Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels

by David Dalglish

  “Close,” Cyrus said. “I’m just trying to draw things out a bit, because once you find her, you have no reason to keep me alive.”

  Orion’s face relaxed, and an expression of regret filled the human’s features. “I wish you’d have joined us in Reikonos when I asked you to. You are the best warrior I’ve ever seen and with the power that Ashan’agar’s gifts would grant you, we could have formed a guild that would be unstoppable. You would have had the best armor and weapons on Arkaria. The warriors of Amarath’s Raiders and Endeavor would have begged at your feet for you to tell them how to be as great as you.”

  Light filled the ranger’s eyes, and he lowered his voice. “These weapons, they could give us the power to slay the dragons — we could literally save the world, and no one from our guilds would have to know.” Orion smiled. “We’d be heroes. We could write our own ticket — to Burnt Offerings, to Endeavor, Amarath’s Raiders, our own guild, whatever. People would follow us. Those weapons grant power undreamed of in this age — enough to allow you to satisfy whatever ambitions you might have.”

  “You mean the weapons buried at the bottom of a hundred tons of rock and mountain?” Cyrus said with a hint of a smile.

  Orion blinked. “No. You’re kidding.”

  “The Dragonlord broke the barrier and charged out through the ceiling of his cavern, like some sort of crazed bird hatching out of the ground.” Cyrus raised his hands in surrender. “He left them behind, buried.”

  The ranger’s face contorted in seeming pain. “I guess the only way left is—”

  “An eternity of service to the Dragonlord?” Cyrus said in a mocking voice, still trying to climb in spite of the pain in his extremities.

  Orion’s face hardened. “I didn’t think you’d be wise enough to accept my bargain after refusing the Dragonlord once and me once, but now,” a smile creased the tanned features of the ranger, “I cannot let you live. I warned you about falling into the trap of Alaric’s nobility and where it would lead. You could have been the most powerful warrior in the world; instead your corpse will rot undiscovered in the mountains.”

  The crunching of gravel behind the warrior heralded the arrival of Selene. Pale and waxy, she looked like she had barely survived the fall.

  Cyrus felt a sudden rush as his wounds healed. The blood that had been oozing out of the joints of his gauntlet stopped, his arm knitted together and his head cleared. Without a moment’s hesitation he lunged forward, slapping aside the arrow pointed at his head as it flew from the bow and missed him by centimeters. Selene screamed at his side as Cyrus drove his head forward, knocking the ranger’s helmet aside. A satisfying crunch told him he had broken Orion’s nose.

  He brought his head down again and again, both hands restraining the ranger’s as he drove the edge of his helmet into the ranger’s face. The crack of bones breaking, the sickening sound of flesh being hit by metal registered over and over again in his ears. Orion’s arms went limp in his grasp.

  Cyrus stood, blood dripping down his face and locked his gaze on Selene, who charged him, arms flailing in mute rage. He dropped his shoulder, catching her in her breastbone. Another cracking sound filled his ears, then the wheezing sound of Selene struggling for a breath. He flipped her easily over his back and she hit the ground with a satisfying THUMP!

  “You could have put Orion down a little faster,” came a voice from behind him. He turned, wary. Vaste’s hands came up in surrender. “Or you could have lied to him and told him you wanted to join him. That would have been smart; maybe even saved your life.” The troll frowned. “Why didn’t you tell him what he wanted to hear?”

  Cyrus smiled blankly. “I’m just a warrior. I don’t have much use for lying. Thanks for the mending spell. It was well timed.” A sound from behind him drew his attention back to Orion and Selene. The healer had crawled to her husband and they both disappeared in the light of her return spell. “Damn…”

  Vaste shrugged. “We have a dragon and an army of his cronies to deal with. Settle personal scores later.”

  “They’re responsible for letting that dragon out!” Cyrus said. “They set this whole mess in motion!”

  “Focus on the threat to the world, man!” the troll shouted. “Vara’s still riding the Dragonlord. I saw them fly over a few minutes ago—”

  A whooshing sound overhead surprised Cyrus. “Good timing.” The scales of the dragon flew low over his head. “HEY!” he shouted at top volume. “HEY, ONE-EYE!”

  Ashan’agar tilted his head back to peer at the warrior. Vara was holding onto her sword, which was plunged between scales in the dragon’s side, her legs wrapped around the dragon’s wing. The Dragonlord swept down, coming to a dramatic landing in front of Cyrus, forcing he and Vaste to dodge to the side to avoid being trampled.

  “You again.” The Dragonlord flung his wings up and down, finally dislodging Vara. She flew to the side, ricocheted off a nearby boulder and came to rest, unmoving.

  “Me again,” Cyrus said. “I’m like a bad case of the dragon pox; you just can’t get rid of me.” His eyes fixated on Vara’s sword, still stuck between the scales of the dragon. He dodged forward, rolling under the dragon’s wing before Ashan’agar could strike. With a quick reverse, he climbed the back leg and hopped up to grab hold of Ashan’agar’s back. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  A frightening laugh filled the air around him. “As you wish,” the Dragonlord said as he lifted off from the ground. “I must ask,” Ashan’agar said with a quick flick of his head to look at the warrior, now climbing his back. “How did you resist my charm magic? It has been a long time since it has failed to dominate one of your kind…”

  “I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” Cyrus said, pulling Vara’s sword from the Dragonlord’s back and thrusting it into his belt. Ashan’agar had shifted direction and was flying almost straight up.

  “Disappointing,” the dragon fired back over the howling wind. “I had assumed you had powers unknown, but perhaps you were just lucky.”

  “I’m a lucky guy,” Cyrus said. “Where are we going?” He was only a few feet from the neck now, but was forced to climb using entirely his upper body strength. One arm length at a time, he scaled the dragon until he reached the neck and wrapped his legs around it, taking some of the weight off his hands. He climbed faster now, hand over hand, up the dragon’s long neck, Vara’s sword hanging from his belt.

  “To your death,” the dragon answered with another unsettling cackle. “I will take you where there is no air to breathe. Worry not,” he said, soothing. “We’ll be there soon enough.” The dragon turned his head around to glare at the warrior, who had almost reached his head. The red eye glared at Cyrus. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Getting a closer look at my death,” Cyrus said, pulling Vara’s sword from his belt and stabbing forward as the dragon dodged out of the first strike and wheeled to the left. Now you see me, he thought, a grim smile covering his lips. Cy’s fingers dug between the scales and his second thrust penetrated the dragon’s single remaining eye. A scream rent the air around him, drowning out the howling wind. And now you don’t.

  Sliding Vara’s sword back into his belt, Cyrus grabbed both sides of the dragon’s writhing neck and turned him — just a bit — to the right. Unintelligible howls flew from the dragon, along with staccato bursts of flame and curses in the dragon language. The ground whirled beneath them as Cyrus tightened his grasp around the dragon’s neck.

  Ashan’agar entered a desperate end over end spin toward the ground below. The Dragonlord’s wings flapped to little effect; they were going down. “You fool! You will die too and no one will ever find your body!”

  “Small price to pay to defend the world.” Cy braced himself against the neck of the Dragonlord.

  During the descent, Ashan’agar did not cease screaming. The mountains below them were spinning. Cyrus could see masses of people, an army, moving in the hills. It was like he was watching ants. They kept getting bigge
r and bigger — the Dragonlord flapped his wings — and then they hit the ground…

  37

  The Dragonlord roared somewhere in his mind. Curses rained from Ashan’agar’s mouth as Cyrus drew back to consciousness. The warrior blinked, sick to his stomach. He rolled over and surrendered to the nausea, throwing up violently.

  “How charming to see you again,” came Vara’s voice from above him.

  Cyrus buried his face in the volcanic ash. “I don’t feel well.” He rolled to his back. “Resurrection aftereffects, I presume?”

  “I assumed you were greeting me in the traditional manner of your people,” came Vara’s voice once more, laced with equal parts sarcasm and relief, unmistakable even in Cyrus’s diminished condition.

  “You do make me rather sick sometimes.” Cyrus pulled himself to a sitting position. “Alaric,” he said in surprise.

  “What about him?” Vara replied with irritation.

  “He is here,” came the deep voice of the Ghost of Sanctuary. The crunching of his feet upon the rocks behind them had been drowned out by the thrashing and cursing of Ashan’agar.

  On the ridge above them a ragged cheer could be heard; the Army of Sanctuary began flowing down the hillside en masse. Cyrus picked Elisabeth, Erith, Cass and Tolada out of the crowd of them; the allies had arrived. Curatio was a few steps behind Alaric, as were the rest of the officers of Sanctuary and Andren.

  Alaric extended his hand to Cyrus, who took it. The paladin pulled the warrior to his feet with power that the Ghost’s wiry frame did not indicate. “I am pleased to see you have survived, my brother.”

  Cyrus blinked, a bit unsteady. “Not half as pleased as I am.” The warrior stared into the army massing behind him. “How did we do?”

  Alaric smiled. “We did very well. The forces of the Dragonlord were no match for the reforged Army of Sanctuary and its allies.”

  Malpravus glided to them from behind Vara. “Most impressive,” the necromancer whispered, eyes fixated on the writhing dragon. “Bringing down the Dragonlord by yourself — I did tell you I expected great things from you.”

  Alaric cleared his throat but Cyrus met the necromancer’s gaze. “Two of your guildmates were aiding the Dragonlord in his endeavors. Selene and Orion assisted him in stealing the weapons of the gods and Selene cast the spells that allowed him to break his barrier.”

  “That is… disconcerting,” Malpravus said, so low that Cyrus had to concentrate to hear him. “I will look into these allegations immediately.”

  “While you’re doing that,” Cyrus said, “you might look into who stole Letum during our attack on the Realm of Death.”

  “All in good time. We have a more pressing problem to deal with,” Malpravus whispered again. “The Dragonlord yet lives.”

  “Ah, yes,” Alaric breathed. The Ghost strode to the downed dragon, rasping. “Any more venom to spew, Ashan’agar, before the end of your days?”

  The dragon stiffened. “Whose voice is that? I know you…”

  “I doubt that,” Alaric said with a tight smile. “Have you any last words, Dragonlord?”

  The mountains were silent for a long moment, and only the rasping of Ashan’agar could be heard. Cyrus stood a few paces behind Alaric, and watched the Dragonlord’s side; ribs shattered. In every breath the scaly flesh heaved up and down only with monumental effort.

  “Yes,” came the rasp of Ashan’agar’s voice. The dragon’s head turned and Cyrus found himself looking into the pits where the dragon’s eyes had been. “I offered you all; you would have been my Sovereign and ruled all the lesser races of Arkaria.” A tinge of sadness entered the dragon’s voice as he gasped for breath. “I would have given you purpose.”

  The weakness in Cyrus’s knees faded. His jaw set and his spine straightened. “I have a purpose,” the warrior intoned.

  Without warning, Alaric leapt forward, sword drawn so quickly it was almost imperceptible, and thrust it through the scales of the Dragonlord’s head. Cyrus blinked in surprise; the strike had been perfect, sliding between the scales and strong enough to break through the dragon’s thick skull. One final scream tore through the Mountains of Nartanis, and then Ashan’agar, the Lord of the Dragons, was finally silent.

  38

  The day after the final battle had dawned especially bright at Sanctuary. Cyrus saw it through the window in the Halls of Healing, where Curatio had urged him to stay overnight. At sunrise, having had his fill of rest, he had argued with the healer until the elf had finally given in and let him leave.

  He entered the Great Hall before the usual breakfast time to find a cluster of members sitting around a table in the corner, new faces by far outnumbering the old. Andren waved him over. Amidst handshakes and congratulatory slaps to his back, the warrior made his way over to his oldest friend. “Did we just save the world yesterday?” Andren asked him with a smile.

  “I believe we did,” Cyrus said with one of his own. “I think we’re still wanted in Reikonos, though.”

  “Bah.” Andren waved him off. “We’re heroes now; they’ll drop the charges.”

  Cyrus’s smile turned sardonic. “I’m sure that’s been said a time or two.”

  Andren’s expression turned downward. “I heard Ashan’agar’s den got buried — treasure trove and all.” The corners of the healer’s mouth drew tight, giving him a pained expression. “I guess you lost your sword hilt.”

  Cyrus sat back and adopted a pensive expression. “The Serpent’s Bane?” He frowned. “I didn’t even think about it until now, I was so focused on stopping the Dragonlord.” A roiling torrent of emotion poured through him; hot regret tempered by a cool realization. “I’ll be all right,” he said and meant it.

  “Did you hear?” Andren looked at him with an expression of wonder. “We captured one of Ashan’agar’s rock giants! It talks and everything. They’re keeping it in the dungeons below until you Council lot,” he waved in Cyrus’s direction, “work out what to do with it.”

  The warrior’s eyebrow raised. “A rock giant? Why don’t we just kill it and be done?”

  Andren shrugged. “Alaric said no. Not sure why.”

  Cyrus shook his head. “Damn, I am hungry.”

  “Killing a dragon works up an appetite, eh?”

  The two of them laughed their way through breakfast, their first together in months.

  “I almost forgot,” Cy said as their meal drew to a close. “Orion told me that someone betrayed us to the goblins in order to get the Earth Hammer. I guess the goblins wanted something from our expedition.” His jaw tightened. “The same person stole the Staff of Death when we were in Mortus’s Realm. They’re in the Alliance.”

  Andren blinked several times. “Do you know who it is?”

  “No,” Cy exhaled, expression grave. “But I will find out. We owe them — for Narstron.”

  “For Narstron,” Andren said. “And for us.”

  With a nod, Andren strode out the doors of the Great Hall. Cyrus was congratulated over and over again by mostly familiar faces; people he’d recruited in the last six months who had proven themselves in the crucible of the battle the day before. Their excitement was palpable, their hope for the future buoyed by the realization that they had played a part in saving the world.

  Seeking solitude, Cyrus exited through the front door, wandering the still quiet grounds in the light of early morning. He found himself near the gardens and saw a familiar figure on the bridge. Today, her shining armor was once again missing, as was the ponytail. Vara stared at the waterfall across the pond. She was clad in something remarkably close to her attire on the night they had dined together in the elven realms. Her hair shone in the sunrise and a slight smile graced her face — which evaporated to neutrality upon notice of his approach.

  “I am pleased to see you are up and moving again,” she said with a nod. “I was concerned,” she coughed, “that you might not have survived your encounter with the Dragonlord.”

  His eyes met hers, and s
he looked away first. “I was more concerned with you. I’d have gotten back to Ashan’agar sooner if I hadn’t gotten bushwhacked by Orion.” He scowled at the memory.

  Vara’s brow knit with concern. “I didn’t get a chance to ask you, but you and Selene fell quite a distance when the Dragonlord threw you off his back. How did you manage to beat both Orion and Selene? I assume you were,” she coughed again, “badly injured,” she finished with downcast eyes. “And I know you lost your sword.”

  “I was injured.” Cyrus nodded. “And unarmed. I bought some time by telling Orion that Selene was either injured or dying and telling him that I knew where she was. It bought me enough time for Vaste to find me, right about the time Selene came wandering up. Vaste healed me and I jumped Orion.” The warrior paused in thought. “I beat Orion pretty badly. I think I killed him — I’m not sure.”

  “You held Selene’s whereabouts hostage,” Vara said, voice neutral.

  “You don’t approve.”

  “No, it’s not that. My code would prevent me from doing such a thing — deceptive means and all that — but it was quite brilliant. I give you credit for thinking on your feet, injured and unarmed as you were.” She frowned. “One thing I don’t understand: how did Orion and Vaste find you, in the midst of the mountains?” She thought about it for a moment. “And again, after you fell from Ashan’agar, Vaste found your body.”

  Cyrus shrugged. “Orion must have seen me fall; he was lurking in the area for some reason.” The warrior blinked. “Odd that he would see me fall and not see Selene.” Cyrus shrugged again. “Don’t reckon I’ll get a chance to ask him anytime soon.”

  Vara still frowned. “But what about Vaste? He was in the middle of the battle with the rest of the army. How did he know where to find you?”

  “I don’t know.” Cy smiled. “I appreciate how hard you must be trying to discuss my actions over the last few days and not come up with something critical and insulting to say.”