Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels

by David Dalglish

  “I’m all right,” he rasped, adding in a whisper, “Go away, you ignorant fool.”

  Reaching out with the last vestiges of strength that remained to his spirit, he sought out the residue of magic that had permeated the world since the Reckoning. He’d been aware of it for centuries; he’d known others to use it; been tempted himself.

  The Gray Abbot’s desperation to cling to life guided him, and soon he heard a faint click as his spirit freed itself from the rotting flesh that housed it like a tomb. He soared above Pardes, speeding towards Sarum, spirit eyes darting this way and that searching for a clue that would lead him to the Monas. He would find Callixus, or whatever master he served, and strike a bargain. After all these centuries he’d accumulated much knowledge that would prove beneficial both politically and scientifically. There must be something he could trade in return for the eye of Eingana.

  A dark shape rippled in the sky high above Sarum’s steeples, so high in fact that it seemed to seep between the stars. The Gray Abbot sped towards it, his mind racing with the arguments he would use to secure his continued existence. Once he’d done so, he reasoned, he would devote his life to the faith, see if he could find Ain, rediscover the truth between the lines of the Liber—a truth he’d once sworn to preserve, but had allowed to be perverted by misprision and innovation. The prospect of a godless universe, one in which he was prone to annihilation, was too horrifying to contemplate.

  He drew closer to the shape and slowed down as he saw what it was: a vast hand, blacker than the night sky, gaseous fingers twitching, grasping, questing.

  “Callixus?”

  The hand slammed into the Gray Abbot’s spirit body, the pain visceral, as if his physical form had been crushed by a boulder. Cold fingers tightened around him.

  “You have basked in the power of Eingana.” There was no emotion in the voice. Barely a trace of inflection. The voice of someone he could not make bargains with.

  “The eye was stolen from me.” The Gray Abbot blurted the words out as if telling the truth would make everything all right. “But I can find it for you.”

  “No need,” the voice said in a disinterested monotone. “I will dredge the knowledge from your—what shall we call it? Soul?”

  Spoken with the same condescension the Gray Abbot had used with the dullest of novices. There was no malice in the voice, no relish; merely dispassion.

  As his spirit screamed its last, a peculiar image popped into the Gray Abbot’s mind: a recollection of a school room centuries ago, where he’d stood with other equally curious pupils and watched as the master dissected a cockroach for the purposes of elucidating biology.

  THE MEETING

  Sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven, and break.

  Cadman gave a slight shuffle, glancing about to make sure no one had noticed, and resumed his plod along the great corridor that dominated the fourth floor of Arnbrook House like a clogged aorta. Council staff bustled this way and that leaving him feeling like a rock in a fast-flowing stream, clerks and cleaners swirling around him like rapids, nodding and cow-towing with obvious feigned deference.

  Arnbrook House. He counted off the letters for the umpteenth time whilst still monitoring the number of his steps within a deeper stratum of his mind, and reaching for his cigarette case with the layer beneath consciousness. A-R-N … seventy, seventy-one…

  He emerged from the gaggle of plebs into an antechamber, feeling somewhat like he had as a schoolboy summoned by the headmaster. A young chap slouched on a bench beside the grand oak doors, head in hands, blond locks tumbling about his shoulders and crying out to be trimmed. The lad was armored and wore a white surcoat bearing the Nousian Monas.

  Curious. Though it does lend a certain credence to the rumors surrounding our beloved governor.

  “Afternoon,” he said, touching his forelock in the absence of a hat to tip.

  “G’day.” The youth forced a smile. Looked like he had a broken nose, poor chap.

  Cadman bent closer to examine the stitches. Good grief, what did they use, a knitting needle? “Ernst Cadman, public health advisor to Governor Gen. And you are?”

  The door opened before the fellow could answer and Lallia slid through the gap. She looked a mess, to say the least, but that was nothing unusual. Her chestnut hair was bundled up on top of her head, presumably because she’d not had time to brush it; and her eyes were set in dark cavities.

  “They’re waiting.”

  Seventy-seven steps in all. Two sevens are fourteen and one plus four equals…

  Cadman flipped the cog on his lighter and sucked on the cigarette. “Who’s in there?”

  “Everyone.” Lallia rolled her eyes and opened the door a little wider.

  “Everyone? Never a dull moment, eh?”

  Lallia shoved the door back for him and held up a hand to the youth who had risen from the bench. “Wait here.”

  Oh, the dominance of the woman! Where did Zara Gen find her?

  “Governor Gen!” He gave a little bow as he entered the meeting room, one sweep of his eyes taking in the motley crew assembled around the table. “Master Frayn.” He acknowledged the black-clad guildmaster twirling his oiled mustache. “Gentlemen.” He nodded to a red-faced man in chainmail with a much more manly mustache than Frayn’s, and to a stiff, important-looking weasel with a haughty demeanor, dressed in the yellow robes of an imperial herald. He was already thoroughly familiar with the last person he turned to. “Dr. Stoofley.” Cadman gave his most affable smile to the cachexic old idiot hunched over the table beside Master Frayn.

  Stoofley inclined his ridiculously large head towards him and attempted a smile that was more of a snarl, tufts of cotton-fine hair sticking up on his liver-spotted pate. “Cadman,” he said before looking away, no doubt shutting his eyes and mentally shaking his head.

  Lallia pulled out the chair next to Stoofley and gestured for Cadman to sit.

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said, before adding in a whisper, “Late night?”

  “Dr. Cadman,” Zara Gen’s voice was all business—clipped and perfectly accentuated like an actor’s. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”

  Heads turned at that, but Cadman thought it best to take it in the positive sense in which it wasn’t meant. “Urgent matters require a hasty response. I only wish I could have made it sooner. I assume this meeting concerns the plague?”

  Lallia seated herself beside Zara Gen and picked up a pad and pencil.

  “Amongst other things,” Frayn said, twanging his mustache with a flourish and doing his utmost to maintain eye contact.

  “Quite.” Zara Gen raised a finger. “But the plague is top of my list.”

  Frayn nodded rather too enthusiastically. “Absolutely, Governor. The plague is priority number one.”

  “Too bloody right!” said the herald. “Some of us have messages to carry to a master who will not brook tardiness.”

  “Which is why you have been invited to our emergency meeting, Mr. Torpin. It’s in all our interests to end this plague as soon as possible.” Zara Gen turned to Cadman. “Doctor, this is Dan Torpin, herald to… I’m sorry, who was it again?”

  “Duke Farian, second only to the emperor himself.” Torpin touched his hand to his breast.

  “Honored to meet you,” Cadman said.

  “Likewise, Doctor. Likewise.”

  Stoofley splayed his fingers in a gesture that looked part exasperation and part indignation. “If you’ll excuse me, Governor, I fail to see why it is necessary to have two medical experts on this panel when both Dr. Cadman and I are extremely busy with the sick and dying. I’m sure, if the doctor wants to return to his patients, I will be more than able to speak for both of us.”

  Zara Gen sighed and twiddled with his ponytail—a sure sign he was fuming, Cadman knew from experience.

  “I appreciate your concern, Dr. Stoofley, but there are important differences in the way you two practice that might actually help in this instance.”

  Stoofl
ey gave a sullen nod and picked up his pen, fanning the air and coughing delicately.

  Cadman held up his cigarette. “My apologies, Doctor. Such a disgusting habit. I would put it out only—”

  “Here.” Lallia pushed back her chair and came round the table to snatch the cigarette from him. Cadman thought she was about to stub it out on the carpet, but instead she sauntered over to a window and flicked it outside before returning to her seat with another roll of her eyes.

  Obviously didn’t find what she was looking for last night.

  “Besides the plague and Master Frayn’s little matter,” said Zara Gen, doing his best to avoid Frayn’s look of affront that said his matter was anything but little, “are there any other issues you’d like to table?”

  The ruddy-faced soldier gave a polite cough and leaned forward.

  “Captain Harding?”

  “Just one matter, Governor. A spot of bother at the Arch of Foundation. Ringleader’s outside. Thought you should see him.”

  Zara Gen frowned and took a deep breath. “Thank you, Captain? Anything else? No? Good. Dr. Stoofley, perhaps you could fill everyone in on this blasted plague.”

  Stoofley coughed into his fist and knitted his brows, nodding sagaciously. He left a long enough pause to ensure all eyes were upon him, and just when Zara Gen seemed about to prompt him to get on with it, Stoofley spoke. “One hundred and twenty seven dead…” He paused for effect. “…and by my last reckoning, two hundred and sixty-six in the infirmaries. Perhaps Dr. Cadman will correct me if I’m misinformed.”

  Cadman beamed at him, reached for another cigarette, caught Lallia’s glare and dropped his hand to his lap. “I have absolute faith in your figures, Doctor.”

  Zara Gen put his head in his hands, but only long enough to realize he was doing it. Before the others had noticed, he was leaning forward intently, hawkish face thrust towards Stoofley. “Are we coping?”

  Stoofley sat back and spread his hands. “As soon as the infirmaries fill up they empty again, but not because patients are getting better. The death-carts are collecting night and day, and the grave pits are woefully inadequate.”

  “Excuse my ignorance,” Cadman said in his most affable voice, “but shouldn’t we be burning the bodies?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong—” Stoofley gave an exaggerated sigh. “—but I was under the impression there was a fire ban. The last thing the governor needs,” he gave a sycophantic nod to Zara Gen, “is a bush fire. We’re already stretched to the limit.”

  “Burn them,” Zara Gen said.

  “But—”

  “Dr. Cadman,” Zara Gen turned away from Stoofley, “what is your opinion of this plague?”

  Magic, of course, and if I wasn’t wasting my time at this tedious excuse for a meeting I’d be well on my way to discovering a cure. Not that he was unduly concerned about the victims; the wretches started along the path of decay the moment they were born. Accelerating the process was neither here nor there. But the matter of their dying by the hundreds was turning all eyes towards the source of the pollution—for that’s what it was, not a bacillus. They were like dead fish floating to the surface of a poisoned lake. Sooner or later people would realize the only remedy lay in identifying the contaminant and removing it; and Cadman doubted whether they’d differentiate between the amber pieces of the Statue of Eingana and his own dark craft which they amplified. The side-effects of such a communion had at first been a curiosity, but had now rapidly become a concern. “If Aeterna would open its archives, we’d have it beaten in no time.” That’ll put the cat among the pigeons.

  “Absolute rubbish!” Stoofley was on his feet as if he were going to walk out in protest at such idiocy.

  “Sit down, Doctor!” Zara Gen’s voice pealed out like thunder.

  “But, Governor, must we go through this pointless discussion yet again?” Stoofley said. “It’s utter nonsense; unmitigated madness. There is not the slightest shred of evidence to support the idea that Aeterna has access to the secrets of the Ancients.”

  “The emperor believes the rumors.” Dan Torpin interlaced his fingers on the table-top, eyes widening in surprise that anyone could possibly be challenging Hagalle’s judgment.

  “I… Well, I mean,” Stoofley spluttered.

  “Do you mean to say the emperor has wasted the wealth of Sahul by building up the fleet? Is he responding to a threat that doesn’t exist? Really, Dr. Stoofley, we must deal with this pestilence as quickly as possible so that you can convey the news to him. Perhaps he’ll even allow you to treat his paranoia, if that’s what you think it is.”

  Stoofley resumed his seat, eyes darting around the table for any hint of support.

  Master Frayn gave a condescending laugh and shook his head, turning to Zara Gen as if he expected to see his response mirrored. The Governor ignored him and used unwavering eye contact to ensure everyone knew that it was Cadman he wanted to hear.

  “I must say, gentlemen, I’m a little surprised,” Cadman said. “It’s no secret that I have one or two odds and ends of Aeterna-tech in my surgery. Why, Master Frayn here has seen it put to good use.”

  Frayn nodded absently and then sat up, a hard expression coming over his face.

  “Governor,” Cadman continued, “do you recall the coughing plague amongst the Barraiya Dreamers? Easily eradicated with a simple potion and thus no need for a—What’s the right word? Cull?”

  “Excellent work, for which you’ve been more than rewarded.” Zara Gen swished his ponytail. “But if the solution is as easy this time, why have you done nothing?”

  Cadman spread his hands and sighed. “No more potion.”

  “This is hardly the same as the coughing plague,” Stoofley faced Zara Gen. “The symptoms are quite different: no fluid-filled lungs, no organ failure. I very much doubt the same formula would work in this case. It is my considered—”

  “Do we have the means of procuring the potion?” Zara Gen waved Stoofley to silence.

  Cadman stuck out his bottom lip and shook his head. “Without the right technology the potion couldn’t be analyzed. It’s hard to say what constituted it.” Though I could hazard a guess. “If only we had access to Aeterna’s libraries I’m sure we could build instruments with which to study the bacillus and manufacture a cure.”

  “If only!” Stoofley threw up his hands. “This is all rather spurious. Technology! Bacilluses! Utter rubbish.”

  “Actually, it’s bacilli,” Cadman said. “Don’t they teach Aeternam at med school anymore?”

  Dan Torpin guffawed loudly. “If they did they’d soon have their tongues cut out, eh, Master Frayn.”

  “Oh yes.” Frayn gave a self-satisfied smile.

  “So,” Zara Gen said, “unless we invade Nousia and commandeer the libraries of Aeterna, this idea of a curative potion is about as useful as fairy dust.”

  Cadman leaned forward and tapped his nose with his index finger. “Know thine enemy, Governor; that’s the point I’m making. We may not have the potion, but we do know, from our dealings with the coughing plague, that the cure was aimed at a bacillus: a bacillus that spread through water droplets and other bodily fluids. What we need are masks, gloves, and fires to incinerate any materials that may have come into contact with the plague. We need to isolate the victims and cordon off the areas where there’s been an outbreak. The people,”—bless them—”must be educated in hand hygiene, advised to avoid crowds, and made to wear masks or scarves at all times.”

  Zara Gen nodded at Lallia to make sure she was getting all this down. “And what if it doesn’t work, Doctor? What do we do next?”

  “We burn Sarum, street by street.”

  There was a hushed silence as they considered the enormity of what Cadman was suggesting.

  The poor fools are so desperate they’ll believe anything.

  “Shall we move on to other matters?” Zara Gen said. “Master Frayn?”

  Frayn cracked his knuckles and then hid his hands beneath the tabl
e at the looks he received. “My superiors asked me to raise the matter of the Templum of the Knot, Governor.” Frayn’s eyes flitted to Dan Torpin and back to Zara Gen. Torpin was sitting bolt upright, apparently much more riveted by this turn of conversation than he’d been by the plague. “They feel that our imperially sanctioned work in this respect is being impeded.”

  “Do they now?” Zara Gen scratched underneath his ponytail.

  “Actually,” Torpin said, “this was one of the reasons for my visit.”

  “Was it, indeed?” Zara Gen said.

  “Elsewhere, the Nousian threat has been rooted out,” Torpin said. “The Sicarii have been given free-rein in all the major West Sahulian cities and now, besides a smattering of hermits in the jungles outside Gladelvi, only the Pardes community and your lot remain.”

  “My lot?”

  “Forgive me, Governor. The Templum of the Knot. My master, Duke Farian, has been commissioned by the emperor to bring this project to a close. His Grace is a little concerned about the tardiness of the Sicarii’s work in Sarum. Upon my arrival—” Torpin exchanged looks with Frayn. “—I met with senior guild-members and discovered that they were being hampered in their task by the City Militia.”

  Captain Harding’s face grew a shade redder, but he continued to sit like a statue as if none of this concerned him.

  “There is a time for everything,” Zara Gen said, “and it is my belief that the Templum of the Knot is best left alone right now.” He raised a hand to silence Torpin’s protests. “Dr. Stoofley, do the priests not operate an infirmary for victims of the plague?”

  “They do, Governor, and a very good one, if it might say so.”

  “Is there anything unusual about their infirmary, Doctor?”

  Cadman’s attention pricked at that. He flipped a cigarette into his mouth and let it hang there unlit.

  “Well, Governor,” Stoofley said, “it’s come to my attention that the priests tend the victims without any of the precautions my colleague Dr. Cadman just mentioned, and yet, unlike the nurses at our own hospitals, they do not grow sick.”