Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels Read online

  “They do not,” came a familiar voice from the doorway. Cyrus turned to see a dark elf, axe slung behind him. The familiar smile was not present on the face of Terian Lepos as he crossed from the doorway to the table.

  “I have asked for Terian’s assistance in this matter,” Alaric said, diffusing the surprise around the table. “He is well informed when it comes to the affairs of dragonkin; much more informed than anyone I have ever met.”

  “Yes, I’m still wondering how that is,” Cyrus said with a smile.

  “I’m friends with a few wurms — that’s w-u-r-m,” the dark elf said with a dazzling smile, aimed directly at Vara, who had already opened her mouth to say something and looked crestfallen. “The Scepter of Fire was stolen from them months ago, disappearing at roughly the same time as our old friend Kalam.”

  “What are the odds?” Cyrus said.

  “Very good odds,” Terian said, “when you consider that he was still highly placed in the dragon government, and would have had access to the weapon in question.”

  Andren looked around the table. “So did he have it when we killed him?”

  Terian shrugged. “I don’t know. When I checked his hoard with the other Alliance officers, I didn’t see anything that resembled it.”

  Cyrus froze. “Wait. The Hammer of Earth was traded during an Alliance invasion, the Staff of Death disappeared before or during one, and now possibly the Scepter of Fire? I’m not a big believer in coincidence.”

  Alaric folded his arms and deep creases knotted his forehead. “This does not bode well for the Alliance if someone from within is involved in this plot.”

  Terian snorted. “As though you trusted them to begin with.”

  Vara slammed her fist onto the table. “I have never seen clearer evidence of Goliath’s treachery!”

  “We don’t know for certain that Goliath is involved — or even if any of their members are involved,” Curatio said with alarm. “After all, the Warblade disappeared the night before our strike on Kortran. It could be someone from any of our guilds.”

  Vaste raised an eyebrow, and for the first time Cyrus looked close enough at the troll to realize he had a new scar running down his forehead, a little dash of angry green standing out from the rest of his skin. “Or the entirety of one of the guilds.”

  Alaric looked around the table, trying to meet the eyes of each of them in turn. “Or it could be none of them. I prefer to give them the benefit of the doubt on this occasion.” The paladin cracked his knuckles. “Assigning blame would be pointless at this moment. We need to spend our time and energies on defending the last of the weapons.”

  Vara crossed her arms. “There is a limited amount we can do, is there not? Can we place sentries inside the Citadel?”

  Alaric shook his head. “No. The Council of Twelve is unwilling to let us involve ourselves in their internal security matters. They will not bar us from placing our people outside the Citadel, but neither do they wish us to ‘step on their toes’.”

  Vaste stared at the diorama on the table. “How many people can we place around the Citadel?”

  Curatio answered. “We have about a hundred in Reikonos right now; another fifty from Pharesia once they’re out of jail some time this afternoon,” he added. “We’ve got about fifty or so still back at Sanctuary, trying to get our new prospects up to speed. Which is going slowly because we’re spending so much time on these endeavors.”

  Alaric stared hard at the Citadel model in the middle of the table. “I think I can safely say that regardless of the outcome here we will need those new recruits soon.” His eyes looked up to Curatio across the table. “Old friend, I need you to return to Sanctuary and speed up the training of our new adventurers. Don’t bother to have our comrades that are leaving Pharesia join us here: I want them back at Sanctuary aiding you.”

  Curatio nodded. “I’ll leave immediately.” With a nod from Alaric, the healer cast the return spell and faded away.

  “You’re not giving up on protecting the spear, are you?” Vara asked the Ghost.

  Alaric shook his head. “No, but we are unprepared for the next step and I doubt we’ll need an army here.”

  “What is the next step if we fail to protect Amnis?” Cyrus asked.

  Alaric’s jaw tightened and he remained silent for a long moment. “The next step is facing whoever has these weapons when they make themselves known. And for that,” the knight said with some reluctance, “we will require an army.”

  34

  They debated a course of action until sundown, when Alaric ordered everyone out of the old guildhall and to their stations around the Citadel. Cyrus knelt on a rooftop facing the towering spire. Vaste sat behind him a few feet, as did Andren and Niamh. Vara and J’anda were to either side of him. Cyrus surveyed the streets around the Citadel, his eyes seeing nothing but the city guards and members of Sanctuary. “Thanks for the frost stone,” he said to J’anda. “I wish the moon would come out from behind the clouds.”

  The enchanter nodded. “All the better if it actually helps you see the thief.”

  Vara turned to glare at them. “Maintain silence,” she hissed. “Our success is entirely predicated on the enemy not knowing we’re here, so shut up!”

  “You’d think someone in Pharesia would have thought to station someone on a roof watching their museum,” Vaste said in a low rumble from behind them.

  “High-born elves don’t possess a great deal of what you would call ‘common’ sense,” Andren said between swigs. “They rely on us lowborns to move their society forward while they watch. Amazing they’re still in charge of anything, really.”

  Vara said nothing but Cyrus could see her roll her eyes.

  Long moments passed in silence as the five of them scanned the nearby rooftops. Cyrus looked at the horizon, but the structures of Reikonos created an uneven skyline.

  The Citadel was a spire that reached into the sky with a base as big around as any ten shops, perfectly rounded in structure. It stretched into the air to the height of thirty stories or more, the tallest building in Arkaria. At the top of the Citadel a bulbous expansion jutted out, wider than the tower that supported it, giving it the look of an exceptionally long neck with a rounded head at the top. Cyrus knew from rumor that within the top floors was contained the meeting room for Council of Twelve that ran Reikonos and the Human Confederation.

  “How old is the Citadel?” Vaste said. “It’s so unlike the other buildings in this city and so much taller.”

  “It’s older than Reikonos,” Andren said. “And older than me. The humans built the city around it.”

  “Am I right in thinking that the spear would have to be on the top floors?” Cyrus said, refocusing their attention on the matter at hand.

  Vaste grunted, but Vara answered before the troll could. “Seems likeliest, doesn’t it?”

  Cyrus turned to face them. “If you were going to get someone into the top of that building, how would you do it?”

  A moment of silence preceded the answers. “I’d take a flying mount, like a griffon,” Vaste answered first.

  “Falcon’s Essence,” Niamh said.

  “Invisibility spell.” Andren took the flask out of his mouth to answer.

  “We can see through invisibility, you knucklehead,” Vara shot back.

  “Hopefully we can see someone flying toward the tower or a griffon if it approaches as well,” Cyrus said. “Any other ideas?”

  “An invisible person on an invisible griffon flying toward the tower?” suggested Andren half-seriously. Vara did not respond.

  “If the Citadel were smaller,” J’anda said, “perhaps a rope to climb.” The enchanter looked at the structure. “But I think that even the strongest of warriors would have great difficulty ascending that height without falling.”

  Cyrus looked at the Citadel with skepticism. “I’d have to agree. Any elf, human, dark elf, gnome, dwarf or other race would have a hell of a time climbing a rope to the top.”

/>   They lapsed into silence. Something about that last exchange bothered Cyrus, tickling at the back of his mind. As he was considering it, the moon finally appeared from behind the clouds above them. A glint of something caught his eye in the moonlight. He looked closer. A strand was shining from one of the higher rooftops, leading up to the top floors of the tower and ending at one of the windows. Before he could say anything, a shadowed figure appeared from the window and began to descend in a line toward the rooftop below.

  “There!” Cyrus hissed, finger extended to the rapidly descending shadow. An elongated rod was visible from the silhouette. “Whoever it is, they’ve got the Spear!” Changing his focus to Andren: “Get down to our troops on the street; get the rangers on their bows. Niamh, imbue him!” Without a word the healer ran toward the edge of the rooftop, running off just as Niamh’s spell took hold. “J’anda, see if you can mesmerize—” Cyrus tossed over his shoulder as he and Vara charged over the edge of the rooftop, Vaste and Niamh following on their trail.

  “ALARUM!” came a shout from the street below. “ALARUM!” Lamps were shining up toward them now, and other voices were taking up the cry of, “ALARUM!”

  Cyrus sprinted as hard as he could, legs pumping and feet carrying him forward as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop. He kept his eyes fixed on the silhouette moving down the rope, much more quickly than he could have imagined. He jumped and his hands caught the edge of the last rooftop, pulling himself up as the silhouette reached the end of its crawl. Cyrus drew his sword and heard Vara behind him doing the same. The silhouette unfurled from the rope and a sudden realization filled the warrior’s senses: it was not human-shaped at all. Eight legs set down upon the rooftop and two pincers clicked on the spear they grasped between them as the spider before him evaluated Cyrus. It was half his size and looked damnably familiar.

  Cyrus charged and the spider bolted, crossing the rooftop in the opposite direction, spear clutched between its pincers, slung back over its torso. It slid across to the next rooftop on another thread of silk, and descended another after that, moving so quickly down the thread that Cyrus had difficulty keeping up, leaping from building to building. Vara was breathing heavily at his side, and considerably behind him the panting of Vaste was audible, as was the THUMP whenever the troll jumped to the next building. They crested another rooftop to find the spider descending from a one-story building into an alleyway.

  Eight legs scampered along quickly, and Cyrus jumped to the street, bouncing off a wall and rolling to his feet. The spider turned a corner and dashed into the slums, but cut the corner a bit too short; Vara managed a slice that took off one of the furry legs at the second joint. The arachnid screeched in pain but did not slow.

  “Seven legs to go,” Vara said under her breath.

  “ALARUM!” Cyrus heard shouted behind him as he pounded through the dark of the slums, dodging merchant carts that were closed for the night. The spider was desperate now, and skittered into one of the open plazas in the heart of the slums. A cloaked figure stood waiting, hand extended toward the spider, which raced toward it and threw the Spear of Water from its pincers toward the figure, who caught it deftly and swirled into the magical current of a return spell.

  The spider turned to face them, hissing as he and Vara circled the arachnid. They both attacked at the same time and the spider turned to meet him, driving its large pincers into the joint of his armor as he slammed his sword into its exposed thorax. He let out a grunt as the pain hit him. Searing, it climbed up his side as he drove his blade deeper. His eyes locked on Vara, who was attacking the spider with her sword from behind, taking advantage of Cyrus keeping it pinned in place. Her eyes did not meet his, so focused was she on dismembering the arachnid one slice at a time.

  Cyrus felt his legs buckle and he fell over from the weight of the spider and the pain in his side. He twisted his sword, trying to carve as much damage as he could. The pounding of plated boots to his left ended with an axe and a sword perforating the crawler. He barely felt it when the spider’s pincers relinquished their hold on him and he fell to the ground. Vara was at his side, hand glowing. “It’s all right,” she said, eyes rimmed with concern. Alaric and Terian stood behind her, throwing the spider’s remains off of him.

  Vaste and Niamh rounded the corner then, walking on air, and the healer muttered a few words. The blood stopped flowing from Cyrus’s side, but the pain did not disappear. Vara helped him to his feet and he looked at the dead arachnid with the others.

  “Next time you’re going to do a rooftop chase,” Niamh said, eyes flaring, “wait until I give you Falcon’s Essence first?”

  “Unbelievable,” Vaste said. “We actually catch the thief, in the act of the escape, and it turns out to be a spider.” The troll frowned. “What’s a spider going to do with a weapon forged by the gods?”

  “Not a damned thing,” Terian said, voice bitter. “They can’t even use it.”

  “We saw the spider hand it off to some figure in a cloak,” Vara said breathlessly.

  “Did you get a look at them?” Vaste’s eyes widened in hope.

  “No.” Vara shook her head.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Cyrus said, his face a mask. “I know who’s gathering them now.” His head swiveled to Vara. “Go find our people around the Citadel and get them out of there before we have a repeat of Pharesia. Tell them to meet up with Niamh here within the hour.” He turned to Niamh. “I need you to get us back to Sanctuary immediately: we have preparations to make.” He bit his lip. “It’s going to be much worse than we thought.”

  35

  An hour later Cyrus and the rest of the officers of Sanctuary were seated around the Conference table. Alaric stared at the warrior, fingers steepled in front of him. “Are you finished being dramatic?”

  Cyrus smiled. “You want to know who it is, don’t you?”

  The paladin’s eyebrow raised in amusement. “I do.”

  Vara sat to Alaric’s left, arms on the table. “I’m puzzled as to how you supposedly figured this out.”

  Cyrus looked at the elf, his eyes locked onto hers. “I’m surprised you haven’t.”

  She spread her arms. “Enlighten me.”

  “Remember the day we met?” he asked with a smile.

  She blew air from her lips. “I do. The sun was shining, the trees were swaying in the breeze, sulfur filled the air and I saved your arse from a dragon.”

  “And a horde of spiders,” Niamh said with a note of surprise.

  “Exactly. The Dragonlord was served by a horde of spiders like the one we killed in the slums.” Cyrus leaned forward. “The day we faced Ashan’agar, he offered me whatever I wanted if I would become his servant. He showed me a vision of the Serpent’s Bane, the hilt of my sword along with some of his other treasures. One of them was a flaming staff.”

  “Torris?” Terian said from the end of the table. “So he had it even then?”

  “He did,” Cyrus said. “Kalam gave it to him and was waiting around until Ashan’agar had the other pieces he needed.”

  “I still don’t understand what a dragon is planning to do with all those weapons,” Curatio said with a blank expression. “It’s not as though he can use them, can he?”

  “Not in the physical sense, no,” Cyrus said. “But you were the one who gave me the reason for why Ashan’agar would be collecting them.”

  “I did?” Curatio said with a confused look.

  “You did. Remember when you told us that the godly magic within the weapon could be used to breach the magical barriers that the elves had set up in the Museum of Arms?”

  “Which they did so they could collect the Scimitar of Air.” Curatio nodded. “I still don’t understand.”

  “The barrier,” Terian said in a choked voice. “The one that the dragons erected; the one that keeps Ashan’agar imprisoned.”

  “You got it,” Cyrus said. “Dragon magic versus the essence of the gods — who wins?”

  “That barrier is going
down,” the dark elf murmured.

  “Why would he need more than one of the weapons?” Niamh looked around in confusion. “Wouldn’t one be enough to drop the barrier?”

  Terian shook his head. “Maybe not. Dragons are the longest lived creatures in Arkaria—”

  “With the exception of the elvish old ones,” Niamh teased.

  Terian ignored her. “Their magic is ancient, and Ashan’agar was sealed in by not one but thirty of the wisest and most powerful dragons. Some of the spells they used included charms to warn the dragons should Ashan’agar attempt to breach the barrier. One of the dragons — Ehrgraz — is the chief of their army, and every dragon fears him.”

  “Because he’s afraid one dragon might be warned he puts off his escape by six months until he can collect all the weapons?” Vara looked at Terian with undisguised skepticism.

  Terian looked around the table. “He would have been the first to be warned if Ashan’agar was trying to escape and I promise you that the Dragonlord was trying to avoid confrontation with Ehrgraz. Six months is nothing to a dragon; he would have waited sixty years if it meant being able to escape without facing Ehrgraz.”

  “So the Dragonlord has plotted an escape,” Alaric mused. “What will he do when he reaches the surface?”

  “Without Kalam to act as his herald,” Terian said, suddenly thoughtful, “he’s going to have to go to the southern lands and marshal his loyalists.” The dark knight shrugged. “After that, I would guess his followers will move north and create a new kingdom.”

  “Why wouldn’t he fight for control of Hewat?” Vaste said. “I mean, he was in charge before, wasn’t he?”

  “He was,” Terian said. “But he wasn’t interested in starting a conflict with the other dragons. They don’t war amongst themselves; it’s anathema to them.” He looked around the table. “With a hundred dragons on his side, he could destroy the all the major northern cities and make his own kingdom here.” Terian leaned back. “The only one keeping things in check in the dragon kingdom is their new leader. He’s a moderate in that he’s not totally focused on annihilating all life but dragons.”