FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Sure enough Benchley poked his head into the room, “You called, Sir?”

  “Yes, thank you Benchley. Do come in,” he entered the room with his usual aplomb. I ignored his impeccable manners and started placing my order, “I need you to go kill me a cow. Not a small one mind, a big fat one. Have it cooked and brought up straight away.”

  He raised an eyebrow, “Certainly sir.”

  “Wait, nix that. Cooking will take too long, just kill it and bring it on up, I’ll have it rare.”

  He nodded and left, cheeky bastard. I had my suspicions that he might not have taken me seriously. Of course I could just as easily have gone down and gotten my own food. My body seemed surprisingly whole, but they didn’t have to know that. Not yet anyway.

  Since I was alone, I took the opportunity to relieve myself. Strictly speaking the chamber pot is for use at night, so you don’t have to make the long walk to the privies, but I was feeling contrary. I also examined my face in the mirror.

  Ugh! I looked like I had a really bad hangover. Too bad I hadn’t actually been drinking. The scar on my cheek was ugly and red, and the skin had obviously been put together a bit sloppily. I can always tell the ladies it’s a dueling scar, I thought. Then I realized it actually was a sword inflicted scar; the events of the previous day seemed almost unreal.

  There was a knock at the door so I hopped back in bed. It wouldn’t do to give away my healthy condition too soon, “Come in!”

  Benchley came in, and as I suspected he had not brought me the cow I had ordered. Instead he had a large tray loaded with roast beef and a variety of fruits and vegetables. “Where’s my cow?” I asked reasonably.

  “I’m afraid the cow was too fast for me sir. I managed to hack this part off before it got away. I do hope it will be satisfactory,” he answered with a deadpan face. I’ll be damned, I thought, he has a sense of humor. I decided to forgive him for cooking it instead of bringing it up raw.

  Benchley left, and Marc came in soon after. “Still playing sick I see,” he remarked.

  He always had known me too well. “After yesterday I think I could use a rest,” I replied.

  “Yesterday? You’ve been abed for almost two days. The attack was three days ago,” he said.

  “Oh,” I replied intelligently.

  Seeing my confusion, he began filling me in on the events after my untimely collapse. Once the enemy had been crisped and starved for air they had searched the bodies. Dorian had taken the extraordinary precaution of hacking Lord Devon’s head from his shoulders. It seems I wasn’t the only paranoid one. They had even burned his corpse, both parts.

  The Duke had rallied the outer garrison and they had swept the castle from top to bottom, rooting out the rest of the assassins. They had actually found another forty men scattered throughout the keep, and some of the fighting had been long and bloody, but in the end the men of Lancaster had won the day. Dorian had gotten more exercise during that, and had made quite a reputation for himself. Some of the men were calling him the ‘Demon of Lancaster’ now. He had been less than merciful to the enemy. He had also been wounded.

  It was just a flesh wound, a dagger through his thigh, but Rose had him in her care now, and she was taking no chances. Apparently she was just as protective of him as Penny had been with me. The family physician was probably still off sulking somewhere.

  Father Tonnsdale was found dead in his study, and it was widely circulated that the assassins had killed him first. Genevieve never mentioned seeing Penny with the iron poker and I’m still not sure if she forgot or if she and Penny had come to an agreement. Women are scary, and I’m probably better off not knowing. Timothy’s body had not been found, and knowing Penny’s story, that worried me some, but I didn’t have a clue what to do about it.

  The teleportation circle that Devon had created was found during the search for assassins. Unfortunately, it was destroyed before I had a chance to study it. I would have given a pretty penny to know how it was constructed. I still had hopes that such things might be found further into Vestrius’ journal.

  All told some thirty seven men and women of the Lancaster household lost their lives, and a considerable number were injured, but it could have been much worse. Close to two hundred assassins had been killed, and if Father Tonnsdale’s plan had been successful the people of Lancaster would have been unable to defend themselves. It would have been a repeat of the slaughter at Cameron Castle sixteen years before.

  Of the noble guests who had come to the Lancaster estate, two were dead. Stephen Airedale was killed during the defense of the great hall. The other was Devon Tremont of course, and there were sure to be repercussions for his actions and his death, although it was far from certain what they would be.

  Gregory Pern proved that his father’s military success was no mere accident, for he acquitted himself admirably during both the defense of the hall and the clean-up action after Devon was killed. James Lancaster wrote Admiral Pern a long letter detailing what had happened and commending him on his son’s bravery.

  Some of the guests stayed for another week after the disaster, to assist as they could, and to be present at the funerals. Rose Hightower stayed for a month, refusing to leave until Dorian was fully recovered. In fact, he could nearly run by the time she left, but we knew there were more reasons for her to stay than just his wound.

  The enemy were stacked and burned beyond the castle walls. Only the bodies of Lancaster were buried, and within two days of the battle. The funeral service was almost a week afterwards. It took time to get the castle back in order, and quite a few people had been wounded. It was held on a small grassy knoll near the cemetery, and everyone still able to walk or hobble attended. James Lancaster gave the eulogy, and because so many had died, it took nearly two hours to finish. He made a point to speak for several minutes about each person that had died. Frankly I was amazed that he had known them all.

  The good Duke was the sort of man who made it a point to know everyone who served him, down to the lowest servant, and he had obviously spent long hours working on his speech. Before it was half done, most of the crowd were misty eyed, those that weren’t already weeping openly. He saved Lord Thornbear for last.

  “Gram Thornbear I have saved ’til now, because I was not sure I would be able to finish if I spoke of him first, for he was my closest friend. In life I knew him from our boyhood days, as a fellow adventurer in childhood pastimes. As a man I respected him as a loyal companion, a loving father, and a wise counselor. In death, I mourn him, for he saved my life and the lives of many standing here now. His action in the brave defense of the great hall was merely the last act in a long life full of service and integrity. Gram Thornbear’s last moments stand out not as an exception, but as an example of how he lived; strong and unbowed by the hardships and trials that cause lesser men to lose their way. He was my first and best friend, and I doubt I shall ever know his like again. We will all miss him.” James Lancaster’s head was bowed as he finished, and I am sure he was crying.

  To see him weeping openly, affected me deeply; for I had never known him to complain or show sadness. My own face was wet as I held Penny’s hand, not daring to look at her, and I vowed to live my life as best I could; to live up to the examples in front of me, Lord Thornbear, James Lancaster, Royce Eldridge, and my own father, whom I had never known. Only time will show whether I succeed or not.Epilogue

  It had been over two weeks now since that dark day at Lancaster Castle, and life was moving on, as it does. I had used some of my new funds to secretly commission an engagement ring for Penny. She had told me it wasn’t important, but Rose assured me privately that if I didn’t get a ring, she would see to it that I suffered painful consequences. I was grateful for the advice, and I’ll stick to that story till I reach my grave.

  We were gathered now in the chapel. I had some misgivings about that, considering Father Tonnsdale’s involvement in the treachery that had nearly killed us all, but the new priest assured everyon
e who would listen that the man had been acting on his own evil impulses, rather than some dark intent given by the Evening Star. I’ll keep my own counsel on that. The books I was studying were rather plain spoken with regards to how far the gods could be trusted. In any case, the young Father Terragant seemed like an earnest and faithful man.

  I stood at the head of the church, directly before the altar. Since this was not a religious ceremony, Duke Lancaster stood before me looking down. Following long tradition, I knelt before him, holding my hands up before me, palm to palm as if praying. It was the ancient position of homage, given before one’s liege-lord. James Lancaster took my hands between his own, and I repeated the oath I had been carefully tutored in, “I swear on my honor that I will, now and in the future, remain faithful to James, Duke of Lancaster, to never cause him harm. I will observe my duty to him completely against all persons, in good faith and without deceit.”

  James answered me, “It is right that those who offer to us unbroken fidelity should be protected by our aid. And since you, a faithful one of ours, have seen fit to swear trust and fidelity to us in our hand, therefore we decree and command that you shall ever be sheltered by us and given succor in time of need.”

  The ceremony of commendation was essentially complete at that point. Naturally the occasion demanded some extra pomp and circumstance, but I won’t bore you with the details. I had spoken with Genevieve before hand, and she and James had agreed to let me add something of my own at the end, while everyone was still together. When my time had come, I stood and addressed the assembled crowd, “While you are all gathered, I have one final and important moment to share with you.”

  Some of the people in the crowd looked at each other questioningly. This hadn’t been mentioned previously, but Marc and Dorian nudged each other knowingly. I stepped down from the dais then, and walked to where Penelope sat in the first row. She had been seated there, even though she had no standing, because the Lancasters already knew of our plans.

  She looked a question at me, obviously concerned that I was about to do something foolish in front of the gathering, but I ignored it. Taking her hands, I drew her to her feet and then went to one knee, “Penelope Cooper, I have never known a lady so noble, lovely and kind as yourself. Will you marry me?”

  She blushed more deeply than I had ever seen her do, “Yes, yes I will marry you Mordecai.” The gathered crowd burst into cheering and applause. As the noise rose in volume, she whispered to me, “Dummy, you still don’t have a ring.” But there were tears in her eyes and her smile would have lit the room, even had it been the dead of night.

  As I looked on her she seemed to glow, and it took me a moment to realize my magesight had returned. The subtle radiance around her shimmered with what I can only assume was happiness.

  A small figure moved through the garden. It had the shape of a small boy, but an observer would note that it moved oddly; some movements too quick, others awkward as if it were unfamiliar with its own body or strength. A full moon lit the landscape, and as the figure turned, its face was clearly recognizable. Timothy smiled at the night and walked on, searching for something to satisfy him. He could sense life in the night, the small shapes of animals moving. They weren’t much, but they would do—for now.

  The Story Continues in… The Line of Illeniel (Mageborn #2)

  © 2011 by Michael G. Manning

  All rights reserved.

  Afterword

  THE BLACKSMITH’S SON WAS MY first venture into the world of fantasy. If you enjoyed this tale then rest assured the story continues. The Mageborn series is five books long and I’ve already finished the beginning of a prequel series, and a sequel series. To continue following the adventures of Mordecai look for the second book, ‘The Line of Illeniel’, it’s available through all major ebook retailers.

  For more information about the Mageborn series check out the author’s Facebook page:

  https://www.facebook.com/MagebornAuthor

  Mageborn Series

  The Blacksmith’s Son (Book #1)

  The Line of Illeniel (Book #2)

  The Archmage Unbound (Book #3)

  The God-Stone War (Book #4)

  The Final Redemption (Book #5)

  Champions of the Dawning Dragons Series

  Thornbear (Book #1)

  To hear about future bundles from Novel Bundles Services sign up to: smarturl.it/novelbundle

  CHOSEN

  K. F. Breene

  Chapter I

  THE NIGHT PRESSED AGAINST THE windows of the small house, so dense it felt solid. The five-year-old girl opened her eyes slowly, allowing sleep to recede. She registered a foreign push against her skull; an overwhelming tension battering at her mental shields. Confused, she opened herself up, trying to figure out what was happening. As if pushed out into a storm, her mind was flooded with emotions—determination, fatigue, sorrow, anxiety, rage—she was nearly dragged under with the explosion of turmoil around her. She stumbled out of bed, calling for her mother.

  “Go back to bed, young Shanti. Your mother has gone to see about something.”

  Putting her hand out, trying to physically block the mental bombardment, Shanti squinted into the darkness, making out her grandmother sitting by the window in the front room.

  “What is going on, Gamma? Why are you afraid?”

  Her grandmother waved her away urgently. “I just had a bad dream, darling. Go back to bed.”

  “But—“

  “GO! Shanti GO!” her grandmother screamed as she bolted upright, grabbing a throwing knife from her belt.

  Startled, Shanti watched as the door burst open, hinges creaking like a ruler bent too far. A large man filled the room, looking around for an attack. Only seeing an aged woman and a little girl, his gaze scanned the room for a threat, stopping on the suit of arms above the fireplace. After a beat, his focus went straight to Shanti.

  Her grandmother sprang to life. One knife was quickly dispatched to the middle of his neck. The man pawed at it feebly, his strength sapping with each spurt of blood. He tripped on nothing, his legs losing purchase. His weight crashed into the wall, falling a moment later as a wet gurgle bubbled out of his mouth.

  Another man pushed into the room behind the first. His gaze snagged on his fallen comrade, limp on the floor. Crouching, he readied for an attack. Seeing the grandmother, knife in hand, ready to throw, he lunged. A thick arm knocked her to the side as her knife found his belly. Her frail body hit the wall and tumbled to the ground.

  Shanti watched as the man staggered, clutching at his stomach. Another knife blossomed in the back of his neck, as Shanti’s grandmother prepared to throw yet another from a crumpled heap on the floor beneath the mantle. The man turned and stabbed downward with his sword, ripping a scream from Shanti’s throat as she watched the blade pierce her grandmother’s chest. He staggered again, not knowing he was dead until he finally slumped against the table. Man and wood went crashing to the ground.

  Blood oozed from her grandmother’s lifeless body, reaching across the ground as if pleading. Pain beat on Shanti’s chest. A whimper turned into a cry. Fear turned her numb. Screams tore at the night around her.

  The overwhelming sensations continued to batter at Shanti’s mind, now mixing with her own tumult. Agony bubbled up, overriding thought. Bright flashes burst behind her eyes, stealing her breath. Then came the rage, tingling her muscles and squeezing out courage. With it came something else. Something harvested from pain, growing and building. A deep well of churning, tortured power.

  Dazed, she walked out of the house brimming with something newly awakened. She sucked in every detail of her surroundings; the flames, the screaming.

  Shanti walked next door on wooden legs to check on Chase and his mother. Chase was the same age, but without the budding gifts. He liked to work with his hands. A builder. His profession was already chosen by his parents. He would be great someday.

  Chase’s door gaped; it had been kicked in. Horrible scream
ing scratched at Shanti’s ears. The never ending beat of emotions in a fever pitch pounded at her mind, making her stagger into the house clutching her head, calling for Chase. Then she saw him, lying on the ground in a puddle of blood, his sightless eyes staring up at her, accusing.

  Further inside the room, two strangers filled the space with their dirty lust. One was trying to lift the limp form of Chase’s mother from the ground. Another man waited, undoing his pants. His gaze swung Shanti’s way.

  “Look, Rune, another one. She’s young, but I’ll take her.” The man started toward Shanti, exposing Chase’s mom’s face, slackened. Dying.

  A white hot light started in Shanti’s gut and grew, rising, filling her with heat. It rose through her body, lighting her blood on fire. It grew within her skull, latched on to the agony, and turned it into rage so hot, so primal, it could only be called the budding of Wrath.

  Power ripped from her body, blinding her momentarily. She clutched the two disgusting minds as her teachers had taught her, holding them within her newly awakened grip. With a shot of power beyond anything the town had seen so far, she stabbed into their minds. The men screamed. Fingers white as they clutched their heads, they sank to the ground in agony.