FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “This will be a night to remember,” he said with a grin.

  Abram nodded. “But do not forget, these are times of war, and a pair such as we may look slightly suspicious. Most outsiders coming to the celebration have done so in great numbers. It is not often men travel alone these days, so act naturally.”

  Whill laughed nervously. “I was acting naturally until that bit of advice, thank you.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll do the talking.” He slapped Whill on the back.

  Upon reaching the gate, four guards on horseback approached Whill and Abram. They were fully armored, with swords at their sides and shields in hand.

  “What is your business?” asked the guard closest to them.

  “The celebration, of course,” answered Abram with a smile. “We also hope to sell these here hides.”

  The guard looked suspicious. “Not much of a cargo for traders.”

  “We are not traders, so to speak; we were actually attacked by these rascals last night. Luckily we escaped with our lives, though my horse was not so fortunate.”

  The guard looked them over closely. “You must be great fighters to take down so many wolves without harm to yourselves,” he said in a skeptical tone.

  Whill had the urge to ask if they would like to find out, but held his tongue. Abram gave a small laugh. “Oh, they drew blood, friend, but not enough. Great fighters we are not, but a man must know how to defend himself these days. We are simple men who only wish to enjoy your great city. That is all.”

  Not looking completely satisfied, the guard, nevertheless, said, “Go ahead.”

  Abram nodded. “Good day.”

  Upon entering the city, Whill saw more people than he had ever seen at once. The city was alive with the excitement of the celebration. Crowds filled every street. Already there were booths set up and people digging in their pockets to buy a trinket or treasure. Many women gazed longingly at fine silk and jewelry. Men tested the weight of a blade or looked over various tools. Children ran wild, candies in hand, chasing each other with gleeful laughter.

  The city was shaped in a half circle with the wall spanning its entirety. It consisted of mostly stone buildings, with the exception of a few wooden houses here and there. Twenty streets arched throughout the city. One main street ran the length of it from gate to ocean wall, effectively splitting the city into two parts.

  “Follow the main road for a while, then turn left onto Third Street. I know of a good place to find drink and lodging,” said Abram. Soon they came to a beautiful, two-story stone building with finely carved windows.

  Abram told Whill to stop and dismounted with a groan. A boy of about ten with shoulder-length blond hair ran up to them. “Welcome to Ocean Mist. Will you be needing a room tonight?”

  “In fact we will, young lad. What is the price?”

  The boy lit up. “You’re in luck, we have a few rooms left for only ten coins a night.”

  Abram scowled. “Hmm. That is a little steep, is it not?”

  The boy gestured toward the crowd. “Well, you can look around if you want, but you’ll not find better quality for your money, and when you return you’re sure to find us booked.”

  “A born businessman, eh? What is your name, lad?”

  The boy gave a slight bow. “I am Tarren. My father is the innkeeper.”

  “Well, Tarren, see to it that our horse finds a stable and our belongings are not touched, and there will be more of these for you.” He tossed him a coin.

  The boy looked at the silver with glee. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir, I will, sir!” He led the horse to the stables.

  Whill followed Abram inside. The main room was a large tavern with a bar extending the length of the back wall. A staircase wound its way up and over the bar on both sides of the room, leading to the living quarters. They went to the bar and sat down. After guzzling two tall beers, they banged the cups together and said, “Lelemendela”—in Elvish, “to life.”

  Whill wiped the foam from his mouth with his sleeve. “It’s been a while since we could do that.”

  “Too long.”

  After two more beers, hot stew, and fresh bread, they were feeling the effects of their long night. The bartender gave them keys to their room and accepted a fine tip. They made their way upstairs and were pleased to find a full water basin, fresh bedding on both beds, and a good view of the city.

  “It’s about one o’clock now,” Whill said. “We should be able to take a good nap and be ready for tonight.” But Abram was already snoring softly. Whill laughed aloud and plopped down on his own bed. Soon he was asleep, dreaming of fair maidens and fine music.

  Chapter III

  Winter’s End Celebration

  WHILL WOKE WITH A START. He looked around, bewildered, trying to figure out where he was.

  “Dreaming of wolves, are we?” Abram asked, chewing a green apple.

  “No, I don’t think so. What time is it?”

  “About seven. Don’t worry, the real party hasn’t started yet.”

  Whill got up and washed himself, the basin water cool on his skin. When he had finished, Abram handed him a new set of clothes. “I sold the wolf hides while you were sleeping. We got fifteen coins each. Not too bad, eh?” He looked out the window at the busy street.

  “One hundred fifty coins for ’em, that’s damn good.” Whill grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl that sat on a small table. It was delicious. Moving to sit at one of the chairs, he started tying his boots with the apple in his mouth.

  “I also entered you into a sword-fighting contest,” Abram said with a mischievous smile.

  “Eyu ut!” He spat out the apple and said again, “You what!”

  “Lord Rogus has put up a challenge for tonight: whoever can beat one of his best knights with a blade wins his own weight in gold.”

  “And you think I have a chance?”

  “Yes. Besides, I have already made a side bet of one hundred coins in your favor.”

  Whill was speechless. He had only ever fought Abram and the occasional troublemaker. He knew he was good—but to beat a knight?

  “You underestimate yourself, my friend. You surpassed my own skill years ago. I know no better contender.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Don’t worry yourself, the competition is a while off. Now let us eat.”

  They made their way down the stairs and out of Ocean Mist. The city was abuzz, and as the sun set, lights were being lit all over. Green, blue, red, orange, purple, and yellow lanterns hung from every building and were stretched across every street. Children now wielded sparkle-sticks and pop-balls as they ran the streets, leaving loud bangs and crackles in their wake. Abram gave a teenage kid a couple coins and motioned for Whill to get in a strange, two-wheeled cart. Once they were seated on the heavily cushioned seats, the boy picked up the two poles that pulled the cart and began to run. Abram gave Whill a wink.

  “Beats the hell out of walking. This is a big city, and if you go on horseback, you have to worry about finding a stable. This is a nice way to get around.”

  Whill sat admiring the city. “This is a beautiful place. I could get very comfortable here.”

  “You might as well—we’ll be here for a while, at least until my arms heal a bit.” Abram rubbed his forearms.

  After about ten minutes they had reached the middle of the city. To the left loomed the great lighthouse. Seeing it up close, Whill noticed that its surface was made entirely of pure white marble tiles that curved perfectly in intricate shapes. Between the tiles were strips of fine silver, and at the top was a glass-encased room which emanated a white light in all directions— so bright that it illuminated most of the city. It was a gift from the elves of Elladrindellia, given to the king of Eldalon more than four hundred years ago. It was rumored to have been made by elven magic and that it would burn eternally.

  After another ten minutes of silent travel, during which Whill thought of the upcoming competition, they reached their destination. G
etting out of the cart, Abram threw another coin to the driver and thanked him for the ride.

  They ascended the steps of an expansive building. “This lodge boasts the best dining this side of the Thendor Plains, my friend. I hope you’re hungry,” Abram said.

  Inside, the large room was filled with soft music and hearty laughter. Four huge pillars stood in each corner of the great room, carved with exquisite craftsmanship. Large paintings adorned the walls, depicting naval battles of old, dragons attacking ships, underwater scenes, and various figures of renown. The walls themselves were made of fine oak. At the rear of the room was a window that made up the entire back wall. Through it, the moonlit ocean was so still it appeared to be made of glass itself.

  Abram gave Whill a nudge. “Come, you can marvel while we sit.”

  Thanks to a handsome tip to the host, they were seated at a table next to the large window. After ordering the “celebration feast,” they toasted Fendale. The wine was sweet and warmed their bellies till the food arrived— a feast of seafood fit for a king. Upon large plates sat lobster tails and shrimp, scallops and crab. There were heaping bowls of vegetables and a variety of cheeses. Fresh bread and butter and a delicious-smelling soup were set before them, along with roasted duck and snails bathed in a thick white sauce.

  They ate mostly in silence, speaking only to comment on one item of food or another. They had not eaten this well in a long while and Whill savored every bite. When they were done, Abram lit his pipe and gazed out at the ocean beyond.

  “It will be nice to sail again, to get away from land for a bit and feel the free wind on my face.”

  Whill simply smiled as he took a long drink of wine.

  “Not too much of that, or you will be in no condition to fight tonight,” Abram warned.

  “You know, I had hoped to enjoy myself tonight and not worry about using my sword. We are here to relax, are we not?” Whill asked, a hint of aggravation in his voice.

  “I understand, but will you not enjoy yourself the more if you win your weight in gold? Besides, there are certain people that are anxious to see you fight.”

  Whill frowned. “What people? And why should they want to see me fight?”

  Abram took a drink from his glass. “Lord Rogus, for instance, and King Mathus.”

  “The king!” Whill exclaimed. “The King of Eldalon wishes to see me fight? How in the world would he know of me and why—?” Suddenly he sat up in his chair. “Abram, what is going on here?”

  “Whill, listen. There are a great many things you do not know about yourself.” Whill started to speak, but Abram silenced him. “Let me speak. Your lineage being what it is, the king and a great many other people have a keen interest in you. I have told you of the oncoming war; soon you will have a choice to make— a very great choice that will shape your future in ways you cannot imagine.”

  Whill stared at Abram, his brow bent with anger. “What choice? For years you have kept my heritage a secret from me, and now you decide to hint about it here, in this place? What is the harm in my knowing? I am a man now. I have waited patiently for years to hear the truth from you.” His eyes burned, but Abram stared back kindly.

  “I intend to tell you all you wish to know, soon—very soon. Trust me, Whill, it pains me to keep such secrets, for I know that you deserve to know all that you should.” He looked out at the moon that lingered among faint clouds. “I love you like a son, and I do what I think your father would wish. I have helped you become a man—prepared you to face whatever road you choose, be it a road of peace or of war. And I will stand by you until the end of either road.”

  Whill listened to Abram with a feeling of both anger and relief. Tears welled in his eyes at the mention of his father, a man he had never known—a man who had not been mentioned to him in fifteen years. He had seen his father in dreams only: once he was a sailor; another time, a farmer; another, a knight. Sometimes he had brown hair and green eyes; other times, his hair was raven black and his eyes blue. His mother too had haunted his dreams; on those nights, he had awakened with an intense feeling of loss and regret.

  “I will trust you as I always have, but know that I do not demand answers only out of respect for your judgment,” said Whill. “If you say I will know soon, then I wait for the day with all my heart, but it pains me to wonder, still. As for the competition, I will fight, and these people you speak of will see me for what I am.”

  With that, Whill rose and Abram followed him into the night. They joined a gathering crowd that made its way down Twentieth Street.

  “I assume they are going to the competition,” Whill said.

  “Yes.”

  Abram tried to keep up. Soon they reached the competition area. It was a small coliseum built against the western wall of the city. It was not an extremely large building, but it still seated more than two thousand spectators. However, only the wealthiest people or personal friends of Lord Rogus could attend. Now Whill knew how he and Abram had been allowed to watch the competition when he was eleven: Abram was a friend to Lord Rogus.

  “Why didn’t you tell the guards that you knew Lord Rogus when we arrived?” Whill asked as they made their way toward the main entrance. “They would not have given us a hard time.”

  “Because they would not have believed me.”

  Guards were keeping a walkway clear for the distinguished guests as people tried to sneak, lie, or buy their way in. Abram led Whill to the entrance.

  “Name?” the guard asked.

  “I am Abram. This is Whill. He is a competitor here tonight. His number is two-seven-nine-four-eight.”

  The guard looked at a long scroll for a moment, tracing his finger down the length of it. “Very well. After entering, go left to the fighters’ quarters. And good luck.”

  Inside, the crowd roared as trumpets sounded the beginning of the competition. Whill and Abram made their way to the fighters’ quarters. A hall led around half the length of the circular building under the crowded seats. Soon they arrived at a great oak door. Abram repeated Whill’s fighter number to the standing guard and they were admitted to the room. The quarters, nothing more than a large room with about a dozen benches, were crowded with about fifty men who had signed up to challenge the knights. They eyed Whill and Abram as they entered. Some were fitting themselves with armor while others practiced for the fight. There were small men and large men, but a few rough-looking fellows towered over the rest—their shoulders broad as tree trunks with arms like thick branches. Armor hung from the walls; above each set was a numbered cloth. Whill found his number and was astonished to see the armor that hung under it. He looked at Abram.

  “This must be a mistake. Surely they do not lend such armor to just any fighter.”

  “You are not just any fighter. Lord Rogus himself has given you this to use, and he said if you win tonight, you may keep it.” The armor consisted of fine chainmail and a chest plate made of silver embellished steel. The arm and leg guards were of the same make.

  “To accept such gifts from someone I do not know would mean that I owe him something. No matter what he knows of me, I will not accept what I have not earned.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Whill, wear the armor. It would be suicide not to.”

  Whill raised an eyebrow. “Who says the knight’s blade will get close enough to cut me?”

  “It would be an insult not to wear it,” Abram warned. “You owe nothing in accepting this, and it is not yours until won. Come, try it on.”

  Whill reluctantly put on the armor. It was of fine make, light and unobtrusive. He was impressed with its flexibility. He attached his sword and flexed his arms. Drawing his sword he made short, circular slashing motions. Satisfied, he sheathed his sword and said he was ready.

  Exiting through the other side of the room, they entered another hall that led to the tournament grounds. The roaring crowd was deafening. Cheers and stomping feet emanated from the coliseum and shook the ground beneath them as they came to the open end of the
hall. From inside, the coliseum looked gigantic. People sat or stood upon cushioned seats of stone that circled the building in thirty ascending rows. The fighting grounds were in a ring at the center of the building. A ten-foot wall separated the crowd from the sand-covered fighting grounds. Directly across and on the top row was a large booth adorned with great banners. One was blue with a white tower topped by a brilliant star. The other was white with a great ship upon a blue sea and the sun above, its ray stretching out behind the ship. Within the booth sat Lord Rogus and King Mathus.

  Beyond the doorway in which Whill and Abram stood was a segregated section of seats. These were the fighters’ seats and were made up of three levels. Whill followed Abram to the top and they sat. Once again the trumpets sounded, marking the address of Lord Rogus. All fell silent and turned to the royal booth as the lord stood and extended both arms to the crowd.

  “My dear people of Fendale, and travelers from afar.” His voice echoed throughout the coliseum. “Tonight you will witness the skill and splendor of the great defenders of Eldalon—those who keep our oceans safe from pirates, who keep the dragon menace at bay, and who keep this land free of the Draggard. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…the Knights of Eldalon!”

  The crowd erupted into a frenzy. The coliseum roared like thunder breaking on a quiet day. A shower of roses fell onto the white sand as the entrance gate opened and the knights marched out. At the sight of them the cheers escalated to the point of pandemonium. They marched four wide, with two leaders carrying banners of both Eldalon and Fendale. They wore full armor that shone like highly polished silver. At each of their sides hung a dark blue sheath holding their sword. A brilliant blue gem rested within the center of each silver hilt. Upon their left arm, each knight carried a broad shield of the same make as their armor. The tops of the shields were the shoulder-width of their owners, gradually narrowing down its length into a sharp point at the base. At the center was the emblem of Eldalon.