FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  She could not walk through the forest in dragon form, not without toppling trees, and she was not ready to become a human yet. She yawned, releasing a puff of smoke, and shook her body to hear her golden scales rattle. She squeezed between a few oaks, curled up on a bed of dry leaves, and laid her head upon her paws.

  “Maybe I’m the only one left,” she whispered to herself. “If I am, I will live like this, wild and free and solitary like a saber-toothed cat. But I will never stop searching. I will seek the fabled escarpment in the north, and if more dragons fly there, I will find them.”

  She yawned again, closed her eyes, and slept.

  When night fell again, she flew.

  For three days and nights she traveled, sleeping in the sunlight, flying the darkness, until at dawn on the fourth day she saw it ahead.

  The escarpment.

  It rose across the land, stretching into the horizon, a great shelf of rock and soil thick with birches, oaks, and maples. Waterfalls—thin white slivers from here—cascaded down its cliffs, disappearing into the forest before emerging as streams to feed a rushing river. It was as if half the world had sunk, dropping the height of a mountain, leaving the northern landscapes to roll on to a misty horizon, unscathed. Countless birds filled the sky, fleeing from the sight of her—a golden dragon large enough to swallow them whole. Mist floated in valleys, and boulders rose gray and thin from the forest like the fingers of dead stone giants.

  “It’s real,” Laira whispered upon the wind, not even caring that she flew in daylight. Tears filled her eyes. “The place where rocs dare not fly, the place even Zerra fears. A place of dragons.”

  Geese and doves fleeing before her, the golden dragon glided on the wind. Soon she flew along the escarpment. The highlands rose to her left, the cliffs plunged down beneath her, and the landscape rolled low to her right. Every movement in the sky sent her heart racing, but it was always a hawk, seagull, or other bird. The escarpment stretched into the horizon. If others lived here, others like her, did they hide as humans?

  She flew for a long time.

  “Dragons!” she called out and blasted fire, a beacon for her kind. “Answer my call! I seek dragons.”

  Only birds answered, calling in fright and fleeing the trees.

  Laira flew as the afternoon cast long shadows, as clouds gathered, and as rain fell. A few marks ahead, the escarpment sloped down into the land. She had traversed it all and found nothing.

  A lump in her throat, Laira turned around and retraced her flight, moving back west, surveying the escarpment a second time.

  “Dragons!” she cried out. Maybe she had missed them. Maybe they had been out hunting and were now returning home. “I seek dragons!”

  The sun dipped into the forest, and orange and indigo spread across the sky. The rain intensified and soon hail pattered against Laira’s scales and wings. A gust of wind nearly knocked her into a spin. Yet still she flew, calling out, hoping, dreaming.

  There.

  Warmth leaped inside her. Her eyes moistened. She blasted fire.

  “Another dragon.”

  She trembled and smoke rose between her teeth. She could barely keep her wings steady. It was hard to see in the shadows, but when she narrowed her eyes, she saw it again—the dark form of a dragon perched upon the escarpment, all but hidden under the trees.

  Smiling shakily, Laira dived.

  She had still not mastered landings. The past few attempts, she had smashed through trees, shattering half their branches and often their trunks. This evening she billowed her wings, letting them capture as much air as they’d hold, slowing her descent. With a few more flaps, she steadied into a hover, pulled her legs close together, and gently lowered herself between the boles. At least it was gentle compared to her earlier landings; she still shattered a dozen branches and sent down a rain of wood and leaves, but at least the trees remained standing.

  The dark dragon rose ahead, perched upon the escarpment’s ledge, staring south across the cliff. A waterfall crashed below the shadowy figure, vanishing into darkness. If the dragon noticed her—and how could it have not?—it gave no sign, only kept staring into the distance.

  Laira sniffed, and her scales chinked as she trembled. Another dragon. I’m not alone.

  Panting, fire sparking between her teeth, she hobbled toward the hulking shadow.

  “Fellow dragon!” Joy leaped inside her, emerging from her eyes with tears. “I knew there were others. I knew it. You’re not alone, my friend. You—“

  She drew closer . . . and froze.

  A statue.

  Her tears of joy became tears of frustration.

  She reached the statue, placed her claws against it, and yowled.

  “Just a statue. Just . . . just a totem long forgotten.”

  Her spirits sank so low she lost control of her magic. She became a human again, slid down onto her bottom, and lowered her head.

  “There are no dragons here.” She balled her hands into fists and pounded her lap. “Just a legend. Travelers saw this statue and told stories of dragons. But there are no other dragons. Only me.”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks—all her unshed tears from all her troubles. They were tears for Zerra burning her mother—the tears she could not shed as the woman had burned. They were tears for years of pain, of suffering under Zerra’s heel. They were tears for her wounds, her weariness, her loss of hope—a diseased girl, lost, alone in a world that had no place for her.

  “Because it is a curse.” Her voice shook. “It is a disease. This curse had me banished from Eteer. This curse had me fleeing Goldtusk. This curse dooms me to forever be an outcast.” She turned back toward the statue and pounded her fist against it, bloodying her knuckles. “A curse!”

  She was panting, her head lowered and her chest shaking with sobs, when the voice rose behind her.

  “Easy on the statue, stranger! I’m still working on it. Don’t scratch it.”

  Laira froze.

  She spun around.

  Night had fallen but firelight blazed between fangs, reflecting in large dark eyes, copper scales, and white horns. Among the pines and oaks, staring down upon her, stood a living dragon.

  RAEM

  FLYING UPON HIS DEMONIC MOUNT, King Raem stared down at the barbarian tribe, grimaced, and brought a handkerchief to his nose. Truly this was a benighted land.

  It was the tribe he sought, had been seeking for days. A wooden totem pole rose upon a hill, and upon its crest hung a gilded mammoth tusk. Tents sprawled around the pillar, dotting the hills and valleys like warts, crude things of buffalo skins stretched over cedar poles. Raem came from a land of stone towers, lush gardens that grew atop palaces, and a canal that drove into a city in a wonder of architecture. Below him festered a hive of worms.

  The tribesmen themselves were no more impressive than their tents. Back home in Eteer, soldiers wore breastplates and bore bronze khopeshes, yet these northern warriors wore only animal pelts, and they bore humble spears and arrows tipped with flint. Their beards were long, and tattoos and piercings marred their forms, abominations unto Taal’s teachings. Perhaps this distant land was beyond Taal’s reach.

  “Disgusting,” Raem said.

  His mount—a gift from Angel, Queen of Demons—grunted beneath him. Raem stroked the creature. The beast had been a woman once, perhaps a girl, a soul who had fallen into the Abyss centuries ago, lost or exiled or snatched. The demons had broken her, reformed her, stretched her over a new frame. Her arms now extended, long as dragon wings, the skin pulled back like obscene sails. Her head stared forward, twisting in anguish, mute, her eyes leaking tears. Three spine ridges now rose down her back, for the demons had added to her, sewing and augmenting, stitching in new victims until they had created this thing—a slave of flight, a demonic bat cobbled together from shattered souls.

  “For long centuries, you flew in the dark caverns of the Abyss, feeding upon the corpses of buried mortals,” Raem said, sitting in a saddle of bones. H
e stroked the creature’s wispy blond hair. “Now you fly for the glory of a king.”

  The beast was ugly, deformed, an abomination. But she was the fastest creature to have risen from the underground, and she had brought Raem all the way here without rest.

  “The creatures I seek are just as fast and many times stronger,” Raem said. He looked down, saw them between the tents, and smiled. “There they are.”

  A hundred rocs stood outside the camp, tethered to pegs. Larger even than dragons, the birds clawed the earth, snapped their beaks, and cawed. Their feathers were black and oily, their necks scraggly, and even from up here, Raem could smell their stench. The birds saw him now, and they alerted the tribesmen. The hairy barbarians hopped about, pointing and nocking arrows.

  Raem smiled grimly. “They are fools . . . but useful fools.”

  He tugged his mount’s reins, spiraling down.

  Below, the tribesmen shouted and fired arrows.

  The deformed bat shrieked and banked, dodging the assault.

  “Warriors of Goldtusk!” Raem shouted. He had studied their language as a child, for all children of the Seran royal family spoke the tongues of surrounding lands. “I am Raem. I come from Eteer, a distant land of plenty. I come with gifts.”

  Circling above the camp, he opened the sack at his side and spilled its contents. Copper, tin, and bronze coins rained onto the tribe. The warriors below lowered their weapons and knelt. They crawled in the mud like worms, grabbing the coins, baser than hens pecking for seeds.

  The deformed bat landed with a hiss, her bones creaking, her eyes weeping. When Raem dismounted, the pathetic creature—perhaps still clinging to some memories of her old, human self—curled up into a ball of skin and jutting bones.

  Raem stood upon the hill below the totem pole. As pitiful as his mount was, he was glorious. He wore armor of polished bronze, and a jeweled helm covered his head. A shield bright as the sun hung upon his arm.

  The tribesmen—clad in muddy furs, their jewelry mere beads of clay—gasped at Raem’s splendor. A few covered their eyes and whispered prayers. Many knelt and began to chant.

  “Raem! Raem! A god of metal!”

  Several rocs gathered around, still tethered to posts, and hissed and clacked their beaks. Their talons tore up soil, and their yellow eyes blazed, and wind shrieked into their nostrils. The beasts were larger than his human bat—they dwarfed any one of his demons. The malformed creature, sensing the danger, shrieked and bared her teeth. Her human face—bloated and pale—twisted in a mix of fear and hatred.

  My demons are small, Raem thought, stroking the creature. Only human flesh could make demons grow as large as dragons, a price Raem was not willing to pay. He would not feed healthy humans to his demons, for all human life was a gift of Taal—even these barbarians. With his unholy swarm, Raem could perhaps root out the weredragons hiding in Eteer—frightened, weak creatures who lurked in shadows, daring not shift. But to find Laira . . . to find the escarpment where the wild, northern dragons flew . . .

  Looking upon the rocs, Raem allowed himself a thin smile.

  These ones will kill dragons for me.

  “Who leads you?” Raem shouted, an idol of metal, standing above the kneeling tribesmen. “Bring your leader to me.”

  The tribesmen below parted. A tall man came limping up the hill, clad in buffalo hides. Here was the chieftain. He wore necklaces of true gold, and a bronze sword hung at his side—not a curved sword like those in Eteer, but a wide, leaf-shaped blade the length of asuch metal man’s forearm. Half the chieftain’s head was burnt away—the ear gone, the eye peering from scars. The wound stretched down his arm and leg.

  Dragonfire, Raem knew. Good.

  “Are you the one they speak of?” Raem called down to him. “Zerra of Goldtusk?”

  The chieftain reached him. The two leaders stared at each other, only a foot apart. While Raem was clean-shaven and bald, a meticulous man, his armor priceless and gleaming, the other—Zerra—was a brute of hair, fur, and grime.

  He is a barbarian, Raem thought, but he will serve me well.

  “Who are you, man of metal?” Zerra said. Half his mouth faded into scars, and his teeth were yellow.

  “A king,” said Raem. “A soldier. A bringer of gifts.”

  He pulled the second sack, the larger one, off his demonic bat. It clanked onto the hill, opening up to spill its treasures. Helmets, shields, and bronze daggers clattered into the grass.

  The tribesmen gasped. Raem smiled thinly. He saw but a single bronze weapon here; a cache of this much metal would be priceless to this tribe.

  Zerra looked down at the treasure, then back at Raem. His eyes narrowed. “Do you style yourself a god?”

  Raem smiled thinly. “To you I am. And I will bring you more metal. Spearheads. Arrowheads. Swords. Vases and chalices and a throne to sit on. I will make you a king in the north.”

  The chieftain lifted a bronze helmet, sniffed at it, and tossed it aside. He spat. “I am Zerra, Son of Thagar, Chieftain of Goldtusk. I take no gifts from gods or men. I am no beggar.” He drew the bronze sword from his belt. “I take my metal with blood. I slew the warrior who wielded this sword. I did not take it as a gift.”

  Raem raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what I hear. They say along the river that Zerra, Son of Thagar, Chieftain of Goldtusk, was once a humble villager living in a clay hut. They say his brother, a blacksmith, forged this sword for him—a gift of love, not a trophy of battle. They say this brother is a weredragon, that he leads a clan of weredragons, and they say, Zerra . . . they say you fear him.”

  Half of Zerra’s face, leathery and stubbly, flushed a deep crimson. The other half, a ruin of scars, twitched. He raised his sword and his fist trembled.

  “I do not ask you to accept these gifts without a fight, chieftain,” Raem said calmly. “But I am not your enemy. It is not me you should fight.”

  Zerra stared into Raem’s eyes, his gaze judging, dangerous, seeking. Finally he grunted.

  “Follow,” the chieftain said and began walking downhill.

  They approached his tent. The buffalo hides were painted with scenes of hunters and bison. When they stepped inside, Raem found lion pelts upon the ground, a crackling fire in the center, and statuettes of voluptuous women—their hips wide, their breasts hanging low—carved of stone. A living woman lay upon a rug, not as luscious but attractive enough, her breasts painted with blue rings, her thighs red with bite marks. Zerra sent her fleeing the tent with a kick.

  “You speak dangerous words, stranger,” said Zerra. He limped toward the campfire, pulled out a burning stick, and extinguished it inside his burnt hand, perhaps an attempt to impress his guest. He waved the smoking branch. “Why are you here?”

  Raem lifted one of the female figurines. He caressed the stone form, remembering his wife. It had been years since he’d seen Anai, since he had caressed her body like this. He had caught his wife shifting, and she had fled him to these northern lands, to this very tribe, her reptile spawn Laira with her.

  “Two weredragons traveled with you,” Raem said. “A woman named Anai. A child named Laira. The woman was my wife, the child my daughter.”

  Zerra barked a laugh, a horrible sound. “I bedded them both. Here in this tent. The child was particularly willing. Thrust right into her, nearly broke her. The poor thing screamed.”

  Raem placed down the statuette and frowned. The chieftain stared at him, mocking, caressing his sword.

  He’s goading me, Raem thought, refusing to take the bait.

  “If you catch Laira again,” Raem said, “you may bed her as much as you please, so long as you give her to me once she’s worn out. Then she would be mine to torment.”

  The chieftain smirked and tossed another branch into the fire. “Your wife is dead. I killed her myself. The maggot child escaped.”

  Raem raised an eyebrow. “And you are such a mighty warrior that you cannot capture her? The whole north is speaking of this . . . escarpment. Of
this canyon in the stone, a network of caves of some sort. They say it’s a fortress.” Raem snorted. “And they say you fear to fly there.”

  Zerra spun toward him, enraged. He drew another flaming branch and waved it. “I fear nothing! Nothing, metal man. The rocs refuse to fly there; the birds are cowardly. You claim to be some king? Fly there yourself. Fly upon that malformed demon of yours. The escarpment is swarming with the reptiles.”

  “My bat is swift but small, barely larger than a mule. Your rocs are larger than dragons. Do you want more treasures of bronze? Then you will get your rocs to fly.” Raem clutched the man’s shoulder and sneered. “I will make you a king in the north, but first you will slay dragons for me.”

  Zerra stood very still, staring, the burning branch still clutched in his hand. The flames were licking his wrist, but he would not drop the stick.

  “Two hundred spears tipped with bronze,” the chieftain said. “Two hundred swords and ten thousand arrows. A breastplate and helm for every warrior in my army, chalices for them all to drink from, and plates inlaid with jewels. And you will send me three smiths and a hundred miners, so that we may forge the metal on our own. That is my price to you. Promise me these things, and I will slay the dragons for you, all but Laira. She will be mine to break, then yours to keep.”

  The man is greedy, Raem thought. The man is cruel. This is exactly the man I need.

  He nodded. “They will be yours.” He turned to leave, walked toward the tent door, then froze and looked over his shoulder. “Is it true, then? That your brother is a weredragon?”