FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Then leave me alone.”

  This last bit tore the man apart worse than seeing the woman broken by the waves and the rocks. He cried out and pulled away, before reaching for her again. This time, she didn’t resist, but closed her eyes, breathing labored.

  Once again, the landscape shifted and the sea and beach disappeared, leaving them in the midst of the flat plain again. The battle raged on all sides.

  Whelan was left holding nothing, a terrible, choking look across his face.

  “Whelan,” Darik said, grabbing the man’s arm and trying to pull him to his feet.

  “Go away.”

  “Come, we can’t stay here.” In desperation, he picked up the sword from the ground and handed it to Whelan.

  Whelan stared at the sword for a moment, before rising woodenly to his feet. Scree let out a bewildered scream overhead and the man lifted his wrist for the falcon to land.

  Whelan swung his sword in an arc and the illusions fled before them. He strode across the plain and Darik struggled to keep up the pace. Tears dried on Whelan’s cheeks, replaced by a grim frown.

  At last they regained the road and the visions vanished, replaced by a flat gray plain, much as Darik had originally seen it. He could also see the wall stretching parallel with the Tothian Way. From here, it was impossible to see the skulls that bound it together.

  The sun crawled into the sky. Thankfully, it was day—that much hadn’t been an illusion. Pale as the sun was, it lifted his spirits.

  Whelan breathed deeply, and appeared to have regained his senses.

  “Is this Serena going to die?” Darik asked.

  Whelan turned to look at him and shrugged. “Serena is already dead. My sword, there are some who call it Soultrup, lies sometimes. I don’t know what was real, what had happened, what was going to happen.”

  “Who was she?” Darik asked. He noticed even as he asked, that Whelan’s cloak was still stained with blood from the dying woman.

  Whelan met his gaze, face unreadable. “Serena? Serena was the queen of Arvada and the Citadel.” He nodded. “Yes, that’s right, King Daniel’s wife and Ninny’s mother.”

  But Sofiana was Whelan’s daughter, not King Daniel’s. How could she . . . ? Belatedly, he realized the implications. Darik looked to the ground.

  Whelan sheathed his sword and sent Scree aloft. He looked down at his hands and breathed deeply. “Yes, that’s right.” His voice had taken on a curious tone. Almost flat and emotionless. “I was young, she was young, and my brother was completely absorbed in the chores of a young king after Father died. It was all too easy to—” he stopped mid-sentence. “No, there is no excuse for what I did. I accept full responsibility and I will beg the king for forgiveness when we reach the Citadel.”

  “So that’s why King Daniel banished you from Eriscoba,” Darik said, so many things growing clear. He’d been so overwhelmed to discover that Whelan was a prince in the Free Kingdoms that he’d almost forgotten what Ethan had said. “But why did he wait so long? Sofiana is what? Twelve years old?”

  Whelan’s face clenched in sudden rage, the calm look on his face swept away. “Because I was a fool. I thought I could escape my problems, first by fleeing to Balsalom, and then by joining the Brotherhood. I suffered my ordeals in silence, purging myself and learning to control my appetites. But I simply could not admit to my brother what I had done.”

  He laughed bitterly. “So I waited until the queen drowned and, in a fit of regret and mourning, told my brother of my earlier sins. At any other time Daniel would have forgiven me, I’m sure of it. But he had grown to love Serena too, you see, and in his grief, he exiled me. Banished from Eriscoba, from my home in the city Arvada, and from the Citadel.”

  “But wait,” Darik said. He grew angry as another part of the story came into focus. “What about Sofiana? It wasn’t her fault. Why would the king banish her, too?”

  “Oh no, Daniel didn’t hold Ninny at fault. He was angry, but not that angry.” A wry smile touched his lips. “You can blame my daughter for that one. Headstrong girl.”

  “It was her own choice?” Having been torn from his own life of ease, Darik couldn’t see why she’d prefer to live on the road, instead of as a princess.

  “Does that surprise you? It shouldn’t. Boys aren’t the only ones who crave adventure. When I returned the first time from Balsalom when Sofiana was young, I made sure I became her favorite uncle. That meant teaching her the bow and sword, horsemanship and falconry. Not that she doesn’t love her father.”

  Whelan sighed. “And then when her mother died and I foolishly chose that moment to confess my crimes, she thought it would be a great adventure to follow me into exile. And justice, too. Alas, she’s not the sort of child you can compel to obey you, or I’d have sent her back to Eriscoba long ago.”

  Scree returned with a scream.

  “Come,” Whelan said, putting a hood over the falcon’s head. He swept the emotion from his face. “They’ve gone ahead.”

  They found Markal and Sofiana a few minutes later with the camels. Markal looked at them grimly. “You do, indeed, look like a wight, Darik. I’m afraid you won’t be able to wash until we cross the Desolation.”

  Darik looked down at his filthy, scratched hands to see that they still glowed with the oils Markal had given him.

  “Ugh,” Sofiana said. “What’s that smell?”

  Darik said, “It’s me, I’m afraid. Something in Markal’s potion.” He pulled the camel to the ground and mounted behind the girl. “It worked, though.”

  She made a face. “You smell worse than the camel.”

  Darik said, “You might not say that if you had to sit in the back.” He turned to Markal. “I don’t know how you happened to have that potion in your bags but it worked. I’d have escaped if not for my clumsy feet.”

  Markal smiled. “The oil is an ointment for an ailment I suffer in the, er . . . nether regions. The luminescence was a handy side effect. Sorry about the smell.”

  Sofiana giggled. It might have been funny, or disgusting, or both if Darik and Whelan hadn’t just emerged from the Desolation.

  “What happened out there?” Darik said, pointing to the Desolation. “My father used to ride through here on trading missions. He didn’t like the place, but I had no idea what it was. I don’t think he did either.”

  “Most people don’t,” Markal said. “Not unless they leave the road and if they do, they don’t usually return.”

  “This was once a prosperous kingdom. Aristonia.” Markal’s voice was reverent when he spoke the name. “The Fair Land, some people called it. Its people were free, its lands rich beyond belief. It was said you could plant anything in the ground, even gold, and a tree or bush or plant would sprout forth. A valuable gift was a box of the Aristonian soil. Plant it in your gardens and your produce would be the envy of every other grocer in the souk.”

  “What happened?” Sofiana asked.

  “King Toth demanded allegiance of the Aristonians. He’d subjected most of the world by then, and Aristonia had already suffered the Tothian Way to be built through its lands. Toth thought that if he turned the magic of this land, he could better make war against the Mountain Brother, his sworn enemy, who lived in the mountains just west of here.”

  Darik shook his head. “What kind of man thinks he can kill a god?”

  “The kind of man who has already killed one,” Markal said. “Toth had slain the Forest Brother the previous year. Most people don’t realize what happened to the fifth brother.”

  “As he marched on Aristonia, all the free people of Mithyl united. Those chaffing under his rule revolted. For three years the battles raged across the land. Hundreds of thousands were killed, the Aristonians themselves scattered across Mithyl. When the war ended, Toth lay dead, but his curse remained on the land. I suspect it will always remain.”

  “Come,” Markal said. He turned his camel to the west. “We need to reach Montcrag before Cragyn does.”

  C
hapter VII

  THE DESOLATION STRETCHED ON EITHER side with only the Tothian Way to break the blighted landscape. As the sun rose, the air filled with a muggy stillness and the companions settled into an uneasy quiet. The camels plodded along; they had become lethargic in the heat. But the camels’ stamina was relentless.

  They saw nobody else on the road.

  Darik slept in the saddle before the heat woke him. By then, Sofiana began to droop, overcome by exhaustion herself, so he traded with her and let her sleep where she could lean into the saddlebags. Markal and Whelan rode in front, Darik and Sofiana in the rear. About once an hour, Whelan sent Scree aloft to look for pursuit. She saw none.

  Darik found himself rubbing the spine of the steel tome jutting from the saddlebags. He hefted it onto his lap to look at the curious script hammered across the front leaf. The remnants of paint still clung to the low parts, red and blue. A flowering vine snaked up the side of the leading letter.

  He tried to remember what he’d learned of the old script. The letters represented ideas, rather than sounds. The leading letter looked like a soth, and he thought he made out tef and ithnat. If you twisted the tail the other way, one of the letters look like kormat. The rest was gibberish.

  Markal’s instructions were clear. Don’t read the book. But Darik couldn’t read it even if he’d wanted to. It had been too long, he’d paid too little attention to his lessons, and this script was an older style even than the one he’d been taught. So he doubted it would hurt to thumb through the leaves. A guilty voice in the back of his mind suggested he ask the wizard anyway, but this voice was easy to dismiss. No need to disturb the man. Markal looked half asleep anyhow, slumping in the saddle.

  Darik opened the book.

  The first page wasn’t writing at all, but a picture of a cloud castle. It was hammered with surprising delicacy, and the paint still hung fresh and bright. Tiny people stood in the castle towers, while a griffin launched himself from the side of the cloud, a woman riding on its back.

  The picture interested Darik not so much for the artistry in the picture, but for the cut away diagram of the windmill to one side, with gears and machinery exposed. Whoever had drawn the picture knew how the giant windmills that moved the castles worked.

  He turned the page to discover that the writing was on the back of the leaf, and unlike the initial page, the script flowed from right to left. Was this the way everyone had written, or just an artifact of this particular book? Beyond the page, the next page contained another picture, just as fascinating as the first. He forced himself to look back to the writing to see what else he could learn, before he simply skipped ahead. Somehow, it felt important.

  “Welcome boy,” the lettering said. “A bridge of time separates us. Time and pain that you cannot understand. Your companions do not yet understand the significance of this bridge, not even the wizard, but they will. In an act of mercy, the Sky Brother built castles in the sky for the survivors of the wars, hoping that by so doing he would—”

  Darik shut the book in surprise. The words had come directly from the script to his mind, as easily as if he’d read one of Graiyan’s recipes scrawled in the common tongue. But more: Did the book know who he was? The thought staggered him.

  Markal shifted in the saddle and Darik hastily slid the book back into the saddlebags. He must have clanked the leaves together as he did, for the wizard turned around and fixed him with a peculiar gaze. Darik swallowed, certain Markal knew what he’d done.

  “Darik? Are you ill?”

  “What? Oh, no. Just hot.”

  Markal watched him for another minute, then turned back around. Darik found himself sweating. And why? He’d looked at the book, but nothing had come of it. And it wasn’t going to happen again.

  They reached the edge of the Desolation sometime after dusk. The first sign was a small brook running across the road. The camels spotted the water first, breaking into a great, loping gate. They stopped at the spring and took in great gulps of water.

  “Springfell,” Whelan said. “We’ve crossed the Desolation.”

  Indeed, the air smelled different. A breeze blew from the west, holding the promise of mountain glens and wild flowers. It mingled and clashed with the heavier air to the east.

  Markal wanted to keep riding, but the camels were exhausted, and everyone needed to get off for a few hours to rest. They stripped down to loin cloths and bathed in the brook, washing road dirt and the pervasive smell of camels from their body. The water was startlingly cold.

  They ate in a small clearing off the road, in the midst of some scrubby trees. Scree hunted down a rabbit and a pair of doves and they cooked this fresh meat over a small cook fire. Sofiana and Markal went to search for herbs, while Whelan cleaned his sword. Darik watched him work.

  “Darik,” Whelan said, “I meant to tell you about your father.”

  “My father?” Darik asked, confused.

  “Yes, about your father. Both Markal and I knew, that is, we know him well.”

  “You know where my father is?”

  Whelan looked uncomfortable. “Well, no, but I believe he’s still alive somewhere in Veyre. Your father might have been a terrible merchant without your mother’s help, but he was an excellent spy. He brought information from Veyre to the Free Kingdoms for several years.”

  “A spy?” He burned with indignation. “My father was no traitor. He loved Balsalom.”

  Whelan shook his head. “Not against Balsalom, Darik. He watched the dark wizard, kept track of his comings and goings in Balsalom.”

  “But he was so, so . . . so soft. My entire family fell into disgrace because my father was too soft to fight the moneylenders.”

  “Yes, he had his failings. But I speak the truth.”

  “And my mother knew about this?”

  “She knew, yes, but your father carried the news. The Brotherhood and the Order had men like Markal and myself in several cities along the Way and we would sometimes help your father and other merchants like him.”

  “And when my father’s property was sold?”

  “Markal convinced Graiyan to send me to the slave blocks. Once there, it was a simple matter to buy the two of you and then convince the baker to keep your sister as well. When the time came for us to leave the city, we decided to bring you but leave Kaya. I’m sorry about your sister, but she’ll do better with Graiyan. With the enemies your father made amongst the merchants guild, he won’t be coming back for a long time.”

  “Is this the truth?”

  Whelan held out his left hand palm up and said, “I swear by the wounded hand that it is the truth.”

  “Thank you.” Darik felt better, although he didn’t know what to make of the news that his father was a spy. Not a spy against Balsalom, thankfully, but a spy nonetheless.

  Markal and Sofiana returned with wild carrots, leek, and radish. The wizard put the dove and rabbit meat into a stew with the vegetables and fresh water from Springfell. In a few minutes, they were eating. Whelan passed around some bread from Graiyan’s kitchen and some of Ethan’s wine to top off the meal. Darik hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

  “Shh,” Markal warned unexpectedly. He dropped the bowl from his lips and listened. The others fell silent, and Whelan put a hand on Scree’s neck to steady her.

  Darik heard it, too. A snuffling sound, passing through the trees to the south, further from the road and drawing slowly closer. Whelan rose to his feet and drew his sword. Darik wished he had something—anything—with which to defend himself. He searched the ground near the fire for some stick he could use as a club.

  “There you are, Talebearer,” a voice said. “And you have friends, I see.”

  A woman emerged from the trees, together with a large dog. She was a tall, imposing woman, with angular features and a firm mouth. A long robe cloaked her, tied with a red cord about her waist. Darik thought her a young woman at first glance, perhaps Whelan’s age, but when she stepped closer to the fire, he got a sec
ond look and reconsidered. A slight clouding in her eyes made her look much older.

  The dog was a rangy beast of indeterminate breed, sniffing loudly at the ground. When it saw Markal, the dog hurried from the woman’s side, investigating the stew on the fire and the companions in turn. It was one of those overly friendly dogs that think a wet nose in the crotch is a good greeting. Darik pushed its head away and scratched its ears.

  “Nathaliey,” Markal said, holding out his hand, palm facing up. The woman put her hand on his.

  “Well met, Markal,” she said, removing her hand. She nodded to Whelan. “Captain.”

  Markal said, “You’ve met Whelan’s daughter, Sofiana. This is Darik, from Balsalom.” He turned to Darik. “This is Nathaliey Liltige, from the Order of the Wounded Hand.”

  Nathaliey’s eyes narrowed as she scrutinized Darik. Then she turned to the dog, snuffling over the pot of stew again, and said in an exasperated voice, “Don’t do that.”

  “He can eat some,” Markal said. “The poor beast looks half starved.” He smiled. “I didn’t know you’d taken a pet.”

  “That’s not a pet!” she protested. “That’s Narud.”

  “Narud?” Markal asked with a laugh.

  “A sparrow said he saw you west of Balsalom, and Narud turned himself into a dog to track you. Knowing Narud, he might stay a dog for weeks.”

  Darik frowned, confused. Whelan leaned over to explain. “A wizard.” He touched his thumb to his forehead in the Balsalomian way, indicating someone who was eccentric or maybe a little bit touched.

  “I have news for you this time, Talebearer,” Nathaliey told Markal. “King Daniel is ill.”

  All three of Darik’s companions looked concerned by this news. “What is the matter with him?” Markal asked.

  She shook her head. “Nobody knows. He grows weaker every day. Chantmer thinks it is poisoning, but I see no evidence.” Her voice tensed slightly when she spoke Chantmer’s name. “I guess sorcery, but Chantmer dismisses all theories but his own. He’s sent away most of the Brotherhood, the Knights Temperate, anyway, together with the Order, to search for obscure roots and gather physics from the khalifates where they know something more of poisons.”