FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Still in dragon form, Laira lunged toward him.

  The arrow flew and slammed into her neck.

  She cried out, the pain driving through her. Her neck stiffened. She felt ilbane flow through her, bitter and burning—a leaf’s latex harmless to most but poisonous to dragons. She roared and tried to lash her claws. But the roc was quicker. Its talons drove into her chest, knocking her down.

  She slammed onto the floor. The pain drove the magic away from her. She shrank, becoming a woman again. The arrow clattered to the floor, coated with her blood.

  “Hello again, little Laira,” Zerra said, staring down from his roc. He spat upon her. “You I will not kill, no. The other weredragons will die tonight, but you will return home with me. Do you think you suffered before? You will soon miss those days. I will make you suffer like no one ever has. Ashoor, grab her.”

  The foul vulture, dripping oil and shedding charred feathers, raised his talons over Laira.

  She tried to shift back into a dragon, but she was too hurt, too weak. She swung the bronze sword Jeid had given her—a wide blade the length of her forearm—but the roc knocked it aside. The blade sparked against the wall.

  As the talons descended, Laira scurried away. Clutching her sword, she stumbled into one of the tunnels.

  She plunged through shadows, fell, and banged her hip. Her muscles felt stiff, her eyes puffy, her bones cold and throbbing. Grimacing, she began to crawl backward, leaving the cave and entering the network of underground passages. The burrow would take her under the canyon—to Jeid.

  Light blazed as Zerra thrust a torch into the tunnel. She heard him laugh as he crawled in after her.

  “So you will be caught like the maggot that you are.” His voice echoed. “Maybe you would like another bedding here in the darkness before I drag you home. Yes, I do think that back in our tribe, I will take you every night.”

  Laira tightened her grip around her sword’s hilt.

  She kept crawling. Soon she would reach Jeid. He would help her. They would battle Zerra together. As the torch grew nearer, as he crawled after her, Laira kept scurrying. Her blood trickled and her head spun. The tunnel grew larger; soon she was able to run upright, though her legs would not stop shaking. Blood covered her cloak.

  Stay alive. Keep moving. Soon you’ll reach Jeid. Soon—

  She slammed into stone.

  “No. Stars, no.”

  The tunnel had collapsed; boulders blocked her way. She was trapped.

  She spun around to see Zerra walking toward her, a torch in one hand, his sword in the other.

  No fear. For Requiem.

  Laira screamed and lunged toward him, swinging her blade.

  JEID

  THE CAVERN COLLAPSED AROUND HIM.

  Rocs clawed and bit, tearing at the opening. Stones crashed down. The ceiling cracked. The beasts, mightier than any animal that roamed the earth or flew in the skies, were tearing the canyon apart. Boulders slammed down behind Jeid, blocking his way deeper into the network of tunnels. He roared, down to mere sputters of flame, as the cave collapsed around him.

  And so I fight in the open, he thought.

  Stones pelted him. One slammed down onto his spine. More buffeted his neck, knocking him down. Jeid growled.

  And so I fly out to death in fire.

  He stretched his wings wide. He bellowed—a cry that shook the canyon.

  “For Requiem.”

  He crashed forward, driving through the raining boulders, barreling past rocs. Clawing the air and lashing his tail, a copper dragon blowing fire, Jeid emerged into the canyon and sounded his cry.

  “For Requiem!” His voice was hoarse, and blood coated his scales. All around the enemy flew, wings covering the sky, arrows filling the air. But beyond them a light shone; the sun was rising. “For a dawn of dragons!”

  He soared, blowing fire, into a sky of talons and arrows.

  A roc swooped toward him. Jeid clubbed it aside with his tail. A second rancid bird landed upon his back, and a beak crashed through Jeid’s scales. Blood showered and he howled, flew backward, and slammed the roc into the canyon wall. The creature crashed down, but three more swooped at Jeid. He roared his flames and bit into rank flesh. Arrows pelted him. Jeid flew higher, grabbed a rider between his jaws, and bit down hard. The man tumbled down in two halves, entrails spilling like streamers.

  Flame and blood lit the sky.

  “Eranor!” he cried. “Laira!”

  He could not see them. When he stared down, he saw that their caves had collapsed. They were trapped. Perhaps dead.

  I killed them. I led them here. I called this a new home; it became a tomb.

  Rocs slammed against him, shoving him down. He growled. His claws hit the canyon floor, and he shoved upward, wings beating, tearing through the beasts.

  So I die with them.

  He crashed through the sea of fetid birds, rose out of the canyon, and entered the sky. The trees burned across the escarpment. Red smoke hid the sky. Everywhere they flew—the rocs of the Goldtusk tribe. The arrows of riders fell like rain, slamming into him. One sliced through his wing.

  I fly to you now, my wife, he thought, eyes rolling back. I fly to you, Requiem.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw it above—the Draco constellation, stars of Requiem, wells of magic. He flew through blood toward the lights.

  Heat bathed him.

  Roars rolled like thunder.

  Jeid opened his eyes and saw them there. They rose from the dawn, three dragons, blowing their fire.

  “A dawn of dragons,” he whispered, tears in his eyes.

  With slicing claws and streams of flame, they flew into the battle, red and green and blue. Tanin. Maev. The Prince of Eteer.

  Jeid joined his roar to theirs, and their flames wreathed together.

  MAEV

  SHE HAD WRESTLED IN GRUNGY town squares. She had fought in pits of mud surrounded by cheering tribesmen. She had swapped punches and kicks in rundown huts and cellars, and she had flown over a southern kingdom, battling demons. She was Maev, a lost woman, a fighter, a dragon of Requiem. And here above her home, above this new tribe, she fought the battle of her life.

  This was also the battle of her death. The battle she could not win.

  The rocs swarmed toward her, many times the size of demons, dwarfing even her dragon form. They clawed through her scales. Their beaks drove into her flesh. She kicked, bit, lashed her tail. She blew her flames, and her comrades fought with as much vigor.

  But the enemy was too strong.

  The arrows of their riders were too many. The bolts slammed into Maev, and she dipped in the sky.

  “Requiem!” she shouted, hoarse. A roc swooped toward her, and she torched it. It slammed into her, burning, and she knocked it off. “Fight them, dragons of Requiem! We die in blood! We die in fire!”

  Yes. She would die here. Maev knew that, and she was ready. She would die in glory, slaying them, so that for eras tribes and villages and distant kingdoms would speak of Requiem, would speak of the last stand of dragons.

  I do not go gently into death, she thought, grinning as blood dripped from her mouth. If I die here, I die taking down dozens of you.

  She whipped her tail, slamming its spikes into a rider. The man’s armor caved in. She yanked back her tail, tugging the man off his roc, and tossed him against a second bird. The beast shrieked, and more flew from above, and more claws slammed into Maev.

  She dipped in the sky, and her flank hit the side of the canyon. Boulders tumbled down, and her tail hit a tree. The oak crashed into the canyon, burying a man beneath it.

  She heard Tanin cry in pain above, and his blood splattered her. He crashed down, three rocs upon him, plunging into the shadowy gorge. A boulder shattered beneath him. Ahead of her, Maev saw more of the vultures mob her father. They knocked Jeid into the forest above the canyon. Trees ignited and fell, and fire hid the world. She no longer saw Sena, but blue scales fell from the sky, pattering around her l
ike small discarded shields.

  And so here I fall, Maev thought. Not in a distant kingdom. Not in a strange town. But here. At home.

  It was not a bad place to die.

  She pushed herself up.

  She emitted a roar and torched a swooping roc.

  Claws lashing, wings beating, she soared. The sky was hidden behind feathers, blood, and smoke.

  Let me die in the sky.

  “Requiem!” she cried. “My wings will forever find your sky.”

  She soared into the cloud of rocs, crashing into them, smiling as she killed.

  LAIRA

  THEIR BLADES CLASHED TOGETHER IN the tunnel, bronze against bronze, showering sparks.

  “I will kill you now,” Laira said.

  Zerra laughed. “I will show you no such mercy.”

  His sword swung down. She raised her own sword, and the blades clanged together. She thrust and he parried, and when his blade swung again, it cut her wrist. Her blood showered but she gripped her hilt tightly.

  “Yes, bleed for me, harlot.” Zerra spat. “Bleed like you bled into the crone’s leeches. Bleed like you bled under my fists. Bleed like you’ll bleed tonight as I bed you, as I toss you to my men. They will each take you in turn until you’re too hurt to scream.”

  Laira sneered and swung her blade. “No. No more.” She advanced, forcing him back. He was twice her size, his head nearly grazing the ceiling. She was small and weak, and ilbane ached in her muscles, but a fire burned inside her, and she attacked in a fury. She drove him another step back. “No more. Never again.” Her voice rose in strength, and she barely heard the slur of her crooked jaw. “You will nevermore hurt me, Zerra. I am no longer the little girl you beat, enslaved, tortured, starved.” She thrust her blade at him, and her voice rose to a great cry. “I am Vir Requis! For Requiem I slay you. For my people. For a dawn of dragons.”

  Her sword slammed into his, again and again, until she found an opening. Her blade sparked against his breastplate, denting the metal.

  He only laughed. “Vir Requis? Is that what you call your wretched kind? This is nothing but a colony for the diseased. I will cleanse the world of my brother and his children, and I will shatter your soul. You have grown impudent, and I will enjoy breaking your spark of defiance.” He thrust the blade. “When I’m done with you, you will eat dung and drink piss and thank me for it.”

  She tried to parry but he was too fast. His blade drove into her shoulder.

  Laira screamed.

  “Yes . . . scream for me.”

  He swung his sword again. She leaped sideways, hitting the wall. His blade nipped her thigh, and her blood flowed. She parried the next blow but wasn’t ready for his fist. His blade in his right hand, he slammed a left hook into her cheek.

  White light and stars exploded.

  She swung her blade blindly

  He grabbed her throat. She gasped, struggling to breathe. When she could see again, she found his face near hers, a smile twisting his halved lips. She tried to swing her blade, but he caught her wrist, pinning her arm to the wall. She struggled, kicking, but couldn’t free herself.

  “So deformed . . .” He thrust out his tongue and licked her crooked jaw—a long, languorous movement that left her dripping with his saliva. “So sweet. But not hurt enough. Not yet. Look at my wound, darling.” He turned the burnt side of his face toward her, forcing her to stare at the grooves and rivulets. “Soon your whole body will look like this.”

  Still clutching her throat, he sheathed his sword and lifted his torch, which had fallen during the duel. He brought the flame near her cheek. She winced and tried to turn her head away but could not. She sputtered and blackness spread across her. All she could see was the fire. All she could feel was the pain. She closed her eyes for fear of them melting.

  “We will begin with burning your face,” he said.

  She couldn’t move her right arm; he held it pinned to the wall. She kicked hard, hitting his knee. His leg crumpled. They fell together and she grabbed a fallen stone. She sprang up, slamming the rock into his temple.

  He grunted.

  His fingers released her, and Laira gasped for breath.

  She wanted to collapse. She wanted to simply breathe. Instead she lunged forward, swinging the rock again. A shard of granite the size of her fist, it drove into Zerra’s jaw. She heard the crack as the bone shattered. Two teeth flew. His chin drove sideways with a sickening crunch.

  He fell to his knees, clutching his face with one hand, and managed to lift and thrust his blade. She parried and swung her sword down. The bronze drove deep into his arm and thumped against bone. He screamed and dropped his sword. Laira kicked it aside.

  She placed the tip of her sword against his neck.

  “Beg me for your life,” she whispered.

  Suddenly she trembled. Her voice was hoarse. Her knees shook.

  “Beg me!” she shouted.

  He stared up at her, eyes baleful. He said nothing.

  “You will die here,” she said. “Beg for life.”

  He stared, silent, his jaw shattered. His arm hung loosely, slashed open; she saw the bone and tendons. He managed to slur, blood and saliva dripping down his chin.

  “What . . . do . . . you want?” He coughed out blood and teeth. “To be a huntress? Tell me. Tell me what you want.”

  She shuddered. In the darkness of the tunnel, she saw her again. Her mother smiled at her, stroked her hair, and told her bedtime stories. Laira ran with her through the forests, collecting berries, laughing and speaking in Eteerian. She remembered joy. She remembered warm embraces, safety, love.

  “You killed my mother,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “You shattered my life. What do I want?” Her breath shook and she bared her teeth. “I want you to die, you bastard.”

  She screamed as she leaned forward, driving her blade into his neck.

  His blood dripped, and he gave her a last stare, then tilted over and lay still.

  Laira stared down at his body, and she no longer trembled. A peace descended upon her.

  “For my mother,” she whispered. “For Requiem. For me. It’s over.”

  She knelt, grabbed his hair, and lashed her blade again.

  Her footsteps were slow. Blood trailed behind her. She stepped out of the cave into a canyon of flame and blood, carrying Zerra’s severed head.

  “Goldtusk!” she shouted.

  She stood upon bloodied boulders. The dead lay around and beneath her. Arms thrust out from the debris, and gore painted the canyon walls. One rider lay whimpering, his organs dangling from his sliced belly. Dozens of rocs still flew above, and at least two dragons still lived. Maev writhed on a pile of boulders, blowing her last sparks onto a roc. Tanin lay slumped, lashing his claws, holding back a beast; arrows pierced his flesh. Laira had never seen these two dragons, but she knew them from Jeid’s stories—his children returned to battle. She did not see the others.

  “Goldtusk!” Laira shouted. She raised the severed head above her. “Goldtusk, hear me! I am Laira Seran. I was one of you. I carry the head of Zerra, your chieftain.”

  The rocs shrieked. All eyes turned toward her. The battle died down as they stared. Hunters hissed and tugged their reins, halting the rocs. The birds hovered, blasting Laira with foul air, billowing her hair.

  “I am a child of Goldtusk!” Laira cried, voice hoarse. “I slew the chieftain. By the law of our people, I lead this tribe now. I am chieftain! I am Laira of Goldtusk, a worshiper of Ka’altei. I command you—land, dismount your rocs, and kneel before your mistress.”

  For long moments—the ages of the stars and the world, the rise and fall of kingdoms, the endless mourning in her heart—they merely hovered, staring. She stared back. She knew how she looked—a scrawny thing, broken, scarred, covered in blood. A wisp of a person, a hint of who she could have been.

  But this is who I am, she thought. This is me. These years of pain, this fear, this broken body—they made me who I am. This person w
as hurt. And this person is strong.

  She raised the head higher, staring, silent. All others fell silent too. She could hear the wind in the trees and the crackle of fire.

  It was one rider—a gruff old man named Sha’al, a chunk of mammoth tusk still embedded in his chest from an old hunt—who landed his roc first. He dismounted, gave Laira a hard look, and then knelt before her.

  A second rider joined him, a young man who had once tossed Laira a few nuts on a cold winter night. He knelt before her, sword lowered.

  “Chieftain,” he said.

  A third rider joined him, then a fourth. Soon dozens of rocs landed in the canyon, cawing nervously. Their riders covered the boulders, kneeling before her, heads lowered.

  “Chieftain.

  “Chieftain Laira.”

  “Daughter of Ka’altei.”

  They spread across the canyon, kneeling in a great wave. Laira stood, staring upon them—her people. She looked to her side where Maev and Tanin struggled to their feet—her new family.

  “Our war ends now,” Laira said softly. She lowered the severed head. “Goldtusk and Requiem will forge peace. We—“

  A grunt rose ahead, followed by a strangled cry.

  Laira raised her eyes and her heart nearly stopped.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Jeid stumbled forward across the boulders, back in human form. A young man—not a rider of Goldtusk but a foreigner in the robes of Eteer—walked behind, holding a blade to Jeid’s throat.

  SENA

  HE SHOVED THE GRUFF, BEARDED man forward, holding a knife to his throat. Everyone stared at him. Everyone judged him. Everyone thought him a villain. Sena trembled and felt tears stream down his cheeks, and he pushed the knife a hair’s width closer.

  “Stand back!” he shouted. “Stand back or I slit his throat!”

  This battle, like all of this autumn, had been a feverish dream. For so long Sena had languished in Aerhein Tower, chained, starving, mad with his thoughts, the demons flying outside his window to torment him. Since fleeing that place, he had found no solace.