FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  The dwarf’s face was red and his eyes watered as he spoke. Whill could sense that something very intense fueled this dwarf’s hatred for the Draggard.

  Abram spoke up. “You may be proud enough to die taking on that many Draggard, but do not be foolish. We can get reinforcements and return to fight.”

  “No!” The dwarf insisted in a deep voice. “If they find the door to the city, they’ll send messengers to report it. As ye know, they’ve a keen sense o’ smell—that’s how they track ye still. If they learn o’ the passageway, I’ll have failed in me duty, and that will not happen. I will fight! Ye can run like cowards if ye wish, but ye will never see the city!”

  Whill stepped forward. “We are no cowards! But we should not run to fight these beasts hastily. We need to have a plan for attack.”

  Abram agreed. “He’s right. I have seen one Draggard rip through ten men before falling to the blade. We will not defeat them if we simply stand and fight.”

  The dwarf squinted at them, frowning. “I been watching ye and yer pursuers fer an hour now. I have thought o’ a plan for ambush already.” He pointed at a ledge directly above them. “There be many boulders up there— large enough to kill those beasts, but small enough to push. I’ll wait there; the two o’ ye should wait o’er there.” He pointed in the direction from which he had come. “Ye can attack with those bows o’ yers once I’ve let loose the boulders.”

  Abram looked at the ledge above, and at the boulders he and Whill would use as cover. “It is a good plan, master dwarf, but they will not all be killed by your falling rocks, nor our bows.”

  The dwarf smiled mischievously. “I know. The rest will die by our blades.”

  Whill laughed nervously. “You’re mad, did you know that?”

  The dwarf’s smile faded. “Ye know, boy, men have died fer saying less to a dwarf. That can be settled later, laddie, but I advise ye to watch yer tongue.”

  Abram watched the exchange and eyed Whill with a raised brow. Whill let out a frustrated sigh. “I apologize, master dwarf. Perhaps I have mistaken your bravery and cunning for—pardon the expression— insanity.” The dwarf eyed him suspiciously. “Could I know the name of such a fearless dwarf?”

  The dwarf eyed him still. Whill assumed he was pondering whether to chop off his head or introduce himself. At last the dwarf, being accustomed to the ways of men, extended his hand. “I am Roakore, son o’ Ro’Din.” Whill shook his hand. It was like a rock. His skin was rough and his grip was crushing. Whill tried not to grimace and instead he manifested his discomfort into an animated look of surprise.

  “You are the son of Ro’Din? Fallen king of the Ebony Mountains?”

  Roakore released Whill’s throbbing hand. “Aye, but this ain’t no time fer conversation. Let us ready ourselves quickly.” He looked over the ledge once again. “They’ll be here soon.”

  Just then Whill had an idea. “What if we bait the Draggard— try to get more of them in range of the boulders?”

  “What do you mean?” Abram asked.

  Roakore laughed. “If ye would like to be the bait, boy, go ahead.”

  Whill ignored him and produced the bag of diamonds from his pocket. He looked up at the ledge, determined the best spot, and dumped the diamonds onto the ground. They gleamed brightly, even in the dim light. Roakore gasped at the sight of the large pile of gems. “How did ye obtain such a wealth o’ diamonds?”

  “He defeated Rhunis of Eldalon in competition,” Abram said.

  Roakore’s expression of shock did not fade. He looked at the diamonds and to Whill again. Finally he composed himself. “Indeed, if ye can beat the Dragonslayer, ye will be an able ally… though it makes me uncomfortable to leave these diamonds fer those beasts.”

  Whill mocked the dwarf’s earlier conviction. “I as well, but they will all die as sure as the sun will set.”

  Roakore simply nodded and let out a growling laugh. Abram urged them as he peered over the ledge, “They are coming.”

  Of the boulders they could use for cover, Abram chose a large one about sixty feet from the diamonds. It was about nine feet tall and as wide as four men, with a large crevice on the side opposite the ambush. He climbed atop the boulder and squatted within the crevice. It was perfect for his intentions; it was a good vantage point and he could quickly bring his bow up over the top.

  Roakore nodded his approval. “I think that Whill here should come with me. ’Twill be a more effective attack if a bowman was directly above ’em as well. It’ll confuse ’em.”

  Though Whill did not like the idea, Abram agreed. From the boulder he said, “Aim for the neck and eyes.”

  Whill nodded and began to follow Roakore. As the dwarf began to climb the rock face, he spoke over his shoulder, “Quickly, boy, so we are not seen!”

  Whill scrambled to keep up. The dwarf, with his short legs and arms, surprised Whill by how well he scaled the steep rock face. Once on the ledge, Whill peered over the side and could now see the Draggard much better. There were two scouts ahead of the main pack, stopping often with their snouts in the air.

  “Come,” said Roakore.

  Whill followed him along the ledge to the boulders he had spoken of. Once again Whill peered over the edge cautiously. They were directly above the diamonds. Roakore smacked his back. “Help me, laddie. Gather as many large rocks as ye can.” He walked over to one directly behind them. “This size is perfect.”

  Whill regarded the rock in disbelief. It was three feet tall and just as wide. “I cannot lift that!”

  Roakore had found another of the same size. He regarded Whill with frustration. “Then roll the damned thing.” He squatted, took a deep breath, lifted the giant rock onto his shoulder, and carried it over to the ledge. Whill was astonished. He had heard of the dwarves’ strength but was amazed nonetheless.

  He got behind his rock and, with great effort, began to roll it to the ledge. By the time he finished, Roakore had gathered five more. The dwarf peered over the ledge, “Hurry, boy! Get another, they be almost upon us!”

  Darkness was advancing quickly now. The sun would set completely in twenty minutes, to their disadvantage. The Draggard could see excellently in the dark, a fact that unsettled Whill as he looked to the horizon. He retrieved another—smaller—rock as Roakore gathered four more. Satisfied, the dwarf took position behind the largest boulder.

  “Will you need help with those?” Whill asked.

  The dwarf laughed. “No, you just have that bow of yours ready and I’ll worry about the rocks.”

  Peering over the ledge again, Whill could see Abram perched upon his boulder, his bow ready. He looked back, and Whill thought he saw him wink. Below and to the right he could see the Draggard scouts nearing the diamonds, the rest of the band now close behind. At this distance he could see that they wore no armor or clothes. They had no shields, either, only long metal staffs with large curved blades at each end.

  The sun now met the horizon as it began to set. It was a brilliant array of red, orange, and purple that spread out like ghostly fingers among the thin clouds. Whether or not it was because it might be the last sunset he would ever see, Whill thought it was the most beautiful. He did not get to enjoy it long, however; the Draggard scouts had reached the diamonds. He watched as they peered at the gems, growling low and hissing violently. In the dying light their skin was dark green with black markings. They had ears like an elf’s, though much longer, and stood about seven feet when fully erect, which was rarely. The two scouts seemed to favor a slightly bent posture. Their bodies were well defined and muscular, with thick scales covering all but the chest and belly. They had short horns protruding from their backbones and at the end of their long tails—which, being one half of their total body length, were formidable weapons in and of themselves.

  Suddenly the two scouts let out a horrible cry that made Whill’s blood curdle. He watched as the Draggard pack stopped, fell to all fours, and ascended the mountain with alarming speed. The scouts surveyed the
land, but seemed half-hearted in their search as they snarled and pushed each other, fighting for dominance of the diamond pile. Whill backed away from the ledge slowly, silently stringing an arrow, as Roakore got ready to push. He could tell from the many snarls and growls below that the rest of the Draggard had reached the scouts. Roakore waited as the noise grew.

  Sensing that it was time, the dwarf made a silent grimace as he pushed the boulder with all his might. At first it did not move, but then slowly began to roll. To Whill’s dismay, the movement sent small stones and pebbles tumbling over the ledge. The noises below stopped. Roakore pushed the boulder with all his might and sent it tumbling violently over the ledge. Whill took the opportunity to bring his bow around and take aim.

  He saw a horrific sight; twenty Draggard stood in a circle below, looking up at them. As the boulder descended, many of them let out ear-piercing cries. Whill let loose an arrow; it flew into the open maw of one of the beasts and stuck in the back of its throat. As it flailed violently, the rest of the beasts scrambled to get out of the way of the falling boulder— five were not so lucky. The giant rock came down with bone-shattering force upon the Draggard, and was quickly followed by a smaller one, though still quite large, hurled through the air by Roakore. This too found its mark, slamming hard into the face of a howling Draggard. Simultaneously, Abram shot an arrow that hit another of the beasts in the eye.

  The Draggard were bewildered and scampered from the fallen boulder as the three rained death upon them. As Abram shot repeatedly, killing two Draggard that advanced in his direction, many of the other beasts began to ascend the rock face, heading straight for Whill and Roakore. Whill shot the closest one in the forehead, but to his amazement, the arrow was deflected by its thick scales. The beast screamed insanely, baring hideous teeth. As Roakore dropped a large rock, the creature tried to avoid it, but was hit square in the chest. Whill strung another arrow and this time aimed for the eyes. He hit his mark and the beast fell hard, landing on the boulder below in a dead heap.

  Seven Draggard remained; five ascended toward Whill and Roakore, while two more advanced on Abram. Whill shot another through the eye, and it fell with a loud thud on the ground below. Roakore had now abandoned the stones and grabbed his great axe. Whill followed suit and unsheathed his sword.

  As the last audible note of Whill’s unsheathed sword reverberated in the air, the sun finally set and the Draggard topped the ledge. Whill was scared, more scared than when facing the wolves or the pirates. The Draggard were a nightmarish sight up close. They did not attack at once, but simply waited.

  The dwarf let out a scream. “Come on, ye foul beasts!”

  They did not move. Instead, they let out cries of their own. The sound hurt Whill’s ears and his body shook. The beasts growled and hissed, spittle falling from their pointed teeth. They had stood side by side but now began to spread out in pairs. He could not take the anticipation. He searched himself for the strength needed to face these fell creatures. They were the only thing standing in the way of all his answers. They were the scourge of the earth, a plague. They should not be feared, thought Whill. They should fear me!

  From below Abram cried in pain and Whill jolted into action. He lunged forward at the closest Draggard but was met with greater force. The beast attacked with its double ended weapon, which Whill blocked with difficulty. Roakore swung at the one closest to himself, but his great axe only sounded a heavy whoosh as it missed its target and cut through the air. Whill blocked as both of his opponents swung and stabbed at him with their blades. They were relentless, hissing violently as they advanced. Whill knew if they got him against the rock wall he would be doomed.

  Roakore, meanwhile, was not being driven back. He screamed and growled as he swung his heavy axe.

  Whill parried yet another blow and, finding an opening, sliced the leg of the beast to his right. It howled in pain and let up long enough for Whill to be one-on-one with the other. The beast brought down its blade, meaning to hew Whill’s head. He moved out of the way in time and, with one powerful stroke, cut off the beast’s right arm. Roakore, who was now ten feet away and closer to the ledge, blocked a series of blows and quickly dropped to his knees, avoiding one meant for his head. With lightning speed he swung his axe at the closest Draggard, and chopped its leg off above the knee. He followed with a heavy blow that cut the beast’s head clean off, and quickly rolled sideways as the other one lunged at him.

  Whill was inspired by what he had seen of Roakore’s masterful counterattack. He blocked again as the uninjured of his two attacking opponents struck. The beast that Whill had cut screamed again in rage and barreled straight at him. As they exchanged blows, the other dove at him, arm extended, legs spread. He blocked an overhead attack and spun away from the diving beast. Reversing his sword grip, he thrust backward and impaled the one-armed Draggard through the chest. The other one, undeterred, continued its attack. Whill had no time to parry. Instead he abandoned his sword and jumped high into the air as the blade barely missed him. He back-flipped over the impaled Draggard and landed behind it. His foe spun blindly with an attack, but its blade struck his dead kin rather than Whill. The beast wailed in anger as it pulled its weapon free. Now unarmed but for his knife, he ran toward the ledge. In the darkness, he could just barely see his abandoned bow. He dove with an outstretched hand, and pulled an arrow from his quiver with the other. In fluid motion, he landed and rolled on his back, bow in hand. He frantically strung it, pulled back, and shot at the Draggard, which was now only a few feet away. The arrow found its mark and hit the beast in the belly, but had little effect. As the Draggard’s blade came down and he feebly raised his knife in defense, Roakore suddenly barreled into the creature and they disappeared over the ledge.

  Whill was about look over the ledge but quickly wondered what had become of the other Draggard Roakore was fighting. He whipped his head around and saw its demonic silhouette not fifteen feet away. He got to his knees and took a shooting stance as the monster ran at him with a menacing howl. He shot the Draggard in the chest, but the arrow barely penetrated. He shot again, this time hitting it in the belly. The beast slowed but did not stop; it came at him with an impaling attack. He shot again, pulling back hard on the bow. The arrow sliced through the air and hit the Draggard again in the belly, sinking deep this time. The beast stumbled before dropping its weapon and falling to its knees. Whill had another arrow ready and aimed for the monster’s face, but the dying Draggard quickly swung its tail around and broke the bow in two. Suddenly it lunged forward again and grabbed him by the neck. The Draggard’s strength was incredible. Whill could not breathe and knew his neck would soon be crushed. As the beast’s sharp claws sunk into his flesh, he unsheathed his knife and thrust it upward. It came to rest behind the creature’s ribs and the grip on his neck loosened. Whill stared into the Draggard’s hideous black eyes, and they stared back— burning with anger. The grip on his neck tightened once again, and the Draggard whipped its tail deep into Whill’s left thigh, baring its pointed teeth in triumph. Whill could not scream in pain—he could not breathe—and his vision had begun to go black. With what strength he had left, he shoved the knife as far as he could and gave it a sharp twist. The beast’s eyes widened and its growl turned to a gurgle. The claw around his neck loosened and finally fell as the beast dropped on its side, dead.

  At first, Whill still couldn’t breathe; he was on the verge of passing out. He struggled as his damaged windpipe finally opened enough to let in a shallow breath. He sucked greedily at the air and his breathing slowly became deeper. His throat burned and he went into a coughing fit that made his head spin. He fell forward, exhausted, and groaned in pain as he reached for the tail still stuck in his leg. With great effort and immense pain he pulled it from his flesh.

  He crawled towards the ledge, wondering what had become of Roakore and Abram. He peered into the darkness below and saw Roakore hacking away at a lifeless Draggard that lay next to the fallen boulder—the beast was
already in pieces. Roakore swore profusely and kicked a decapitated head, sending it rolling. He looked up at Whill with a hard scowl still on his face. “Ye still alive, boy?”

  Whill could not answer. He simply nodded and pointed in the direction Abram had last been. The dwarf ran and began to look. Whill’s heart sank as Roakore raised both arms in the air as if to say “I don’t know,” and continued searching.

  Whill feared the worst. Crawling back from the ledge, he attempted to stand. His head spun and his leg gave out as he fell to his knees, wheezing. He heard heavy footsteps coming toward him suddenly and moved to retrieve his knife. With an effort, he pulled it from the fallen Draggard body and struggled to see what approached. When it was almost upon him, Whill began to make out a large figure and prepared himself for another fight. Then he heard a familiar voice:

  “Whill, are you alright?”

  He dropped his knife as Abram knelt beside him.

  Chapter XII

  The Mountain Passage

  THE THICK CLOUD COVER MADE the moonless night pitch black. The wind upon the mountain had picked up, and a chill rode on the air. Roakore had joined Whill and Abram, and was busy trying to light a torch Abram had retrieved from his bag.

  “If this damned wind would let up fer a minute, we’d have some light,” Roakore grumbled as he struggled with the flint. Finally a spark caught, and the oil-soaked torch lit, quickly illuminating the night. Roakore grinned. “Ah, that was easy. Now let’s hurry and dress them wounds.”

  Whill’s leg was bleeding profusely and his throat felt as though he had swallowed a handful of small blades. When he attempted to speak, he found that his voice was rough and grainy, and his throat burned terribly. Roakore patted his back.