FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Scales flowed across Sena, blue as the sky. Claws began to grow from his fingernails. His body grew larger, inflating, and—

  Pain.

  The chains that wrapped around him dug deep. He cried out. The metal links cut into him. His ballooning body was pressing against the bonds, and his blood spilled.

  With a whimper, he released his magic.

  He lay on the floor, trembling, small again, safe again, chained in the shackles that kept him human. He had always been able to shift with clothes, even with a sword at his waist, taking those objects—parts of him like his skin—into his dragon form. But these chains were foreign things, cruel, hurting.

  “I’m sorry, Issari,” he whispered.

  The cell’s doorknob rattled behind him.

  Sena cowered, sure that the guards had heard him. They would kick him again, spit upon him, bang his head against the wall. He crawled into the corner as the door creaked open, raising his hands to shield his face.

  “Please,” he whispered.

  But it was not the guards.

  His father, King Raem Seran, stood at the doorway.

  Clad in his bronze armor, the king stared down at his son in disgust. Sena blinked up at his father, and hope sprang inside him.

  My father has come to free me.

  “Father,” he whispered, lips bleeding. “Forgive me. Please. Forgive me. I love you.”

  When Sena reached out to him, Raem grunted and kicked his hand aside.

  “Forgive you?” Raem said. He sneered. “You are a weredragon, a filthy creature lower than lepers. I did not come here to forgive you.” He lifted a bloody canvas sack. “I came here to show you what could have been your fate.”

  Raem upended the sack. A severed head spilled onto the floor, eyes still wide in frozen fear. Sena gasped and scampered away from the ghastly gift.

  “A weredragon,” Raem said. “My demons caught this one hiding under a bakery.” He snorted a laugh. “It can be your friend. As you stare into its dead eyes, remember that you are alive, that I showed you mercy.”

  With that, his father turned and left the cell, slamming the door behind him.

  Tears in his eyes, Sena raced toward the door. He slammed himself against the heavy oak, pounding it with his fists.

  “Please, Father!” he shouted. “I’ll do anything you ask. I’ll never shift again. I . . . I’ll hunt weredragons with you! I . . .”

  His strength left him.

  He slumped to the floor.

  The severed head stared up at him, its mouth open, the stalk of its neck red. Sena pulled his knees to his chest and stared back into the lifeless eyes.

  At least, he thought as the sunlight faded, I’m no longer alone.

  ISSARI

  SHE STOOD UPON THE BALCONY, the wind fluttering her tunic, watching the demons swarm over her city.

  Eteer, center of the sprawling Eteerian civilization, had once been a city of pale towers rising into clear skies; swaying palm and fig trees; a peaceful blue sea lapping at mossy walls; and proud people robed in white, walking along cobbled streets, welcoming the ships that sailed in. Birds would sing among the trees, and the sweet scents of fruit and spices would waft upon the wind. Once, standing here, Issari would see a great mosaic of peace and beauty.

  Today she saw a hive of rot and flame.

  A thousand creatures of the Abyss filled the city now—crawling upon walls, festering upon roofs, and fluttering in the sky. Each of the creatures was a unique horror. Issari saw demons of scales, demons of tentacles, demons of slime, of rot, of fire. She saw creatures turned inside out, organs glistening upon their inverted skin. She saw bloated, warty things drag themselves along cobbled streets, leaving trails of slime. The heads of children, innocent and fair, rose upon the bodies of clattering centipedes. Bloated faces of dogs sneered upon the armored bodies of crabs. Conjoined twins, ten or more stitched together with demon thread, moved upon their many legs.

  Some creatures were small, no larger than dogs. Others were as large as mules. Everywhere they sniffed, snorted, sought the weredragons. Everywhere they barged through doors, rummaged through temples, pulling out families, licking, smelling, rubbing, discarding.

  Issari stood above, staring upon this waking nightmare, her eyes damp. Her fingers clung to the railing.

  What has happened to my home?

  A voice rose behind her, answering her thoughts.

  “They are seeking weredragons. They are ugly, my daughter, and they frighten you, but they are purifying our city of the disease.”

  She turned to see her father step onto the balcony. He came to stand beside her, leaned over the railing, and watched the creatures swarm down the streets and across the roofs.

  Issari spoke in a small voice. “But Father, aren’t we just bringing a greater evil into our kingdom?”

  Raem turned toward her, and she saw the anger in his eyes. He clenched his fists, and Issari stepped back, sure he would strike her; he had struck her many times before. But his fire died as fast as it had kindled, and he caressed her cheek.

  “You are pure, Issari, the only pure thing I have left. But you are young, and you are innocent. There is no evil greater than having a pure human form and betraying it. Our lord Taal forbids tattoos, piercings, obesity, or any disgrace against the form he gave us. To shift into a reptile is the greatest abomination. These demons might look strange, but they are doing Taal’s work.”

  Screams rose below, and Issari spun back toward the city. On a street not far away, a host of demons—red creatures with bat wings—dragged an old man from his home. The greybeard tried to fight them, but the demons clung with clawed hands. Their snouts sniffed, pressing against the man’s skin.

  “Weredragon, weredragon!” the demons cried. “We found a reptile!”

  Issari sucked in her breath. At her side, Raem leaned forward, baring his teeth, seeming almost hungry.

  The old man below managed to tear himself free. He burst into a run, only for the demons to leap onto his legs and knock him down. Then, as Issari watched and gasped, the man shifted.

  A thin silver dragon beat his wings, rising into the air. Before he could clear the roofs, the company of demons leaped onto the dragon like wolves on a bison. They slammed the silver beast onto the cobblestones and laughed, clawed, bit. They tore off scales, scattering them across the street, and blood splashed. With a whimper, the dragon lost his magic, returning to human form.

  Issari looked away, but Raem pushed her face back toward the city.

  “Watch, daughter,” said the king. “You must see this.”

  The demons tore the old man apart. One demon lifted a severed leg over its head, parading it as a trophy. Other demons tore out internal organs, and one began to feast upon the entrails. The demons danced with their prizes, slick with blood.

  Issari winced, horror rising inside her. She closed her eyes. “This is evil, Father. This is wrong.”

  He gripped her wrist and his eyes blazed. “This is dominion. One cannot rule a kingdom with compassion, only with strength. With your siblings gone, you are my heir. This land will someday be yours. I will no longer pamper you. Accustom yourself to blood. When you are Queen, you too will shed blood . . . or others will shed yours.”

  Issari did not want to be Queen. She wished she could fly away too—like Laira. She closed her eyes, imagining that she too could shift. If she could become a dragon, she could fly off this balcony, soar so high even the demons could not catch her. She would head north, find her mother and sister, and flee this horrible city.

  Yet as her father had said, she was pure. No reptile curse filled her veins. She remained a young woman, trapped upon this balcony.

  She opened her eyes and mouth, about to plead with her father, to beg him to return the demons to the Abyss, when the crone stepped onto the balcony.

  “So here they are—father and sister to the maggot.”

  Issari spun around and gasped. In the balcony doorway stood the strangest wo
man she’d ever seen. The crone was bent over, wizened as a raisin, and clad in animal skins. Warts covered her hooked nose, and her fingernails were long and yellow. Wisps of white hair covered her scalp, and her mouth opened in a cruel, toothless grin.

  Is this a demon? Issari wondered, heart racing.

  “Who are you?” Raem demanded, taking a step toward the crone. “How did you pass the guards?”

  The wizened old creature cackled. She reached out twig-like fingers to rap his armor. “You are a man of metal, of might, of many demons. But Old Shedah still has some tricks.” She spat right onto the balcony floor, then turned toward Issari. “Well . . . and look at this one. A fair, ripe fruit, she is.” The crone reached up to stroke Issari’s breast. “You are taller and fairer than your sister. She is a worm, but you are a rare flower. You would make a fine bride for my chieftain.”

  Issari took a step backward, banging her back against the balcony railing. “Stay away, witch! How dare you speak of my sister?”

  “Witch? No, I am no witch.” Shedah bared her toothless gums in a mockery of a grin. “I am Shaman of the Goldtusk tribe, once the sanctuary of Queen Anai, that diseased reptile, and Laira, the little maggot.” She stroked Issari’s cheek, her fingernails sharp. “Your mother and sister. I have traveled for long days to this land, moving down the shadowy paths unknown to those of simple minds. I bring news of them, oh princess of distant lands.”

  Raem snarled and grabbed the old woman’s wrist, tugging her away from Issari. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself.” He stepped back into the palace, dragging the crone with him. “Guards! Guards, where—“

  When they stepped into the chamber, both king and princess gasped. The guards lay on the floor, fast asleep, lips fluttering as they snored.

  Shedah cackled and spat upon one. “Weak worms. How did you folk ever build a kingdom of stone and metal? You are guarded by weak boys, their cheeks smoother than my backside.” The crone snorted. “Come north across the sea, oh king, and you will see the strength of true warriors.”

  Raem’s face flushed. He slid his khopesh from his belt and raised the curved blade. Issari had to race forward and stop him.

  “Father! Wait. She knows Mother. She knows Laira.”

  Looking back at the shaman, Issari trembled. Could it be? Could this crone be speaking truth? Issari’s eyes stung and her knees shook.

  My mother . . . my sister . . .

  Issari could not remember them, for they had fled too long ago. Father had smashed all paintings, statues, and engravings depicting Queen Anai and Princess Laira, but Issari had always dreamed of seeing them again. If this shaman had news, there was hope.

  “What do you know?” she said, turning toward Shedah. “Tell us. Tell us everything.”

  Shedah licked her lips. “My sweet child, your mother is dead. Burned at the stake. I watched her burn and I spat upon her charred corpse.”

  Issari stared, unable to breathe, and her eyes stung.

  Mother . . . no . . .

  Issari had been only a babe when Mother fled this city. She could not remember the woman, but she dreamed about her every night. In her dreams, Mother looked like her—her black hair braided, her eyes green and soft, her face kind. All her life that whisper, that warm vision, had comforted Issari, for she knew that even if Mother was far away, she still lived. She still cared for her daughter.

  Dead. Burned.

  Tears gathered in Issari’s eyes.

  “You are lying!” she shouted at the crone.

  Shedah reached into her pouch and produced a silver amulet. It bore an engraving of Taal—a man with his head lowered, his arms hanging at his sides, his palms facing outward—a sigil of purity and humility.

  “The amulet of Eteer’s queen—Anai’s last relic of her once royal past.” The shaman tossed the talisman toward Issari. “Keep it. And whenever you look at it, remember that your mother screamed like a butchered pig when the flames licked the flesh off her bones.”

  As Issari clutched the amulet, Raem grabbed the crone’s arms and leaned down, glaring at her.

  “What of Laira?” the king demanded. “What of my daughter?”

  Shedah licked her lips with her long, white tongue. “The maggot fled our tribe. She was heading north when we lost her scent, but I know where she was going.” Shedah pressed her withered hand against the king’s cheek. “I will reveal all to you, mighty king, in return for but one gift.”

  Raem clutched the woman’s arms so tightly they seemed ready to snap. “What do you desire?”

  “The same as you, my lord. The same as all who are wise. Power.” She sneered. “For years, I placed leeches upon the flesh of Laira, sucking up her blood for my potions. The blood of a princess is mighty, and my stores run low.” The shaman turned toward Issari and gave her a hungry, lustful look. “Give me your one daughter, and I will give you the other.”

  JEID

  HE FLEW.

  SOMETIMES HE JUST needed to fly.

  The night stretched around him, moonless, starless, a world without sight, a sea of wind and blackness and cold air. He did not know where he flew. Most nights he no longer cared.

  Jeid Blacksmith, men used to call him—a forger of bronze.

  Grizzly, his children called him—a shaggy, endearing old beast, lumbering and harmless.

  Diseased, said those who lived in wilderness and towns. A creature. Cursed.

  Flying here upon the wind, he no longer knew who he was. He no longer knew what to call himself.

  “Who am I, Keyla?” he asked, the wind all but drowning his voice.

  He saw her face in the night—his wife, her hair golden in the sun, her smile bright. A sad woman—her smile had always seemed sad to him—but one who clung to every sliver of joy, cradling and nourishing it, letting it grow even through pain.

  “You are Jeid.” She spoke in his mind and touched his cheek. “You are my husband. You are a father to our children.”

  He lowered his head. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell his wife that their youngest daughter was dead, that the people of the plains—perhaps Zerra’s wandering tribe, perhaps the people of Oldforge or another town—had poisoned her.

  But Keyla already knew. He saw that knowledge in her eyes.

  “You’re together now,” Jeid whispered. “And I want to join you.”

  The pain constricted his throat. How easy it would be—to shift into human form, to plummet down through this darkness, to hit the ground and feel no pain, only a relief from pain, only the rise of his soul to the stars. And he would be with Keyla and Requiem again. He could hold his wife, kiss his daughter, nevermore feel hurt, nevermore feel alone and afraid and torn.

  “You must be strong,” Keyla said, and he barely saw her now. His wife was but a wisp, a fading memory, a voice of starlight. “For the others.”

  Rage filled Jeid. The fire crackled through his body. He released it with a great, showering blaze, a beacon that any roc for marks could see. But Jeid no longer cared.

  “Why must this be my task?” His wings shook, and his claws dug into his soles. “Why must I lead this new tribe? I am tired. I want to sleep. I want to be with you again.”

  He looked up to the sky. The clouds parted and he saw three stars—the tail of the dragon, the new constellation that shone in the skies. And there he saw a silver countenance, no longer his wife but his daughter. Young Requiem shone above, wise and sad like her mother had been.

  And Jeid knew the answer.

  “Because I vowed to you, Requiem.” His eyes stung. “I vowed to build a home in your name—so no others would die like you died.” He shook, scales rattling. “But I wish you were here with me. I wish you could live in this home too, my daughter.”

  The clouds gathered again, the light faded, and she was gone.

  Jeid blasted out more fire. He sucked in air, ground his teeth, and kept flying.

  He flew in blackness.

  He flew throughout the night—to remember and to forg
et.

  A hint of dawn gilded the east, and landforms emerged below, charcoal beneath the black sky—the whisper of hills, valleys, and fields of grass. Jeid turned and flew back north until he saw it, a great shelf of stone that split the world. The escarpment spread across the horizon, the cliffs gleaming bronze as the sun rose. He flew across the river, rose above the mountainside, and saw the canyon there—a den, a hideaway, a seed of a home. He opened his wings wide, catching air, and glided down into the gorge.

  As soon as he touched the ground, he saw it.

  Blood on the stones.

  His nostrils flared. The place stank of injury. Jeid moved his head from side to side, clinging to his dragon form.

  “Father!” he called out.

  His heart pounded. Had the rocs finally dared attack the escarpment, overcoming their fear of the place? Had the townsfolk invaded?

  “Father!” he shouted.

  Finally the old man’s voice rose in answer. “I’m here. It’s all right, Jeid. Come into the cave.”

  Exhaling in relief, Jeid released his magic. He hopped between boulders in human form, entered the eastern cave, and crawled through a short tunnel and into a chamber.

  He straightened and lost his breath.

  “Stars above.”

  His father sat on the floor, clad in his blue druid robes, blood staining his long white beard. Before him, a shivering young man lay upon a rug. The stranger’s foot was missing. The stump was raw and red, still gushing blood, the shattered bones exposed.

  “Hold him down, Jeid,” Eranor said calmly. “Quickly. I need you to hold him down.”

  “Who—“ Jeid began.

  “Now.”

  Jeid nodded, stepped forward, and knelt behind the injured man. The stranger was shivering, his skin gray, his eyes sunken. Jeid held onto his arms.

  When Eranor reached into the wound, the man bucked and screamed.

  “Hold him firmly!” Eranor said.

  Jeid nodded and tightened his grip, pinning the young man down. Eyes grim, Eranor fished out the sputtering vein. Fingers red, he tied the vein shut.