FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

Whill unsheathed his sword but did not attack. He could feel the power within, and the energy radiating from Avriel’s heart stone. It coursed through his body faster than his blood. He believed it all. He had been named by Adimorda—he alone. He would kill Addakon this night, and later—with the great sword—Eadon.

  The evil king raised his hand and a red tendril shot towards Whill. He raised his own hand, and blue tendrils of healing energy shot forth to meet the red. Sparks lit the room like lightning as the two powers collided. Whill did not know how he was doing it, somehow he just knew what to do. Something had been awakened in him, something that had been slumbering for quite some time. Addakon screamed and sent a huge blast through the red tendrils. The blue ones were devoured and Whill was hit with a gut-wracking blow of pure pain. He hit the floor but extended his hand once again. From it came a blast of energy. Addakon redirected it to a bookshelf, which exploded as if hit by a tornado.

  Whill had risen even as the blast left him, and brought his sword down on Addakon.

  It took the army nearly two hours to reach the deep lair of the Draggard queen. They entered the ancient caverns of Baz’klon. At the bottom of a stair they encountered dozens of crudely built stables filled with livestock, no doubt food for the great queen. Many wounded dwarves and more than a few dead ones littered the wide hall leading to the chamber.

  An elf maiden bent to see to one. Lunara, young even by human standards, was not as seasoned as the other elves, and had less tolerance for the suffering of others. She was still Ullestranna—innocent—in the eyes of her people. It was an unspoken fact that over many years, even centuries of life, elves had to harden themselves to the pains of the world. Many elves did not reach an age of thousands of years, though they had the means. They did not take their own lives, but stopped prolonging them. Many also went into the unknown without fear, for they achieved wisdom beyond the grasp of any human—or dwarf, for that matter.

  “What is your name, good dwarf?” she asked.

  The dwarf, choking on blood and with closed eyes, answered, “I be Holdagozz, son o’ Holdagar. Who asks, good lady…?” He stopped mid-sentence and looked wide-eyed at Lunara. “I be dead then, and you be me godly escort to the Mountain o’ the Gods, for never in Agora have I seen anythin’ so beautiful.” He cleared his throat. “That is—have I made it into the Hall o’ the Gods?”

  She smiled. “No, you have not, Holdagozz, but nor are you dead.” Holdagozz frowned as she continued. “But I’m afraid you soon will be.” She looked at his chest, where two Draggard tails protruded from his armor.

  “Bah this? This ain’t nothing.” Holdagozz burst into a coughing fit. His gloved hand came away soaked in blood, and he wiped it on his short cloak. “This is it, then. I go to me gods. Soon my deeds will be read.” He coughed again briefly and looked at his war hammer, Zlynock, forged by his great-great-grandfather seven hundred years before.

  “Have I done enough?” he asked Lunara, grasping frantically at her sleeve.

  “That is for your gods to answer, friend.” She looked around slyly. “Would you like to do more?”

  Holdagozz ignored the blood on his lips. “I would. But I cannot.”

  She knelt beside him. “I am young, even for an elf. But we all have special gifts, things we are naturally better at than most. For some it is listening to the wind or talking with birds; for others it is forging weapons or divining the universe. My gift is in healing. If you would allow me…”

  “Witchery! Black crafts!” yelled Holdagozz.

  Roakore pushed his way over to them and addressed Lunara. “Is he demented? What is it?”

  “No, his wits are with him—well, some. I simply offered to heal his wounds.”

  An elf commander stepped forward. “You cannot heal every dying person you meet in war, Lunara. Your energy is priceless in times such as these.”

  Roakore turned to the tall Elf. “An’ what?” Roakore demanded. “Yer thinking dirty dwarves ain’t for healin’—waste o’ energy, eh?” He stepped so close that his belly bumped the elf’s thighs.

  Zerafin put a hand on each of their chests. “Stop this, please. I apologize for Shief, he must not know to whom he speaks. The dwarves in Roakore’s army are the most skilled warriors to ever come out of the stone. It would be a valuable investment into the future of this war to save any of them. I give my blessing on any healing.”

  “He is right, warrior,” Roakore said to Holdagozz. “If ye can be saved, ye should be. An’ ye wouldn’t be the first. I…I too have been healed by elven powers.” The army of dwarves around him sucked in their breath. “An that’s all they be…powers, ye buncha old ladies! Like any power, it can be used fer good or ill. These elves use ’em fer good, so quit bein a dragon’s arse, take what’s offered ye. An’ be glad ye can live to fight again.”

  Roakore started off down the cavern hall. Zerafin followed close. “Well said, my good friend. I think you may have just brought our two peoples closer than anyone ever has.”

  “Bah, to hell with politics,” Roakore huffed.

  Holdagozz coughed more blood onto his armor. Lunara smiled weakly, a tear tracing her cheek.

  “If ye can make me strong like I was, then ye can do it. But I ain’t gonna live the life o’ no cripple, waiting to stand before the gods.”

  Lunara wept with joy. “Thank you, Holdagozz, thank you. You will indeed be strong.”

  She did not draw her sword but rather held out before her the staff of Aorentia. The knotted and curving wood shone in the torchlight. She tapped into the energy within and transferred it into Holdagozz, first to numb the coming pain.

  “Pull them out,” she said to Shief, and nodded toward the Draggard tails. Shief complied and pulled them out together, one in each hand. Holdagozz did not cry out; indeed he felt nothing. He seemed to be in the midst of the most pleasant dream.

  Next Lunara began to heal him and, when the injuries were repaired, delved deeper into his energy fibers. She permanently thickened his bones, strengthened his ligaments and tendons, and wove new muscle into place. Then she retracted the blue tendrils of healing energy, and lantern light replaced the radiant blue. She helped Holdagozz to his feet. He looked down at his body in awe and flexed and clenched his fists. He sniffed at the air and then began to run his hand over the smooth cavern wall as if looking for a marking, sniffing all the while. Then he stopped. Lunara looked at Shief, who shrugged. Holdagozz stepped back and slammed his fist into the stone wall. Rock exploded from the impact and he struck again, this time up to his elbow. Out of the hole he fished a chunk of rock. He turned to her and crushed the stone in his hands. Pieces tumbled to the floor, but something remained. He crushed more stone and brushed it away, and then with his cloak he polished the object. Extending his hand, he presented Lunara a sapphire the size of an apple.

  Whill’s sword met Addakon’s high above their heads. Their eyes met. Addakon did not see fear in his opponent’s, but Whill did. His uncle attacked, spinning the blades and unlocking their clutch. Addakon slashed low at Whill’s feet but Whill hopped the blades and came across the middle while in the air. With amazing speed Addakon came out of his attack and blocked the blow, holding his sword in one hand. With the other he threw a pulsing red ball of energy. Whill spun with the attack and instinctively caught the energy in a blue ball of light in his palm. He had somehow known what Addakon would do, as easily as if it had been Abram. Twirling, he sent it back, but it was redirected. There was a great explosion as stone rained down from the tower, and a ten-foot hole appeared in the wall.

  “How is this possible?” Addakon screamed as he raised his sword to block. Eadon only laughed, thoroughly amused.

  Roakore entered the chamber of the Draggard queen behind his men. Abram and Zerafin followed. Before them was an immense cavern, more than six hundred yards wide, with thousands of hatched and decaying eggs littering the floor. At the center of the room lay the Draggard queen. The body of a wingless dragon, with a beautiful pattern of purple
scales, wound its way up into the naked torso of a dark-purple-skinned Dark elf woman. She rose as the small army entered. All in her presence were stunned by what they saw, though none would show it. Zerafin addressed them with an upraised hand.

  “Stop,” he commanded, his hand coming to rest on Roakore’s breastplate. The dwarves grunted and looked on with suspicious eyes. Zerafin lowered his hand and pointed at the queen. “A Draggard queen must not to be underestimated, good dwarf. We must plan our attack well.”

  Suddenly two dwarf brothers broke rank and charged the queen. “Hold!” cried Roakore, but the dwarves ran on, flinging their many hatchets before them. The queen raised a clawed fist and opened her outstretched hand. The hatchets went whirling into a bright white ball of light within her palm and disappeared. The lead dwarf was hurled into the ceiling by an unseen force. The second dwarf came barreling in with his war hammer held high as his brother’s body hit the ground. He was impaled by three of the Queen’s seven twenty-foot, barbed tails. Then she sneered at the group as she sent the tails in opposite directions, ripping the brave dwarf apart.

  Whill was completely absorbed in the sword and heart stone’s powers. He could feel more than the energy; it was the source of the power that emanated from the sword of his father. He soon realized that he was not in control of his actions, for he was fighting and performing far beyond his skill level. The sword moved of its own accord. Words he had never spoken came to his lips, spells he had never heard uttered.

  Addakon’s eyes went wide with fear as he frantically tried to parry the lightning-fast blows that rained down on him. Whill’s voice was his own but the words were not. He did not intend to speak, just as he did not now wield his father’s sword.

  “Addakon. Brother. Repent now and our soul may yet find rest.” His uncle’s look of fear only intensified. Whill stepped back. “Many years I have waited in darkened slumber within the heart of the dwarf mountain. For two decades I have counted the days until I would feel the energy of my son’s strong hand. Now comes your judgment, brother.”

  Whill felt like he was in a dream, watching and listening from within as his father’s spirit spoke. He was a vessel; his father’s spirit flowed forth from the sword and filled him with warmth.

  Eadon looked on in amusement. “We elves have known for many millennia the curios relationship that twins share. Did you never come across these teachings in your studies, Addakon?”

  Addakon looked, horrified, at the sword in Whill’s hand—Sinomara, the sword of his betrayed brother.

  “Aramonis?” he whispered as he bent in shame. The sweat upon his brow glistened in the torchlight. “What trick is this?”

  “If it is a trick, it is one of the gods’,” Whill’s voice said coolly.

  Eadon explained, “Human love stories speak of soul mates, a blissfully romantic and ridiculous notion when attributed to a lover, but twins are the true soul mates, two bodies with one soul.”

  “Which is why I was able, on that dark day of your ultimate sin, to cling to this world,” Aramonis said through Whill. “As my body fell away I poured myself into my blade, to forever wait, to free you from your terrible crimes.”

  Addakon fell to his knees. Tears poured from his bloodshot eyes. Facing the brother whom he had wronged so, he fell apart. The years of denial and fear, the haunting dreams and guilt that had gnawed at his resolve for two decades, left him shattered. There was no fight left in him.

  “Forgive me, Aramonis!” He pointed a shaking finger at Eadon. “It was him, his lies, his promises—he turned me against you! He said that you plotted to do the very same to me. You must believe me!”

  “Yes, brother, it was him. He spoke only lies. I would have never wielded Adromida, nor shall you. Eadon knows this, for it has been foreseen. Only Whill shall wield the blade and destroy him.”

  Eadon said nothing. He did not seem angered to hear this. Rather, it left him at peace.

  Whill moved to a large silver-trimmed mirror upon the wall, and looked into his own eyes. His mouth spoke, but he did not form the words himself. “I learned of Adimorda as a young man, Whill. I, like the elves, believe the prophecy to be true. Forgive me. It is why I named you as I did. I have placed this great burden on your shoulders. Forgive me, son, as I do my brother.”

  Whill turned and saw Addakon smiling through his tears. In that smile, he finally saw the face of his father. “It is time to come with me,” Whill’s voice said softly as tears fell.

  Addakon dropped his sword and, with both hands, ripped open his clothing to expose his bare chest. “Take me from this place.”

  Whill’s body lunged forward and stabbed Addakon through the heart. A blinding white light engulfed the room for many moments as the sword’s energy poured forth, and two souls became one again.

  Just as quickly as it started, it ended. Addakon was dead, his father’s spirit gone. Whill was left holding the empty sword of his father, and Eadon laughed with delight.

  “Hold!” Roakore screamed again as the many groups rustled and tensed, ready to charge. “Keep yer bloody heads, ye crazy sons o’ rock moss! Next one that breaks rank I kill meself!”

  Roakore turned to his council. “So what ye thinking, Z?”

  Zerafin looked oddly at Roakore, then to the Draggard Queen.

  He began to lay out the plan for attack when the Draggard queen spoke. Her great voice filled the cavern, and though no one would have admitted it, the voice was like soft music.

  “Ah, the great and powerful Roakore, son of the fallen king of the Ebony Mountains, heir to a tomb.”

  Roakore’s lip curled in a snarl as he turned to face her. She took three graceful strides closer, but was still more than two hundred paces away.

  “I met your father once, briefly.” She sucked the tips of each of her clawed fingers in turn. “He gave me much nourishment for my first litter of Ebony Mountain–born children.” Four large fangs flashed behind midnight-black lips.

  Groaning, Zerafin closed his eyes and shook his head. “That did it,” Rhunis muttered.

  For a moment Roakore looked stunned. The blasphemy that had befallen his ears shocked his sensibilities to such an extent that he was dumbfounded. For the first and last time in his life, he was speechless.

  Roakore did not storm off in a rage. He turned to his friends with tears welling in his eyes, and tightened his grip on his axe. “Help me if ye want, but do not stop me!”

  Zerafin grabbed his shoulder as he turned to engage the queen. “I will not stop you, but please accept my strength.” He sent a jolting blast of energy from his hand into Roakore’s body and weapons. Feeling electrified, as though lightning pulsed through his body, Roakore turned and began a steady charge at the queen—to the cheers of his men.

  He sent his stone bird whirling and called the names of his father and the gods. He charged on as the weapon reached its target in less than two seconds; it was a blur and it came in hard. The queen caught the whirling stones in a ball of light and the weapon twirled, suspended. Roakore was now less than fifty feet from her as he barreled in. She sent her seven tails at him from the right; barbed and pointed spears of death came at him fast. He did not stop, but extended his hand down towards the stone floor, and hollered the dwarf word for stone. Two slabs of rock blasted out from the ground and caught the tails in a vise-like grip, completely crushing them. The queen howled in pain. Roakore veered right and jumped high into the air. He flipped over his axe as if it were a vaulting pole, and his feet never slowed when they hit the floor.

  “A distraction!” ordered Zerafin, and the soldiers complied. The elves sent a glowing, multicolored volley of arrows at the queen as the dwarves launched their many hatchets. She lifted her hands, and every missile stopped in its course and flew back at the attacker. The elves pushed back with mental energy of their own in a stalemate.

  She screamed at her attackers and knew her doom. She could not stop the crazed dwarf without letting up on the missiles, but she could take this
little bastard with her. She would wait until the last second to let down her guard, and then she would tear him apart.

  Roakore barreled in. The queen’s greedy teeth awaited him, but he came to a sudden sliding stop, not ten feet away, and slammed his fists into the floor. She was slammed with a stone tide as the floor erupted before her. Pebbles and chunks of rock alike riddled her flying body. Her attention shifted to her own pain, and the arrows and hatchets rained into her. She was dead before she hit the ground.

  “Hail, King Roakore!” Zerafin cried.

  All took up the cry. “Hail, King Roakore!”

  Roakore went to the fallen queen and, with his great axe, hewed off her head—just in case—and raised it to the crowd. The cheers swelled.

  “I have seen a great many amazing things in all my centuries. That was simply beautiful. You should be proud of your father,” Eadon said.

  Whill held his father’s empty sword and looked at him with disgust. “I need not be told that by one such as you.” He wiped the blood from Sinomara’s blade and sheathed it. “I will not be used by you. I will not help you find Adromida. I do not know what your plans are, or how you intend to stop the prophecy, but I will not be your puppet.”

  Eadon laughed, but when the laughing ceased there was no smile. He began to circle Whill. “Don’t you see? You have defeated your uncle; you are now king of all of Uthen-Arden. You need not fight me, for I am not your enemy. Never again will you have enemies if you follow me. You can have the world, Whill.”

  “I am the rightful king, that is true,” Whill said softly. The Dark elf smiled.

  “And as king I shall make you pay for all you have done. I do not want the world, Eadon, I simply want a world without you or the damned Draggard. I want a world of peace.”

  Eadon’s smile turned to a sneer in the blink of an eye. “I will teach you pain beyond human endurance. Should you defy me, I will make you beg for death before I am through with you. Every day you will be brought within an inch of it, only to be healed. You will bend to my will—me, your master.”