FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Whill raced up the beach. The dragons had seen him, and they came—by the dozens, they came. They flew low, their wings dipping in the ocean with every beat. Only a short distance away an elf sat cross-legged, chanting quietly with his sword lifted to the heavens. Though Whill did not recognize the elf, he knew him to be Adimorda, and the blade he held—the ancient blade of legend—was Adromida. Whill raced toward him but seemed to get no closer—rather he was sinking quickly in the sand beneath his feet. Adimorda continued his chant, oblivious to Whill’s peril. Behind the elf stood his own father, sword held high, wearing a look of pure hatred, ready to strike down the elf. He realized it was not his father but Addakon. Whill screamed to Adimorda; the dragons neared; Addakon struck.

  Whill’s screaming woke him and the rest of the camp. Zerafin kneeled by his side, a look of worry on his face. He extended a hand and addressed the others. “It’s alright, go back to sleep. He was having a bad dream.”

  Abram came to his side as well. “What was it, Whill?”

  He shook his head and laughed, embarrassed. “It was nothing, really. Just a dream, like Zerafin said.”

  “Given the dreams you have had of late, I would not take any lightly if I were you.”

  Worry was etched into Zerafin’s brow. “My sister was able to reach you in your dreams. Do you think maybe Addakon, or Eadon—?”

  Whill cut him off. “No, no.” He shook his head. Could his dreams have been influenced by his enemies? Given recent events, he decided he really had no way of knowing. Nothing he heard would ever seem strange again. In the new world he had been thrust into, anything seemed possible.

  “It is my turn to keep watch, Zerafin,” Abram said. “Get some rest, my friend.”

  Zerafin nodded, never taking his eyes off Whill. Finally his serious look was replaced by a friendly smile. “Very well, then, but I shall like to hear of this dream later.”

  He took his leave as Abram and Whill walked a few yards out of camp. They circled the perimeter in silence, Abram seeming to sense that Whill needed a moment to get his wits about him. There was little wind on the edge of the road to Kell-Torey, and the spring night was unusually warm. This came as a welcome change to the cold winter that had recently passed. Crickets chirped all around them, and every now and then the strange sound of bats filled the air. Whill had only slept for a few hours, but he was not tired; rather he found that his head was quite clear.

  Abram ended the silence with a pat on Whill’s shoulder. “Have you forgotten that tomorrow is your twentieth birthday?”

  Whill laughed. “With all that has transpired, I had forgotten completely.”

  “Actually it is your birthday already—so says the moon.” Abram stared beyond the heavens to a place lost to the past. “I cannot believe it has been twenty years.”

  Whill stopped and turned to Abram. “I had never realized, nor have I properly thanked you for, all you have done for me. I cannot imagine a life with you not at my side. So now, twenty years after the beginning of it all—thank you, Abram. Thank you for everything.”

  Whill hugged him hard, and gave him a firm pat on the back, which Abram returned. He held Whill at arm’s length. “You have surpassed my greatest expectations in every regard, Whill. It has been an honor.”

  The young king smiled, but it faded as his eyes moved to the woods. Abram understood the look instantly. “What is it?”

  Whill surveyed the surrounding forest. “Listen—the insects and frogs. They have stopped.”

  “So they have.”

  They quickly and quietly returned to camp, where they found Rhunis and Roakore already awake and alert. Rhunis gestured them to come quietly. “Zerafin woke us a moment ago. He and Avriel have ventured into the brush.”

  Roakore looked annoyed. “So what is it, eh? What’s the excitement about?”

  Whill surveyed the woods once again, a chill running down his spine all the while. “The frogs and crickets have stopped singing to each other.”

  Roakore huffed. “It’s about time, those little monsters kept me up half the night.”

  “SHH!” the others exclaimed.

  “Draggard are about,” Whill said. “Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. Ready your axe.”

  Roakore nodded, but rather than his axe he took in his hands his stone bird and began to chant quietly.

  Rhunis gave the dwarf a queer look. “What is he doing?” he asked no one in particular.

  “What we should all be doing—preparing,” said Abram, as he slowly unsheathed his blade.

  Just then the scream of a dying Draggard ripped through the air. Three great flashes of light erupted from within the forest, and Zerafin and Avriel came dashing out of the woods.

  “Prepare for battle!” yelled Zerafin. He and Avriel each reached down and gathered stones. With a spoken word, the stones began to glow brightly. They threw them into the woods in every direction illuminating the still night.

  Only then did Whill realize that Tarren was still asleep, snoring even. He gently shook the boy. But to no avail. He shook harder. “Tarren, wake up!”

  “Do not bother,” said Avriel as she threw a few more stones into the woods. “I have made it so he will sleep soundly. The boy does not need to see this.”

  Whill nodded, grateful for Avriel’s thoughtfulness.

  Zerafin looked back at the others. “They have surrounded us.”

  “Twenty, maybe thirty of them,” added Avriel.

  Zerafin surveyed the night sky. “And at least a dozen Draquon. Ready your bows, and guard the boy.” He strung an arrow of his own.

  Roakore seemed not to hear any of it as he stood with eyes closed, chanting still.

  So they waited: Abram, Whill, Rhunis, and Roakore, with their backs to the fire and Tarren lying next to it. Zerafin stood guard on one side, Avriel on the other, facing the illuminated woods.

  They did not need to wait long. No longer seeing a reason for stealth, the Draggard erupted from the shadows. Just as quickly the elves stretched out their arms at the attackers, an unseen energy hit the Draggard. The beasts were lifted into the air and thrown back into the shadows.

  Whill could only watch in awe. Roakore saw also, and knew that it was time. With one last loud chant, he raised his hands and the stone bird whirled to life. Up into the air it flew, and with a thud it connected with a flying Draquon. The beast fell to the ground ten feet from the fire, its head crushed.

  Whill and Abram sprang into action, firing shots into the night sky as ominous shadows flew overhead.

  “Duck down!” shouted Avriel, and all four warriors obliged. A split second later a Draquon’s tail whipped overhead, and Avriel shot quickly. Before her warning had even begun to echo through the forest, the Draquon fell with an arrow through its eye.

  From his crouch Whill noticed that the Draggard which had been thrown backwards by the energy blast had regrouped. “Watch out!” he shouted, as the Draggard threw their many spears in unison.

  The missiles came whirling in, and Whill lifted his sword to deflect the onslaught, but there were too many.

  The elves each raised a hand, and the spears swiftly changed course and flew into the night sky. More than a half dozen Draquon fell from above, the weapons protruding from their many wounds. The Draggard who had thrown them hissed and growled as they charged in. Once again the elves sent a shockwave of energy to throw them back.

  Whill felt helpless as he watched the elves unleash their devastating power. He and the others stood at the ready. Roakore’s stone bird whirled by and took another Draquon from the heavens. The elves turned their focus to the flying Draggard as well. They raised their arms, chanting in Elvish, and blasted multicolored spells into the sky. Burnt and broken bodies fell from above. One unfortunate beast landed directly in the fire, and embers and burning wood flew in all directions. Rhunis’s cloak caught fire, as did Tarren’s blanket. The knight stomped on the blanket as Whill and Abram slashed and stabbed at the thrashing Draquon still alive in t
he blaze.

  Roakore settled his sights on the two closest winged beasts, who were dazed but not down. The stone bird pounded mercilessly back and forth as he guided it from one Draquon’s head to the other until they moved no more. The elves engaged the others with their devastating swords as the Draggard regrouped and charged at the warriors.

  Whill again was left to watch in awe as the elves took down the beasts with graceful precision. The Draggard were no match for their power. They fell one after another as the siblings cut through blade and armor, bone and flesh. Roakore let his stone bird fall and breathed in gasps as he took up his axe.

  “They’ll not have all the fun!” he huffed, and charged into the fray. Rhunis was right behind him. Whill and Abram, reluctant to leave Tarren, watched as the others made short work of the remaining Draggard.

  With the last killing stroke came again the darkening of the night. Whill thought that, with the threat gone, the elves had extinguished the glowing stones. He soon realized that was not the case.

  “Be ready!” said Avriel in a hushed tone.

  Whill was chilled once again; there was a hint of fear in Avriel’s voice. The six formed a tight circle around the fire and Tarren.

  “What is it?” asked Rhunis.

  Zerafin closed his eyes for a moment. “A Dark Elf.”

  “A powerful Dark elf,” Avriel added.

  “Bah! Bring ’em on!” said Roakore, as he put his stone bird back in motion. “I see him hiding.”

  “Roakore, don’t!” warned Avriel, but too late. Roakore released his weapon and it disappeared into the night. Just as quickly as it left, it returned—hitting Roakore square in the chest and sending him flying over the fire. He did not move.

  “Damn!” exclaimed Zerafin. “All of you, hold!”

  From the woods where Roakore had sent his stone bird, a figure emerged. He came boldly from the shadows and into the light, not twenty feet from the group. He was indeed a Dark elf. His long black hair was tucked behind tall, pointed ears that were adorned with many earrings, and he wore no armor—a fact Whill found more than a little unsettling. Instead he wore a flowing black robe. The hood was drawn back, revealing a shiny black, dragon-scale tunic underneath. His face was as fair as any elf’s, but for the swirling black tattoos.

  Zerafin stepped forward and spoke in Elvish. “Go now and tell your master that you and your band of monsters have failed here tonight, or you will not see the dawn.”

  The Dark elf did not move. Instead he laughed, a wicked, guttural laugh. “Ah, yes—the noble Zerafin. Much like your father you are, but a little less brave. As I remember, you left him to die and went sailing away with the other elf children. How valiant your words seem now.”

  Avriel stood beside her brother. “Your insults have no power.”

  The Dark elf took a step forward. “And the princess of the fallen Elves of the Sun, Avriel. It is such a treat to see you again. I shall enjoy every moment I spend with you henceforth, my love, do not doubt. But for now I have your coward brother to deal with!”

  A flash of red light emanated from his hand and traveled toward the two elves. They raised their hands in return and from them leapt their own energy to meet the attack. The Dark elf laughed once again.

  “I see you need the help of your sister to meet my challenge! How fitting. This only shows once again the greater power that is to be found within darkness.”

  The elves almost seemed to be at a stalemate, but the siblings looked slightly more taxed in holding the Dark elf’s attack at bay, while he showed not a sign of effort.

  Rhunis shot an arrow at the elf. It flew straight at his head and stopped dead, floating only inches from his flesh. With his free hand the elf reached out, snapped the arrow in half, and let it fall to the ground.

  “Humans, I find, are the most interesting of minor creations. They are brave, I must say.” The elf’s face twisted with rage. “But none too smart!” He clutched the air with his fist and Rhunis was lifted off the ground, his hands frantically gripping his throat.

  Zerafin gave a cry and charged ahead, sword in hand. Avriel was forced back many steps, having to hold back the Dark elf’s energy on her own, but not for long. Zerafin quickly engaged the elf, who had by then drawn his own sword. Avriel, now free of the energy attack, rushed forward to aid her brother. Rhunis fell to the ground.

  Whill watched on in awe as the three exchanged blows. The siblings fought well together, but so fast was the fighting that it was hard for Whill to follow. He looked to Abram. “What do we do?”

  “What can we do?”

  Whill found himself useless.

  Zerafin received a slash to the leg but fought on. Avriel scored a minor hit to the Dark elf’s shoulder. He jumped back out of reach and lowered his sword as the elves stood at the ready. The Dark elf looked at his bleeding shoulder and laughed as the wound healed in an instant.

  “Fools! You cannot defeat me. You have felt my blade; you know it to be true. Why fight on when to do so is folly?”

  It was Avriel’s turn to laugh. “You are the fool. We have had five hundred years to prepare our blades for the likes of you. Have you so quickly forgotten the ways of the Elves of the Sun?”

  “You should have left while you had the chance,” said Zerafin.

  The Dark elf soon understood. Zerafin and Avriel locked their free arms and came at him in a spinning, attack. The elf was forced back on his heels as he frantically parried blows that neither Whill, Abram, nor Rhunis could register. Zerafin struck followed by Avriel, and though both were blocked, the Dark elf had to bring his blade low to counter the second strike. When he did Zerafin was there with a thrust through the chest. As the blade sank, the Dark elf extended his free arm and there was a flash of light. Avriel’s blade flew from her hands as the Dark elf slashed her stomach. Zerafin stabbed again, this time through the neck.

  The sight of Avriel’s blood maddened Whill. With a cry he charged forward with his father’s blade.

  The Dark elf’s laugh became a gurgle as blood poured from his neck. He slashed again and severed Zerafin’s sword hand at the wrist. As he reeled back in pain, his sister thrust both hands forward into the open air. A shockwave of energy rushed forth and shattered the kneecaps of the Dark elf. He fell to his knees, but thrust forward once again, and impaled Avriel through the gut.

  Whill watched in horror as the blade came out of Avriel’s back. He screamed and brought back his blade for a killing blow, but stopped dead as the Dark elf raised his free hand. Whill felt more pain than he had ever known as red light emanated from the wounded elf and hit Whill with steady pulses. The evil creature laughed as he looked Whill dead in the eye. “Everyone you love will die horribly, fool human—”

  The Dark elf fell quiet as Zerafin pulled his sword from the Dark elf’s throat and hewed off its head. There was an explosion of magic as his blade cut through the dark elf’s spell shield. Whill fell to the ground next to Avriel as Zerafin extended his hand toward the elf’s body. It erupted in flames, and the pyre burned on as he poured forth great amounts of energy to incinerate the Dark elf—until not even ashes remained.

  Chapter XX

  Dwarf Pride

  THE SIGHT WAS A BLOODY one. More than twenty dead Draggard littered the ground, along with nearly a dozen Draquon. Roakore was still out cold, though Whill could see his chest heave slightly as he breathed. Rhunis coughed violently, his throat having been nearly crushed. Zerafin bled from his severed hand, and Avriel lay upon the ground, close to death.

  Whill’s pain had subsided as soon as the Dark elf died. Now he looked upon the elf maiden whom he had grown to love in such a short time. Abram was already tending to Roakore, who had awakened and was trying to stand.

  Whill took Avriel in his arms and looked into her blue eyes. She coughed and blood trickled from her lips. He felt something inside him tear at the sight of the dying elf. Rage welled within him as he watched her slowly slipping away. Tears welled in his eyes.

&n
bsp; “Give me….” Her voice was so soft that Whill hardly heard her.

  “What?” he asked. “Give you what?”

  “My sword,” she whispered.

  Whill moved to find it, but then he saw Zerafin standing next to them, Avriel’s sword in hand. Whill took it from him and placed it in Avriel’s bloody hand. Zerafin placed his hand on his shoulder.

  “You should step back.”

  Avriel took the blade in both hands and placed it upon her chest. Instantly she seemed more aware as she closed her eyes and wrapped herself in bright blue tendrils of healing energy.

  “The wounds are grave,” Zerafin said. “It shall take a moment. But she will be alright.”

  Whill looked at his bloody stump. “And you—can you heal such a wound?”

  Zerafin laughed. If he felt any pain he did not show it. “I could actually grow another if I needed. But simply reconnecting the original will take far less energy.”

  Whill could not shake the feeling that he was caught up in a strange dream as he watched the elf press the severed hand to his bloody wrist. The same blue tendrils encircled it.

  He left the elves to their healing and rushed over to check on Roakore. Abram was trying to keep the stubborn dwarf from getting up.

  “Let me up, ye damned fool, I don’t need no healing! I don’t need no help!”

  Abram cursed the dwarf. “Every rib on his left side is broken, and one must have punctured his lung, for he is coughing blood. Still the fool refuses the elves’ help and insists he is alright.”

  Roakore lay growling under Abram’s restraining arms. Whill shrugged. “Let him up, then. He says he is alright, and so he must be.” He winked to Abram on the sly. “Give the good dwarf his dignity.”

  Abram let go and Roakore got to his feet with much effort but not a sign of discomfort. He shoved Abram weakly. “At least the lad has some sense!”