FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Whill watched as the knights made their way to the center of the ring. Much like the child he had been, he sat entranced. Knowing the legend of the knights and having read of their glory, they now seemed to Whill like the single most powerful force on earth. Light from the lighthouse gleamed off their armor so that they seemed to glow. Together, they stopped and turned to the royal booth. They stood tall— the proud fighters of the free peoples of Eldalon—and numbered one hundred, a small percentage of their Order. As one, they drew their swords and raised them high toward the king, and, as one, drove them into the sand before them and knelt upon one knee. The crowd’s enthusiasm was rampant. Still more roses rained down onto the sand and the kneeling knights. Whill’s head was light. He felt drunk with excitement. Abram gave him a light elbow to his side and looked amused.

  “Don’t forget to breathe, Whill.”

  Whill was surprised to discover that he actually had been holding his breath. He now let it out, feeling slightly foolish.

  The knights once again stood tall and sheathed their swords as the king stood and took Lord Rogus’s place at the front of the booth. The entire crowd fell silent and bowed before King Mathus as he looked upon his loyal subjects. Whill and Abram did the same. With one knee to the floor and an arm resting upon the other, Whill sneaked a look at the king but then quickly lowered his head again. He was sure that the king had been looking right at him. He quickly discarded the thought as the king began his speech.

  “Good people of Fendale, arise, for I look upon you as my equals. I am privileged only by the honor of being your leader. Tonight we celebrate brotherhood and the joy of life itself. The winters of our lives will always come, and they will seem to linger with the cold of remorse, regret, and despair. During such times each of us will question ourselves and this world. We will wonder how such a bleak and miserable time can ever end—the seemingly eternal misery that is our darkest hour. But end it does, for to every winter there is a spring, and to every tragedy there is newfound joy. A cold heart is one that has forgotten hope and knows no love. We will stay warm throughout the most bitter cold and have hope when all else is lost because we are the people of Eldalon; we know no defeat, and we are all brothers. No force on this earth or from the heavens will ever break our spirit. It is in love that we find our greatest strength… and our unwavering hope.

  “So I ask you all now to look upon each other as family, and to put aside differences and petty quarrels. I ask you all to look around at the beautiful city you have created. Its magnificent splendor shines above all things. Without you, it would be only stone and dirt. Without the great people of Eldalon, it would be nothing. This celebration honors the light in the darkness, hope in times of despair, and love in the face of hate. It signifies the beginning of an end. May your sails forever catch the warm wind, and may your families prosper.”

  The coliseum was as quiet as a forgotten tomb. It had the feeling of the calm before the storm. All eyes shimmered as one in the presence of the king, and upon every face there was a smile. The king looked around at his people, his own smile bright. At last he said, “And now, let the competition begin!”

  The crowd broke into deafening applause. Whill stood with them, cheering. A new and foreign sense of belonging sent a pain through his chest as he clapped vigorously, hot tears welling in his eyes.

  Chapter IV

  The Tournament

  AS ONE, THE KNIGHTS TURNED and filed out of the fighting ring. In their place came men carrying dividers for the first competition: the joust. Within minutes they were finished and the first of the knights entered the ring on horseback.

  “Do you remember who won the joust when last we were here?” Abram almost had to holler to be heard.

  “Yes, it was Rhunis the Dragonslayer.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And he’s won every year since.” Whill had heard stories of Rhunis from Abram. Rhunis had lived in Senteal, a small coast town at the southernmost tip of Eldalon. When he was only sixteen he had killed a dragon that had been terrorizing the town. The Knights of Eldalon had been sent to defeat the beast but instead found it lying dead upon the beach, a spear protruding from its left eye. Rhunis lay next to it, half dead himself, suffering from severe burns. The boy had recovered and been honored by the king, who made him a knight and personal guard.

  “Do you think Rhunis will win tonight?” Whill yelled over the crowd, which was now cheering the knights entering the fighting circle.

  “I have yet to see him lose to man or beast, in competition or battle.”

  “Does he still ride the white horse or—?” Suddenly he stopped. “Did you say battle? Have you fought alongside Rhunis?”

  Abram laughed. “I told you of the many battles with the Draggard in which I took part.”

  Whill shook his head in admiration. “You never fail to surprise me.”

  The scoreboard was now uncovered, listing the names of thirty-two knights. There were sixteen names on each side of the board, with winners’ brackets leading inward to two spaces for the final match. One scorekeeper stood at each end of the dividers, ready to place the scoring flags. A hit to the other rider gave a knight one point, while a dismount was an instant win. The winner was the first to score three points.

  The first match began with a loud blast of trumpets. The knights raced toward each other—sand flying from their horses’ hooves, long lances gleaming. They collided with a clang, splinters flying in all directions. The scorekeepers marked double points. The crowd loved every minute; cheers and screams filled the coliseum as the knights charged once again.

  Soon Rhunis entered the fighting ring upon a horse of white. His challenger entered behind. Moving to the opposite end of the dividers, Rhunis bent forward as if speaking to his horse. Whill watched with excitement as the match began. Rhunis’ horse reared, and his master lifted his lance high. The crowd answered with a loud cheer. His opponent charged, his horse’s muscles rippling with every thrust of its legs. Rhunis also charged forward with alarming speed. The riders descended upon each other, lances aimed at one another’s chest. They came together with a loud clash of metal. Rhunis had shifted toward his adversary, dodging his lance and at the same time thrusting his own weapon. The other rider was lifted clean off his horse and thrown ten feet before landing on his back. The crowd went berserk, feeding on the great energy around them. Rhunis dismounted and lent a helping hand to his dazed comrade. Together they slowly exited the arena.

  More matches followed as the list of knights was cut in half. Rhunis won his second match hands down with another instant dismount.

  “I have never seen such a competitor,” said Whill.

  “He is the best that Eldalon has,” Abram agreed. “I can think of only one other I would want next to me in a battle.”

  “Who would that be?”

  Abram laughed. “The Wolf- Slayer.”

  With eight knights left, the tournament now reached its third round. Rhunis would next be going against the knight Ebareal. Whill’s cheers matched those of the crowd as the riders hurried towards each other. Time seemed to slow as they collided, both breaking their lance upon the other. The score was now one to one. Again they charged, but this time there would be no tie. Rhunis got the better of Ebareal and sent him flying into the soft sand.

  Rhunis was now among the top four. Abram predicted that the knight Amadon would be against Rhunis in the final battle. Amadon proved Abram right, not winning by dismount but bettering his opponent all the same. Rhunis also won the fourth round, defeating his adversary in the same manner. Now it was down to Rhunis and Amadon in what seemed like a friendly battle, but with this victory came a year’s worth of bragging rights; there was no doubt about the seriousness of both riders.

  They readied themselves, and a hush fell over the crowd. It seemed that even the stars stared down upon the coliseum to witness this test of power. Whill sat at the edge of his seat, tense as a bowstring. As the riders advanced upon each other, t
he crowd broke into a deafening chant: “Rhunis, Rhunis!” Beams from the great lighthouse gleamed from the knights’ lances and the crowd rose to its feet. With the force of two great storms, they collided. Each scored a direct hit to the other. Amadon’s lance caught Rhunis in the shoulder, while Rhunis hit him square in the midsection. Their wooden lances disintegrated under the impact as both knights struggled to keep balance. As Rhunis was thrown sideways across his steed, Amadon was pushed off his saddle to the rear of his horse, struggling to stay mounted. But as they passed each other and their horses rode on, it was Rhunis who managed to stay mounted. As Amadon fell, the crowd broke into frenzy and the chant for Rhunis echoed throughout the building. Whill too found himself chanting the knight’s name. Rhunis was the winner.

  With the joust complete, the second competition began—the knight’s challenge. In his excitement Whill had forgotten about the fight. He was now reminded as the jousting scoreboard was replaced with a new one. The names of all fifty challengers were listed, and Whill was one of them—in fact, he was the last. Thinking this fact slightly odd, he turned to Abram.

  “If I go last, won’t I be fighting an exhausted knight?”

  “No. There are fifty challengers but many more knights. The same knight will not fight all of the challengers. They have matched everyone with a Knight of his own size, out of fairness. The idea is that no challenger can beat a knight of Eldalon.”

  “Has it ever been done?”

  “Of course it has, but only a few times. Usually a winner will become a knight himself.”

  As the jousting dividers were being carried away, Lord Rogus arose and stepped to the front of the booth once again. “And now the challengers will please step into the fighting circle,” he said in a loud voice. With a nod from Abram, Whill followed the other men into the circle. Lord Rogus continued. “These men have taken upon themselves the challenge of fighting a knight of Eldalon, be it out of sheer courage, the want for gold, or simple stupidity.” The crowd erupted with laughter. “No matter their motives, they should be commended for their bravery and the excitement they bring to the competition.”

  The crowd’s laughter turned to applause. “Let me remind you all of the rules,” Lord Rogus went on. “There is only one: he who betters his opponent wins. The reward is the winner’s weight in gold. Now, all fighters be seated again but for the first of the brave challengers”

  Whill made his way back to his seat as the first challenger now stood reluctantly in the ring.

  “Well, that was fun,” he said as he sat next to Abram.

  He gave Whill an amused look. “You just watch and see why others fail.”

  The knight’s entrance opened as the first challenger readied himself. Out strode a knight in full armor but no shield. The crowd cheered as the two fighters began to circle each other, waiting for the other to attack. It was the challenger who moved first, with a lunging strike at the knight’s chest. The knight easily blocked the attack and spun around the man, kicking him in the backside. The crowd roared with laughter as the man turned furiously toward the knight and charged. His advance was short-lived as the knight moved to the side, tripping the attacker. This comedy went on for several minutes until finally the knight disarmed the man and put his sword to his throat, ending the dual.

  “He didn’t stand a chance,” Whill said. Abram nodded in agreement, too bent with laughter to speak.

  None of the other fighters were a match for the knights’ skill or speed. One after another, they went against the knights and were quickly outdone. As the last of the men lost to the knights, Whill stood, ready to enter the arena. Abram grabbed his arm.

  “Remember, Whill, while you enter this fight unsure of its outcome, the opponent thinks he will win. Use this to your advantage. An underestimated foe can hold the biggest surprises.”

  Whill nodded and descended the steps to the ring. Thousands of eyes were upon him; never before had he known such attention. His throat became dry and he began to sweat, though it was cool in the coliseum. He looked around at the crowd, which seemed to him like a venomous mob. They stood in the aisles or upon their seats, screaming like demons. Whill suddenly felt lightheaded. He knew he must look ridiculous to them now— a silly young man with a sword, ready to challenge a knight. He tried to remember why he had agreed to this. What had he been thinking? He wanted nothing more than to be far away, out of the city, with no more eyes watching him.

  The gate opened and a knight walked out. With large strides he entered the ring and then stopped and removed his helmet. He seemed about Abram’s age, with long brown hair and handsome features, but for the burn scar which covered the right side of his neck and cheek. Before the crowd could chant his name Whill realized who his opponent was: Rhunis the Dragonslayer. A powerful dread came over him. How could Abram have done this to him? He searched for his mentor but could not spot him in the frenzy. The crowd began their chant for Rhunis. The name which had earlier rolled so enthusiastically from Whill’s own tongue now filled him with anxiety. Rhunis put his helmet on once again and slowly walked toward him. He stood frozen, as if his feet had fused to the sand beneath him. Still, Rhunis advanced until he was not five feet away. He stopped and drew his sword offering a challenge. Whill instinctively withdrew his own sword and took up a defensive stance. Rhunis began to circle him. Whill simply moved in circles, holding his ground. You can do this, you can do this, he is only a man, Whill thought, but quickly doubted his own advice. Finally Rhunis lunged with a powerful overhead strike, almost knocking Whill to the ground as he blocked it. Before Whill could think of a counterattack Rhunis was swinging again, this time at his side. Whill blocked the attack as Rhunis stepped back. The crowd was wild; the chant for Rhunis became unbearably loud. Again he attacked, and Whill parried every blow. Around they went, Rhunis attacking and Whill blocking, until it seemed the fight would never end.

  He’s playing with me, Whill realized. He thinks he has me. He played along for a moment, pretending to barely block the blows, acting tired and weary. Then with all his might he parried a side attack and began his own. Blade gleaming, he swung at Rhunis again and again, unrelenting, as the knight blocked his blows. Rhunis backed a step and gave Whill a nod.

  “Do you wish to have my best fight?” he asked.

  “That I do, sir.”

  With that the dual escalated to a point that none had seen yet that night. Rhunis showed no sign of tiring, nor did Whill. The crowd was on its feet, as were Lord Rogus and King Mathus. Cheers filled the coliseum and fists pumped as the crowd chanted for the Dragonslayer. Whill, however, was oblivious to the crowd. It was as if he and Rhunis were suspended in the sky upon the sand, and nothing existed but the ring and his opponent. Rhunis made an overhead attack and Whill quickly blocked it, bringing them together in a struggle. Swords pointed at the sky, they circled, hands upon each other’s wrists. Rhunis quickly moved to the side and smashed the side of his helmet against Whill’s face. Whill was thrown back, their swords still tangled. Rhunis thrust the hilt of his sword at Whill’s face, sending blood spraying from his nose. Whill fell back onto the sand. Tears welled in his eyes as he fumbled to get up. Rhunis was upon him and kicked him back to the ground. Then he stepped on Whill’s hand, pinning his arm and his sword as he brought his blade around to end the match.

  With his free hand Whill grabbed the leg that held him down and simultaneously brought his leg up and around Rhunis’s midsection. With all his might he pushed and managed to send Rhunis falling on his back and jumped to his feet. With nose bleeding profusely, and eyes still blurry, he lunged at his opponent—who had also gotten to his feet. Attacking with the fury of a caged beast, he sent Rhunis stumbling backward and noticed that the sound of the crowd had changed. They had taken up a new chant, faint at first but growing louder.

  “Whill! Whill! Whill!” they cried, as steady as a drumbeat. Rhunis seemed to weaken but Whill felt stronger than he ever had. With powerful thrusts he came down on his now backpedaling op
ponent—he was winning. In fact, it was now he who was toying with Rhunis; all he needed to do was decide when to claim his victory. With this revelation, he left an intentional opening for Rhunis to exploit. When the knight took advantage, he blocked and, in one circular motion, sent Rhunis’s sword flying. He quickly brought the tip of his blade to Rhunis’s neck as the defeated knight’s weapon soared through the air and stuck into the sand with a wobble. The crowd went into frenzy; the chant for Whill now sounded throughout the arena.

  Rhunis slowly lifted his arms to his helmet and removed it. Whill lowered his sword. Rhunis looked upon him sternly as he got to his feet, but then his face broke into a smile.

  “That, my friend, was my best fight, but it seems yours was better. I hope you are never an enemy to Eldalon, for you would be a dangerous foe.” He gave a small bow.

  “Thank you,” Whill panted. “But I will never be an enemy to your great kingdom; I will remain ever its ally.”

  “Then maybe one day we will draw swords together.” Rhunis retrieved his blade and returned it to its sheath. With another small bow he made his way to the knights’ quarters. Whill stood on the sand, roses showering him as the crowd cheered. He looked up to the royal booth and saw the king staring down at him. He nodded at Whill, and Whill nodded back.

  Chapter V

  The Award Ceremony

  WHILL RAISED HIS HAND AND waved to the crowd. In return they cheered loudly, fists pumping in the air as the chant for Whill grew louder still. Among the cheering fighters he saw Abram and a large smile spread across his face. Whill gave a bow and walked to the fighters’ section. He was greeted with many congratulations and pats on the back as he ascended the steps to his seat. He stopped before Abram, who extended his hand and shook Whill’s heartily.

  “I never had a doubt.” Abram pulled him into a small hug, still shaking his hand, and offered him a towel for his face. “That was some of the best swordsmanship I have ever seen. I see you’ve come up with some of your own moves.”