Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  “You will slay the paladin of Ashhur. You will kill your friend. Only then, when you have placed Karak above all things, will you finally understand. And you will understand. You will learn. You are a part of a game, a simple piece, but I will not lose you to Ashhur. This must be done on your own, though. I will not force you back to Karak. No, I have seen your fate, Darius. You will come to me, of your own free will, and beg for guidance. I will always be near, watching, listening, and come that time, I will be there for you, lost paladin.”

  And then he was gone. For a long while, Darius lay there, waiting for his strength to return. When it did, he staggered back to town, gathered up his things, and fled.

  EPILOGUE

  For several days Jerico traveled along the river. Using a small knife and slender branch he formed a spear, and he ate fish some nights. He avoided the first few villages he encountered, worried they would be the first places checked when his pursuers realized he had left. Assuming he had pursuers. It would be a strange thing to lie about, but Darius might have had his reasons. Still, the image of the falling Citadel haunted him, and if Karak were truly behind it, it was no stretch to believe the dark god’s followers had declared war against his very existence. The priest’s actions certainly confirmed it.

  When his provisions at last ran low, he hid his armor in a copse of trees and traveled into a small village wearing only his trousers, shirt, and the platemail’s padded undershirt.

  “Heading south?” asked the shopkeep as Jerico paid him for the dried meat and nuts.

  “North, actually.”

  The man turned to the side and spat between his bucked teeth.

  “Not a good idea. Lotta men been gathering arms against lord Hemman, calling him lawless, but they’s just as lawless as him. Not a safe time to be traveling, unless you want to be heading into the far north naked as the day you was born.”

  “I will stay wary,” Jerico said, paying him.

  “Hey, you hear about a man named Kaide, you get your ass far away,” the shopkeep said as he was leaving. “He’s a cannibal, they say, and he’s got a mad wizard as a pet. Uses the blood of virgins to cast his spells is what I hear! Stay safe from where his bandits are roaming!”

  Jerico promised he would.

  Once he was dressed in his armor, he packed up the food, filled his waterskins at the river, and continued north. Steadily the land grew wilder. Where once he might have traveled a day to reach the next town, it soon took two, then three. All the while he avoided people best he could, removing his armor when he did have to enter a village. At last he arrived in the true north, much of it winter trees growing in enormous stretches at the feet of the Kala Mountains. It was there he thought he’d have the best chance to hide.

  Several weeks after the wolves’ attack, he walked along one of the few trade routes leading toward the mining villages. His pack was light, and his stomach grumbled, but he felt content. The woods were a vibrant green, despite the approaching winter. The chill air felt fine on his skin, which was slick with sweat from the many hours of walking. There was a storm approaching, though, and he felt a calm warning of Ashhur in the back of his mind.

  “Not alone, am I?” he chuckled. “Well, let’s see how brave they are.”

  He shifted his arm so he had a better grip on his shield. A single tug and he’d have it at the ready. It’d be a brave band of bandits that would assault a man in full platemail. What weapons could they possibly have that might punch through, or be long enough to find the gaps in his armor? He caught sight of eyes watching him from the trees, and bird-calls sounded, birds that should have already flown south. Still, another hour passed, and no one revealed themselves. He thought himself free, but still Ashhur called warning.

  Up ahead he saw an elderly man walking with a cane. The top of his head was bald, the rest of his hair a pale white. His back was bent, and in his free hand he carried a satchel.

  “It is a long road to walk alone,” Jerico said, calling out to him. “Care for some company?”

  “I’m not alone, young man,” the man said, turning toward him. He lifted his staff, and the end shimmered. Cursing, Jerico pulled his shield free, and it burst with blue-white light. That light faded for a moment, then resumed, absorbing the invisible spell.

  “An interesting trick,” the old man said. He stood with his back no longer bent, and his voice was firm, belying the age he showed. “Maybe you can explain that later.”

  “I think I’ll be going on my way instead.”

  The old man laughed.

  “I think not.”

  Nets dropped from high above his head, cast by men hiding in the trees. Jerico dodged one, but the second fell upon him, its ends heavily weighted. He pulled at it, swinging his mace in hopes of knocking himself free. The old man’s staff shimmered again, and this time his shield was not able to save him. Drowsiness flowed through his veins, making his muscles ache as if he’d just sprinted for miles. Every exertion felt like it would be his last. Whispering prayers to Ashhur, he tried to fight off the spell, but then came the clubs. At least ten bandits descended upon him, bludgeoning him with thick branches of wood stripped of their bark.

  As one blow struck his head, he collapsed, his vision swirling with red and black. More blows rained down, most hitting his armor, but some still bruising his flesh. All sound came as if from a distant room.

  “Enough,” someone said. Jerico looked up, the effort nearly beyond his abilities. He saw a young man in a ponytail frowning down at him.

  “You’re a paladin, aren’t you?” asked this man.

  “Why…does it matter…?”

  His head hit the ground, lying on a bed of pine needles. Blood trickled from his ear, along his chin, and down his neck.

  “What you thinking, Kaide?” asked the old man.

  For a long moment, silence. Then came the voice of the second man.

  “We have no choice. Take him.”

  Arms grabbed him, lifting him up still wrapped in the net. As Jerico stared through the gaps, he saw a wrinkled hand wave before his eyes, and then he saw no more.

  From the Author

  Welcome to the bit at the end, where I ramble, and you either wish there was more to read, or reflect on how you just wasted your time and money. Hopefully it is the former, but hey, if you’re the latter: sorry, I tried.

  My original attempts at novel writing (serious attempts, not counting my blatantly plagiarized bastard combination of Chronotrigger and Final Fantasy 2 that I concocted in the 5th grade) began in Creative Writing in High School. I’ve always been a big fan of paladins, and I created a lengthy set of stories throughout my senior year involving Lathaar of the Citadel, last of his kind. I still have those stories in a shoebox, where they’ll probably stay considering how painfully written they are. Still, I’ve always wanted to tell their stories, Lathaar and his newly introduced fellow survivor, Jerico, and this series is it.

  I’m starting out with Jerico. People seem to enjoy him more. He’s humorous, different, and has a big glowy shield. What’s not to like? The main goal of this series is to showcase these paladins. Might I sometime tell Lathaar’s story? Perhaps. Time will tell.

  Thank you, Daniel, for the inspiration for Jerico and his shield. Thank you Derek for the edits, Peter Ortiz for the sexy cover, and T. M. Roy for the overall design. Last of all, thank you reader for sticking with me to the end. The nights got a bit dark, and the wolves had their time to feast, but the day’s come, and the Paladins of both Karak and Ashhur still stand. If you want to contact me, feel free to email me at

  ddalglish@yahoo.com.

  You can also become a fan at

  https://www.facebook.com/DavidDalglish

  or also visit my website at

  ddalglish.com.

  David Dalglish

  May 31, 2011

  CLASH OF FAITHS

  THE PALADINS: BOOK TWO

  DAVID DALGLISH

  Copyright © David Dalglish

  A
ll rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

  PROLOGUE

  The murmurs of the crowd were a welcome relief to Darius as he sat in the corner, his greatsword leaning against the wall beside him. The rest of the tavern seemed boisterous enough, the occupants receiving plenty of attention from the serving girl. He, however, had received only a single glare upon his request for water. Perhaps he should have ordered some ale along with his bread to win her over, but he would not pretend to nurse a drink forbidden to him. He was a dark paladin of Karak, and lost faith or not, he would still act like it.

  “To Kaide!” one of the bigger men shouted, raising his glass. The rest took up the cry and then drank.

  The name was familiar enough to Darius, though he wondered what the man had done to earn such drunken admiration. No doubt he’d filled their pockets with coin. Such lawless men in the North, they wanted money, alcohol, and women. Give them any of the three, and you were a better god than Karak or Ashhur would ever be …

  “Temaryn, come to join us in our merriment?” called out someone at the bar.

  Darius glanced at the door, and he felt his heart jump. Dressed in the black platemail of his order was another paladin, a longsword sheathed at his thigh and a heavy shield on his back. His hair was long and brown, perfectly matching his hazel eyes. Darius recognized him at once.

  “Bloody Abyss,” he muttered, looking for a way out of the tavern.

  “You know I can’t,” Temaryn called back, approaching the drunkard with a grin on his face. “But I hear the mad thief left a pot of gold at our doorsteps. I take it every lesson I have ever taught will soon be thrown to the swine?”

  “Course not!” said the drunk. “You’ll get your share of tithes, but until then, we’ll drink ourselves … hey, what’s the matter?”

  Temaryn was no longer paying him the slightest attention. Darius sighed and waved the other dark paladin over. His elbow bumped his greatsword, tilting it so the hilt lay across his lap. Just in case he couldn’t talk his way out …

  “I don’t believe it,” Temaryn said, pulling a chair opposite him and sitting. “What brings you here of all places?”

  “I take it this is your assigned village?” Darius asked, avoiding the question.

  “One of several. Never enough shepherds for the sheep, as I’m sure you know. The Stronghold has me run a loop here in the vale. Have you tried the bread yet? Nothing special, but they have some fantastic honey to go on top.”

  “Only butter,” Darius said, his voice barely a mumble.

  “Betty,” Temaryn said, snapping his fingers. The serving girl came over and smiled. “Honey please, and some bread for myself.”

  “Of course,” she said, giving him a smile Darius could only dream of getting.

  “I don’t know what they do to it,” Temaryn said. “But you’ll never get honey anywhere else in all of Dezrel like right here in Helmshire.”

  Darius felt his nerves relax, but only slightly. Temaryn remained at ease, the grin on his face never faltering. But his hand, though, stayed near the sheath of his sword. Habit, or conscious thought? The Temaryn he remembered from the Stronghold was an easy-going but faithful man. It could be either.

  Temaryn leaned back in his chair, and he seemed to relax even more.

  “So how are things in … what was that little place called? Durham?”

  Darius thought of the two dark paladins and the priest that lay dead, slain by his hand at his false Tribunal.

  “Fine,” he said.

  “Fine? That’s it? I’m hearing stories of a thousand wolves held at bay by two paladins, amazing warriors of both Karak and Ashhur allied together against the entire might of the Wedge. Surely you don’t mean to tell me the simpletons around here are exaggerating your fantastical exploits?”

  There was something calculated about his laughter, something insidious about his question. Darius tensed, but he forced himself to remain calm.

  “You know the people as well as I,” he said as Betty arrived with a second plate of thick bread slices, along with a small cup filled with golden honey. Darius refused the offered honey, earning himself a frown.

  “We’re allowed few indulgences in our lives,” Temaryn said as he drizzled the honey across his bread. “You should learn to accept them.”

  “If you say so.”

  Temaryn took a bite.

  “You still haven’t told me about Durham.”

  Darius shifted, his hand inching closer to his greatsword.

  “Wolf-men crossed the river, not a thousand, only a few hundred. We stood against them, myself and the rest of the village. Nearly two-thirds of the people died, so I doubt too many are singing our praises.”

  “What of this paladin of Ashhur?”

  Darius swallowed.

  “His name is Jerico. Yes, he helped as well.”

  Temaryn fell silent for awhile, instead focusing on his bread. When the first slice was down, he sucked the honey from his fingers, then leaned back in his chair.

  “I must admit, I was sent to Durham to find you. We’d heard a pretty outlandish story, and the Stronghold wanted me to look into the matter. Supposedly you had turned against Karak, and abandoned your faith. Needless to say, I found this hard to believe. I remember you from our training. The world would turn upside down sooner than you abandoning Karak.”

  A grim smile crossed Darius’s face.

  “To my shame, I must admit my faith in Karak is less than it was,” he said. “But it is still strong.”

  “Good,” Temaryn said, taking another bite of bread. “So was it difficult killing this Jerico?”

  “No.”

  “No difficulty at all? Well, not much of a surprise—”

  “He’s not dead.”

  Temaryn put down his meal and pushed it away.

  “So Pheus was right when he spoke of your friendship with the enemy? He wanted your head on a platter, Darius, and I’m not exaggerating by much.”

  Darius chuckled at the word ‘enemy’.

  “Yes, he did want that. That is why I killed him.”

  The humor finally left Temaryn’s face. His hand closed around the hilt of his sword, and Darius did likewise.

  “I never believed it,” Temaryn said. “You, fallen? It made no sense. Even worse, slaying priests and dark paladins of your own faith? Nonsense, I thought. But Pheus vanished, as did Nevek and Lars. I hoped it wasn’t you. You were never my friend, but you were an inspiration, an example of how much strength one could gain through the power of faith. Now look at you. Do you have any excuses, you wretch?”

  “No excuses,” said Darius. “Only a warning. Keep your sword sheathed. You were never as good as I, Temaryn. Never were, and never will be.”

  Temaryn stood, flinging his chair back. His shield and sword were in his hands, the blade consumed by dark fire.

  “Karak has abandoned you!” the paladin cried. The rest of the tavern went deathly silent. “You are nothing without him, but he is at my side at all times. Draw your sword, Darius. Show me your lack of faith so I may kill you in good conscience.”

  Darius stood, grabbed his greatsword, and hefted it high above his head. No black fire consumed it. Karak’s gift, a fire burning with strength equal to that of their faith, was absent from him. Seeing the mocking superiority in Temaryn’s eyes, Darius tensed, knowing he had no choice. He didn’t want to kill a brother in faith. But he would not die, either.

  “Is that the proof you need?” he asked quietly.

  “It is.”

  Temaryn lunged, his whole body extended to maximize the reach of his thrust. Darius smacked it as
ide, pivoted, and sent his sword crashing into his opponent’s shield. At the sound of their collision, the rest of the tavern erupted with noise, people knocking over chairs and jostling one another to get out of the way. Such a battle was beyond them, and none wanted to be caught in the middle.

  Temaryn took back the offensive. He knocked aside the table between them and closed the distance, his sword slashing and cutting with mechanical precision. There was no surprise to it, no fluidity. Darius’s enormous sword positioned perfectly to block every time. With Karak’s strength, Temaryn’s sword hit his with a jolt, but he would endure. Temaryn had no innate sense of battle, no real talent for it. Darius, however …

  He stepped closer, feinted a thrust, and then swung for the dark paladin’s knees. Temaryn’s shield dropped, and though it blocked the swing, it gave Darius the opening he wanted. His elbow smashed into Temaryn’s face, hard metal armor shattering his nose and splattering blood across the dark steel. Temaryn fell back, screaming, and Darius swung again. His greatsword slashed through the exposed underarm, tearing tendons and causing him to drop his shield.

  Blood dripped to the tavern floor.

  “It is not too late,” Darius said. “Turn back. Don’t make me add another sin to my burdens.”

  “Why?” Temaryn asked, his wounded arm clutched against his side. “If you know this is sin, then why?”

  “Because I will not go to Karak as I am. I will not be a sinner for him to burn for an eternity. I must find a way to make amends. My faith will not go unheard.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “And you’re wounded. Go, now.”

  Temaryn lifted his sword.