Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels Read online

  Orion nodded agreement. “I understand. I have a proposition for you.”

  “The sleeplessness from your last proposition has yet to fade.”

  The ranger laughed. “Hopefully this will ease your sleeplessness. I propose you join our army in battle so you can meet the rest of the guild and see what we’re all about.”

  “You’d permit that? I would accept.”

  “Great! When and where are we going?” A voice from behind startled them both. Narstron stood behind them, rubbing his hands together.

  “Kortran, the City of the Titans — tomorrow evening. We’ll meet you inside the gates. It’s in the southern lands, in the valley at the south end of the Gradsden Savanna.” Orion walked up the raised steps to the fountain in the square. Another spell caster, an elven woman in red robes sat on the edge of the fountain, awaiting him. She stood up and joined him as Orion smiled down at them. “You won’t regret this.”

  Watching the ranger vanish in a burst of blue light as the magics engulfed him, Cyrus could only hope he was right.

  6

  It was hot on the savanna. Even with the sun setting it was much warmer than the slums in Reikonos that they had left hours earlier. Cyrus and Narstron had crept away from the guildhall at the noon hour while Andren was still passed out. He had handed a wizard in the square fourteen bronze pieces to teleport them to the Gradsden Savanna. They had walked through the tall grass all afternoon, working their way toward Kortran, which was nestled in a valley where the savanna gave way to impassable mountains.

  Narstron did a surprisingly good job of cutting through the grass that barely stretched above Cyrus’s navel. Though he would never admit it, he was pacing himself so he didn’t leave Narstron behind. After a few more minutes they reached a large rock and crouched behind it. Before them, a mammoth stone arch stood as a protective gate in front of a pass leading down into the valley.

  “Gods, it is massive,” Cyrus breathed. “It’s the height of forty humans — or fifty elves — or eight hundred and seventy three dwarves.”

  Narstron let the remark pass. “It’s not the height of the arches that has me concerned — it’s the size of the titans guarding them.”

  Cy’s eyes moved down from the top of the archway to the bottom and found two titans, at least twenty feet tall, stationed as sentries. He and Narstron crept forward, coming to rest and hiding behind the last clump of bushes between them and the titans.

  “And in terms of a plan?” Cyrus looked at Narstron.

  Taken aback, Narstron pondered before his reply. “Charge?”

  A flash of irritation crossed Cyrus’s brow. “No healer. Brilliant thinking; typical of you.”

  “Got a better idea?”

  “Where are we meeting them again?”

  “Inside the gates.”

  “Damn.”

  “Indeed.” Shaking his craggy head, a shout echoed forth from him. “‘Lo, Sanctuary, where are ye?!”

  Cy’s stomach dropped — a sick feeling, made worse by the sight of two titans turning their heads to fix upon them. Their eyes burned with the fire of a killer about to destroy a helpless victim. Cyrus followed his stomach immediately, dropping to both knees behind the bushes.

  Narstron lingered, head sticking out of cover. “No need to hide; they’ve seen us.”

  A roll of the eyes, a breath of exasperation, and the sound of his sword being drawn — steel on scabbard, instinctively in his hand — all these sensations passed in a moment. A moment which was cut short by the war cry of the sentries charging toward them.

  “Bugger.” Cy tensed. Not one to run from a fight, he prepared himself mentally for the impending possibility of death. Leaping from behind the cover of the bushes, he followed Narstron, already a half dozen steps ahead of him, moving toward the titans.

  Roots suddenly sprung from beneath the earth, as though the grass had grown rapidly around them, entangling the feet of both titans, holding them in place. Arrows rained upon them and a bolt of lightning struck both of them from out of the clear sky. They were easy prey for the warriors when they reached them.

  When both were on the ground, dead, Cyrus looked up to find Selene, Orion and Niamh standing behind the stone archway. “That’s the problem with warriors,” Orion chuckled. “No subtlety. Haven’t you boys ever heard of an invisibility spell?”

  “I can’t cast spells.” Cyrus looked up as he closed the distance between them, Narstron in tow.

  “You’re injured, Cy.” Selene looked on with concern when they had reached the archway. A faint trickle of blood ran down the armor on his wrist where one of the titans had grazed him.

  “Flesh wound.”

  She tut-tutted at him in a very matronly way, and murmured an incantation under her breath. He felt a healing wind cross his arm, and the blood stopped, flesh bound and made whole.

  “Good timing.” Niamh’s red hair blew in the hot wind. “What was your plan if we hadn’t been here to save your sorry asses?”

  “I don’t think you just saved our asses on that one, Niamh.” Cy blinked. “I’m pretty sure they would have chopped up the whole of us.”

  “Yeah, but you’re all ass, all over, so…” She smirked.

  They chuckled. “Come on,” Orion called out, “we heard you shout from the meeting point. The rest of the guild is waiting.” They hurried under the archway down the path to the valley beyond.

  Cyrus breathed deeply as he trotted along; the air was slightly cooler as they began their descent into the valley. Boulders obscured the road ahead until they came to a point where the path widened. Adventurers were assembled throughout the area.

  Almost eight feet tall, a troll stood in the midst of a group of elves, dwarves and humans. Cyrus’s sword was immediately unsheathed and in his hands, watching. Clad in a black tunic that clashed with his green skin and carrying a staff that glowed with mystical power, the troll was lounging against a rock. Cyrus forced a steely calm over himself.

  Orion, sensing a tense moment, placed a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder. “It’s okay: he’s one of us.”

  Cyrus’s jaw unclenched. “Do you regularly associate with trolls?”

  “Vaste is different.” Orion paused for a minute. “You were too young to be in the war.”

  Cyrus’s eyes were cold. “You’re right; the war with the trolls was going on when I was a child. But my father died in the Dismal Swamp campaign. I don’t even remember him. My mother raised me on tales of what the trolls did until she died.”

  “I assure you that Vaste was not in the war; he’s younger than you are. Nor is he your typical troll; he’s a healer.

  “I thought trolls were too stupid to use magic.”

  “A common misperception. That’s a rumor that spread during the war. Most trolls don’t know how to use magic because it’s a lost art among their people.” Orion looked at the black clad troll. “In fact, Vaste is considered an outcast among his people. They don’t much like the ways of outsiders — the trolls that survived the war are a tightly cloistered community.”

  A long pause filled the air between them. “That’s all right,” Cyrus said. “Us ‘outsiders’ don’t care for their ways either — slaving and banditry.”

  Orion raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not going to try and convince you that the empire of the trolls hasn’t done those things. All I’m telling you is that Vaste is different.”

  Cyrus resheathed his sword. “We’ll see.”

  “Most gracious of you,” came a familiar voice from behind him. “I can only hope you are as kind toward others — say, orphans and stray dogs.” Vara brushed past him to stand next to Orion. “If not, I fear you’ll be devoured by a puppy while trying to figure out which end of your sword is to be used for best results.” Her gaze was cold and her voice reflected it. The armor still shone, but today her long blond hair was worn in a severe bun atop her head.

  “So nice to see you again, m’lady,” Narstron said with sarcasm.

&
nbsp; “I’m sorry,” Vara said, looking from left to right with exaggerated emphasis. “I hear someone talking, but I can’t see them.” She looked down and her face registered faked shock, lips forming a perfect o. “Oh, look, a street urchin.” She reached down to pat him on the head. “Well, it looks as though you’re getting plenty to eat.”

  Narstron scowled at her.

  Vara turned back to Orion. “Now that the stragglers are here,” she looked pointedly at Narstron but did not acknowledge Cyrus, “we’re quite ready, whenever you are.”

  Cyrus’s eyes looked around the adventurers. He studied the troll named Vaste, watching his posture, seeing how he interacted with the elves around him. Most trolls, even the half dozen or so that were permitted in Reikonos, looked hostile, tense and barely restrained. This one did not. He was calm and even laughed at a joke that one of the elves had made. Cyrus watched as Vaste threw in a witticism of his own and the group roared with laughter.

  Cyrus’s gaze turned to another small cluster of Sanctuary’s adventurers. In the group was a dark elf, his hair black and skin a deep navy. He wore armor that while not as blackened as Cyrus’s, had seen fair use. A battle axe was slung across his back, and he sported a half-serious look. He stood next to an elven man who could be described in no other way but radiant — his platinum hair was cropped short and he had the markings of a healer.

  On the elf’s right was a much younger looking elven woman, who wore robes of deepest crimson. Her laugh was airy and loud. The last hole in their circle was filled by someone too short for Cyrus to see at first. As he strained his neck to look around the red-robed elven woman, he caught sight of a gnome, with a dark blue robe that hung perfectly on his tiny frame.

  Orion broke Cyrus’s preoccupation. “Why don’t you introduce yourselves around? We’ll be moving in a few minutes, but we’ve got things to plan first.”

  “Yes,” Vara added, “do hurry along, and we’ll let you know when we’re ready for you to poke at something with those dull and rusty farm implements.” She waved her hand at their swords.

  Orion shook his head. “Can’t you be nice to anyone?”

  She pursed her lips as Cyrus turned from her and walked toward the group he had been observing. “I’m nice enough to you, aren’t I?” Orion cleared his throat. “Well,” Vara said, “I haven’t impaled you yet, so count your blessings.”

  “Just once,” Narstron muttered, “I’d like to meet a paladin that’s not so self-righteous and full of themselves, so focused on their ‘holy crusade’ — whatever that may be — that they’d ignore someone dying in the street as they passed.”

  Cyrus was befuddled. “Paladin?”

  “Tell me you’re joking. Paladin? White knight? Holy crusader?”

  Cyrus shrugged. “If they didn’t teach it at the Society of Arms, I didn’t learn it.”

  “They’re like you. They use one sword — but unlike you, they can also use magic. They can heal a little bit, mend some wounds; not as well or quickly as a healer, mind you, but well enough to get themselves out of a scrape.”

  “So what? They can use a sword and a little bit of magic.”

  “It’s a lethal combination.” Narstron locked his eyes on Cyrus. “You land a deadly sword thrust, impaling your foe. What happens if they’re a warrior like us?”

  “They’re dead unless a healer is backing them up.”

  “Exactly. But a paladin,” Narstron’s eyes glinted, “they take a couple steps back, cast a spell and knit the wound up, and they’re back at it a moment later, until they run you through.” He gestured pointedly, miming the motion of stabbing Cyrus.

  Cyrus’s eyes narrowed. “What made them so damned special to be able to use magic?”

  The dwarf shrugged. “What makes anyone able to use magic? You’ve either got it or you don’t. And if you do, they send you the Leagues.”

  “What are the Leagues?” Cyrus frowned.

  “Like ours is the Society of Arms, the organization that teaches adventurers their trades. Theirs is called the Holy Brethren. Paladins use their magic and swordplay for their cause, which is personal to each of them — like saving the poor, or protecting the downtrodden or freeing the slaves.”

  “Sounds kind of silly.”

  “Yeah. And they always worship one of the ‘good’ gods, like the Goddess of Love, or the Goddess of Life. They have a code of honor. For example, your foe turns his back to you — do you strike?”

  “Damned right you do.” Cyrus nodded. “It’s the best time; they can’t hit you back.”

  Narstron shook his head. “See, a paladin won’t do that. It’s not ‘honorable’.”

  Cyrus nodded his understanding. As he and Narstron approached the group of adventurers, the radiant elven man turned to face them and beamed at them with a dazzling smile. “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to welcome you to our band today,” he said in a tone that indicated he wholeheartedly meant it. He took Cyrus’s hand in a firm but warm handshake.

  “My name,” the elf began, “is Curatio Soulmender, and I am the chief healer of Sanctuary, and one of the guild’s officers.” He favored them with a look that was as close to opposite of Vara’s normal expression as could be found. “Let me introduce you to some of our compatriots.”

  He turned first to the dark elf with a sweeping gesture. “This is Terian Lepos. He is Sanctuary’s sole dark knight.”

  “A dark knight?” Cyrus said with a start. “Kind of the opposite of a paladin?” He looked to Narstron for guidance.

  “Quite right. Dark knights use treachery, black magics and serve ‘evil’ gods.” Narstron looked at Lepos almost apologetically. “Sanctuary seems like a rather noble outfit to employ a dark knight.”

  “We may serve ‘evil’ gods, by your definition,” Terian said with dark eyes fixed on Narstron. “But I try to restrict my activities to conform to Sanctuary’s code of honor.”

  “Really?” The dwarf’s eyes widened. “I thought dark knights were into soul draining, life sucking and backstabbing.”

  “I haven’t done any of those things… today.” Terian smiled.

  “I faced a dark knight once,” Cyrus said with sudden realization.

  Lepos raised an eyebrow. “You’re still alive, so I presume you either had help in the battle or you met a very poor dark knight.”

  Red flushed the warrior’s cheeks. “I did have help and you’re right,” he acknowledged with only a trace of shame. “If I hadn’t been with a healer, the dark knight I ran across — a bandit — would have killed me.” Cyrus’s eyes narrowed at the memory. “He cast a spell while we were fighting and it literally tore the breath out of me. I nearly passed out from the pain.”

  Another slight smile appeared on Terian’s face. “He used an incantation that stole a bit of your vitality — your life or your soul, depending on how you view it. It’s a useful spell; it’s kept me alive a time or two.”

  Narstron nodded. “I need something like that.”

  Terian threw his head back and cackled before replying. “Do you need it badly enough that you’re ready to initiate a soul sacrifice with Mortus, the God of Death, or Yartraak, the God of Darkness?”

  The dwarf’s eyes widened. “Perhaps not that badly.”

  Lepos had a smile of mirth on his face but said nothing as the lady elf in the crimson robes spoke up. “Don’t mind Terian. He’s a bit… prideful. My name is Nyad Spiritcaster.”

  Cyrus took her hand and alternated between looking at her and Curatio. “I had always heard that elves don’t have surnames.”

  Nyad laughed. “That’s the effects of humans on us. We don’t have surnames — not in proper elvish society. However,” she explained, “I left Pharesia, the elven capital, when I first struck out on my own as a young elven woman of one hundred and eight—”

  “One hundred and eight?” Cyrus echoed in astonishment. “I’d heard elves were long-lived, but I didn’t really know how long-lived.”

  “Most elves live s
everal millenia.” Nyad continued, “I left Pharesia, a place where elven culture is very strict and where there isn’t much influence from the outside world. No elf in Pharesia would even think of having a last name!” she said with a conspiratorial chuckle. “However, have you heard of Termina?”

  Cyrus nodded. “Andren told me about it. It’s a massive elven city on the river Perda southwest of Reikonos.”

  “It’s at the very edge of the Elven Kingdom, and while our capital is still very much in line with our caste system, Termina is a place where elven norms become a bit murkier. It was there I picked up my surname. Most elves who have lived in Termina have done the same. It’s quite trendy, and it makes it easier to relate to offlanders…” She coughed. “Excuse me, non-elves.”

  “I’ve heard stories about Termina.” Cyrus chose his words carefully. “I’ve heard that in the kingdom an elven woman would never look at an outsider or a member of a lower caste for fear that she would lose status.” He thought about it for a moment. “Which would actually explain Vara. But in Termina it’s supposed to be different…”

  “It is,” Nyad nodded. “The kingdom is very caste driven. Marrying or bedding an outsider would drop your status in the eyes of everyone. If a high-born elf and a low-born elf were to become involved, the high-born would lose significant face. In Termina, however, anything can happen. And does.”

  “But,” Narstron asked, “isn’t Termina part of the Elven Kingdom? Ruled by that massive royal family of yours?”

  Nyad blushed deeply, the color of her robes. “Of mine?” she asked in a pitch above her normal conversational tone. “I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered.

  Narstron studied her with a raised eyebrow, aware that he had touched a nerve. “Of your kingdom,” he clarified. Cyrus looked at Curatio to gauge his reaction, but the healer’s expression was guarded. Terian, on the other hand, looked highly amused.

  “Yes, the royal family rules Termina.” She paused for a moment and composed herself. “Pharesia has been the capital of the Elven Kingdom since its founding, long before humankind was around. Since the rise of Reikonos, and the growing trade with offlanders, that commerce has become vital to our economy. Without Termina, the Elven Kingdom would fall within a year.”