FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Avriel and Zerafin had taken up a conversation with Rhunis as they brushed their stallions. Abram took the opportunity to talk with Whill, who was sitting on the ground, sharpening his sword.

  “I’ve a riddle for you.”

  Whill regarded him quizzically. “I had thought you ran out of riddles for me to solve when I was Tarren’s age.”

  Abram chuckled. “Oh, this one is a stumper.”

  “Alright then, let’s hear it,” said Whill—never one to turn down a riddle.

  Abram cleared his throat dramatically. “How does one keep his mind on the mission at hand when he has fallen helplessly in love with an elf princess?”

  Whill said nothing. For a long and silent while he and Abram simply stared at each other. Finally Whill scoffed and went back to sharpening his blade, and Abram to smoking his pipe. After a few minutes, Whill stopped and set aside his sword.

  “I’m not in love with her.”

  Abram tapped his pipe on a nearby rock and regarded Whill with one raised eyebrow.

  “Don’t give me that look,” Whill said.

  “What look?”

  “You know what look”

  “I didn’t know I was giving a look. Perhaps I have a tick.”

  Whill let his gaze wander to Avriel. He couldn’t deny what he felt. “Alright, you win, Abram. As always, you have seen into my heart and soul.” He took a deep breath and asked in a surrendered tone, “What do I do?”

  Abram let his victorious smile fade and pondered for a moment. “I do not know what will become of this. History tells us nothing of human and elven romance, or the ramifications. But I know this: Your feelings will be used against you, whether she shares them or not. Your enemies will target the ones you love. It is hard to understand, but you must bury your feelings deep, Whill. She must not know. Though she may already suspect, you must not speak of it. You must not think of it.”

  Whill considered this for a long moment. “And what about you, Abram?”

  “Me? What of me?”

  Whill laughed. “And so the wise man does not see.” He shook his head. “You old fool. What about you? I love you like a father. Should I hide that also?”

  “That’s different.”

  “How so?”

  “The feelings a man has for his first love are more powerful than any he will ever know. This is written by both men and elves. I may die in the upcoming wars—you will have others to lean on.”

  Whill shook his head as if he thought the notion absurd. Abram grabbed his arm. “Listen to me, Whill.” His tone and demeanor demanded attention. “I may fall, Tarren may fall—any may fall, and you still will be uncompromised. You will be hurt, both in mind and soul, but you will survive. If your love is lost, however, you may become that which you strive to defeat. This I say as a warning and nothing more.”

  Whill regarded him for a moment, and then looked at Avriel and the others. “I understand. But I think you put too much on me alone. You treat me as some kind of savior. I am but one man. One man! I cannot…I will not be held responsible for the fate of Agora! The elves will fight without me. The humans will fight without me. And the dwarves will fight till the end no matter what. Yes, I intend to back my father’s throne, but if I fail, it should be of no large consequence to the cause.”

  Abram sighed. “I had hoped to let the revelations of your lineage set in for a bit before…” He nodded to the elves, “Those two had sought you out for reasons other than your lineage.”

  “I thought you had but one riddle for me,” said Whill dryly.

  “I believe the elves can better answer this one my friend.”

  Whill threw up his hands, stood and began pacing. He was tired of hearing about himself so. He had barely gotten used the idea of his lineage…and now there was more? Without a word he turned and left Abram and his secrets.

  Abram simply puffed on his pipe and left it all to the gods.

  Roakore and Tarren were in deep discussion about dragons and dwarf gods when Whill slumped down next to them.

  “Just tellin’ yer boy Tarren here ’bout the dragon gods,” Roakore explained. “Meat’s got a little while to go, still.”

  Tarren piped in with his usual enthusiastic demeanor. “Aye, Roakore told me all about the dragon and dwarf gods. It’s really good stuff, Whill, you should hear it! All about the Prophet Ky’Dren and—”

  Whill cut him off and recited the old tales to take his mind off of Abram’s implications: “Ky’Dren came to the dwarves at a time when they were lost. They had no religion or deeper social structure other than that of the nomad. Ky’Dren told them he had been sent by the dwarf gods to lead them; to give them a better life; to show them their purpose.”

  Roakore nodded with approval at Whill’s summary. Tarren became jubilant. “Whill, I didn’t know you knew so much of the dwarves! What else do you know?”

  Roakore patted the boy’s leg. “A great deal about all things, I imagine. A great deal.”

  Whill spoke to no one the remainder of the break. They all ate their share of the venison, packed up, and headed out once again. Tarren asked to ride with the less-than-enthusiastic dwarf next. They travelled the remainder of the day, and briefly into the night, along the old road leading to Kell-Torey. They met a few merchants, and also a group of soldiers headed for Sherna. Rhunis informed them that he had charged the reconstruction of the town to his second-in-command. After a short briefing the soldiers were off once again, and the riders made camp for the night.

  Roakore made another large fire and went about cooking the remaining venison—with the help of a tired but eager young lad. Whill took the time to speak with Avriel and her brother, and found them tending to their horses. Not being in the mood for small talk, he walked up and simply said what was on his mind.

  “Abram tells me I have a larger part in all of this than I know. Though I cannot imagine how my part might become any greater, I trust you will enlighten me.”

  Avriel and Zerafin stopped what they were doing and looked at the faraway silhouette of Abram, and then at each other. They seemed to share a silent communication and finally nodded, putting down their brushes.

  “Sit then, and we shall tell you the tale,” said Zerafin.

  Whill sat upon the ground, as did the elves. Twenty yards away the fire burned, casting faint orange light upon the two storytellers.

  Avriel began. “Thousands of years ago there lived within Drindellia an elf prophet by the name of Adimorda. He was a skilled fighter and healer, but he was best known for his foresight.”

  “Foresight?”

  “Yes,” Zerafin said. “Adimorda is now known as the greatest elf prophet to have ever lived—which is no small feat, considering that our history dates back hundreds of thousands of years.”

  Whill lit up. “Yes, now I remember reading of him. Vaguely, however; I was a child then, and the books I had of the elves spoke little of him. I remember them saying that he could see into the future.”

  Avriel nodded. “He used his powers unlike any before him. When first he looked into the future—and then later events proved him right—he became obsessed. He spent years pouring his energy into his blade, and used the stored power to strengthen his mental abilities.”

  Zerafin took over without missing a beat. “As more and more of Adimorda’s predictions came true, his followers increased. They would travel from hundreds of miles around to give him their stored energy in exchange for a glimpse of the future. With so much energy at his disposal, he began looking farther and farther into the future: first decades, then hundreds—even thousands—of years.”

  Avriel’s eyes shone wet in the faint firelight. “Then Adimorda saw something that terrified him, something that would change him forever and drive him into a lifelong obsession—the destruction of Drindellia. He saw the rise of an evil elf lord; the creation of hideous beasts; the fall of his homeland. We know now, that elf lord was Eadon, and the beasts the Draggard. Adimorda knew he must do all he could t
o prevent this from happening. He devised many plans and began to carry them out, but soon found that, with every one, the results would be the same or worse.”

  Whill cut in. “He looked to the future to see how he had helped?”

  “Precisely,” Zerafin said. “And found that nothing he did would help. He could not alter a future so far away.”

  Whill’s mind began to hurt as he thought of the possibilities. He put his hands through his hair and let out an exasperated breath. “Then what did he do?”

  “He created a weapon,” said Zerafin. “He thought that if he could store enough energy within it, with the help of his followers, then the wielder would have a chance at defeating the Dark elf. But his plan backfired. He looked once again into the future, only to discover that the Dark elf himself would eventually acquire the sword, and all would be lost.”

  “But that was not all,” Avriel said. “He would not give up so easily. To see to it that the Dark elf would never use the sword, he made it so that no elf could ever wield it. He created the Order of Adromida, a group of his followers who would dedicate their lives to his cause.”

  Zerafin took his turn. “Adimorda disappeared shortly after that, and was never seen or heard from again.”

  Whill was shocked. “Was he murdered?”

  “No one knows,” Zerafin said. “Some speculate that he poured all of his life energy into the blade, leaving himself none. Within his chambers, his followers found three words written in blood.”

  The intensity of their combined stares made Whill uncomfortable. “What did it say?”

  “Whill of Agora,” said Avriel.

  Just then Abram joined them. “You speak of Adimorda, I see.”

  Avriel concurred. “The last scrolls of Adimorda spoke of one who would wield the blade Adromida, one who would rid the world of the Dark elf Eadon and his many legions. Whill of Agora.”

  Whill now saw it all clearly. Though he was reluctant to believe he had such a part to play, the evidence was undeniable. “The sword Adromida cannot be wielded by an elf?”

  “Correct,” said Zerafin.

  “So it is up to me. I alone must wield the blade and destroy Eadon.” His voice held little enthusiasm.

  Avriel looked from her brother to Abram, and finally to Whill. “There is one other who could wield the blade.”

  Whill knew before she had finished. “Addakon.”

  Abram nodded. “Yes.”

  “Where is the sword?” asked Whill. “Was it brought from Drindellia?”

  Avriel shook her head with dismay. “We do not have it, nor do we know where it is. For thousands of years the Order of Adromida did what they had been sworn to do. It was composed of hundreds of monks, and each and every elf poured their life energy into that blade. Every day, all day, there was always someone within the temple, strengthening the blade, for thousands of years.”

  Avriel paused and stared at Whill, scrutinizing his reaction. When he only stared back, she let out a huff. “Whill, do you understand the great power that Adromida possesses? Having been given the energy of so many for so long?”

  Whill thought on it for a moment. “No, I cannot. It is unimaginable. The wielder of such a blade would be like…like a god.”

  “Yes. And can you imagine what Addakon would do with such power?”

  Whill knew then that if his uncle ever got his hands on the great elven blade, all would be lost. Whether he liked it or not, he—it seemed—was truly the only hope.

  Abram lit his pipe and blew out a puff of smoke. “Now you begin to see. This is why I think that Eadon has come to Agora—he is in search of the blade, but also its wielder. It seems that he has found Addakon. And together they will stop at nothing to acquire Adromida. I believe that is why Addakon killed your father. With he and his unborn child dead, the only man with the power to wield the blade would be himself.”

  “And now he knows that I live. The throne is but a minor issue, is it not? Addakon wants me dead so that I cannot find the sword first.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Then why are we heading for Kell-Torey when we could be looking for the sword? Do we have any clues to where it may be?”

  Zerafin put a hand to the air, gesturing for Whill to relax. “We have been looking for the sword, of course, since we learned of your existence.”

  “But what ever happened to the blade? Who took it?”

  Avriel looked in Roakore’s direction, and said in a lowered tone, “The dragons.”

  Whill gave out a frustrated laugh and threw his arms up. “Of course. Dragons!”

  Avriel only nodded, unamused. “When the war of Drindellia began, Eadon destroyed the Temple of Adromida and took the sword as his own. Though he could not wield it, he kept it for himself. He knew that if his enemies had it, they might find a way to use it against him. We elves had a strong friendship with the dragons for thousands of years, and they viewed Eadon’s creation of the Draggard as a great insult.”

  Zerafin took up the telling. “Avriel was born after the wars had begun, but I remember when it all started. I was 120 years old. Our father begged the dragons for help, but most refused. Less than twenty decided to form an alliance with us. That was near the beginning of the War of Drindellia, and though the dragons aided us greatly in the many battles, the Dark elves were too powerful. We were defeated, and all but one of the dragons who aided us were killed.”

  Avriel interjected. “That dragon, the red dragon Zhola, with the help of a host of elves, managed to steal Adromida from Eadon. The elves were killed, but Zhola returned the sword to our father. Our father told him to leave, to take the blade somewhere safe, somewhere far away. And so he did, and was never seen again.”

  There was a pause in the story as Whill looked at the ground, his mind racing. Abram sat likewise, puffing his pipe. Avriel went on.

  “We have spoken to a few of the dragons, though they are hard to find these days. As you know, they have been mostly driven from Agora by dwarves and men. The Agoran dragons live now on Drakkar Island, but few dare venture there, not even us elves.”

  “The dragons of Drakkar do not know of the old alliances between dragons and elves,” Zerafin added. “They are wild and unfriendly, to say the least. Those elves who have tried to find out anything about Zhola have either died trying or found out nothing useful.”

  Whill still felt hopeful. “But if there is anything to learn of Zhola, it is to be learned on Drakkar Island, is it not?”

  Avriel was hesitant. “Correct.”

  “Then that is where Addakon will be looking—and that is where I must look.”

  Zerafin laughed. “You will go to Drakkar Island alone, and what? Simply walk into the dragon’s lair and ask about Zhola?”

  “What choice do I have? I will wait until I am stronger, of course, when I have learned the ways of the elves.”

  “It sounds foolhardy, but he is right.” Abram grinned at Whill. “And I will be there next to him.”

  “As will I,” said Rhunis as he walked over to the small gathering. “Who better to have with you on Drakkar Island than Rhunis the Dragonslayer?”

  “What are ye all talkin’ ’bout?” Roakore called from the fireside. “Quit yer yappin’ and come get dinner while it’s hot.”

  They did as the gruff dwarf told them and ate beside the fire. Fresh-cooked venison, cheese, and bread: not such a bad meal for the road—and it was only made better by Rhunis’s wine. To Roakore’s relief, Tarren had switched to pestering the elves with his hundred questions. Whill watched as the beautiful Avriel animatedly told Tarren a tale of the elves. He tried not to stare but found it difficult indeed. A few times Zerafin caught him, though he said nothing and gave no indication as to whether or not he approved.

  Tarren went on to beg the elf maiden for a song, and she happily agreed. All other conversation died as Avriel sat up. To Whill she was like an angel, so beautiful did she look in the firelight. As she began her song, he heard an angel’s voice to match
.

  The dreaded day dawned, birthing a blood-red sun

  Upon the beaches of Alshtuir stood our king

  He stood proud with his men, those who would die

  The finest of weapons the strongest of armor

  The greatest of heroes shone in the sun

  Our boats sailed away that most dreaded of days

  Tears of a queen fell into the sea

  Tears of a king fell into the sand

  Over the hill the fell beasts they came

  The elves of darkness stepped onto the sand

  As the ocean took us to safety unknown

  The battle began with the cry of our king

  Over the waters it echoes, still to this day

  To remind us what was given, so that we may live

  No one spoke. Rhunis, Abram, and Whill all stared at Avriel with wonder. Roakore looked at the fire, trying to hide the moisture in his eyes. Zerafin smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder. Avriel smiled at them all and wiped a tear from her eye.

  “I apologize—that was not the happiest of songs, I know, but it is my favorite.”

  Whill smiled back. “No, no, it was beautiful. I have never heard a voice with so much…feeling.”

  Avriel wiped her eyes once again and stood. “I think I will find some rest.” She laughed as she looked at Tarren. “It seems as though the boy already has.”

  Everyone laughed as they too looked at Tarren. He was sitting cross-legged with his head to the side, having fallen asleep sitting up. Avriel gently laid him down and covered him.

  Zerafin stood. “We have a long road ahead and you should all get some rest. I will take first watch.”

  They all shared good-nights and fell asleep one by one, Whill last of all. He lay staring up at the stars for some time, considering all he had learned. He laughed to himself at the memory of being overwhelmed in finding out he was a rightful king. Compared to hearing a five-thousand-year-old elven prophecy about himself, that news had been nothing. The stars danced and his mind raced, but eventually he found sleep.