FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Never!”

  Before the word could leave his lips he was slammed into the wall with a flick of Eadon’s wrist. He got to his feet and unsheathed his father’s sword. It was ripped from his grasp by the Dark elf’s mind, and slammed against the wall. Whill lunged forward, but Eadon raised a hand and his body froze. The Dark elf lunged forward and dealt a double-fisted blow to his ribs. He was thrown backwards into the wall and landed with a thud, his ribs shattered. He could not draw breath; many of the bones had penetrated his lungs. He coughed blood, and Eadon was on him in a flash. Whill was lifted into the air only to be slammed against the wall once more. Then he was pulled through the air and caught by the throat in Eadon’s powerful grip. He brought his face close to Whill’s as he choked the life from him.

  “Yes, my friend. You know it to be true. You cannot win; you cannot defy me. The outcome can only mean loss for you.”

  Whill blacked out. Finally the pain ceased, and there was nothing—sweet, beautiful, warm nothing. He had been delivered by death from the clutches of the murderous Dark elf. But then—

  Sound, smell. He opened his eyes in time to see the blue tendrils of healing dissipate. His ribs and lungs were healed, and Eadon stood over him.

  “Thus begins your training, apprentice,” he said as he stepped aside. Another Dark elf approached, followed by two Draggard. Whill got to his feet and stood before them boldly.

  “This is Thazak,” Eadon said. “He will be your first teacher.”

  He was taller than Whill and slightly shorter than Eadon, with black hair and dark eyes. His face was adorned with intricate black tattoos. Whill’s body froze as Thazak grabbed his face by the jaw and inspected him. “I have practiced the art of torture for many years in anticipation of your arrival. Your pain will be legendary.” He smiled. “I promise.”

  Thazak proceeded to beat him within an inch of his life, and Whill thought that if he could somehow survive this, he could survive anything. His limp body was dragged down many stairs by the Draggard. They took him to the special dungeons far below the castle, from which no screams would be heard. The young man Whill had been would never return from those depths, even if his body did.

  Roakore entered the throne room, and there upon the throne he saw it, the skeleton of his father. The enemy had propped him up in the chair, crown and all. This had been meant as an insult, but to Roakore it now seemed proper. He raised his hands and tried as hard as he could to picture his father. With the image in mind, he commanded the stone and it obeyed. It rose up from all sides and encased the dead king and his throne. It fused together, but then the outer stone fell away revealing a sculpture of Roakore’s father. It was so perfect, it could not have been made by hand. When the clan had amassed its wealth once again, Roakore intended to encrust it with diamonds.

  He went down on one knee. “Father. I have done as ye asked. I have taken back our mountain. Let yer soul be free.”

  For a moment there was only silence, but then a draft picked up and blew through his hair. From the statue rose a silver mist. It lingered for a moment, and then spiraled up and disappeared into the ceiling. Roakore burst into tears of joy.

  He joined his new friends and looked out over the battlefield in the fading sunlight. They had all—elf, dwarf, and human—lost many lives this day. Abram looked to the sky and thought of Whill. Roakore knew his mind.

  “What has become of him?” Abram asked the faint wind.

  Zerafin looked at the ground. “He has been taken by Eadon. Our greatest fears have been realized. We have won today’s battle, but at a great expense. Without Whill, we cannot win the war. We have no other option but to try and free him from the Dark elf’s grasp.”

  “How do we free him from one so powerful?” Abram asked.

  Zerafin shook his head. “How indeed?”

  The Story Continues In… A Quest of Kings: Book #2

  Afterword

  MICHAEL JAMES PLOOF IS A bestselling author of epic and urban fantasy.

  His epic fantasy series—Legends of Agora—currently consists of six books set in Agora, a land inhabited by humans, elves, dragons, and dwarves. He has recently branched out to urban fantasy with his post-apocalyptic series: The Orion Rezner Chronicles. Michael lives in Northern NY (as far north as you can get) with his wife and two teenage children.

  Join the mailing list for updates on new releases, special promotions, book giveaways, author blog and much more: www.whillofagora.com/Contact-Us.html

  Like our Facebook page: www.facebook.com/WhillofAgora

  Visit the Legends of Agora website: www.whillofagora.com/

  Other Books by Michael James Ploof

  Whill of Agora Series

  Book 1: Whill of Agora

  Book 2: A Quest of Kings

  Book 3: A Song of Swords

  Book 4: A Crown of War

  The Windwalker Archive

  Book 1: Talon

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  REQUIEM'S SONG - DAWN OF DRAGONS, BOOK #1

  Daniel Arenson

  LAIRA

  ON LAIRA’S TENTH BIRTHDAY, THE crone dragged her outside to see her mother burned at the stake.

  Laira blinked in the weak morning sun. She had not seen daylight in so long. For five days they had kept her in her tent, alone in shadows, alone in fear, the sounds of the trial—shouting, pleading, weeping—rising outside. Now silence filled the camp. Now, finally in daylight, Laira only wanted to return to the darkness.

  Other tents rose across the yellow grass, similar to hers, their animal-skin covers stretched across cedar poles. In the distance rolled a red forest, a place of berries and the whispers of secret men, and beyond the trees rose the faded blue mountains where the elk roamed. A murder of crows circled above, cawing, and Laira felt her head spin and she nearly fell. She clutched her doll, a wooden little thing she had named Mustardseed. The crone’s talon-like hand tightened around Laira’s arm, dragging her forward; Laira felt like a doll herself, helpless and small.

  “Keep walking and don’t close your eyes,” said the crone, a shaman named Shedah. Her arms were knobby like old carob branches, and her fingers ended with sharp, yellow nails that nicked Laira’s flesh. Other fingers—torn off the hands of dead men—hung around Shedah’s neck in a lurid necklace of bone and dried flesh, charms to ward off evil spirits. The crone was ancient beyond measure—some claimed her two hundred winters old—and so wizened her eyes all but disappeared into nests of wrinkles. Her gums were toothless, her nose beaked, her body withered, and yet she was still so strong, strong enough that Laira thought the crone could snap her arm in two. All Laira could do was keep walking, guided by the old woman.

  “I won’t close my eyes,” Laira whispered.

  Shedah cackled. “If you do, I’ll rip off your eyelids and make you watch. So be a good little maggot.”

  They kept moving through the camp. The tribe’s totem pole rose ahead—the great bole of an ancient cedar, carved with images of bison, eagles, and leaping fish. Near its crest flared a gilded mammoth tusk, long as a boat, attached to the pole with rawhide thongs. The cross of wood and ivory towered above the tents—the god Ka’altei, a deity of meat and fire. Wherever they set down this pole marked their territory, a beacon for all other tribes to fear.

  Around the pillar brooded its guardians—the rocs, fetid birds the size of mammoths. Oil dripped down their black feathers, and their long, naked necks turned as Laira approached. Their cruel beaks—large enough to swallow men—clacked open and shut, and their talons, which were longer than human arms, dug into the soil. Their eyes watched Laira, gleaming orbs like circles of bronze. Were they not tethered to the totem, Laira thought they’d leap toward her, tear out her entrails, and feast.

  The tribesmen stood everywhere, dour, staring, clad in fur and leather and holding spears. Some stared at Laira balefully. One hunter, a burly man with a scraggly red beard, spat at her. Others gazed in
pity. Clad in a robe of patches, a druid woman whispered ancient prayers, reaching toward Laira but daring not approach. In Laira’s old home across the sea, men now wove wool and cotton, built houses of stone, and shaved their beards, yet here in the north—in the Goldtusk tribe—lived an older, prouder, rougher people, warriors of fur and stone and hair. War paint covered their leathery skin, and tattoos of totem animals coiled around their arms.

  The crone kept tugging her forward, and Laira wanted to use her curse—the secret disease of her family, the power that would let her escape this tribe, let her free her mother, let her kill them all. Yet she dared not. Mother had used the dark magic; now the woman would burn.

  Past campfires, the totem pole, and a mammoth carcass buzzing with flies it rose—the pyre.

  Upon the pile of wood and kindling she stood tied to the stake—Laira’s mother.

  For five days in her tent, Laira had shed many tears, yet none would now flow. The crone who dragged her forward paused, and Laira stood in the dead grass, staring, feeling dead herself, feeling empty.

  Mother wept.

  Her face was so beaten Laira barely recognized her. It looked less like a face and more like a slab of bloodied meat. Tears poured from bruised, bloodshot eyes to flow down lacerated cheeks. When Mother spoke, her voice was slurred, thick with blood and shattered teeth.

  “Don’t make her watch. Turn her aside. Please . . . Laira, my sweetness, please, close your eyes.”

  Laira bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. She wanted to run away, but how could she? She wanted to close her eyes, but Shedah had promised to rip off her eyelids. The crone gripped both her arms now, fingers digging, hard as bronze, and Laira wondered if those fingers could shatter her bones, rip off her limbs, kill her right here with the pain. Mother wept upon the pyre and Laira wanted to do something—to use her curse, to scream, even to weep, some act of defiance or emotion . . . but she only watched.

  “Behold the reptile!”

  The voice, high-pitched and raspy, tore through the camp like a blade through flesh. Goose bumps rose on Laira’s skin. Wincing, she turned to see him—the man who ruled the Goldtusk tribe, the man who would sentence Mother to death, the man who filled Laira’s nightmares.

  “Zerra,” she whispered.

  The chieftain limped toward them, tall and swaying like a wicker effigy in the wind. He wore patches of fur, leather boots, and necklaces of bone beads. His prized possession, a bronze apa sword, hung upon his belt. The blade was leaf-shaped, double-edged, and as long as a man’s forearm, sprouting from a semicircular crossguard. In some of the villages across the river, men now forged metal, plowed fields, and raised huts, but Zerra had always scorned them. His were the old ways, the ways of hunting and gathering, of tents and campfires, of blades taken from corpses rather than forged in smithies.

  More than his towering height, his sword, or his mane of grizzled hair, it was Zerra’s face that frightened Laira. Half that face was gone, burned into something wet, raw, and dripping. Mother had given him that wound—or at least, the creature Mother had become, a monster of scales, fangs, and fire.

  The disease, Laira thought and shivered. The curse that had us banished from Eteer, our old home across the sea. The curse that lets my family turn into reptiles. Into monsters. Into . . . dragons.

  “Zerra, listen to me!” Mother cried from the pyre. “Banish us. Banish us to the escarpment. We will not hurt you. We—“

  “You will burn and scream for me,” Zerra said, his left eye blazing from his melted flesh. “You are lower than one who lies with pigs. You will squeal.”

  You screamed, Laira thought. You squealed.

  She had seen it five days ago. She had dreamed it every night since. She knew those nightmares would fill her forever. The memory pounded through her, shaking her bones.

  While the men had hunted upon their rocs, Mother had taken Laira into the woods to gather berries, nuts, and mushrooms. Mother’s amulet gleamed around her neck, a silver talisman bearing the sigil of Taal, a god of their old home across the sea, a god unknown to any others in this northern hinterland. Past a grove of birches they had found a pond, a place of water lilies, golden leaves, and mist. It was a secret place, a perfect place. A place for dark magic.

  The curse always itched within Laira and her mother. The disease forever cried for release. They stepped into the pool, submerged themselves in the water . . . and shifted.

  Hidden underwater, Laira opened her eyes, and between algae and the roots of lilies, she saw Mother change. White scales flowed across her body, the color of moonlight, and wings unfurled from her back. Her body grew, becoming almost as large as a roc, slick and graceful and thin. Laira changed too, letting the curse raise golden scales across her. Her wings stirred the water, and she blasted sparks from her mouth.

  Their claws rested on the pool’s floor. Their tails braided together. Their heads—long, scaled, and horned—rose to the surface. Nostrils and eyes emerged into the air. Men called it a curse, but to Laira it felt so good. This felt more like her natural form than the scrawny, raven-haired girl she was at their camp. Scaled and winged, a golden dragon, Laira felt whole. She felt true. Looking around the forest, she tried to imagine flapping her wings and flying, seeing mountains, forests, and rivers from high above, so high nobody could hurt her.

  “Why must we hide?” she asked, sticking her snout over the water. Lilies tangled around her teeth. “They say that other cursed ones live at the escarpment in the north. They say it’s safe. They say Zerra’s own twin brother hides there, cursed with the same disease.”

  Mother blasted smoke from her nostrils. Her eyes narrowed. As a dragon, her voice sounded deeper, stronger, almost musical. “There are no others, Laira. That’s only a myth. The world is cold and large and empty. The lone wolf perishes. The pack survives. The tribe of Goldtusk is our home, and Zerra is a kind master.”

  “A master who would slay us if he knew our secret!” Laira said. “I hate hiding. I hate this curse. Why did you have to give me this disease? You infected me.” Tears burned in her eyes. “If I must be a dragon, let me fly. Let me be free. I won’t cower in the water.”

  Anger flowed through Laira, rattling her scales, and flames filled her maw. With a cry, she beat her wings. She rose from the pool, water and algae dripping off her scales, claws scratching at the air. Mother gasped and stared from below. Laira knew the rule—only become a dragon underwater, in darkness of night, or in deep caves, never in the open. They had been caught shifting in their last home, a place Laira could hardly remember, and they had barely escaped. But Laira didn’t care. Laira was done caring. She hated hiding and she would fly.

  She beat her wings, rising higher, soaring between the trees until she crashed through the forest canopy with a shower of orange leaves. The cold wind streamed around her and Laira laughed. This was freedom. This was who she was. They called it a disease but she felt healthier than ever, not a monster but a noble spirit of fire.

  “Laira!”

  She looked down to see Mother rising from the forest—a slim white dragon with blue eyes.

  “I can fly!” Laira shouted and laughed. “I can fly to the escarpment. I can find the others. I know they’re real. I—“

  “Laira, come back here!” Mother shouted, flying toward her.

  The white dragon reached out her claws, grabbed Laira’s leg, and tugged. Laira screamed and tried to free herself, and her wings beat, and—

  Shrieks pierced the air.

  Laira fell silent.

  Mother spun around in the sky, stared east, and cried out in fear.

  “Rocs,” Laira whispered.

  The great birds, larger even than dragons, covered the sky, fetid things like oversized vultures. Their heads were bald, their necks gangly, their black feathers damp with the oil they secreted. Their talons reached out, and upon their backs rode the hunters of the Goldtusk tribe.

  At their lead, riding upon a massive roc that dwarfed the others, rode
Zerra.

  “The curse of the reptile rises!” cried the chieftain, his hair billowing. He raised a flint-tipped spear in his hand; feathers and scrimshawed raven skulls adorned its shaft. “Behold the weredragon.”

  Mother hovered and snarled, hiding Laira behind her. She faced the advancing horde. Dozens of rocs flew toward them.

  “Fly down into the forest,” Mother said softly, still facing the foul birds; it took Laira a few heartbeats to realize Mother was talking to her. “They haven’t seen you yet. Land among the trees, become human again, and return to the camp.”

  “We have to flee!” Laira said.

  “They’re too fast,” Mother replied. “They will catch us if we flee. Into the forest, go! I’ll hold them off.”

  The rocs shrieked, drawing nearer. Their stench filled the air, thick as fog, and their cries split the sky, slamming against Laira’s eardrums.

  Laira shook, hesitating, wanting to fight too, wanting to drag Mother to safety, wanting to fly north and find the other dragons fabled to exist . . . but she simply obeyed.

  She flew down past the leafy canopy. Before she hit the ground, she heard screams above. Fire blazed overhead and blood rained. Laira landed by the pool, shifted back into human form, and gazed up at the sky.

  She trembled. She wanted to cry out but dared not. Past the branches, she caught only glimpses of the violence. She saw Mother blowing fire, a blaze greater than any pyre, tinged blue and white with horrible heat. She saw Zerra ignite, scream, and burn upon his roc. And then only smoke, talons cutting into scales, and pattering blood on fallen leaves.

  A human again—ten years old, scrawny as a twig, and clad only in her buffalo pelt—Laira ran.