Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels

by David Dalglish

  “Glad you could join us!” Orion yelled. His blades were moving with lightning speed, blocking the giant’s fists with each blow, the odd strike catching a spider crawling between the fiend’s legs. Cyrus grabbed the sword from the ground and attacked the spiders that were crawling through the gap between the giants that Narstron and Orion were keeping at bay.

  Vara was at his shoulder, slicing at the surging arachnids while he cleaved at them with brute force. Cyrus felt a wind whip around him, gentle at first, but then howling with hurricane intensity, his feet left the ground, and the spiders and rock giants, the caves and lava that surrounded him were no more.

  3

  The blast of wind died down around him, and Cyrus found himself in the middle of the central square in Reikonos, the fading light of sundown painting the plaza in a light that didn’t look dramatically different from the orange and red of the lava in the fire caves. Some of the other survivors were still clustered around, recovering from wounds and discussing the chaos of the day. He immediately accounted for the Kings of Reikonos… finding them both present he began to relax. Several of the survivors were seriously wounded, and Selene was healing them as she went.

  Vara looked irate and locked onto Cyrus immediately. “Was he speaking to you with his mind? Did he try to command you to do his bidding?”

  “Yes.” Cyrus blinked. “He told me to kill you and the others.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but she did not say anything further.

  “How many made it out?” Cyrus asked.

  Niamh grimaced. “Based on the count I did, 32 out of 121 that started this morning.”

  Cyrus looked around at the remains of the army, fresh-faced rubes no more. “Did the leader at least have the decency to die?”

  Vara shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. However…” Her words drifted off and she pointed to where the bejeweled elf was sitting propped against the wall of the fountain in the center of the square. She was trembling and her eyes were wide, staring into the distance. “I don’t think she’ll be leading any more excursions anytime soon,” Vara concluded with a tinge of satisfaction.

  “I guess that finishes our business here.” Cyrus looked at the kings. “Ready to go?”

  Andren was already in motion. “I got a keg waiting on me back at the barn. So long!” He set off at a run down the road to the slums. Narstron said a quick farewell and followed.

  Cyrus turned back to Orion, not meeting the ranger’s eyes. He stood with them, strangers that had helped save his life, and fumbled for words. “Thanks for your help. If not for you, that would have turned out much worse.”

  Orion studied him intently. “Cyrus, was that your first expedition?”

  A flush of heat crept up the warrior’s cheeks. “I performed that poorly?”

  The human ranger shook his head. “No. You handled yourself very well. But am I correct in assuming that now that I’ve met the three of you I now know every single one of the Kings of Reikonos?”

  When Cyrus nodded, the ranger went on. “I thought so. You have a great group for adventuring but unless you’re doing things like this,” he gestured at the living flotsam around them, “you’re not doing much in the way of adventuring. If you’re on expeditions of this kind, it’s only a matter of time until you die in some hole.”

  Cyrus met Orion’s gaze defiantly. “I learned that lesson well enough today. I don’t think I’ll be going on any more expeditions with people I don’t know and don’t trust.”

  Orion’s stare bored into him. “Then unless you want to give up adventuring you’ll need a bigger guild to join.”

  The heat rose up Cyrus’s face again. “I know what larger guilds want from adventurers. I promise you I’m not even close to having the type of training they would want me to have. And of course there are sacrifices they’d ask me to make — membership dues, leaving behind my friends — and I would never leave them behind to advance myself—”

  Orion cut him off. “Not all guilds are like that. Ours isn’t. We don’t have any membership dues and we could use more people like the kings. We’ve got a sizable force, we’re going to places where there is an abundance of loot — which can buy a lot of good armor with mystical properties, things that help you to take harder hits as you face worse foes.”

  He took a step toward Cyrus and reached up to place a hand on the warrior’s shoulder. “Niamh, Vara and I are on the Council that runs our guild. We would invite you to join us.”

  There was a sudden and inexplicable lump in Cyrus’s throat. “I’ll… have to talk it over with my guildmates. But thank you.” The flush in his face began to subside.

  “It was an honor to meet you, Cyrus.” Niamh reached out and took his hand. Selene echoed the druid. Vara was frozen, blue eyes locked on him, and made no move or gesture to say farewell.

  “How will I find you to let you know the answer?” Cyrus asked Orion.

  The ranger smiled. “I’ll be around. You can find me here or in the markets frequently enough. And if that fails, you could always visit our guildhall in the Plains of Perdamun.”

  Cyrus thanked them again, and turned to leave. Remembering the question he had forgotten to ask, he turned in time to see the winds beginning to whip up around them, Niamh’s spell already in motion. “What’s the name of your guild?” he asked, taking a last look at all of them. His eyes came to rest on Vara, who was looking back at him, eyes drilling into his, burning the memory of the look on her face into his mind.

  As the blast of wind encircled the party and carried them away, Cyrus heard Orion’s answer carried on the dying breeze.

  “Sanctuary…”

  4

  Cyrus approached the Kings of Reikonos guildhall, its rectangular shape standing out in the small dwellings of the slums. The faint, almost otherworldly glow from the last vestiges of sunlight added to the torchlight in the thoroughfares. The torches were lit all the time because the slums’ location in a valley sandwiched between the taller buildings of the commerce district and the markets never exposed the streets to direct sunlight but by the light of midday. The slums were darker than the square by far; almost darker than the lava-lit cavern.

  So here I am, Cyrus thought, living in the slums of Reikonos. He looked around at the decrepit town of shanties and lean-tos that filled the streets around him, choking out the real structures and dwellings.

  The City of Reikonos was built on the coast of the Torrid Sea, but even after living in the city his entire life, he had only seen the sea twice — once on a visit to the docks and the second time from the top of the Citadel, the massive tower that was the seat of Reikonosian government. The nicest houses in Reikonos were on bluffs, directly overlooking the ocean. The slums were far from the water.

  The refurbished barn that served as the Kings’ guildhall had always been embarrassing, since the day he’d paid every last gold piece he possessed to buy it. But it had never felt so confining before. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped inside. There was a conversation going on when Cyrus walked in. It died as he entered. Andren and Narstron turned to face him expectantly.

  “What?” He looked at them with absolute nonchalance.

  “Two questions,” Andren began, tall mug of ale already in his hand. “What was the name of their guild and did they ask us to join them?”

  Cyrus took his time answering, eyes downcast. “The name of their guild was Sanctuary.” Cyrus began to unstrap his plate mail at a leisurely pace.

  “Quit stallin’ and get on with it!” Narstron’s leg twitched with excitement as he sat on his bunk.

  “The answer to your second question,” Cyrus let a smile play across his lips, “is yes, they did.”

  Andren upturned his glass, downing it in a single pull. Narstron looked insufferably pleased as he pumped his fist and yelled, “Yes!”

  “What about our meager means?” Andren asked as he refilled his glass from the keg. Fueled by alcohol, he brought forth a topic that he might not otherw
ise have broached.

  “No membership dues and they’re training as they go.” Cyrus paused. “We still have to discuss this. I’d like us to be unanimous in our decision. Just to be clear — we are talking about folding the Kings. Shutting it down and walking away—”

  Andren broke in. “Because this place is the sort of home we all dreamed of. We’re broke! We’re barely scraping a living with what we get from the places we can go with the abilities we have. Isn’t anybody else sick of sleeping in bunk beds like we’re children?”

  He pounded his chest. “I’m well nigh tired of it. I’d be better off if I’d stayed in the Healer’s Halls than living this adventurer’s life! You know we’re better than this. We are being handed a golden opportunity to move up in the world. As long as we stick together, we can make this work for us. And if Sanctuary doesn’t feel like the right place we can always fill our pockets and keep moving up, right?”

  Face impassive, Cyrus looked at him. “I know it’s hard to believe, considering how… unpleasant things are for us, but we’ve scraped enough together to get this far. We know next to nothing about this Sanctuary group and joining them is a big commitment.”

  Narstron made his mind known. “We know that four of their people risked their lives in a dragon expedition they knew was doomed from the start to try and save lives. We might have died had they not been there.” He folded his arms across his barrel chest. “That tells me everything I need to know about them, right there. I think we can trust them.”

  Cyrus laughed. “It wasn’t but an hour ago you were wondering if there was one person in that expedition we could trust. Now you’re ready to trust four of them with your future.”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not saying we don’t do this but I need at least a night to think over the possibilities.” He smiled at what he saw in their eyes — hope, something that had been gone for far too long. They had joked and had fellowship here and built a bond that would endure. But it was a bond born of common suffering: bunk beds, secondhand mattresses, equipment and furniture that were falling apart.

  “I’m as excited as you,” Cyrus added. “To have performed admirably enough that we’re invited to join them is an honor and we should be proud.” He paused. “I just need to be sure this is the right decision.” With the last word, he strode past them to his bunk and lay down, drawing the curtains. It didn’t do much to help the sound, but they’d all gotten used to living in close quarters. They kept their voices down, but Cyrus heard the possibilities in every word, as well as a few other things.

  “What about that Vara?” Andren murmured. “She is really something. Her armor must be powerfully enchanted to let her leap like that. And did you see how fast she swung that sword?” He chortled, a low sound filled with unmistakable lust. “I wouldn’t mind helping her take down that ponytail.”

  “I doubt you’d survive the attempt, old friend,” Narstron said. “I suspect there’s nary a man she’s met that she hasn’t employed that armor and sword on — the armor to keep them at bay, and the sword to put them out of their misery when they least expect it. You’re right, though: to move that fast and hit that hard, a little girl like that has to have some powerful friends. That armor is worth a fortune, I’m sure.”

  Andren guffawed. “If ever someone got her out of the armor, he would behold the sweetest sight ever known to man.” The healer paused. “Actually, two of the sweetest sights, I suspect,” he said, laughing, the alcohol having overtaken all good sense.

  Narstron laughed along with him. “Too true, but I think your error was in assuming it’d ever be a man that would witness. Maybe a woman?” A chuckle came from the dwarf. “She’s royalty, right?”

  “Have to be. Unless…” Andren’s voice drifted for a moment. “Vara… unless she’s…” His voice drifted off and he said something that sounded to Cyrus’s ears like ‘shell massacre’. Andren was quiet for several moments after that.

  The discussion continued but Cyrus tuned it out. What am I doing here? The thought made its way to the surface of his mind again, unbidden.

  Tired as he was, the talking didn’t keep him awake, and soon he’d entered a fitful sleep, filled with visions of dragons, gold, battle, guildhalls… and a ponytailed elf, in shining silver armor, looking at him with an expression that was a cross between loathing and something very different.

  5

  Cyrus awoke in the middle of the night. Silence surrounded him, broken only by the faint snores of Narstron in the bunk to his left. Rubbing his eyes, he rolled over and let his feet touch the floor. Strapping on his armor (he never left the hall without it, lest he be caught unprepared), he strolled through the streets of Reikonos. His feet carried him through the commercial district, where the shopkeepers had closed for the night.

  His eyes came to rest on the storefront of a jeweler; a glass window with the name of the establishment emblazoned across it. In the bottom corner of the window was a sign big enough to be seen from some distance: ‘No Dark Elves’. A common sight in the commercial district, where shops were affluent and catered to different clientele than in the slums or the markets. Posters were nailed to the left of the door, a few of which screamed ‘WANTED’ and ‘HERETIC’ in bold letters and carried artists’ renditions of the faces of the accused.

  A life in the slums was not what Cy had planned when he’d taken over leadership of the Kings of Reikonos from the previous leader. Gunter had been a human wizard, a great thinker who had passed the mantle of leadership so he could quest for knowledge in the elven capital of Pharesia. He had left a depleted guild bank, an untenable morale situation, and no guildhall.

  The only three people in the guild at the time were Cyrus, Narstron and Andren. Talk of disbanding and joining another guild had given way to talk of expansion when no suitable options had been found, and Cy had been naïve enough to believe that he could lead them to glory. Efforts had yielded a few recruits here and there, but without a guildhall they were left meeting in wayside inns — a blow to their credibility when they proclaimed themselves ‘a guild on the move’.

  Scorned by any reputable recruit, Cyrus had used his entire savings to clear up that nagging image problem, not considering the consequences of having their guildhall in a barn. Most of their potential recruits lasted less than a full night. Who can blame them? Cyrus thought. I don’t even want to live there, and it’s my guildhall!

  His feet carried him down the street to the Reikonos market, the center of all commerce in the land of Arkaria. Almost every race was welcome in Reikonos (though not always heartily accepted, like the dark elves). Even a handful of the savage trolls bartered in Reikonos, and they had been at war with nearly every power in Arkaria less than twenty years earlier.

  As he walked from stall to stall, he watched as vendors plied their wares, even now, in the wee hours of the morning. The rest of Reikonos might yet be asleep, but the market had a pleasant hum. He saw things that he wanted, that could help him; armors and potions, swords and helmets, things that could bear an attack by titans. And, he reflected, seemed less likely to be his as the gods coming down and smiting him.

  His path carried him past a line of merchants and when he looked up he found himself face to face with Orion, who had finished bartering with a trader. “Fancy meeting you here, Cyrus. Having trouble sleeping?”

  Cyrus blinked. Realizing the fruitlessness of arguing an obvious point, he decided to switch to the offensive instead. “Do you always do your shopping at 3 o’clock in the morning?”

  “I usually don’t, but I’ve got a busy day tomorrow and I wanted a new pair of chainmail pants.” Reaching out, he took them from the trader. “What do you think?” he asked as the small, flawlessly crafted chain links rolled down.

  Though Cyrus was by far too big for them, he recognized the exquisite craftsmanship and material of the chainmail. They would easily have cost double what he had spent on the guildhall. “Those must cost a fortune — they’re very impressive.”


  Nodding in thanks, Orion switched subjects as deftly as Cyrus had deflected his earlier inquiry. “What’s on your mind at this hour? Could it be the invitation I proffered?” He began to walk toward the Square.

  Cyrus fell into step beside him. “Yes, I am wrestling with that decision.”

  “What exactly are you wrestling with? Are your guildmates not interested?”

  Cyrus laughed. “No, they’re definitely interested. In fact, were it up to them, we’d have been suppering at your guildhall last evening. No, it’s me you have to convince.” Looking around to make sure no one could overhear them, Cyrus took a step closer to Orion and lowered his voice.

  “These are my people. I’ve shepherded them through good times and bad. I have their best interests at heart. They’re good people, a bit rough around the edges, but honorable.” He paused, considering his next words. “There are guilds that would use us for our talents, and discard us as easily — or leave us to die when it became convenient.”

  Orion’s eyebrow rose. “Do you believe Sanctuary is that type of guild?”

  Cyrus deflated. “No, I don’t. Everything I’ve seen indicates you’d go out of the way to help a stranger avoid death; I can’t imagine you’d abandon your own.”

  Orion smiled. “You take so much responsibility for your people’s lives that you want to make certain that we would do the same.”

  “If Sanctuary holds up to the same code of honor I’ve seen from you, Niamh, Selene and,” Cyrus drew a sharp intake of breath, “Vara, I have no doubt we’d be in good hands. I have a hard time entrusting my guild to yours without seeing more than I have.” He settled on what he really wanted to convey. “I just want to make sure that you’re the rule, not the exception.”