Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  “This has nothing to do with you, Kaide. Step aside.”

  “Not until I hear something that makes some damn sense.”

  Kren drew his sword, a serrated blade that swarmed with dark fire. He pointed it at Jerico’s throat.

  “Their time is at an end,” he said. “Karak has called for war. What paladins of Ashhur are left are few. I will not lose such an honor as to have slain two of their kind.”

  “This man has saved the life of my sister, and my daughter. Consider the honor denied.”

  They glared at one another, the tension thick enough to cut. Jerico knew what was about to unfold, and he could not allow it. With such close quarters, and without any armor, Kaide didn’t stand a chance. He would not save Beth’s life just for her to wake to her father’s slaughter. The dark paladin was preparing for an attack. No time left to think, Jerico glanced at the walls. The hut was old, and appeared used only as a house of healing. Its walls were thin, aged boards with rusted nails. Swallowing his pride, he grabbed Kaide from behind, flung him to the side, and then dove the other way.

  His shoulder hit the wall first, followed by the rest of his body. The wood cracked, and boards tore loose. Jerico rolled along the grass, clenching his teeth against the pain of a dozen cuts across his exposed arms and legs. Pulling out of the roll, he spun to see Kren giving chase. The gathered crowd shouted their disproval, for they knew Jerico must be the stranger that had come to heal Beth. As Jerico watched, several men tried to block Kren’s way, only for one to be cut down, and two others shoved aside. Despite their anger, the villagers were unarmed men and women. What could they do against a man fully armored and wielding a blade of dark flame?

  Jerico glanced down at himself. Good question. What could he do unarmed and unarmored versus such an opponent? Still, no others would die for him.

  “Let him pass!” Jerico shouted. “I stand here on open ground. Face me, dog of Karak!”

  Reluctantly the crowd relented, and Kren burst forth, running as fast as he could in his armor. Jerico tensed. Mobility was his only defense. Even with superior faith, he had no item to project that power through, negating any other potential advantage he might have had.

  Kren tried to gut him without slowing his charge, no doubt trusting his armor to protect him should they collide. Jerico twisted, avoiding just in time. Kren’s feet skidded across the ground, and he changed directions before Jerico could dodge again. Blood splashed over them both as the blade wounded his chest. Crying out in pain, Jerico fell to one knee, avoiding a blow that would have taken off his neck. Lunging, he wrapped Kren in a grapple, attempting to lift him from his feet. Kren’s shield jammed into his shoulder, and the weight was too great. Unable to complete the tackle, Jerico shifted again, positioning his leg behind Kren’s knee. The hilt of Kren’s sword rammed down on the top of his head. Forcing through the pain, he shoved again, knocking the dark paladin to his back.

  By now the crowd had reformed, and they were hurling insults and hissing at Kren. As Jerico pinned Kren’s sword, he wished the crowd would do something useful, like tossing him a shield. He managed a few solid blows before Kren pulled his shield high enough to protect himself. The dark paladin struggled, unable to lift his sword with Jerico pinning his wrist, but armored as he was and his face now protected, Jerico knew he had little chance to do any more damage.

  Unless …

  Hoping surprise would be on his side, he shifted so that his left knee pinned the blade. Fire burned into his flesh, and he screamed, but he did not relent. With both hands, he clutched Kren’s shield, pulling it aside. Kren turned his head, expecting another blow, but that wasn’t Jerico’s plan. Instead he grabbed the inner handle, attempting to wrestle away control. Kren fought, but as Jerico gained further control, he saw a blessed sight: the light of his faith burning across the outer surface of the shield, peeling away the lion and turning the black paint to gold.

  “I will break you!” Kren screamed. “You’re a blasphemy! I will burn you with fire!”

  Doing a good enough job already, Jerico thought, his entire left knee throbbing in unbearable pain. As the light swelled on his shield, Jerico lifted it higher, trying to press it against Kren’s flesh. Before he could, Kren released the shield completely, and his fist smashed against Jerico’s leg while filled with the fury of his god.

  “Heretic!”

  The dark energies swirled through his already wounded leg, bursting burnt flesh and shattering the bones of his knee. Jerico fell back, his mind white with pain. On pure instinct he clutched his shield before him, his only defense. Kren rose to his feet, blood dripping from his nose and one side of his face burned from where his cursed helmet had begun to melt from the proximity to the holy shield.

  “My faith is stronger,” Kren said, his upper body rising and falling with each labored breath. “Give Ashhur my contempt when I send you to him.”

  “Not today,” Kaide said, having hidden amid the crowd. His dirk slipped through a gap near Kren’s lower back, piercing his spine. Kaide’s other arm wrapped about Kren’s neck, holding him in place so he could not retaliate. After a moment, Kaide let him go. The paladin dropped, his eyes lifeless.

  Seeing this, Jerico let go of the shield and collapsed. Kaide was over him in a moment, examining his knee.

  “You…” With the pain so great, Jerico struggled for every word. “You stabbed him in the back.”

  “I did,” Kaide said, cutting off Jerico’s pant leg so he could see the wound better.

  “Not … honorable.”

  Jerico laughed, delirious amid the pain.

  “This world’s life or death,” Kaide said, frowning. “Like I give a damn about honor.”

  His vision fading, Jerico closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. Around him, he heard murmured sounds of people talking.

  “Carry him,” someone said, most likely Kalgan. “Gently, please.”

  Hands grabbed him, and he screamed.

  “I said gently! Watch for his leg. Gods, what a mess.”

  That was the last Jerico heard before he blacked out completely.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The numbers gathered for the offering stunned Darius. It seemed like the entire countryside had come to hear his words and receive Karak’s blessing. Every time he glanced out from behind the curtain, he felt his chest tighten, and panic swell in his throat. The crowd waited in the courtyard, warmed by the thick clothes they wore and the few scattered fires built among them. Meanwhile, Darius remained in the castle, thinking of excuses for delay. When the service began, he would step out onto a balcony, and overlook the crowd from above as if he were their king.

  “There’s so many,” Darius said, checking for what seemed like the tenth time.

  “Of course,” Sebastian said, adjusting his cloak. “Service is obligatory, or at least it was until our priest left, and we had no one to administer the offerings. Are you nervous, son?”

  “Do not call me son,” Darius said, harsher than he meant. “I am a warrior for Karak, and will not be insulted so.”

  “Of course, of course, I meant no offense. It’s only a term of endearment for someone younger than I.”

  Darius looked to the curtain, and he listened to the impatient murmurings of the crowd. Seemed strange to him for service to be mandatory, but he’d heard of smaller towns having such rules, so it wasn’t that unusual. Sometimes to cultivate faith, the faithless needed to be forced onto the path of righteousness.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I am nervous. I’ve taught only in small villages. Out there … how many, a thousand? Two?”

  “Last census count? Four thousand and three hundred, at least within walking distance. Those too far away must give their tithes along with their taxes. But don’t worry, Darius. I’ll be at your side the whole time.”

  “You?” Darius asked.

  “Why not?” Sebastian grinned at him. “It does good for the simple folk to see me beside you. It lets them know that we are
their lords, the masters of their lives. To turn on one of us is to turn on the other. I will have no traitors to Karak in my household.”

  Darius struggled not to react.

  “But what do you do when the priests of Ashhur come?”

  The lord rolled his eyes.

  “I say pretty words, toss them a few coins, and pretend to mull over having a second service for Ashhur. Their stays are not long. Lice-ridden beds and stale bread usually ensure that, though I’m not above a knife in the dark. I’m sure you understand.”

  Darius stood, and he pulled aside the curtain.

  “I do,” he said, stepping out onto the balcony. The crowd quieted, and they looked up to see a stranger. For a moment he said nothing, only scanned faces, judging reactions. Most were impatient, or bored. He saw plenty that clearly wanted nothing to do with giving offerings to Karak. Many still talked, not caring if they disturbed others. Forced faith, thought Darius. Was this its culmination? If he walked among them, he wondered if he’d find even a handful as faithful as his flock had been back in Durham.

  “Welcome to the seventh day,” Darius said. His voice failed him, and only the first few rows even knew he spoke. Battling his nerves, he swallowed, took another step toward the balcony’s edge, and let his voice cry to the winds.

  “Welcome to the seventh! Lift your voice, and let me hear your faith in our mighty god!”

  The half-hearted murmurs nearly broke his heart. Only those near the front cried out, and they were so few. No, he thought. Perhaps their previous priest was a calm, quiet man. Faith in crowds was like a fire. Once it started to burn, it’d spread with incredible speed. He had to ignite it.

  “In this day, we kneel to Karak and present our offerings for his protection, his strength, and his blessings. In this day, we of the faithful receive our reward for our loyalty. Are you faithful, people of the Yellow Rose?”

  A bit more energy this time as they shouted yes. Darius smiled. He felt his nerves sliding away. This was no different than Durham. They needed to see his own faith, feel his own energy pouring out of him. And he would give it.

  “I asked are you faithful?”

  More shouts. They were waking up now, leaving their slumber to join the Lion.

  “Then let us pray.”

  Darius drew his sword, flipped it about, and stabbed it into the balcony. Hands on his hilt, he bowed his head, but something was wrong. The crowd murmured, and immediately he knew he’d lost them. What was it? Opening his eyes, he realized his error.

  His sword bore no flame. Even the common folk knew that its strength mirrored that of his faith.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Sebastian asked, standing beside him with his hands clasped behind his back.

  Darius opened his mouth to lie, then stopped. No, he would not profane his soul before thousands of witnesses.

  “My faith in Karak is strong as ever,” he said, just loud enough for Sebastian to hear. “But I fear I have displeased my god, and he has denied me his blessing.”

  Lord Hemman stepped away. A single motion of his hand sent guards rushing in, surrounding him. Down below the crowd erupted with confusion. Darius kept his sword where it was, though his grip on the hilt was strong enough to make his hands hurt. He eyed the guards, waiting for one to make their move.

  “Do not make me cut you down while they watch,” Sebastian said. “No matter if you deserve it or not. By Karak, how could I be so foolish? Now release your sword!”

  Darius thought to resist, but he’d never make it out of the castle alive. More than ever, he felt revealed of his failure. Sebastian could give near exact count of the amount of men and women that had just seen the proof of Karak’s displeasure with him. He would not go to the Abyss, not as he was.

  “As you wish,” he said, letting go of his sword and stepping away.

  “Calmly,” Sebastian said to his guards. They took Darius by the arm and led him away, and it wasn’t until they were out of sight of the crowd that they clasped his hands behind his back and bound him. Darius repeated a litany of faith to Karak as Sebastian stepped back to the crowd, lifted his arms, and resumed the offerings as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  * * * * *

  Hours later, Darius sat in the cold darkness, his hands chained to the wall. His arms ached from the uncomfortable position, but he refused to let it bother him. He would not give Sebastian the satisfaction. Even worse was the jailor. He lurked in the corner, barely visible in the smoldering light of a torch. Whenever Darius tried to move, or groaned with pain, the man would open his mouth to laugh, though he’d make no sound. Someone, perhaps even Sebastian, had removed his tongue. This jailor would tell no secrets, and make no bargains.

  The door creaked, and then light pierced the darkness. Darius closed his eyes and prayed for the thousandth time to Karak for forgiveness.

  “Well this is certainly interesting,” Sebastian said. When Darius opened his eyes, he saw the lord standing at the entrance to his cell, torch in hand.

  “Unnecessary is a better term,” Darius said.

  “Perhaps. I hope you know where you are. You’re chained in the same cell Pallos was when you executed him in the name of Karak. I’m sure there’s some irony here, though I won’t know it yet until you tell me your story.”

  “I have no story to tell. I am a faithful servant of Karak.”

  “Then Karak has refused your service,” Sebastian said, stepping closer to the bars. “Why is that, paladin? How did you fail?”

  “I did not fail!”

  Sebastian laughed as Darius blushed, ashamed of the outburst. What was happening to him, that he would lose his temper so easily?

  “You humiliated me before my people,” Sebastian said, pacing before the cell. His footfalls echoed with maddening consistency. “Some now claim the offerings are extra taxes clothed in the garb of faith. Others want your head, for they decry you an imposter. I’ve spread a few rumors of my own. My favorite is that you were pretending to be a paladin to make an assassination attempt on my life. So long as no one understands what’s really going on, I can manipulate this to whatever outcome I desire.”

  “And what outcome is that?” Darius asked, feeling too tired for games. “What do you want with me? I did you no wrong. You heard my words. You know I speak truthfully of my faith in Karak.”

  “This isn’t about you, boy,” said Sebastian, and he grinned at Darius’s reaction at the term. “This is about the rest of your kind. I’ve sent riders in search of the nearest priest or paladin of Karak that might know who you are, and what it is you’ve done to soil your name. What will they tell me when they return? What does the Stronghold think of the paladin named Darius?”

  Darius closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cold stone.

  “They’ll say I am a murderer,” he said. “They’ll say I have turned against Karak and betrayed my Order.”

  “Did you?”

  Eyes still closed, he shook his head.

  “I don’t know anymore.”

  Sebastian chuckled.

  “Then I don’t know, either. I won’t pass judgment on you, just as I passed no judgment on Pallos. Your own kind will come for you, and do with you as they wish. Until then, you’ll stay here.”

  “I’m sure the Stronghold will reward you well,” Darius said as Sebastian turned to leave. “That’s what really matters, I know.”

  The lord glanced back and smiled.

  “Why, that thought never crossed my mind. Sleep well, Darius.”

  The door slammed shut, and the darkness returned once more. In that darkness, Karak’s prophet laughed.

  “Sleep now,” Velixar said, waving an arm at the mute jailor. The burly man slumped in his chair and passed out. Stepping out from the shadows, the prophet crossed his arms and sighed. His red eyes, irises of fire, chilled Darius’s blood and sent shivers up and down his spine.

  “So this is where I find you, you who I thought held such promise? Locked in a
dungeon, chained to a wall so you cannot even kneel in prayer to your god? Pathetic.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Come now, don’t act the idiot with me, even if you did seem somewhat dimwitted to Sebastian. You know what I want. I am no deceiver, no creature of lies. I told you my desire when we first met, and I’m not one prone to change.”

  Darius did everything he could to not meet that gaze.

  “You want me to learn from you, to accept your word as the word of Karak. I still refuse, prophet.”

  Velixar laughed, and there was nothing pleasurable in the sound.

  “Yes, because the world certainly agrees with you. Tell me, why am I the one with Karak’s power, and you the fool locked in a cell? Why do the rest of the faithful refuse your wisdom? If even that egomaniacal Sebastian sees through your lies, what hope have you for the rest of Dezrel?”

  “Always questions,” Darius said. “How do I learn from you when you say nothing?”

  Velixar walked over and brushed a pale finger across the jailor’s forehead.

  “I ask questions to show you have no answers, and will do so until you finally open your eyes and realize it.”

  The man in black shivered.

  “Such wonderful dreams. This man has seen the dark side of this world, Darius, more than you could ever know. If anyone understands Dezrel’s need for order, it is him.”

  “Will you help me escape?” Darius asked, feeling unclean as he did.

  “Escape? No. Don’t you see, this place, this moment, personifies you perfectly. Karak stands at the gate, ready to free you, and you simultaneously plead for aid while denying him his truths. You cannot have both, Darius. You cannot hold back Karak with one hand and reach for his help with the other.”

  Darius felt too tired, too lost to argue. He regretted even asking. Death at the hands of his brethren seemed better than going with the man with the ever-changing face. Still … what if Velixar was right? What if he truly spoke the will of his god?

  Velixar knelt before the gate, appearing to be in no hurry. The sun had set, and the jailor slept. They had all night.