FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  I laughed thinking of his predicament, for I knew he was in no serious trouble. Then I felt it behind me, a tight knot of hatred, a man on a horse. He was emanating that sickening purple aura. Devon Tremont was following me cautiously. He was still at a distance, but he was closing steadily, so I picked up speed. I would rather not encounter that unpleasant man on such a fine day.

  Within a minute I knew he had sped up as well, he must be at a full gallop in fact, since he was closing quickly. Let’s see how he handles this then, I thought to myself, and I switched directions, heading to my left. That would put me across Dorian’s path eventually. Assuming that Devon wasn’t able to track me, he would wind up quite some distance from me very quickly. As a precaution, I made sure I had myself completely shielded; I had forgotten to do so earlier that morning.

  Sure enough Devon turned to follow. He must be able to sense me, in much the same way I could sense him. Does that mean he’s a mage also? I had been wondering that since seeing his purplish aura the first time, this seemed to make it even more likely. I kicked my horse, breaking into a full gallop now. If he wanted to catch me, I would lead him a merry chase through the woods. I smiled to myself as the trees raced by, the wind was in my face and I could not help but laugh.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Devon come into sight through the trees, he was bent low over his mount and pressing it for all the speed his horse could muster. He looked serious, which only made me laugh harder, so I gave him a cavalier wave. “Ho! Devon, it seems you want to race!” I shouted back, although I have no clue whether he could make out my words as the wind and trees whipped by me.

  Then I felt something. Something against my shield, pressing, trying to reach my mind. After a moment it was gone, and I laughed even harder knowing that he had failed at whatever he planned. Have I mentioned that I sometimes lack all common sense? Finding his target unreachable, Devon did something I should have expected, if I had been thinking, rather than laughing at him.

  My courser, the beautiful horse that was galloping beneath me, froze. I don’t have a better way to describe it. One moment we were racing the wind, the next every muscle in the poor beast’s body locked up. It went down immediately, legs snapping as it struck the earth like thunder, twisting and rolling. I might have felt sorry for it, but my own problems were nearly as great. Still laughing, I suddenly felt as if a giant hand had plucked me from my seat. As the horse went down, I sailed forward, like some great misshapen bird flying headlong into the trees. I probably would have flown a great distance but for a large oak tree that stopped my forward progress.

  I woke on the ground. Something wet was running down my face, making it hard to see, so I reached up to wipe it off and my hand came away covered in blood. I could hardly breathe. Each shuddering gasp came with stabbing pains in my side; some of my ribs must have been cracked. Miraculously both arms and legs seemed functional, though I could not help but think that if it hadn’t been for my shield I would be dead already. He tried to kill me! That thought ran through my mind, and it seemed extremely important, although I was having trouble remembering why.

  A shadow fell over me, and I looked up. Devon stood over me with a smile so evil I knew he had not tried to kill me. He was there to finish the job. “Grethak!” he spoke, and my body went rigid. I was beginning to understand what my poor horse had gone through and perhaps Penny as well, but I didn’t have time to worry about that. “Poor Mordecai, you really shouldn’t have been riding so fast!” he said.

  In his hands he held a large leather pouch, “And here I was just trying to catch up with you to give you the money I owe!” I was struggling internally now, my lungs were locked, and I could not breathe. Imagine drowning, tied and unable to move, and you’ll be close to the sensation I was experiencing. Nothing worked, and my heart was beating faster and faster, pounding in my ears as my body starved for air. Within my mind I could feel his magic, wrapped like a snake about my brain, paralyzing my movement centers. I tried to pull it loose, but it was difficult, more so because I had no way to speak. Even so, I could eventually have gotten free, with or without words, but I didn’t have that much time.

  Devon was standing over me gloating, but I could no longer hear his words over the loud drumbeat of my heart. I felt a fool as I stared up at him with my eyes bulging. My vision grew dim, and then I could not see at all. Trapped in darkness, I wondered if the next life would be better; this one had been nothing but trouble. At last the darkness left me, and I sank into oblivion.

  Chapter XIV

  FREQUENTLY MISUNDERSTOOD ARE THE GIFTS of those who are sometimes called prophets, or seers. They are thought to be similar in nature to channelers, in that they do not possess a large amount of native aythar, and in many cases they also show little emmittance as well. The visions that frequently haunt them seem to be largely unintentional in nature. Possibly they possess some sort of subconscious sensitivity similar to magesight, but below the threshold of awareness.

  ~Marcus the Heretic,

  On the Nature of Faith and Magic

  Penelope’s shoulders moved steadily, the muscles in her arms tensing and relaxing as she swept the floors. She was young and healthy, and long practice had given her ample stamina for the task, so that she hardly broke a sweat as she worked her way down the long corridor. It was one of those jobs that never seemed to end. By the time you had finished sweeping the entire labyrinth of Lancaster Castle, the floors were dirty again back where you had started. Consequently, the maids had someone sweeping almost constantly as Genevieve Lancaster would not tolerate dirty floors.

  Penny didn’t mind though, the work was steady, and unlike most of her other tasks, she was able to think or daydream without interruption while she swept. Today she was thinking about Mordecai. She had watched him that morning as he had ridden out with the hunting party. Tall and slim, the riding leathers had looked uncommonly good on him, accented by his dark hair and bright eyes. To be so good looking and so stupid at the same time, she thought to herself. Their conversation the night before had upset her, and she was still angry with him. She kept telling herself that, but she just didn’t feel it. In all honesty, as she thought back, she was more ashamed and embarrassed than anything else.

  When he said he knew what had happened... I just couldn’t bear it, she realized. Obviously Devon had been bragging, and so bold that he had even told Mort. And he was upset that Devon had called him a blacksmith! She knew Mordecai wasn’t as insensitive as that; he hadn’t meant it that way. Yet to tell her that he knew what had been done to her, and then say something else was more important? “What the hell could he have wanted to tell me then?” she said aloud to herself. Now that she had slept and her mind was clear, she could see that something had been bothering him, something important.

  She kept sweeping, letting the rhythmic movement of her body relax her mind. She drifted, daydreaming as she worked, but Mordecai kept returning to her mind, until finally she saw him, as he must be now. He was riding hard, driving his horse through sparse woods and past large oaks. The sun was shining on his face, lighting his eyes like sapphires while he laughed and rode on. He looked over his shoulder to see something, and then he was flying. The horse fell, and she could see that it would never recover from such a fall. Mort flew from the courser’s back at the speed of a full gallop and went head first into the trunk of a large oak.

  The force had been so great his head had sheared the bark from the tree where it struck. His body lay on the ground, blood running from his nose and mouth. He must surely be dead, yet even at that thought, new hope arose. His eyes fluttered, and she could see his chest heaving as he fought to draw air. The wind had been knocked out of him, or perhaps his ribs were broken, in either case it was a miracle he was alive. No one should survive such a blow. No one could survive such a blow. Magic! she thought, and she knew it had to be true.

  Then she saw Devon Tremont approaching. He had dismounted and was walking up with a sinister gleam in his eye. He
stopped when he reached Mordecai, and she saw him speak, gloating over his fallen foe. Mordecai went rigid, and his face began to turn red, while in the background Penny could hear a woman screaming, a raw ragged sound. The voice of someone beyond hope, someone with nothing left but one long note of despair rising up from the depths of their soul. Finally she realized it was her own voice.

  Someone was shaking her, “Snap out of it! Penny! What’s wrong?!” Her eyes focused on the face of Ariadne Lancaster. She was staring at Penny with a worried look.

  “He’s dead, he’s dead! Oh gods, I saw this before! Why? Why didn’t I tell him?” Penny was beyond distraught now. “Devon’s killed Mordecai.” The words fell from her mouth like dead leaves in autumn, dry and empty.

  “Penny you’re dreaming. You’re in the hall. Mordecai isn’t here. He’s out hunting; everything is fine.” Ariadne tried to calm her down.

  “I have to go—do you know where Lady Rose is? She’ll know what to do, please Ariadne, you have to help me.” Something in her eyes must have gotten through to the younger woman, because she answered her without further questions.

  “She was in the parlor just a moment ago, taking tea with mother and Elizabeth,” she replied. “I don’t understand what’s wrong though...”

  Penny was already running, and she reached the Duchess’ parlor well ahead of the younger girl. Without pausing to knock, she burst in, something she normally would not have dared to do. Inside she found Lady Rose sipping tea with Genevieve Lancaster and Elizabeth Balistair. They looked up in alarm at her sudden intrusion. The Duchess spoke first, “Penny, you really should knock before you come bursting in...”

  Rose laid a hand on her arm, “Wait Genevieve, something is wrong.”

  Penny shook her head, “Yes, yes, Your Grace, might I have a word with Lady Rose?”

  Genevieve nodded, clearly annoyed, but she kept her peace. Rose stepped out into the hallway with Penny. “What’s the matter dear?” She sounded calm, but she could sense Penny’s desperation. Sparing few words, Penny described what she had seen, including the fact that this was not her first vision of the event.

  “You don’t think this could be a dream? Or a moment’s fancy?” Rose asked.

  “No, it’s real. I can’t explain how I know, I just do. It’s happening right now!” Penny was close to tears.

  “Come then, there isn’t any time.” One remarkable thing about Rose Hightower was her ability to judge people, and she knew beyond doubt that what might be happening was deadly serious. She hurried down the corridors with Penny, all thought of stately manners forgotten, until shockingly, she hiked up her dress like a common maid and ran, long legs moving with surprising speed. Penny was hard pressed to keep up with her, and she considered herself a fair runner.

  They reached the stables in record time and scared one of the young grooms half to death when they threw the doors open. “Pardon, milady!” he cried, unsure what to think.

  “I need two horses now.” Rose said in a tone that brooked no argument. One could hardly tell she had, but a moment before, been running like a dairy maid late to milk the cows.

  “Certainly ma’am,” he promptly answered and headed for where the palfreys were in their stalls.

  “Not some placid mare, dolt! I need fast horses. Are any of the coursers left?” Rose barely raised her voice, but she sounded as if she were shouting all the same. Long minutes later, they were riding out the gate. Rose pulled up for a moment and looked at Penny, “Which way?”

  Without thinking, Penny pointed, “That way, almost a mile off...” At this point she didn’t even care how she knew; she just needed to find him.

  Some distance from them Dorian Thornbear was riding through the trees. He had heard a loud noise, and now there was the sound of a horse screaming in fear and pain. He nudged his mount to a faster pace and soon came into sight of the dying animal. It was lying on its side, feebly kicking with broken legs. He looked for the rider and spotted Devon Tremont nearby, standing over the fallen rider. He looked positively ominous. That was Mort’s horse! he thought to himself.

  Kicking his horse into a gallop, he reached the spot in less than a minute. He might almost have thought Devon was there to help his fallen friend, but the man was standing quietly without moving to do anything. Then Devon noticed him, and his face twisted into a grimace, angry at being interrupted. Dorian could see Mort on the ground, his face red as he slowly suffocated. Without a second thought, Dorian drew his sword and leapt from his horse before it had even come to a stop.

  Devon Tremont looked at him and lifted his hand, “Grethak,” he said, in some language Dorian did not recognize, but the warrior paid him no heed. Dorian came at him like a berserker from the legends, his face terrible to behold, and the young lord knew fear, for his spell had completely failed. He might have tried another, something more potent, but Dorian was on him already, sword sweeping out to remove his head. Quick as he was, Devon had his own sword out and stopped the stroke before it ended his life.

  The exchange that followed was brief. Dorian pressed him back, raining blows upon him with a speed and fury that Devon had never encountered. Despairing, he threw up his hands, “Wait! If you kill me he will die!” Lightning quick, Dorian struck the sword from his hand and had his blade against the other man’s throat.

  “If he dies, you will follow,” the words grated from his throat like gravel, the sword pressing so hard against Devon’s neck that blood sprang up from the wounded skin.

  “I was only trying to help. Let me try something, and it may save him!” Devon’s eyes were wide with fear. He could see his death in the other man’s eyes.

  Dorian’s sword never moved. Instead he moved closer, and grabbing the young lord by the neck, he forced him to his knees alongside Mordecai’s now still form. “Save him now, or your head will join his upon the ground.” Without raising his voice, he radiated such violent intent that it would have chilled the heart of even a hardened killer.

  Devon reached out to Mordecai, but Dorian jerked his head back roughly, “Betray me now, and you won’t live past your next breath.”

  “I need to touch him, to get him breathing.” Devon was desperate with fear now, for he knew time was short, and the man holding him would kill him if Mordecai failed to recover.

  Dorian nodded and Devon reached out again, “Keltis,” he said, and Mordecai’s body went limp, yet still he did not breathe.

  “What did you do?!” Dorian kicked the other man sending him sprawling. Raising his sword he made ready to cleave the traitor’s head from his shoulders.

  “Dorian no!” it was a woman’s voice, but Dorian didn’t care. He would have blood for his friend’s life. A small hand reached for his arm, to stay his strike. Without thought, he swatted the hand away, backhanding the one who sought to stop him, and then his eyes saw Rose Hightower falling back. That stopped him, and he saw her reach up to wipe the blood from her lip. His rage left him, as shock at what he had done brought him to himself.

  “I was trying to help him—before this idiot brute attacked me!” Devon never managed to stay silent for long. Even now he was regaining his feet.

  Rose spat at him, “Silence fool! You think your lies will be heard here? Count yourself lucky I stopped this man, else your head would be parted from your shoulders. Even so, I would not have saved you if I did not fear a good and honest man might hang for your murder.” Rose Hightower drew herself up and looked at Dorian.

  “Gods! Rose! I’m so sorry! I never meant to hurt you. Never! Not for the world!” Dorian’s eyes were wild with grief, and he saw Penny kneeling next to his fallen friend. “He’s dead, Penny. He’s dead, and that bastard did it—I swear!” He raised his sword again, pointing it toward Devon Tremont, a growl rising in his throat.

  Rose Hightower was having none of it, and she flung herself at Dorian, a flurry of skirts and hair whipping around her. “Stop it you stupid, stupid man! Goddammit Dorian, I won’t let you throw your life aside like some
cheap token.” She was a tall woman, but Dorian Thornbear was a mountain of a man, still she climbed him like a furious cat, striking him with her fists.

  Astonished, Dorian stopped. During his year in Albamarl, he had never touched Rose, and their only words had been the measured speech of polite society. Now she was hanging from him like some maddened wild creature—a more absurd picture he could not have imagined. He had a sudden urge to kiss her but suppressed it immediately. “Lady, I think perhaps we are both overwrought,” he said, as he began to disentangle himself. He managed to get her back on her feet, but Rose steadfastly refused to let go of him, and he no longer had the will to force her.

  Penny was on the ground, her hands on Mordecai’s chest, gripping his shirt, “Live damn you! You can’t be dead. We still have too much to say,” her tears left wet spots on the cloth of his shirt. The pain and sorrow were too much for her, and without pausing to consider she leaned down to kiss him, ignoring the blood staining his face. She laid her head on his chest while her world unraveled, the only man she had ever cared for lay dead, and she was to blame. Then she heard his heart, beating slowly. “He’s alive!”

  Silence reigned for a moment as everyone took in what she had said. “He’s alive I said! Someone get help, we need to get him back to the keep!” Her eyes flashed, “You!” She pointed at Devon, “Get someone, get everyone... go!”

  “I’ll go,” said Rose, but Penny forestalled her with a raised hand.

  “No, I need you here, and I don’t trust him without Dorian here,” she replied. Soon enough, Devon was on his horse, angry at being ordered about but fearful of Dorian’s response, should he balk at her commands. He rode off quickly and headed for Lancaster Castle.