Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  Step after step he went, his back hunched, until there was only room to crawl. His sharp ears heard only the echoes of his claws clicking against the stone. No, that was wrong. He heard other things, but he wanted to believe them only in his imagination. It was a rustling sound, maybe a heavy fluttering…

  “I am not afraid,” he growled, but immediately wished he hadn’t. The sound seemed weak, insignificant compared to the massive amount of stone surrounding him. He was like an ant in the earth, just a lowly ant. His back brushed a column, and he knew at any moment everything could collapse. All his strength, all his dreams of glory, would mean nothing to the rock. Following the thread of scent, he crawled.

  Several minutes in, Redclaw saw the first of the visions. Silver-Ear had told him to expect his fears, but this wasn’t the combat he had anticipated. Sights hid at the corner of his vision. He heard sounds, but strangely, they did not echo. He heard snarls and growls, and his fur stood on end. Many times it came from straight ahead, but he told himself he would fear nothing. He would back down from no challenge. Random streaks of color flashed before him, never lasting long. He ignored them best he could. His head felt even lighter, and he occasionally shook it and wished he had something to eat. If only he could think clearly, fill his belly with blood and meat to make the sensation go away.

  The cavern suddenly opened up before him. His back touched no stone, and a chill wind blew against him. Willing to risk it, he stood, holding an arm above him so he did not bump his head. He touched nothing. Sucking in the cold air, he howled at the top of his lungs, defying the darkness. The noise echoed, seeming to grow with each passing second. His ears ached, but he would not give in. The colors before him merged, taking form, and then he saw the fear the shaman warned him of.

  It was his father, Skysight. He had been pack leader, and before his death, commanded a mighty force of four hundred strong. His eyes were a clear blue, and they sparkled with an intelligence most wolf-men could only dream of.

  “Why have you come?” asked his father.

  “Because I must,” he said. “I am Wolf King. I must know no fear.”

  Skysight laughed.

  “Stupid pup. Have you known fear before?”

  Ashamed, he nodded.

  “And do you know it now?”

  “I do.”

  Another laugh. For a moment Skysight faded, then reemerged. He seemed so bright in the darkness, his body almost entirely white, as if a great moon shone upon him.

  “Are you defeated now? Are you no longer Wolf King? What does it matter if you are afraid?”

  Redclaw swallowed. His father was dead; he knew this, for he had witnessed his death, along with the near shattering of his pack in a vicious battle against another group of wolves. What was it he spoke to? A spirit? A vision? Or was he hearing only what he wanted to hear?

  “It matters,” said Redclaw, “for you were never afraid. You were greater than I, yet you were never Wolf King. By what right can I claim it if you never did?”

  Skysight shook his head.

  “You ask the wrong questions. You make wrong answers. I died, while you lived. I fell to Grassgut, yet you tore out his throat and scattered his pack. How can I be the greater?”

  His father shimmered, became a corpse, became bones, and then was gone. Redclaw was once more alone in the cave. Snot ran from his nose, and water leaked from his eyes.

  What does it matter if you are afraid?

  What indeed? He wished to live. That was all. More than anything, he savored life, and the life of his pups. It gave him purpose. It gave him strength. And when his opponent sought to end his life, more than anything he refused to let them. His fear was from a desire for life, and he knew that, as long as he never succumbed to it, he would be the greater. He was a wolf-man who knew fear when all others knew only bloodlust. Would that be his legacy? Would that understanding grant him the rule he desired?

  He crossed the great cavern, following the smell of shit. At the other end, when his claws touched stone, he heard a sound behind him. He turned and saw Goldfoot, his mate. She lay on the ground, her form swarming with shadows. She was not looking at him. Not a sound escaped her lips.

  Come to me, he heard, as if the voice came from the center of his head. He almost did. He wanted to lift Goldfoot up, to tell her that her pups had grown strong, that her death in birthing them had granted them life. But Silver-Ear’s words echoed in his mind. There was only one way. He could not go back.

  “You are not here,” he said, the words heavy on his tongue. “You are gone. You are dead. As are you, father. I do not need you. I am mighty. I am Wolf King.”

  But even the Wolf King knew how small he was when his voice echoed in that cavern. He put his back to the image, shook his head, and then pressed on.

  The strange rustling grew stronger as he crawled through another tunnel. Twice he thought he might be stuck, but he sucked in his breath and shifted side to side, refusing to panic. More than anything, he desired the light of day, for even it was better than true darkness. Even its burning fire was better than a night without either. A life without moon and sun was empty; it closed about him, and it made a mockery of his powerful senses. Closer and closer, the rustling. He heard squeaks within it, and by now the smell was potent.

  A subtle turn, and then he was there. His eyes winced, and he realized that he could see. Creatures covered the ceiling, and the noise they made was deafening. Bats, he realized, the night birds that flew above them during hunts. The smell of their shit curled his stomach, and breathing its fumes made him dizzy. Turning away, he returned to the large cavern, took in a full, clean breath, and then returned. Holding his breath, he crawled through the bat shit. Redclaw felt their droppings fall upon him, and his anger grew. Was this meant to humble him?

  But he could see light, however small. It was nearly blazing to his eyes now, and he followed it quick as he could. One turn, then another, and finally he could hold his breath no more. He let it out slowly, then took in another. The smell was already weaker. A hint of warm air blew across his skin. One bent step, then another, and finally he emerged into the daylight, the exit far larger and surrounded by trees.

  Silver-Ear waited for him, and she gestured toward the river.

  “Wash yourself,” she said. “And drink of the Gihon’s water. It will help your head.”

  He obeyed, surprised that he felt no anger. Silver’s eyes held no mockery, no amusement at his state. If anything, she seemed happy to see him. The river’s water was cold, but still warmer than the heart of the cave. He dipped his head underneath, then emerged. He drank deeply, then stepped out of the water. Autumn had not reached its strongest, so he would suffer no illness, only mild discomfort at the cold. When he returned to Silver-Ear, she offered him a strip of raw meat from the prior night’s feast.

  “Eat,” she said.

  He tore into it, wishing there were more. Once he finished it, he sat before her.

  “What did you learn?” she asked.

  “That without the moon, without the daylight fire, there is only shit.”

  Silver-Ear laughed. “Yes, that is true. You are the moon, Redclaw. Even more, you are its King. But remember, there are many others who are the sun. They will frustrate you, anger you, challenge your reign. But they have their purpose. Even ruling over the most frustrating is better than to have no rule at all. Is that all you learned?”

  “I know fear, shaman. In this, I am different.”

  She shook her head.

  “All wolf-men know fear, but they hide it with their bloodlust. They do not speak of it, nor admit it to others. That is a lesson we shamans must learn. In hiding their fear, all of our pack will go far. They will kill, shed blood, and challenge mightier foes. But when death comes in the quiet, they still know fear’s touch. I have been at the side of many sick, many dying. They know fear, and it is then, having hidden from it their whole lives, they do not know how to face it. But you have, as have we. The other sham
ans will respect that.”

  “How will I tell them?”

  She stood and gestured for him to lead them back to their pack.

  “Tell them you have conquered the moonless night,” she said. “Tell them you have overcome the darkness that goes deeper. Invoke my name if you must. You are Wolf King now, in my eyes. I bow to you.”

  Silver-Ear fell to her knees and flattened her ears. Redclaw took her by the shoulder and lifted her back to her feet.

  “All others kneel,” he said. “But you must not.”

  “You are wise, Wolf King,” she said, and she smiled.

  Once back at the pack, Redclaw returned to his pups. His fur had mostly dried, the sun peeking out from the clouds to bless him with its warmth. The two pups shifted and grumbled, angry at the disturbance. He held them until they stilled, then closed his eyes and curled against them. Sleep came to him only minutes later, and his thoughts did not once stray to the coming battle.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  With every passing moment, Jerico felt his nerves rise. With every piece of sun that vanished beyond the horizon, he sensed the wolf-men closing in. The gentle warning of Ashhur sounded in the back of his mind, though he had no need of it. He knew the wolves were coming. The town’s defenses were prepared. Their fighters, what few they had, were in place. And after sharing with them in prayer, he felt ready to die.

  Jerico stood in the doorway of the tavern, leaning against one side. He wore his full set of armor, his shield slung across his arm. It glowed softly, and he took reassurance in its light. Ashhur was with him still. Within, he guarded a scattered remnant of the town’s people. Those with children and families were deep in Hangfield’s estate. Daniel guarded the entrance with his remaining soldiers. The lieutenant stayed at the front, the rest wielding long, bladed polearms. Across the street stood Darius before the inn, the sick and wounded being cared for by Dolores inside.

  Clouds gathered above, stealing away what little light was left. It did not look like rain, and for that Jerico said a word of thanks to Ashhur. The last thing he wanted was to battle in the soaking wet. That, and it would have destroyed the many torches they’d lit throughout the town.

  “It’ll disturb their vision,” Darius had explained. “Blind them to the ditches and pitfalls.”

  Jerico caught Darius staring at him, and he saluted with his mace. Darius saluted back, his greatsword wreathed in dark flame.

  “You all right down there?” shouted Jon, his assigned archer atop the tavern.

  “I’ll be fine,” Jerico shouted back. “You have enough arrows?”

  “So long as my aim is true, and you don’t leave me more than forty.”

  Jerico glanced around the corner, saw both Pheus and another archer standing atop the Hangfield home. It was the largest of the three structures, and had the most villagers crammed within. It also had the most openings, though the soldiers had done well boarding them up. Of Daniel’s ten soldiers, seven were inside. With them, plus the archer on top, and the dark priest, they might have a chance.

  “So they’re going to show up soon, right?”

  “Getting impatient, Jon?”

  From above, he heard the archer chuckle.

  “I just don’t want to be sitting here for four hours waiting. We’re all geared up and ready for a slaughter. Is it so much to ask they show up for it? Besides, this roof ain’t the most comfortable.”

  Jerico swung his mace lazily through the air, feeling similar sentiments. They’d been preparing for two days, and the whole while, he’d felt his patience growing thin. As much as he feared the wolf-men, there would be at least some relief in knowing the pivotal moment had come, that his test of skill had arrived.

  In the distance, a wolf howled. It seemed the entire village turned silent, the only noise that of the flickering torches. A second howl joined it, then a third, and in moments a great cacophony rolled through the streets, hundreds of howls of such volume it hurt the ear. Jerico felt his hands grow cold, and his throat tighten.

  “Holy shit,” Jon muttered.

  “We’re hoping for a miracle here,” Jerico said, shouting to be heard. “Care to keep the blaspheming down a little, eh?”

  Despite the terror, Jon laughed.

  “Sure thing. I’m better at killing, anyway.”

  The chorus of howls thinned, the wolf-men no doubt on the charge. Jerico’s mace shook in his hand, and he closed his eyes for a moment of prayer. No fear. No cowardice. He thought of the many hiding behind him, with only his shield and mace to keep them safe. His failure meant their death. He would not fail.

  He saw the first wolf-man for only a moment before an arrow plunged into its neck. It had stepped around a nearby house, and Darius’s archer had spotted it with ease in the torchlight. The thing let out a cry and fell to one knee. A second arrow thunked into its chest, and it lay still. The rest of the pack took up a cry, for they surely smelled the blood spilling across the dirt. Jerico braced himself as scattered groups of wolf-men rushed into view. The first of many spotted him, and it leapt toward him with a deep growl. It tripped along one of the ditches they’d dug and, off-balance, Jerico found it easy prey for his mace. The flanged edges smashed in its skull, and he kicked its body back, just another obstacle for the rest of the pack. Breathing heavily, he swallowed and tried to calm his nerves. The battle of Durham had begun.

  His heart leapt into his throat when he heard the sound of tearing wood and breaking doors, but he realized it was only the many abandoned houses. The wolf-men hadn’t realized yet that all the survivors had gathered together, and they were busy searching throughout the town. This first assault would be the weakest, the most scattered, and he vowed to build a wall of dead around his door. A group of three wolf-men spotted him, and they charged in unison. Jon unleashed arrow after arrow. Without their armor, they were large, vulnerable targets, and he buried two up to the shaft into the leftmost’s chest. The other two vaulted over one ditch, only to crash into the second. Jerico winced, hearing wood snap, and one cried out in pain and did not get up. The other limped toward him, its eyes mad, its leg bleeding from a gaping wound in its thigh.

  Jerico stepped into the doorway, knowing the creature would need to duck to enter within, therefore hurting its momentum. It swung its claws, and he blocked with his shield. At their contact, the wolf-man stepped back, yipping in pain. The light swelled on his shield, and taking a step forward, Jerico smashed the wolf in the face with the glowing steel. Blood splattered from its nose, and this time it fell to one knee. Jerico swung, his mace ending its life. The body lay beside the first, another building block for his wall.

  An arrow sailed over his head, ending the struggles of the wolf still in the ditch.

  “Two to two,” Jon cried. “I’m not impressed, paladin.”

  “Long night left. I got time.”

  What meager amusement he felt vanished as the rest of the pack appeared. They ran in groups of ten, howling and growling like mad dogs. They numbered in the hundreds, and against such numbers Jerico felt insignificant. His body flooded with adrenaline. This was it. He braced his legs, raised his shield, and prayed the others would endure.

  “Fuck,” he heard Jon yell. “I don’t have enough arrows for that!”

  The wolves flowed over the ditches and spikes like floodwaters over a dam. Many collapsed, and he heard bones snapping and howls of pain, but they were too few. It only slowed the charge, and only just. Jerico saw two jump at Darius, who cleaved one in half, then engaged the other, his blade blocking claws. Hangfield’s was too far to his left to see, so he could only hope they fared well. Arrows sailed from all three rooftops, but it seemed like spitting onto a campfire.

  “To me, you monsters!” Jerico cried. “Bring your teeth, your claws, your blood!”

  Half the swarm heading for Darius broke off. They flowed over the ditches, accepted Jon’s arrows, and slammed against the inn. Jerico braced himself, trusting his shield. The wolf-men slashed at him, but h
is armor was thick, and he shifted and pushed, refusing to let them pierce through. The power of his shield continued to harm them, and he heard their cries as wolf after wolf could not endure the pain. His arm throbbed, but he ignored it, just as he did the pain in his shoulder. Careful, methodical, he shoved with his shield, swung his mace in the brief opening, and then stepped back in retreat. Nearly every time, his mace drew blood. Too many of them pressed together, Jerico knew, unable to dodge or parry. They expected to bury him with sheer mass and muscle. They were wrong.

  Piles of bodies built before him, until the wolf-men had to climb over. That was when he made a rare attack, wading into his opponents, his shield and mace slamming with brutal fury. He would not fail. He would not let them die. His shield struck a wolf in the chest, and as it staggered back, he cracked its skull from the top, dropping it into a heap before him. Standing atop it, he leapt at the next, blocking its desperate slash with his shield. Its other arm made it past, and it cut a deep groove in his breastplate. No blood, though the same could not be said for Jerico’s counter. He broke its jaw, swung again, and blasted an eye out from its socket. The wolf-man collapsed, and for the moment, Jerico could see out his door to the space between their buildings.

  He wished he couldn’t. More wolves, scores of them. He heard wood tearing, and he saw many pulling at the boards to various windows. Once they made it in, they could attack from multiple directions. If that happened…

  “Cowards!” he screamed. Much as his body ached, much as he desired the reprieve, he knew the wolf-men needed to be kept wild with anger, unable to think, unable to realize the disadvantage they faced when challenging him in the doorway. He struggled to find breath to even cry out, but still he did. “Will you hide? Will you run? I am here, yet you play the coward and try for women and children?”

  “You will die, human!” one cried, and several took up the cry.

  “Blood,” they shouted. “Blood from the humans!”

  An arrow sailed into the throat of the first, but this time, there was no bragging from Jon, no jokes.