And Laira had never felt more afraid.
Love and warmth. These were new feelings for her. She didn’t think she was worthy of this love. Whenever Jeid approached with a bowl of stew, she expected him to toss it at her, not serve it to her. Whenever Eranor approached with healing herbs, she flinched, expecting him to strike her, not heal her.
“I’m not worthy of love,” she would whisper every night, curled up in the cave, the fire warming her. “I’m ugly. I’m deformed.” She shivered. “Why do they love me so?”
Every morning she expected it to end—to wake up, to realize it had been a dream, a cruel joke, a trap. She kept waiting for Zerra to step out from a cave, to reveal that he’d been working with Jeid and Eranor all along, to shout, “Maggot, how dare you flee me?”
One night as she lay shivering, thinking these thoughts, she heard Eranor and Jeid whispering above her. They thought she was asleep, but how could Laira sleep? How could she dare sleep when so many nightmares filled her—visions of her mother burning, of Shedah and her leechcraft, of Zerra and his fists? And so she lay still, eyes closed, and listened.
“The poor child,” said Eranor, and she could imagine the old druid stroking his white beard. “When will we see her smile?”
Jeid sighed. “My brother shattered her jaw. Maybe she can no longer smile.”
“She could smile with her eyes, but still they are sad.” Eranor too sighed. “I can heal the wounds of the body. The wounds in her soul run deeper. Those may never heal.”
Jeid grunted. “To heal wounds, first the poison must seep out. Healing hurts. Her soul is healing now and it pains her. And I promise to the stars: I will protect her. I will keep her safe until she is healed.”
That night, for the first time since arriving in the escarpment—perhaps for the first time in her life—Laira slept the night through, no nightmares haunting her.
The next morning, Jeid and she went into the forest to collect wild apples, berries, nuts, and mushrooms. They walked atop the escarpment’s ledge, the trees rustling around them. It was late autumn, and many of the leaves had fallen, but small apples still grew upon the trees, and mushrooms still peeked from the carpet of red and orange leaves. A waterfall cascaded, raising mist, and geese honked above.
Laira wore the new fur cloak Jeid had given her, the best garment she had ever worn, and leather shoes—the only shoes she had ever owned—warmed her feet. As she walked, she gazed upon piles of fallen branches, mossy stones, and leaves that lay within bubbling streams, imagining faces. She had often played this game, seeking eyes, mouths, and noses in the forest, imagining that someday one of these creatures—perhaps with boulders for eyes, a log for a nose—would open its mouth and speak to her, an ancient spirit of the woods.
For a long time, Jeid walked silently. There was sadness in him too, Laira thought—something deep, dull, older than her pain but no less potent. Whatever his pain was, he never spoke of it. And Laira never spoke of hers. And so they walked silently, and that silence comforted her.
Finally, upon a slope thick with brush, he spoke. “Here, look. Wild apples.”
Laira smiled to see the apple tree. She began to collect what fruit had fallen. Jeid—burly and tall, his arms almost as wide as Laira’s entire body—proved surprisingly agile at climbing the tree. He tossed the fruit down to her, and she collected them in a pouch.
“I didn’t know grizzly bears could climb!” she said, and for the first time in many years, she felt something strange, something that tugged at her crooked mouth. For so many years, her slanted mouth had remained closed, stiff, sad. Yet now warmth spread through her, and her lips tingled, and Laira smiled.
Jeid smiled down from above—a huge grin that showed his white teeth. “Grizzlies are excellent climbers. We—“
Suddenly he wobbled. Laira gasped. The branch he stood on creaked, and Jeid fell. He landed hard on his feet, wobbled for a moment, then fell onto his backside. He blinked up at Laira, seeming more confused than hurt.
“I guess not,” he said.
Laira sat down beside him, the leaves crunching beneath her. She leaned against him. He was beefy and huge; she was a wisp of a thing. She thought that if anyone passed by, they would mistake them for a gruff old bear and a scrawny little fox.
“I like it here.” Her voice was quiet, and she played with a fallen oak leaf. “I like the rustle of the wind in the trees. I like the cold wind. I like . . . I like who I am here.”
He held her hand in his—a pale lily in a paw—and something broke inside her. The pain flooded her, gushing out like blood from beneath a scab peeled off too soon.
And she told him.
She needed to talk.
She needed to share this with him or she thought it would never leave her.
She told him of fleeing Eteer when she had been three, almost too young to remember, but old enough for the fear and pain to linger. She told him of Zerra burning her mother at the stake as she watched. She spoke of Shedah leeching her for potions, of Zerra beating her, of years of hunger, cold, neglect, and pain. Of the shattered bones, of the shivering nights in rain, and of her hope—her hope to find others, to find the escarpment, to find him. Her voice remained steady, and her eyes remained dry, and she simply spoke—remembering, sharing, healing.
He listened. Sometimes his eyes widened, and sometimes he gasped, and at other times he seemed both mad and pained. But he did not speak until she was done. And then he simply held her, silent.
They returned to the canyon. Laira had learned that many tunnels and caves ran underground here. There were chambers for sleeping, for cooking, for storing supplies. There were secret rooms for defense; their walls had small openings like arrowslits, outlets for a dragon to blow fire into the canyon. There were secret traps of boulders to topple onto invaders. There were deep caves for hiding when danger came. It was both a secret, magical labyrinth and a fortress of stone and moss.
That night, Jeid and Laira lay down to sleep in one of the caves, a fire burning beside them, its smoke wafting out a hole in the ceiling. Eranor stood outside upon the watchtower—that pillar of stone that rose between the trees, affording a view of the valleys below. Firelight painted the cave, but Laira still felt cold.
She rose, wrapped in her fur blankets, and settled down beside Jeid, and he held her in his arms. They lay together, sharing their warmth. She laid her head against his chest, and his one hand held the small of her back. She felt safe. He would not hurt her. He would not try to lie with her as his twin brother had.
“I will keep you safe,” he whispered. “Always.”
She believed him. And she loved him. She did not know if she loved him as she loved a foster father, a man, or a friend. It did not matter. She loved him and that was enough.
I’m happy here, she thought. This is my home.
She was drifting off to sleep when she heard the shrieks.
She jerked up, sure she was dreaming.
She knew those shrieks. They still filled her nightmares.
When Jeid sat up, eyes wide, she knew it was no dream.
“They’re here,” she whispered. She leaped to her feet and grabbed a burning stick from the fire.
A shadow darted and Eranor rushed into the cave, gasping.
“Rocs!” the old man said. “Rocs outside!”
Laira ran. She bolted past Eranor, raced out into the canyon, and looked up into the night sky. A hundred of the foul vultures flew above, larger than dragons, their riders bearing torches and bows.
The Goldtusk tribe attacked.
JEID
HE ALLOWED HIMSELF ONLY AN instant of fear.
My brother attacks.
The rocs no longer fear us.
We will die under stone.
The thoughts pounded through Jeid. His fingers shook and his heart thrashed. Then he took a deep breath. He clenched his fists. He turned toward his companions.
“Laira, you stay in this cave. When I give the signal, blow fire throug
h the exit. The rocs won’t be able to enter.” He unclasped his sword from his belt and handed it to her. “And take this blade. If you must race into the tunnels, you’ll only fit in human form; you’ll need a sword.”
His voice was soft, and he worried that Laira would tremble, that her fear would overcome her. But the young woman nodded firmly. She took the short, broad sword and held it steadily. She raised her chin and stared back. “They will not enter.”
This one has been fighting all her life, Jeid realized. She is perhaps the strongest among us.
He nodded and turned toward his father. The old man stared back grimly, eyes dark beneath his white brows.
“Father, hurry down the tunnel to the pantry,” Jeid said. “Wait for my signal, then blow your fire too.”
Jeid pointed to the two tunnels at the back of the cave. The left one led to the pantry, a hidden chamber full of their nuts, dried meats, fruits, mushrooms, and other foods for winter. The right tunnel gaped open beside it; that one dived underground, twisted under the canyon floor, and emerged into a chamber in the opposite cliff.
Eranor nodded, tossed his beard across his shoulder, and raced into the left tunnel. He vanished in the darkness.
The shrieks rose outside, louder now; the rocs were descending into the canyon. Men shouted too, crying out to find the weredragons, to flay and bugger and disembowel the creatures until they begged for death.
Damn it, Jeid thought. Stars damn it! I need Tanin and Maev here for this. Just when we need to fight, the two little buggers are away.
“Where will you go, Grizzly?” Laira asked, voice quiet.
Jeid managed a wry smile. “To cook some birds.” He touched her cheek, leaned forward, and kissed her forehead. “Be strong, Laira. We will defeat them.”
With that he raced into the second tunnel at the back. The passage was narrow; he had to crawl. As he moved in the darkness, his heart thudded and the sneer would not leave his lips. He was not afraid for his life, he realized. His cared not whether he lived or died. He was scared for his father. For Laira. For Requiem. The tunnel walls shook as the rocs shrieked outside.
Finally the tunnel curved sharply. He climbed a slope, emerging into a chamber that held their tools and weapons—fishing gear, blades, pelts, arrows, and sundry other items. A small opening gaped in the cliff side, looking out into the dark canyon, barely larger than his head.
“I see no weredragons, my chieftain!” rose a deep, hoarse voice outside. A roc cawed.
A second voice answered, high-pitched and twisted with cruelty. “This is the place. The reptiles are hiding here. Down into the canyon! Find them.”
Jeid recognized that second voice, and a growl rose in his throat.
Zerra. My twin brother.
Wings beat, men cursed, and he heard talons clatter down against the stones outside. Jeid approached the small opening and peered outside. He could see them below, the great vultures—larger than dragons—barely fitting into the gorge. Their talons scattered stones, and their riders gazed around, hands on their bows. Last time Jeid had seen them, the tribesmen had worn fur and leather and fought with stone-tipped arrows. Tonight they wore bronze breastplates and helms, and metal tipped their arrows.
Somebody armed them, Jeid realized. That’s why they no longer fear us. Somebody gave them armor and weapons . . . and sent them here.
He pulled back from the opening. An eerie silence fell. Men began to dismount and spread out across the canyon, searching. Their torches crackled.
“I see a cave!” one man cried, pointing toward the chamber where Laira hid.
“There’s another cave here,” said another man, pointing toward the pantry where Eranor was awaiting the signal.
“It’s time,” Jeid whispered.
A rope dangled above him. Jeid gripped it with both hands, clenched his jaw, and gave it a mighty tug.
For a moment nothing happened.
Jeid held his breath.
A creak rose, almost inaudible at first, then growing louder. Dust rained across the cave exit.
Then, with the sound of crashing mountains, a hundred boulders crashed down.
The avalanche slammed into the canyon, shaking the cliffs. Cracks raced across the cave walls around Jeid. Dust and shards of stone blasted into the chamber, nearly blinding him. When he peered outside, he saw the boulders rolling—some larger than men, craggy and mossy, others sharp and small.
Blood splattered the canyon.
Boulders slammed into rocs, snapping their spines, burying the birds. Men screamed. Arms reached out from the rubble. More rocs flew above, helpless to rescue their brethren.
“They’re here—find them!” Zerra cried above. “Land on the boulders and into the caves.”
Jeid shifted. His dragon form, bulky and long, filled the chamber, pressing up against the walls. He shoved his snout out of the exit.
“Fire!” he shouted.
He roared his flames.
The jet blasted out into the canyon, crashed against the fallen boulders, and sprayed up like red waves. Through the blaze, Jeid saw Laira and Eranor breathing their own fire from their holes, adding their jets to his.
The canyon roared, a great oven.
Tribesmen screamed.
Rocs ignited and fell.
A man ran, a living torch, and collapsed.
When Jeid had to pause for breath and their flames lowered, he beheld a ruin. Melted flesh clung to stones. Arms twitched under the rubble. One man still lived, crawling across boulders; his legs were gone, ending with trailing stumps and jutting bones, and the skin on his face had peeled off. But more rocs and riders still lived. Dozens of wings beat above, and dozens of men cried out.
“Get down there!” Zerra was screaming. The voice came from the sky above the canyon; the chieftain had not yet dared enter the gauntlet. “I don’t care how much fire they blow. Get down there and dig them out!”
Jeid found himself trembling again, his scales chinking. He ground his teeth. He dug his claws into the stone beneath him. That day returned to him, the day he still dreamed of: fleeing Oldforge with fire and blood, leaving his dead wife behind.
“Turn back, Zerra!” he shouted into the gorge. “Turn back and I will spare your life. This place is forbidden to you. Enter this canyon and it will be your tomb.”
He heard his twin laughing outside. “It is you, my dear brother, who is buried now. It is you who lurks in your grave. Emerge to fight me or die like a coward. I care not.” Zerra emitted a horrible laugh that sounded like snapping bones. “Men! Dig into these walls, shatter these stones, and slay the maggots in their holes.”
More rocs screeched and descended. Jeid growled and blew his flames again.
LAIRA
LAIRA FILLED THE CAVE, A golden dragon. She sneered, beat her wings against the ceiling, and blew more fire out into the canyon. She heard the tribesmen scream, and a smile twisted her jaw. Even in dragon form, that jaw was crooked, shoved to the side, a reminder of Zerra’s cruelty.
You are out there, she thought, blasting her flame. The man who beat me, starved me, thrust into me in his bed. She roared as her flames crackled. Now I burn you. This ends here.
Across the canyon, she glimpsed Jeid blowing his flames too. The jet emerged from a hole no larger than his snout. Within the canyon, the enemies died. Fire blasted against the walls, showered up, and knocked rocs down. Screams echoed and ash rained.
But the rocs kept coming, and Laira’s flames were burning low. Soon her jet fizzled into mere sparks. Fear gripped her, and she growled and blasted out every last flame inside her. Across the canyon, she saw that Jeid and Eranor too were down to sparks. They would need time to rest and recharge.
But the rocs gave them no respite.
They kept diving into the canyon. Men leaped off and hid behind boulders where the fire could not reach. Archers rose from behind a dead roc, fired, and crouched down. One arrow slammed into the cliff side near Laira. A second entered the cave and grazed h
er cheek, and she hissed. She closed her jaw, waiting, sneering. Smoke plumed from her nostrils. When the archers rose again, she blasted what flames remained inside her. It was but a thin stream, but it caught one archer in the chest. He fell.
More arrows flew. Laira retreated from the exit and flexed her claws. Her foot stepped into the brazier, and she grunted and kicked the embers aside. Smoke rose around her. She had no fire within her—not until she could rest—but she could still fight.
“Enter and fight me!” she shouted. “Enter this cave, Zerra, and face me.”
She snarled and raised her claws. Arrows flew into the cave, slamming into the walls around her. When she stepped back, they could not hit her. The tribesmen would have to enter, leaving their rocs outside.
And I will kill them, Laira thought, refusing to tremble, refusing to let the horror overwhelm her. She had killed men with her flames. Now she would kill with tooth and claw.
“You came here to die.” She clawed the air. “Requiem is my new tribe. Requiem will be forged in fire and blood.”
As she waited for them to enter, shrieks sounded above.
Laira whipped her head up and blasted smoke out of her nostrils. On the ceiling was a small hole, a vent for their brazier’s smoke. Talons reached into the opening, scratching, cracking stone, widening the gap. Soon a roc head appeared, and its shriek echoed in the cavern, nearly deafening Laira. She cried out with the pain of the sound.
More talons dug above and debris rained. With a shower of dust, a chunk of the ceiling collapsed. Stones pelted Laira, cracking her scales, and she blasted what fire she could muster.
Through the dust, flame, and smoke, a roc crashed down into the cave.
Zerra sat upon it.
The chieftain stared at her and his lips—halved by his scars—twisted into a horrible smirk. He wore a breastplate beneath his fur pelts, and he pointed a bronze-tipped arrow at her.
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 141
