FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  They continued down trail after trail until they reached a fork, just as the man said they would. It boded well, and Gareth was slightly relieved. They followed it to the right, climbed a hill, and soon forked again. His instructions were true, and before them was, indeed, the darkest patch of wood Gareth had ever seen. The trees were impossibly thick and mangled.

  Gareth entered the wood and felt an immediate chill up his spine, could feel the evil hanging in the air. He could hardly believe it was still daylight.

  Just as he was getting scared, thinking of turning back, before him the trail ended in a small clearing. It was lit up by a single shaft of sunlight that broke through the trees. In its center was a small stone cottage. The witch’s cottage.

  Gareth’s heart quickened. He entered the clearing looking around to make sure no one was watching, to make sure it was not a trap.

  “You see, he was telling the truth,” Firth said, excitement in his voice.

  “That means nothing,” Garrett chided. “Remain outside and stand guard. Knock if anyone approaches. And keep your mouth shut.”

  Gareth didn’t bother to knock on the small, arched wooden door before him. Instead, he grabbed the iron handle, pushed open the two-inch-thick door, and ducked his head as he entered, closing it behind him.

  It was dark inside, lit only by scattered candles in the room. It was a single-room cottage, devoid of windows, enveloped by a heavy energy. He stood there, stifled by the thick silence, preparing himself for anything. He could feel the evil in here. It made his skin crawl.

  From the shadows he detected motion, then a noise.

  Hobbling toward him there appeared an old woman, shriveled up, with a hunchback. She raised a candle, which lit up a face covered in warts and lines. She looked ancient, older than the gnarled trees that blanketed her cottage.

  “You wear a hood, even in blackness,” she said, wearing a sinister smile, her voice sounding like crackling wood. “Your mission is not innocent.”

  “I’ve come for a vial,” Gareth said quickly, trying to sound brave and confident, but hearing the quivering in his voice. “Sheldrake Root. I’m told you have it.”

  There was a long silence, followed by a horrific cackle. It echoed in the small room.

  “Whether or not I have it is not the question. The question is: why do you want it?”

  Gareth’s heart pounded as he tried to formulate an answer.

  “Why should you care?” he finally asked.

  “It amuses me to know who you are killing,” she said.

  “That’s no business of yours. I’ve brought money for you.”

  Gareth reached into his waistband, took out a bag of gold, in addition to the bag of gold he had given the dead man, and banged them both down on her small wooden table. The sound of metallic coins rang in the room.

  He prayed it would pacify her, that she would give him what he wanted and he could leave this place.

  The witch reached out a single finger with a long, curved nail, picking up one of the bags and inspecting it. Gareth held his breath, hoping she would ask no more.

  “This might be just enough to buy my silence,” she said.

  She turned and hobbled into the darkness. There was a hiss, and beside a candle Gareth could see her mixing liquid into a small, glass vial. It bubbled over, and she put a cork on it. Time seemed to slow as Gareth waited, increasingly impatient. A million worries raced through his mind: what if he was discovered? Right here, right now? What if she gave him the wrong vial? What if she told someone about him? Had she recognized him? He couldn’t tell.

  Gareth was having increasing reservations about this whole thing. He never knew how hard it could be to assassinate someone.

  After what felt like an interminable silence, the witch returned. She handed him the vial, so small it nearly disappeared into his palm, and backed away from him.

  “Such a small vial?” he asked. “Can this do the trick?”

  She smiled.

  “You’d be amazed at how little it takes to kill a man.”

  Gareth turned and headed for the door, when suddenly he felt a cold finger on his shoulder. He had no idea how she had managed to cross the room so quickly, and it terrified him. He stood there, frozen, afraid to turn and look at her.

  She spun him around, leaned in close—an awful smell emanating from her—then suddenly reached up with both hands, grabbed his cheeks, and kissed him, pressing her shriveled lips hard against his.

  Gareth was revolted. It was the most disgusting thing that had ever happened to him. Her lips were like the lips of a lizard, her tongue, which she pressed onto his, like that of a reptile. He tried to pull away, but she held his face tight, pulling him harder.

  Finally, he managed to yank himself away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as she leaned back and chuckled.

  “The first time you kill a man is the hardest,” she said. “You will find it much easier the next time around.”

  Gareth burst out of the cottage, back into the clearing, to find Firth standing there, waiting for him.

  “What’s wrong? What happened?” Firth asked, concerned. “You look as if you’ve been stabbed. Did she hurt you?”

  Gareth paused, breathing hard, wiping his mouth again and again. He hardly knew how to respond.

  “Let’s get away from this place,” he said. “Now!”

  As they began to head out of the clearing into the black wood, the sun was suddenly obscured by clouds racing across the sky, making the beautiful day cold and dark. Gareth had never seen such thick, black clouds appear so quickly. He knew that whatever was happening, it was not normal. He worried how deep the powers of this witch were, as the cold wind rose in the summer day and crept up the back of his neck. He couldn’t help but think she had somehow possessed him with that kiss, cast some sort of curse on him.

  “What happened in there?” Firth pressed.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Gareth said. “I don’t want to think about this day—ever again.”

  The two of them hurried back down the trail, down the hill, and soon entered the main forest trail to head back toward King’s Court. Just as Gareth was beginning to feel more relieved, preparing to shove the whole episode to the back of his mind, suddenly, he heard another set of boots. He turned and saw a group of men walking toward them. He couldn’t believe it.

  His brother. Godfrey. The drunk. He was walking toward them, laughing, surrounded by the villainous Harry and two other of his trouble-making friends. Of all the times and places for his brother to run into him. In the woods, in the middle of nowhere. Gareth felt as if his whole plot were cursed.

  Gareth turned away, pulled the hood over his face, and hiked twice as fast, praying he had not been discovered.

  “Gareth?” called out the voice.

  Gareth had no choice. He froze in his tracks, pulled back his hood, and turned and looked at his brother, who came waltzing merrily toward him.

  “What are you doing here?” Godfrey asked.

  Gareth opened his mouth, but then closed it, stumbling, at a loss for words.

  “We were going for a hike,” Firth volunteered, rescuing him.

  “A hike, were you?” one of Godfrey’s friends mocked Firth, in a high, feminine voice. His friends laughed, too. Gareth knew that his brother and his friends all judged him for his predisposition—but he hardly cared about that now. He just needed to change the topic. He didn’t want them to wonder what he was doing out here.

  “What are you doing out here?” Gareth asked, turning the tables.

  “A new tavern opened, by Southwood,” Godfrey answered. “We had just been trying it out. The best ale in all the kingdom. Want some?” he asked, holding out a cask.

  Gareth shook his head quickly. He knew he had to distract him, and he figured the best way was to change the topic, to rebuke him.

  “Father would be furious if he caught you drinking during the day,” Gareth said. “I suggest you set down that
and return to court.”

  It worked. Godfrey glowered, and clearly he was no longer thinking about Gareth, but about his father and himself.

  “And since when did you care about Father’s needs?” he retorted.

  Gareth had had enough. He hadn’t time to waste with a drunkard. He succeeded in what he wanted, distracting him, and now, hopefully, he wouldn’t think too deeply about why he had run into him here.

  Gareth turned and hurried down the trail, hearing their mocking laughter behind him as he went. He no longer cared. Soon, it would be he who had the last laugh.

  Chapter XIV

  THOR SAT AT THE WOODEN table, working away at the bow and arrow laid out in pieces. Beside him sat Reece, along with several other members of the Legion. They were all hunched over their weapons, hard at work on carving the bows and tightening the strings.

  “A warrior knows how to string his own bow,” Kolk yelled out, as he walked up and down the rows of boys, leaning over, examining each one’s work. “The tension must be just right. Too little, and your arrow will not reach its mark. Too much, and your aim will not be true. Weapons break in battle. Weapons break on journeys. You must know how to repair them as you go. The greatest warrior is also a blacksmith, a carpenter, a cobbler, a mender of all things broken. And you don’t really know your own weapon until you’ve repaired it yourself.”

  Kolk stopped behind Thor and leaned over his shoulder. He yanked the wooden bow out of Thor’s grasp, the string hurting his palm as he did.

  “The string is not taut enough,” he chided. “It is crooked. Use a weapon like this in battle, and you will surely die. And your partner will die beside you.”

  Kolk slammed the bow back down on the table and moved on; several other boys snickered. Thor reddened as he grabbed the string again, pulled it as taut as he possibly could, and wrapped it around the notch in the bow. He’d been at work on this for hours, the cap to an exhausting day of labor and menial tasks.

  Most of the others were training, sparring, sword-fighting. He looked out and in the distance saw his brothers, the three of them, laughing as they clacked wooden swords; as usual, Thor felt they were gaining the upper hand while he was being left behind in their shadow. It was unfair. He felt increasingly that he was unwanted here, as if he were not a true member of the Legion.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it,” O’Connor said beside him.

  Thor’s palms were chafed from trying; he pulled back the string one last time, this time with all his might, and finally, to his surprise, it clicked. The string fit neatly in the notch, Thor pulling with all his might, sweating. He felt a great sense of satisfaction with his bow now as strong as it should be.

  The shadows were growing longer as Thor wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and wondered how much longer this would go on. He contemplated what it meant to be a warrior. In his head, he had seen it differently. He had only imagined training, all the time. But he supposed this was also a form of training.

  “This was not what I signed up for, either,” O’Connor said, as if reading his mind.

  Thor turned, and was reassured to find his friend’s constant smile.

  “I come from the Northern Province,” he continued. “I, too, dreamed of joining the Legion my entire life. I guess I imagined constant sparring and battle. Not all of these menial tasks. But it will get better. It is just because we are new. It is a form of initiation. There seems to be a hierarchy here. We are also the youngest. I don’t see the nineteen-year-olds doing this. This can’t last forever. Besides, it’s a useful skill to learn.”

  A horn sounded. Thor looked over and saw the rest of the Legion gathering beside a huge stone wall in the middle of the field. Ropes were draped across it, spaced every ten feet. The wall must have been thirty feet tall, and piled at its base were stacks of hay.

  “What are you waiting for?” Kolk screamed. “MOVE!”

  The Silver appeared all around them, screaming, and before Thor knew it he and the others jumped from their benches and ran across the field to the wall.

  Soon they were all gathered there, standing before the ropes. There was an excited buzz in the air as all the Legion members stood together. Thor was ecstatic to finally be included with the others, and he found himself gravitating to Reece, who stood with another friend of his. O’Connor joined them.

  “You will find in battle that most towns are fortified,” Kolk boomed out, looking over the faces of the boys. “Breaching fortifications is the work of a soldier. In a typical siege, ropes and grappling hooks are used, much like the ones we have thrown over this wall, and climbing a wall is one of the most dangerous things you will encounter in battle. In few cases will you be more exposed, more vulnerable. The enemy will pour molten lead on you. They will shoot down arrows. Drop rocks. You don’t climb a wall until the moment is perfect. And when you do, you must climb for your life—or else risk death.”

  Kolk took a deep breath, then yelled out: “BEGIN!”

  All around him the boys broke into action, each charging for a rope. Thor sprinted for a free one and was about to take it when an older boy reached it first, bumping him out of the way. Thor scrambled and grabbed the closest one he could find, a thick, knotted twine. Thor’s heart pounded as he began to scramble his way up the wall.

  The day had turned misty, and Thor’s feet slipped on the stone. Still, he made good time and couldn’t help but notice he was faster than many of the others, nearly taking the lead as he scrambled his way up. He was, for the first time today, starting to feel good, starting to feel a sense of pride.

  Suddenly, something hard slammed into his shoulder. He looked up and saw members of the Silver at the top of the wall, throwing down small rocks, sticks, all manner of debris. The boy on the rope beside Thor reached up with one hand to block his face and lost his grip and fell backwards, down to the ground. He dropped a good twenty feet, and landed in the pile of hay below.

  Thor was losing his grip, too, but somehow managed to hang on. A club hailed down and struck Thor hard on the back, but he continued to climb. He was making good time and was starting to think he might even be the first one to the top, when suddenly, he felt a hard kick in the ribs. He couldn’t understand where it came from, until he looked over and saw one of the boys beside him, swinging sideways. Before Thor could react, the boy kicked him again.

  Thor lost his grip this time and found himself hurling backwards, through the air, flailing. He landed on his back in the hay, shocked but unhurt.

  Thor scrambled to his hands and knees, catching his breath, and looked about. All around him, boys were dropping like flies from the ropes, landing in the hay, kicked or shoved by each other—or if not, then kicked off by members of the Silver up top. Those who weren’t had their ropes cut, so they went came crashing down, too. Not a single member reached the top.

  “On your feet!” yelled Kolk. Thor jumped up, as did the others.

  “SWORDS!”

  The boys ran as one to a huge rack of wooden swords. Thor joined them and grabbed one, shocked at how heavy it was. It weighed twice as much as any weapon he had lifted. He could barely hold it.

  “Heavy swords, begin!” came a shout.

  Thor looked up and saw that huge oaf, Elden, the one who had first attacked him when he met the Legion. Thor remembered him too well, as his face still hurt from the bruises Elden had given him. He was bearing down on him, sword held high, a look of fury on his face.

  Thor raised his sword at the last moment and managed to block Elden’s blow, but the sword was so heavy, he was barely able to hold it back. Elden, bigger and stronger, reached around and kicked Thor hard in the ribs.

  Thor dropped to his knees in pain. Elden swung around again to crack him in the face, but Thor managed to reached up and block the blow with a moment to spare. But Elden was too quick and strong; he swung around and slashed Thor in the leg, knocking him down on his side.

  A small crowd of boys gathered around them, c
heering and hollering, as their fight became the center of attention. It seemed as if they were all rooting for Elden.

  Elden came down with his sword again, slashing hard, and Thor rolled out of the way, the blow barely missing his back. Thor had a moment’s advantage and took it—he swung around and hit the oaf hard behind the knee. It was a soft spot, and enough to knock him back, then down, stumbling onto his rear.

  Thor used the chance to scramble to his feet. Elden rose, red-faced, more furious than ever, and now the two faced off.

  Thor knew he couldn’t just stand there; he charged and swung. But this practice sword was made of a strange wood and just too heavy; his move was telegraphed. Elden blocked it easily, then jabbed Thor hard in the ribs.

  It hit a soft spot, and Thor keeled over and dropped his sword, the wind knocked out of him.

  The other boys screamed in delight. Thor kneeled there, unarmed, and felt the tip of Elden’s sword jammed into the base of his throat.

  “Yield!” Elden demanded.

  Thor glared up at him, the salty taste of blood on his lip.

  “Never,” he said, defiant.

  Elden grimaced, raised his sword, and prepared to bring it down. There was nothing Thor could do. He was in for a mighty blow.

  As the sword came down, Thor closed his eyes and concentrated. He felt the world slowing down, felt himself transported to another realm. He was suddenly able to feel the swing of the sword in the air, its motion, and he willed the universe to stop it.

  He felt his body warming, tingling, and as he focused, he felt something happening. He felt himself able to control it.

  Suddenly the sword froze in midair. Thor had somehow managed to stop it using his power.

  As Elden held the sword, confused, Thor then used his mind power to grasp and squeeze Elden’s wrist. He squeezed harder and harder in his mind, and in moments, Elden cried out and dropped the sword.

  All the boys quieted, as they stood, frozen, looking down at Thor, wide-eyed in surprise and fear.

  “He’s a demon!” one yelled out.