FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Terrac’s eyes widened in alarm, and I could see him forming a refusal, but Rideon didn’t allow him time to get out the response. “Or,” the outlaw continued, “should that idea not appeal to you, you may choose the second alternative—refusing to take the oath and thus being put to a quick death. Priest boy or not, my generosity extends only so far, and I won’t risk a large-mouthed brat wandering loose to tell my enemies exactly where to hunt down my band.”

  I held my breath waiting for Terrac to say something foolish, and he didn’t disappoint me.

  “You don’t seem to care that the oath you’re asking of me will change my life’s plans,” he protested.

  Rideon shrugged. “I wasn’t aware I was advocating one option over the other. I’m merely here to accept the first choice or to execute the latter, should it be your preference.” He tapped the blade at his side for emphasis. “The ultimate decision is entirely yours.”

  Terrac flicked a frightened glance at the black blade, drew a deep breath, and appeared to startle even himself with the words that spilled from him. “I swear on my life and honor that I’ll never leave the boundaries of this wood as long as I breathe. Not without the express permission of the outlaw, Rideon the Red Hand.”

  Rideon was the only one of us who appeared unsurprised. “A reasonable decision, priest boy. If ever you should rethink it, my blade and I will be on hand.” He flashed his teeth in a grim smile and left us.

  Terrac immediately looked miserable, and I suspected he was thinking of how, with a few short words, he had destroyed his hopes of entering the priesthood. In an attempt to cheer him I said, “It isn’t so bad, you know. Maybe you’ll come to like it here. And at least you’re alive, which is more than anyone would’ve expected on the day you came.”

  He didn’t look much comforted.

  Later that day, I was kneeling beside Dradac, who was helping me repair an old knife that had lost its handle, when the heavy scuff of approaching boots alerted me to another arrival. Without looking up, I sensed it was Brig.

  In a moment, his voice confirmed it.

  “Is it true, Dradac?” Brig demanded angrily, ignoring my presence. “I’ve had my suspicions since the spring, but what I’ve heard from Nib today confirms it. Was Ilan with you when you confronted those travelers and nearly had yourself killed?”

  My stomach lurched. I’d always known it was only a matter of time before he discovered the extent of my involvement in the episode that brought Terrac to us, and I had an idea there would be trouble when that information surfaced. I just hoped I wouldn’t be present for it. It was good my face was turned away from Brig then because I was sure my guilt was clearly written in my expression.

  Dradac affected innocence. “What’s this? Who said she was there?”

  “Did you imagine I’d need to be told?” Brig asked. “I run up to Molehill for a few days and return to find an injured boy priest encamped in our midst and Ilan fluttering around his sickbed. Who else would have spared him?”

  Dradac said, “What makes you so certain it wasn’t me? Do you think I would murder a helpless boy wearing the robe of an Honored One? Imagine how many years bad luck that’d bring me.”

  “Drop the pretense. You’re only making me angrier,” said Brig.

  The giant sighed. “All right, I confess. She was with me when we got the signal about the trespassers, so I let her come along to meet them. I wasn’t planning to expose her to any real danger. But they appeared a harmless group, and I thought it would be an exciting experience for her. There. Are you happy now that I’ve admitted to my miscalculation?”

  His easy smile faltered under Brig’s silent scowl. “Now don’t start growling at me, old bear. I didn’t let any harm come to her. If it makes you feel better, I promise, when I’m recovered, I’ll seek your approval before taking her out again.”

  “I’ve half a mind to see you never recover at all. What right did you think you had dragging a child into a situation where she might have been killed? It could easily have been her shot through with that bolt instead of you. How would you feel then?”

  “Probably a good deal better than I do now,” the giant joked. “Anyway, I just thought it was time Ilan had some practice dealing with these little situations. Part of the territory and all that. ”

  “From here on out, allow me to decide what lessons will be of use to her and when. Ilan knows she’s supposed to avoid strangers in the wood and keep out of trouble.”

  Here I felt his accusing eyes burning into the back of my head, but annoyed at being spoken over as if I had no say in this matter, I bit my tongue and refused to apologize.

  “I’m sorry you don’t appreciate my input, friend,” Dradac was saying. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to disagree with you on the point of what’s best for Ilan. She’s growing up faster than you realize and is learning to fend for herself. You’re doing her a disservice if you won’t allow her a little adventure once in awhile.”

  Brig sputtered, but I shot Dradac a grateful look.

  In the end, we settled the matter with a compromise. It was determined I was to be given more freedom in the future, but this hinged on the condition that Brig wished me to improve myself in certain areas. He had taken up a strange notion I needed what he called “scholarly learning,” although neither he nor anyone else in our band had ever possessed anything of the sort. I readily agreed to this, confident I was getting the best of the deal.

  However, when I discovered a few days later exactly what he had in mind, I was no longer so sure.

  I sat beneath a shady tree, a smooth plank of wood across my knees for a table. A yellowed sheet of parchment rested beneath the tip of my hovering quill. Terrac crouched behind me, leaning a little over my shoulder to observe my efforts. The quill’s ink skipped and spattered irregularly as I attempted to copy out the letters Terrac had set down across the upper half of the page. At Terrac’s direction, Brig had fashioned the writing implement from a quail feather, and Brig and Terrac together had made the ink from the juice of wild berries. The parchment was a contribution from one of the outlaws. It had been confiscated from the hands of a reluctant scribe two seasons past, and the thief had no use for it.

  I silently cursed that outlaw now and the scribe before him. For an hour of every day I was forced to practice my letters, under Terrac’s guidance. I knew Brig well enough to be sure he would see to it that I always had that hour to spare. He’d been pleased to learn Terrac had been taught to read and write by Honored Thilstain and quickly insisted the boy’s learning be passed on to me.

  “No, that’s not it,” Terrac said with a frown, snatching the pen from my fingers. “You’ve still got it wrong. Your lines should curve at the bottom—like this.” He demonstrated the proper technique and returned the implement to me.

  As usual, he didn’t complain or scold me for my slow fingers and slower wits, but his patience only served to irritate me further. I didn’t know how Brig had threatened or cajoled him into tutoring me, but I was certain he could be enjoying the experience no more than I. I was well aware I made a sorry pupil. In fact, I wouldn’t have blamed Terrac if he beat his head against a tree in frustration by the end of our hour, but for some reason he never did. The fact that he never laughed at the pitiful results of my effort only served to aggravate me further. I was sure he knew that and derived a twisted satisfaction from it.

  After contemplating the untidy marks on the parchment before me, I threw my pen down in disgust. “Can’t we just forget this and tell Brig I did the work?” I asked.

  Terrac didn’t blink at my outburst. I decided he was growing used to them.

  “Of course not,” he responded absently. “That would be lying. Now look, I think your trouble is how you keep confusing the first and third letters. They look alike but are a little different.”

  “Oh, I forgot priests don’t lie,” I mocked, ignoring his direction. “A simple untruth would probably torment your conscience for all time.”
r />   He regarded me with puzzlement, and I realized he had no idea what I was talking about. I sighed and asked myself how I was going to endure another million lessons like this one. My companion was so good and patient he grated unintentionally on my every nerve. Or at least most of the time I believed it was unintentional. I doubted he possessed an ounce of spite in him. His only character flaw was his habit of frowning down his nose at everyone who failed to meet his standards, but even this snobbery seemed unconscious. At times, I asked myself why I had saved him at all. Then I would grudgingly recall those rare occasions when we actually had a good time together, those days when we explored the forest, swam in Dancing Creek, or hunted stink snakes in Heeflin’s Marsh at Dimming’s edge.

  But today I was in no mood for such charitable memories. “Why do you even do this?” I demanded impatiently. “I’m hopeless at these letters! You can’t enjoy teaching me. Not unless you derive pleasure from laughing secretly at my mistakes. You shouldn’t allow Brig to force you into it. You always do whatever you’re told, and no one respects you for it. No one but me even likes you.”

  “They don’t?” He sounded confused and slightly hurt, but I didn’t care.

  “No, they don’t. They laugh at you to your face, and you take it like a dumb animal.”

  He looked thoughtful. “Honored Thilstain taught me it was a priestly duty to be humble, to seek peace, and to serve all.”

  I snorted. “I can’t even imagine how little pride you must have,” I said.

  He looked wounded. I could see his mind working as he struggled to form the right reply, but I gave him no opportunity to voice it. I was in a difficult mood, and I felt it wouldn’t require much provocation for me to take my frustration out on him. He was a slight figure, still frail after his recovery, and I was sure I could knock him into tomorrow without expending much effort. “I’m leaving now,” I said in a tone that brooked no argument. “You can tell Brig whatever you want.”

  “But your lesson!” he protested, dismayed. “Brig swore he would beat me senseless—”

  “So stand and take it,” I said unsympathetically. “I think you owe it to me. Have you forgotten how I nursed you back from the brink of death? And I pretty nearly saved your life again only the other day when you almost drowned in Dancing Creek. You were thrashing around, crying out for help, and no one else came running. But did I throw you a stone?”

  “No, but—”

  “No, indeed, I didn’t.” I answered my own question. “I leapt straight in and dragged you from the water at no small risk to my life and limb.”

  “Life and limb?” he cried incredulously. “You’re taller than I! The water scarcely reached to your neck!”

  I shrugged. “Can’t blame that on me. Maybe you should’ve been the girl.”

  His face reddened, and he surprised me by kicking the wooden writing slab off my lap. “You want a fight?” he demanded, voice squeaking in fury. “Is that what you’re looking for?” He doubled his fists and took a fighting stance.

  I couldn’t hide my amusement. I’d never seen him in such a temper.

  “Think you can fight, do you, boy?”

  I looked up, startled, at the voice that belonged to none other than the Red Hand himself. Where had he come from? We were in an out-of-the-way spot, and I hadn’t heard his approach. I stirred uneasily, wondering what he wanted. I could see his presence unnerved Terrac.

  “We weren’t fighting,” I assured Rideon. “Just playing around.”

  “Ah, I see. Play-fighting.” Rideon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He turned his calculating gaze on Terrac. “Wouldn’t you rather learn to fight for real?” he asked.

  Terrac looked uneasy, and I found myself feeling unexpectedly protective of him, so I broke in with, “He’s a priest, Rideon. He cannot do violence.”

  The outlaw smirked, looking Terrac up and down. “A flimsy excuse,” he said. “I won’t have such a cowardly pup in my band. If he wants to live among us, let him learn to defend himself.”

  Terrac said, “With all due respect, I don’t consider myself a member of your criminal band.” There was a cold light in his eyes that, for a moment, drowned out the fear as he added, “But while I’m forced to live among you, I earn my way. I do my chores around camp, and I work as hard as anyone.”

  I was surprised to find myself feeling a little proud of the boy. Grown men didn’t argue with Rideon. Even so, I rushed to put a stop to his foolhardiness before he could talk his way into a thrashing or worse.

  “He does work hard,” I said. “But if you’re of a mind to see him fight, Rideon, I’m sure he wouldn’t refuse. There’s never any harm in learning to defend oneself.” I cast a warning glance Terrac’s way, willing him to keep silent. I could feel him burning to martyr himself, so it was a pleasant surprise when he held his peace.

  Rideon scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Wise words, hound. Now I’ve a mind to see some sport, so let me see you practice between yourselves a bit. And to add to the challenge, the winner gets to spar with me as his reward. How’s that?”

  Terrac and I exchanged uneasy glances, but neither of us dared argue. I was sure Brig wouldn’t approve of this, but he wasn’t here. “It will be just until one of us downs the other,” I reassured Terrac, who looked slightly ill. He appeared stunned by my acceptance.

  Rideon put in mockingly, “Come now, priest boy. You’re not afraid to fight a girl, are you?”

  That seemed to decide Terrac. “Very well, if I must.” He jutted his chin out defiantly and pushed up his sleeves. “What are the rules of this game?”

  “No rules, no game,” Rideon said. “Just pound one another until one of you can no longer stand.”

  Terrac’s eyes narrowed disapprovingly, but he offered no argument. “All right then. Let’s get this over with,” he said. Even crouching with fists drawn, he didn’t look very convincing. Every rigid line of his body betrayed his reluctance.

  I stepped in and doubled my own fists, feeling as unenthusiastic as he looked. It was hardly an even match. Despite the nearness of our ages, I had a good six inches on Terrac, and I’d had years of outdoor labor to strengthen my muscles. It also wasn’t long ago that he’d been deathly ill. I resolved to go as easy on him as I could, but I wouldn’t let him win. Instinctively I felt this was some sort of test of Rideon’s and that the outcome might make a difference in my future.

  I guess I allowed myself to be distracted by my thoughts for I was suddenly brought back to the moment by a hard fist jabbing me in the ribs. From a grown man, such a punch would have been painful. From Terrac it was more like a sharp poke. Still, it allowed me to fight back without feeling guilty. My answering swing fell wide as Terrac dodged with surprising dexterity, throwing me off balance. The next two punches caught me in the face. I bit my tongue, and that hurt more than the actual blows. It also made me realize I needn’t concern myself so much with going easy on my opponent after all.

  As I spat blood, I could hear Rideon laughing behind me. Terrac’s eyes were apologetic, but that didn’t stop me from feeling a rush of anger that he was making me appear a fool before my captain. I launched an all-out assault against him, throwing a series of punches he couldn’t move quickly enough to block. I kept up my attack, but the priest boy refused to fall no matter how mercilessly I punished him.

  He gave up ground readily enough, until we had backed out of the clearing and found ourselves fighting knee-deep in bramble bushes. I no longer knew who I beat or why, so intent was I on winning. I hardly noticed my weariness or my skinned knuckles. I was close to victory; I could feel it. As Terrac stumbled backward against a log, I seized the opportunity to drive a blow into his belly. He staggered and doubled over. Although I knew it was cheap, I followed the punch with a knee to his face. That knocked the strength from him, and he dropped.

  Upon seeing him downed, my anger instantly evaporated, leaving exhaustion and guilt in its wake. I leaned forward to grip my knees and catch my breath. Then I
extended a hand to help Terrac to his feet. He accepted it with barely a sign of hesitation. It wasn’t in his character to hold a grudge. Still, I felt a twinge of shame, noting his swollen lip and the bruises already forming over his cheekbones.

  He seemed to sense my thoughts. “It’s all right,” he told me quietly. “Perhaps I’ll do as much for you one day.”

  I accepted the threat as my due and turned my attention to freeing myself from the clinging bushes as Rideon approached. When my captain stood before me, I believed he had come to see how badly I was hurt. I was relieved of that misapprehension when, without word or warning, he suddenly dealt me a ringing blow to the jaw. Stunned, I reeled backward to the ground. I thought he would wait for me to get back to my feet. He didn’t. Instead he battered me with a series of vicious kicks, the strength of which knocked the breath from me. I sensed the futility of attempting escape and instead curled my body into a ball, wrapping my arms around myself to deflect the worst of the blows.

  My pitiful reaction appeared to enrage Rideon, for he launched a particularly rough kick into my face. Sparks exploded before my eyes, and I felt my nose crunch. Face throbbing and nose filling with blood, I sucked in pained gasps of air through my mouth. It suddenly occurred to me the blows might not stop until I was dead, and for the first time, I was afraid. Inwardly, I clawed after my magic, but once I grasped it my mind was too clouded by the pain to think how to use it. The most I could do was simply cling to the inner fire as I tried to fight down the rising darkness.

  When the attack ceased as unexpectedly as it had begun, I knew a moment of intense relief. The outlaw must have expended his strength. Slowly, tentatively, I released my grip on the magic and let it slip away. Then I lifted a trembling hand to explore my aching face. My skin was slick to the touch, my nose crooked and swollen. Upper lip and jaw throbbed. Mentally, I categorized each pain: aching limbs, bruised body, and a fiery agony in my ribs. Rideon rolled me roughly onto my back. I tried to pry one bloodied eye open, but the lid remained stubbornly sealed. The other eye managed to open into a narrow slit, affording me a squinted view of my surroundings. The treetops swayed dizzyingly overhead. I was very near to blacking out and didn’t fight it. The rest would’ve been a welcome relief.