FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Another Vir Requis.

  Jeid howled, filled his maw with flames, and dived toward the village.

  The villagers saw him, pointed, and shouted. They fled the square, scattering into their homes, leaping behind barrels, and grabbing what makeshift weapons they could—humble farm tools of bronze and tin, many which Jeid himself had forged before his exile.

  “Flee and you will live!” Jeid bellowed, his voice louder than hammers striking anvils, and the blast of his wings tore thatch off roofs and knocked down fences. “Face me and burn.”

  He blasted down flames.

  The fiery pillar slammed against the square, scattering sparks and sending pebbles flying. A nearby tree caught fire. His wings pounding like drums, Jeid—large as his old smithy, a burly beast of scales like the metal he’d forge—landed before the pyre. He roared and whipped his tail, and the last villagers scattered.

  Tied to the stake, the young man gazed at him, face sooty, eyes wide.

  Another Vir Requis, Jeid thought, eyes stinging. His breath shook. We are not alone.

  “I will free you,” Jeid said, voice a low rumble. “There is a safe place for you. A place for dragons. A tribe called Requiem.” His voice choked. “You have a home.”

  He stretched out his claws, ready to severe the prisoner’s ropes.

  The young man moved so quickly Jeid barely saw it. His expression changing to hatred, the prisoner brought his hands forward, letting his ropes fall. He held a bow and arrow.

  Before Jeid could retreat, the arrow flew.

  The bronze arrowhead drove into Jeid’s neck.

  The dragon howled. He sucked in air, prepared to blow fire.

  Around the square, a dozen men leaped up from behind barrels, a well, and bales of hay. They too held bows and arrows. They too fired.

  The projectiles slammed into Jeid. Some shattered against his scales. Others pierced his soft underbelly.

  The pain drove through him, burning through his bloodstream. He felt poison flow, dragging him down, pulling him into blackness. Ilbane covered these arrowheads, the juice of crushed leaves grown in the northern hills. Harmless to most, the sap was poisonous to dragons, stiffening muscles, blazing through veins, turning bones heavy as rocks. Jeid tried to beat his wings, but they wouldn’t move. He tried to blow fire, but only sparks left his mouth.

  He turned his head, lashing his claws, trying to cut the men. And there he saw her—Ciana, the young woman who had found him on the hill. Her tears were gone. She smiled crookedly and raised a bow.

  Finally Jeid recognized her.

  You were friends with my son. He gazed at her with blurred eyes. Years ago. You were only a youth . . .

  Her arrow drove into Jeid’s chest.

  He fell, cracking stones beneath him.

  “Kill the beast!” Ciana shouted, face twisted with rage. “Slay him!”

  Jeid’s eyelids fluttered. His wings beat uselessly against the ground, unable to support his weight. The poison held him down like chains.

  I will fly to you now, Requiem, he thought, seeing his daughter’s face. We will fly together again.

  Through the mists of pain, he saw Ciana walk toward him, drawing back another arrow, this one aimed at his eye. But then she faded, and he only saw Requiem, his dear daughter, angelic and pure . . . writhing in pain. Poisoned. Dying.

  No. I cannot die too.

  His eyes burned.

  His daughter laughed.

  I must live for you, Requiem—for Requiem, the daughter I lost; for Requiem, the tribe I must build.

  As Ciana laughed, nocking another arrow, Jeid managed to lift his head.

  He blasted his fire.

  The flames roared across Ciana, crashed past her, and slammed into the pyre where the false prisoner still stood. With a blast that pounded in Jeid’s ears, the pyre burst into flame. Men screamed and ran, burning, living torches.

  The fire raced toward Jeid.

  He pushed himself up.

  He was weak, almost blind, maybe dying.

  He beat his wings.

  He rose a few feet, crashed back down, and rose again. More arrows slammed into him. He howled, soared higher, and flew. His claws banged against a house, knocking down the roof, and he crashed onto a hilltop beyond. For a moment he rolled downhill, tearing up grass and soil. With another flap of his wings, he was airborne again, flying across the river.

  They screamed behind him. Arrows whistled around him, and one slammed against his back.

  He kept flying, the land a haze of blue and green below, and Requiem laughed, and the mist engulfed him, but still he flew.

  For you, my fallen daughter, he thought. For you, Tanin and Maev, my living children. For you I still fly.

  The escarpment rose ahead from the mist, a great wall of stone draped with vines and moss. Jeid dipped. He nearly crashed. He beat his wings and rose higher, flying above the cliffs until he reached the canyon upon their crest. It gaped open below, a hidden place, a safe place, a home called Requiem.

  He crashed down.

  He fell into the canyon, slammed against boulders, and lay still. His wings splayed out around him like the sails of beached boats.

  “This is why I must fly,” he whispered. “They hunt us. They kill us. Requiem must stand. We must find the sky.”

  Through the haze, he saw them rush forth—his father, beard long and white, and his living children, shouting in muffled voices, fading . . . all fading into colors and shadows and light.

  RAEM

  MY SON IS CURSED. RAEM felt as if the world were crashing around him. My son, my heir, my pure prince . . . is a weredragon.

  “Father, please!” the boy said, reaching out to him. “I’m sorry. I’ll never shift again. I . . .”

  Nineteen years old, Prince Sena Seran had the noble looks of his family: raven hair, green eyes, a proud jaw. Slim and tall, he wore a white robe hemmed in gold, and a bronze dagger hung from his belt.

  He is beautiful, Raem thought, frozen in place, torn between rage and anguish. I already lost a daughter, and now I lose a son.

  Raem—taller, broader, stronger than his son—stepped forth and swung his fist, driving it into Sena’s cheek.

  The boy crumpled, falling to the floor with a yelp and gush of blood.

  “Father, please!” cried Issari. “He didn’t mean to do it. Please don’t kill him.”

  Raem looked across the curled-up, bleeding prince and stared at his youngest child, Princess Issari. At only eighteen years of age, she was blooming into a beautiful young woman. She was everything Laira, his eldest, should have been—a proper princess. Her black hair hung across her shoulder in a braid. Her green eyes filled with tears. A white gown covered her slim body, and a headdress of golden olive leaves and topaz gemstones glimmered upon her head.

  “You are my only child now, Issari,” Raem said. “You are the only pure thing our family has left.”

  Before she could react, Raem knelt, grabbed his disgraced son, and pulled the prince to his feet. He twisted the boy’s arm behind his back and manhandled him out of the room.

  “Father!” Issari cried, racing toward them. “Father, please. Please forgive him. He’ll never shift again.”

  All traces of sadness had left Raem; rage now consumed him. Ignoring his daughter, he dragged his son along a hallway. The boy’s bleeding nose left a trail behind them. Guards stood at attention between the hallway’s columns, still and stiff, faces hidden inside their helms.

  “Do you know what you did, my son?” Raem asked, voice shaking with his fury. “You spat upon Taal, the god of purity. You are an abomination.” He twisted his son’s arm so hard it nearly snapped. “You are filth.”

  He dragged the boy out of the palace. He shoved him into the courtyard, past the fig and palm trees, and toward the spot where only that morning Raem had executed a woman. Ignoring the prince’s whimpers, Raem shoved the boy’s neck down onto the chopping block.

  Sena tried to speak, to beg. The boy
looked over his shoulder, eyes full of tears, face covered in blood.

  “Father, I’m sorr—“

  Raem struck him again, a blow that bloodied Sena’s mouth and chipped a tooth. The prince gurgled on blood, hiding his face, and Raem kicked him in the ribs. He shoved the boy’s head down against the wood.

  “You will not call me your father.” Raem drew his khopesh from his belt. “You are no son of mine.” He raised the semicircular blade, so enraged he could barely breathe. “By the god Taal, I condemn you to—“

  “Father, no!”

  The cry rose behind him, and Issari leaped onto his back. The princess clutched his arm, holding back his sword. Her tears fell onto his shoulder.

  “Please!” the princess begged. “Send him into exile like Laira or imprison him in Aerhein Tower. But please, Father, please . . . Don’t kill him. For me.”

  Raem spun around, staring at the princess. Her cheeks were flushed and wet with tears. She trembled, clutching at him, whispering inaudible words. In a world of evil—his father’s treachery, his wife and eldest daughter’s exile, and now his son’s abomination—Issari was a ray of piety. The young woman was a single, pure light in a dark world. Raem felt some of his rage dissipate.

  “Oh, my daughter,” he said. “Your heart is still too soft. But I will strength it. I will hammer your heart like a smith hammers bronze. You will be my heir now. Your grandfather is dead; he fell in the gardens. Your brother is diseased. Only you and I remain now, holding this fragile kingdom together.”

  Fresh tears budded in Issari’s eyes. “Is Grandfather . . . ? He’s . . .” She covered her face with her palms.

  Raem yanked her hands away. “Dry your tears! Today you must be strong. I will honor your wish. I will spare your filthy brother’s life. But he will not taint this kingdom again.”

  He grabbed the boy, lifting him off the block. Sena seemed too dazed, too hurt, to resist. Blood filled his mouth and poured from his nose. His arm hung at a strange angle, perhaps dislocated, and his face was pale. Even if he wanted to shift now, to become a dragon and fly into exile like his mother and sister had, he was too hurt to summon his magic.

  Leaving his daughter behind, Raem manhandled the prince across the courtyard, down a stone path, and toward Aerhein Tower.

  The steeple rose outside the palace, towering and ancient, one of the first buildings to rise in all of Eteer. Many years ago, the first king had raised Aerhein Tower to gaze upon the city, an eye watching the coast. Today it served as Eteer’s most infamous prison, a place for its greatest enemies to languish. This place had imprisoned usurped kings, treacherous generals, and now a disgraced prince.

  Blood trailed as Raem pulled his son up the winding staircase. They climbed round and round, the sunlight falling through arrowslits. Whenever Sena faltered or tried to beg, Raem struck him again, beating his face into a red, swollen mess.

  When they reached the tower top, Raem shoved the door open, revealing an empty chamber. The bricks were rough and stained with old blood. Messages from previous prisoners were carved into the craggy walls. Chains hung from those walls, and only a single window, small and barred, let in light.

  “You will remain here until your last day,” said Raem. “The kingdom will forget you. So will I. So will your sister. Eventually you will forget yourself, remaining but a starving, mad thing clawing at the walls, and even then you will linger. You became a creature in your chamber, and so I will turn you into a creature—a frail, mad mockery of a man. You have shamed me, Sena, and now you will suffer for your sin. Death would be a kindness to you. I give you instead damnation.”

  A new burst of vigor filled Sena. He howled wordlessly, seeming unable to speak through his bloodied mouth, and tried to race toward the door. Another blow sent him sprawling.

  Lying on the floor, Sena tried to shift. Scales began to rise across him. Wings began to sprout from his back, his body began to grow, and fangs lengthened in his mouth.

  Raem kicked, driving his foot against his son’s scaly face.

  With an anguished cry and splatter of blood, Sena lost his magic. His eyes rolled back and closed. He slumped down, unconscious.

  Moving methodically, Raem grabbed chains from the walls. He bound his son’s wrists and ankles, then wrapped more chains around his torso.

  “When you wake, you may try to shift again,” Raem said. “As you grow, you will find that these chains tear you apart.” He snorted. “Goodbye, reptile.”

  Fists clenched at his sides, his son’s blood covering him, Raem left the tower.

  He reentered the palace. He descended dark, narrow staircases, moving past wine cellars and armories, climbing down and down until he reached the deep cave under the palace, that gaping belly of water—the city cistern.

  Columns rose here in many rows, supporting a vaulted ceiling. Water filled the chamber, running deep and black, enough for a city to drink. It was an old, oft-forgotten place, one of the oldest chambers in the city-state of Eteer. It was a place to be alone.

  This is where I found them, Raem thought. This is where I found my wife, Anai, and my daughter, Laira. Here is where they came to shift.

  That day returned to him, perhaps the worst of his days. He had secretly followed them here. He had seen them become the reptiles, swim in the water, fly to the ceiling.

  He had confronted them with rage, screamed, even shed tears. He had drawn his sword, prepared to slay them, and they had fled, flying away from this city, flying to the northern lands of barbarians.

  Raem trembled. “And now I’ve lost a son too.”

  He could no longer contain his despair; it welled inside him, all consuming. Eyes stinging, he entered the water.

  He clenched his fists, ground his teeth, and squeezed his eyes shut.

  He releases the rage.

  The curse swelled.

  Scales flowed across Raem, black as the darkness. Horns grew from his head, and claws sprouted from his fingers. His wings burst from his back, banging against the columns, and his tail lashed in the water. Fire sparked between his teeth.

  A dragon in the deep, he lowered his head, trembling, clanking, diseased, ashamed.

  “You infected me too, Anai,” he said, voice rising from a mouth full of fire. “But I will hide it. I will end it. I will stop this disease from spreading. And I will kill anyone who stands in my way.”

  He released his magic.

  He became a human again, a mere man, a sick man, floating in the water.

  He climbed onto a ledge of stone, trembling with his shame. He pulled off his shirt of bronze scales and the cotton tunic he wore beneath it. He unbuckled his thick leather belt.

  Upon the ledge, Raem clenched his jaw and swung the belt over his back. The leather connected with his flesh, tearing into the skin.

  Raem bit down on a cry.

  I am filthy, he thought. I am a sinner. I will purify myself.

  He lashed the belt again. Again. The blows kept landing, driving the shame away. When he was done, when the purity was restored, he curled up on the stone floor. He bit his fist. He took short, ragged breaths, and again he smelled it, that beautiful smell that could always soothe him. Blood.

  TANIN

  HE STOOD ON ONE FOOT, juggling his bronzed raven skulls, but the onlookers only yawned, shifted their weight, and fluttered their lips with bored snorts.

  Standing on the creaky wooden stage, Tanin gulped. It was a chilly autumn day, the sky overcast and the wind biting, but Tanin felt as if he stood within the flames of the Abyss. He needed to win this crowd over—and quickly. Only the top performers in the harvest festival won the coveted prize: a purse of seashells from the distant southern coast. Seashells could be bartered for food, ale, medicine—and, Tanin thought, maybe a little dignity.

  As the crowd began to wander off, Tanin cleared his throat.

  “Ah, but juggling is not all I can do!” he announced. “I can sing while I juggle.”

  He launched into a baritone song—a
tale of a buxom lass from a wandering tribe, her hair as thick as mammoth fur, her legs as long and pale as tusks, her breasts as large as—

  He dropped one skull, losing his place in the song. For a moment he wobbled on one foot, then completed his embarrassment by crashing down onto the stage. His remaining raven skulls clattered away in all directions. He quickly raced around, scooping them up, and tried to resume his performance despite jeers from the crowd. One man in the audience, a beefy brute with red cheeks, burst into laughter.

  Tanin sighed. Another village, another humiliation.

  This village—a little place called Blueford—lay south of the Ranin River. While most folk north of the sea still lived in nomadic tribes, hunting and gathering across the plains and forests, a few villages now grew along the river, none older than three or four generations. The recent invention of bronze, a metal Tanin himself used to forge with his father, meant plows could now till soil. Food could be grown, not merely collected from wild plants. Nails could hold together fences, and animals could be penned, not hunted. Many of the tribes, Tanin knew, mocked the villagers for abandoning the old ways, for growing soft and lazy.

  Banished from his own village a decade ago, Tanin himself preferred open spaces and solitude. But villages would barter. Villages would offer seashells, food, and even precious metal in return for juggling and singing—at least on days when he didn’t end up on his backside, his skulls rolling around him. And so Tanin kept traveling along the river, juggling and singing his rude songs.

  His sister, Maev, had it even worse. She traveled from town to town with him, wrestling, boxing, and earning her keep with fists and kicks. She joked that he fell on his arse for seashells while she kicked arses for them. He often countered that her face—covered with bruises and scrapes from her many fights—ended up looking like an ape’s swollen backside.

  My sister and me, he thought with a sigh. Two lost souls—outcast, afraid, always only days away from starvation.