FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “He was a skilled swordsman,” Qurrah said. “He was also arrogant. I would expect such a blade from one like him.”

  Harruq shrugged. “If I didn’t have my own two swords, I’d use it.”

  The half-orc cut the blade through the air a few times and then sheathed it. He turned the weapon over in his hands, marveling at the swimming colors of dark green and black. He paused when he found a name written in gold near the hilt.

  “Tun’del,” Harruq read aloud, slowly and carefully. “He even has his name on his sword.”

  “Did I not say he was arrogant?”

  Harruq stared at the name on the scabbard, mesmerized by the beauty of the writing. He ran his fingers over it, enjoying the feeling of pure gold. When he covered the second half, he paused.

  “Qurrah,” Harruq said. “Look at this.”

  The bigger half-orc shifted the blade so that his brother could see. He kept his hand where it was. Qurrah read the name, and then glanced at his brother.

  “That is our last name.”

  Harruq nodded.

  “Aurelia showed me. T, u, n, she said. And then this sword here has our name…kind of.”

  Qurrah stared at the name, thinking.

  “He was an elf,” he said. “I guess it is possible he was our father, although I feel it more likely a coincidence. Our mother was intelligent, at least for an orc, but was she smart enough to leave us clues within our own names?”

  “Well, he’s dead now, so we’ll never know,” Harruq said, tossing the blade onto the floor. Qurrah, however, was far from dismayed. He grinned at his brother and then spoke in his hissing voice.

  “Would you like to have a conversation with our dear old dad?” he asked.

  Chapter XII

  THE BODY OF AHRQUR TUN’DEL lay atop several strange markings and shapes drawn in the dirt. He remained wrapped in the blankets and sheets the two half-orcs had used to smuggle him out of his house. The wrappings provided a bit of relief against the growing smell of death that already permeated their home.

  “His spirit will be bound to mine,” Qurrah said, sitting on his knees before the body. His eyes were closed and his hands atop Ahrqur’s head. “Any question you or I ask he must answer truthfully. Do not be disturbed by the sound he first makes. Spirits brought back into our world rarely enjoy the journey.”

  Harruq nodded, dressed in his black armor. They did not have much time before Velixar’s dark cloud arrived. They could not rush, but nor could they dawdle. Qurrah inhaled deeply and began casting his spell.

  The words of magic were similar to those when he raised the eight corpses back in Cornrows. The bigger half-orc was aware of subtle differences, but had little clue to what they were. Words of power were beyond his understanding.

  The body quivered, but it was not a physical quiver. Translucent silver crept about the wraps. Blue smoke floated into the air. The blue and silver grew thicker and thicker. Qurrah’s words grew louder, more powerful, and then Ahrqur’s spirit ripped into the air, a glowing blue-silver form of insanity. The spirit looked much as he did in life, except his clothes were different. They were silvery robes, beautiful and decadent. The spirit wailed. It took all of Harruq’s strength to resist the urge to cover his ears.

  “Cease such nonsense,” Qurrah ordered. The spirit immediately hushed. A bit of coherence came to his eyes, and he glared down at the half-orc.

  “Greetings, Ahrqur,” Qurrah said. “Remember us, the incompetent thieves?”

  The spirit glared harder.

  “Did his tongue die with him?” Harruq asked.

  “I haven’t told him he can speak yet,” Qurrah responded. His eyes flicked back from Harruq to the spirit. “You may talk, spirit, but keep it quiet.”

  “You take my life, and now you dare keep me from eternity?” the spirit moaned. “For what reason do you torment me? I have never harmed you, never said a cursing word, but now this?”

  “Just a few questions and you may return to your slumber.”

  Qurrah paused, a smile growing across his lips.

  “Tell me, did you ever sleep with an orcish woman?”

  The spirit recoiled as if struck.

  “You dare ask me if I ever committed an act so disgraceful and…”

  “Answer me!”

  The cry from Qurrah rolled over him like a horde of stampeding horses. All his resistance broke away, meaningless, preventing nothing.

  “Yes,” Ahrqur said. The words dripped out of his mouth, quiet and disgusted. “Yes. Once.”

  Harruq shook his head, hardly able to believe it.

  “You did?” he asked. “How long ago?”

  “Many years. Fifteen. Twenty.”

  “Why did you sleep with her?” Qurrah asked.

  “She filled me with drink and then tricked me,” the elven spirit said. “Never would I willingly have touched one of Celestia’s cursed.”

  Qurrah shook his head. “Answer me truthfully, you wretched spirit. Was it willing or was it not?”

  The spirit gave no answer. The half-orc stood, his hands clenched into fists. He hooked them through the air as he repeated his question.

  “Was it willing or not?” he demanded.

  “Yes,” Ahrqur whispered, grimacing as if filled with horrid pain. “When she approached me, I offered no resistance. Now will you let me return to peace?”

  “Not yet. Harruq, would you like to tell him?”

  Ahrqur glanced at Harruq, who was grinning wide.

  “You can see we have orcish blood in us, right?” Harruq asked.

  “Aye, you stink of it,” the spirit said.

  “Well, we also have elven blood in us. Our mum said she bedded an elf before she was thrown out of town. So guess what? I’m thinking we’re the children you sired with that orc lady so many years ago.”

  The glow of the spirit faded. It looked back and forth, shaking and moaning.

  “You cannot be bastard children of mine,” Ahrqur said, his voice weak and distant. “Celestia cannot hate me so.”

  “Celestia has nothing to do with this,” Qurrah said. “It is truth.”

  Almost all the spirit’s glow was gone. Only hatred and disgust lingered in his eyes.

  “May I be released now, wretched spawn of mine?” Ahrqur asked.

  “Yes. Go rest in your shame. I have no use for you.”

  The spirit gave Qurrah one last glare then dissipated into the fading light. Silence filled the room.

  “Well, what did you think?” asked Harruq.

  “I think,” Qurrah said, “that was enjoyable.”

  The two paused, each thinking the same thing. Finally, Harruq voiced his thoughts.

  “You think Velixar knew it when he sent us to kill him?”

  Qurrah stretched, letting out a small sigh as his back popped.

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “Although I don’t know why. A test of some sort perhaps?”

  “Getting tired of tests,” Harruq said.

  “Keep such thoughts buried and dead.” Qurrah pointed to the door. The cloud of darkness waited. “Bring the body.”

  “Excellent.”

  Velixar beamed at his two disciples. At his feet lay the wrapped corpse of Ahrqur. “Tun’del was a skilled swordmaster. You both have proven yourselves as strong as I believed. Unwrap the body. It is time we begin.”

  Much preparation later, Qurrah and Velixar stood on opposite sides of a naked Ahrqur. The elf lay on his back. Thin scars and symbols decorated his body, including a slanted Y across his forehead. Thirteen stones surrounded the corpse, each dabbed with a bit of Qurrah’s blood. Velixar held a piece of Ahrqur’s flesh in his right hand.

  “Are you ready?” Velixar asked his disciple.

  “Yes, master,” Qurrah said.

  The elder necromancer crushed the flesh in his grip, signaling the start of his casting. Dark, slithering words flowed from his lips, ominous in the starlight. As the minutes passed, the blood on the stones began to glow. Qurrah took up his
own chant, a single phrase he was to repeat so that the spirit of Ahrqur could not flee once Velixar summoned it.

  “Drak thun, drak thaye, kaer vrek thal luen,” he chanted. A part of him shivered, the words so similar to black words Master had spoken before the hyena-men had come. He repeated his designated phrase, feeling the magic flowing from him to encircle the body.

  “Kala mar, yund cthular!” Velixar shrieked in a voice stronger than his frail form should have possessed. The call echoed throughout the night, sending wolves yipping away and night owls crashing in a squawking frenzy. The symbols on the body flared to a brilliant crimson.

  A sense of exaltation soared through both necromancers as Ahrqur opened his eyes and snarled.

  “Rise, slave,” Velixar commanded. “Your soul is trapped in your body and answers only to my command.”

  The naked elf rose, his eyes burning with red rage. The symbols on his body faded until they were but faint scars.

  “Give him his clothes,” Velixar ordered his student. Qurrah fetched a pair of black pants, a red shirt, and a black cloak, all of which Velixar had prepared before the brothers had brought the bloodless body to him.

  “Dress,” the necromancer ordered. Ahrqur growled some inane argument, but a glare from Velixar sent him cowering.

  “You must obey my every command, wretch, before you may return to the peaceful death you left. Fight me and you shall find your stay here lasting longer than your rotting body’s.”

  The undead Ahrqur whimpered. Qurrah watched the display, fighting against feelings of jealousy. He had commanded Ahrqur’s spirit to speak truthfully, but Velixar’s very glare sent him groveling to his knees. The elf stood and dressed, covering his white form in the red and black garb. Once dressed, Harruq gave him the ornate elven blade.

  “Your quest is a simple one,” he told his slave. “Go to Veldaren. Do whatever you must to sneak into the king’s castle. Kill if needed. When you find King Vaelor, wound him but do not kill him. Do not be captured, either. Die in combat.”

  Ahrqur nodded, his eyes seething. Velixar reached out and placed his hand on the elf’s forehead. Qurrah watched as smoke rose from their contact, yet neither flinched. When the necromancer drew back his hand, a strange symbol lay overtop the faint scarring of the slanted Y. It was of a fallen man wreathed in flame.

  “When you fall, the enchantment upon your forehead shall burn your body to ash. Then your soul may find peace.”

  “I shall do as you command,” Ahrqur said in a lifeless voice.

  “Of course,” Velixar said. “There is no other way.”

  Ahrqur glanced to Qurrah, and his mouth opened to speak. Both Tun brothers felt a bit of panic, wondering what their new master might say if he learned what they had done. Instead, he closed his mouth and glared at Velixar one last time before running north on legs that would never tire.

  “When will you know of his success or failure?” Qurrah asked once his eyes could no longer perceive the elf’s faint outline.

  “Immediately,” Velixar whispered. “All he sees, I see. All he hears, I hear. His thoughts, dreams, and nightmares are available to me, hidden behind locked doors to which I now hold the key.”

  Again, Qurrah lusted for such power and control. Velixar smiled, clearly seeing the desire the half-orc hid behind his eyes.

  “One day you will hold such control. For now, be content with what I have taught you.”

  Qurrah gave a soft laugh and then nodded.

  “I believe that shall suffice.”

  Harruq did not know why, but the short exchange sent chills running to the pit of his stomach.

  The night was hot and miserable when Velixar met the half-orc brothers and told them the news they had long waited to hear.

  “Ahrqur was successful, and in ways beyond what I could have hoped for,” he told them, joy dancing in his features. “King Vaelor has long felt inferior to the kings of his past. I have haunted his dreams, and I know his heart. He wishes a war with the elves to prove his worth. Ahrqur gave him his reason, and it was beautiful.”

  “What is it your slave did?” Qurrah asked.

  “In a court full of human nobles, he broke through, slew four of them, and then took the king’s left ear.” Velixar laughed. “He killed five guards before he was slain. Two more died in the fiery consumption of his corpse.”

  Qurrah smiled at the image. Harruq’s blood heated at the thought of battle, but the coldness in his stomach refused to succumb.

  “Vaelor cannot yet risk war,” Velixar continued. “He must have all the people see him as a peaceful man driven to conflict. History does not favor the warmongers, not among the peasants and scribes. They favor so-called great men, driven to war by horrid acts of others.”

  The man in black spat his disdain.

  “It is a sad age when conquerors are seen as warmongering butchers and the cowards backed into corners are seen as the true heroes. Ashhur can be blamed for poisoning so many with such rubbish.”

  “What will the king do?” asked Harruq, his hands rubbing the hilts of his blades.

  “He has already evicted elven blood from his kingdom. Woodhaven, however, still contains hundreds of elves. In his pride, Vaelor will demand them to leave. A messenger is already en route. I have haunted his dreams as well. He is but a distant cousin to the king, spoiled and stupid. He carries orders to the elves of Woodhaven: leave or die.”

  “They will never leave,” Qurrah said. “They are stubborn and will defend their homes until death.”

  “It is more than that,” Velixar said. “The Quellan elves have already been pushed across the rivers by the Mordan people. Both races of elves fear for their existence. Celestia has grown distant to her clerics. Mankind breeds like mice while the elves find themselves gradually dwindling. A man fighting an elf is like a grain of sand blowing against a stone, yet strong winds and fields of sand can reduce the sturdiest of boulders to dust.”

  “What are we to do?” Qurrah asked.

  Velixar looked at him and smiled.

  “Kill the messenger and the guards that accompany him. Vaelor will be furious at the death of family, however distant. He will have every excuse to war with the elves and we will exploit that war to our purposes.”

  “Will you accompany us?” Qurrah asked.

  Velixar shook his head.

  “Bring me the head of the messenger. I will retrieve an elf to deliver it to the king.”

  The man in black stood and motioned to the stars.

  “Follow the left wing,” he said, his finger pointing to the constellation in the stars referred to as the raven. “It will not be long before you see the light of their campfire. Make haste. The battle grows closer with every move we make.”

  “Yes, master,” they echoed before beginning their trek.

  It was not long before they saw the firelight in the distance.

  “Can you run, brother?” Harruq asked.

  “No, I cannot. The night is long. I will hurry, but please let me rest when I must.”

  “Course I’ll let you rest when you need it. Come on, let’s go.”

  They stopped twice for Qurrah to catch his breath. His weak body gasped for air, sweat lining his face and neck. In the starlight, he looked so pale, so frail, that Harruq wondered how his brother could be so fearsome in combat.

  When they neared the firelight, they stopped to plan.

  “So what should we do?” Harruq asked.

  “They are not asleep,” Qurrah said. “Something keeps them awake. I fear they know of our arrival.”

  “Velixar?”

  “I believe so. He tests us again.”

  Harruq patted his swords.

  “So be it. What’s the plan?”

  Qurrah could see two men positioned on either side of the campfire. They kept their backs to the fire and sat far enough away so their eyes would not fully adjust to its light. They camped within a sparse copse of trees, the trunks not nearly thick enough to hide their approac
h.

  “They are wise and alert,” he whispered. “Perhaps I can get close enough to cast a spell on one or two. They are on flat ground, so I see no way to ambush them.”

  “Then why don’t we just walk over, say hello, and then whack ‘em?” Harruq asked.

  “My dear brother,” Qurrah said, “that is a very good question.”

  Brazenly, they approached the campfire. They kept their weapons sheathed and hidden. The closer they got before the men panicked the better.

  “Halt, who goes there?” one of the guards shouted to them as they neared. They wore polished chainmail shining red in the firelight. The crest of Neldar adorned their tabards. Longswords hung from their belts.

  “Me be Harruq Tun!” the half-orc said as he stepped further into the light, grinning stupidly. “And this be me brother, Qurrah!”

  “Get back you smelly thing,” the other guard said. Both stood to face him as other guards stirred from their blankets and bedrolls. They still wore their chainmail, proof something had disturbed them greatly. Sleeping in armor was far from comfortable.

  “Me only a little smelly,” Harruq slurred. “Do you have any food, me be starving, and me brother no be feelin’ too good. Just look at him!”

  Qurrah chuckled at the act while his concealed whip writhed about his arm.

  “What is going on?” asked a whiny little voice. From the lone tent, a skinny man in purple and red emerged stinking of perfume.

  “It is nothing,” one of the guards said. Harruq held in a chuckle. It was obvious the guard had little love for the disgusting noble.

  “Nothing? By Ashhur, it is the smelliest, dirtiest nothing I have ever seen. Shoo you foul beast, we have no need of your stench.”

  “You have little need of what we bring,” Qurrah said, the whip uncurling from his arm and falling to the dirt. A single thought made the black leather burst into flames.

  “Assassins!” a guard shouted, drawing his blade. The other guards, six in total, did the same. The perfumed man in the center shook as he realized combat was about to erupt.