FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Abram continued. “There is more, good king. I’ve told you I was there when Whill’s parents were killed—that it was Addakon who saw to it.”

  Ky’Ell nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, ye told me the tale.”

  “What I failed to tell you was that the ambush was performed by a host of Draggard.”

  The king was suddenly concerned. “Twenty years ago?”

  Abram nodded. “Yes. It is my strong belief that Addakon has made allies with the beasts—to what extent, I can only guess—but if he has waited this long to act, I can only assume he has been amassing a Draggard army. Worse yet, he may be in alliance with Eadon himself.”

  Ky’Ell spat on the floor at the mention of Eadon, the Dark elf who had crossed dragon with elf and created the Draggard. “Then the elves o’ Elladrindellia be in on it also, the scum! Brought the dragon half-breeds here to take our treasures, eh?”

  “No!” Abram interrupted. “If you value me as a friend, and know me to be a man of truth, listen to my words! The elves of Elladrindellia have more disdain for the Draggard than even the dwarves do. They are not in league with the Dark elves. Their people were slaughtered and driven from Drindellia those hundreds of years ago by the Draggard.”

  “Bah! A lie built to hide their true intent! I’d wager they aim to take over Agora themselves, an’ enslave us all with the help o’ the Draggard scum. Yer deluded, Abram. Ye believe a lie!”

  Whill shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The tension in the air had become suffocating since the mention of the elves. He feared that Ky’Ell would erupt with rage. Roakore watched the exchange too, but his face showed that he was on the side of the king.

  “If you will not listen to me, then listen to logic,” Abram continued, “If the elves of Elladrindellia are what you say, then why have they waited over five hundred years to strike? Wouldn’t they rather have amassed their army and crushed Agora long ago? Would they show up claiming to be refugees, only to wait hundreds of years before attacking?”

  Calmer now, the king pondered for a moment. “I know that ye believe in what ye say, an’ if yer correct, Agora will have a valuable ally in the elves. But think for a moment, What if yer wrong, an’ the king has invited the enemy to the meeting? Then all is folly, an’ they will know our every move.”

  “Well met, Ky’Ell. But I would wager my life that the queen and her people are good, and do indeed despise the Draggard as fiercely as yourself.”

  The king leaned forward and puffed his pipe. “On what grounds would ye make such a wager?”

  Abram looked at Whill. “On the grounds that, if the elves were indeed in league with Addakon, they never would have let Whill live, let alone save his life!”

  The king scowled as he eyed Abram, then Whill, but did not speak. Abram went on. “When I took Whill from that bloody field, he was barely alive. I brought him to Elladrindellia and the queen herself healed our wounds. She knew who he was, yet she helped. So I ask you, good king of Dy’Kore, why would an ally of Addakon save the true king from certain death?”

  Ky’Ell leaned back in his chair. Even Roakore seemed stumped. Whill watched with anticipation as the silence thickened. Abram, however, crossed his arms and sat back in his chair, his pipe hanging from his mouth. He seemed to know he had won. Finally the king spoke.

  “Ye present a good argument, Abram, one which I cannot dispute. But know that I remain wary.” He puffed on his pipe, but found it spent and began packing another load. “Enough o’ this bickering. Let us assume fer now that what ye say be true. What does King Mathus propose?”

  “That is the purpose of the meeting. He would like to present the facts of Addakon and the Draggard to all, and hear what each has to say. But one thing I do know: he believes that unity alone will ensure our victory in the coming war.”

  Ky’Ell did not look convinced. “I understand that Uthen-Arden be the largest kingdom o’ men, an’ boasts the largest army, but they be no match for the combined armies o’ the other kingdoms, which flank them on all sides. Surely it will be an easy defeat. I doubt also that the soldiers o’ Uthen-Arden will have much heart fer battle under a ruler such as Addakon. It is well known that he is hated by most of his people.”

  “You are correct in that assessment, but the presence of the Draggard implies that something much graver awaits us all.” He looked at Roakore. “I believe that when the Draggard took over your mountain twenty years ago, it was under the command of Addakon.” Roakore tensed as Abram let the statement set in. “I also believe that the purpose of the attack was to set up a base for the Draggard army. It is my theory that within the great halls of your fathers lies a Draggard queen. For these twenty long years, I suspect, the Draggard army has been steadily growing, hidden within the mountain, waiting to be unleashed.”

  Roakore was speechless, but his rage was apparent. The King looked at Abram, wide-eyed. “How many, do ye guess?”

  Abram sighed and leaned forward. “It is said that a queen can lay more than twenty eggs a day, and those eggs can lay dormant for years. I would guess we are looking at an army of well over a hundred thousand.”

  Whill could hardly comprehend such an estimation. He tried to envision an army so vast, and his body involuntarily shuddered at the prospect.

  Roakore stood, red-faced. “I said it long ago, we should’ve taken back the mountain immediately!” He pointed at Ky’Ell with a shaking hand. “Ye have damned me father to the hells! Why have ye made us wait? Just so the children o’ the fallen mountain could partake in the reclaiming o’ it! Are ye not now shamed in yer folly, in yer cowardice?”

  King Ky’Ell sprang to his feet, his own rage twisting his face into a snarl. His voice boomed throughout the room. “Do not forget who ye speak to, Roakore o’ the Ebony Mountains! I’ll not be called a coward in me own halls. If ye were any other dwarf, I would kill ye where ye stand! But the gods have another plan for ye, son of the fallen mountain. Do not anger me again!”

  From Roakore’s twisted face came tears of frustration. He bent his head low and weakly hit his fist to his chest. Through clenched teeth, he said, “I am sorry, great king o’ Dy’Kore, me tongue was led by me rage. Ye have been nothing but good to me people.”

  He slumped back into his chair and peered at the king. His face was no longer filled with anger; rather, he looked like a dwarf without hope. His despair was so great that it eased the king’s rage as well. Ky’Ell spoke again, more softly this time.

  “Ye will have yer chance, son o’ Ro’Din. Sooner than ye think. But know this: I’ve waited to help ye take back the mountain fer many reasons. Yer correct, I do feel it’s the right o’ the eldest sons o’ the fallen mountain to fight fer it, but I intended on fightin’ alongside ye in them halls; and since I be old an’ at the end o’ me days, I had to leave me mountain in order, an’ know that the son o’ me choosin’ be ready to lead if I don’t be returnin’. Call it a selfish ol’ dwarf’s vision o’ glory in the eyes o’ the gods, an’ ye’d be correct. Now it seems I be needed here in me own mountain after all.” He turned to Abram and added. ”If indeed what ye say be true.”

  He paused to consider his next statement, and turned back to Roakore. “I’m thinkin’ ye should go with ’em to Kell-Torey an’ represent the dwarves. Ye’ll speak fer meself an’ fer King Du’Krell o’ the Elgar Mountains. When ye return, we begin plans to reclaim the Ebony Mountains. What say ye, son o’ Ro’Din?”

  Roakore rose once again and slammed his fist to his chest. “I would be honored to represent our people.”

  The king looked to Abram and Whill. “’Tis settled. These two sons o’ fallen kings shall journey together to Kell-Torey, and the fate of Agora will be decided. Let many a song be written to tell the tale o’ this great war. An’ may the Draggard be destroyed once an’ fer all!”

  Chapter XV

  The Dwarves of Dy’Kore

  AFTER THE MEAL WHILL AND Abram returned to their rooms without the guidance of Fior—Ky’Ell had made it known that
a visiting king of men was a guest within the city, and free to roam as he pleased. He had also offered them a tour later that day, and they had graciously accepted

  As they entered their quarters, Whill turned and asked, “How do you think the meeting went?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing, Whill. What is your opinion?”

  Whill sat down upon a heavily cushioned chair and thought for a moment. “I like Ky’Ell. He is gruff, opinionated, and stubborn—everything you would expect from a dwarf king—but he is kind and wise as well. I must say, though, I do not presume to be qualified to judge such a character.”

  Abram laughed. “But, Whill, you are qualified. You are the rightful king of the most powerful throne in all of Agora! I see the title makes you cringe, but you may as well get used to it if you intend on claiming the throne.”

  Whill sighed and slowly put a hand through his hair. “All of my life I have wondered of my parents. I have dreamed of them in many ways, but never have I considered such a possibility as the story you have told me Abram. I can still hardly believe it to be true”

  Abram spoke gently. “I do not mean to press.”

  Whill sat up in his seat, his elbows upon his knees, and a smile spread across his face. “I know, and you are right. I do intend to claim the title, and I intend to see Addakon pay for his treachery, but I am afraid. If my uncle has been taught by the elves—worse yet, if he has teamed with Eadon, as you said—then what chance do I have?”

  Abram sat down across from Whill and lit the pipe he had been preparing. “You mean what chance do we have, Whill. When I made my vow to your father, I swore with all of my heart to see to your survival; but I also swore that one day you would take back the throne. I still live by that vow, and I shall die by it. I have told you before that I will follow you down whatever road you choose—because of the vow, yes, but more so because I love you as a son and a cherished friend.

  “And do not forget,” Abram went on, “You have powers far beyond your contemplation—powers that, when fully understood and mastered, will make you a very real threat to Addakon.”

  Whill furrowed his brow. “But the trouble has already begun. I know I must be trained by the elves, but I assume that training will take years. How can I be of any use in the coming war?”

  “I also have pondered that point. It is unfortunate that Addakon has begun his crusade against Agora so soon, and it would seem that time is indeed against us. But do not forget your history: wars are not won and lost overnight, and the other kingdoms of Agora are strong indeed. You must prepare to face Addakon, and let that be your goal.

  “We have trained every day for the last ten years. Your prowess as a fighter is great indeed, and will only become greater. The elves will teach you things I cannot, and I do not doubt, given the abilities you have already demonstrated, that you will master their ways quickly.”

  “And when do you suggest I go to Elladrindellia?”

  “After the meeting in Kell-Torey—the elf queen is invited, do not forget. I suggest that we depart with her.” Whill was happy with the idea. He was eager to learn the ways of the elves like his father had.

  Roakore walked the distance to his clan’s housing. It was not a great distance from the king’s quarters, but he took his time. His thoughts drifted to that dire day twenty years before when his mountain had fallen to the Draggard. News that a queen was most likely within the Ebony Mountains, laying her thousands of filthy eggs, did not settle well with the dwarf. His anger towards King Ky’Ell had died quickly; he himself had been shocked by his own words.

  Roakore thought of the coming journey he was to take with Abram and Whill. In his few dealings with man, he had never acquired much of a liking for them—but these two had proven themselves great warriors in his eyes.

  As he turned the last bend in the tunnel to his clan’s caverns, he could hear the telltale sounds of dwarves training with weapons. Every dwarf within the mountain lived for one thing, and one thing only: to aid in the will of the gods. If a dwarf dedicated his life fully, it was believed they would find a place among their kin within the Mountain of the Gods. Their cause was to mine the great mountains of the world and retrieve the many precious metals and gems their gods had created, and which the god of the dragons had hidden deep long ago. To kill a dragon was the greatest feat of all, one that would ensure not only a place within the Mountain of the Gods, but even a seat among them.

  This belief was set firmly in the minds of the dwarves from childhood. It was their religion. They spent their lives mining and crafting their treasures, which were then—by means of trade—returned to the world above.

  Shortly after Roakore’s clan arrived in Dy’Kore, however, it was deemed that they should not participate in the mining; rather, their salvation would come in the reclaiming of the Ebony Mountains. Since that day they had trained for battle. More than five thousand women and children had escaped, along with about a hundred adult males. Over a thousand of the children were now considered men, and trained hard with their elders for the coming battle. The women were not expected to fight; their duty was to increase the numbers of the diminished clan, which had once numbered more than fifty thousand. Because each elder male had many wives, Roakore’s clan had seen over ten thousand births in twenty years. Roakore himself boasted the highest number with twenty-seven wives. In those long two decades, they had borne him over two hundred children, one hundred and nine of them males. At the age of 120, he was young by the reckoning of the dwarves, who could live to see hundreds of years. He had not previously given much thought to women, however, and had not sired a child before the attack. His love had been the mines and, though he was a prince of the Ebony Mountains, he worked side by side with the other dwarves. He was renown throughout all the dwarven clans as a craftsman, indeed one of the greatest. His forte was weapons, and his masterful works were some of the most sought-after pieces every trading season.

  Roakore came out of the tunnel and into the main chamber of his people; at the opposite end stood two more tunnels—one to the living quarters, and the other to the training chambers. He headed toward the main training room, passing many smaller ones and armories. As he stepped into the main room, pride welled in his heart at the sight of his loyal people.

  The room was vast with a domed ceiling. Three of the walls boasted a number of huge fireplaces, and an enormous chandelier held hundreds of torches. The highly polished surfaces of the chamber reflected the many torches and shed a great amount of light throughout the room.

  Roakore watched from the shadows as his fighters, mostly young dwarves with only small beards, practiced as hard as ever. These grueling sessions had gone on the last twenty years for fourteen hours a day, and he knew that those before him were the greatest warriors that dwarf history would ever know. Each had a horrible story to tell of the evil day their mountain was taken, and each harbored within him the rage that drove them to train so intensely each and every day thereafter.

  Roakore did not want to disturb their practice but, having been gone at his own request on sentry duty, he knew that his appearance would inevitably bring the training to an abrupt halt. Preparing himself, he walked slowly into the room. Before he had gone more than five steps into the well-lit chamber, a young dwarf stopped sparring and slammed his fist to his chest. He began to announce the arrival of their great leader, but the proclamation was cut short as his opponent’s wooden axe caught him in the side of the head and sent him crashing to the floor. Roakore laughed, and as he walked over to the dazed dwarf, the other one took up the cheer instead: “Roakore has returned!”

  His words were taken up and echoed throughout the chamber until every dwarf had slammed his chest and bowed low, silently waiting for Roakore to speak. The dazed dwarf made an utterly miserable sound as he tried to focus on his leader. Roakore took him by the arm and helped him to stand. The young dwarf shook his head and slammed his chest, almost knocking himself to the ground.

  Knowing tha
t he now had the attention of more than a thousand young fighters, Roakore spoke loudly so all could hear. “What is yer name, boy?”

  The young dwarf eyed him through heavy blinks and slightly crossed eyes. “Haldegoz,” he answered groggily.

  “Well, young Haldegoz, can ye tell me why it be ye lost this fight?”

  Haldegoz scrunched up his thick eyebrows and scratched his short beard. “I saw ye, good king—that is—ye, Roakore.” He cowered at his near mistake. Every dwarf knew that Roakore had prohibited anyone from calling him king until he stood before his people within the chambers of the Ebony Mountains—upon the throne of his forefathers.

  Roakore ignored the slip and instead scowled at the surrounding crowd. “In warfare there ain’t no time fer pleasantries, there ain’t no time fer formality! In warfare there ain’t no rules but one: if ye don’t kill yer opponent, he’ll kill ye! Haldegoz was defeated because he let his concentration slip, he let down his guard. In the midst o’ battle, to lose yer concentration be to lose yer life. Never let down yer guard, never relent, and never take yer eyes from yer enemy!”

  He patted the young dwarf on the back and raised his arms. “Now let us see what Haldegoz’s opponent has learned!” He took up Haldegoz’s wooden axe and eyed the dwarf he had been fighting. “What is yer name, lad?”

  The slightly older boy puffed out his chest and proclaimed, “I be Ky’Drock, son o’ Ky’Kronn.”

  Roakore slammed his chest and bowed slightly, purposefully, though he owed the young dwarf no such sign of respect. Ky’Drock beamed as he returned the gesture. It was just what Roakore had wanted. In a flash he was upon the bowing dwarf, striking hard with his wooden axe. Ky’Drock’s expression turned from sheer delight to horror as the rightful king of the Ebony Mountains attacked. The lad barely blocked the massive blows as he tried to stay on his feet. Roakore did not relent; he swung low, then high, then straight down from above. To his delight, the young warrior met him blow for blow.