Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  “I think you have cake between your ears.” He held his belly. “I’m going to be sick again. Please don’t talk about food, and please stop dancing around.”

  She stuck her tongue out, grabbed his arm, and made a point of dancing while tugging his arm and singing about plum pies. He groaned.

  The coast of Leen grew closer, and Cam squinted and leaned forward. What he had mistaken for a sprawling coastline city was … He rubbed his eyes, refusing to believe, but his eyes insisted it was true.

  “Crystals,” he said. “A whole damn forest of glowing crystals.”

  Linee nodded. “I told you. I told you they’d have magical forests.”

  Cam wasn’t so sure the place was magical. To him the glow seemed ghostly, an eerie light. At first he thought the crystals silvery like a moon behind thin clouds, but as they sailed closer, he discerned tints of green and blue. Wisps floated above the land like haunting spirits. Cam reached down his collar and fished out his half-sun amulet, symbol of Idar; he clutched it so tightly it stung his fingers.

  “Inagon,” whispered the sailor’s oldest daughter. She had no amulet of her own, but she made the sign of Idar, a half circle across her chest. “The land of the dead.”

  Her sisters cursed and grumbled. The youngest, a demure girl with a cleft lip, began to insist they turned back now. The captain emerged upon the deck, stared at the pale lights, and grew just as pale. He cursed and prayed and grabbed salt from his pockets to toss into the water.

  “There is no such place as Inagon,” Cam said, turning from one sailor to another. “A cursed land that punishes sinners after death? That’s just a story they tell children to scare them into obedience. We have the same story in Arden. We’re in Eloria, the land of night. They don’t even know Idarism here.” He turned back toward the coast. “It’s not haunted. It’s … pretty.”

  He heard the lie in his own voice. The closer they sailed, the odder this place seemed. The crystals jutted along the coast, reminding him of tombstones. Cam loosened his collar.

  He turned toward Suntai and whispered to her, “The sailors call this the land of the dead. What do you think, Suntai? What do your people say of the afterworld? Does it … look like this?”

  “In some stories it is so.” Suntai stared ahead grimly, then turned to him and gave a rare grin, revealing her canines. “If this is the land of the dead, we will raise them to fight our war. We sail on.”

  They anchored offshore and the companions climbed into a rowboat. The captain grabbed the oars, but his daughters refused to board, speaking of curses and ghosts.

  “We will stay until the moon is full,” Cam said to the captain as they rowed toward the ghostly shore. He hoped that would give him time to find someone—anyone—who could help. “Wait for us, and you’ll have more jewels as payment for the journey back south.”

  The captain patted his pocket where his latest payment chinked. “Sometimes I think my daughters run this ship, and they’re a foolish lot. Scared of ghosts and old stories, they are.” He hawked and spat into the sea. “But they’ll wait. They like jewels as much as the next woman, despite their sordid appearance and abundance of body hair.” He barked a laugh—a jarring sound like a rusty nail against a board.

  They oared on—a rowboat with a grizzled captain, an Ardish soldier and his dethroned queen, and an Elorian warrior. Their two nightwolves swam alongside the vessel, eyes reflecting the crystals ahead. Cold wind shrieked as they reached the shores of Leen.

  Cam stepped onto a beach of coarse black sand. The crystals rose before him, taller than they’d seemed from afar; they stood as large as pines, silver and blue and cruel as blades. It was very cold. He shivered and wrapped his cloak tightly around him, and when the nightwolves emerged from the water and shook, ice clung to their fur. Linee’s teeth chattered and even Suntai, used to the cold night, grunted as her breath frosted.

  As fast as he’d dropped them off, the captain began to row back to his caravel, not bothering to set a single foot ashore.

  “Do you think he’ll wait for us?” Suntai asked, smiling grimly.

  Cam sighed. “Not for an instant.” He looked around him at the crystal forest. “We sail back with aid or we’re stuck here. So I suppose there’s only one thing to do now.” He grinned, teeth chattering. “Roam around aimlessly and hope we stumble across an army.”

  “If we don’t freeze to death first,” Suntai said, mounting her nightwolf.

  The companions left the shore, heading into the crystal forest.

  Cam walked in silence, letting Linee ride the second nightwolf alone. After so long at sea, he needed to keep his feet on the ground. As they walked, he kept craning his neck back, gazing up at the crystals. Their surfaces were smooth and cold, and when Cam leaned close to a few, he could see the source of their glow. Tiny creatures floated within them, no larger than specks of dust. When he squinted, he saw that they were all different—some creatures had wings, and some were wreathed with spinning rings, while others simply looked like snakes with glowing eyes. Each shone a light like the lanternfish in the Inaro River. Thousands filled each crystal, maybe millions, trapped inside and spending their lives floating up and down and casting their glow.

  “Camlin,” Linee whispered from her wolf, “where are all the palaces?” She kicked the air with both feet. “I want to find a palace already.”

  “We’ve only been walking for moments. Be patient. And stop kicking. You know the wolves hate that. And for the millionth time, stop calling me Camlin like you’re my mother.”

  They kept walking. Moments turned into hours. Hours turned into an hourglass turn, and soon Cam and Linee were both yawning. As much as weariness, hunger gnawed on Cam; he had eaten little on the journey at sea, and with his belly settling, he ached for a meal and a good sleep.

  “I want to make camp!” Linee said, arms crossed. “Tell Suntai I want to stop.”

  Suntai growled over her shoulder. “Be silent! This place is…” She looked around her, contemplating. “Holy.”

  “It’s a holy bunch of boring.” Linee tugged the reins, climbed off her wolf, and stood among the soaring crystals. “I’m not going another step until I rest.”

  Suntai shrugged and kept riding onward. Linee squealed and climbed back into the saddle.

  Yet after another couple hours, even Suntai slowed down and finally stopped. They spent a cold, miserable few moments huddled between the wolves, eating what supplies they had: dry crackers, sausages, and mushrooms. After their meal, they lay down upon a fur blanket, pulled a second pelt over them, and nestled together. Cam lay in the middle, his companions clung to his sides, and the nightwolves curled up around them, providing some protection from the wind. Even with the fur blankets, both women holding him, and the shaggy nightwolves, Cam shivered and could barely sleep for the cold.

  I miss home, he thought. He tried to imagine that he lay in his bed back in Fairwool-by-Night, a simple wooden thing his father had built, the mattress stuffed with straw, the woolen blankets soft and warm. He even missed staying in the Night Castle in Pahmey, his friends at his side: silly Hem who wheezed as he slept, Torin who always read some book before bed, and even Bailey … crazy, angry Bailey who always knew what to do, who always reminded him of home.

  Does that home even still exist? Cam wondered. Ferius ruled Arden now; with the Sailith Order spreading, perhaps the monk would rule all of Mythimna, this world they called Moth. Would the monk burn Fairwool-by-Night to the ground as revenge against his enemies?

  Linee mumbled in her sleep and nestled closer to him. Again her hair filled his mouth, but this time Cam didn’t mind as much. Suntai shifted at his other side, pressing against him, breathing deeply in her sleep. Slowly their warmth drove the chill from Cam, and he slept.

  * * * * *

  They sat around their campfire, burning the last of their tallow and eating the last of their mushrooms.

  Have I led them to death in the cold? Suntai thought, staring into the flam
es, her swords in her hands. Have I abandoned my mate, his sister, and all our people to ruin?

  This had been a fool’s quest. She had failed. She had arrived in this land with no map, no plan, nothing but … but what? Her courage? Her strength? The pride of an alpha female?

  Suntai snorted, eyes stinging. What were those worth in a northern hinterland of ice and stone and no life?

  “How long has it been?” the girl Linee whispered, shivering. A fur cloak wrapped around her shoulders, and she sipped from her bowl—the last bowl of food she would eat.

  Wrapped in his own pelt, Cam looked at the hourglass that stood by the fire, its sand trickling away like their life, like their hope. “Seven hourglass turns.”

  By the eighth we will die, Suntai thought.

  She rose to her feet. “We move on.”

  Cam and Linee looked up at her, eyes weary and sunken, two lost pups. She had brought them here as proof of Timandra, living demons of sunlight, but now Suntai saw them as her children, as innocents to protect. Suntai—taller, older, stronger, wiser—had thought that she could save them, guide them to hope. She had thought she could lead a pack of wolves. The pack was gone; her children were freezing and starving.

  My womb is barren, and I have given no babes to my mate, she thought. Let these ones be as my children. I will keep leading them. We will keep moving until we freeze, starve, die … or find life.

  “Up, Cam!” she said. “Up. Get Linee onto her wolf. We move.”

  Cam looked at her, face pale, and whispered, “Can we just warm ourselves for a little lon—”

  “No!” She glared. “We move. On your feet.”

  We cannot linger, she thought. Lingering is slow death.

  She mounted her wolf—the animal was thinner and wearier than Suntai had ever known her—and rode on, moving between the towering crystals. They had left the coast far behind—so far Suntai did not know if they would ever see it again. Silently, the two Timandrians mounted their own wolf, holding each other for warmth.

  They kept traveling, moving north every turn. The crystals here grew taller than at the coast, obelisks like soaring towers, shining with inner light. The moon and stars moved above.

  Wait for me, my mate, my Okado, Suntai thought. I will not forget you.

  She rode for a long time among the crystal landscape, riding up and down hills, along bridges of glowing stones, and under natural archways carved by wind and rivers. She remembered riding with Okado and the pack, and she remembered her parents whom Yorashi had slain, and Suntai began to believe that her home was lost to her. She would remain here, frozen in the wild. She wondered if these crystals had once been travelers like her, lost and frozen, awaiting more lost pilgrims. As she rode, it seemed to Suntai that the crystals became people, men and women wandering the hinterlands, clad in white robes, their souls shining within translucent skin—the people of Leen rising from the earth.

  Snow began to fall, coating her hair and cloak. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw Cam and Linee riding behind, their hair and clothes icy, their breath frosting. They held each other for warmth, but they were fading fast.

  “We are like snowflakes ourselves,” Suntai whispered, “buried under a storm.”

  She turned forward again. She gripped the reins with numb fingers. She kept riding. She was alpha, and she was a leader of a pack, even if her pack was now only them. She would lead them onward—to hope or into the great realms of afterlife.

  The snow was burying her wolf’s paws when Suntai saw the woman ahead.

  At first Suntai thought the figure another one of the crystals, slender and snowy, an apparition from a feverish dream. The woman stared at her, eyes large and violet, pearly hair flowing down to her waist. She wore robes of pale silk and held a silver lantern. A diamond necklace shone around her neck.

  “Welcome, travelers of foreign lands, to snow and ice, to crystal and silver, to wisdom and riddle.” The woman nodded, a small smile on her lips. “I have seen your ship upon our sea, and I have followed your journey through the lights.”

  Suntai blinked, still not sure she was seeing a true person—the woman ahead seemed little more solid than a daydream. But when she heard Cam and Linee gasp, she realized that the woman truly stood before her.

  “Who are you?” Suntai said, clutching her sword’s hilt. “Why did you let us travel alone, lost and cold and hungry?”

  The woman bowed her head. “I am a greeter. I am snow upon stone. I am young and not yet wise. I was sent to see, to learn.” Her eyes darkened. “Many have attacked our lands, beings like those behind you.” Her eyes turned toward Cam and Linee, and pain filled the violet orbs. “I danced upon the stone and watched from darkness, my dagger in my hand, until wisdom grew within me. You are friends. You may follow, and I will lead you to halls of light and questions.”

  With that, the woman turned and began to walk north—or flow north, Suntai thought, for she heard or saw no footfalls in the snow. The woman seemed to float like breeze.

  “A ghost,” Linee whispered.

  Suntai stared at the spectral figure. “We follow.”

  They rode for a long time through the snow, following the robed woman. They crossed a bridge over a frozen river. Frosted hills bristly with stone obelisks rolled at their sides, and mountains soared ahead, their surfaces gleaming with ice.

  Through snowy wind, Suntai saw a great archway rising ahead, carved of glass or perhaps ice. It soared hundreds of feet tall; Suntai gasped to see it. She thought that the great structure could arch across the entire fallen city of Pahmey, never touching even its loftiest towers. They traveled through this gateway—a ghostly woman and two wolves bearing their riders, tiny figures in a land of giants.

  The clouds parted, the snow curtains cleared, and the moon gleamed above. Suntai beheld a city in a valley below. She halted her wolf and stared, eyes dampening. Cam and Linee rode up to her side, stared down, and whispered prayers.

  “It’s beautiful,” Linee said, eyes gleaming with tears.

  Suntai smiled softly. “It’s hope. We stand before Taenori, the fabled Light of the North.”

  The city of snow and glass sprawled for miles. Pahmey had been a place of color, but here lay a painting all in silver and white. Roads curled like filigree, lined with houses of pale bricks and frosted glass. The roofs of pagodas glittered with snow. Across the valley, a castle rose upon a hill, its towers white, a palace that seemed carved out of the mountain itself, a place of smooth stone, icy paths, and coiling bridges, as natural and flowing as snow upon rock. Thousands of lanterns glowed below; light filled the valley like a second moon.

  The robed woman led them through the city, and Suntai saw many other silent figures, their hair as pale and flowing as their robes. They passed by many houses, icicles hanging from their roofs; halls lined with columns, sages burning incense and chanting prayers within; and great braziers that crackled with blue flame and heat, melting the snow around them. Suntai and her companions moved silently, for Taenori was a city of song—a song of fire, of harps in temples, of wind in gardens of hanging gems. Even the nightwolves did not grunt or drool in this place; they gazed around with large, gleaming eyes.

  Snow coating their hair and cloaks, they climbed the hill toward the castle. Guards stood at the gatehouse, silver breastplates clasped atop their white robes. Curved helms topped their heads, and they held spears and tall shields emblazoned with a painted diamond, sigil of Leen. Their alabaster hair spilled across their shoulders like frozen waterfalls.

  The robed woman bowed and spoke softly in her tongue, a language like wind on water and melting ice in summer, and the castle gates opened. A hall loomed beyond, lit with silver light.

  “I will take your wolves to a warm house,” said the robed woman. “It is a place where we feed snowy bears and other beasts in need. They will be tended to. There is food and rest for you here too, travelers from distant lands, but first you may enter the hall of our king. We have sensed great need i
n you, and he much desires to hear your tidings.” The woman bowed her head. “Pirilin too will speak with you, for she is wisest in our land.”

  Suntai hesitated, for she rarely parted from Misama; her dear nightwolf was as a part of her. When she dismounted, she held Misama’s head, kissed her brow, and whispered to her in the wordless language they shared.

  They entered the hall of Leen, three travelers weary and thin: a tall rider in steel scales, bow and blades across her back; a young, exiled queen, her cheeks pink and her golden hair tangled and dusted with snow; and a shepherd of sunlight joined to the night, slim and quick and staring with wide, dark eyes. Suntai thought they must have been the strangest trio to have ever entered this hall of majesty.

  Marble columns stood in rows, supporting a vaulted ceiling painted with stars and moons. Many guards stood here, pale and frozen as statues, their eyes large and blue, their spears long and their shields bright. A ticking echoed across the chamber, a repeated chant like a tiny metal drum. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. A sound like a beating heart.

  Across a tiled floor rose a throne of twisting silver strands, and here sat an old king, his hair flowing into his hoary beard, his ivory robes embroidered with silver strands. Wrinkles lined his face, spots marred his hands, and his fingernails curled like tails. His eyes were closed; he seemed asleep. At his feet coiled a great beast that sent Suntai’s heart into a gallop.

  “Pirilin,” she whispered. “The fabled dragon of Leen.”

  The beast raised her head and blinked at her, violet eyes sad. Silvery scales chinked across her long body, gleaming like mother-of-pearl; as the dragon moved, the scales turned purple, green, blue, and finally white again. Seeing the dragon, Cam emitted a shocked, strangled sound, and Linee whispered in awe. Their eyes widened further when the dragon spoke.

  “Three travelers come before you, my king,” said Pirilin, speaking to the ancient man upon the throne. The dragon’s voice was high and feminine and clear, sounding both youthful and ancient. She spoke in Qaelish, perhaps for Suntai’s benefit, or perhaps some magic in this hall translated the dragon’s words. “Here stands Suntai, a rider of wolves, a warrior of the night. With her enter Linee of House Solira, a usurped queen of sunlight, and her soldier, Camlin Shepherd.” The white dragon blinked and her maw seemed to twist into a smile, revealing her fangs. “They come to you, my lord, with great need and weariness, for sunlight rises upon their lands.”