Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  As he rode closer, lights caught his eye. Boats were oaring across the river, heading away from the city toward the southern bank. One boat reached the riverbank before the others; figures emerged and began to race southward, and their lanterns extinguished; they disappeared into the shadows. Behind them, several other boats reached the bank and more figures emerged, these ones bearing many bright lamps, and their cries rolled across the land. They spoke the harsh tongue of sunlight. Okado did not need to understand the words; those were the cries of hunters.

  “A few escaped the city,” he said, riding forth. “A group of Elorians flee the fire. The Timandrians pursue. You speak truth, Suntai; these are my brothers and sisters now.” He raised shield and sword and roared for his warriors to hear. “Chanku Pack! Slay the demons!”

  Their wolves increased speed, saliva flying from between their fangs. The warriors brandished their katanas and their cries rolled across the land, the roars of hardened men and the yipping battle cries of wild women. They thundered down the hillside, and Okado stood in the saddle, sword raised high.

  The enemy stared up at them, two hundred soldiers or more. Okado had learned of these sunlit demons, capturing their scouts and studying their lore. These ones served the cruel god called Sailith, a deity of flame and light. They wore steel plates the color of blood, and yellow sunbursts shone upon their shields. The monks of Sailith were forbidden to bear blades, and so they wielded flanged maces; if they could not cut flesh, they could crush it. There were fewer than the Chanku riders, and they rode no beasts of their own, but they stood their ground. They raised their lamps and chanted in their tongue.

  “Death to Elorians!” they cried. “For the light!”

  Okado spoke no Ardish, but he had heard those words from the Timandrian scouts he’d captured and slain.

  “You will find,” he said softly, “that the riders of Chanku do not die so easily.” He roared his battle cry as he rode toward him. “We are the night!”

  The wolves raced toward the enemy; three hundred yards separated the forces, then two, then only a hundred. Below, the Sailith monks would not retreat; jeering, they raised contraptions of metal and wood. Okado recognized them. Crossbows. Machines of the sunlit world. With hundreds of twangs, the bolts flew toward his forces.

  Wolves yelped and fell. Riders spilled from the saddle and rolled across the plains. Okado waved his sword.

  “For Eloria!”

  His riders howled around him. “For Eloria!”

  At his side, Suntai raised her bow and shot an arrow. A hundred other Chanku arrows sailed through the night, only to clatter against the Sailith armor. More bolts flew from below, tearing into riders and wolves.

  “For Eloria!” his warriors cried.

  Okado narrowed his eyes, the world rising and falling around him. “For Oshy. For my father. For Koyee.”

  With screams and clashing steel, he slammed into the enemy.

  His wolf leaped, driving his claws and fangs against the enemy, denting their armor. The warrior-monks charged into them, their steel thick, their maces swinging. Okado took one blow to the shield; the pain drove up his arm and into his shoulder. He slammed his katana down, driving his enemy’s helmet into the skull. A second mace slammed into Refir, denting the wolf’s armor, but the beast’s thick fur cushioned the blow. Rearing, Refir bit and tore off the enemy’s visor. Okado finished the job, driving his sword into flesh.

  His riders fought around him, wolves clawing, swords lashing. Some fell to the maces. Most fought on, shouting, slaying the enemy. Blood and shattered weapons littered the riverbank. Across the water, the city burned and the banners of Sailith filled the sky. Death rolled over the night.

  When the battle ended, Okado panted and gazed upon the slaughter. Hundreds lay dead around him, Timandrians and Elorians alike, men and women and wolves. Not one of the monks had fled. Not one had surrendered. They had fought to the last man, dying with smiles and prayers upon their lips; two hundred lay torn apart, steel and bodies shattered. Riders and wolves lay dead among them, blood soaking fur.

  Suntai rode her wolf toward him. The blood of her enemies splattered her face. She licked it off her teeth, spat, and gazed at him.

  “My mate,” she said, “the city burns. I hear the cries from here. Thousands die.”

  Okado wheeled his wolf toward the river. He gazed across the water at Pahmey, his belly tightened, and he gnashed his teeth. A mace’s wound drove into his leg, but he did not feel the pain. No more screams rose from the distant city; the cries of the dying now rose only in memory. He heard only the chants of Sailith, only their prayers.

  “Death to Elorians! Death to Elorians!”

  Okado’s fist shook around his hilt, and his eyes burned. “A hundred thousand Timandrians or more fill that city. How can we fight them, Suntai? How can we avenge our fallen?”

  A soft voice answered him, but it was not Suntai speaking. This voice was higher, fair and young, a voice like summer rain upon stone.

  “We will raise the night. Eloria must fight as one.”

  Okado spun back toward the southern plains. He saw her there, standing among the corpses, blood staining her bare feet. She was no rider of Chanku; in the fashion of Pahmey, she wore a silk tunic and a sash around her waist, and a katana hung at her side. Her long, white hair flowed in the wind, and her lavender eyes gazed at him. Three scars rifted her face—the scars of nightwolf claws, old and white. She was only a youth, but her eyes seemed old. There was pain and wisdom and haunting ghosts in those eyes.

  Okado dismounted his wolf, walked through the blood, and stood before her. Other riders surrounded her, trapping her in a ring of blades and fangs. Here stood a woman of Pahmey, their ancient enemy. Okado snapped his teeth at those riders and wolves who approached.

  “Stand back, riders!”

  He stared down at the young woman; she stood barely taller than his shoulder, and she was probably only half his weight. Yet she met his eyes with serene strength; hers were not fierce, flashing eyes like those of Suntai, but two pools of ancient water.

  “I saw you flee the river with several others,” Okado said. “Have they fallen in the battle?”

  The young woman shook her head, curtains of hair swaying. “They hide in the darkness behind the hills. Fifty people of Pahmey are among them; most are wounded. Five Timandrians there are too.” The riders growled at this, and the woman spoke louder. “They helped us flee the city where their monks butcher our people; these five turned against their rulers and joined the night. You will not harm them, riders of Chanku. Yes, I know your name. Many speak of the fierce outlaws who torment the plains, their riders no more noble than beasts.” She smiled crookedly. “Here I see that both beasts and riders are as noble as dragons. I thank you.”

  Okado looked back at the distant city. Smoke plumed from its streets and the chants of soldiers rolled across the water. The banners of the enemy fluttered from towers.

  “How many have died in the city?” he said, turning back toward the young woman.

  She lowered her head. “Thousands. Perhaps all. King Ceranor, who led the sunlit kingdom of Arden, lies dead. He was a conqueror and cruel, but an even crueler tyrant usurped him. The demon Ferius rules now, commanding both monks and soldiers. He seeks to slay every child of the night. We fled him and come to seek aid.”

  “The sunlit demons are too many,” Okado said. “Thousands lurk within that city. Countless more swarm across the lands of Eloria. All we can do in these times of fire, daughter of Pahmey, is retreat to our dens, defend them as we can, and survive in shadow.”

  Her eyes narrowed and finally some fire filled them. “There will be no more shadows, master of wolves. The sunlit demons will light the darkness.” She drew her katana. “I have fled slaughter, but not the war. I will fight.”

  A few of the riders around her, even the women, sneered at this youth with her bold words and naked blade, a slight thing clad only in silk, no wolf between her legs. But Okado did
not sneer. A gasp fled his lips, and his brow furrowed. He took a step closer to her, leaned down, and stared at her sword.

  The smell of cooking crayfish filled his nostrils. The songs his mother would sing filled his ears. Ghosts danced before his eyes: a brazier crackling in a hut, a sister playing with clay dolls, and a father polishing an ancient blade he had carried to war against the Ilari Empire.

  Okado stared at the sword the woman held, and he knew it; he had held it himself, dreaming of becoming a soldier someday, a hero like his father. Swirls and mottles coiled across the folded steel. Blue silk wrapped around its hilt. Upon its guard, he saw the old etchings of lighting and stars.

  “Sheytusung,” he whispered. “You bear a blade of legend.” Rage filled him, emerging as a growl. “Where did you find this sword, girl? How dare you raise Sheytusung, the blade of a hero, a sword that slew many in Ilar, that…”

  Seeing her eyes widen, his voice trailed off. The young woman tilted her head, and her brow furrowed, and she gasped. She took a frightened step back, still holding her sword, and mouthed silent words.

  Okado stared at her and his own eyes widened. His breath died in his lungs.

  “Okado, Okado!” a young girl had cried years ago. “Okado, come play in the water!”

  His sister, a mere child of six years, had tugged him into the Inaro and swam with him. They collected river stones, gems of the water, blue and green and shimmering black. His sister had thought them jewels and collected them in her boxes at home.

  “Okado, look, a blue one!” she had said, emerging from the water, laughter on her lips, stars in her eyes. “Here, for you.”

  He had left her that year. He had been sixteen, old enough to follow his own path, to seek his fortune in the east. He traveled for many hourglass turns across the plains. He hunted and lived wild in the night. He found the great Chanku Pack, warriors of legend, and joined their ranks, serving first as omega, scouring pots and skinning hunted game until he rose to command. Yet he had never forgotten her. He reached into his pocket now, a man and leader of men, and brought out the blue river stone she had gifted him.

  When she saw the stone, the young woman gasped. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Okado?” she whispered.

  The other riders be damned. Okado stepped toward her, pulled her into an embrace, and nearly crushed her. She clung to him, whispering his name, and he held her head and gazed upon her and laughed.

  “My sister.” Fire rose behind him and death crawled upon the land, but standing here in blood, Okado laughed. “My sister. Koyee.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE FIRE

  The child huddled in the darkness, tugging the claws off living crayfish. He laughed as the animals squirmed and died upon the floor.

  “You will suffer.” The child licked his lips, brought a severed claw to his lips, and sucked the juice. “You will watch me feed upon you.”

  He laughed and grabbed another animal from the bucket. Crayfish were weak. Crayfish couldn’t mock him, shove him, laugh at his small eyes. Their eyes were even smaller and beadier than his. The child snarled. He wanted to pluck off their eyes, to blind them, make sure they could never look at him. He hated eyes looking at him.

  He tore off another claw, but now his fists shook, his teeth gnashed, and too much pain filled him for laughter. He tossed the mangled crayfish down, rose to his feet, and stepped on the animal, grinding his heel, snickering as the pathetic thing cracked.

  “Ferius, Ferius!” rose the voices outside. “Come play, Ferius!”

  The child froze.

  “Ferius!” the other children cried outside the hut. “Come play with us.”

  The child sucked in his breath. The other children … wanted to play with him? With the half-demon, the child born of a sunlit father, his hair dark, his black eyes too small for the darkness?

  “I…” Ferius swallowed. “I’m coming.”

  He rushed to the door, yanked it open, and burst outside. The village of Oshy spread before him, its round clay huts encircling a cobbled square, moonstar runes glowing upon their doors. The river flowed to the south, lined with docks and swaying boats. The Nighttower rose in the north, a sentinel watching the glow of dusk. In the west, that strip of orange blazed, an eternal scar across the land.

  The border with the day. Ferius stared at the glow, his throat tightening. His father had come from within that light. His father had loved an Elorian woman of the night. Ferius’s eyes—the small eyes of a Timandrian—burned with tears. My father left me.

  “Ferius, do you want to play?”

  He blinked, noticing the children for the first time. They held no lanterns, and Ferius’s eyes were too small to see what others could. When he squinted, he could just make out five of them—children his age. Full-blooded Elorians, they had pale skin, white hair, and gleaming blue eyes twice the size of his.

  “You…” Ferius could barely speak. “You really want to play with me?”

  “Of course!” one child said, a girl named Sanira. She was twelve years old, a couple years older than Ferius, and she had never before spoken to him.

  Hope welled within Ferius. The children’s eyes gleamed, and Ferius felt a smile tickling the corners of his lips. It was true! For years, the other children had shunned him. His blood was impure; his father had been a demon of sunlight. For years they had mocked him, called him Fish Eyes, and tugged at his black, coarse hair—a tattered rug compared to their smooth, white hair like silk. But now they wanted his company!

  His smile growing, Ferius took a step closer to them. He still could not see them well—only a few lanterns hung from poles across the courtyard, casting dim light—but he could see their smiles. It was enough for him.

  “What game do you want to play?” he asked.

  Their grins widened. “Swim-in-the-dark!” they announced as one and leaped toward him.

  Confused, Ferius only stood frozen as the children grabbed his arms and legs. He only blinked, blinded and dizzy, as they hoisted him above their heads. They carried him across the square, chanting and laughing. “Swim-in-the-dark, swim-in-the-dark!”

  Ferius didn’t like this. Lifted above them, he felt much like the crayfish he had tormented. He imagined these children tormenting him the same way, ripping off his arms to feed upon them. His eyes stung.

  “Put me down!” he said. “I don’t like this game. I—”

  His breath died when he saw the docks ahead. The children carried him along the boardwalk and onto a pier. Ferius struggled, but they were too many, and he was too weak—the shortest and weakest among them, a scrawny boy half-blind in the endless night.

  “Swim-in-the-dark!” the children shouted, and tossed him into the river.

  Ferius crashed into the icy water. Instinctively, he opened his mouth to scream and swallowed water. He thrashed madly, his head bobbed over the surface, and he coughed and gulped air.

  “Help!” he shouted, floundering. “I can’t swim.”

  The children raced along the boardwalk, laughing and pointing as the current tugged Ferius downriver.

  “Swim away, Fish Eyes!” shouted one child.

  “You are a half-demon!” said Sanira—beautiful, pale Sarina whom he had secretly loved. “You don’t belong with us. Your blood is full of sunlight. Drown in the darkness!”

  He gave her a last look, tears in his eyes, and his head sank underwater again. He could hear them laughing as he floated away.

  For a mile or more, he sputtered, rising over the water and sinking again. Finally the river slammed him into a jutting boulder, and he cried in pain. He clung to the rock and climbed out of the water, shivering, his teeth chattering. The river flowed all around him, a mile wide.

  The village was only a distant glow of lanterns now. All around him spread the darkness of endless night. The stars shone above. The water flowed silver in the moonlight. Everywhere else there was only the cold, black emptiness of Eloria.

  Eyes stinging, Ferius
rose to his shaky feet upon the boulder, his little island in the river. He turned toward the west, and he saw it there.

  The orange shine of dusk.

  As Ferius shivered, tears flowed down his cheeks.

  “You came from there, Father,” he whispered, lips trembling. “You are a Timandrian, a sunlit demon. A creature of the land of light and fire.” He nearly slipped from the boulder, stretched out his arms, and righted himself. “You made me. You cursed me. You created a … a half-demon, a creature like a duskmoth, half light and half dark, torn.” His chest heaved with sobs. “I will find you, Father. I will travel the lands of sunlight and find you. And I will kill you.”

  It was an hour or more before a fishing boat arrived, his mother rowing downriver and calling his name. When Ferius climbed into her boat, she tried to embrace him, and tears filled her eyes, but Ferius only shoved her back. He was there. He was in the boat, sleeping in his crib. His mother’s new, pure-blooded son. The boy meant to replace Ferius. The babe Okado.

  Someday I will kill you, you little worm, Ferius thought, staring at the babe, the child of his mother and her new, Elorian husband. I will burn you dead, Okado.

  His mother was speaking to him, tears on her cheeks, but Ferius ignored her. He sat sullenly, refusing to look at her large, lavender eyes, at her white hair, at her milky skin. She had married another. She had given birth to a better child. Ferius hated her as much as he hated himself. His eyes stung and he hugged himself, staring away from her.

  “Ferius.” She touched his hair. “Oh, my sweet Ferius, what did—”

  “Don’t touch me!” he said. “Take me home. Do not speak to me.” He dug his fingernails into his palms. “This is your fault.”