Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  “We’ll gather everyone into a few places to sleep,” Daniel said, glancing between them. He clearly felt the tension in the air, and he pushed on to change the subject. “Will make it easier keeping watch. Need to get our food into safe places too, so they can’t destroy it. Oh, and last of all, we need to stay off each other’s throats. Times before a battle can make even the kindest men turn to ogres. Let’s all remember that, eh?”

  “I have wounded to attend,” Jerico said. “Excuse me.”

  He returned to the inn, feeling both furious and embarrassed by that fury. Darius had meant no insult, yet he felt hot under the collar anyway. It was just the way that priest stared at him, with a mocking glint. No doubt he’d cheered when the Citadel fell. No doubt he expected Darius to feel the same way. Did he?

  “Any news worth sharing?” Dolores asked him, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the sleeping.

  “No,” he said. “What hope we have is little.”

  She frowned.

  “Out in the back,” she said. “Will you take care of ‘em?”

  He sighed. His temples throbbed, his forehead ached with every heartbeat, but still he nodded.

  “Might be the only chance we have to bury our dead,” he murmured.

  “Don’t you talk like that,” Dolores said. “Not where they can hear. Thought you smarter than that.”

  Jerico accepted the berating in silence, then left the inn once more.

  At Jeremy’s mansion he found a shovel, and he brought it with him to the inn. There was plenty of open space behind it. Normally the people of Durham buried their dead at the corners of the fields, returning them to the ground that allowed them to prosper. There would be no such act, not with the wolves closing in. The ground was soft enough, and he dug the first of many graves. After he was done with the second, and the sun had started its descent, coloring the sky pink, Darius arrived. The dark paladin watched for a moment, left, and then returned with another shovel. Jerico put the bodies in, and Darius covered them up. This they did until the seventh, and both stabbed their shovels into the ground and leaned their weight against them.

  “I’m sorry about the Citadel,” Darius said.

  “Are you?”

  Darius sighed, and he looked away. When he looked back, he knew for certain his answer.

  “Yes. I am.”

  Jerico gestured to the graves.

  “Hundreds of my brethren died. I saw them in a vision, granted to me by Ashhur. No one will dig them graves. No one will gather before them to mourn. The dead tore apart their bodies and cast them to the dirt. Who deserves such a fate? Who would hate us so?”

  The Voice of the Lion, Pheus had said. Darius knew that name, though he had never met him. The fabled prophet of Karak, his priest since before the Gods’ War. Eyes of blood and fire, and never the same face. He was a relic of a more fanatical time. At the Stronghold, Darius had been taught to honor him should they ever meet, for none were supposed to be closer to their deity. And now he had brought low the Citadel. Would Jerico understand? Could he? Were they truly at war, and Jerico an enemy he had befriended?

  “I fear whatever answer I might give will offer no satisfaction,” he said.

  “You’re probably right. Every part of me wants to leave, to go to the rubble and see it for myself. I don’t want to believe it. I might never, really, until I see the wreckage. How could…how could Ashhur abandon us so?”

  The crisis of faith seemed too personal, too close to home for Darius. He turned away and gestured to the setting sun.

  “We should go inside and rest. Unless the wolf-men are exceptionally clever, they’ll attack at night, which will be when you and I must stand guard. It’ll be a long night, and following a long day, but we’ll endure. Won’t you, Jerico?”

  Jerico stood and clapped Darius on the shoulder.

  “Forgive my behavior, Darius. I’m tired, scared, and sad. That priest of yours, when I see him looking at me…I feel more alone than ever. And hated, too. I never should have disrespected you so.”

  “All’s forgiven,” Darius said. “I’ll be with the wounded at the inn. Daniel’s men are watching Jeremy’s estate. That leaves the tavern for you.”

  “Thank you,” Jerico said.

  “For?”

  In answer, he gestured to the mounds of dirt, the only marker for the seven dead.

  “Think nothing of it,” said Darius. “They won’t be the last. Together, life and death, the fate of the village rests in our hands, both yours and mine. Peaceful nights, Jerico.”

  “To you as well.”

  They split for their respective assignments.

  * * * * *

  She’d always liked the privacy of her room, and that’s what Jessie Hangfield missed most of all. Keeping her bed to herself had required little argument, but three other women slept on the floor. They shuffled, cried, and snored. Every noise bothered Jessie to no end. There were summer nights where even the song of the cicadas could keep her staring at her ceiling for hours. Hearing such inconsistent noises breaking the quiet only reminded her she was not alone, and not yet asleep despite how tired she felt.

  Jessie shifted to her side and stared out the window of her room. The glass was recently cleaned, product of a strange delusion that she should tidy up the place before the swarm of guests invaded her father’s home. It was only when the women arrived that she realized how stupid she’d been. A pink talking rabbit could have greeted them at the door, and they still would have thought nothing of it. Their eyes were wide, but seeing nothing. She knew them all, and she felt too scared to ask them of their families.

  “Blessed of the light, watch over me,” she heard Lyla pray. Lyla was beside her bed, wrapped in a thin blanket she’d brought from her home. It was the fifth time she’d begun the ritual prayer to Ashhur. No matter that others were trying to sleep. It seemed that ritual cadence was the only thing keeping her sane. She was not that much older than Jessie, with a handsome husband and a newborn babe. No amount of courage could have convinced her to ask where they were, nor ask her to be quiet.

  So she shouted it mentally. Shut up, shut up, shut up! It was unfair, absurdly unfair, but this was her room. She wanted to bury her face in her pillow and scream until her lungs gave out, to cry until her pillow could take no more tears. Every noise she heard made her heart stop. Every weird creak was the step of a wolf. Jessie could imagine one leering over her, its mouth drooling, its yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. Tears ran down her face, and she wiped them with a blanket. Lyla began her prayer for the sixth time. Jessie whispered the words along this time, begging Ashhur to let her sleep, to let her forget the day’s horror for only a few blissful hours.

  Granny Jane slept by the door. As if on clockwork, she rolled from her left side to her right every ten minutes. She snored loud, long, and with enough depth that Jessie thought it could pass for the growl of a bear. Her husband had died several years back, and as Jessie wiped tears from her face she wondered how in the world Granny’s husband had endured those many nights. Maybe he’d wedged cotton into his ears, or better yet, candle wax. That’s what she should have done. Despite her exhaustion, she pondered leaving her bedroom and searching the kitchen for some wax to use. But no matter how much she wanted to, she never worked up the nerve. The reason was stupid, she knew, but in her exhausted mind it didn’t seem to matter. She didn’t want to offend her guests, or make them feel they were unwanted. Because in truth she wasn’t a selfish girl, and she knew they’d all suffered far worse than her that day.

  “Blessed of the light, watch over me. May I walk your road and never stray…”

  A shape blocked the window, a small part of it glinting yellow. Jessie screamed. The window smashed open. As the shards fell, the wolf-man crashed atop of Lyla, its claws flinging blood in wild arcs across the room. Jessie screamed again, and blood splashed across her face, stinging her eyes. Lyla, poor Lyla…this couldn’t be happening. Her mind refused to believe it.


  The third guest, a midwife named Wilma, bolted to a sit, screaming as well. She turned to crawl, her portly body nearly smothering Granny Jane on her way to the door. The wolf-man would have none of it. It leapt atop her next, its teeth sinking into the fat of her back. Jessie felt her bladder let go. The creature was so huge, and it flung Wilma’s head side to side, snapping her neck. The sound it made, like a heavy branch breaking on someone’s knee, spurred her to action. She rolled off the bed, away from the door. She didn’t want the thing to see her. That was all she could think of, that infantile desire to hide.

  The thing snarled, and suddenly she found breathing difficult. The opposite side of the bed was not enough. She crawled underneath, quietly sobbing the whole while. As if from a hundred miles away, she heard shouts from further within her father’s house. Granny knelt against the door, her mouth open and her eyes wide. Her left arm reached for the knob, flailing at it wildly as if she’d forgotten how the contraption worked.

  “Get out of here!” Granny shouted. At first Jessie thought she shouted at the beast, but then realized it was to her she cried. “The window, out now!”

  Granny held the doorknob tight, and when the wolf-men tore into her, she never let go. Unable to stop crying, Jessie looked away and crawled for the other side. The window…the glass was shattered from the creature’s arrival. If she could sneak out and hide, she might survive. Stumbling onto her feet, she ran for it, unafraid of the jagged edges of glass that remained. Shards littered the floor as well, and they cut her bare feet. Something tripped her, and she cried out. Lyla’s body. They stared face to face, noses almost touching. Panic gave her speed she didn’t know she possessed. Her hands clawed at the window, and up she went, thinking only of escape. Something tugged her dressed, she fought, and then she was flying.

  “No!” she shrieked at the top of her lungs, landing atop her piss-soaked bed. The wolf-man towered over her, blood on its claws and pieces of flesh hanging from its teeth.

  “Four for Yellowscar,” it snarled, reaching for her throat.

  The door burst inward, and in the distraction, Jessie dove once more to the ground. She rolled under the bed, her arms tucked against her chest. She closed her eyes and wished she could blot out the sounds. The wolf-man snarled, but several men were crying out. Steel hit claw, and daring to open her eyes, she saw the soldiers from Blood Tower had come. The wolf twisted and struck, but every time she heard it scrape against something, a shield perhaps, or maybe their armor. Another set of legs came through the open door. She wanted to run for it, but she feared getting in their way. Not knowing what else to do, she prayed the same cadence, her heart aching for poor Lyla.

  “Blessed of the light, watch over me.”

  A man cried out. Blood splashed to the floor.

  “May I walk your road and never stray.”

  The soldier hit the ground, his head facing hers. Air leaked from his torn throat.

  “May I feel your arms around me when I fall.”

  The life in his eyes faded, his arms twitching their last. The wolf-man growled deep.

  May I sing your praises when I stand.

  More cries. The legs of the soldiers surrounded the wolf, and she heard it yelp in pain.

  Blessed of the light, may I love you, as you have always loved me.

  A hand reached for her under the bed, and she took it. Crawling out, she looked up to see her father.

  “Daddy,” she cried, flinging her arms around him and sobbing into his chest.

  “There, there,” Jeremy said, stroking her head as beside her the soldiers dragged the bleeding, bound body of the wolf-man from the room.

  She never wanted him to let her go.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Are you sure there are no more?” Jerico asked as he followed the soldier through the town toward the Hangfield home.

  “Fairly sure,” said the soldier. “It crashed through the window of Jeremy’s girl. Killed three before we got there, and another before we could get it down. We’ve got it tied up in Jeremy’s cellar. So far it hasn’t said a word.”

  “Jessie…is she all right?”

  Jerico felt his heart pause for a moment as the soldier thought, but then he nodded.

  “Yeah. I remember seeing her crying in her father’s arms. She looked fine. Well, fine as circumstances allowed, if you get my meaning.”

  The paladin breathed a sigh of relief.

  “She’s a good soul,” he said. “I’d hate for something to happen to her.”

  “Four others died instead of her,” the soldier said, halting before Jeremy’s house. “One of ‘em was my friend. You saying they ain’t good souls?”

  Jerico flushed, and embarrassed, he shook his head.

  “Forgive me. I was wrong. What is your name, soldier?”

  The man gave him a look, then nodded.

  “All right. I see we understand each other. My name’s Gregory. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” Jerico muttered as they entered through the front door.

  Jeremy was waiting for them, standing in his robes by the door. With him in the small room was his daughter, sitting in a chair near the corner. Her eyes were closed, and she rocked the chair back and forth with gentle pushes of her foot.

  “Glad you’re here,” Jeremy said. “Darius and his, uh, friend are already down there, and I don’t like the sounds I’m hearing.”

  “Sounds?” Jerico asked.

  The man only shrugged and pointed them toward the musty door leading to the cellar. Gregory led the way. Halfway down he heard a strange shriek, and he realized it was the wolf-man crying out in agony. The sound made his skin crawl, and he pitied the others throughout the large house still trying to sleep. Jerico braced himself for the scene he knew he’d encounter, but was still unprepared for the brutality of it.

  The wolf-man lay flat on the floor, this feat accomplished by the breaking of its knees so they might bend the necessary way, instead of backwards like a wolf’s. Ropes lashed across its body, nailed into the hard earth of the cellar. Patches of its skin were missing, as if burned, though he saw only a single torch hung upon the wall. Blood seeped across its body from a multitude of wounds. Pheus stood over it, shadows dancing across his fingers. Darius stood at his side. Watching with three of his men was Daniel, his arms crossed and his expression revealing nothing. The shadows dipped into the wolf-man’s flesh. It pulled against the ropes holding it, every muscle twitching chaotically.

  “What is this?” Jerico asked, feeling stupid even as he said it.

  “No business of yours,” said Pheus. “We have information to learn from this mongrel. Daniel’s soldiers were wise in keeping it alive, and should be commended for such quick thinking.”

  Daniel scowled, clearly unimpressed with the compliment.

  “You’re letting him torture it?” Jerico asked him.

  “Three helpless women dead,” Daniel said, looking away. “Plus one of my men. Go take a look at Jessie’s room if you want to see why I let them be. The walls are painted red.”

  Jerico glared at Darius, but the man returned his gaze unflinching.

  “All our lives may depend on this,” said the dark paladin.

  “Enough,” said Pheus. He knelt down and placed his hands on either side of the wolf-man’s head. “It is time you talk. Tell me your name, or you will feel pain a thousand times greater than you have felt before.”

  “Yellowscar,” the creature whimpered. Its eyes were unfocused, with the whites of one turned pink and covered with veins.

  “Very well, Yellowscar. Why did you kill those women? Were you under order?”

  The creature made a strange sound. Jerico couldn’t decide if it were a laugh or a growl.

  “I killed for honor.”

  “Honor?” Daniel spat. “You killed helpless women for honor?”

  Yellowscar tilted its head so it could stare at him with its good eye. The pink one didn’t move with the other.

  “You are weak.
Human. You know nothing of honor.”

  “Is that so?” Pheus said. He struck Yellowscar’s snout with his palm. Dark energy flowed into it, and the wolf-man yelped at the top of its lungs, a cry that stretched on for what felt like an eternity.

  “Enough!” Jerico cried, not to the wolf, but to Pheus.

  “You would challenge me?” the priest asked. Instead of angry, he appeared almost delighted by the prospect.

  “I won’t watch you torture this poor creature.”

  “Then leave,” said Darius. “You know this must be done.”

  Jerico felt all eyes upon him, and he struggled to decide what was right. This creature might know when the attack would come. But making it suffer and howl while above children slept…it wasn’t right. He stepped toward Yellowscar, his motions careful. Black stars sparkled on the edge of Pheus’s fingertips, and he seemed eager for the slightest excuse to let them fly. Kneeling beside the wolf-man, Jerico put his hands on the worst of the creature’s wounds and prayed for the pain to stop.

  “Rest,” he said to it, his voice low, reassuring. “Now listen. You have murdered our own, and no matter how this night ends, you will die for those crimes. We know who leads your pack. Redclaw, isn’t it? I’ve looked upon him. I’ve seen his strength, and when he comes to kill us, I will face him. I will bring him down. But before I do, I will tell him Yellowscar died a warrior. When will your pack attack Durham? Tell me, and I will end your suffering. The blood will be on my hands, not theirs. No torture. No pain. This is your one chance, Yellowscar. This is all I can promise, for beyond this is uncertain.”

  Yellowscar looked at him, glancing only once at Pheus and his eager, painful touch.

  “You are of honor,” it told him. “You I will trust. I will speak, but do not kill me here. Do not kill Yellowscar in ropes. Fight me beneath the moon so I may die a warrior.”

  Jerico glanced at Daniel, who scratched his chin.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “His legs are broke. He ain’t running off like that.”