in their tongue. They led Torin upstairs, and he entered a bedchamber and laid Koyee upon a bed. She smiled up at him, and he stroked her hair.

  “You’re home, Koyee,” he said.

  She touched his hand. “Home, Torin.”

  Her eyes closed and she slept.

  As Timandrian troops marched outside the window, boots thudding and horns blaring, Torin stood in the corner, arms crossed. He watched as the women bathed Koyee with sponges and bandaged her wounds. A man rushed into the chamber, clad in green silks, his mustache dyed blue and purple. He shouted at the women, then saw Koyee and paled. He waved everyone aside, leaned over Koyee, and examined her bent arm. When he set the bone, Koyee cried out and Torin winced. His eyes stung.

  You’re home, Koyee, he thought, watching the Elorians fuss over her. But where is my home now?

  When Koyee drifted back into sleep, the mustached man pointed at Torin and shouted something. He stepped forward and tried to grab Torin, to drag him outside, but the young women stopped him. They shouted back at the man, forced him into a chair, and gestured at Torin. He imagined they were saying that he’d saved Koyee, that he was a friend. Torin wished he could understand their tongue. He longed to speak with them, to explain that he would help. He felt mute and helpless.

  He tried to take a step closer to the bed, to lean over Koyee as she slept, to whisper something comforting, to touch her cheek or stroke her hair … but the mustached man glared and pointed and shouted. Torin left the room. His throat still felt tight, his wounds ached, and his fingernails dug into his palms.

  “I never wanted any of this to happen,” he said to the hallway’s shadows. “I never wanted you hurt, Koyee. I never wanted this city to fall. I never wanted to enter the night, but I had to find you.”

  A ladder rose ahead, leading to a trapdoor. Torin climbed and emerged onto a tiled roof. He walked to the edge and stared upon Pahmey.

  Across the hillsides below, the Timandrian army filled every street, their torches forming lines of fire. Outside the shattered walls, ships lay smashed upon the riverbank, some still burning. When Torin turned his head, he saw troops marching toward the towers, howling for Timandra. High upon domes, steeples, and battlements, soldiers hoisted the sunburst banners.

  “Timandra!” they chanted. “Timandra! The sun is victorious!”

  A temple of crystal columns rose only a few streets away, its walls engraved with moonstars. Upon its dome rose a golden statue of a bearded philosopher, his hands pressed together in prayer, his head lowered. As Torin watched, Sailith monks—tiny figures by the great idol—chanted for victory. They sang as they tugged chains, and the statue teetered, then crashed down onto the street. The monks cheered.

  The wind ruffled Torin’s hair. His cloak billowed like the sail of a sinking ship. He gazed upon this celebration, this victory for his people, and felt cold and alone. Ice filled his stomach with the chill of guilt.

  “I entered the dusk and fought a man,” he said into the wind. “I rode in a cavalry as a village burned. I sailed upon the river to sink a fleet, and I marched with soldiers into a shattered city. I killed a man. I served those who killed thousands.”

  He raised his head, eyes stinging, and gazed up at the crystal towers.

  “But I saved one woman.” His voice was but a whisper, drowning in the wind. “I don’t know what gods listen in the night. I don’t know what wisdom or justice can hear my words. But if there can be any redemption for my soul, let it be her.” He closed his eyes. “The monks will seek you, Koyee of Eloria. Ferius will not forget the wound you gave him. But I promise this to you. If all the night burns, and all the darkness is lit with fire, I swear this, Koyee: I will save you.”

  Because, he thought, it is the only thing tha
t can still save my soul.

  Ahead upon the hilltop, Timandrians had climbed the great silver tower. The Sailith banner unfurled from its dome, a thousand feet above the city, a sigil of victory. The wind grew stronger, nearly tearing off Torin’s cloak, scented of blood and fire. Standing on the roof, he clenched his fists and lowered his head.

  * * * * *

  She lay abed, staring at the shadowy ceiling, and thought of home.

  She had left Oshy only half a year ago, but it felt like a different lifetime. Many times during her childhood, Koyee would lie like this on her back, staring into the shadows, and imagine. She would daydream of sailing to distant lands, of fighting monsters, of being more than a fisherman’s daughter. In her dreams, she had always been a heroine and adventurer, a woman who never cooked crayfish but saved kingdoms.

  “And who am I now?” she whispered.

  Bandages covered her. Splints held her broken arm. Her body ached and fear filled her belly, but her soul flew like the moths she would see in the dusk, torn in two, half of darkness and half of light.

  She looked out the window and saw the distant towers, green and blue and white against the night sky. Pahmey. For so long Koyee had wished to leave this city, to return to Oshy, to her home. For so long she had hated this place, and she had feared all who lived here.

  Her eyes stung to remember how Little Maniko had saved her life, how the Dust Face Ghosts had fought with her, how the yezyani had healed her. Two of those yezyani—the beautiful Lilika and the impish Atana—sat sleeping in chairs at her bedside. They had not left her since she’d returned, and Koyee tasted a tear on her lips.

  “This is our home now, Eelani,” she said to her friend, feeling the spirit’s warmth against her chest. “And these are the people that I love.”

  Her invisible friend cuddled close to her, and Koyee imagined that she could feel the spirit’s breath against her neck. She often wondered whether Eelani was real or simply another daydream, another comfort she had imagined in the darkness and loneliness. She still did not know. But here in the shadows, she thought that it no longer mattered.