Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  “There!”

  Jacob stood a second time, and he followed Perry’s outstretched arm. This time he did see a vague shape, but only for a few heartbeats before it sank back into the grass.

  “What the fuck was that?” asked Jacob.

  “Dog maybe? Looked gray…”

  “Dog?” Jacob felt his blood chill. “How big a dog, you think?”

  Perry realized what he thought, and he paled.

  “It’s daylight,” he said, as if that should mean anything.

  Jacob glanced behind him. In the far distance was his house, and several hundred yards beyond, the Douglas home. He could make out vague shapes in front of their porch, no doubt Jim trying to fix that damn wagon of his. He’d made excuses all summer, and now he was learning a hard lesson about putting off until tomorrow what you should have done two weeks ago.

  “It’s a long run,” Jacob said, his voice low. “But we might have to do it anyway. You still watching?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jacob knelt and pulled a few more squashes, struggling to not look alert.

  “You just act like you’re catching your breath. Wait for it to move again. Don’t stare at it, you idiot. Look away. Use the corner of your eye, as if you’re trying to peep down a girl’s blouse without her knowin’ it.”

  Perry’s neck went red, but he nodded and tried to obey. Jacob counted the seconds, wishing the damn thing, whatever it was, would hurry up and make its move.

  “It crawled again,” Perry said suddenly. “Shit, it’s big.”

  “It stopped?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then run like the wind, boy.”

  Jacob stood, grabbed the handles of his wheelbarrow, and ran. Perry had the shorter legs, but he was a wiry boy and unencumbered. Gradually he pulled ahead. Jacob felt the wheelbarrow jostle in his hands. His vegetables would be bruised beyond recognition, but by the gods he wasn’t leaving them behind. It was a matter of pride. He glanced back once, hoping to be revealed an idiot, to see nothing behind him but his empty garden.

  A gray wolf-man loped after them, its back bent, its tongue hanging out the side of its mouth.

  “Fuck!” he shouted, turning back around. “Run, goddamn it, Perry, run!”

  But the boy was getting tired, his short legs working double-time to keep pace, and they were only halfway down the path toward his home. For a moment he considered tossing Perry into the wheelbarrow, but he knew that’d only get them both killed. No time…no time! He slowed, then stopped completely.

  “Jacob?” Perry asked, whirling about. His eyes widened, and Jacob knew he saw their pursuer.

  “You not hear me? I said run, you twat, now run!”

  Perry obeyed. Swallowing his fear, Jacob turned to face the wolf-man. It was closing the distance between them with horrifying speed. Giddy laughter bubbled up from his belly, and he couldn’t hold it in. Here he was, facing off against one of the most terrifying creatures of all Dezrel, and his only weapon was a wheelbarrow. He was fucked. Totally, completely fucked.

  The wolf-man seemed to share the sentiment, for it howled with joy just before leaping at him. Jacob dropped to his knees, ramming his arms against the wheelbarrow’s handles. It pivoted into the air on the back braces. In mid-jump, the wolf couldn’t change its angle in time. It rammed its chest against the front, which crumpled inward with a metallic groan. Its momentum killed, it fell back onto its hind legs, the wheelbarrow tipping over onto its side. Jacob dove for it, curling his legs to his chest as he lay atop a pile of vegetables.

  Snarling, the wolf-man yanked the remnants of his wheelbarrow off him, removing whatever defense he had. Still laughing, Jacob swung the biggest squash he could find. It smacked against the wolf-man’s nose. Blood sprayed across him, and he wondered what had made the crunching noise, the thing’s nose or the shattered squash in his hand. As the wolf staggered back, swinging its head back and forth in a daze, Jacob took to his feet and ran. He knew it would only be a few extra seconds, but he had to try. In the brief moment, he realized he couldn’t see Perry, and he figured that enough of a victory. The boy would survive, at least longer than Jacob was going to. If the entire pack had come early, then they were all destined for a stay in a cramped belly.

  When the wolf-man hit him, it felt like a sledgehammer had slammed his back. He flew through the air, his arms and legs waving wildly. The ground rushed toward him, and it seemed like his legs couldn’t find purchase to keep running. He braced his fall best he could, then rolled along the rough ground. As rocks tore into his skin, he screamed. It felt like his back was on fire. When he came to a stop, the wolf-man towered over him, blood trickling down its nose and onto its yellow teeth.

  “I’ll eat you slowly,” it said, its hot breath washing over him. “I’ll eat you alive.”

  “Shut up and do it,” Jacob said. The world seemed to swirl before him, and he felt like the patch of ground he lay upon was unstable. Light-headed, he watched with strange disinterest as the wolf-men brought its gaping maw to his chest and bit. Warm blood spilled to his abdomen, and he heard someone screaming. It was him, he realized. That was embarrassing. He’d always thought himself tougher than that.

  The wolf-man pinned his arms, because evidently he’d been struggling. It grinned at him, its whole mouth dripping red. It swallowed something. A piece of his flesh. A soft growl came from its throat, and it sounded hungry. Claws dug into his wrists. More screaming.

  And then he realized he must have begun hallucinating, for the wolf-man’s head suddenly vanished, replaced by a stump that spurted blood into his eyes. He cried out and shut them, hating the sting. The pressure on his wrists vanished. People were talking, he realized, and he made an effort to listen.

  “…too badly, Jacob. Sorry I don’t have time to stitch your chest. You’ll have to make do with a tight cloth.”

  “No bother,” Jacob said, the dreamlike feel growing. “Is it still going to eat me?”

  Dark laughter met his ears.

  “It is dead, though I fear it’s not the only one we have to worry about. Take my arm and stand.”

  Jacob felt something grab him, lifting him by his armpits. Once righted, he felt his weight rest on his feet, and he struggled to maintain balance. His strange savior held him steady, and ignoring the biting pain in his eyes, he opened them to look. The dark paladin, Darius, leaned his weight against him, and together they walked back to his home.

  “Perry got to me just in time,” Darius said, picking up their pace. “Your back’s a mess, and your chest is bleeding like a stuck pig, but I’m not giving you any choice. You’re going to walk, you’re going to live, and you’re going to remember to tithe every week whether you feel like it or not.”

  “Will two of three do?” Jacob asked.

  His savior laughed. “For now.”

  Perry was waiting for him at the house, his face wet with tears and covered with dirt. His father was with him, along with his damned wagon. They’d already loaded his vegetables, he realized. That was kind of them.

  “You’re all right,” Perry said, the relief palpable.

  “Don’t feel it.”

  They laid him in the wagon, pushing aside rickety crates of food and clothing to make room. Darius gave the order and the wagon began moving. Perry hopped in with him, holding a long rag.

  “He said to tie this around you,” the kid said.

  “Then do it.”

  Jacob grunted as the cloth slid around his chest. It didn’t take long for it to turn a dark crimson, but the pressure felt good. Leaning back, Jacob closed his eyes, drowsiness overcoming him.

  “There was another,” Perry said, talking out of nervousness. “Back at my pa’s house. If Darius hadn’t been there, if he…”

  “Perry?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut up, will ya? We’re going to be fine.”

  He opened an eye to see the kid smiling at him. It was a thin mask, a tiny strength covering a massive wall of fear, but a
t least it was something.

  “Should have known a single wolf-man wouldn’t kill you,” Perry said. “You’re too stubborn for that.”

  “Too stupid’s more like it. So is this it? This the big attack?”

  Perry’s smile wavered, but he managed to keep it there.

  “Nah. Darius said it ain’t.”

  “Then what is it? You got any ideas, boy?”

  Apparently he didn’t, for he only shrugged. Jacob leaned back, moaning occasionally as the wagon bounced along.

  “Jacob?”

  “Yeah?”

  Perry looked away.

  “Thanks for saving me.”

  Jacob slapped the boy’s leg, then lay back down.

  “Was nothing,” he said. “Nothing…”

  He slept despite the pain and movement of the wagon.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jerico felt lost in a storm of people, and nothing made sense. At first it was only a trickle, a single family claiming the wolves had come. He grabbed his shield and mace, but before he could leave, another family arrived, holding their bleeding son in their arms.

  “Two of ‘em!” the father cried. “They got Terry. They got my son!”

  Fearing the full attack to come, he sought out Darius. Not finding him, he instead located Daniel and his men, who had also prepared themselves for battle.

  “Death may be coming for us,” Daniel said, “but we’ll meet it armed and ready. Gods willing, we’ll take plenty of them with us!”

  They marched to the center of town, and that was when Jerico found Darius. He waited there, looking strangely calm amid the din. People were shouting, asking questions. He ignored them all.

  “Jerico,” he said, seeing him. “Two attacked the outer farms, Douglas and Wheatley. I saw more, but they kept back, circling.”

  “Why didn’t you chase them down, then?” Daniel asked, pushing people aside to join them.

  “Because I am no fool,” Darius said, glaring at the older man. “They’re circling, don’t you get it? We’re completely cut off from the world. Every road, every farm, even the river…the wolf-men watch them all.”

  The realization hit Jerico like a blow from his own mace.

  “We’re trapped,” he whispered. “What do we tell the people? What do we do?”

  “My baby!” a mother wailed behind them. Jerico couldn’t think of her name. She was a lost face in a sea of frightened villagers. Several more wandered about, bleeding, and Jerico saw the wounded man in a cart sitting beside him in the square.

  “We need to get the wounded somewhere,” he said. “I can heal them, though it’ll take much of my strength.”

  “The attack isn’t coming today,” Daniel said. “You have time.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because if it was coming today, they’d bloody well do it. They’ve given us warning now, which does them no good. That means they plan on keeping us here, nice and quiet, while they starve us, weaken and frighten us.”

  Jerico glanced to Darius, who nodded in agreement.

  “Move the wounded to the inn,” said the dark paladin. “I’ll check the roads north. Daniel, send men to check the south. Have the rest try to keep order here. We need to take stock of what we have, in both food and weaponry. If they’re to trap us, then we need to lay a trap right back. We are the cornered animal, gentlemen, so let’s act like it.”

  Jerico stepped back, pushing his way toward Dolores’s inn.

  “Bring your wounded!” he shouted to them. “All hurt, all bleeding, come to me at Dolores’s!”

  Inside he found Dolores sitting on a stool, her hands crossed on her lap. She was crying.

  “We’re all to die, aren’t we?” she asked.

  “Someday,” Jerico said, clearing space on the floor. “But not today.”

  “I’m not scared of dying,” she said as the first of many followed, carrying wounded or bearing wounds themselves. “But to die to them…to be alive when they…they…”

  “Dolores!” Jerico looked at her, refusing to let his gaze falter. She stared at him, tears running down her face, and her old lips quivered. “Not now. Not ever. Help me, please. Blankets, bandages, and towels for the blood. Your passing will be in your sleep, even older, and even crankier. You think a damn wolf can chew through your leathery hide?”

  She smiled at him, and whatever daze she’d been in crumbled.

  “Lay ‘em the other way,” she said as Jerico put the first down. “More room. Ugh, so much blood. You got a needle for stitches?”

  “Something like that,” Jerico said, closing his eyes and putting his hands on a man’s chest, lined with eight vicious cuts. Where his fingers touched skin they glowed with white light, and after a quiet moment, the light plunged within, smoothing over the flesh and knitting torn muscle.

  More and more came in, crowding the small inn. Dolores guided them to corners, and she wrapped blankets across those Jerico healed. The sobs of both healthy and sick echoed upon the walls.

  “Jerico!” a boy cried out. He glanced that way, saw Perry kneeling over Jacob Wheatley.

  “Close your eyes and be strong,” Jerico whispered to a woman who had lost her arm. He’d closed the wound and wrapped it with a bandage, the best he could do. Walking to Perry, he stopped a moment, a dizzy spell coming over him.

  “He stayed back ‘cause I couldn’t keep up,” Perry said, glancing down at Jacob. “You’ll help him, won’t you? I don’t want him…him…he can’t die. It’ll be all my fault. My fault!”

  Jerico knelt to examine the wounds. His back was bleeding, but it appeared to be from shallow slashes that would only prove fatal if they became infected. The bite on his chest, however…

  “Be with him,” Jerico prayed, his hands on the rupture. The blood felt hot on his fingers. The light bathed over them both. Slowly, the change unseen through the light, the skin closed into a long, angry scar. When finished, Jerico leaned against the wall and gasped. So many. He had never been the greatest at healing, and facing so many wounded, so many clawed and mangled people…

  “Come on,” Dolores said, offering her hand. He took it and stood.

  “I have needle and thread,” she continued. “Save those beyond all but Ashhur. The rest, well, they can do with a bit of stitching for now.”

  “Thank you,” he muttered.

  They triaged the worst, Jerico praying at their sides to close gaping wounds while Dolores moved about, sewing shut minor cuts and applying tourniquets when it was clear the limb was lost. By the time he was done, there were forty men, women, and children lying on the floor in blankets, with the lesser wounded staying in various rooms, including Darius’s. Seven died, and quietly Jerico took them behind the inn for eventual burial.

  They cleared out every piece of furniture but for two chairs, and Jerico sat in one beside Dolores, looking over the many. They were crying, sleeping, or staring into the distance. Dolores had had to force all family members out. In some ways, that had been the worst. No matter how often Jerico told them there was no room, that they had to leave, they still sobbed, still clutched at their loved ones as if they might never see them again. Breaking that up felt wrong, but he knew it must be done.

  “Jerico?”

  The paladin glanced up to see Darius standing at the door. He gestured outside, and Jerico nodded.

  “Will you watch them?” he asked Dolores.

  “Go on,” she said. “You have much to do, but don’t push yourself. Hate to find you on my floor with the others.”

  Jerico stepped carefully among the bodies, then followed Darius outside. Daniel had returned, though his men were still hurrying about the town. Things had calmed down, but only a little. It seemed like everyone had a task set before them, and that kept down the bulk of the panic.

  “So what’s the story?” he asked.

  “Patrols to both directions,” Darius said, and Daniel nodded in agreement.

  Jerico sighed, wishing he was a cussing man. He knew
plenty that felt appropriate for the situation

  “Where’s Jeremy Hangfield?”

  “Taking stock of our supplies,” Daniel said. “We got lucky. With everyone preparing to move out, most had gathered up their belongings and brought them into town already. Because of this, we got plenty of food to live on, at least for a week or two. If they plan on starving us out, it’ll take time, time I doubt they have. Sir Godley will notice something is up, if not one of the other towers.”

  Jerico caught sight of a man in black robes approaching, and he raised an eyebrow.

  “That your friend?” he asked Darius. The paladin turned, and seeing the man, bowed on one knee in respect.

  “Pheus, you’ve returned to us,” he said.

  “I have,” said the priest, glaring at Jerico. “Two wolf-men accosted me on the northern road.”

  “How did you escape?” Jerico asked.

  Pheus gave him a look of such contempt it chilled his blood.

  “I killed them, of course.”

  “We’ll need all the help we can get,” Darius said. “And the question is, do we hunker down, or try to punch through their circle?”

  “They’ll harry us for miles,” Jerico said, shaking his head. “No matter which direction we go, it sounds like they’ll be watching. Our best chance now is to protect ourselves and hope someone notices our isolation; the traders they attacked last night, perhaps.”

  “What about sending off a boat for aid?” Daniel asked. “Down south to the nearest tower, or better yet, to the Citadel?”

  Jerico winced, and he saw both priest and paladin of Karak look his way. Darius’s eyes revealed nothing, though Pheus was clearly amused.

  “The Citadel is no more,” Jerico said. “We will get no aid from them.”

  He turned to leave. A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he spun, his hand reaching for his weapon. Darius pulled away, and he looked at the mace with a mixture of betrayal and anger.

  “I wanted to thank you for what you did in there,” he said, gesturing to the inn. His voice lacked what conviction it might have had, though. Jerico released the handle of his mace and nodded.