FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “All weapons must be surrendered here,” he declared in a flat voice.

  They complied and handed over their swords and knives. Satisfied, the guard went to a small slit in the wall and said, “Ocean blue.”

  The door opened and they went into the main lobby of the bank. It was a large room with many doors. At the other end was a large oak desk. A short little man with large glasses hurried towards them. With an exaggerated hello and handshake, he led them to the vault where Whill’s winnings were being kept. Inside, the twenty sacks of gold sat upon a large wooden table covered with a red velvet cloth. He opened one of the bags and let the coins fall out onto the table with a heavy clang. Abram took a coin and tested it with his teeth, then eyed it in the torchlight. The light reflected on the surface was deep orange. The emblem of Eldalon was stamped on both sides.

  “I’ll be taking a half a bag today,” Whill told the little banker.

  “Of course, sir, and it will be our pleasure to hold the rest for as long as you want—at one percent interest, of course.”

  Abram scowled at the little man. “In that case we won’t be keeping it here long.” He grumbled and left the vault, mumbling something about damned vultures.

  After retrieving their weapons and leaving the building, they headed to the shipbuilder’s home. It was a nicely built and decorated house near the city’s ocean side. This time Whill tipped the wagon boy himself, throwing him a gold coin from his bag. The kid looked at the gold in his hand, astonished. Abram laughed. “You do know how much that’s worth?”

  “A wise man once told me there is no point in having wealth if you cannot use it to spread joy.”

  Abram smiled. “You’re a quick learner.”

  They left the astonished boy standing in the street and went to the front door of the house. After two knocks the door was opened by an old man in a green vest with a white undershirt. His pants were a fine brown fabric, and on his feet he wore thick fur slippers.

  “May I help you?”

  “Freston, you old dog! Are you so senile you don’t remember old friends?”

  The old man’s frown turned into a wide smile. “Abram, I hadn’t expected you. Folks say you were killed in one of your crazy journeys.”

  Abram laughed. “There are more stories of my death than there is sand on the beach.”

  Freston chuckled. “Come in, come in. I was just about to have a little tea. Now I have someone to share it with.”

  Whill and Abram entered the house, which was just as nice inside as out. Paintings of ships adorned every wall, and numerous shelves were dedicated solely to small ships in bottles. Whill looked at these closely, wondering how they had been put inside. Freston led them to his study and offered them each a seat at his scroll-covered table. “Sorry for the mess, but a builder’s work is never done. I’ll return in a moment with the tea.”

  Whill noticed that the scrolls were ship drafts and designs He cocked his head at one plan that caught his attention as Freston returned with a tray and three tea cups.

  “Feel free, young lad. Those are just new ideas I’ve been working on.”

  Abram and Freston talked while Whill pored over the drawings. Freston’s sons now built most of the ships, he said, as he was too old for much of the work. But he was very excited about the proposition to build a ship of Whill’s own design.

  “Usually I build merchant ships or small sailboats, though I’ve made a few for the royal navy over the years,” he said. “Helping you bring your ideas to life would be a rare pleasure.”

  They talked for a while about Whill’s vision for his ship, and Freston wrote one detail or another down on a piece of paper. Abram added his recommendations to the plans. After a few hours of drawing, planning, and calculating, they had a rough draft of what the ship would look like.

  Whill held the sketch up to the light. “She’ll be a beauty.”

  “That she will, and if done right, also one of the fastest that ever sailed these blue waters,” Freston agreed.

  They made plans to meet the following day and said farewell. Upon leaving, Whill and Abram stopped in their tracks—outside Freston’s house were fifteen kids with pull carts, all offering them a ride.

  Abram laughed aloud at the sight. “It looks like the word is out.”

  Whill said politely that they would be walking, to the lads’ disappointment. “We could use a good walk anyway,” he told Abram, who simply chuckled.

  The kids followed them for a while but soon gave up on the prospect. Whill and Abram walked in silence as the sun set beyond the city walls. The streets were not crowded; only the occasional horseman or guard rode along. Women in long gowns and men in an assortment of spring colors strolled from shop to shop. Couples walked hand in hand, laughing and talking in excited voices. Some children still ran about, letting off small fireworks from the previous night.

  After about a half hour, Whill and Abram reached the Ocean Mist and enjoyed a fine dinner of seafood and wine. They talked over their plans for the ship and made more for the days ahead. They had estimated that it would take a month to build the ship, and by that time, Abram would be almost fully healed.

  The next day Whill brought his horse out beyond the city to give it some exercise. He rode for hours up and down the coast, the fresh saltwater spraying his face as his horse raced along the beach for miles and miles. It was nice to be out of the city. As much as he liked it, he liked the freedom of the open land much more. He had always loved his life of travel, going from town to town and never making any one place his home. He figured he would settle down one day, but not any time soon. He looked forward to setting sail on his own ship, with nothing between him and the setting sun but the gentle blue ocean. There was nothing better than a night on a ship in calm waters. Sometimes the stars seemed so bright and close, he felt as though he could reach up and touch them. When the sky was clear and the water was still, there were times when he could not tell where the world ended and the sky began. He was truly at peace on the sea, where the mysteries of the water were more complex than his own. It was a place where he could let go of all his worries and be lulled into quiet tranquility.

  As he sped along the beach, he thought of his childhood home. The beaches of Sidnell had been his favorite place to think. He would sit for hours on the sand and read. Abram brought him the most interesting books—some with facts about Agora, some a complete history of each kingdom. Then there were his favorites, the books of the elves. As soon as he had learned to read Elvish, he had been fascinated by them. They had come to Agora five hundred years before Whill was born. Their story was one of great loss and suffering. They had lived in a land called Drindellia, far to the east. The elves thrived there for tens of thousands of years and built great cities within. The books then told of a great foe, the Draggard, who were created through the evil works of the Dark elf Eadon. Using what people call magic—the elves call it Orna Catorna—he combined an unborn elf with a dragon egg in the hopes of creating a powerful breed of elves. The Draggard had the shape of the elves and the features of dragons. Their skin was dark green, and rough and scaly upon their backs. They had hideously sharp teeth and claws, and strong thin tails that could whip or impale a man. They were stronger than elves but, like them, could live for centuries—dying only from injury and not age. Like their dragon kin, the Draggard also laid eggs, which was where they found their real strength: great numbers. A queen could lay thousands of eggs a year.

  Eadon had proclaimed himself lord of all Drindellia and with his followers, and the Draggard, began a bloody war against King Verelas, ruler of the Elves of the Sun. The war raged for nearly 110 years. The Draggard were many in number, but the elves were skilled in body and in mind. Slowly the elves were pushed to the west of Drindellia where they were to make their final stand. It was then that Verelas sent a great number of his people over the sea in hopes that, even if the war was lost, the race would not perish. Across the sea and into unknown lands went a thousand elves. Wi
th them went Verelas’ wife, Queen Araveal; their three daughters, Zilena, Avriel, and Kiella; and their only son, Zerafin. The king insisted that he stay and fight with his fellow elves, though the queen begged him to leave. He told her to go and find a safe land where the elves might prosper again and live in peace. That day a fleet of ten great elven ships left Drindellia forever, and as the land faded from sight, the Draggard army could be seen advancing upon the beaches.

  For five long months the elves sailed ever westward until they finally reached Agora. They landed on the easternmost coast of Uthen-Arden and made contact with the people of Opalmist. Soon, the ruler of Arden— at that time, King Thoerolus— heard of the refugees and went personally to see them. Whill knew many songs, in both human and elven tongues, that told of the meeting between the queen of the elves and the good king of Arden. The king agreed to help and gave the elves a great land in the southeast, which they called Elladrindellia. Since then, the elves had lived there quietly and built great cities—the likes of which had never been seen in Agora.

  Whill had heard countless stories of the elves from Abram and never tired of them. He longed to meet one someday, but that was not likely since they did not leave their territory often, and humans had been banned long ago, by King Thoerolus, from entering without permission. Most people regarded the elves with fear, mostly because of their use of what humans called magic. The dwarves particularly despised the elves and blamed them for the appearance of the Draggard in Agora. For two hundred years both men and elves had kept the Draggard at bay. They always came from the east and were always defeated by the navies of the five kingdoms. But recently the Draggard had been attacking from all sides, and had already overtaken the Ebony Mountains and made them their own. This only infuriated the dwarves more, intensifying their distrust in the elves.

  Whill thought of the stories and wondered if he should indeed become a knight of Eldalon. Abram had told him of the war that would come, and suspected that Abram would expect him to become a soldier. Whill headed back towards the city as the sun climbed higher in the sky. He didn’t want to be late for his meeting with Freston.

  He entered the city and rode to the shipbuilder’s house. Abram was already there, and they soon continued the plans for the ship. Freston calculated what it would cost in materials to build, and estimated the time in labor for each of his three sons. This brought the total to one hundred gold coins, hardly one percent of Whill’s fortune.

  That night Whill and Abram enjoyed a hearty dinner before visiting the Wet Whistle again. For hours they listened to Barlemew tell his tall tales of dragon attacks and mermaids.

  The next day Whill awoke to find a light rain falling on Fendale. From the grey sky, thin sheets of mist lazily fell to the earth. He was unsure of the time since the sun failed to shine through the thick clouds. He guessed it was only a couple hours past dawn. He got up and stretched with a great yawn, and was about to begin washing when he saw a note on the small table:

  Whill,

  I’ve gone to take care of some small business. I’ll be back after dusk.

  -Abram

  Whill wondered what business Abram was tending to. He was a little disappointed that his friend would not be at the docks; today began the building of his ship. He finished washing and dressed. After a small breakfast he headed to the Fendale Bank, on horseback, and withdrew enough gold to pay Freston in advance and buy Abram a gift. After stowing the gold in his saddlebags, he headed for Freston’s house. Making his way down Fendale’s main street, he felt as though he was being watched. Since the tournament, many people recognized him as he passed by; he gave rise to many hushed whispers and pointing fingers wherever he went, and some children even asked for his signature. But this was not the feeling of adoring fans watching him. It was more like the feeling he had in the woods before the wolves attacked.

  He stopped his horse and looked around. Rain fell softly on the cobblestones as a woman shook a rug from a second-story window. Only a small crowd moved about the fairly quiet street; three children hurried after two women; men on horseback rode by, talking loudly; a kid pulling a wheel cart ran past. The strange feeling did not ebb as Whill searched for its source. He began to ride again, slightly faster now.

  The feeling followed him all the way to Freston’s door. Once inside, he peered out through its small window. A lone horseman slowly rode by, coming from the same direction that Whill had. He could not determine whether the man had been following him, for he looked straight ahead and showed no interest in the house.

  “Are you ready to begin work on your beauty?”

  Whill jumped. The old man looked at him oddly. “Are you alright, Whill?”

  “Uh, yeah, fine, a little jumpy. I brought payment for the ship.” He handed over the heavy bag of gold coins. “That is the agreed-upon amount.”

  Freston’s eyes grew wide as he felt the weight of the gold. “You know, you could have just transferred the gold from your vault to mine.”

  Whill felt like an idiot. “I’m sorry, it didn’t cross my mind. I should have assumed that a man such as you would have his own vault. Now I feel like a genuine ass.”

  “No matter,” assured Freston. “But you shouldn’t travel the city with so much gold. There isn’t a person in Fendale who doesn’t know about your victory—or your generosity. You have become a target of bandits and thieves already, I’m sure. But they will not be bold enough to try to rob you here in the city. They will wait until you set sail.”

  “I could just leave the money here in Fendale.”

  “That you could, but they will assume you have the gold on you anyway. Your best bet is to trade whatever gold you might take for jewels, which are much easier to carry and less difficult to conceal. As for setting sail, I would ask for a naval escort if I were you.”

  Whill pondered the situation. “Maybe you’re right. Would Lord Rogus grant such an escort?”

  “He could spare at least one ship, I’m sure. Don’t worry yourself about it. Abram has been through worse than a pirate raid. I’m sure he is prepared for such things.” Freston smiled reassuringly. “Now let’s see how my boys are coming with the frame.”

  Whill followed Freston the short distance to the dock entrance. There were many ways to get to the docks; at least twenty passages led from different parts of the city down into the great cave. They headed down a wide spiral stairway lit by large torches mounted every few feet. As they descended, Whill’s excitement increased. He had, of course, read about the great cave-harbor of Fendale, and had even seen elaborate drawings of it in many books. Now he was having his own ship built there. They reached the end of the stairway and Whill beheld the great harbor.

  The cave was bigger than Whill had envisioned—at least a half a mile across, as far as he could tell. Its ceiling was more than two hundred feet high in some places. Light from the sun, along with the ocean waters, came in through four great gates carved out of the cave wall and reflected off its shiny mineral rich surface. He guessed the distance from the back wall to the gates was about a thousand feet. It was hard to believe that above them sat the great city of Fendale. Within the immense cave there were over a hundred ships docked. The harbor was abuzz with movement. There were fisherman unloading their latest catch from giant nets and merchants loading their cargo for distant cities of Agora. Others unloaded cargo that had just been imported to the city, carrying large bags of grain or hauling large barrels from the decks.

  Whill was in awe. He followed Freston to where his ship was being built, and noticed a large section of the docks that was for use only by the royal navy. Great warships the likes of which he had only seen in books loomed overhead. They were massive, nearly three hundred feet long. Down the large ramps of some came soldiers in full armor, while on others, soldiers were boarding to spend a few months patrolling the great ocean. It was a very emotional sight; while the returning soldiers were greeted by their loved ones—with open arms and many hugs and kisses—the departing soldier
s endured the tears of theirs. Women and children waved and blew kisses as one of the ships launched, the great many large oars protruding from its lower sides rowing in perfect unison. Freston stopped and bowed his head as the women began the farewell song. Taking his lead, Whill did the same as the voices of the women rose to the ceiling and echoed throughout the vast harbor.

  Goodbye, my love, till your ship returns

  To the city of light, where the elven torch burns.

  May the ocean be kind, may the wind catch your sail

  May the stars guide true, and may your vessel not fail.

  As the light from the sun rises each day

  In my heart you will dwell, and forever stay.

  Though foe you may find, and fell they may be,

  You will vanquish each threat, you are kings of the sea.

  If darkness doth find you, and find you it may,

  Think of the clear light that shines night and day.

  I’ll wait for you here till your ship returns

  To the city of light, where the elven torch burns.

  The song ended as the ship left the cave and entered the open sea. Freston raised his head with watery eyes. “My father was a soldier for the royal navy. I was only ten when my mother and I sang that very song. I was forty when my wife sang it for my eldest son.” He gave the women a nod and smile as they walked by— some with children, some without. “Their ships never returned, my father’s nor my son’s.”

  He started for the building site. Whill followed, not quite knowing what to say. His mood had been greatly dampened by the sight of the leaving ship—and by the song. “This city has lost many men to the sea, be they fisherman or soldiers,” Freston said. “Dragons, pirates, storms, and the Draggard wars are a constant threat to all who venture over the great waters. Every month one or more ships do not return, and lately their number has doubled. There is a need for more and more soldiers to hold the eastern borders of Agora. Ships that used to be gone for only weeks are now on duty for months. There is hardly anyone in this city who has not known loss to the ocean. Yet, we love it still. And we will remain people of the blue waters until the day they overtake this land.”