Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels

by David Dalglish

  Cyrus broke his silence as he took another drink from the flask. It tasted like rum from the islands in the Bay of Lost Souls. Something stirred in the back of his head, making its way through the fog of discomfort from his broken ribs and countless bleeding wounds. At least none of them is gushing blood, he conceded. “Wait,” Cyrus realized, “why aren’t you healing the wounded?”

  Andren’s cheeks reddened. “I’m drained. I tried to cast a heal on myself four times and it sparked out.” The healer took another swig. “I’m surprised that Curatio and the others can manage a resurrection spell — they’re supposed to be really draining, and if they just got resurrected themselves…” Andren shuddered. “They’re burning their own life energy if they’re out of magic.”

  “How does that work?” Cyrus was curious.

  “Only so much magical energy at a time,” Andren said. “Just like your arms get tired from swinging that meathook of yours, cast enough spells and you run out of magical energy. Resurrection spell brings you back near dead, low on every type of energy — magical, physical, emotional, mental. You need rest.” Another swig as a haunted look crossed Andren face. “They don’t have time for rest, though.”

  Cyrus looked at him in accusation. “About your healing spells. You gonna try again?”

  Andren glared at him. “Give me a minute, will ya? I dunno about you, but I just died, and frankly it was an unsettling experience for me!” The healer took another deep swig from the flask. “I’m trying to get back on an even plane here.”

  Orion was picking his way through the wounded. The healers looked as though they had completed their work, and all the bodies were moving, moaning, some even crying out. Druids and paladins were healing the worst afflicted first, as they regained their strength. The healers looked exhausted; Curatio was bleeding profusely from a gash on his forehead that hadn’t healed. Niamh walked up to him and cast a spell to seal the wound. She gently wiped the blood from his face as she smiled down at him.

  “Cyrus.” Orion approached, looking stricken. “We have a problem.”

  “Oh?” Cy looked at the ranger, and awareness crept back to him. He realized what had been stirring in his mind earlier, a curious absence. “Where’s Narstron?”

  Orion looked away. “We don’t know.”

  Andren was on his feet in an instant, all other concerns forgotten. “What do you mean you don’t know? Where the hell is he?”

  Orion shrugged helplessly before answering. “We don’t know. We’ve been looking for him—”

  Cyrus almost bowled Orion over moving past him toward the tunnel down into the goblin city. “Then we go back after him.”

  “Cyrus,” Orion said, “I’ve been into the throne room three times. I sorted through a pile of goblin dead, but I couldn’t find any sign of him. Elisabeth is down there right now, left just before Selene resurrected you.” Orion shook his head sadly. “We don’t have much more time.”

  Cyrus and Andren sat there, stone-faced, peering down the tunnel. Long minutes passed as they waited, willing a small figure to come trudging up from the depths. The minutes turned into an hour. Then two. The entire force, still recovering from their grievous wounding, waited, murmuring respectably behind them. Niamh had cast a night vision spell on Cyrus again and he stirred as a small shape made its way out of the darkness. A figure, but who…?

  It was both of them. Elisabeth moved quietly along the tunnel, dragging Narstron’s body behind her as quickly as she could manage. Her breaths came in ragged gasps and she was bleeding from her side. “Ran into a sentry that didn’t take kindly to me bringing him back.”

  Curatio stepped forward, already casting the resurrection spell. Cyrus held his breath as the magical forces he summoned crackled with energy into Narstron —

  And did nothing.

  Curatio began chanting under his breath again, the same effect — nothing happened. He did it again, and again, until finally the elf fell over, completely spent, face blank.

  Andren dropped to his knees over the dwarven body. He was weeping softly. Cyrus saw Niamh gasp and turn away, while Terian, Alaric and Vara stood expressionless. Cyrus bit back the emotion he felt, a deep, burning sensation that grabbed him in the chest. He wanted to take his sword and run through Enterra, killing everything he found. He wanted to take hold of a goblin, and beat it until its bones were no more. He wanted—

  He wanted Narstron to be back. He half expected him to open his eyes, to make a joke about how he had killed more goblins than Cyrus or Cass or anybody.

  But it didn’t happen. Cy looked down into the dwarf’s features. He’d been pierced at least a dozen times in the torso. “I found him dragged into one of their sacred places — near their treasure trove. There were hundreds of goblins on the other side of that door,” Elisabeth told Orion. “It’s like they were expecting us. There’s something else I need to tell you, but more important things come first: the army of the goblins is on the move, Orion — they are assembling and we need to get out of here.”

  Orion was speechless; it was Alaric that spoke first. “Get your groups together!”

  A clattering came from down the tunnel — the sound of an army on the march. Cyrus’s scowl deepened, as he stepped over the body of his friend. Alaric, recognizing his intent, didn’t fight him, just gestured to Niamh — and the whirlwind of her spell swept him out of Enterra, away from the army, and when the howl of the winds died down…

  …his howl could be heard through the Plains of Perdamun. A cry of grief, of rage, of loss and sorrow. It took Alaric, Terian, Vara and three others to haul him back to Sanctuary. By the time they reached the front gates, he was unconscious, still bleeding from the wounds he’d suffered in Enterra’s throne room. Some of them would never truly heal.

  14

  Cyrus looked out his window over the grounds of Sanctuary. He could see the gates, and watched as small figures rode through the entrance. It had been three days since Enterra. He had slept in the Halls of Healing the first night and had not regained consciousness until noon the next day. The rest of the first day and second night he had been restless, not talking to anyone. He had spent most of his time down by the river Perda. No matter what had happened, the river still ran. The world had collapsed around him, but it still ran. Looking from his window across the plains he couldn’t believe it had been three days. Today was the funeral.

  At the appointed hour, he put on his armor, freshly cleaned but still black, and headed downstairs. Walking through the doors and outside, he followed the crowd across the grounds to the graveyard. A raised dais was set up at the far end of the cemetery, with chairs and a podium. In the center of it all was a small casket — the sight of which nearly dropped Cyrus to his knees.

  He took his place to the right of the coffin and Andren sat beside him. Alaric and Curatio sat on the left side of the dais, along with a dwarven priest: a follower of Rotan, the God of Earth. The priest stood first, and delivered his message, followed by a few kind words from Alaric and Curatio and a rambling remembrance from Andren, who was quite drunk. No one stopped the healer, who went on for some time before ushering himself off the dais, sobbing.

  Cyrus didn’t hear a word, lost in his own thoughts. He could tell from Alaric’s motions to him when it was his turn to speak. He walked to the podium, still numb. Scanning the crowd, he saw the entirety of Sanctuary was there, even Vara. Erith, Cass and Elisabeth were there from the Daring. There was a mix of emotions on the faces before him.

  He cleared his throat. “When I was a young warrior, fresh out of the Society of Arms in Reikonos, I was at a bandit camp in the Pelar foothills. I was facing some very poorly trained enemies, some bandits armed with small maces and rusty swords; inadequate weaponry, little strength and no chance against a fighter with any real experience. Unfortunately, I was a fighter with no real experience. I had been cornered by three of the bandits, and my sword broke against one of their blades. I was about to be killed.

  “A dwarf came scr
eaming out of nowhere, and distracted them long enough for me to stab one of them with the remains of my blade. I took his weapon, and the dwarf and I killed the other two. We’ve been together ever since.” The sting of the memory halted him in his recollection. “We were inseparable. Along the way, we found another adventurer,” he swept his arm to indicate Andren, who was still weeping, “who shared our vision of exploration, and battle, and the idea of striving to better ourselves.

  “We knew, as warriors, the dangers in the world and we faced it every day. A warrior’s purpose is to take the punishment so a healer, a wizard, a ranger doesn’t have to. Narstron lived that mission, every day.” His eyes came to Vara and he stopped for a moment. There was a single tear drifting down the elf’s cheek.

  “He served his god, he served his guild, his family, and he fought to his last on a battlefield of his choosing, taking every enemy with him that he could.”

  Cyrus turned to face the casket, strode over to it and placed both hands on it. He lowered his voice. “You were my oldest friend in the world, and I will miss you. I don’t believe in what you believed in, and I don’t serve Rotan — but a follower of Bellarum believes in vengeance. I swear, by the God of War, you will be avenged.” He leaned down and touched his forehead to the casket in the deepest bow he could, then turned on his heel and marched back to his chair, stiffly and formally so that he could focus on something other than the pain.

  They lowered the casket into the ground and the first shovels of dirt were thrown upon it. As the funeral ended, many people tendered their regrets. He took them politely, but his eyes were elsewhere. Vara walked slowly through the graveyard to the far corner, and knelt on a grave. She sat there quietly for a few moments before she stood, dusted herself off and walked back to Sanctuary’s entrance.

  After taking the last of the condolences from the Allied envoys he found himself wandering past the rows of tombstones to the grave that Vara had stopped at. Standing over it he found a simple marker.

  Raifa Herde

  Beloved Healer

  and Wife

  He looked around, startled, seeing a few other names he recognized — Pradhar, Erkhardt the Mighty on nearby tombstones. Each one of them, the names Alaric had mentioned—

  “I see you’ve found the answer to your earlier question.” Alaric Garaunt appeared at his shoulder. “Here lie three of the founders of Sanctuary.”

  Curiosity overpowered Cyrus’s weariness. “How did they die?”

  Alaric hesitated. “Let us walk. The druids have a garden that you must see to believe.”

  Cyrus thought for a moment of protesting but instead fell into step beside Alaric as the paladin walked. Neither made any attempt to speak until they crossed a small bridge over a flowing stream running into a small pond a few feet away. When Cyrus thought he could endure no further silence, Alaric spoke. “I come here, sometimes, when issues weigh upon me.” He paused. “A plant cannot grow without rain — and rain does not come but through a storm - the mildest shower to the most tempestuous thunderstorm. And so it is with us. We grow in times of trial, in storm and rain. I do not think anyone loves the storms of life.” The paladin’s face grew serious. “They sweep us to and fro — off the course we had planned for ourselves.”

  He focused on the warrior’s eyes. “I have no words to make your grief go away. I would not deny you that pain, as it may define you and make you stronger. In the early days of Sanctuary, the titans were a strong presence in this part of the Plains. They attacked once when we were weak. Since that day, the day we laid Raifa to rest, I have seen thirty-two funerals for our own. I would bring every one of them back were it within my power. But it is not.”

  The paladin looked weary. “I have learned more about what it takes to be a leader in these times than I ever did when things are going well. I do not wish you suffering, but I wish you to learn all the lessons that are only available to those who navigate through the heart of the storm.” He paused for a long time. “Tomorrow will be easier,” Alaric said with great certainty. With a final hand on the shoulder of the warrior, he left Cyrus staring out over pond with much to consider.

  Later that night, Cyrus found himself alone in his quarters. Looking around, he couldn’t help but remember the warmth and chatter of the Kings of Reikonos guildhall fondly. If we were still there, Cyrus thought, Narstron would still be alive. Clutching his pillow tighter, he prayed for tomorrow to come, so he could see the easier day that Alaric had mentioned. When he was still awake at dawn, he realized that while the Ghost had said it would be easier, he didn’t say it would ever be easy.

  15

  A few days after the funeral there was a knock on Cyrus’s door in the early hours of the morning. He looked around, startled. The knock came again, more insistent this time. Feigning sleep, he answered the door to find Terian Lepos standing in the hall. “Yes?” the warrior asked, befuddled.

  “Let’s go,” Terian said with a directness Cyrus might have found refreshing under other circumstances. After several days with no sleep, Cyrus didn’t find anything refreshing.

  “Go where?”

  “Who cares?” the dark elf said, already turning to leave. “Anywhere and anything is better than the sleep you’re not getting right now.”

  Cyrus didn’t argue. After arming himself, he followed Terian down the stairs and out the front gates of Sanctuary. They walked in silence to a path that lead into the Waking Woods, an enormous forest that stretched north almost halfway to Reikonos. They walked for over an hour into the woods, not saying anything. The warrior finally stopped at a disturbing sound in the distance — ghouls howled in the darkness.

  “What the hell are we doing here?” Cyrus asked the dark elf.

  “Like I said, anything and anywhere is better than your nightly routine, isn’t it?” He uncapped a flask and handed it to Cyrus. A strong odor of alcohol permeated from it. Cy made a mental note to introduce Terian to Andren later, and took a long slug of the liquor. “We’re going to run around in the woods with the dead for a while, I think.” A long, languid scream tore through the night — ghoulish and inhuman. Terian pocketed the flask and took off at a run along the path through the woods.

  “Wait!” Cyrus said. Pondering his options he decided the best course of action was to turn back, walk through the front gate of Sanctuary, go back to bed and forget any of this had ever happened. He quickly discarded that idea, remembering that while he might have been in bed, sleep wasn’t on the agenda. “Great,” he muttered to no one in particular. “A haunted forest.” He took off after Terian, catching glimpses of the dark knight’s armor in the moonlight.

  Howls of outrage came from his left, then his right, as the undead of Waking Woods came after them. Not stopping, he ran behind the elf, who Cyrus could swear was giggling in front of him. “You know why it’s called Waking Woods?” Terian shouted over his shoulder.

  “I don’t know, but you’re attracting the attention of every undead creature in the area with this shouting!” Cyrus was so irritated he couldn’t keep his voice down.

  “This part of the woods used to be a place where the followers of Yartraak, God of Darkness, and Mortus, God of Death would sacrifice their victims.” Terian slowed down to let him catch up. “See, right there.” Terian came to a stop and pointed to the shape of a pyramid towering above the trees.

  “I’ve heard the legends, and I’ve been told since I was young that you do not stop in Waking Woods at night, because there are sections that are incredibly dangerous… yet here we go stopping in one of those sections.” Cyrus was a step below panic.

  Terian put both hands on his knees, bending over, winded. “It’s a funny thing, that legend about not stopping. I heard it too. You were raised in Reikonos?” When Cyrus nodded, he continued, the screaming of the ghouls very near now. “I’m from Saekaj Sovar, the dark elf capital on the north end of Waking Woods. Funny we’d have heard the same legend, since there isn’t that much contact between Saekaj and Reikonos.
”

  Cy was looking over his shoulder now. He could see nothing in the darkness. “Wouldn’t that mean that there might be some credence to it?”

  “You were told to run like hell, right?” Terian asked him, voice calm. “You were young, and new, inexperienced… and they told you to run through Waking Woods, every part of it, even the supposedly safe ones, without stopping, right?”

  “Yes,” Cyrus told him, “but in fairness, they didn’t just warn us about the undead: they also warned us about bandits and belligerent dark elves — not necessarily in that order.”

  Terian chuckled. “Have you ever stopped and faced the ghouls here?” His axe was drawn.

  Cyrus paused. He resisted the ingrained urge to run, and drew his sword. He was a warrior. Fear was something he conquered, not vice versa. He assumed a defensive position, closing his eyes, and listened to the death rattle making its way through the trees to them. He opened his eyes as the ghoul burst into the open. It was a roughly human figure, with only patches of skin and clothing covering its bones. It looked at the two of them, and let out a scream of otherworldly fury.

  “Be careful,” Terian called out from slightly behind him. “I’m not a healer, so try not to get hurt too bad.”

  A sick feeling of doom crawled up Cyrus’s stomach. “What am I supposed to do if I get injured?”

  Terian shrugged in a very casual manner. “Don’t worry; I’m pretty good at bandaging wounds.” He thought about it for a beat. “Of course, that’s not gonna help you much in battle, but afterward I’ll be able to patch you up real good.”

  Burying Terian’s last statement, Cyrus let out a howl of outrage, and putting forth all the fury he’d liked to have directed at the goblins over the last few days, he tore into the ghoul with his sword. It withered under his assault, falling back, blocking halfheartedly. He slashed at it, over and over, pieces of bone chipping off as it weathered his strikes. He cleaved the bone at the wrist cleanly in two, and it lost its weapon.