FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “I’m not surprised you hadn’t seen it,” said Brea as she played with a strand of her long brown hair, her eyes also searching for some light, some movement in the dark firmament of Drathari’s ceiling. “Our eyes were fixed on the ground.” She stretched, hair falling around her pointed elf ears. “I wouldn’t call it beauty. Foreboding, perhaps, but not beautiful.”

  Kozog felt another debate coming on and embraced the feeling. “Beauty is a very personal concept. The stars here do not shine; I see this as conformity. Order. Uniformity. Equality. Here there is a serene stillness where the turbulence of our existence comes to a graceful, aching halt. Nothing changes. Nothing moves. All is now as it will be forever. There’s a certain comfort in that.”

  “What good are the stars if they do not twinkle?”

  A simple question but difficult to answer. “They represent something powerful,” he said. “A puzzle, a riddle, and not one intended to be solved. The lights are the souls of this world. Some are bright, some dim, some eternal and some fleeting. Yet they all exist, with every one of them in their place, imperceptibility dancing to some tune us poor mortals cannot hear.”

  That drew an easy laugh from Brea. “Which one of us is the bard again?”

  He acknowledged this curious observation with a non-committal shrug. “All I know is that there is comfort in knowing one’s place in the universe, even if that means our light is less beautiful than it otherwise would have been. What say you, then, of the night sky?”

  Brea’s wisdom was at once deep and shallow to him; to him, her elven flightiness and detachment lead to lofty, impractical observations that had little to do with a grounding in reality, but he appreciated their perspective nevertheless.

  She considered, her eyes half open. “It is joy. Every light illuminates the world just a little bit; every soul is valuable, every one of us important. We must all shine as bright as we can, for as long as we can, and we have to work together; a lone light is bright, but when a cluster of stars come together, they can light up the sky. That is what we have to be; we must shine, be allowed to shine. To be free.”

  Kozog slid a hand into his tunic, finding the wooden five pointed star of Tyranus, running his fingernail along the familiar edges, keeping it tucked under his clothing. That God was long dead but Kozog’s devotion remained strong. “I see.”

  “I think I should keep my eyes skyward from now on.” Brea gestured around her. “Better than the ground below. These Shadowlands are a blight, and as their name might imply, a dark spot on the world; a scar where a terrible injury was inflicted on our planet. There’s no passion here. No life. Nothing grows here. No exports. No industry. No culture. Nothing is produced but misery, seeping out into its neighbours like pus. I would scour this place clean if I had the power.” She shuddered, truth seeped in every word. “When we leave, never do I wish to return.”

  “Our duty takes us places we would rather not go.” Kozog shifted his position, the cold ground uncomfortable. He would rather be at home in his warm bed, but nothing worth doing was easy. “Interesting how we can view the same scene and see different things.”

  Silence reigned for a time.

  “You know,” Brea said, “I sometimes think that if you stripped away the labels, took away our religious symbols and our allegiances…we are not so different.”

  She had said some strange things in their time together, but this one was the oddest in weeks. Kozog turned his head to look at her. “I do not think we could be more different, but explain.”

  “We see the same evils, more or less. We see the night sky with its silent stars, we see the dead land all around us, and we see that these things are bad. To take away the metaphor; we both see suffering in Drathari and know it is unjust. What we disagree on are the solutions.”

  “A charitable way of putting it.”

  Brea smiled, showing the dimples on her cheeks. “That is part of my philosophy. To celebrate those who would stand with me, and to drive a knife to those would stand against.” The dimples only showed up when she smiled so wide it must hurt.

  In times of war, she didn’t smile anywhere near enough.

  His laugh drifted across the unnatural stillness of the Shadowlands. “Perhaps we do have more in common than I thought.”

  Kozog prepared for more quiet, enjoying these moments of calm reflection, but a series of faint pops met his ears, a mocking echo of his laughter. He sat up on his elbows as figures advanced towards them, dark cloaks over their heads. Their leader, a thin, gaunt looking man with hollow eyes had a blade in his hand.

  “Strange that Freelanders would be so far from the body of their army,” the stranger hissed, revealing a tongue forked down the centre. “No matter. Their folly is our advantage.” He twisted his veiny neck and spoke over his shoulder. “Gut them both. Take their bodies back to Irondarrow.”

  So polite of their enemies to announce their intentions. Brea, somehow already standing, as though she could slide from lying on her back to a battle stance in a heartbeat—offered her hand. Kozog took it and stood with a groan, spear in hand.

  “There’s a lot of them,” said Kozog, sliding his hands along the wooden shaft of his weapon, readying against their approach. “Three to one. Hardly fair odds.”

  “Hardly fair to them.” Brea’s weapons slid into her hands as though they were extensions of her arms, her rapier and dagger held before her. “We slew a summoner a only a day ago. These must be remnants of her cult. Minions respect only strength; she was the greatest of them. These ones will fall handily.”

  Kozog picked out the details of the hooded men behind the tiefling leader, the damp cloth clinging to their forms, revealing the truth beneath. Horned human skeletons, emaciated and hunched, with sharp teeth and elongated claws.

  Babaus. Demons, slimy dwellers of the pits.

  “The odds may not be as strong as you imagine.” He tightened his grip as the demons broke into a run, howling as they ran towards the pair of Pathfinders. “The tiefling leads babaus.”

  A babau was a dangerous foe indeed. Three of them…well, they were in trouble. As Brea began to sing, there was a subtle tremor to her voice that belied her confident exterior.

  Kozog spoke a word of power, igniting the tip of his enchanted spear in smoke. The first of the demons charged headlong onto his weapon, suicidally so, impaling itself on the tip; it thrashed, clawing wildly at him, seemingly impervious to the hit. Kozog roared and shook the shaft; the babau impaled upon it struggled until it finally succumbed, slumping limp, black slime pouring all over Kozog’s hands. The creature's body liquified into ink.

  The odds were now better but his weapon was stuck. One babau leapt towards Brea, filthy claws outstretched, another leapt towards him; its slick leathery hide glistening in the moonlight.

  Kozog ducked, spear still lodged in the dripping body of the fiend. Dirty claws slashed across his chest, tearing into his skin, but Kozog barely felt it. He released his spear; the body of the slain demon fell forward, its weapon clattering to the ground. Kozog swung his fist, driving it against the babau’s face; the creature seemed to barely feel it, snapping at his hand with its razor sharp teeth.

  As Kozog gave ground, backing away to engage his enemy, Brea attacked hers.

  He loved watching her fight. Brea was not a fighter as much as she was a dancer. Every thrust and parry was a symphony of steps, perfectly placed motions endlessly honed through passion; her joy, her art, powered her and guided her, and it paid off. Her enemy collapsed as bloody flowers bloomed in the cracks of its thick hide, her blades finding the gaps, out-fighting the frenzied demon in a whirling blur of mithril and steel death.

  Kozog was much less subtle. He simply reached forward, ignoring a vicious slash across his shoulder, grabbing his longspear and tearing it free. With a roar he applied the tip of his weapon to the remaining babau’s face.

  The fallen bodies became liquid, and then evaporated. All that remained was the leader.

  “Im
pressive,” he said, his forked tongue writhing. “But I can always acquire more demons.”

  “Do feel free,” said Brea, her ichor-slick rapier extended. “These ones proved hardly a challenge.”

  She had been hurt as well—a tear in her tunic showed the metal chain links underneath it, stained a dark tan—but they were both still in the fight. Kozog levelled his weapon. As did Brea.

  “Blood and darkness,” the tiefling hissed, and suddenly the world was aflame.

  Kozog squinted, shielding his eyes from the bright light. They stood in a ring of fire. The tiefling strode into the flames unharmed.

  Definitely long odds. His cloak ignited and he shrugged it off. Brea’s was magically enchanted, but one look at her face and he knew.

  They were in trouble.

  Grimacing against the heat, Brea leapt away first, folding her arms to protect her hair. Kozog far less gracefully ploughed through the gap she left. The two of them collapsed on the other side, rolling around on the ground, extinguishing the flames that licked hungrily at their clothes, searching for flesh. The flames became smoke.

  The demon teleported directly over Kozog, and with supernatural speed and power, plunged its dagger down into his chest.

  That would have been the end of him, but Tyranus protected his faithful servants even in death. The blade’s edge struck Kozog’s holy symbol, hidden under his shirt, breaking it in half. The blade left a deep wound but his holy symbol had stolen enough of the dagger’s momentum to save it from piercing his heart. A green blood-flower blossomed on his chest.

  “Kozog!” Brea let her rapier lead, stabbing wildly at the foul creature.

  “I’m okay.” He swung out with his fist, slamming it into the tiefling’s temple. The fiend-blooded human howled, falling to the ground.

  Brea leapt upon him, dagger raised. The tiefling, eyes wide, spat a spell of power into her face.

  The mithril in her hand glowed a fiery red. Brea shrieked and tossed the weapon away.

  Kozog rolled over on top of the tiefling. The acrid scent of brimstone and blood filled the space between them; Kozog closed his hands over the demon-man’s throat and squeezed.

  The tiefling thrashed. Kicked. Squirmed. Whimpered. Gasped. Died.

  Kozog waited, giving the Dark Lady a few more seconds to fully take the soul as his strength faded.

  Victory.

  Then Kozog’s strong arms weakened, his blood seeped into the dead ground below, and he slumped over the body of the man who had tried to kill them both.

  Chapter I

  Kozog

  WATER. SOMEONE WAS TRYING TO drown him.

  Flailing wildly, Kozog calmed when he heard Brea’s voice.

  “Hey, hey, calm down you big lump. It’s me.”

  Brea wouldn’t drown him.

  The world was brighter; the sun was climbing up the edge of the nearby mountain range, staining the edge of the sky a light gold.

  “How long?”

  “You were unconscious for hours. You lost a lot of blood. There’s green everywhere.”

  He tried to sit up, failed, and tried again. His body ached. “Why didn’t you at least bandage the wound?”

  She put down the cold cloth and held out her hands. They shook slightly; thick blisters had formed over her skin, red and inflamed. “Can’t. I was hoping you could fix us both when you woke up.”

  Kozog reached for the holy symbol underneath his shirt. Both pieces. They were bent, twisted beyond recognition, beyond use. This was a sign from his dead master. “Tyranus gives, and Tyranus takes away.” He breathed a heavy sigh. “Even if he answers my prayers, I can’t cast without channelling my Lord’s holy energy.”

  “Holy, mmm?”

  The two stared at each other, and then exchanged a laugh. Tyranus had been the lord of obedience and service, along with contracts and binding; most considered him a malicious entity. “Same, same,” said Kozog, groaning as he stood, wobbling on his feet.

  “I actually meant just bandages,” said Brea, sliding to her feet with lithe grace. “Thank you, by the way.”

  “For what?”

  “That demon would have finished me if you hadn’t grabbed it. I’m alive. That’s worth celebrating.”

  He shook his head. “You owe me nothing; you are alive because of your own skill. Your courage in attacking him with your dagger forced him to burn you instead of me; if not for that, he would have repositioned and I would have fallen. You saved me, and in doing so, saved yourself.” He smiled. “You underestimate yourself, Brea Fleethand.”

  She blew out her breath, flipping back her fringe. “I didn’t imagine you would ever say that.”

  “Why would I not?” He used his spear as a walking stick, heading back towards the Freelander encampment. “You think I do not value your strength?”

  Brea fell into step beside him. “I don’t know what you value. You’re a mystery to me. On one hand, we have fought together for over a year, and aside from attempts to coerce people into signing overly legalistic contracts, you don’t strike me as an evil soul. On the other hand…you serve the Lord of Papers.”

  “I certainly do, even if the Lord does not answer prayers these days.”

  “That makes no sense to me.” She rubbed her burned hands against her sleeves.

  “Faith is its own reward,” said Kozog, eyeing her hands disapprovingly. “Are you in pain?”

  “Yes.”

  A simple answer, well stated. Kozog was still recovering also, but he found his strength returned with words. “How can I help?”

  “Distract me,” she said. No easy task. “Tell me…how did you join Tyranus’s church?”

  That was as good a topic as any. “As many who were raised in Valamar, I joined the state religion because it was expected of me. I had strength, and the church needed that strength.”

  Brea looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t believe you.”

  Kozog did not understand “Why would I lie about such a thing?”

  “Because ideals like yours, like Tyranus’s…people aren’t born with them. They become that; over time, strong hands beat the love of freedom out of you, and soon, you start to love the lash.” She rubbed her burned hands against her forearms as though cold. “You didn’t join the church because of some preconceived notion of duty, did you?”

  Kozog bit down on his lower lip to stop the answer escaping on its own, but the words tumbled out anyway. “No.”

  “Then why?”

  He said nothing.

  Brea’s voice was gentle despite her obvious pain. “What are you afraid of? There must be more to life than the church.”

  “The church is not life. A common misconception amongst those who see Tyranus’s worship from the outside. The church is one thing: Power. Power is power. Axiomatic it might seem, but from power flows other things. Protection. Influence. Wealth. All these things give one the freedom to find life’s meaning.”

  She laughed, a loud, long trill sound that seemed to go on and on. “Freedom, freedom, freedom. Are you considering moving permanently to the Freelands? Having a nice house, settling down, raising some little half-orclets?”

  “Hardly,” he said, although there was an edge to his tone that was somewhat less than totally dismissive. “It is an entertaining thought, though, I will admit. The Lords of Valamar are now so distant from the land I have sworn to serve and the voice of my patron so silent. I would be remiss if I didn’t admit it was a tempting offer.”

  She leaned toward him as they walked, a wide smirk painted on her face. “Just imagine it. We could travel together, north to Everwatch, freeing slaves and being heroes. We’d be an amazing team. Just you and me.”

  He considered, letting the thoughts tumble in his mind for a time, but he had seen the truth of the matter and found it not to his liking. “A pleasant daydream, and entertaining, but no more than that. Our responsibilities are not so easily discarded.”

  “No,” she said, her voice becoming qui
eter. “I guess not.”

  From ahead, a shout of alarm drifted across the empty land. Freelanders. They had been found; a small team crested a ridge, running towards them. They stopped walking and exchanged a look.

  “Will you tell me one day?” asked Brea.

  “Why I joined the church?”

  “Yes.” She smiled at him. “You can trust me.”

  “I know. It is a story full of pain and surprises; I will not burden you with it now.” He reached out and clasped her shoulder. “And I want you to know, Brea, you can trust me with anything. Your life if necessary.” He smiled, then took his hand back. “Just don’t sign anything I give you.”

  She just shook her head, blowing out a sigh as the Freelander field medics surrounded them, bandages and ointments in hand.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” she said, the stars overhead bathing their little section of the Shadowlands in their unflickering light. “I figured that part out all by myself.”

  Brea

  Paladin Commander Banehal—not that anyone would ever dare address the tall, imposing, dark-skinned human with his title—welcomed Brea to his command tent with a firm nod. Before him lay a wooden table covered in maps, scrolls, and orders; the parchments were layered so thick they overflowed onto the floor.

  “What news?” Banehal asked, standing, his eyes falling on her wounds.

  They stung, but her pain was numbed by salves and ointments. “We were ambushed on the outskirts of camp,” Brea said. “My companion, Kozog, is recovering in the wounded tent. His wounds are severe, but he will survive.” Her words came with difficulty; even discussing such possibilities rankled her. “If only by the skin of his tusks.”

  “I am pleased your companion will survive,” said Banehal. “Less pleased that dwarven aggressors dare to strike so close to our heart.”

  “Not dwarves,” said Brea. “Demons. Babaus. A handful or more.”