FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Save yerself the agony lad, by the looks o’ yer throat yer lucky to be breathin’.”

  Abram tried in vain to conceal his worried look. “Well done, Whill.”

  “Indeed,” Roakore agreed, surveying the slain bodies with a hearty laugh. “Them hell-born scum didn’t know what they were getting into messin’ with us three, now did they?”

  Abram retrieved a bottle of clear liquor he had attained from Iam and showed it to Whill, who nodded and clenched his teeth. Abram poured the antiseptic onto his wound gingerly. Whill let out a low growl as hot pain surged through his leg. Roakore watched keenly.

  “Good wound. That’ll take some time to heal that will. Dress it as well as ye can, Abram.” Roakore turned his attention to the surrounding darkness. “We must get to the passage as soon as possible.”

  Abram retrieved some bandages from his pack and took a look around for himself. Beyond the torchlight was pure blackness. “Yes, we must go. Can you walk, Whill?”

  “Too slow,” Roakore said. “Besides, the boy would bleed to death afore we got there. No, I will carry him the distance.” Whill tried to argue, but the dwarf cut him off. “I insist.”

  Abram tied the bandage tightly. “He’s right. He’s much stronger than I, and you cannot walk the distance with an open wound.” He offered Whill a drink of water, which he accepted. It went down like thorns and made his eyes water. Abram loaded Whill’s weapons and packs onto his back as Roakore offered the injured young man a hand.

  “Put yer weight on yer good leg when I pull ye up.”

  Whill nodded and Roakore pulled him up and over his shoulder with ease. He turned to Abram and said, “Follow me,” as he started off at a jog.

  Whill was amazed yet again at the dwarf’s strength. Roakore ran with ease even with Whill over his shoulder and his great axe in his left hand; he was also careful not to put pressure on his injured thigh. They ran for what seemed like hours, and Whill became dizzy with pain from his aching leg and throat. Blood had rushed to his head and pounded dully in his ears. With every step the pain increased, and he could see little in the torchlight.

  Finally Roakore stopped and slowly let Whill down onto his good leg. Abram was quickly at his side, offering him a shoulder to lean on.

  Before them was a great wall of stone, smooth as ice. Its edges escaped the torchlight, giving it a mammoth appearance in the black night. As they watched Roakore keenly, he slowly ran his right hand along the stone, as if looking for something, and then turned to them and said, “All assume that elves alone have the power to do magic—or so ’tis called by ye humans—but we dwarves have powers also. ’Tis a gift from our gods, bestowed upon us to aid in our purpose.” His expression hardened and he took a step forward. “What yer about to witness is to never leave yer lips, nor be set to paper, as long as ye draw breath, Understood?”

  “I swear with my life, it shall fall upon no ear,” Abram said solemnly.

  Whill struggled to find his voice. “I swear the same.”

  Roakore eyed them for a moment, then turned and raised his arms. Head bowed, he stood like a statue for a moment. Nothing happened. Then words burst from him so loud it startled Whill. “Ohn zrak kytho sjendi zwikor henin ty!” The dwarf reached out into the air as if grabbing something, and the stone wall rumbled. Roakore slowly pulled the phantom object with both hands. Whill stood in awe while a circular section of the rock wall began to move as if hinged. Roakore took a step back and, as if pulling an invisible rope, heaved the door open. Before them was the tunnel to the city.

  The dwarf stood breathing heavily; Whill had not yet seen him tire, but now beads of sweat ran down his brow as he walked into the passage. Whill and Abram followed.

  Within, the tunnel was perfectly round. Having been made for dwarves, the ceiling was low; Whill and Abram had to crouch. Roakore turned and once again spoke the command, this time for the door to close. The heavy stone door moved inward with a great rumble, and gave a loud thud as it came to its resting place. Roakore breathed heavily and sat down to rest on the stone floor.

  Whill wondered about the dwarf’s power to move stone but decided against asking him. He and Abram sat as well, and Whill rolled up his pant leg to look at the blood-soaked bandages over his wound. Abram found a needle and thread and positioned himself to stitch it up. “Why?” he asked in a raspy voice. “Can’t I just—?”

  “No.” Abram shook his head. His eyes darted to Roakore and then back to Whill. The dwarf did not notice.

  Whill understood. If he used his powers to heal himself, the dwarf would become suspicious; only elves had powers to heal, and dwarves did not like elves. Reluctantly he let Abram begin, who went to work quickly but carefully. Masterfully stitching the wound, he soon finished and Whill inspected the work. “It looks good, Abram. Thank you.” He tried to keep the pain from his voice.

  Roakore nodded with a low “hmm,” and helped Whill up as they prepared to keep moving. “So, lad, ready fer another ride?”

  Whill tried to clear his hurt throat. “No, we are in no danger now. I can walk. Slow though I may be.”

  “Aye, then let’s be off. Not far ahead the tunnel widens; it should be a wee bit more comfortable fer ye tall ones.”

  Whill again put his arm around Abram and together they followed Roakore. Shortly they came to the wider part of the tunnel. It was about ten feet high and just as wide, but unlike the last section, had a flat floor.

  “This tunnel runs for fifteen miles southwest under the mountain,” Roakore explained, his voice echoing. “Along the way it is met by other tunnels as well.”

  The going was slow, even now that they could walk fully erect. Whill slowed them down considerably. Roakore looked back at them. “At this pace we’ll not reach the city until after noon—that is, if we stop to rest.”

  Whill limped along as quickly as he could with Abram’s help. “Do you intend to rest, Roakore?” he asked hoarsely.

  The dwarf laughed. “Aye, Whill, that I do. I been on patrol for many a day and night with no sleep. Even we dwarves grow weary—though not easily.”

  They walked on for another hour, torchlight leading the way in the dark passage. Little was said, as they were all very tired. It was surprisingly warm in the tunnels. Either that, Whill thought, or he was beginning to run a fever. Finally, to his relief, Roakore stopped. “We should get some rest. This be as good a place as any.”

  Whill sat on the stone floor, his leg throbbing madly. From one of the packs Abram retrieved food and water. He offered Whill some cheese and dried meat. “I imagine your throat still hurts, but you should eat what you can. We’ve had quite a day, and you will need your strength.”

  Whill accepted the food and ate what he could. Every swallow was torture, though the cool water from his canteen helped a little. He ate only enough to quiet his growling belly and then lay back, propping his head on his pack. His eyes were grainy and heavy, his body sore. Even on the stone floor, with no pillow but a lumpy bag, he soon fell asleep to the sounds of Roakore and Abram’s voices echoing softly throughout the tunnel.

  His dreams were dark, filled with broken bodies and blood. He imagined he was in a great battle. All around him lay the slain bodies of elves, men, and dwarves. Thousands of Draggard warriors surrounded him and Abram. Overhead dragons flew, their fire raining down. Whill fought hard against the hordes of Draggard, but as he slew one, more took its place.

  Whill was awakened by the nagging pain in his leg. He lifted his head from his bag to find Abram and Roakore awake. “Good morning, laddie,” said Roakore as he gnawed on a piece of dried meat.

  Abram smiled at Whill, “Sleep well?”

  Whill sat up. “Not really, but I feel a little better.” He rolled up his pant leg. The bandages around his wound were slightly soiled, but not enough to constitute changing them. He rolled the pant leg back down with a groan. His throat felt a little better, though it was very dry. He took a long drink from his canteen, finishing it off with a satisfied si
gh.

  “Here.” Abram offered Whill his own canteen. “Roakore says we can replenish our water supply up ahead. Help yourself.”

  Whill accepted the canteen and drank greedily. He was surprised by his own thirst.

  Roakore stood and brushed off his legs. “A little farther down the passage there is a spring that trickles down from the ceiling. The best darn water ye’ll ever drink, or I’m a midget.” He burst into hearty laughter at his own joke. His voice boomed in the small space, echoing throughout the tunnel. Whill had a slight headache, and the sound was like a hammer to his temples. Nevertheless, he found the dwarf funny and laughed also. With a hand from Abram, he got to his feet. His leg still hurt, but he was able to put a little more weight on it now.

  They began once again down the tunnel. It had run fairly straight for most of the journey, but now it began to wind in some places. It became slightly steeper in some spots, and then ran down again. With no sunlight penetrating the space, Whill had no idea what time of day it was. He guessed it was early morning. Roakore spoke as they walked, giving them a short history of the mountain and the Ky’Dren dwarves. Whill remembered that Roakore had said he was from the Ebony Mountains, and hoped it would not be rude to inquire.

  “Roakore, may I ask…what has become of your people?” he said in a raspy voice.

  The dwarf slowed and turned to look at him. He cleared his throat and walked on, now to Whill’s right rather than in front. “Like me, they be livin’ here within the mountain. Our numbers were greatly diminished after the Draggard attack, but we’ve survived.” Whill thought that to be the end of the awkward conversation, but then the dwarf went on, looking past the torchlight to the darkness beyond.

  “It were twenty years ago when it happened, but I remember it like it be yesterday, ’twas a black day for us dwarves. A black day indeed. Somehow the Draggard learned of our southern harbor passage. Shortly after dark they came. There were thousands. Our guards were quickly overrun, an’ word came from the survivors that the beasts had penetrated the tunnels. The great horn of Illia blew, soundin’ the alarm, an’ that is when we heard ’em coming.

  “We dwarves can fight better’n men, make no mistake, especially when guarding our treasures an’ family. But they were too many. We wasn’t prepared for such an attack and were greatly outnumbered. I alone killed more’n a hundred, but still they came, hordes and hordes of ’em, bloodthirsty an’ wild. I watched as me kin fell dead all ‘round me. An’—me father.” Roakore stopped. He still stared straight ahead, his eyes now watery. Whill tried to act as if he did not notice, and Roakore went on with his tale of horror.

  “Me father died in me arms. With his last breath he told me the mountain had fallen and I had to leave. I begged him to let me fight—I told him I would kill every last one. But he forbade it. He said I would not lose my honor if I fled. He asked me to save as many as I could and flee here to our kin, the Ky’Dren, and return one day with a great army to claim the mountain once again. His last words were, ‘Ye be king now, me son. Ye alone must lead our people to victory. Do this and ye shall join me in the Mountain o’ the Gods.’ I did as he wished, and we retreated through the northern tunnel. For weeks we traveled north through the Uthen forest, all along hunted by the Draggard.” He stopped. His last word echoed eerily throughout the passage. Whill had a newfound sense of dread. The dwarves had been defeated by thousands of Draggard that inhabited the mountain still. No one believed such a number were living within Agora, or if they did believe, they refused to admit it. But having seen Roakore fight, he knew it would indeed take thousands to defeat so many dwarves.

  Whill saw Roakore wipe his eyes surreptitiously. He felt sorry for the dwarf, surviving king of a mountain lost. “Have you yet tried to take it back?” He inquired, hoping not to anger Roakore. Abram gave him a warning look.

  “No, that we have not. King Ky’Ell o’ Ky’Dren believes that this be a test. He has said that it be the duty o’ the survivors, women an’ children alike, to take back the mountain. He will help, o’ course, as will the Elgar dwarves, but not until the older children and men have mastered the arts o’ war.

  “These many years we’ve done naught but train vigorously, preparing fer the day the mountain is taken back. And it will be soon. Many o’ the young’uns are now grown. They be handy with the blade and eager to take back what is rightfully theirs.”

  They came to the spring Roakore had mentioned. It trickled from the ceiling and into a large basin that had been built to catch it. The basin was made of white marble and had no stand, but was attached to the wall. From its curved lip, water poured steadily into a small hole in the floor. Each of them took a turn filling his canteen and drinking the fresh mountain spring water right from the basin. Whill drank his fill and let out a satisfied sigh as the water ran down his chin. The water made his sore and parched throat feel much better.

  “Indeed, master dwarf, that is the best water I have ever had, or call me a liar,” he said.

  Abram wiped his mouth and capped his canteen. “Aye, the best water this side of the great blue ocean.”

  Again they journeyed down the long tunnel. For hours they walked, stopping rarely to eat and rest, but talking all the way. Whill listened mostly, due to his still-irritated throat. Abram told Roakore their story, leaving out how he had come to have Whill in his care. He spoke also of their many travels, the tournament, and the battle with the pirates. He left out any mention of Whill’s healing ability, however, knowing it would not settle well with the dwarf.

  The going was slow, but finally they came to the entrance to the city. The tunnel ended as they ventured into a large room with high ceilings. It was well lit with torches, and a great pit lay at its center. Whill could see more torches lit on the other side, along with many armored dwarves. Looking over the edge of the great pit, he could see no bottom. A large wooden drawbridge stood closed on the other side. “Who goes there?” called a gruff voice.

  Abram nudged Whill and pointed up. “It looks as though security has risen since last I was here.” Whill looked up and saw that a large rack hanging from the ceiling bristled with long sharp spikes. He assumed that if they did not answer correctly, the rack would quickly be dropped. “’Tis I, Roakore o’ the Ro’Sar Mountain,” the dwarf announced. “I come from guard duty, and with me be two humans—one a good friend o’ the king an’ carryin’ the family crest. Just last night they helped me destroy a horde o’ twenty Draggard intent on finding the city. We wish to enter.”

  Soon the drawbridge began to lower with a rumble. The thick wood came down with a loud thud that reverberated throughout the large chamber. Roakore guided them across the bridge and stopped when he reached the other side. Ten armored dwarves stood guard, blocking the passage beyond. Two came forward, greeting Roakore in turn with a slam to the chest. They eyed Whill and Abram suspiciously. Their great axes were like Roakore’s, and upon their heads were thick helmets that covered all but their faces. Their armor was thick and appeared very heavy. It consisted of broad shoulder and chest plates with thick mail underneath. Their arms and legs were protected by what appeared to be dragonhide; the thick scales overlapped one another and shimmered in the torchlight. The guard with the red beard spoke up, pointing at Whill and Abram.

  “What binness d’ye ‘ave ‘ere?”

  Abram answered in the dwarf tongue, telling him that they sought counsel with the great king. When questioned, Whill spoke Dwarvish as well. The guards were visibly impressed by their fluency, and by the royal crest that Abram presented.

  “Welcome, dwarf friends,” said the red-bearded dwarf. “It be good to see men who’ve taken time an learnt our talk, an’ speak it so good. I’ve heard of ye, Abram. Ye fought aside our great king. ’Tis an honor.” He did not bow, and he did not shake hands. Instead, he slammed his fist to his own chest and nodded, casting his gaze to the ground in the greeting of respect. The second guard did the same, but did not speak.

  Abram did not return the gest
ures, he simply nodded to each. This was not meant as an insult, Whill knew; it simply was not required of him to greet them in such a manner, as he did not know their names or reputations. The dwarves simply regarded Whill with a nod, which he returned. Roakore, however, received the same greeting as Abram had, for his stature among his kin was great. If they had not greeted him in such a way, it would have been a sign of lack of respect.

  The red-bearded dwarf regarded Roakore. “’Tis good to see ye return Roakore, can ye tell me aught o’ this battle with the Draggard?”

  Roakore answered plainly, “Ye’ll hear o’ it soon enough, I’m sure, but not from me. We seek the comfort o’ Dy’Kore and be eager to arrive. Go well, friend.”

  The dwarf was visibly disappointed but stood tall and, in a firm voice, responded, “Go well.”

  Roakore nodded to Whill and Abram and started off once again down the tunnel. It had widened considerably and was now lit by wall hung torches every ten feet. The walls themselves were decorated with carvings from top to bottom. Whill got a keen sense of the age of their culture, along with nostalgia for a vast and deep history. There were many carvings concerning the battles of old, such as dwarf kings sitting on great thrones, dragons spewing fire by the mountain, and dwarf armies marching against men; and many others which were less war-like in nature, like diamond-mining, great feasts, and celebrations. But above all else the walls depicted the revered dwarf gods. Great murals loomed above, spanning the arched tunnel. Whill had only ever heard stories of the dwarf religion from Abram. There were no books on the subject, as they were a very secretive people and did not usually bother to explain their beliefs to outsiders. Whill could only guess who the gods in the carvings were, and though he was eager to find out, he thought better than to ask Roakore.

  Soon they came upon two guards, one at either side of the tunnel. As Roakore approached, they gave him the same gesture of respect the drawbridge guards had. Without a word, the three walked past. Whill soon realized that a pair of guards was stationed every two hundred feet or so, and as they passed each, Roakore received the same gesture.