FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “The human army is right outside the town,” Harruq grumbled. “We can’t wait until tomorrow night.”

  “Patience, brother,” Qurrah said. “Just…patience.”

  Another hour, and still no shadow. Harruq stepped back inside and plopped down. The other half-orc remained at the door, his eyes not leaving the gray outside.

  “He’s not sending for us,” Harruq said.

  “You are correct,” said Velixar’s voice, startling both of them. They turned to see their master emerge from the shadows of their home, his red eyes gleaming.

  “How did you get in here?” the warrior asked.

  “Listen to me,” Velixar said, ignoring the question. “I have little time. The elves have erected barricades near their homes. Surely you have seen them. Slip past their defenses and wait. When the battle comes, slaughter the elves from behind. You must weaken them enough so that Vaelor’s army has a chance at victory.”

  “We will not fail,” Qurrah promised. “Where will we meet you?”

  “Listen for where the screams are at their worst,” Velixar said as his shadow began to fade. “There shall I be.”

  A pale hand reached inside his robes and pulled out five glass vials. Qurrah knelt and accepted the gifts.

  “The vials contain powerful healing elixirs. If either of you are injured tomorrow, drink from them and resume the slaughter anew.”

  “Thank you master,” Harruq said, accepting three from his brother before kneeling as well.

  “We will await you in the chaos,” Qurrah said.

  Then the man was gone, vanishing into the shadows of the room. The two glanced at each other. Harruq shrugged.

  “That was easy. Bed time?”

  “Sleep if you must,” Qurrah said. “I will join you in a bit.”

  Harruq removed his armor, lay down on the bed of straw, and slept. The necromancer stepped outside his home, walked to the side, and stared at the flickering lights in the distance. Campfires and torches. An army, the same that had removed him and his brother from their home, slept so close. Every one of them contemplated their death.

  Qurrah closed his eyes and inhaled the cold night air. Yes, the tension was delectable. The quiet moments before battle were a rare thing that so very few were lucky enough to experience. Fear, worry, hope, prayer, regret, and sorrow all floated to the stars.

  The half-orc let his attuned mind drink it all in. Beautiful, he thought. Absolutely beautiful.

  The next morning Harruq did not put on his armor or prepare his blades.

  “I have to see Aurelia,” he told his brother, who nodded in understanding.

  “I will wait for you,” Qurrah said. “Return before the battle starts.”

  “I will,” Harruq said. Then he was gone, rushing down the streets of Woodhaven toward the calm forest that nestled about it.

  “Aurry, are you there?” he shouted. He had hoped the elf would be waiting for him, but as he neared their usual clearing there was no sign of her. His heart skipped, and he feared she had already gone off to prepare for battle.

  “Aurelia, come on out now,” he shouted again. His eyes searched the forest.

  “I’m here,” Aurelia said. Her voice was quiet, subdued. Harruq turned and tried to smile.

  “There you are. Are you doing alright?”

  The elf shrugged. Her hands hugged her sides, her walnut eyes filled with worry.

  “The elves are going to fight today, Harruq. I’m sure you’ve heard why.”

  “Are you going to join them?” he asked.

  The elf nodded.

  “They are my family. This is my home. I cannot abandon them.”

  Harruq’s heart skipped, and the words of his brother echoed in his head. He had to make her understand.

  “Aurry, I’m asking you, please don’t fight. You aren’t needed. The elves will win, right? Right?”

  Aurelia shrugged. “We’re outnumbered four to one. We might win, but we’ll still suffer many deaths. If I am needed, I will fight.”

  “No,” Harruq said, running up and grabbing her arms. “No, you must understand, you can’t fight. You can’t!”

  “Why?” she asked as tears formed in her eyes.

  “I can’t lose you, Aurelia. Please don’t fight. For me, will you not?”

  It seemed all the forest paused, listening for the answer.

  “Harruq, I love you. But I also love my home. I love my brethren.”

  She stood on her toes and gave him a quick, soft kiss on his lips. A tear ran down Harruq’s cheek as he stood in shock. His mind relished the soft feel of her lips on his, the scent of flowers, and the subtle fire that had escaped onto his tongue.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, taking a hesitant step toward the trees.

  “Sure thing,” Harruq said, rubbing the tear off his cheek and pretending it had not been there. Aurelia smiled. Tears were on her cheeks as well, but she left them alone.

  “Bye-bye, Harruq.”

  “Bye-bye, Aurelia.”

  Then she was gone. He stood there, not moving, his mind a chaos of fear, swords, Velixar, his brother, and that lingering kiss. Then he screamed to the sky, one long, primal roar of hopeless confusion.

  He stormed back to Qurrah, his chest a boiling pot of rage. She had not listened. He had begged, he had opened his heart, and she had not listened. So fine then. If he saw her, well then…then…

  Even in his anger, he could not voice the words in his mind, but the feeling was there. Death. If he met her, there would be death, and that death would be preferable to the torment of pain he felt in his heart. Qurrah did not have to ask what her answer was when he returned to their home.

  “I am sorry,” was all he said before handing Harruq his weapons. “Get ready. When the fighting begins you will forget all about her.”

  “Unless I see her,” he said. Qurrah chose not to respond. Suited and ready for battle, the Tun brothers left their home in Woodhaven for the last time.

  Chapter XIV

  “THE MEN ARE READY, MILORD,” Sergan said. “Do we march?”

  Antonil stared at the small town, seeing very little motion within. No people wandered the streets. No traveling merchants hawked their wares. He sighed and turned to Sergan, his trusted advisor in war. The man was old, scarred, and had dirty hair falling down to his shoulders. He had seen many wars, and the axe against his shoulder had claimed more than a few lives.

  “Yes, let us end this, one way or the other,” Antonil said. “Order them to march. I’ll lead us in.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  Sergan turned and started barking orders, all his calm and politeness vanishing. The guard captain glanced at the edict from the king he carried in his hand. A rash impulse filled him, an insane desire to tear the paper to shreds and return to his liege bearing a lie on his lips. Under normal circumstances the king would know no difference. His advisors, however, were many, and every one of them would betray Antonil for the chance to gain esteem in the eyes of the king.

  No, he would have to deliver the message, regardless of his desires. He sighed one final time, turned toward his army, and began the march.

  Where Celed and Singhelm met there was a small clearing. No buildings or monuments marked it, just a single circle of grass upon which no house would ever be built. On that spot, Singhelm the Strong and Ceredon Sinistel, leaders of Neldar’s troops and the Erzen elves, respectively, had made a pact that a city could exist between the two races without bloodshed. Singhelm had long since passed away, while Ceredon remained, two hundred years older, as the leader of the elven elite Ekreissar.

  It was in that clearing Antonil halted his army. The men shuffled around nervously, their eyes searching for enemies that always seemed to be hiding beyond their vision. The guard captain unrolled the edict, his gut sinking as he realized where he stood. Long ago, man and elf had agreed to live together in peace. Now, on that very same spot, he would rescind that agreement.

  Beyond the clea
ring loomed several palisades. All nearby windows were closed, and several boarded. A few humans stuck their heads out their doors to glimpse the armored men trampling through their city. Most kept themselves far from danger.

  “Elves and men of the city of Woodhaven,” Antonil shouted. “By order of the noble and sovereign King of Neldar, all elven kind has been banned from human lands. The elves of Woodhaven have ignored this edict, ignored the laws of the great kingdom in which they live. This will not be tolerated any longer. All elves must leave the city, which being outside the forest of Erze, falls inside our borders. Those who do not immediately leave will be forced out at the edge of a sword. These are the words of our great King Vaelor, and may they be never forgotten.”

  Antonil rolled up the scroll in silence. Only coughs and the shifting sounds of uncomfortable armor filled the air. Seconds passed, slow and crawling.

  “If one may speak for the elves of the city, please let him come forth,” the guard captain shouted. “I seek the answer of the elven kind. I do not want blood spilled this day.”

  A single elf approached. He was dressed in a long green cloak, silvery armor, and he bore his bow openly. Antonil could barely make out his features, since he was so far down the street. The elf halted, drew an arrow, and fired it into the air. It smacked the dirt an inch from Antonil’s foot. Sergan shook his head and stared in wonder at his commander. The man had not flinched.

  “I shall take that as your answer,” Antonil shouted to the town. “Woodhaven desires death.”

  He drew his sword and spoke softly.

  “So be it.”

  Elves appeared in the windows of every building that lined the center. Full quivers hung from their backs. Sixty more elves joined their lone companion on the street and readied their bows. The men in the center raised their shields, but they knew the deadly aim of a trained elf. They were about to be massacred.

  “Stand firm!” Antonil ordered, raising his own shield. “Stand firm. Do not break formation!” A shout came from the elven side, and then the hail began. More than a hundred arrows rained down on the army, each deathly precise in its aim.

  Not one hit flesh.

  Antonil lowered his shield. Something was wrong. He did not hear the screams of pain, the thudding of arrows onto shields, and the angry cries that should have followed. Instead, he heard a stunned silence. As his shield lowered, his eyes took in a shocking sight. A black wall encircled them, translucent at times, but flaring when an arrow struck it. The projectiles snapped and broke as if hitting stone. The guard captain looked around, seeing his entire army protected.

  “Sergan!” he cried.

  “Yes my lord?” the old man asked.

  “Do we have any mages with us?” Antonil asked. Sergan shook his head, flinching as an arrow aimed straight for his eye bounced away, its shaft broken. The guard captain nodded, raised high his sword, and then turned to his army.

  “Stay calm, and do not move from where you stand!” he shouted. The men quieted and listened to their commander. “I do not know what blessing we have received, but when it ends…”

  His voice drifted off. Movement behind his army caught his eye. He shoved a few men aside, tore through the center of his army, and then emerged at the back.

  Far down the street, his robe flowing in a nonexistent wind, walked a pale man dressed in black. His low hood covered all but the chin of his face. His gait was slow and steady. He kept one hand outstretched, and from it flowed a black river that branched out to form the shield that had kept the men alive. No arrows fired. The battle was at a standstill, all because of this mysterious stranger who walked so calmly down the street.

  “Men of Neldar!” this man screamed, sounding like a giant among mortal humans. “Some of you are meant to die this day. Rejoice, for your souls will leave this mortal coil in the glory of combat. Raise high your swords, and slay the elves that seek your death. Fight without pain, and slaughter without mercy. I have given them fear, and the battle is yours for the taking!”

  The shield shook, power flared throughout, and then it exploded outward. The wooden shutters on the buildings shattered into splinters. The sides of homes rocked as if hit by the winds of a hurricane. Bows cracked and broke in the hands of their masters. The few stray animals hit by the wave vomited their intestines and died. The elves that endured it found their minds a chaos of horrors, inescapable terror clutching their hearts.

  “Kill them all!” the man in black screamed. The men charged, driven by madness they had never felt before.

  “Come, the battle is ours,” Sergan shouted, pulling against Antonil’s arm. The guard captain resisted the urge, his eyes locked on their supposed savior.

  “You are him,” Antonil whispered. “The man Dieredon spoke of.”

  “Come, Antonil Copernus,” the old veteran screamed, pulling harder. “Your men need you! The bloodshed has begun!”

  Antonil’s gaze broke. He ran to where the sixty elves that had lined the street engaged a large portion of his army. They had discarded their bows and drawn swords, wielding them with a precision his men would be blessed to ever match. They didn’t need to, for they had numbers, momentum, and morale. When Antonil shoved to the front line, they also had leadership. The sixty dwindled to forty before fleeing.

  “Give chase,” Antonil shouted. “Those in the back, flush them out of the houses.”

  Velixar watched the Neldaren army scatter, some chasing elves down streets, others barging into locked homes. Screams of pain and dying, although just few and random, filled the air. He drank it in and smiled.

  “Where are you my disciples?” he asked. “Let me hear the screams of your victims so that I may find you.”

  Flying overhead, Dieredon watched the beginning of the battle with a sickness in his stomach. The man in black had come. He watched the arrows bounce off the magical shield, and then watched the human army charge and overwhelm the small elven force that had come to face them.

  “I will keep my word, Antonil,” he said. “Fly back to the others, Sonowin, we will battle this day.” The horse snorted, making Dieredon laugh. “No, I am sure you won’t be hurt.” Sonowin banked, giving the elf one last view of the battle before soaring east to where the rest of the Quellan elves waited atop their magnificent pegasi. His horse neighed a quick question, one Dieredon wished he could laugh at.

  “Everyone can be killed,” he said, tying his hair behind his head. “And no, I have no plans of breaking my ribs again.”

  The horse made an interesting little noise, one Dieredon had long ago learned was laughter. He smacked her rump, earning himself an angry neigh.

  “Fly on. You don’t want to miss the fun, do you?”

  A snort was his answer, but the creature did fly faster toward the rest of its kin.

  “When should we attack?” Harruq asked. His twin swords itched in his hands. Qurrah, sitting next to him in a little back alley next to Ahrqur’s old home, laughed.

  “So eager to kill, brother? I was beginning to think you had grown soft.”

  The bigger half-orc smashed his swords together, focusing on the pain the shower of sparks caused his hands.

  “I’m still who I’ve always been,” he said. “You’ll see.”

  Qurrah’s smile faded at the ferocity in his brother’s words. He glanced down, his mind spinning and reeling.

  “Tell me if you love her,” Qurrah suddenly ordered. Harruq glanced at him, his eyes burning fire.

  “Why now, why do you have to ask?”

  “Answer me, brother. Now.”

  “No. I don’t love her. Is that what you want to hear?”

  The other half-orc tightened the grip on his whip. “Forget what I want. If you do not love her, then kill her. Now get your head beyond her and focus on the task at hand. I want you fighting for a reason, not just to forget. Do you understand me?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Harruq said. “So when do we know when to start?”

  Kill them all!

 
; Both shot to their feet as Velixar’s bellowing command rolled over the town.

  “Which way do we go?” Harruq asked.

  “Follow me,” Qurrah said. The two rushed past the elaborate elven homes toward the sound of combat. They kept to the back alleys, and because of this, they met their first target: three elves fleeing toward them, hoping to use the lesser-known pathways to avoid the overwhelming numbers of their opponent.

  “Bring them down,” the necromancer said.

  “With pleasure,” Harruq said. He raised his blades and charged.

  The closest elf realized the half-orc was an enemy and cried warning before rushing ahead, his longsword ready.

  “Come on, pansy-boy,” the half-orc warrior roared. The two collided in a brutal exchange of steel. The elf shoved his sword upward, using his forward momentum to slam the point straight at Harruq’s throat. Harruq swung Condemnation left, deflecting the incoming thrust. His other blade stabbed, tearing away the soft flesh beneath his attacker’s ribcage.

  The elf leapt back, landed shakily, and then lunged once more. His speed was not what it should have been, though, and Harruq needed little opening. He swung both swords, the entirety of his might behind them. The elf blocked. His sword was elven-make and had been wielded in his hands for two hundred years. Never would he have guessed Harruq’s were older by three centuries. Never would he have guessed that those two blades would shatter his own, pass through the explosion of steel, sever his spine, and cleave his body in two.

  The half-orc continued his charge, engaging the two elves behind. They struck as one, their swords aiming for vitals high and low. Harruq knew he could not block both, so he accepted a thrust curving to the side of his armor, grinning darkly. As the sword punched through the enchanted leather, the half-orc cut his adversary’s throat, using that same swing to parry the other attack away.

  The remaining elf swore as his eyes grew red and watery. He backed away from the half-orc, his sword held defensively before him.