FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Laira found rage filling her, overflowing her moment of stoicism.

  “You lie!” She spat on his face. “My father is a great warrior-prince across the sea. He is stronger than you, and his sword is wider and longer. My mother was just as strong. She never submitted to you as I did. You will forever bear the mark of her strength upon your ravaged face.”

  Slowly, he wiped the spit off. His hand wet with her saliva, he struck her. The blow snapped Laira’s head to the side, rattling her teeth, searing her with white light. The torch crackled only inches from her, only heartbeats away from igniting the pyre.

  “Half my body is burnt,” Zerra said. “I think that, after I’ve burned all of yours, I will pull you from the flames. I will keep you half-alive, writhing and begging for death. I will heal you. For long moons, you will scream in your tent, and we will apply ointments, bandages, prayers . . . then burn you again, only to repeat the cycle. I wonder how many burnings you will survive. I will try to make it many. You will end up envying your mother.”

  Laira grimaced as the torch drew nearer, singing her cheek, and her heart thrashed. She gritted her teeth.

  No. I will not give up. I will fight even as the fire blazes.

  She gave the ropes binding her a mighty tug. But they only chafed her wrists, keeping her arms tied behind her to the stake. She tried to kick, but the ropes dug into her ankles, and blood trickled onto her bare feet.

  “Yes, struggle for me.” Zerra leaned forward and licked her cheek. He brought the ravaged half of his face near her eyes. “Look at my scars, child. Soon all your body will look like this.”

  Laira sucked in breath, chest shaking.

  Use your curse. Use your disease. She ground her teeth. Use your magic.

  She shut her eyes, trying to ignore the pain, to focus, to calm herself and find that inner power. At first it evaded her. The magic lurked deep inside, fleeing from her mental grasp like a mouse fleeing from reaching hands.

  Zerra stepped back and raised his torch. “For the glory of Ka’altei!” he shouted. “We will burn the reptile! Shaman of Goldtusk, will you bless my fire?”

  Concentrate, Laira. Grab your magic.

  Shedah, the crone, stepped forward. Strings of human finger bones rattled, hanging around her neck. Among them hung the silver amulet of Taal—the amulet of Laira’s fallen mother, now the crone’s prize. The wizened old thing, frail and covered in warts, raised her staff. The painted skull of an ape grinned atop it.

  “I name her a cursed thing!” cried the shaman, voice shrill.

  Laira reached down deep inside her. She found that secret pool and fished out the warm strands.

  The magic flowed through her.

  Ahead, Shedah reached into her leather pouch, pulled out blue powder, and tossed it onto Zerra’s torch. The powder ignited, spewing orange smoke, and Zerra raised the flame high.

  “The fire is blessed with the seed of Ka’altei!” he announced. “The reptile will forever blaze in his halls of retribution.”

  Scales flowed across Laira’s body.

  Wings emerged from her back.

  Fangs grew from her gums and her fingers lengthened into claws.

  Fly!

  As her body ballooned, the ropes dug into her growing ankles and wrists, cutting into flesh, and Laira yowled. If she kept growing, the ropes would sever her feet and hands.

  I still must shift, she thought as Zerra approached. I still must fly, even without hands and feet. I—

  The ropes dug deeper, and the agony overwhelmed her, knocking the magic from her grasp.

  The scales, wings, and fangs vanished. She shrank into a woman again, hanging limply from the stake.

  With a thin smile, Zerra tossed the torch onto the pyre.

  The kindling caught fire, and heat bathed Laira, and she screamed. The flames raced up the pile of wood, branch by branch, heading toward her feet.

  What do I do? Dragon stars, what do I do?

  She screamed and tugged at her bonds again. She reached for her magic but no longer found it. The fire licked her toes and she screamed. Through the haze of smoke and crackling flame, she saw the tribesmen cheer. Behind them the rocs fluttered madly, snapping their beaks, awaiting their meal. Tears filled Laira’s eyes. She could barely see through the heat, and the world swayed.

  “Neiva!” she shouted and managed a high whistle. “Neiva, to me!”

  The smoke blinded her and filled her mouth. The fire seared her feet.

  “Neiva, please!”

  She opened her eyes to slits. The smoke billowed. The flames blazed. Through the inferno, she saw wings flapping, talons reaching out, yellow eyes gleaming. She had ridden this animal only once, had bonded with Neiva for only a day, yet today she was her roc, bound to Laira with fire—and now her roc reached into the flames. Talons closed around the stake, tugging, lifting the bole out of the flaming pyre. Laira’s feet rose from the blaze.

  “Fly, Neiva! Fly north. Fly!”

  Laira’s eyes rolled back. She blinked, forcing herself to regain consciousness. The world spun around her. Wings beat and the oily, rancid stench of the roc filled her nostrils, and it was beautiful to her, the sweetest thing she’d ever smelled. When she looked down, she saw the pyre consumed with flame. The tribesmen were scurrying below and leaping onto their own rocs.

  “To the forest, Neiva!” Laira shouted. If she still had any chance, it lay among those trees.

  She was still tied to the stake, trussed up and charred and bruised, a bit of meat on a skewer. She felt so weak she could just slip into endless sleep. She ground her teeth, bit down on her cheek, and forced herself to remain awake.

  “I will not die,” she hissed, fists clenched behind the stake she was tied to. “I will not give up. I will fight this until my very last drop of strength, and then I will fight some more.”

  The roc flew, shrieking, holding the stake in her talons. They glided toward the forest, a hundred rocs shrieking and chasing behind them.

  The grassy hills rolled below, speckled with boulders and scattered elm trees. Mist hung in the valleys, deer ran along a riverbank, and a forest of oaks, maples, and birches sprawled in the north. Neiva flew toward those woods now, descended above the canopy, and screeched.

  “Through the trees!” Laira said. “Land among them.”

  The roc hesitated. Clutching the stake in both talons, Neiva seemed unable to land; the canopy was too thick. With her talons free, perhaps Neiva could have parted the branches, but now she merely hovered above the trees, holding the stake. When Laira twisted her head, she saw the other rocs chasing, and their riders fired arrows.

  “Drop me!” Laira cried. “Do it!”

  Neiva tossed back her head, her beak opened wide, and she cried out, the sound so loud Laira thought her eardrums might snap. The roc’s talons opened and the stake—Laira tied to it—tumbled down.

  Laira screamed as she crashed through the canopy, snapping branches and scattering leaves. For an instant she fell through open air. The stake hit a branch, tilted, and straightened vertically; her feet faced the ground. Then, with a thud that rattled her teeth and spine, the stake slammed into the forest floor.

  Laira cried out in pain, sure that her bones had shattered. Every segment in her back seemed to knock against another. She couldn’t even breathe. She tried to gasp for breath when the stake tilted forward. She winced, tugging at her bonds . . . and slammed facedown into the dirt. The stake landed on her back, creaking against her spine, driving her deep into the mud. Soil filled her mouth, nostrils, and eyes.

  For a moment, Laira only lay still. She saw nothing but stars floating across blackness. She didn’t know if she was alive or dead. The smell of soil, worms, and blood filled her nostrils. The pain throbbed, but it felt distant, dulled. She was floating away.

  No.

  Her fingers curled inward.

  No. Fight. Get up. Move.

  Somewhere above, a hundred rocs shrieked, and hunters cried out.

 
Get up! spoke the voice inside her. Move! Run!

  She growled, pushed down her shoulders, and screamed into the mud.

  Her face rose from the soil, and she sucked in breath, choking on dirt and leaves. She spat. The weight of the stake pushed down on her back. She wanted to cry for Neiva again, but dared not make a sound; the hunters would hear. Somewhere ahead, she heard trumpeting and thumping feet—mammoths running among the trees. Briefly she wondered if these were the same mammoths she had tried to hunt only days ago. Now she was the hunted.

  I’m burned. I’m broken. I’m bruised. I’m bound to a wooden stake that crushes me and I cannot move. I will die here.

  She gritted her teeth, gulping down the despair.

  So I will die fighting.

  With a growl, she pushed down her knees and tugged mightily at her bonds. The ropes dug into her again, but she found that her wrists slid a short distance up the stake.

  Hope kindled inside her. She could not break her bonds, but with the stake lying flat above her, perhaps she could sling her wrists and legs above its top. She would still be tied but free of the stake; she would be able to crawl, maybe even hop, forward.

  Wincing, she tugged again. Her wrists and ankles slid up the wood.

  The thud of wings and cries of rocs sounded above. Hunters shouted; she could make out Zerra’s voice among them. The stench of the flock wafted down into the forest, a foul miasma. Laira clenched her jaw, winced, and tugged with all her might. The rope kept tearing into her flesh, but she kept tugging, inch by inch, until with a gasp, her wrists reached the top of the stake. With one more tug, she was free from the wood. She wriggled her legs free too, fell into the mud, and crawled.

  The stake lay behind, but ropes still bound her limbs. She couldn’t even stand up. Dry leaves stuck to the mud covering her, filling her mouth, her eyes, her nostrils. Gasping for air, she wriggled into a patch of tall grass.

  “Find her!” Zerra shouted somewhere above the canopy. “Rocs, pick up her scent!”

  Again Laira heard the discordant sound—like air through pipes—as the rocs above sniffed for her.

  They will smell me, she thought. They will find me like last time. They will take me back and torture me.

  She had to mask her scent somehow. She had to move faster. She crawled over a fallen log, ignoring the agony of her wounds. When she thumped down into a patch of moss, she saw an abandoned mammoth foraging camp.

  The trees were stripped bare of leaves here. Prints filled the mud, and shed mammoth fur covered brambles and boulders. The animals were gone, fled from the cries of rocs; she could see a path of trampled grass and saplings. A stench hit her nostrils, making her gag; a pile of mammoth dung steamed ahead, still fresh.

  “Find her!” Zerra shouted above.

  Laira winced. She took a deep breath and held it. Struggling not to gag, she crawled into the steaming mound.

  Her body convulsed and she clenched her fists and jaw. She wriggled around, feeling the foul slop flow around her, coating her hair, sliding down her clothes, clinging to her skin, and even filling her nostrils and ears. When she finally crawled out—sticky and covered with the stuff—she couldn’t help it. She leaned her head down and vomited, and her body shook, and she almost passed out from the pain and disgust.

  Trees shattered behind her as the rocs crashed through the canopy.

  Still bound, steaming and fetid and coated with the mammoth dung, Laira crawled into the brush. Leaves and grass clung to her sticky skin.

  Her scent was masked. Her body was camouflaged. She was battered and burnt and covered in dung, but she kept crawling, refusing to abandon hope. Behind her, she heard Zerra shouting at his men, insisting that his roc had smelled the maggot here. She heard the beasts caw. She heard them fly above, the hunters cursing, the flock confused.

  “Just keep crawling, Laira,” she whispered to herself. The foul waste entered her mouth and she spat it out. “Keep crawling. Never stop. You can escape them.”

  Through grass, under brambles that scratched her, and over stones that stabbed her, Laira kept crawling, her wrists and ankles still bound, until the sounds of the hunters grew distant behind her. And still she kept moving. She wriggled on, sticky and gagging every few feet, until she reached a declivity bumpy with stones.

  She tried to crawl down to the valley below. Slick with the dung, she slipped over a slab of stone, and she rolled.

  She tumbled down the slope, banging against tree roots, blinded with pain. Her elbow smashed against a rock, and she bit down on a scream. She seemed to roll forever, grass and dry leaves sticking to her, until she slammed into a mossy boulder, and her head banged against the stone.

  Stars exploded across her vision. Her eyelids fluttered. She gasped, curling her fingers, struggling to cling to consciousness, but the blackness gave a mighty tug . . . and she faded.

  SENA

  ALONE.

  MORE THAN AFRAID, HURT, or ashamed—though he was those things too—Prince Sena Seran, Son of Raem, felt alone.

  He sat in the corner of his prison cell, the top of Aerhein Tower. A barred window—barely larger than a porthole—broke the opposite wall. A ray of light shone into the chamber, falling upon him. Sena liked this time of day, the brief moment when the ray hit the wall near the floor, allowing him to sit in light and warmth. Soon the ray would move, creeping up the wall, moving over his head, leaving him and slowly fading into darkness.

  But for now I have you here, friend, Sena thought, blinking into the beam. Please don’t leave me again.

  The beam began to rise as the sun moved, and Sena craned his neck, straightened his back, and tried to soak up some last moments of companionship, of sunlight, of safety. But then the beam was gone, hitting the wall above his head.

  He supposed he could have stood up. Standing would make him taller, let him embrace the sun again. But he was too weak to stand most days. Too wounded. Too hungry. Too tired.

  “Alone,” he whispered.

  He rattled his chains just to hear them answer, just to hear a sound. That was how his chains talked.

  How long had he been here? Sena didn’t know. At least a moon, he thought. Maybe longer.

  “I’m sorry, Issari,” he whispered. His chafed lips cracked and bled, and he sucked on the coppery liquid. “I’m sorry that I’m sick. I’m sorry that I shifted into a dragon. I miss you, sister.”

  He wondered where Issari was now. In her chamber in the palace, the gardens, perhaps the throne room? Was she thinking of him too? Sena had heard Issari several times since entering this prison. She had cried out behind the doors, calling his name, begging the guards to let her in. But they always turned her away. And Sena always tried to call out in return, but his throat was always too parched, his voice too weak.

  Caw! Caw!

  Sena raised his head. A crow had landed on the windowsill and stood between the bars. The bird glared at him and cawed again.

  “Hello, friend,” Sena whispered.

  He began to crawl forward, desperate to caress this bird, to feel another living soul. The crow stared at him.

  Caw!

  You have freedom, Sena thought. You have wings and can fly, yet you came here—to visit me.

  As he crawled closer, chains rattling, Sena found his mouth watering.

  I can eat you.

  Suddenly it seemed that this was no crow at all but a roasted duck, fatty and delicious, not perched on a windowsill but upon a bed of mushrooms and leeks. Sena licked his lips. Since landing in this cell, he had eaten nothing but the cold gruel the guards fed him once a day—a gray paste full of hairs, ants, and sometimes—depending on the guard—a glob of bubbling spit.

  “But you are delicious, crow,” Sena said, struggling to his feet. “You are a true friend—better than that damn light that keeps leaving me. Better than the rat that only bites me when I try to catch it.” He reached out pale, trembling hands toward the crow, the shackles around his wrists clanking. “I’m going to eat you�
��ah!”

  The crow bit him.

  Sena brought his finger to his lips, tasting blood.

  With a caw that sounded almost like a laugh, the crow flew off into the sky—back into that forbidden world, back into freedom.

  Sena shook his fists at the barren window, spraying blood. It was just like that damn rat again. It was just like that damn beam of light. They all taunted him. They all pretended to be his friends. And they all left him.

  He stared out the window. So many creatures flew across the sky these days. Birds. Demons. Creatures of scales, of rot, of blood, of jelly, of stone, of fire—a host of flying nightmares that cackled, grinned, sucked, spewed, swarmed, streamed, lived. Sometimes Sena thought he was delusional. Other times he thought the Abyss had risen into the world, that the endless lurid eyes and fangs were real, not just visions of his hunger but true terrors.

  He shook his head wildly and knuckled his eyes, forcing himself to look away from the demons outside his window, from those taunting, cruel, cackling apparitions. They weren’t real. They couldn’t be real.

  Alone . . . insane . . .

  Sena trembled. It wasn’t fair. The crow thought itself superior to him. Those winged visions of demons thought themselves superior too. If Sena had wings of his own, he could fly farther, higher, catch the damn bird, and—

  But I do have wings, he thought.

  Of course. He was cursed, impure, an abomination unto Taal.

  I can become a dragon.

  That sin had landed him in this tower cell in the first place. Perhaps it could also free him.

  Wait, whispered a voice in his head. Wait. You tried shifting into a dragon already. Don’t you remember? You tried just yesterday. It hurt you. It—

  “Quiet!” Sena said, silencing that voice—that voice of the old him, of somebody who had been a prince, not a prisoner, of somebody who still clung to sanity. He hated that voice. He hated that false one, that liar.

  He tightened his lips.

  He summoned his magic.

  Don’t! cried the voice inside him. Pain—