FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  ANGEL

  THE VOICES SCREAMED INSIDE HER, shrill, deep, twisting, hoarse, rising and shattering like glass.

  We don’t want to die!

  Feed us entrails!

  Attack, fight, bite, eat, feed, tear, rip!

  Pain. Pain. Pain! This must end. Stop! Mercy!

  Angel sneered, smoke rising from between her teeth, and clutched her head. The voices would forever fill her, she knew. Even here. Even risen from the Abyss. Even upon the soil of Eteer, this kingdom aboveground, the cries echoed.

  They hurt.

  They hurt us!

  Hate! Bite! Tear! Punish!

  A thousand voices, all her own. A child in shadows. A child chained, whipped, broken, deformed. A creature risen to domination, to rule upon a land of darkness, to govern minions of flayed skin, of rotted flesh, creatures twisting and begging and laughing.

  “I have suffered, King Raem,” she said, staring at the mortal. “I have suffered like you cannot imagine. A thousand times I died and rose from death. A thousand hurts coil inside me. A thousand voices of my own scream inside my skull of stone.” She unfurled her wings until they banged against the walls of his bedchamber. Her flaming hair crackled, and her saliva dripped from her maw to burn holes into the rug. “Let me grow. Let me become the queen I am destined to be.”

  Raem stood by the window, staring out upon the city. The towers, domes, and walls of Eteer spread below the azure sky. All over the city, the cackle of demons and screams of mortals rose in a song.

  “I know what you would ask of me,” the king said. “And I refuse.”

  Angel hissed, leaped toward him, and grabbed his shoulders. She spun him around until he faced her. She bared her fangs, blasting smoke against his face.

  “Feed us.” She tossed back her head and roared. She dug her claws into his shoulders, and his blood seeped. “Feed us the flesh of mortals. Not weredragons.” She spat. “Weredragons taste like the piss of gods. We crave the sweeter meat.” She licked her chops, already imagining it. “Feed us the pure mortals of your kingdom, the blessed forms of Taal, untainted with the reptile disease. The silver god of purity is vain. For ten thousand years, he laughed as I screamed in my prison. I would feast upon his sons and daughters.”

  Raem stared at her, and only the slightest sneer found his lips. “No. You will not feed upon my kingdom. You may eat weredragons, and you may eat the flesh of animals. But the people of Eteer are blessed with Taal’s form. I will not allow a horde of diseased, impure creatures to consume my pure people.”

  Angel sneered, the hunger for human flesh twisting in her belly. She needed his blessing. She was still bound to him, still his prisoner, even here in the sunlight. Even here the ancient laws bound her.

  “Feed us!” she screamed. She lashed her arm, knocked over a stone vase, and shattered it. Sparks flew from her flaming hair. “Feed us the flesh of Eteer. Feed us and we will grow. Your demons are still small, King of Mortals. We have shrunk in our prison. We have grown weak. Feed us pure man-flesh and we will become larger than dragons. How can we fight dragons unless we grow to their size?”

  Raem snorted. “The weredragons cower. They hide in cellars and sewers. You are more than capable of flushing them out, even with your smaller forms. You will obey me, Angel. If I discover one drop of pure human blood consumed, I will hold you accountable.”

  Angel snickered. Fast as a striking asp, she thrust a claw, scratching Raem’s cheek. Blood spilled. Angel brought the claw to her lips. She licked Raem’s blood and a shiver ran through her. The cracks on her body of stone widened, spewing droplets of lava.

  “You taste of reptile.” She spat. “The weredragon disease flows in your blood. Did you think I could not smell it? I knew of your shame my first day here. You—“

  He slammed his sword against her cheek.

  Her stone face cracked, spilling smoke, and she laughed.

  “You forget your boundaries,” Raem said, glaring at her.

  Lava dripped from her shattered cheek as Angel cackled. “You do not like me speaking of your secret, do you? Perhaps I will trumpet the news from the city walls. Perhaps all shall know that Raem, King of Eteer, is a filthy were—“

  “By the light of Taal!” he shouted, interrupting her. “Angel, Queen of Demons, harken to me. As King of Eteer, I hereby banish you back to the Aby—“

  She shrieked.

  She lashed all four arms, cracking his armor, shattering the room around her. A clay urn shattered, spilling wine across the floor. She leaped, swiped her claws, and knocked down a limestone statue of an ancient, bearded king. Her arms spun, tearing down the room, digging ruts into the walls and floor. Clay tablets bearing cuneiform writings—epic tales of ancient heroes—fell off shelves, shattering into a heap of shards. Her flames blasted out, and tapestries burned.

  Raem stood as she raged, calm, staring.

  “Speak your treasonous words again,” the king said, “and I will complete the banishment.”

  “Then send me hunting outside your borders.” Angel panted, tongue lolling. “Send me to the deserts of Tiranor in the west. Send me to the barbarous lands north of the sea. Send me to the city-states in the south, your old enemies. I will find mortal flesh elsewhere.”

  Raem shook his head. “You are not to leave this city, Angel. The walls of Eteer are your boundaries. I have given you more freedom than you’ve known in ten thousand years, but you are still my slave. You will remain here until you’ve captured all the weredragons.”

  She howled. “Your weredragons do not satisfy the hunger in our bellies. Your flesh stinks of starlight.”

  “Once they are all dead, I will send you hunting beyond my borders. Not until then.” Raem leaned down and lifted a small, obsidian statuette of a winged bull. He placed it back on a shelf. “More remain in this city. Still your demons unearth one every day. Your servitude will continue.” He turned back toward the window. “I have errands in the north. I seek a particular weredragon across the sea—a weredragon that betrayed me, a weredragon I will hurt. A weredragon named Laira.” He turned back toward Angel, and his fists clenched, and his eyes hardened. “While I am away, you are not to leave this city, nor are you to touch my people. My daughter Issari will sit upon the throne until I return. You are to obey her, even as the hunger eats through your belly.”

  You will break!

  You are broken!

  You will never rise!

  Help, mercy, stop, take it back!

  Yes, Angel hungered. Forever hunger lived inside her. Hunger for an end to those voices. Hunger for blood, for flesh, for power, for freedom. Hunger for a child.

  She placed her hand against her belly, aching for spawn, for the rustle of unholy life within her. The ravenous lust blazed through her loins with dark fire.

  She grabbed Raem’s shoulders again.

  “I hunger for you. Take me.”

  He grabbed onto her hard, stone body that leaked smoke and flame. She sneered, turned her back to him, and dropped to her hands and knees. She howled as he took her, head tossed back, her flames blasting out from her eyes, her claws digging into the floor.

  The fire consumed her.

  For a precious few moments, the voices fell silent.

  For now her craving was sated, but as he took her, Angel swore: I will slay all his weredragons, and I will feast upon the flesh of his people, and when he has placed a child within my womb, I will feast upon Raem too.

  She welcomed his seed into her, and she smiled.

  TANIN

  WHENEVER TANIN SLEPT, HE REMEMBERED.

  Even here in the forest, his sister sleeping beside him, he thrashed, half-awake, the memories clawing at him, dragging him down to that dark place eleven years ago.

  “We have to run,” Jeid had said, bursting into the smithy with wild hair and flushed cheeks. “We have to fly.”

  Tanin had stood at the forge that day, fourteen years old, an apprentice to his father. The brick walls of the smithy rose ar
ound him. Upon hooks hung hammers, tongs, pokers, and all the other tools of the trade. A cauldron of bronze bubbled beside Tanin, drenching him with heat, and sweat dampened his hair. He had the mold ready—a sickle for Farmer Gam who grew rye outside the town—and was just about the pour the liquid metal.

  “What do you mean?” he asked his father.

  He had never seen the old man look like this. Jeid Blacksmith—Grizzly to his children—was always a little disheveled, what with his shaggy hair, wild beard, and rough cloak of fur and leather. But today, for the first time, Tanin saw his father look scared. Tanin had seen Grizzly knock out malevolent drunkards, fight an invasion of a roaming tribe, and even battle a saber-toothed cat with only a simple dagger. But Jeid had never looked scared, and that fear now seeped into Tanin.

  “They saw me fly,” Jeid said, voice low. “They know. We have to run.”

  Tanin froze, unable to breathe. He grabbed his hammer.

  They know.

  From outside rose the townsfolk’s cries. “Weredragons! The curse has come to Oldforge. Burn the Blacksmiths!”

  Tanin could remember little of what happened next, only the heat of flames, the bite of an arrow in his thigh, the mad faces dancing around him, hundreds of men come to slay him. Maev flew above, a green dragon roaring fire, pelted with arrows. Mother tried to stop the mob; Zerra clubbed her, knocking her down, and the villagers stomped her, dragged her body through the village behind a horse. And blood. Everywhere the blood of men and dragons. A burning child ran between the huts, screaming as the flames engulfed him.

  “Fly, Tanin!” Jeid called.

  “Tanin, where are you going?” Maev shouted. “Fly!”

  But he would not fly. He ran through the village. The arrow protruded from his thigh, and behind him, he heard his own uncle—Zerra, twin to his father—shouting to kill the creatures. But Tanin kept running, limping now, until he reached her home.

  “Ciana!” he cried, barging into the hut. “Ciana, where are you?”

  She emerged from shadows, dressed in her white gown. A girl of fourteen, she had long, dark hair and large gray eyes that he thought very beautiful.

  “Tanin,” she whispered. A haunted sound. The sound of old ghosts. A sound of old pain. Even then, Tanin knew that the sound—that soft utterance, that whisper of his name—would forever echo through his mind.

  “Flee with me.” He panted and reached out to her. “I must leave now. Flee with me to the mountains. We can marry in the wilderness. We can live together far from this place.” The cries of the mob rose from the fields; they would be here soon. “I love you.”

  Ciana—his beloved, the girl he had kissed upon the hill just last night, the girl he had vowed to marry someday—stared at him silently, and something filled her eyes. Not love. Not fear. Slowly Tanin recognized it.

  Disgust.

  “You are a weredragon.” She took a step back, and her father approached and placed an arm around her. “You . . . you are diseased.” She shuddered. “I kissed you. I let you hold me.” Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her voice rose to a hoarse cry. “Kill him, Father! Kill the creature!”

  As her father reached for a knife, Tanin fled. He too wept. They waited outside—the mob of townsfolk, waving torches, firing arrows. Beyond them he saw his family: his wise grandfather, Eranor, a white dragon; his father, Jeid, a copper dragon blowing fire; his younger sister, Maev, a slim green dragon. They flew above the fields, arrows whistling around them, calling for him.

  Tanin shifted.

  He too became a dragon.

  Arrows slammed into his scales, and one pierced his wing, and he flew.

  They fled over the forest. They raced across the wilderness until they found a hidden cave and cowered, wounded, afraid, banished. And still Ciana’s words echoed in his mind.

  Tanin.

  You are diseased.

  Kill him, Father!

  “I love you,” he whispered, reaching out to her, seeking her through shadows and light. “I’m not a creature. I love you. I—“

  “Stars above, Tanin! I love you too, but stop grabbing at me like a drunkard.”

  He opened his eyes.

  He blinked.

  His sister sat beside him, wrapped in furs—no longer the young girl from that day but a grown woman, her face a mask of fading bruises, her arms strong and her bottom lip thrust out in her permanent gesture of disdain.

  Tanin looked around him, for a moment confused, but then remembered his location. Of course. They had been flying for three nights since leaving the escarpment, heading south toward the coast. Birches grew around him, their trunks dark in the sunset, their leaves deep red. The sun was only an orange sliver between the boles; soon it would be gone.

  “I was dreaming.” He sat up in his bed of leaves and fur pelts.

  Maev snorted. “I could tell. You kept talking about loving this and loving that.” She rolled her eyes. “What were you dreaming about—being some hero? Saving a damsel in distress?” She shoved him back down. “Quit dreaming and get ready to fly! We’re flying to save a prince, dear brother, not a damsel for you to bed.” She tapped her chin. “Unless you prefer princes. But in that case, you’ll have to fight me for him, because I’m claiming him for myself.”

  He groaned and rose to his feet. The evening was cold, and he shivered and stuffed his hands under his armpits. Since leaving the escarpment, they’d been spending the days sleeping, hiding under leaf and fur, and flying only under cover of darkness. As Tanin hopped around for warmth, he watched the sun disappear below the horizon, and shadows—the best friends of a Vir Requis—fell across the forest.

  “I hope you fly faster tonight,” Maev said; he could just make out her frown. “You fly slower than a dove against the wind.”

  “I’m eating breakfast first. Or dinner. Or whatever meal it is now.” He reached into his pack, rummaged around, and found a salted sausage. The meat was cold and damp—the rain had wet his pack overnight—but better than an empty belly.

  It was Maev’s turn to groan. She mimicked him, speaking in a deep whine. “I want breakfast. I want to sleep longer. I want to love.” She rolled her eyes. “Bloody stars, brother! I swear you’re a princess yourself.” She shoved him. “Toughen up and let’s fly.”

  She snatched the rest of the sausage from him, stuffed it into her mouth, and shifted. A green dragon, she crashed through the forest canopy and rose into the sky. Already mourning the loss of his sausage, Tanin grabbed a handful of nuts from his pack.

  “Tanin!” rose the dragon’s cry above. “Shift or I’m going to burn down the damn forest.”

  Grumbling under his breath, Tanin stuffed the nuts into his mouth and shifted too. A red dragon, he rose through the shattered canopy to hover beside Maev.

  “Try to keep up this time.” She slapped him with her tail, then darted off, wings beating. With a sigh, Tanin followed.

  They flew through the night. Clouds hid the stars, and the moon was only a pale wisp behind the veil. It began to rain again, the drops pattering against Tanin’s scales, pooling atop his wings, and entering his nostrils. He could barely see Maev ahead, only brief lights when sparks fled her mouth.

  In the darkness, like in sleep, it was easy to remember.

  “Ciana,” he whispered.

  He had not loved a woman since. He had barely seen women since, aside from his sister, whom Tanin was convinced was half warthog. That had been the day everything had changed: the day Mother died, the day they fled into exile, and the day Tanin made his vow.

  I vowed to find others, he thought as the rain fell. To find people like us—exiled, afraid, alone. I vowed that they will have a home, a place to belong, a place to feel not diseased but blessed.

  Jeid called that home Requiem, naming it after Tanin’s youngest sister whom the villagers had poisoned. Tanin didn’t care what their tribe was called. He only cared for that person out there—a person like him, rejected and scared.

  “If you’re out
there, Sena,” he said into the rain, “we’ll find you, my friend. We’ll bring you home.”

  They flew for a long time in the darkness. Maev—damn her hide!—kept flying so far ahead that Tanin nearly lost sight of her. The old wound in his wing—a hole from a hunter’s arrow—ached in the cold, and air whistled through it. His breath was wheezing with a similar sound. Every time he caught up with Maev, she only flashed him a toothy grin, blasted a little fire his way, and darted off again, faster than ever.

  “Maev, in the name of sanity, this isn’t a race.”

  She grinned over her shoulder at him. The flames between her teeth lit her green scales. “Everything is a race, brother. We’re racing to save a prince. We’re racing to forge a tribe. We’re racing to finally find you a female companion, because I swear you’ve been looking funny at sheep this past year.”

  “Very funny, Maev. Now I’m a heavier dragon than you, and you know I have a hole in my left wing, so please slow dow—“

  She cut him off with a blast of smoke, turned back forward, and raced ahead again.

  Tanin was grumbling and pounding his wings, trying to catch up, when the shrieks rose ahead.

  His heart seemed to freeze.

  He knew those sounds. He had heard them before when hunting upon the plains.

  “Uncle’s rocs,” he muttered.

  Tanin winced. That day he had fled into exile, his uncle too had left Oldforge. Zerra—disgusted with his twin’s disease—had since dedicate his life to hunting those he called weredragons. Wandering the wilderness with a bronze sword—a sword Jeid himself had forged for him—Zerra had finally joined a wandering tribe of roc riders. The Goldtusk tribe had been but a ragged, near-starved group of barbarians, and Zerra had slain their aging chieftain with a single blow from his blade—a blade such as these ramblers, with their stone-tipped spears, had never seen. Since then, Zerra had swelled their numbers, breeding the rocs from a humble dozen to a hundred beasts, starving and tormenting the great vultures and teaching them hatred of reptiles.