Gods & Dragons: 8 Fantasy Novels

by Daniel Arenson

  “Kaide bores me,” Arthur said, motioning for a servant to bring him something to eat. A young woman appeared, blonde-haired, carrying a tray of sliced fruits. Arthur took a plate, and told Jerico to take what he liked. The paladin grabbed half an apple and began absent-mindedly chewing it.

  “Kaide is … he’s like a rabid dog at times,” Arthur said, eating a handful of grapes. “He’d tell me to send every soldier I had rushing the gates of my brother’s castle, to the Abyss with whether or not we’d win. He’d slit my throat in a heartbeat if it got him to Sebastian. Advice from him is pointless. I know what he wants, and what he’ll say. But you … To be honest, paladin, I haven’t a clue why you’re with him. It sounds like the makings of a very bad joke.”

  “A bandit and a paladin, into a tavern they go,” Jerico said, and he laughed. “And your guess is as good as mine what the next line might be. I help because I feel I should. Kaide might be willing to go too far for what he wants, but at least his cause is just. Your brother’s actions against him … there is no excuse for murder and bloodshed done in the name of greed.”

  “Greed is a tricky thing,” Arthur said. “Might not greed guide my own actions here? What if I care not for righting my family’s wrongs? What if I want power, and will use a misguided, homeless bandit to further my ends?”

  “If you have that fear, Arthur, then you are most certainly not that kind of man.”

  Arthur scratched at his beard.

  “I forfeited my right to my father’s holdings. Honor would say I keep to what I did years ago. What Sebastian has done … it is foul, yes, but is war any better? He’s killed a few, but hundreds will die if I muster my men, and the peasant folk, to fight for me.”

  He sighed and fell silent. Jerico gave him time to think, but when it seemed apparent he would not continue, he prodded him with another question.

  “Why did you forfeit your right as firstborn?” he asked. “Whatever you speak stays with me, and you may refuse if you wish. I only ask so that I may help, if I can.”

  Arthur tossed the rest of his grapes to the floor, and he rubbed his eyes.

  “I lose more sleep over that than anything else, paladin. My father was getting old, and his mind was failing him. I pray you never endure anything similar. A cruel fate, watching a proud, intelligent man torn down piece by piece, until nothing is left but a child. There were times he was still himself, but mostly … Anyway, I talked with a servant I trusted, and procured a simple poison. It would only make him sleep for a few days, that is all, but I hoped that during that time I could take control of my birthright. But I was caught, turned in by that very same servant. My father would hear no reason, for never did he believe his mind was breaking.”

  Outwardly, Arthur remained calm, as if his face were that of a statue instead of a living man. His voice kept steady. But his eyes were watering, and he made no pretence at hiding it when he wiped them.

  “He went to his grave thinking I had tried to kill him, all because I didn’t want to wait the few months it would take for him to grow bedridden. The way he would look at me … so angry, so confused. He was like a child even then, a child betrayed. Father almost ordered me hanged, but Sebastian intervened. If I would only return to my private lands, and relinquish any claims to my inheritance…”

  He looked to Jerico, as if surprised he’d said as much as he had.

  “I lost much because I tried to take what was not yet my own. Sebastian rules. The land is not mine. Should I spill so much blood for a few farmers and outlaws?”

  Jerico crossed and uncrossed his arms, trying to think through his tired, hazy mind.

  “I think … I think I could use a drink,” he said.

  “A sound plan.”

  Arthur gestured, and the blonde serving girl returned, this time holding a tray with two cups and a steel pitcher. Jerico accepted a cup, and he squinted at the liquid the girl poured into Arthur’s.

  “Do you not drink wine?” the lord asked.

  “Water, please,” Jerico said, putting the cup back on the tray. The girl smiled at him, but something about her look prickled the hairs on his neck. It wasn’t that she seemed frustrated or angry. No, her face remained absolutely, perfectly controlled, if not pleasant. Like glass. Impressive for a servant girl forced awake to attend her lord halfway through the night …

  “Wait,” Jerico said, grabbing Arthur’s cup with one hand, and the girl’s wrist with the other.

  “I’ve change my mind,” he said. “Please, drink with me, Arthur.”

  “Of course,” said the serving girl, smiling sweetly at him.

  Jerico accepted his cup, and once it was poured, he lifted it to his lips. Immediately he felt the warning of Ashhur sound in his mind. He looked to the girl, who stood perfectly still, as if waiting for her dismissal.

  “Arthur,” he said, lowering the cup. “Can you please tell me her name?”

  “Her, why that’s … step into the starlight, girl, I can’t see you well enough without.”

  As the moonlight fell upon her beautiful features, Arthur’s face hardened, and that look alone told Jerico that she was a stranger.

  “Don’t run,” Jerico started to say when she pivoted, smacking him across the head with the metal tray. He rolled with the blow, desperate to remain beside Arthur. Upon hitting the ground he spun, kicking his leg out. The girl leapt, and his leg smacked against the hard stone of the bench. He screamed.

  “How dare you!” Arthur roared. “Guards!”

  Guards wouldn’t be there in time, Jerico knew. Her hand shot out, chopping Arthur’s throat. His cry for guards choked down, and blood dripped from his lips. The tray clattered to the ground as she drew a dagger, but Jerico would not allow it. Shield pulled free, he lunged, flinging himself in the way. The dagger clanged against it, and the assassin cried out from the pain of contact.

  “Do not interfere, paladin,” the woman said, taking a step back.

  Jerico readied his mace and kept his shield high. He watched her, waiting. Every muscle in her body tensed. Time was not on her side. She couldn’t dance about, nor try to misdirect. Her target was Arthur, and so long as Jerico lived, he would stand in the way.

  She shifted her weight twice, twisting her extended foot in a way to feint one direction, then leap the other. Jerico nearly fell for it, but at the last moment flung his mace in the way. It struck across her shoulder, and he heard the snap of bone. Despite this, she did not scream, nor stop. A dagger in her other hand, she thrust for Arthur’s throat.

  Arthur caught her wrist with both hands and wrenched her arm. As she twisted, he kicked out, snapping his heel against her knee. When she crumpled, he kicked again, this time the arm Jerico had wounded. Jerico stepped between them, again ready with his shield, but Arthur pushed him out of the way. As the assassin tried to stand, he smashed his fists into her head.

  “I am no fat lord for you to stick like a pig,” he said as he kicked her stomach, blasting a cry of pain from her lips. “In my own home, you come with poison and blade? You’ll hang, woman, hang!”

  She rolled over, her dagger pressed against her own throat.

  “Hang a corpse, then,” she said before slicing.

  Her face contorted in pain as the life left her eyes. Jerico stepped back as the guards arrived, forming a protective circle about their lord. Arthur pushed them aside, and he clapped Jerico across the back.

  “I owe you my life,” he said. “Any boon, name it, and it’s yours.”

  Jerico looked to the corpse, then shook his head.

  “I will name no boon. Just let me return to rest. All I ask of you is that you do what you think is right concerning your brother.”

  Arthur nodded, and he pointed to the dead woman’s body.

  “I have lived these past years fearful of an assassin,” he said. “But never did I think Sebastian would actually do it. I always doubted. No longer. He wants my head? Then I’ll take his. He wants poison in my veins? Then I’ll bleed his out on th
e field of battle. Go rest, paladin, and worry no more. My decision is already made.”

  Jerico glanced once more at the woman, absently wondering of her name.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  There were tears in Valessa’s eyes as she rode from the Castle of Caves. Together; she’d insisted they go together.

  I can handle a single disgraced lord, Claire had said. I’ll return by morning, and no one will be the wiser.

  But come morning, she was still inside. This might not have caused Valessa to panic. It wouldn’t be the first time her partner had had to improvise. But bells signaled a ceremony of some kind, and as the nearby farmers gathered, Valessa had walked among them, her heart in her throat.

  “Last night, an assassin tried to take the life of your lord!” Arthur had called out to the crowd from atop the walls of his castle. “She failed, and took her own life. Before she did, she gave one last request. I grant it now.”

  And with that, he flung a body over the edge, a rope tied about its neck. Valessa covered her mouth and choked down her cries. The rope snapped taut, jerking Claire’s lifeless body side to side. No hood covered her face, and her eyeballs popped loose, hanging by red threads from her skull. Valessa’s hands shook.

  “You bastards,” she’d whispered as the rest of the crowd cheered. “You bastards.”

  “This assassin was sent to me by the one I used to call my brother, but Sebastian is that no longer. He is a fool, and a coward, to send knives in the dark because he fears the slightest threat to his rule. So be it! I reclaim my birthright. I am Arthur Hemman, eldest son of my father, Arthos Hemman, and the North shall be mine!”

  But that was not the worst. Standing there beside Arthur was a man she did not recognize, but that did not matter. She recognized his armor, and his strange shield. A paladin of Ashhur. Somehow, someway, one had survived, and no doubt he’d been the one to keep Claire from completing her task. Her rage grew. Both Arthur and this paladin needed to die, but she could do nothing now. Such a simple assignment, Sebastian had made it seem. All so she could take the life of Darius.

  As she fled the city, her hatred grew. So many were to blame. Sebastian, for not cooperating. The paladin, for protecting Arthur. Darius, for his failures bringing them to the North in the first place. Arthur, for not dying like he should have, leaving her task unfulfilled. She had enough hate for everyone, and as a gray sister, she had the power to act on her hate.

  Torn between finding Sebastian and acquiring reinforcements from the Stronghold, she rode south, knowing she had plenty of time to decide before the roads forked. Come her second night slumbering beside the road, her choice was made for her.

  Valessa …

  She startled, instantly alert. She expected a man kneeling beside her, but instead saw only a serpent coiled at her feet. Given the weather, she knew it should have been sluggish, and in hiding, but instead it slithered toward her, its red scales gleaming in the moonlight. When it reached her side, it coiled up once more, and its mouth opened. Bloodied fangs dripped poison. Valessa swallowed, tensing. She would give it no reason to strike, no reason at all …

  The serpent struck anyway, its fangs sinking into her hand. As its poison flooded into her, her sight vanished, and all sound became the deep whispers of the man in black.

  I call you to me, he said. Your task is at an end, as I have said. Come join us at the seventh altar, near Stonefield. I await you there, with Darius at my side.

  “You’ve taken the traitor,” she said, unsure if he would hear her or not. All her senses were awry, and the sound of her voice was very far away.

  Traitor no longer, and to be punished no more. The Stronghold has sent another, and you will hear from him the wisdom of your High Enforcer.

  “They believed your lies.”

  The truth is sufficient, even for one such as I. Do not tarry, gray sister. And tell me … where is Claire?

  The darkness before her eyes seemed to quiver, and her anger flared as she imagined it was the effect of Velixar’s laughter.

  “She died, I believe killed by a paladin of Ashhur.”

  The darkness turned to red. As if from a distant land, she felt her right hand throb with pain.

  A paladin? Could it be …? Hurry, Valessa. We have much to discuss.

  And then it all was gone, and she startled once more in her bedroll. Rolling up her sleeve, she looked to her hand. Two punctures still bled in her palm, but they showed no sign of venom.

  “Damn you, prophet,” she whispered as she bandaged the wound. “Surely there are better ways to send your messages.”

  Probably, but not one that would amuse him as much. She and Claire had openly defied him. For a man who had walked the land for centuries, he was certainly one to have developed a long memory.

  Her nights were lonely as she rode, the village of Stonefield many miles southwest. She crossed dying farmlands, and wondered at the madness that would drive a lord to declare war at the onset of winter. He must expect a swift victory, she thought. Sebastian would be wise to hide in his castle … but he wasn’t that wise. If he was, he would have given her what she wanted: Darius’s head. Now it would be denied to her, if the prophet spoke true. She feared he did. Every inn she visited told the same story, which somehow traveled faster than her. Arthur Hemman had declared war on his brother, and even now gathered his forces.

  On the twelfth night, she rode into the ancient altar. In ages past, it had been a shrine to Karak. Looming over a patch of bare ground, where no grass would ever grow, was a worn statue of a lion reared onto its haunches. Below it was sacrificial ground, no doubt unused for at least a century. Stones formed a ring, and as she stepped inside, she felt cool air brush against her neck. Even now, with the runes carved into the circle long faded, power remained dormant in them, focusing the will of Karak.

  At the feet of the lion stood the prophet, Darius at one side, an elder dark paladin she didn’t recognize at the other. Valessa did her best to keep her anger in check.

  “I received your message,” she said, lifting her bandaged hand. “For a man known to haunt dreams, I expected better.”

  “I needed to ensure you came,” Velixar said, smiling. It might have been meant to disarm her, but instead she felt her hands shifting to the hilts of her daggers. No doubt spiders looked that way as they crawled toward their captured prey.

  “Welcome, gray sister,” said the unknown paladin, stepping forward and bowing on one knee. “I am honored to meet you at last. I am Mallak, third to Carden in succession of High Enforcer. Your name is well-known to me, even if your face is not.”

  Valessa bowed in return. She recognized his name, for many times she’d received orders from him. Always through proxy of course, hidden notes and trusted servants. A gray sister’s stay in the Stronghold was never long, and rarely revealed to other paladins. Should a dark paladin succumb to weakness or lies, it would be the sisters that came for them, after all. Looking at Mallak, she realized she’d always pictured him as older. Despite his gray hair, Mallak had a youthful look to him, ruined only by the many scars across his face. He looked a veteran of battle, and he stood tall and spoke firm like one of his stature should.

  Not Darius. His sunken eyes stared at her as if he were within a dream, and she just a phantom he didn’t believe in.

  “Honored as well,” she said, turning her gaze to Velixar. “And so here we are. I assume with Darius still alive that you spoke no lie, and the Stronghold forgave him?”

  “Not forgiven,” Mallak said, glancing at Darius. “Only that his Tribunal has been put on hold. We will not execute a member of the faithful. It is rare one will fall so far as we believe Darius did, and then be received once more by Karak, but it appears to be the case.”

  “My faith in Karak has never wavered,” Darius said, a bit of life flaring in his eyes.

  “Doubt comes to us all,” Valessa said. “Just like it does to me now. He killed fellow members of the faith!”

  “Members who n
ow reign in the Abyss,” Velixar said, putting a hand on Darius’s shoulder. “As Darius will one day reign. Your arguments go beyond your station, gray sister. Any further, and you will appear to be questioning the very will of your god.”

  Valessa fumed but bit her tongue. She nodded.

  “So be it,” she said. “Then why am I here, or is it only to be reprimanded and sent away?”

  “The paladin,” Velixar said. “Did you ever learn his name?”

  “I did not.”

  “A shield,” Darius asked. “Did he hold a shield that glowed?”

  Valessa thought back to Claire’s hanging. It’d been morning, and in the sunlight any glow would have been difficult to see, but …

  “Yes,” she said. “It looked strange to me then, but that must be it. It glowed, as the enemy’s weapons glow.”

  Velixar turned to the lion statue, and he lifted his arms to the night sky.

  “Here,” he said, his voice lowering. “This is where we will bring him. At the altar of Karak, he will be sacrificed. Let his blood flow over Darius’s sins, banishing them forever. Who then would doubt my student’s faith?”

  I would, Valessa thought, glaring.

  “Then let us go to where the paladin hides,” Mallak said, grabbing his greatsword and drawing it. The fire on the blade burned strong, sucking in the starlight so that the darkness seemed to thicken. “You saw him last at Arthur’s castle, no?”

  “He will not be there, not by the time we arrive. Arthur marches for war.”

  “Will Jerico go with him?” Darius asked. His eyes remained downcast as he spoke, as if afraid to meet her eye. “If so, we must go to the battle.”

  “Sebastian has been a loyal friend to Karak,” Mallak said. “There is more at stake than one last paladin of Ashhur. We must ensure Sebastian’s victory with whatever power we have. With our swords, and the prophet’s sorcery, we can turn the tide of any battle to our desire.”