FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Rhunis circled faster as he spoke, his words becoming louder with each sentence. The shimmering eyes of the people stared back at him, their tears running down proud faces.

  “Indeed yes!” Rhunis cried. “They will be cherished by those whom they saved and remembered in song by all throughout the ages. So this day, weep for your losses, weep for fear of an uncertain future, but do not weep for the spirits before you. They have achieved the greatest of all seats in the afterworld. Smile for them now, and be proud!”

  The crowd broke into cheer. Tears fell and smiles gleamed, and an exhausted Rhunis took his leave. Whill, along with Abram and Roakore, followed suit, leaving the people to their mourning.

  They came upon Rhunis shortly after, outside his tent. He sat upon the ground, taking large gulps from a bottle of dark liquid. Whill patted him on the shoulder. “I feel for your loss. No doubt you knew many of the fallen soldiers as friends.”

  Rhunis looked up, raised his bottle to the heavens, and took yet another long swig. Wiping his mouth, he accepted condolences from Abram and Roakore as well, and then got to his feet. He offered his bottle to the other three, and they all took a hearty drink in turn.

  Roakore took a second swig from the bottle and rounded on Rhunis. He slammed his fist into his chest and bowed slightly before the scarred knight. “Rhunis, Dragonslayer o’ Eldalon. It be an honor to meet ye. I be Roakore, son o’ Ro’Din o’ the Ebony Mountains.”

  Rhunis, having dealt with the dwarves before—and being aware of Roakore’s title—replied in earnest. He slammed his fist to his chest and bowed slightly. “Well met, Roakore, son of Ro’Din of the Ebony Mountains. I knew that my friends here traveled with a dwarf. But I knew not that they kept such esteemed company.” He offered his hand in the customary human greeting and the two shook.

  They were soon joined by Avriel and Zerafin. Abram, being acquainted with all, introduced everyone. Shortly after, they all retired to Rhunis’s tent, giving the villagers their peace, and emptying many bottles of wine.

  The conversation went on for more than an hour, and various tales of adventure and folly were shared. Whill enjoyed the company of the others immensely, though he found himself staring at Avriel far too often. Roakore had relaxed around the elves, it seemed, and the talk turned eventually to the upcoming meeting in Kell-Torey.

  “That is the reason I followed you from Fendale,” said Rhunis as he popped yet another cork. “King Mathus ordered me to follow the two of you when he learned you were being trailed by Captain Cirossa. Upon finding you, I was to see that you made safe passage to Kell-Torey. Whoever you are, Whill, King Mathus sees it prudent that you make that meeting.”

  All in the room besides Rhunis shared knowing glances. But Rhunis was no fool.

  “Well then, out with it. Who are you?”

  Whill looked at Abram, who only offered a shrug. Whill hated these formalities, but knew they were necessary. He stood and faced Rhunis. “I am the son of Aramonis, rightful king of Uthen-Arden.”

  Rhunis looked at Whill dumbfounded. He glanced at Abram and then the others. He seemed to ponder for a moment, and then went down on one knee before Whill. “It is an honor, and a great joy, to meet you, King Whill. Your mother was the beloved princess of Eldalon, and your father was the greatest king of his time. You have my blade, and my undying loyalty.”

  Whill looked down at the kneeling knight. He felt uncomfortable and a bit silly, but he knew that Rhunis was serious. “Please stand, Rhunis. Though I appreciate the gesture, I am not yet king.”

  Rhunis stood and refilled everyone’s glasses. “To Whill, rightful king of Uthen-Arden—may he take back the throne which is his, and bring peace to Arden!”

  “Hear, hear!” cried Roakore.

  “Hear, hear!” cried Abram. They all clanged glasses and took hearty drinks.

  Abram and Roakore lit their pipes in the short silence followed. Whill looked to Avriel, who smiled approvingly. Rhunis shook his head in wonder.

  “I never would have imagined that the child of Celestra had survived. This is indeed great news.” His brow furrowed. “But how did this come to be?”

  “That tale would be better told by Abram,” Whill said.

  Abram told Rhunis the entire story, with Avriel adding here and there when it turned to Elladrindellia. To Whill’s amazement, he learned that she had helped in his healing as an infant. What astounded Rhunis was that, not only had the Draggard been the attackers, but Addakon had seen to it.

  “I have never liked Addakon, though I have met him only twice,” Rhunis said. “There was always something off about that one—nothing like your father, Whill, nothing at all. Your father was a great man: he helped his people, he was just and honest—but Addakon—something about the man always made me uneasy. I can’t quite place it. He always had an air about him of superiority and greatness, a condescending smile…oh, how I despise that smile. Nothing like your father, I say.”

  Roakore spoke up for the first time in a while. “Aye, nothing at all, I too once met yer father, and later yer uncle. Ye be yer father’s son, an’ not o’ yer uncle’s make.”

  Zerafin, to whom Whill had not yet spoken beyond introductions, then addressed him. “I met the both of them when they came to be trained many years ago, and I can say that we all felt the difference between them. The older and very wise of our people even urged our mother not to let Addakon be trained. She knew his heart, do not doubt, but she had made a pact with the late king of Arden those many years before. She could not break her vow, and both twins were trained in the ways of Orna Catorna.”

  There came a slight tap upon the tent, and then another. Rhunis raised a hand for silence. “Enter.”

  An Eldalonian soldier threw back the flap. Seeing the great company Rhunis was entertaining, he bowed low repeatedly and said sheepishly, “General Rhunis, sir, I apologize for the interruption, but there is pressing business within the town still.”

  The knight got to his feet. “Of course.” He nodded to the surrounding group. “If you will excuse me, then.”

  Abram stood. “I think I’ll join you. I’m sure the good people could use as much help as possible.”

  Roakore wiped wine from his mouth with his long beard. “Aye. I think I’ll make meself useful, too.”

  “I’ll be along shortly,” Whill said as the three departed.

  Zerafin held up the wine bottle, gesturing to Whill. “No, thanks, I’ve had enough,” Whill said.

  The elf smiled as he poured himself and Avriel a small amount. “What is on your mind? You wonder how it is that we came upon you, yes.”

  “You read my mind.”

  Zerafin chuckled. “Not quite. It is simply a logical deduction. We would not enter your mind without your permission—unless you were in grave danger, of course, as Avriel did when you so weakened yourself healing the boy.”

  Whill had known deep down that it had been real. Nonetheless, hearing it spoken of so plainly was a comforting confirmation. Zerafin scratched his hairless chin and asked nonchalantly, “Did you realize that you would have died if Avriel had not intervened? You gave Tarren so much that you left nothing for yourself.”

  Avriel shrugged shyly. Whill thought for a fleeting moment he saw her blush. Zerafin chuckled once again. “My sister has always been modest.” He smiled at her. They held their gaze for only a few seconds, but Whill had the feeling he was missing part of the conversation. Avriel raised an eyebrow at her brother and turned to Whill.

  “To answer your question of how we came upon you—we left Elladrindellia shortly after the incident with Tarren. We were instructed to find you and attend the meeting in Kell-Torey.”

  “We were able to locate you rather easily,” Zerafin explained. “Since my sister was one of the healers in your infancy, you have always shared a bond.”

  Whill looked at Avriel with more wonder and admiration than ever, though his new feelings were accompanied by something else—a notion that his growing fondness was that of
a silly young mortal. Avriel returned the gaze with a smile, and Zerafin went on.

  “It is hard for a human to understand such things, I know, but in time you will learn to understand these bonds, and to use them. You will no doubt share such a bond with Tarren, though he will be oblivious to it. You will be able to decipher where he is, for instance, and what he is doing. Also, though neither I nor my sister have experienced it...”

  He paused and looked at Avriel. She continued her brother’s thought. “You may share a similar bond with those you killed, since you took their life energy for your own,” she explained. Seeing Whill’s startled look, she added, “Do not worry, we can teach you to ignore them. It is not known for certain, though it is rumored, that the Dark elves are haunted by those they have taken from. Some can sever the bond or learn to ignore it. Others...”

  Zerafin spoke up. “Others are driven mad by the voices, and find silence by their own blade.”

  Whill pondered that statement for a moment, appalled by the prospect. Avriel continued. “Do not fret at that, Whill, we will teach you to be rid of them. We need to set our sights on Kell-Torey, where this most important meeting awaits us all; and from there, Elladrindellia, where you will be trained like your father before you.”

  Whill breathed in deeply and slowly exhaled, taking in all he had heard. He had one pressing question he could not ignore: “How long will the training take?”

  Zerafin furrowed his brow and shook his head. “Our mother has made a pact that states you shall be trained for the mandatory year. Is your haste so great that you would see this time as a burden?”

  Whill sensed that he had angered Zerafin, and perhaps Avriel. He held out his hands defensively. “No, no, I mean no disrespect. And I am grateful for all that the elves offer.”

  “But?”

  “But war rages now within Isladon, the Draggard multiply as we speak within the Ebony Mountains, and Addakon becomes more powerful by the second.”

  Zerafin gave a hearty laugh, which earned him a scowl from Avriel. “So you wish to forsake your training so that you might end the war within Isladon, destroy the Draggard, and defeat your uncle Addakon—not to mention the true evil behind all this, Eadon. All this you will accomplish on your own? To do these things you need not our help?”

  Avriel spoke before Whill could. “Save your condescension for one more worthy, brother. You know what he means.”

  Zerafin looked to Avriel with fire in his eyes, but slowly that fire was replaced by a smile. “Of course. I had forgotten how hasty humans can be, sister. I meant no offense.”

  Whill sensed a silent battle between the two. “I did not mean to offend you, Zerafin, son of Verelas. Nor do I mean to offend the elves. I am hasty, I admit, but I have much on my mind and much to do.” He slumped back in his chair with his hand upon his brow, seemingly exhausted. “You must understand that I have just learned who I am. Just a few days ago I was only Whill, a ranger of Agora. Now I am the rightful ruler of a kingdom to which I have seldom ventured and care little about. I am to defeat a mighty king in league with the most powerful Dark elf in history, and yet I almost killed myself healing a child.”

  Avriel turned to Zerafin with a raised brow once again. Her brother flashed her a look and addressed Whill. “I am the one who should apologize. I may have forgotten the position you have been put in. But understand, you cannot and will not do this on your own. You will need friends, and friendship we offer.”

  Zerafin offered his hand and Whill took it. “Whill of Uthen-Arden, son of Aramonis, son of Celestra, descendant of the great king who took in the elves when we needed friendship most: I offer you mine—undying, unending, until time spreads thine ashes.”

  Whill squeezed the elf’s hand. “And I offer you mine in return. I thank you, Zerafin, son of Verelas, prince of Elladrindellia.”

  Avriel stood also. Time seemed to slow as Whill looked into her blue eyes. She too offered her hand and spoke words of promise; ever so softly, ever so beautifully, did they escape her lips.

  “I offer to you, Whill of Uthen-Arden, my undying, unending, and boundless friendship, so that we may together, all of us, find peace.”

  Whill thought for a moment that he would not find his words. Her voice and her gaze had more effect on him than the wine. After a moment he composed himself and responded, “And I mine, Avriel, lady of Elladrindellia, daughter of the great Verelas—until the day I die.”

  Zerafin broke the silence that followed. “Then it is settled. We shall travel to Kell-Torey, and then on to Elladrindellia.”

  After Whill had exited the tent to help within the town, Zerafin turned to his sister and studied her for a moment. Avriel sighed.

  “What, brother?”

  “What indeed? This is not a game, nor a childhood fantasy.”

  She was taken aback. “What lunacy has befallen your tongue?”

  “I remember an elf child who would lend an ear for hours to any storyteller recalling the prophecy of Whill of Agora.”

  Avriel laughed quickly. “What of it?”

  Zerafin leveled his gaze on her. “You studied the prophecy for years, every piece of every scroll that mentioned him. Your life’s work has been for this man, this human.”

  “But he is the one! I have merely been preparing.”

  Raising an eyebrow, he said, “You have been in love with his legend since you were a child. How does the real person strike you? Is he everything you wished?”

  Avriel scoffed at her brother’s teasing and then puckered her lips to one side in thought. “It is very strange, don’t you think, to meet one so often spoken of as he?”

  “Yes, sister, indeed it is.”

  “The oddest thing is…he is exactly what I had envisioned.”

  Zerafin scowled and sighed. “This could be disastrous. I fear your feelings could—”

  “Could what, brother? It has been written; it will come to pass. He is Whill of Agora, the one we have waited a millennium for. Whether I love the idea of him is of no concern. It is not the same as loving the person.”

  Zerafin could only shrug. “We shall see.”

  Chapter XIX

  The Common Road

  THE REMAINDER OF THE DAY was spent salvaging what they could from the destroyed town. Riders were sent out to the nearest villages, and to Kell-Torey. Though no one thought another attack likely, they would all breathe a little easier when reinforcements arrived. Whill spent most of the day with Tarren, who asked a hundred questions about the dwarf city. Whill answered them happily. When the stars finally took to the night sky, he was more than glad to see them. He, Roakore, and Abram had been up since leaving the mountains, and all fell into a much-needed sleep.

  Whill awoke the following morning to the smell of pork and eggs drifting on the still-smoky air. He turned his head from the sky to Roakore and Tarren sitting by a fire—the lad no doubt asking more questions of Dy’Kore. Roakore noticed Whill and took the opportunity to break conversation with the young human.

  “Aye then, finally. Thought ye might sleep through the day, lad. The boy here’s got more questions than there be stars. Says he never seen a real dwarf, he does. I tell him, I ain’t ever seen a fake one,” he laughed and slapped his leg.

  Whill chuckled and accepted a hearty share of breakfast. All around him were similar camps with similar fires. Families and groups of soldiers were all now starting their day.

  Soon Abram arrived with Rhunis and the elves, each leading a horse. Rhunis helped himself to a piece of pork and ruffled Tarren’s hair. “So here we all are. This is good.”

  He gestured behind him to a knight leading a black stallion and a pony. “These are for you,” he said with a smile as he addressed Whill and Roakore. “We have many miles before us, and I for one would prefer to ride.”

  “I had assumed we would journey to Kell-Torey by water.”

  Abram gestured towards the sea. “Old Charlotte has been destroyed. And Rhunis’s vessel must stay docked here for p
rotection. We could wait for a royal escort, but that would take a few days.”

  Whill nodded. “Days that we don’t have.”

  Soon they left the still-smoldering Sherna behind. A group of soldiers from a nearby village had made station at dawn, and a small fleet was expected within the ten-day. Whill knew that the townspeople were in good hands, and he doubted they would see any more trouble. The Draggard had only attacked the town because he had been in it. The best thing he could do for Sherna was to leave.

  Though he had recently learned that he was heir to the Uthen-Arden throne and fought a horrible battle, and though death and destruction seemed to follow him like a morbid shadow, Whill was in good spirits. With the ever-inquisitive Tarren, his old friend Abram, both elven and dwarven royalty, and a legendary knight of Eldalon at his side, he felt good indeed.

  They headed west along the old and seldom-used road leading from Sherna to Kell-Torey. They rode for many miles, Tarren talking much of the time, until the sun crested the midday sky and it was time to stop and rest.

  The riders dismounted and made camp next to a small creek. The horses and pony were left to drink and graze, and Roakore—the most hungry of the group—started a strong fire.

  “Got me some good meats from one o’ them townswomen,” Roakore boasted as he took from his pack a half-dozen slabs of venison. “Said it was the least she could offer for me help.”

  Avriel put her hands upon her hips and gave Roakore a look. He huffed and made as innocent a face as he could muster. “What was I to do? I may have insulted the poor human if I said nay!”

  Everyone had seen the exchange, and none could help but have a good laugh at the poor dwarf’s expense. Roakore threw up his arms and tended to his cooking. The only ear he found was that of a young curious lad who had joined him to learn the secrets of dwarf cooking. Roakore put an arm over Tarren’s shoulder and looked back with a scowl at the rest of the group, which caused another small fit of laughter. “Bah. Forget them, laddie. They can think what they likes. Let ’em have their dried meats and their stinkin’ cheese.” Tarren only smiled.