Cirrosa shook his head and grinned. “So be it. We will kill you all and take the diamonds anyway. Shame, really. I could have gotten good money for this boy.” With that he slit Tarren’s throat and let the boy fall to the deck below. Whill could hear nothing but his own screams as Tarren’s body fell. He ran to his limp body as real pirates now made their way down the ropes.
Cirrosa spoke again, this time to his men. “Kill them all, and one hundred coins to the man who retrieves the diamonds!”
As Whill held the dying boy in his arms, he heard Abram yelling to the slave men, “Fight for me, bleed for me, and I swear your families will not perish!” The slave men answered with a primal scream that could only be produced by the truly oppressed, those who have given up hope for themselves and fight only for the lives of those they love.
As if through a long tunnel, Whill heard faintly the sounds of swords clanging and men fighting. He could not take his eyes off Tarren, who lay in his arms—bleeding from the neck, body broken from the fall. As he watched the boy die, he could distantly hear Abram calling his name and yelling something about getting up. Whill’s head began to churn. His rage alone was enough to make him dizzy. Anger welled within him—anger for Tarren’s death; anger for having killed slaves who were only fighting for freedom; anger that he might die today without learning his true heritage. The injustice of it all sent him into a trance-like state. Before he knew what he was doing, his hand covered Tarren’s throat.
As his flesh made contact with the young boy’s blood, Whill felt a strange sensation run through him. It was as if his energy and life force were suddenly being sucked from his body. Tarren’s chest heaved as a Whill’s energy filled him. Whill became dizzy and disoriented as men fought around them. He became aware of nothing but Tarren and himself and the bond they now shared. A strange blue light was all Whill could see as tide after tide of energy pulsed through his body and into Tarren’s. As the blue light faded into blackness, he was suddenly jolted out of his trance and slammed to the deck as the sounds of the world came rushing in. He saw blood and bodies and fire—and Abram looking down at him.
Over Abram’s shoulder a red dragon flew past.
Abram shook him, but he would not respond. He was unconscious and would remain that way for some time, if he snapped out of it at all. The fighting had slowed as many slaves and pirates stood dumbfounded by what they had seen. Abram rose. There was nothing he could do for Whill now but win this battle. He turned to the slaves.
“Behold, men, your gods fight with you! Go forward without fear, and may their blessings lead your strikes!”
The slaves’ cheers grew into a primal scream. The pirates upon the deck did not live more than ten heartbeats after that. The slaves were heading up the ropes when suddenly an explosion hit the pirate ship, deafening all nearby momentarily, and shaking many from their feet. From the ship Abram saw the source of the carnage: the massive red dragon. The distraction was enough to ensure that the climbing slaves made it up to the deck of the pirate ship—with Abram right behind them. He hit the deck and was engaged by a pirate wearing all black with only a thin slit revealing his eyes. He brandished two daggers and came in hard, slashing with one and stabbing forward with the other. Abram barely avoided the slash but was ready for the stab. When it came, he spun away from the strike and jumped up onto the rail. Knowing that the pirate would go for his ankles, he jumped backwards from his perch and brought his legs up high, tucking his knees, and came down with a powerful slice. As the pirate swiped at his legs with both blades and missed, he had a glimpse of his leaping enemy and a shining blade… and then he saw no more.
The slave men were tearing into the pirate force with reckless abandon. The ship was aflame, and the dragon repeatedly swooped down on the battle to scoop up a pirate in his huge claws or maw. Then down into the battle the dead and bloodied pirate would drop—usually on top of one of his comrades. This horrible image alone sent many pirates scrambling for the rails and into the ocean. Abram had his suspicions as to why the dragon seemed to fight for them, but he did not care; it was enough to sway the battle. The men had already begun opening the many iron doors upon the deck that led to the slave quarters and were setting their families free.
“Get them onto my ship and set sail!” Abram ordered. “Do not wait for me—look for me in the waters!” He spotted Cirrosa making a run for the lower decks and followed. Through a door and into a small stairwell went the most wanted pirate in two centuries—whose scrolled list of crimes against the peoples of every kingdom in Agora would have fallen to the floor. Murder, theft, kidnapping, rape, torture, and many, many more vile and heartless acts—Abram wanted this man dead out of sheer duty if nothing else.
He followed Cirrosa slowly into the mess hall. There was a door to the kitchen on the right, and three doors to the left. He knew the Dragon’s style of ship and took the door to the right. Upstairs and into the captain’s quarters he went cautiously, and there he found Cirrosa and a flying dagger. Abram rolled as he hit the landing, the blade whizzing by his head. Then he leapt to his feet and charged Cirrosa.
“Come on!” The pirate taunted as he brought up his short sword and a long curved dagger. Abram came in hard with a slash to the left that was deflected by the short sword. The dagger came in and Abram spun out, keeping his distance from the blade. Cirrosa went into a slash-and-stab dance that kept Abram on his toes in the close quarters. Cirrosa worked the two blades like a master, but Abram was prepared. He knew the pirate’s fighting style well, for they had been friends for a time in their academy days. He was keeping pace but needed to get one of the blades out of the fight. He deflected the short sword high to the left and came in close, knowing Cirrosa would go for the gut. A split second before Cirrosa thrust with the dagger, Abram was already pulling back from the strike. Down his blade came from the short sword parry; straight came the thrust of Cirrosa’s blade. In an instant Abram sliced deep into Cirrosa’s forearm, nearly severing it. It swung sickeningly from the pirate’s arm. Cirrosa let out a howl of pain and spun away from Abram. The Dragon was rocked again and lurched to the side. Abram and Cirrosa were thrown to the wall. Abram got his footing as quickly as possible and came at the injured captain. Cirrosa’s eyes went wild with pain and rage. He lunged with his blade, but Abram easily blocked it. The pirate was too weak from his injury to win, but Abram knew he wouldn’t stop until the bitter end. Cirrosa would never allow himself to become a prisoner, nor to see the inside of a courtroom. For Cirrosa, being caught meant a fate worse than death.
There was no time for speeches; the ship was falling apart around them. Abram deflected another feeble slash and stabbed Cirrosa through the heart.
Cirrosa jolted and his body froze. Then he found Abram’s gaze and grabbed his shoulders. Blood poured from his mouth as he spoke. “I’m glad it was you,” he said, and then his eyes went blank.
“So am I.”
Abram watched Cirrosa fall before he fled to the empty and burning deck above, climbed the rail, and dove into the ocean.
Chapter IX
An Ocean of Mystery
WHILL AWOKE TO MORE PAIN than he had ever known. He was sure that he was dead or dying. Every fiber of his being ached to a point that was almost unbearable. He was not sure if he were actually awake or asleep. A fog blurred his vision as strange shapes loomed over him and spoke in a language he could not understand. He tried to move but could not; he tried to speak but found he could not remember how. He lay in fear—fear of the seemingly endless pain, fear of the shadows which spoke to him in such a strange tongue.
Once again he blacked out and slipped into the world of dreams. He could see a man and woman standing upon a small hill. Though he did not remember ever seeing them, he knew they were his parents. Joy flooded through him as he ran toward them, ready to finally embrace the mother and father who had been stolen from him. But as he ran the hill grew bigger, and his parents’ smiles withered. The faster he ran, the higher the hill grew until
it was a mountain before him, and his parents’ faces smiled skeletons’ grins—he realized the mountain was time itself
Whill screamed as he awoke and sat up. His vision was still blurry and the strange figures grabbed at him. He tried to fend them off but they soon subdued him. Vaguely he recognized the boy Tarren sitting next to him, smiling. He knew then that he was dreaming again, for Tarren was dead. He struggled to wake. As his vision grew clearer, he could now see that with Tarren sat many women and children he did not know. He tried to move and was almost rendered unconscious as pain jolted through his body. As his vision blurred again, he saw Abram walking towards him. Then blackness found him once more.
He lay in great pain while the voices spoke soothingly. Then the blue light returned, slowly at first, dancing along the edges of his vision. As it became stronger, his pain finally left him and he found he could sit up. Surrounded by the blue light, he now saw a figure, a person, standing before him. The figure drew close enough that he could tell it was a woman. She came and knelt before him. Her hair was so long that when she knelt it touched the ground. It was brown and shone with a great radiance, as did her body. Her face was a picture of pure beauty; her skin smooth as silk. Her eyes were bright blue—the irises ringed in a darker shade—and within them Whill sensed great compassion and kindness, and wisdom beyond mortal understanding. He thought he must be dreaming of his mother again until he noticed her ears. They were pointed and protruded from under her hair. He knew at once that he was in the presence of an elf. As he stared in wonder, she simply smoothed his hair back and spoke, in an almost humming tone, the same words over and over: “Endalla orn, Whill, elan orna menon, lelalda wea shen ora.”
He was lulled into a deep and peaceful sleep, one without pain or fear. As the elf woman’s voice slowly faded, he felt more at peace than ever he had before.
The bed rocked slowly, and Whill could feel a wet cloth being applied to his forehead. His body ached and his throat burned, but he had enough strength to open his eyes. He was in the sleeping quarters of Old Charlotte, where more than a two dozen women and children sat staring at him with strange expressions. Instantly he surveyed the surrounding crowd for the elven beauty, but to no avail. The only women in the room were human, and none of them resembled the elf. Perhaps he had been dreaming after all…except that she had seemed more real than these women did now.
“Please, my good lady,” he said to the woman sponging his forehead. “Where has the elven woman gone?”
She gave him a queer look. “I’m sorry, lad, there is no elf here. You still have a fever. You should rest some more.”
Whill ignored her request and swung his legs over the side of the cot. Dressed only in his pants, he quickly grabbed a shirt and threw it on. Again he surveyed the surrounding people. They wore ragged clothes, and their hair was dirty and matted. They looked as though they had not bathed or eaten in weeks. He assumed that these were the families of the men who had first attacked—but how had they gotten onto his ship, and where were the pirates? He needed to find Abram.
With the woman’s help, he stood and made his way to the stairs. He stepped on deck and into the open air, and instantly began to feel better as the cool wind and saltwater mist bathed his face. The sun hung low in the east; it was just past dawn. Abram was at the wheel, talking with a young slave boy. Four of the slave men were on deck also, and they gave Whill friendly smiles. He simply nodded; even though he had no choice, he felt ashamed for killing their friends.
Abram turned, as if sensing Whill’s approach. The boy turned too. When Whill saw the child’s face, he froze. It was Tarren.
“Whill, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Abram with a warm laugh.
Tarren stood smiling, seemingly oblivious to what had happened to him. Whill reached out to touch his head and peered at the boy’s neck. There was no sign that it had ever been cut.
“Are you feeling better, Whill?” Tarren asked.
“Uh, yes…yes, I feel better.”
“That’s good, you gave us a good scare. Thank you, Whill. Thank you for saving me.” There were tears in his eyes as he flung his arms around Whill’s waist, who returned the hug and patted his back. There were a million questions on his tongue, but he bit them back behind an awkward smile.
“You’re welcome, Tarren, you’re welcome.”
Tarren released Whill after a few moments and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
Abram broke the silence. “Tarren, lad, do you think you could steer the old girl for a while so I can speak with Whill?”
“Yes, sir, I sure could!”
Abram put his arm on Whill’s shoulder and led him to the front of the ship so they could talk privately.
“Abram, what’s going on? How can Tarren be alive? What happened to me back there? Where are the pirates?”
“Relax, Whill, relax. It can all be explained. First off, you have been in a feverish sleep for two days now.”
“Two days!”
“Yes. You would wake up screaming and flailing about. I assumed you were having nightmares. You have been running a high fever up until this morning. How do you feel now?”
“I’m hungry as all hell, but otherwise I feel alright. Why, what happened?”
Abram studied Whill for a moment as if trying to read something of his health. “You don’t know what you did?”
“No. After Tarren fell I took him in my arms, then everything went strange and I blacked out.”
“You healed him, Whill. You saved his life.”
Whill shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“When you went to Tarren, I was rallying the slave men to fight. Everything happened at once. The pirates attacked again; down the ropes they came and we began to fight. But you would not move. I screamed to you to get up, to fight, but you were not with us—not in mind, anyway. You just stared at Tarren, and then you put your hand upon his throat.” Abram stopped and looked at the slave men and at Tarren.
“When you touched Tarren’s throat, Whill, your hand began to glow with blue light. It was faint at first, but then it grew until it was hard to look directly at it. So bright it was that it took the attention of all who were near. Even the pirates who had just joined the fight stared in awe, transfixed by what they were witnessing. Having seen an energy healing before, I knew what was happening—and what danger you were in. As fast as I could, I ran and pushed you back to break your contact with the boy.”
Whill took in what he had just heard. “So I healed Tarren with my own energy?”
“Yes, but you didn’t know what you were doing. If I hadn’t stopped you, you would have poured all of your life force into Tarren and dropped dead on the spot.”
“But how could I have done that? Only elves have the power to heal with energy. Everyone knows that it is not a human gift.” Then he remembered the elf from his dreams, and how he had at first mistaken her for his mother. “Was my mother an elf? Is that why I was able to heal Tarren?”
Abram studied Whill for a moment, as if deciding upon something. “No, Whill, she was not.”
Whill let out a frustrated sigh. “Then why do I have such powers, and to what extent do I have them?”
Abram gave Whill a sympathetic smile. “You have a gift. I was surprised when you healed Tarren; I had no idea you would be able to tap into your abilities before you were properly trained—but you did. How you did it I do not know. It seems that your emotions were so strong, you instinctively did what was needed to save the boy, but since you have no control, it was very dangerous. It takes a great deal of energy to heal a person who is on the brink of death. Not only did you heal his wound, you mended his broken bones as well. That is why the feat took such a toll on you. It takes as much energy from the healer as it would take for the person to heal himself.”
“That doesn’t explain how I can do it.”
“That, my friend, I would rather explain to you, along with everything else, within the mountain.”
Whill had known that would be the answer, but he was too mentally drained to argue. “Fine, then. At least tell me what became of the pirates.”
Abram’s face relaxed, visually relieved to have the subject changed. He put his hands on the rail and began to recall the events after Whill’s blackout.
When he finished, Whill was wide-eyed. “And the dragon didn’t advance?”
Abram laughed. “No. It finished off the pirate ship, circled overhead twice, and flew away.”
“Why did it help us?”
Abram shook his head. “I really don’t know, Whill. It may be that when it saw what you were doing to Tarren, it thought you were indeed an elf. The dragons and elves have a strange friendship, as you are aware. It has been less strong of late, since the creation of the Draggard by the Dark elf Eadon. But some loyalty still lies between them.”
Whill was at a loss for words. He couldn’t believe how they had all escaped such peril. And he still had not fully absorbed the fact that he had healed Tarren with energy. His head began to ache as he pondered the implications of such powers.
Abram again put his hand upon his shoulder. “Come, Whill, let’s get you something to eat. You’ve lost at least ten pounds in the last two days, or hadn’t you noticed? The slaves, it turns out, are from Eldon Island. The Eldonians are great fisherman and have caught quite a feast.”
Whill regarded the men at the opposite side of the boat. “They hold no animosity towards us? After all, we killed many of their people.”
“No, they do not blame us. They know we had no choice; we did what we had to do. On the contrary, they are grateful that we helped free them. Now come, and do not feel ashamed.”
Whill followed Abram to the rear of the ship and together they joined the Eldonian men. The men had caught a bundle of tuna, which Whill was eager to accept. Though he still felt awkward around them, he could not deny his hunger. He ate four bowls of the tuna as he listened to the Eldonians speak of their homeland. Eldon was a large island off the southern coast of Eldalon. In times of war it had been used as a lookout point. In the event that an attacking fleet was spotted, the people of Eldon would light great beacons atop the mountain peaks, which thus became known as the Burning Mountains. In return for their constant watch over the waters, the Eldonians received protection from the king of Eldalon, and were allowed to live the way they had for centuries. Fishermen by trade, they lived peacefully on their island and were thought by many to be a primitive people. They shunned many of the ways and practices of the mainland peoples and were content to live by their own customs.
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 89
