FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “I do this for you, Aurelia,” he said, his decision made. He removed his bow and ran across the grass.

  Velixar had not moved since the brothers’ departure, his hands resting on the grass, palms upward. His hood fell far past his eyes, blocking nearly all of his face. Yet even with lack of sight and sound from Dieredon’s approach, the man knew someone neared.

  “Greetings Scoutmaster,” Velixar said, his deep voice rumbling. “I would call you otherwise but I have not been granted your name.”

  “You have not earned it,” Dieredon said. He halted directly in front of the motionless man. Less than six feet separated them.

  “I have been watching you,” the man in black said. “I have dipped inside your dreams. You have seen me before, haven’t you?”

  “You were the necromancer that led the orcs against Veldaren. You helped them cross the bone ditch.”

  “Correct,” Velixar said, his smile visible beneath his hood. “It was a glorious day. Men of the east no longer trust the elves, and the elves hold little love for our beloved King. Of course, thousands died, but what is a little sacrifice compared to such gains?”

  “They joined your army, didn’t they, necromancer?” Dieredon asked. Velixar laughed.

  “You are wise, elf, and you are strong, but you have sheltered arrogance.”

  The man in black stood, pulling the hood back from his face. His eyes shone a blinding red. His face was a pale skull covered with dead gray skin. Maggots crawled through the flesh, feasting. Dieredon delayed his attack, stunned by the horrific sight.

  Velixar, however, gave no pause. From within his robe he pulled out a handful of bone fragments. A word of power sent them flying. The elf dropped low, his right leg stretching back as he crouched. The bone fragments flew over his head, faster than arrows. Then he was up, his bow in hand. The string vanished from the bow, spikes pierced the front, and out came the long blades at each side.

  “You foolish mortal,” Velixar said. His voice was far deeper than before, less like a man and more like a demon. “I do not fear your steel.”

  Pale hands shot upward, hooked in strange formations. Dieredon stabbed a long blade straight at the man’s throat. The blade halted halfway there, crashing against an invisible barrier. The elf struck again, this time lower. Velixar’s image rippled as if beneath water, his body protected by some unseen wall. Faster and faster Dieredon swung, whirling his blades against where he perceived the wall to be. Power rippled in the air, black and deadly.

  As the elf fought against the shadow wall Velixar began another spell. Words of magic flew off his tongue in perfect pitch and pronunciation in spite of their incredible difficulty. A strong thrust from Dieredon finally shattered the invisible barrier but the explosion of power sent him flying backward. He rolled when he hit the ground, his legs tucked, and then with a kick he vaulted himself into the air. He landed on his feet and lunged at the necromancer, the blades of his bow leading.

  “Be gone!” Velixar roared, the sound of a daemon unleashed. Dieredon fought, but it felt as if a thousand hands pulled him back. Pain spiked within his chest, and a sick sound filled his head as two of his ribs broke. A harrowing gasp escaped his lips. He dropped to his knees as the pressure finally ended.

  Dieredon lifted the bow and reached to his quiver. The blades retracted, and in the heartbeat it took him to draw two arrows, a thin string materialized in the air, ready to be drawn. The elf fired the arrows.

  Velixar laughed as they pierced into his stomach and chest. No blood ran from them.

  “You must do far better than that,” he said, his fingers hooked in strange positions. Another blast of dark power washed over Dieredon. He felt his right shoulder crack into fragments. Darkness swam before his eyes, darkness dominated by twin red orbs. The elf reached into a small pocket of his armor and drew out a glass vial.

  “Healing potions will not aid you,” Velixar mocked.

  “This is no healing potion,” Dieredon said. He threw the vial. It shattered. Velixar snarled as holy light of the elven goddess burned his decaying flesh. After a few seconds, the light vanished. Velixar glanced about, seeing no sign of the elf.

  “No matter,” he said. “Come my minions. It is time to hunt.”

  He spread his hands wide and let all of his power flow freely. A swirling black portal ripped into existence behind him, a bleak wind wailing from it. Out came his undead, marching in rows of ten. More than a hundred rows spilled out, surrounding their master with mindless perfection.

  “Find him,” he ordered as he covered his face with his hood. “He is wounded. Find him and kill him.”

  As one, the thousand moaned their acknowledgment. They scattered, spreading out like a ripple in a pond. In the center stood Velixar, his hands out and his eyes closed.

  “Reveal yourself to any one of them and I will know it,” he said, his sick face smiling. “You’re no longer amusing, Scoutmaster. It is time you died.”

  The chorus of droning moans agreed.

  “If there was any time I needed you, Sonowin, it is now,” the elf said as he fled across the grass. Each breath made his chest ache. His right arm hung limp, and his other hand clutched his shoulder. He desperately needed to bandage it but had no time.

  A wave of undead moans reached his sensitive ears. Dieredon shuddered.

  “How many does he command?” he asked. He crouched as he ran, his right arm dragging against the grass. Under normal circumstances, he might have been able to hold his own against the undead. However, these were not normal circumstances.

  Minutes passed, long and painful. The light of Woodhaven beckoned him to his left but he dared not approach. Velixar would expect him to flee there, but he was as at home in the wild as he was in any town. He halted his run and fell to one knee. His adrenaline was still high, but deep inside he knew he had to find a place to rest. The real pain was coming.

  A glance behind did little to raise his spirits. He saw at least thirty undead shambling as fast as they could in a widening arc. If he remained where he was, he would be seen.

  He struggled to his feet and ran.

  More minutes passed. The glow of Woodhaven drifted behind him. Breathing was agony. Moving was torment. All his extremities grew cold and his head felt light. The pain in his shoulder threatened to send him into shock. It was just waiting for his body to succumb.

  His eyes searched for anything that could grant him cover. The forest was too far, and all about was shin-high grass.

  “No choice,” he gasped. His entire right half of his body ached. “Celestia, grant me mercy. I cannot go further.”

  He stumbled to the ground. His face and armor were camouflaged with greens and browns, but just grass would make it difficult to go unnoticed. Still, he had no choice but to try. He tucked his bow beneath him and then smashed his face into the dirt while sprinkling grass atop his head. He shifted his legs back and forth until as much grass sprang up around them as possible. He covered the rest of his body in his cloak. A few words of magic shifted its colors, better emulating the nearby terrain. He tucked his arms underneath him, closed his eyes, and waited for his fate.

  For the longest of time, silence. His shoulder pounded with each heartbeat; his chest screamed with each breath. Colors swam across his eyes. His ears, incredibly sensitive even compared to other elves, strained for the sound of approaching dead. He heard nothing but a strange ringing inside his skull. It seemed he had put more distance between them than he first thought.

  A footstep fell beside his head. His heart and lungs halted. The pain had diminished his skills. They were atop him, but he dared not move. He sent a silent prayer to Celestia as more footfalls clomped all around him. He guessed at least ten. Soft clacking sounds of bone, swinging metal, and crushed grass erased the silence of the night.

  Dieredon’s heart resumed. His breathing continued, slow and steady. He fought down a laugh, despite all his training. As dire as his situation seemed, he could honestly say he had be
en in worse shape before and survived. Three times, even.

  Then his ears heard what he had feared: something walking directly behind him. The others might not see him, but seeing wouldn’t be necessary if one stumbled directly atop his prone body. His good hand fingered the bow pinned beneath him. If discovered, he would die fighting. The footsteps neared. A clacking sound haunted his hearing. It rattled sporadically, and it was most certainly bone hitting bone. He imagined a loose jaw hanging by only one side, or perhaps a hand held by a thread of flesh banging against a rotted femur.

  It took all his will not to scream when a great weight pressed against his shoulder. The pain that exploded throughout his body was so great he blacked out as he lay there in the grass, a horde of undead searching for his wounded form.

  As Dieredon fought for his life, Harruq and Qurrah snuck through the streets of Woodhaven. They avoided the light of lamps at all costs and stopped only a moment so Harruq could don his new armor. They had to be careful, for if any saw the two half-orcs traveling amid the dark their lives would be forfeit.

  When they neared Celed, Qurrah halted. He stared down a particular street for a long while before closing his eyes. Harruq waited in silence.

  “That is the way,” Qurrah said. “It will be the only gated home.”

  “I already see it,” Harruq said. He pointed at a sizable mansion towering above the smaller nearby homes. The two brothers hurried into the space between the fence and the surrounding buildings.

  “It seems our friend has some prominence,” Qurrah said. Harruq nodded in agreement. The two-story mansion was beautifully painted and decorated. The sides of the building were a deep brown, like the trunk of an ancient tree. The roof jutted out far past the walls. It was the color of wet leaves. Many windows decorated the front, all covered with silken curtains. The fence surrounded the entire property, black iron spiked ten feet at the top.

  “How do we get in?” Harruq asked. Qurrah examined the fence, his face locked in a frown.

  “I don’t know. I have no spells that can aid us.”

  The bigger half-orc stood and stretched his muscles.

  “Well, up to me then.” He took out Condemnation, grinning as the soft red glow lit up his face. “Let’s see how strong this girl is.”

  He swung the blade. Qurrah closed his eyes and hoped no significant enchantments guarded the fence. If any did, they fizzled against the magic of the ancient sword. Harruq sliced two of the bars cleanly, and a third dented in enough so that a follow up chop cut it like butter. Pleased, Harruq took two of the bars into his hands. His neck bulged, his arm muscles tensed, and then the iron screeched backward. Both winced at the noise. They did not move for the next five minutes.

  When both felt comfortable, Harruq shoved the third bar forward, giving them a nice clean entrance. The two brothers slipped under, the bigger half-orc having to press his arms together to squeeze through. They slunk across the lawn to the front door.

  “Hold,” Qurrah said softly. “I will take care of this.”

  Qurrah stood erect, his hands touching the sturdy oak. Words of magic slipped from his lips. The shadows that weaved about the door suddenly gained life, crawling and gliding until impenetrable darkness covered every bit of oak.

  “What’d that do?” Harruq asked. His deep voice seemed like thunder in the quiet, although he did his best to speak softly.

  “Follow me,” Qurrah whispered. “You will see.”

  He took a step forward and vanished into the shadows. Harruq glanced around, swallowed, took two quick breaths, and then hopped into the door with his eyes squeezed shut. He expected to thud against wood, feel a strange sense of vertigo, or some other bizarre sensation usually accompanied with magic. Instead, he felt only the slightest tingle of cold air before his feet thumped against the floor. He opened his eyes to see a posh living room decorated with red and gold furniture, silk sheets, and a lit fireplace. Everything oozed elegance, to a point that even the half-orcs knew was over the top. When Harruq looked behind him, the darkness had left the door.

  “Why did you not do that to the gate?” he asked.

  “I can let us pass but a single object at a time,” Qurrah whispered. “The bars had gaps between them.”

  Harruq gestured to the room.

  “Amazing no one ever robbed this guy before,” he said. Qurrah shot him a glance, his meaning clear. The half-orc shrugged, drew his swords, and began walking. A sleek staircase led to the upper floor, while through the hallway they could see a room with an iron stove and shelves for storing food.

  “Which way do we go?” Harruq asked.

  “Up,” Qurrah said. “And quiet, before you wake him.”

  “Too late,” said a voice from the stairs. Both turned to see Ahrqur standing at the top step, his arms crossed. He was dressed in a long green robe. Silver swirls marked the sleeves and front. Brown hair fell far past his shoulders.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Harruq said with a bow.

  “Indeed,” Qurrah said, his hand itching to retrieve his whip curled underneath his raggedy robe.

  “If you are thieves, you are certainly incompetent ones,” Ahrqur said, his voice full of contempt. He descended halfway down the stairs, his eyes never leaving the two. “Of course, what could one expect from Celestia’s cursed?”

  “We are not thieves, Ahrqur Tun’del,” Qurrah said. “We are assassins.” The whip writhed around his arm, begging for use.

  “Arrogant ones at that,” said the elf. “Such a claim is foolish. If you were assassins, you would strike without chatter. You are nothing but pretenders.”

  Harruq clanged his swords together, showering the ground with sparks. His armor shimmered as his anger grew.

  “Pretenders with wonderful toys,” the elf continued, eyeing Harruq’s blades. “Toys I will take from your dead bodies.”

  He leapt down the stairs in a single bound. His feet hardly touched before he was vaulting over a red silk couch to land before the fireplace. He drew an ornate sword that hung over the fireplace, letting the scabbard fall to the floor. The blade gleamed in the firelight, impossibly sharp and deadly.

  “I have killed a hundred like you,” Ahrqur said.

  “And I hope to kill a thousand just like you,” Harruq said, clanging his swords together one more time before lunging across the room. Salvation and Condemnation smacked hard against Ahrqur’s blade. The weapons sparked, all three of the swords imbued with powerful magic. The elf fell back, his arms lacking the strength to block the massive blow. He danced away, his sword whirling upward to deflect two quick slashes by the half-orc.

  Ahrqur found no reprieve for three bones flew for his eyes and face, even veering to follow the elf’s dodges. The elven blade whirled, cutting two out of the air. The third smacked into his throat. Luckily, the bone was part of a finger and lacked a sharp enough edge to cut skin. Instead, the elf was left gasping as he retreated from another series of strikes from Harruq.

  “Pretenders, are we?” Qurrah asked as his fingers performed a dark weave. “How much I wish for your pride to suffer.” Magical energy rippled out of him and tore across the air. The elf whirled, sensing the incoming invisible blow. Only a tiny part hit his shoulder, immediately encasing it in ice. Then Harruq was upon him, slashing recklessly.

  Ahrqur batted his sword left and right, then jumped as Harruq swung back in a scissor-cut that should have shredded his waist. The elf landed atop one of his couches, balancing with ease.

  “What reason do you have to kill me?” the elf asked. “Are you here for money? I could pay you twice the pittance you work for.”

  “Just shut up,” Harruq said, hurling Salvation across the room. Ahrqur leapt again. The sword punched through the couch and embedded in the wall. The half-orc gripped Condemnation in both hands, snarling as the elf launched his own offensive series. The elven blade glided through the air, repeatedly feinting and looping wide so that Harruq’s sword danced about for phantom blows. Ahrqur let out a mockin
g laugh, gave him an obvious feint, and then kicked high. The foot smashed the bottom of Harruq’s chin, the same sore part Dieredon had hit.

  Harruq staggered back, his sword swinging wildly. The elf charged in, knowing he outmatched the half-orc in speed and skill. The kill would be his.

  “Hemorrhage.”

  A sudden purging of blood vessels exploded across Ahrqur’s side. The force smashed him into a decorative table. He rolled off the broken thing and glanced down at the blood soaking his robe. Despite the wound, no cut or hole was visible in the cloth.

  “You are pathetic, Ahrqur,” Qurrah said, his hands whirling. “You are skilled but you are soft. You lack spirit, will. It is why you cannot resist my power. Hemorrhage!”

  A visible wave of distorted reality crossed the distance between the necromancer and Ahrqur. The elf crossed his arms against the blow. His mind was nearly overwhelmed by the sudden tearing sensation that hit him. Blood splattered from two horrid gashes along his forearms, soaking the carpet crimson. He collapsed to one knee, his hands latched around his sword. He tried to raise the blade, but all the strength had left his hands. He had lost too much blood. When Harruq came charging forward, Condemnation red and hungry, all he could do was dodge.

  Condemnation shattered what remained of the table. The elf rolled, his arms tucked against his chest. When he pulled out of the roll, he dashed for a large dresser. Inside was a stash of healing potions. All he needed was one and he could fight again. Just one. As he reached to open a drawer he felt his leg jerk back, halting his momentum. He crashed to the floor, screaming in pain as one of his forearms landed hard. Then he felt his ankle start to burn.

  “Take him, brother,” Qurrah said, his whip wrapped around Ahrqur’s left foot. Harruq did not bother to cross the distance. He had had enough. Condemnation flew through the air, its aim true. The blade sank into the elf’s back. Blood and fluid covered the carpet as all life fled the body of Ahrqur Tun’del.

  Harruq strolled forward, the sound of his ragged breathing filling the sudden quiet. He drew out his sword, grimacing at the sick wet sound it made.