FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  These men will sail back north, Issari thought, looking at the foreigners. They will return to the open, cold wilderness . . . where Laira hides.

  Issari’s eyes moistened.

  “Laira,” she whispered.

  She could not remember her older sister. Laira had been only three when she fled with Mother into exile, escaping Father’s wrath. Issari had been only a babe.

  “But if you’re out there, Laira, you’re twenty now,” Issari whispered. “You’re tall and strong, and you can become a dragon, and you can save our brother. I know you can.”

  Issari lowered her head to remember visiting Aerhein Tower. She had climbed the winding staircases, approached the door, and peered through the keyhole. Sena had knelt in chains, his face so bruised and swollen Issari had barely recognized him. Issari had begged the guards—towering men all in bronze—to enter the cell, to comfort her older brother, but they had shoved her back. When the guards had told her father of her visit, the king had struck her.

  Issari raised her hand to her swollen cheek, still feeling the blow. “I cannot save you from the tower, brother,” she whispered as she watched the ships sail by. “But a dragon can. Mother can. Laira can.”

  For the first time in her life, Issari wished she too were cursed. Why couldn’t she have inherited Mother’s disease? So many times these past few days, Issari had tried to shift, focusing all her energy on the task. She had screwed her eyes shut, leaped into the air, and willed herself to become a dragon. A dragon could fly to the tower top, smash the window’s bars, and fly away with Sena to freedom. Yet try as she might, Issari was pure of body, a blessing unto Taal, the god of beauty and the human form. She carried not the reptilian blood like her mother and siblings, and so Sena languished.

  A blow hit the back of her head.

  Issari winced and scurried a few paces away, half-expecting to see Father here. If he caught her in this port, he would imprison her too.

  But it was only a towering, gruff sailor. The man had a leathery face, one eye, and a chest tattooed with leaping fish. Upon his shoulder, he carried a basket of squid and shrimp.

  “Stop standing here, gaping like a fool,” he said and raised his hand to smack her again. “Men are working here. Get back to whatever brothel you fled from.”

  As Issari stepped back, the man walked by her, moving along the boardwalk. Several other sailors walked behind him, spitting and snorting. One glob of spit landed right on Issari’s foot, and she winced and gulped down her disgust.

  “I . . . I heard a tale!” she said, speaking in a high, hesitant voice. “I heard that the prince could become a dragon, that he’s imprisoned in a tower. Will you be sailing north? They like stories in the north, and—“

  But the men only trundled by, carrying hooks, ropes, and baskets, ignoring her.

  Issari tightened her lips. She knew her task. She had to spread the news. She had to make sure all the northern barbarians across the sea knew of Sena. She had to let Laira know.

  Because you’ll come for him, Issari knew. You’ll fly back home, strong and brave, a great golden dragon. Maybe you’ll have an army of dragons with you. And you’ll save our brother.

  She walked farther down the boardwalk, moving between fishermen sorting their catches, a legless child begging for coins, and a leper begging for prayers. She approached a few sailors, trying to tell them the news, but they were too busy hauling supplies, mending nets, or even drinking booze to notice. After a few more slaps, kicks, and spits, Issari’s spirits sank.

  Maybe it was hopeless. She had been a fool to come here. Surely her father had noticed her absence by now. Would he beat her? Would he chain her too?

  Her wandering brought her to the root of the canal. Here before her stretched the open sea. Dozens of ships sailed in the water—merchants, fishermen, and military vessels with proud banners. The smell of salt, fresh fish, and dates hanging from a nearby tree filled her nostrils. Seagulls flew overhead, their cries sounding like mocking laughter. Issari stepped onto the stone wall that separated her from the coast, leaned across the battlements, and stared at the sand, the seashells, and the water that spread into the horizon.

  “You’re somewhere over that horizon, Mother and Laira,” she whispered. “How can I deliver you this news?”

  Perhaps she should smuggle herself onto a ship, sail north, and walk through the wilderness, asking of her family in every village and tribe. And yet how could one girl find two souls? The north was vast, they said, its people scattered. There were no kingdoms there, no roads, no writing, no civilization—only endless, empty spaces and patches of life.

  Issari turned away from the sea. She was prepared to head back home when she heard laughter to her left.

  She turned her head and saw a small stone building. At first she had not noticed it; it nestled between a few olive trees, tucked away a little distance from the canal. Laughter rose from within, and she even heard a man singing. Hope kindled in Issari.

  “A tavern,” she whispered.

  She tightened her robe around her, fixed the shawl that hid her hair, and entered the building.

  A crowded room greeted her. Sailors, merchants, and soldiers sat at a dozen wooden tables, drinking and eating. The smells of ale, fried fish and garlic, and stewed figs filled Issari’s nostrils, intoxicating and delicious. Tin engravings of fish, ships, and even a dragon hung upon the walls, and candles burned in sconces. A stone tablet stood near the bar, engraved with the slim, cuneiform characters of Eteer—a wine menu. Stone jugs of the wines—each large enough for Issari to have hidden inside—stood along the walls, painted with scenes of racing chariots, men hunting deer, and the wars of gods.

  “And the sea serpent had three heads!” one sailor was saying, standing on a table. “Three—I counted them. And when I chopped one off, it grew two more.”

  Other sailors roared in laughter. “You’re drunk, you are. Sea serpents with growing heads?”

  Across the room, standing over a table topped with scattered mancala pieces, a merchant was patting his ample belly and telling his own tale. “And they say the Queen of Tiranor is so fair, a thousand ships sailed to fetch her the Jewel of Alari, but no jewel is as bright as her eyes.”

  A dozen more stories were being told around the room. This was the place Issari had sought—a hub of songs, tall tales, and gossip of distant lands.

  She approached the bar, handed over a copper coin—it showed her father on one side, the winged bull on the other—and purchased a mug of wine. She winced, expecting a foul drink, but the wine was surprisingly good, as fine as the wine Father sometimes let her drink in the palace. After a few sips to steel her resolve, she turned toward the crowd and spoke in a high, clear voice.

  “I have a story!”

  Nobody seemed to hear her. The sailor kept speaking of the sprouting heads, the merchant kept extolling the distant queen’s beauty, and others gossiped of King Nir-Ur’s recent death and the rise of Raem Seran to power.

  “They say Raem stabbed his father right in the gut, they do,” said one soldier, his cheeks flushed and his eyes watery. “Killed the old man in the gardens, they say. They fought over how to deal with them dragons been cropping up.”

  The man’s friends glowered. “Lower your voice! That’s no proper talk.” Soon the group was arguing.

  Issari stood on tiptoes and raised her voice. “I have a tale of dragons! They say Prince Sena Seran, son of King Raem, is cursed with dragon blood.”

  At once the tavern silenced.

  All eyes turned toward her.

  Issari gulped, dizzy at the sudden attention. Praying nobody recognized her—the city folk had only seen her high upon her balcony, clad in finery—she spoke again.

  “Prince Sena himself turned into a dragon! King Raem imprisoned him in Aerhein Tower, they say. He’s keeping his own son in chains, so the prince can never shapeshift again.”

  As quickly as the tavern had grown silent, it erupted with new sound. Men pounded on
the tables and demanded to know her name, to know where she had heard the news. Others nodded vigorously, saying they had indeed heard whimpers from the tower. Some claimed they had even seen Sena as a blue dragon, flying in the night; they swore they could recognize the prince even in dragon form.

  Issari smiled tremulously. The seed was planted.

  When she walked along the boardwalk, heading back toward the palace, she already heard the rumor spreading. Sailors, loading their ships, laughed about the Dragon Prince in his tower, awaiting rescue like a damsel. Fisherman whispered to one another, pointing at the distant palace, speaking of the creature the king kept hidden away. Ships sailed out into the open water, carrying the news, a story too scandalous, too horrible, too dangerous not to spread like wildfire.

  When Issari was back in the palace, she entered her chambers—those chambers so empty without her brother—and stepped onto her balcony. Clad again in a fine tunic hemmed with gold, her raven braid upon her shoulder, she leaned against the railing and stared across the city to the distant sea.

  “If you’re out there, Mother,” she whispered, “if you hear these tales, Laira . . . come back. Come back as dragons. Come back with claws, fangs, and fire . . . and save him.”

  LAIRA

  IN THE COLD DAWN, LAIRA mounted a roc, dug her heels into the beast, and soared into the sky on her first hunt.

  The wind whipped her face, Neiva’s wings beat like drums, and Laira laughed upon the gargantuan vulture. She shouted wordlessly and raised her bow above her head.

  “Goldtusk!” she cried, soaring so fast her ears popped and her head spun. “Blessed be the gilded ivory of Ka’altei!”

  Around her, the other hunters raised javelins and bows and roared their prayers, calling out the name of their tribe and gods. All were men—beefy, clad in furs, wild of hair and beard. Bone beads hung around their necks and tattoos of their totem animals adorned their arms. Some riders sported tin rings in their ears, lips, and brows, the precious material stolen from the villages that knew the secrets of metallurgy. A few of the hunters were mere boys, the youngest among them thirteen.

  I am twenty, old already, and this is my first hunt, Laira thought. Yet this is not the first time I’ve flown.

  Heart wrenching, she remembered the only other time she had taken flight—a cold autumn day so long ago. As she soared now upon her roc, Laira could almost see her mother again, a proud white dragon on the wind. She could almost smell Mother’s burning flesh, hear her dying screams, see the rocs feast upon—

  No, Laira told herself. Do not raise that memory now. Now you must be strong. Now you must prove you are a great huntress, as great as the men.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath. Between her legs an ache still lived, the pain of Zerra’s thrusts, but as the roc moved below her, that pain faded into a comforting throb. It kept her alert, alive, hungry for the hunt. They left the camp far below upon the hill. Their tents, their tribesmen, their dogs, and even their totem pole seemed like toys from up here. Soon the camp vanished into the hazy distance, and Laira saw only the open wilderness: fields of swaying grass, fiery autumn forests of birches and maples, a rushing river, and distant blue mountains under white clouds. Geese and crows flew below her, and clouds streamed at her sides.

  This is freedom, Laira thought. I missed this.

  “Prove yourself today, and I will bed you again!” Zerra cried, flying his roc near hers.

  His was a great beast, a terror named Ashoor, the largest roc in the tribe. Every flap of the animal’s oily black wings blasted out stench. Its gangly neck thrust out, ending with a bald head and cruel beak. Zerra was no prettier than his mount; his burned half faced her. Laira winced to remember his body pressing against her last night, wet and sticky.

  “I will prove myself,” Laira shouted back from atop Neiva, though the thought of him invading her again made her queasy, and pain flared in her belly. She had allowed him into her once; would hunting game today not be enough? Would he demand this price before every hunt? Bile rose in Laira’s throat, but she swallowed it with a snarl.

  I will prove myself the greatest hunter, and he will learn to respect me . . . to fear me.

  Zerra smirked. He seemed ready to speak again when cries rose ahead from the other hunters.

  “Mammoths! Mammoths upon the plains!”

  Laira turned her head back forward, narrowed her eyes, and bared her teeth. She drew a stone-tipped arrow and nocked it. A herd of the great, woolly creatures raced across the plains below, making their way toward the cover of the forest. Laira spotted a dozen adults and several cubs; even the smallest was large enough to feed many men. The other hunters cried out wordlessly, nocked their own arrows, and swooped toward their prey.

  “Neiva, go!” Laira shouted and dug her heels into the roc.

  The dark bird, as large as a mammoth herself, shrieked, clawed the air, and began to dive.

  Fur and feathers flashed.

  Zerra and his roc swooped in beneath Neiva, blocking her descent.

  The two rocs—a slim female and a burly male—slammed together. The beasts screeched and feathers flew.

  “Zerra!” Laira shouted. In shock, she loosed her arrow. It drove down, just narrowly missing the chieftain’s head.

  In the space of a heartbeat, thoughts raced through her mind. There had been an accident. She had flown her roc wrong. She had proven herself a failure. No—Zerra had meant to block her! He was sabotaging her. He—

  Grinning, Zerra rose higher upon his roc, and the beast’s talons reached out.

  Laira screamed as the talons closed around her. She drew another arrow from her quiver. Wielding it like a sword, she tried to stab Ashoor, but the fetid beast’s talons pinned her arms down. She screamed. Ashoor tugged, tearing Laira off her mount, and she kicked the open air.

  Riding upon the beast, Zerra leaned across the saddle and spat. The glob splattered on Laira’s face. Amusement filled the chieftain’s voice as he spoke.

  “We will now see, little piece of pig dung, if you can truly fly. Ashoor—release!”

  As Laira screamed, Ashoor tossed her into the open air.

  She tumbled through the sky.

  She plummeted.

  “Neiva!” she cried, flailing. “Neiva!”

  She could see her roc above. The bird tried to dive and catch her, but Ashoor blocked her passage. The two rocs battled in the sky.

  “Zerra!” she shouted, plunging down, the wind whipping her and stealing her voice.

  She looked around, her cloak fluttering madly. She could see the other rocs; they now flew too far away, diving against the mammoths below. They did not see her fall, and Laira understood.

  This had been a trap.

  He invited me on this hunt not because I bedded him . . . but for this.

  “Fly, weredragon!” the chieftain shouted, swooping above her. “Shift into a dragon and fly! I slew your mother for the curse. I know it fills you too.” He laughed, the wind in his hair. “Fly or hit the ground and my roc will feast upon what’s left.”

  She looked down. The ground was only instants away. Heart thudding madly, Laira raised her bow and arrow.

  If I die, you die with me.

  She fired. The flint-tipped arrow scratched along Zerra’s roc, then vanished above, doing the chieftain no harm. The movement tossed Laira into a spin. She tumbled, earth and sky roiling around her. Her brain felt like water swirling around a shaken bowl. Whenever she faced the ground—spin after spin—it was closer. Her bow tore free from her grasp and vanished into the wind.

  I will die here, she thought, eyes stinging. He killed me. Goodbye. I—

  No.

  Her eyes stung.

  No.

  She would not die here. Not like this.

  If I die, I die in fire.

  The ground rushed up toward her, Zerra laughed above, and for the first time in ten years, Laira—hurt, broken, grieving, a shell of a woman—summoned her magic.

  Scales f
lowed and rattled across her, golden like the dawn. Fangs sprouted in her mouth and her body ballooned. Wings burst out of her back with a thud. Her claws grazed the grassy plains, her wings beat, and Laira soared, a dragon roaring fire.

  The grass flattened under the beat of her wings, and she veered as she ascended, dodging Zerra and his roc. She burst into open sky, scattered flames, and roared—a roar that shook her body, that cut the sky, that burned in her eyes and soul—the roar of a girl exiled and cursed, of a girl who had watched her mother die, of a huntress who had given her body to her tormenter and now might give her life.

  Zerra’s roc soared in pursuit. Farther away, above the fleeing herd of mammoths, the rest of the hunters shouted and flew toward her, nocking new arrows.

  Attack them! cried a voice inside Laira. Blow your fire and slay them all!

  A second voice shouted out, Flee! Flee into the forest, run, hide!

  Flying toward her, Zerra fired an arrow. It shattered against her scales, blasting pain like one of his fists. Within another breath, he would slam into her.

  Fight! Hide!

  Laira roared, spewed flames, and turned to fly toward the forest.

  Her flames rained down behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see Zerra skirt the inferno and fly higher, unscathed. The rest of his hunters joined him. With battle cries and firing arrows, they flew in pursuit.

  “Take her alive!” Zerra shouted. “Capture the reptile so she may burn before Ka’altei!”