Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels

by David Dalglish

  Markal had been dreaming of pleasant days, rather than the curse of the Dark Citadel that overshadowed his sleep in lower elevations. He’d dreamt of walking through his mother’s herbal gardens, before the war turned his home into the Desolation. Mother pointed out foxglove, and fontinel, and groning berry, telling him the healing power of each.

  Markal woke to something crashing through the trees. A trunk five feet in diameter smashed down near his head. He scrambled to his feet to see six naked, hairy stone giants pitching trees at each other across a ravine. If a tree sailed toward one of the giants, he wouldn’t step clear, but let the tree knock him to the ground. More giants squatted around a fire further up the ravine chewing on bones and making an awful ruckus. By the Brothers, he’d slept soundly!

  He slipped back down the ravine and circled to the north, which led him higher, and toward Mount Rachis. Scree flew down to meet him a few minutes later. If autumn came early in the mountains, winter came early atop Rachis, the tallest of the Dragon’s Spine. They slept in a cave that night while a storm raged outside, snowing them completely in. The cold bothered Scree little, and the snow not at all; as for Markal, wizards have ways to keep warm.

  The weather improved as they circled Rachis and dropped down the other side. Pine gave way to hardwood. He crested a hill and got his first view of the valley. Below lay Eriscoba, beautiful and green and prosperous. Towns and castles dotted the plains, and in the distance, he saw a gleam of gold cast by the setting sun. The Citadel, the greatest fortress in all of Mithyl. Its outer walls were lined with gold leaves brought by thousands of pilgrims. Since the destruction of Aristonia, nothing had been so beautiful.

  His breathing tightened when he remembered how long it had been since he’d stood atop that tower. He’d left Eriscoba with Whelan. Had it really been three years?

  He heard the winged horses before he saw them, a whisper of sound on the wind. Markal looked up to see a company of winged knights riding down from a cloud castle that had drifted overhead while he daydreamed about the Citadel.

  Markal cursed his carelessness. He threw a hood over Scree and looked around for somewhere to hide. There was nowhere. The riders spotted him and shouted.

  15

  The palace had sustained heavy damage in the fighting. Mol Khah had let it burn at his back while he fought his way through the palace gates. Only the rain had put it out. Kallia’s garden rooms and the throne room were completely destroyed, together with most of the servants’ quarters, and into the scholars’ corner, including the library. Books that had survived the burning of the library of Veyre during the Tothian Wars perished, a loss that pained Kallia greatly. The damage would have been worse but for a few Balsalomian scholars trapped inside the palace with the presence of mind to carry hundreds of volumes to safety.

  Mol Khah had surrendered, but he remained unbowed. “Cragyn will turn your name into a curse,” he promised her again. “For a thousand years, children will wake in the night, screaming for their mothers after hearing tales of Kallia Saffa.”

  “Maybe so,” she replied. “But nobody will remember Mol Khah, second-rate henchman of a second-rate wizard.”

  They’d led him to the dungeons to join his men. Kallia ordered the dungeons cleaned of the filth Mol Khah’s men had carted in to rot with her men, refusing advice from her ministers to let them bathe in their own excrement.

  Kallia flushed revenge from her mind and turned her thoughts to Balsalom. The people needed to believe that normalcy had been restored, that their queen was strong enough to fight the dark wizard. She set men to clear rubble from the palace, while Saldibar organized a second crowning ceremony. She took up residence in her tower rooms, catching needed sleep late that night.

  There was a knock on her door the next morning. She sat next to a window overlooking the city signing decrees for Saldibar. Life returned slowly to the streets. Kallia nodded to her servant girl who opened the door. Whelan stood at the doorway, and she rose to greet him.

  “Did you find your friends?” she asked.

  Whelan shook his head, frowning. “I found Flockheart in the tombs, but we can’t find his daughter or Darik.”

  “Killed?”

  “No. The dark wizard’s army traveled in such haste that they didn’t bury their own dead. Surely, if Darik and Daria were killed, someone would have found their bodies by now.”

  “Captured, then?”

  “Perhaps. I hope not. Better that they die. Still, I’ve got a feeling that they’re alive, so we’ll keep looking.” He cleared his throat and looked at his boots. “Kallia, may I speak with you frankly?”

  She gestured for her servant girl to leave the room, but Whelan lifted his hand and said, “Perhaps she should stay. You are a married woman, now.”

  Kallia eyed him coldly. “I am the wife of no man. Tashana, you may leave.”

  Whelan looked relieved and waited quietly until the girl drew the door shut behind her. “I spoke to the dark wizard’s general a few minutes ago.” He unstrapped his sword and lay it beneath the cricket cage, as was the custom in Balsalomian homes, then he and Kallia sat on the rug opposite each other. “He is a vicious, stubborn man and not afraid of torture. In fact, he dared me to do my worst. He said something, however, that concerns me. Something about the dark wizard’s child.”

  Yes, of course. Much to her fear, Mol Khah was right about one thing. She’d gulped gallons of Saldibar’s tea to salt the field where Cragyn had planted his seed, but still it took root. She hadn’t thought he would impregnate her, coming in the last few days of her cycle. But her courses were three days late.

  “Yes,” she said, “it is true. It was not my wish.”

  “No, of course not. The question is,” Whelan said, “what to do about it. A physic or herbalist can give you poisons to root it out, but they are dangerous things. Bearing his child lends legitimacy to the wizard’s claim over Balsalom.”

  She rose to her feet, pouring him a goblet of fine Chalfean wine. He sipped politely; they preferred ales in the Free Kingdoms. “And if I keep the child, what then?”

  Whelan said, “Declare the marriage to the dark wizard forced and thus invalid, and marry again, quickly, and with an ally. Then, conceal the child for a time, and lie about its age.”

  “And Mol Khah?”

  Whelan shrugged. “Saldibar will suggest that we kill him before he talks too much. I say lock him in solitude, or shrug off his statements as the ravings of a madman.”

  His plan held a certain appeal. “No,” she said at last, “it will never work. I could not deceive my husband, and defiled, no prince or khalif would have me, political gain or no. Otherwise, I might approach the khalif of Darnad, see if he would join our revolt if I married his son. He once wished such an alliance.” She sighed, turning to look out the window. “Perhaps if I had Marialla’s beauty, he might overlook these flaws.”

  Whelan put down his wine and looked in her eyes. “I heard what the dark wizard said about you.” He rose to his feet and sat closer.

  She blushed. Yes, that she looked like a dunghill. “You did?”

  “Yes, and it is a lie.” He sat far too close to be proper and took her face in his hands. The trembling in his hands alarmed her. But there was a raw power in his face and a strength in his shoulders that made her heart pound.

  Whelan pulled away, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry. But Kallia,” he protested, “your beauty is not a concern. There might be petty khalifs who are afraid of the dark wizard’s claim, or reject you because he defiled you. I wasn’t thinking of that sort of husband, but someone from the Free Kingdoms.”

  She smiled. “Are you talking about yourself, oh great warrior of the thorn?”

  He recoiled. “Oh, no. Of course not. I would not presume such a thing. But what of King Daniel’s brother Ethan? He is with Markal in the mountains, but if I can find Flockheart, we can bring him back to the city instead. You can wed him then.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said, disappointed
and a bit confused.

  Whelan must have misjudged her expression, for he continued in a hurry, “Prince Ethan is a good man, wise and kind like his brother. His brother, the king, that is. He would be a good match.”

  “You may be right.” She looked Whelan directly in the eye. “Now let me speak boldly with you, Whelan. I know my marriage will be largely for political reasons, but I can’t simply marry Ethan just like that. I’ve met the man once.”

  “He is a good man,” Whelan said. “Kind and decent. Strong in character.”

  “But I want something more. I won’t marry a stranger and simply take my chances.” She smiled. “I haven’t had the greatest fortune with marriage.”

  He stood and walked to his previous seat, taking a nervous swallow from his wine. “If that is your wish, my queen, I will obey it. But if so, you’ll face the unpleasant task of bearing the dark wizard’s child more-or-less openly, or poisoning it like some vile weed.”

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t say that I wouldn’t marry for political reasons, simply not political reasons alone. But what if I were to marry the captain of the Brotherhood of the Thorne, the greatest group of fighting men in all of Mithyl? The other brother of King Daniel. For Balsalom, that might be the best alliance of all.” She watched for his reaction, heart beating swiftly. She rose to her feet and went to the window.

  Whelan watched her in surprise. “Who told you? Ethan?” He followed her to the window. “He said he wouldn’t tell you who I was.”

  “No, Saldibar told me, but he only confirmed what I’d already guessed. There is no reason for you to hide secrets from me. I believe in you and trust you.” She put her hand on his arm and felt him tremble. “Come, Whelan, you know that few things would rally the Brotherhood to Balsalom like an alliance between us.”

  He let her hand linger on his arm before tearing away. “No,” he said. “It is impossible.”

  “I see.”

  He turned quickly, and took her down-turned face in his hands to compel her to see the sincerity in his eyes. “No, my queen, you don’t understand. It is not you. I have dreamed of hearing such words from your mouth. I am disgraced among my order, and hated by my brother, the king. He has sworn to kill me should I ever return to Eriscoba.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You know?” Whelan asked.

  “I have known for three years that Daniel banished one of his brothers. Since it happened, in fact. Once Saldibar told me that you were a brother of the king, I quickly guessed that you were that brother. When I knew you as a boy, you meant to return to Eriscoba, to take Sanctuary to atone for your sins and join the Brotherhood, did you not? And so I guessed that you only returned to Balsalom because you finally told your brother and he banished you in a fit of rage and grief. Did I guess correctly?”

  “You guessed correctly.” He lowered his head for a moment, before picking his glass of wine off the floor and taking another sip. “These things shame me greatly. Even when I suffered in Sanctuary Tower I was still too cowardly to confess to my brother that I had broken his trust.”

  “But King Daniel must also be shamed by his own anger.” Hope rose in Kallia. “He too has suffered from the rift between you. He will welcome you back, I am sure of it.”

  “Even if you guess correctly, there is more than that, my queen,” Whelan said. “There is the Brotherhood itself, the oaths I’ve made.”

  “Oaths of chastity?”

  He shook his head. “No oaths of chastity. But let me explain, Kallia. When Serena and I committed our crimes, we were children who didn’t understand the consequences of our actions. Now I am centered and know my strengths and weaknesses. I must marry a woman with that same knowledge, who also knows the crooked path to the Thorn Tree, the path that Jethro the Martyr walked in his last days.”

  This was a trifling concern. “So I will learn this crooked path.”

  “Kallia, my queen. Almost I believe you. I desperately want to believe you.” He sighed. “Kallia you would do anything, say anything to protect Balsalom. The city is your true love. You have no idea what the path to the Thorn Tree means, or you wouldn’t suggest it so lightly. And my oaths aren’t discarded so lightly, either.”

  Whelan turned to the window. “But I will swear this. If I don’t find my companions today, I will return to Eriscoba and the Free Kingdoms and beg the Knights Temperate to defend Balsalom as if it were the Citadel itself.” He turned to go.

  As Whelan stepped through the doors, she almost stopped him, abdicated her power to follow him on the crooked path, or wherever this man wished to go. For she did not so much wish a political alliance, she realized, as an alliance with Whelan. Alas, she let him go.

  That night, the grand vizier re-anointed Kallia in an official ceremony. Cragyn had taken the Scepter of Balsalom, emblem of Balsalom, wrought from the blackened iron of the star stone, but Saldibar found a diamond tiara with a red ruby at its crest in the vaults below the palace, and placed this on her head. Saldibar lay Mol Khah’s black and crimson helm at her feet and proclaimed her the Jewel of the West, and the Hammer of Veyre. The people crowding the banquet hall, the largest unburned room in the palace, let out a great cheer, hope rising in their faces.

  It was, she thought, much as Whelan had said. A marriage vow between herself and her people. There wasn’t room for anything else.

  The Dark Citadel continues in Book Two: The Free Kingdoms.

  Just released! Book 3: The Golden Griffin.

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  About the Author

  Michael has trekked across the Sahara on a camel, ridden an elephant through a tiger preserve in Southeast Asia, eaten fried guinea pig, and been licked on the head by a skunk. In a previous stage of life he programmed nuclear war simulations, smuggled refugees out of a war zone, and milked cobras for their venom. He speaks Spanish and French and grew up in a religious community in the desert. That last gave him unique insight for his bestselling Righteous Series thrillers.

  SWORD OF THE ARCHON

  SHADER: BOOK ONE

  D. P. PRIOR

  Third Edition, 2013

  ISBN 978-1-61364-492-8

  Copyright © D.P. Prior 2011

  All rights reserved

  The right of D.P. Prior to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be, by way of trade or otherwise, lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form, binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser.

  For Dave,

  Because you always believed in me.

  THE PHILOSOPHER’S EYES

  Sunlight speared through the golden leaves, dappling the loamy earth that sucked at Deacon’s new boots. Scarcely out of their brown paper wrapping, they were already mud-spattered, like those of the troops returning from their clashes with the pirates on the coast. A sweet scent wafted lightly on the breeze, coming from the vining honeysuckle in the hedgerows that marked the bounds of home. Twenty yards from the garden, and you were beneath the roof of oak and alder; thirty and you were in another world. Friston Forest in the autumn was the only place he wanted to be on this day. It would have been perfect if Father hadn’t stayed on at Hallow in case the pirates came back. It was like he didn’t want to be at home. If it wasn’t the reavers, it was rustlers and highwaymen. Why was it everyone else’s dads were home all the time, and his couldn’t even make it back for his birthday?

  Nub y
ipped and was off into the bracken with a waggle of his stumpy tail. Deacon cast a worried look back towards the garden gate and then scoffed. Mom wouldn’t know if he went a bit farther than he was allowed. It wasn’t like she was keeping watch, and anyhow, he was seven now. All the other kids his age went about the forest by themselves; he could hear them laughing and screaming from his bedroom window after they came back from the school house.

  He touched the prayer cord dangling from his belt. That had been Mom’s gift to him on waking; that and the boots that she was going to scold him for now. He fingered one of the knots you were supposed to unpick when you prayed; best way to grow closer to the Lord Nous, she’d told him. The thought flooded him with warmth, quickly replaced by a tinge of guilt. His boots were rooted to the spot, and it wasn’t the mud doing it. He sighed, eyes flicking between the big hedge at the back of the house and the undergrowth the bulldog had disappeared into. It wasn’t just the rule about not wandering off that was worrying him; the tutor was coming today, just like they’d always known he’d come. Seven was the age they’d set, Mom and Father. It wasn’t fair. The other kids got to learn together down in Willingdon. Why did he have to have some old philos… He could never say the word. All he knew was that a man no one had seen for years was to teach him, and that was an end to the matter.

  It was finally Nub’s growl that made the choice for him, and Deacon was off through the thicket, briars snagging at his jerkin, branches whipping back in his face. He ducked beneath an overhang and stepped onto a faded trail. Straight away, his heart lurched and his breaths started to come quick and whistly.