FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Recruitment had already begun for more soldiers into the Eldalon army. Property and gold were promised to any man who agreed to serve four years. This, Whill knew, was a precautionary and perhaps necessary measure taken by the king. Thousands signed up within the first day alone. Rumors had begun to spread like wildfire about the coming war—fragmented tales, mostly ill-informed. But the king and his council knew well enough the dangers of the misinformed masses, and so, one week after Roakore had set sail for Sherna, and two days after word had come that the dwarf armies were already moving out, the king made public the truth of the situation.

  Whill stood with Abram at the gates of the castle, where it had been announced that the king himself would be speaking at high noon. Thousands crowded the streets, sat upon rooftops, and hung out of nearby windows to hear. A podium had been erected near the entrance, and all fell silent as King Mathus ascended the steps. Standing five feet above the heads of his people, with the spring sun shining down upon him and a quiet breeze crawling in from the ocean, he addressed the crowd.

  “My good people of Eldalon, it is with stubbornly open eyes and a quickened heart that I have pondered the gravity of what I say to you now. Not a day of peaceful sleep have I seen in the last week, and I expect not to know one for some weeks to come. As you all know, or have heard through whispered rumors, King Addakon of Uthen-Arden has waged war upon Isladon. Perhaps not officially, but through his actions he has done so. Word has come from our neighbors in Isladon, over many miles and by the blood of many brave men, of the fate of the kingdom. My friends, the king of Isladon has been killed in battle.”

  A gasp swept through the crowd. People cursed Addakon and Uthen-Arden, fists pumped the air, and men spat upon the ground.

  “That is not the worst of it. It seems that King Ainamaf has declared allegiance with Uthen-Arden. I have heard it from his own lips.”

  Abram turned to Whill and whispered, “He is wise to not mention that Ainamaf is also dead or imprisoned, and is being impersonated by a Dark elf.”

  “You think so?” Whill asked dryly.

  “With the drums of war beating to the south; with a centuries-old ally being invaded on false grounds and twisted reasoning; with a king who, so out of character, has made allegiance with a tyrant—What, my good people, are we to do?”

  Already the crowd was yelling words of war. King Mathus let his voice ring out once again, with even more passion than before.

  “The terrible truth of it is that we are now cornered. We are the only human kingdom left within Agora that stands between its certain destruction and liberation! I hereby declare and rectify that which already has come to pass. As in the days of old, when barbarians thought to overtake this land—and before that, when the kingdoms were young and Eldalon fought countless enemies to become the beacon of freedom and prosperity that it is now—I have renewed our alliance with not only the dwarves of Ky’Dren, but all the dwarf kingdoms of Agora. Like us, they have been swept up in this mad pursuit of power by King Addakon and the Dark elves of Drindellia.”

  The crowd hushed slightly at the mention of the Dark elves.

  “Yes, my friends, the legends are true. The Dark elves wish to do to all of Agora that which they have done to the good elves of Drindellia. For years they have been attacking our shores, using the Draggard abominations as their puppets. And now it seems they have a new puppet, seduced with the promise of great power: King Addakon. It was he, along with the Dark elves and their Draggard horde, who invaded the Ebony Mountains twenty years ago. And it is he who now, with that same horde and an army of misguided soldiers, that has waged war upon Isladon. And he has all the while named Isladon in league with the Draggard.”

  The people were speechless in the face of so many revelations. The king allowed a moment for it all to sink in. In the faces of those nearby, Whill saw many reactions— anger, fear, sorrow—but not doubt.

  “I regret now dearly our inaction those years ago when the Ebony Mountains were invaded. I will bring this regret to the grave, I assure you. What kind of nation are we if we stand idly by while our neighbors—human, dwarf, or elf—are slaughtered by the thousands—their homes taken, their lives destroyed, their freedom stripped? What kind of neighbors, indeed. With these thoughts in mind, I have taken the following actions: I have renewed our allegiances with the dwarves and elves, and welcome any human in Agora who believes and acts for our cause. But I leave the final choice to you, the people, for I cannot and should not make such decisions for you.

  “So what shall it be? Shall we do nothing and hope that we can ride out this storm of tyranny in the comfort of our homes and daily lives? Shall we wish, like children, that the monsters will just go away? Should we simply give in to Addakon without a fight, and save much blood from being spilled? Or shall we stand united with the great armies of the dwarves and Elladrindellia? Shall we speak as one united voice against the powers of darkness that have made nest upon our doorstep?” The crowd erupted with cheers and applause. “Shall we fight against all odds—against all hope, against all reason—outnumbered and surrounded by monsters and murderous Dark elves? Or shall we do what we have always done when faced with such decisions—wage war against those who would see us dead?”

  The crowd erupted once again in an ocean of fists, with swords, knives, pitchforks, and clubs held high.

  Whill and Abram walked the streets alone. The excitement was palpable. Songs of Eldalon rang out, and all talk was of the king’s proclamation.

  “You would do well to watch closely and learn the ways of your grandfather, King Mathus,” Abram said to Whill. “I have met many a man of great power in my years, but none have had the natural mind for what is right and just like King Mathus. Aside from your father, of course.”

  “Yes, King Mathus is a great public speaker. And you are correct, it is his passion that gives his words power. Not to mention he says that which is most closely in the hearts of his audience.”

  Abram chuckled slightly. “That, my friend, is one thing that has been passed down from Mathus’s blood into yours.”

  Whill stopped mid-stride. “Am I vain to have the same sentiment?”

  “No, sir! It is not vanity to recognize that you have a talent for leading men. It is only vanity to lead men to their deaths for your own gain, and not their own. That, thankfully, is something you did not inherit from your uncle.”

  “I know exactly what the elders and the monks will say, sister,” said Zerafin as he gently polished his blade Nifarez. “They will say what they have always said and what needs saying: peace is the way of the free mind; harmony is the very essence that unites all life.”

  “But what they do not consider is that the Draggard are not natural manifestations of the earth. Nor do the Dark elves abide by or hold sacred any of nature’s laws.” Avriel was buttoning Tarren into his newly issued uniform. “I know and support your position in the matter, brother. Was it not I who produced such an argument with the Elders not a year ago? But I suppose you are simply honing your argument for soldiers, and will address it to the Elders hence.”

  Zerafin sheathed the finely polished blade. “I think they will agree with me.”

  Tarren, in his new hat and uniform, turned to him for approval.

  “I must say, young man, you do look as though you are ready for the vigorous duties before you in the Eldalon army. What is your opinion of that of which we have been speaking?”

  Tarren’s mouth twisted up in thought. “I know that the Elders you speak of are older than dirt—well, so Roakore said—and they must be very smart, being so old. So if they are so smart, they can only agree with what you say about the need for war.”

  Zerafin laughed. “You see, sister? The purest of truths can be found in the young.”

  Roakore climbed the mountain pass he had traversed so many times before. The memory of his many weeks alone, patrolling this very face, flashed through his mind. He had time alone to ponder, to relive that last battle over and over
again—the fall of his brothers, of his father; the words upon his father’s bloody lips sang to him now in the spring wind. Finally, after twenty long years, the time had come for him and his dwarves to take back what was rightfully theirs. The spirit of his father would be released and take its place within the Hall of Kings.

  He came to the same door he had entered with Whill and Abram not a month ago—now to bring word to his people that the time had come. The time for redemption was upon them. The time for war was near.

  Zerafin sat opposite Whill in the garden, in silence for a time unknown. Whill used the time to do as he’d been instructed, to meditate. But he also used his new mind-sight to look for the gem that lay within the elf. He saw the many rings teeming with energy upon the elf—the bracelets of power, the belt with its many gemstones of energy, the very studs upon his ears—but he could not detect any gemstone embedded beneath the flesh.

  “I know what you seek,” said Zerafin. Whill opened his eyes to find the elf staring at him, and feared he had been offended.

  “Relax,” said Zerafin. “I would be more insulted if you hadn’t been using your new abilities. The truth is that you cannot find my gem because of the enchantments I have put upon it. You will learn such enchantments when it is time. Each elf, upon coming of age, has his gemstone embedded in a place of his choosing, a place that only he or she knows of. But first a month must be spent enchanting the object with an energy command to hide it from prying eyes. It should weaken your opponent to the brink of exhaustion to find your inner gemstone, therefore ensuring your own victory.”

  He rose. “As is the way of our Elders, so is our way. One should not have a single teacher but many. Avriel will continue where I have left off while we are in Eldalon.” He gave a small bow and quietly left the gardens.

  Whill did not know what to do or what Zerafin meant. Was Avriel coming now to continue his teachings? He did not move, but meditated as he had been taught. He let his mind be at ease and his body still as he focused upon himself and all around him.

  Some time had passed when he came back to the world, revitalized and alert. He could sense something—a presence. He recognized it at once, though he knew not how. It was Avriel. He stood and surveyed the garden but saw nothing.

  Suddenly a stone came hurtling out of nowhere and struck him in the forehead, drawing blood. Then came a voice he knew, but not in any form he had thus heard. She laughed like a child playing a prank, and then another stone stuck him in the hand. Whill looked wildly from one end of the garden to the other, rubbing his forehead. Another stone came, too fast to duck, and struck him in the shoulder, then another in the chest, and yet another in the back of his head. Whill drew his sword, fuming. This time five stones stuck him hard enough to break his arm. He dropped his sword and spun about. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Avriel chuckled. “Do you wish for the rocks not to strike you?”

  Another stone hit Whill right between the eyes and he fell to the ground. “Of course I wish the bloody stones not to hit me!”

  “Then use what you have learned from my brother and stop them, Whill of Agora!”

  Two more rocks came hurtling at Whill as he stood. Instantly he used his mind-sight. The world before him fell like a curtain as the world of energy rushed forth. He saw the stones coming at him clearly, shimmering like diamonds with the residual energy of that which Avriel used to propel them. Whill lifted his hand and produced a globe of energy that—to his astonishment—surrounded him. He did not know how nor why, but he did not care; he simply wanted the rocks to stop striking him. The stones struck the energy wall and fell to the ground. Two more followed, then four more, and finally a volley of more than a dozen stones. Each one weakened his feeble shield slightly. Then the barrage stopped and Avriel appeared.

  Whill had never before seen her with his mind-sight. She came forward slowly from behind a magnificent rose bush. Her energy form was similar to Zerafin’s, yet still very different. As soon as his mind’s eye fell upon her, his own energy shield faltered and diminished. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. Radiant pulses of pristine white and silver light pulsed and danced about and from her. She glowed from within like a sun, at her center was the purest and most radiant light Whill had ever witnessed.

  A rock stuck his forehead.

  He was knocked unconscious for a moment. The next thing he knew, Avriel’s sweet breath was lightly teasing his neck. A blue light surrounded him and healed his many minor wounds. Her breath moved to his ear as his vision came into focus. “You have just seen me as no one ever has. What you have witnessed is reserved solely for the one who is loved by the observer.”

  They locked eyes, their lips as close as could be without touching, and there she lingered. Whill was paralyzed. His heart screamed for action yet his mind bade him wait, for he had a feeling that what was being shared at this moment could not be enhanced by anything, not even a kiss.

  Avriel retreated and sat across from Whill as Zerafin had done. He shook his head and breathed deeply. What spell had come over him? He took up the meditation pose. For many minutes they did not speak, but simply stared at each other—unblinking, unyielding. Finally that sweet melodic voice, so much like a symphony, spoke within his mind.

  You have learned well the ways of Orna Catorna. You have shown an aptitude for not only that which you have learned, but that which you have yet to learn. This, I must say, is unheard of within the world of my people. My brother suspects that this alone is the reason for my love for you. But I do not know and do not care for the reasons, for when it comes to love it seems there are none.

  Whill listened intently and exuberantly, exhilarated by the sudden admission of Avriel’s love.

  You must understand, Whill, that the feelings I have for you, and those which I know you hold for me, are dangerous ones. I have been so warned; history teaches about such matters. We have a pressing duty before us, one that eclipses what we feel and want and need. We have a duty to do what we can for this cause—first and foremost, and to the death. We must not be hasty in our pursuit of love, but mindful and steady in pursuit of the cause we serve.

  A smile crept onto her face, and a single tear hung from her eye. Blessed will be the day when we can rightfully declare our love aloud. Until that day, when the curses of the Dark elves are but a distant memory, we shall remain silent in our hearts’ desire and strong in our resolve.

  Then until that day, Whill told her, know what I feel now. That since the first time I saw you in that feverish dream, since the first hint of your scent left my mind, since the first sounds of your beautiful voice filled my ears, I have loved you.

  Avriel smiled in such a girlish way that Whill, for a moment, doubted her centuries of life.

  And I you, Whill. And I you.

  She held her head high and looked to the heavens. Whatever mental bond there had been was broken.

  “It is for those reasons, my duty included, that I present you with this. I know you will object, but it must be done for the good of the cause. This I foresee.”

  Avriel then untied her blouse and let it fall upon her arms. Her naked breasts heaved with her every breath as they shone in the sunlight. Whill watched in dumbfounded awe as the skin above her right breast swelled until it finally split open, and a radiant red gem floated from the wound. This, he knew to his sudden horror, was her inner gem. The gem floated between them as her wound healed and she fastened her blouse. A bubble of water floated from the nearby garden stream and encapsulated the gem, washing it of her blood. Before Whill could protest, Avriel spoke.

  “This gem was presented to me by my seventh-great-grandmother, who was a member of Elladrindellia’s Elder Council before the fall. She and my other grandmothers stored their energy in it for twenty years after my birth. Such a gift is bestowed upon all elf children when they come of age. And I now present it to you.”

  Whill was about to protest once again, but was silenced by Avriel’s mind. If you love me—if w
hat you feel is true—then do not argue this. It would be seen as the greatest insult.

  He nodded his reluctant agreement. Then she produced a dagger. “Choose the placement,” she said.

  Whill pondered the situation for a moment and, realizing he would not win the fight, obliged. He opened his shirt to expose his chest and pointed above his heart.

  Avriel raised the dagger to his skin. Deep the blade went, but it was followed by a constant blue light that swallowed any pain Whill would have felt. The gem floated to the wound and found its new home within his chest.

  “The same enchantments I once put on it will keep it hidden from your enemies,” she explained. “I only ask that you never use it but in the most dire of situations, and be wary of its power.”

  “I promise.”

  High above, Zerafin turned from the window where he watched.

  Avriel, my dear sister, what have you done?

  Whill was surprised to enter his room and find Tarren and Abram there. The boy wore his blue and purple cadet uniform, which was clean and well pressed.

  “Well!” said Whill. “You look as ready as I imagine any new recruit has ever been.”

  Tarren beamed. “I am, sir.”

  “I do not doubt that you will make a fine soldier when your time comes. Though I hope you will never be needed in the war we face this day.” Tarren’s shoulders drooped and he scowled. “Do not misunderstand me, son. I only hope that this terrible business is done by the time you are ready for combat.”

  “I am ready now!” he said, puffing out his chest.

  Whill knelt and said, “Tarren, do not hasten into battle with revenge in your heart, for it has been shown through the ages that this is surely the way to one’s own defeat. Be ready, be prepared, train hard, but do so with the intention of protecting the innocent, not exacting your own vengeance. Those who did you wrong are dead. That business is done.”