Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels

by David Dalglish

  Valien’s breath left him. Stars swam across his eyes. He howled and raised his sword again, prepared to land the killing blow, even if he died with it.

  “Marilion lives, Valien!” Frey called and cackled, blood on his lips. “She lives in my dungeon, you fool!”

  Valien faltered.

  Horror thudded into him, sharper than the dagger.

  Frey dragged himself up, ran toward the window, and crashed through the stained glass. Multicolored shards flew. Frey tumbled outside into the rain.

  “Frey!” Valien howled, blood washing his eyes, blood soaking his shirt. He ran toward the window. He fell to his knees. “Frey!”

  Outside in the storm, a golden dragon beat wings, spun toward the tower, and blasted fire.

  “Valien!”

  Hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back.

  Kaelyn dragged him aside, and they pushed themselves against the wall, and flames bathed the room.

  “Dragons of Requiem!” Frey shouted outside, voice ragged. “Fall back! Fall back to the capital.”

  Valien could hear no more. Was Frey dying? Did his injuries silence him? Had Valien himself died?

  He held onto Kaelyn, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

  “She lives,” he whispered, trembling and clutching her. “She lives, stars, she lives.”

  The tower shook. Flames crackled outside. Thousands of dragons roared in a storm of sound and fury.

  33

  LERESY

  Thuds shook the door. Chips of wood flew. Around the doorframes, dragonfire roared and blasted into the hall.

  “Break down the doors!” cried voices outside, and again the doors shook. Splinters flew. “Slay everyone inside!”

  Leresy stood trembling. His hand was so sweaty he could barely grip his sword. His head spun and his breath shook in his lungs.

  “Do something!” he screamed. “Soldiers—slay them! Drive them back!”

  He whipped his head from side to side madly. His trousers, soaked with his own urine, clung to him. The doors kept shaking—again and again. Every time the dragons outside slammed against them, more chips of wood flew, and more fire raced around the frames.

  “Go on, kill them!” Leresy screamed, voice hoarse. His sword shook madly in his hand. “I order you! Are you disobeying your prince?”

  And yet his soldiers—a mix of the Axehand and the Legions—only stood still, weapons raised, facing the door and waiting. Waiting! How could they just stand and wait like this?

  “I order you to kill them!” Leresy cried, and his voice cracked. “You took vows. You swore to defend your price—now kill the enemy!”

  He looked around madly, seeking an exit. There were no windows here, only arrowslits, and men stood there firing their bows. Who had designed this damn fortress? How could they not have built windows for escape? The enemy kept slamming at the doors, and outside the arrowslits, Leresy glimpsed thousands of the flying beasts.

  Barbarians! A horde of unwashed outlaws! And his own men—soldiers trained for honor and strength—did nothing?

  “Why don’t you kill them?” he demanded, pacing among his troops. They only stood like damn statues, frozen and watching the doors. He screamed so loudly, his voice became but a shrill rasp. “I order you to get out there and kill them all!”

  “They can’t, you fool,” Shari said. The princess sat slumped in the corner, bandaged and bloody. Her face was ashen, but scorn still filled her eyes. “They know war. You know how to fluff up your hair, choose the finest embroidery, and kiss our father’s arse. Stand back and let them do their job, little brother.”

  Leresy spun toward her, baring his teeth. “Look at you! Look at you, sister, the great warrior. You lie wounded and dying. What do you know of war?”

  Sitting in the shadows, she smirked. “Enough to fly out and fight one, not cower in a hall.”

  “And yet now you too cower,” he said. He raised his sword; it wavered in his palm. “I should end your life now, Shari. I—”

  A thud echoed across the room.

  Leresy spun back toward the doors. A great crack had appeared, showering splinters. Flames burst into the hall, forcing his soldiers back.

  Tilla stood among the troops, Leresy saw. Sweat drenched her face, blood stained her armor, and yet she stood tall. She clenched her jaw and held her sword before her, ready to fight.

  “Do not let them break the doors!” Leresy shouted at the soldiers. “If you let the enemy in, I will butcher you myself!”

  He spun away, marched across the hall, and approached an arrowslit. A soldier stood there, firing his bow. Leresy grabbed the man and shoved him aside.

  “Let me see!” Leresy said. “I must view the battle to lead you.”

  He stared outside, and he felt the blood leave his face. Sweat drenched him.

  By the red spiral…

  Their defenses had crumbled. Dragons of the Resistance covered Castra Luna’s walls. Their tails slammed at the cannons, sending the great iron guns tumbling. Bodies of legionaries lay across the courtyard, torn apart. Leresy saw strewn limbs and severed heads and everywhere blood. The horde approached from all sides; they covered the sky.

  Leresy gasped for breath. His heart blazed with pain. This hall, with its low ceiling and many columns, was too cramped for dragons to enter, but the Resistance could still swarm in here as men, screaming and bloodthirsty and armed with steel.

  I’m going to die, Leresy realized, and tears filled his eyes. Kaelyn was going to kill him. Why, sister? I always comforted you. I was a good brother to you…

  “Fall back!” roared a voice outside, and great wings stirred the smoke. “Fall back to the capital! Dragons of Requiem—rally behind me. Follow!”

  Leresy squinted through the arrowslit, peered up, and saw his father flying north. The golden dragon was badly wounded; his scales were cracked and charred, and gashes bled across his flesh. A few survivors rallied behind him and began fleeing north, breaking through the Resistance.

  “He’s leaving without me,” Leresy whispered, and his fists trembled. His voice rose to a howl. “He’s betrayed me! My father’s betrayed me!”

  He pulled back from the arrowslit, looked around wildly, and saw the doors shaking. More cracks raced across them. Fire blazed through.

  I have to get out. I have to get out!

  Leresy sucked in his breath. Of course. The tower top!

  He began racing across the hall, shoving soldiers aside.

  “Move. Move it! Out of my way!” He ran toward the staircase at the back. “Defend these doors. Defend these stairs!” Saliva flew from his mouth as he screamed. “Do not let the enemy in, or I’ll hang you from Requiem’s palace!”

  He leaped onto the staircase, glanced back at the hall doors, and saw them shatter open.

  A hundred dragons of the Resistance, beasts of fire and scale, shifted into human forms and raced into the hall.

  Leresy ran.

  He left the hall. He ran up the spiraling, stone staircase, heart thudding. Below, he heard the screams—so many screams. Steel clashed. Fire blazed. Shouts of “Requiem!” and “Death to Cadigus” rang across the fort.

  Leresy shrieked, pumped his fists, and kept racing upstairs.

  “Hold them back!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Soldiers of Requiem, I order you! Defend this fortress!”

  He raced around and around. His breath rattled. He slipped, banged his hip, then leaped up and kept running. The fire blazed and the screams rose behind him. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw shadows racing upstairs; he didn’t know if they were his troops fleeing too, or the enemy pursuing.

  The stone staircase ended in a chamber of gears, springs, and bells. Upon the four walls, Leresy saw the inner faces of four clocks. A hundred gears, some taller than him, moved and clanged together. The clocks ticked. Ropes creaked and weights shifted. Instead of stone stairs, an iron stairwell coiled up toward a small door near the ceiling.

  “Grab the prince!” ro
se shouts below. “Slay him!”

  Leresy leaped onto the iron stairwell. He raced up, the gears and springs all creaking around him. He shoved the door open and burst into his chambers.

  Blood soaked the room; men had fought here too. One window was smashed open, and outside, Leresy saw the battle raging. Thousands of dragons still flew, roaring fire; most were beasts of the Resistance, too barbaric to even wear armor. His father was leading legionaries through the encircling enemy, cleaving a way north.

  “Leresy!” cried a voice below from the staircase. “Damn it, Leresy!”

  It was Shari.

  Leresy snarled.

  “No, sister,” he hissed. “You will not flee this place with me. This will be your tomb.”

  He spun toward the doorway and saw her limping up the iron staircase, pale and bleeding and screaming for him.

  Leresy slammed the chamber door shut, grabbed the keys from his belt, and locked it.

  Shari slammed against the door.

  “Brother!” she screamed from behind. “Damn you, Leresy, open this door!”

  He cackled. “No, Shari! You were too late to flee. Go fight with your troops, Shari! I thought you were a great warrior. So die like one!”

  He ran toward his heavy bureau and shoved with all his strength. The bureau scratched across the floor, and Leresy pushed it against the door. Panting, he placed himself behind his bed next, gritted his teeth, and shoved. The bed slammed against the bureau. Nobody would be breaking through this door now.

  “Leresy!” his sister screamed from the stairway. “Damn it, Leresy, open this door, or I’m going to butcher you like the pig you are!”

  He laughed, spraying sweat and spittle. “Goodbye, sister! Enjoy your death!”

  With that, Leresy ran toward the window, leaped outside into the night, and shifted.

  Wind whipped him. Fire blazed below and smoke blinded him. Rain crashed down and lightning rent the sky, and everywhere the dragons flew. Below in the courtyard, Leresy saw more resistors pouring into the fort.

  “Father!” Leresy cried; he spotted the emperor and his troops ahead, cleaving a way out. “Wait for me, Father!”

  Dragons dived toward him, blowing fire. Leresy soared higher and rained flame upon them. He flew madly, tail lashing, and joined the retreat.

  “Goodbye, Shari!” Leresy screamed over his shoulder, and delight filled him; he had perhaps lost this fort, but he had gained his inheritance. “Goodbye, you wretched pile of rocks!”

  They broke through the ring of beasts. They streamed over the forests, bloody and charred and howling. A hundred dragons—the emperor, a cluster of survivors, and Leresy—howled and beat their wings and fled into the night.

  34

  TILLA

  The hall had fallen.

  Tilla screamed through flame, swung her sword, and cut a man. A column cracked beside her. A bearded warrior howled, charged her way, and their swords clanged. The walls shook. Fire burned.

  The hall had fallen.

  “Fall back!” somebody screamed behind her. “Up the stairs—into the tower!”

  Tilla could not even turn around to seek the stairs. Warriors rushed all around her. Axehands fought at her sides, axes swinging and black robes fluttering. She had lost Erry and Mae; had they died? Bodies lay across the hall. Blood flowed around boots. Men screamed and blades swung.

  I’m going to die here, Tilla thought. The hall has fallen. I’m going to die.

  One soldier, a tanner from Cadport, tried to shift into a dragon. He ballooned in size, only crushing himself between the columns, floor, and low ceiling. Swords slammed into his flesh, and the dragon screamed, then returned to human form—a butchered boy, belly slashed open. The legionaries fell all around, their insignia only hours old on their armbands, and their blood washed the floor.

  And I will fall with them.

  The clock chimed above her five times. Dawn was near, a last light before the darkness.

  We die at dawn, Tilla thought. She held her sword before her. A new day rises; an empire falls.

  “Fall back!” the voice shouted behind. “Tilla, with me!”

  Swords swung at Tilla. She parried blow after blow. She could not turn around, not without letting the enemy slay her. She walked backward, blocking attacks. Axehands screamed around her, clashing against the resistors, swinging the axes strapped to their stumps. Tilla kept retreating. Her boots slammed into a corpse; she stepped upon the dead man and kept moving.

  “Tilla!”

  Somebody grabbed Tilla’s arm, and she spun around and raised her sword. Her heart thrashed and she screamed in rage, prepared to kill. But the hand grabbing her belonged to Erry.

  “Erry!” she said. “Bloody stars, you’re alive!”

  The scrawny urchin looked half dead. Blood matted her short brown hair. Her face, normally tanned bronze, was ashen. Welts rose across her left temple.

  “To the stairs!” Erry said. “Come with me, Tilla.”

  “Where’s Mae?” Tilla shouted.

  “I don’t know! I think she fled with the others. The emperor is leading us north. Come on!”

  Erry tugged and Tilla ran with her. Soldiers and resistors fought all around. The two Black Roses—if they still belonged to a phalanx at all now—leaped over bodies and onto the staircase. Blood stained the steps. The two young women ran, and behind them resistors screamed, and boots thudded.

  “Take the stairs!” howled a voice below—the rough voice of the enemy. “Don’t let them escape. Up the stairs! Death to Cadigus!”

  “Dirty dog bottoms!” Erry cursed as she raced upstairs. “Stars, Tilla, did you think it would end like this?”

  “We’re not dead yet!” she shouted back. “Run!”

  They raced up the spiraling steps. The battle cries echoed behind them. Swords clanged.

  Pain flared on her calf. Tilla yelped and spun to see a resistor; his blade had nicked her. With a scream, Tilla swung her sword down, cleaving his hand. She kicked, and the resistor tumbled backward, crashing into men behind him.

  “Tilla!” Erry cried.

  “Keep running!”

  They raced upstairs, breath ragged, boots slipping in the blood. Finally they emerged into the great clock room. Gears, larger than the greatest wagon wheels, turned and clanged all around. Ropes and weights rose and fell, and on each wall, a great dial ticked. An iron staircase coiled up between the gears like a giant spring, leading toward a door.

  Tilla gasped.

  Princess Shari stood at that door, ashen and bleeding. Blood filled her hair and stained her face. She was driving her shoulder into the door, again and again, but could not break it.

  “He blocked the door!” the princess cried from above. “Leresy—he left us to die. Help me break it open.”

  Erry leaped onto the iron stairwell and raced up toward the princess. Tilla ran close behind. They reached the locked doorway near the ceiling. Below them, all across the chamber, the gears turned and ticked.

  “Death to Cadigus!”

  Resistors burst into the clock chamber from below, a dozen warriors in armor, their swords bloody. They ran between the gears, leaped onto the iron staircase, and began racing up.

  “Erry!” Tilla shouted. “Help the princess break the door. I’ll hold them back!”

  Standing upon the staircase, Tilla swung her sword. It clanged against an enemy blade. She swung down, cleaving the man’s helmet. He fell, blood gushing from his head, and crashed into the men behind him. Another resistor replaced him. His blade met Tilla’s. She screamed and kicked, knocking the man over the staircase banister. He crashed into the gears below; they kept spinning, crushing the man between them.

  “Break the door!” Tilla shouted. “Get out of here!”

  She glanced behind her. Erry and Shari were both slamming against the door, cracking it. It opened an inch; something was blocking it.

  Tilla spun back toward the enemy. She swung her sword again, parrying a blow. A red-haire
d woman was attacking her, screaming wildly. Tilla screamed too, blocked the mad attack, and thrust her sword. She pierced the woman’s belly, sending her tumbling down; the gears crushed and swallowed her. Tilla glanced over her shoulder to see the door opened another inch.

  “It’s almost open!” Erry cried from above. “Hold them back just a little longer.”

  Another resistor charged toward Tilla. Another sword swung. Tilla parried and the blades clanged.

  No.

  Shock flooded her. Her eyes stung. Her heart froze, then leaped.

  “Rune,” she whispered.

  The resistor below her, covered in sweat and blood, was him.

  “Rune!” she cried.

  “The door’s almost open!” Erry screamed behind. “Almost there!”

  He stared at her, face bloody and blade raised. He was thinner than Tilla had ever seen him. His eyes were colder than she’d ever known.

  But it was him. It was her Rune.

  “Tilla,” he whispered.

  His voice raised memories in her like waves over rocks. In the shadows of the chamber, she saw the sea again, the cliffs at night, the stars above. She felt the wind beneath her wings as they flew together. She felt his kiss again, lips warm against hers in the cold. She saw Cadport, two lost youths, and soft lights in the dark.

  “Rune,” she said, and tears stung her eyes. “You are here. How can this be?”

  “Got it!” Erry cried above. “The door’s open. Come on, Tilla!”

  Yet Tilla only stood still, staring at Rune. He craned his neck up, peered over her shoulder, and snarled. Tilla had never seen him snarl.

  “Tilla, I have to get through!” he said. “Shari Cadigus is escaping.”

  He took a step up. He made to run around her.

  What do I do? Stars, what do I do?

  She moved and blocked his climb.

  “Tilla!” he shouted. “Tilla, she’s getting away.”

  Tears streamed down Tilla’s cheeks. She placed a hand against Rune’s shoulder.

  “I can’t, Rune,” she whispered. “I can’t. I made a vow. I can’t.”

  He shook his head in amazement. He tried to shove past her. She stopped him.