FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “But, all those things I did—I did them, didn’t I?”

  “Did you mean to do them?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I think so. I can’t remember all of it. I was so angry.” Her eyes teared up. “I was so angry,” she whispered.

  Murmuring louder, the crowd moved in close. Derry pushed his way through.

  “Elu? All is well?”

  “Yes, Derry. Thank you.”

  “These people want her blood. Will you deliver her to them?”

  Elu looked back to Thora, who stared around still barefaced and red-eyed at the people who lay dead or maimed on the ground while the unharmed closed in on her.

  “No. I must remove her from this place.”

  Derry looked nervously at Thora but nevertheless nodded. He turned to the crowd and flashed his burning eyes at them, summoning the spirits of his mask to halt them in their tracks. They began to shout at Thora and Elu, who now put on his shapechanger’s mask and gathered up the other masks and satchel. He placed the Justice mask and the Guardian mask both within it and turned his attention to Thora. He summoned the power of the mask and willed her body to a shape he could easily bear away.

  Be strong, he thought. Be the strongest shape.

  She shrank down to a small, black stone. Picking her up in his hand, Elu held it aloft to the crowd.

  “She is gone. Go now, and suffer at her hands no more.”

  A great cheer went up and they hailed Elu as their deliverer. They pressed forward again, eager to touch him, to hold onto him, but he changed to the gull’s form and along with two other gulls that had suddenly appeared among the crowd soared into the sky, clutching a satchel in one talon and a small stone in another.

  The wind caught them in its flow, now toward the north, called by Londu as she had lain on the ground watching the scene unfold. They flew swiftly north, over the Inner Sea, passing over the shoreline of the mainland and up over the mountains that loomed above it. Alighting on one of the lower hills Elu gently released his load into the grass, and changed them all back again.

  Thora sat in the grass, covering her bare, ruined face with her hands, weeping.

  “Thora?” said Elu.

  She sobbed.

  “Thora?” repeated Elu.

  Thora took a deep breath, still holding her face. Shielding her from their gaze. Or shielding them from her. “You should have killed me. Look what I did to you, what I did to all those people.”

  “It is done. You cannot stop those things from happening, for they have passed. Just as I cannot stop me from taking you to the barrows. Only the future is in our hands.”

  “But I deserve death! Nothing less! Why did you spare me?”

  “We all deserved the undiminished light of that other world when this one was made, but Eldrin masked it, and gave us our gift. He gave us the time to become accustomed to that light, so that when we fly to that other world we are ready for it. We deserved the barrenness of the earth but Sipora masked it as well, giving us the fruit and the water and the trees. All of us, every one of us, were marked for death from the foundation of the world. And yet we are here. We live. We breathe. We rejoice. We weep. And we learn.”

  She remained silent for a long time. Elu studied her bare face, seeing her spirit beneath its damaged surface. She made decisions, and he understood.

  “I must go,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “I need a mask.”

  “I have one for you.” He removed his shapechanger’s apprentice’s mask and looking around he saw a small brook trickling down from greater heights above them. Chanting as they walked, he led her to it and stooped down to kneel. He dipped the mask into the cold water and held it there for several moments, and looking into its substance he saw those spirits he had become accustomed to, as an old friend, and knew it was meant for her. It was meant for her all along.

  On the side of the stream tak-weed grew in abundance, and taking a handful he dried some on his shirt and with a tool from his satchel secured them to the rim, nearly hearing the weed’s spirits sing as they joined their kindred in the mask. It sparkled now in the sun as he held it out to her, reminding him of her childhood mask, the one she wore as they romped through the forest together.

  “I can’t take your mask.”

  “I have others. It is yours. It was made for you,” he said, offering it to her. “It came to me, but it was meant for you.” She tentatively strapped it to her face, and he smiled, watching the sunlight sparkle on the tak-weed flaring out from the mask.

  “I’m sorry, Elu. For….”

  “I know. So am I. I shall miss you, Thora.”

  She reached out and touched him tenderly on the forehead with two fingers, and without a word of instruction from him about how one must long for the sky, for freedom, for safety, she changed to a gull with feathers sparkling like the rim of her mask, flying high into the air. She flew east, out over the Marian sea.

  Derry and Londu approached from behind, Londu presenting him with his satchel and averting her eyes from his bare face. He accepted it with thanks and reached in, pulling out the Guardian mask with its brilliant emerald shining in the evening sun. He slipped it over his face.

  “What will you do now with the other mask? You told us it required a sacrifice to destroy it,” said Derry.

  “It is powerless now.”

  “But … how?”

  “I made the sacrifice. I laid myself bare before her, powerless and naked, hiding nothing. I sacrificed my hate. I sacrificed my pain, and my guilt. The old me died. And in so doing, I killed her. The Terror is dead. Maybe not forever, but banished—for a long time.”

  “And Thora? Was the Terror Thora? I mean, could the Terror have done those things without Thora willingly playing the part?”

  “No. Those were Thora’s actions to some degree. To what degree I do not know, but it is not mine to judge. The gods will judge her when she flies to that other world. But for now she will seek her fortune like the rest of us. And her redemption,” he paused, before adding, “like the rest of us.”

  After a moment’s silence he reached out to their arms, and willed them all home. The hut in Ri Illiath snapped into place around them. The sun set. The stream flowed.

  The maskmaker of Ri Illiath set up his trade once more, in the home of Derry the wizard and Londu the witch, making masks for all the homeweavers’ children and all the tradesmen of the town. His renown as the great Guardian of Terremar spread among the kingdoms of the land and the many princes and kings of Varnor and other lands came to his hut to beg masks of power from his hand. Some he made eagerly, gladdened by a new adventure, while others he turned away, knowing the ill fate that would await those who asked in bad faith.

  And one day, after much time and much living, he took up the master of Hartree’s mask. The people called him the greatest maskmaker of that age and they named him the Guardian, The Lord Maskmaker, and Elu Indibar—who rode the wyvern in his pursuit of the Terror, standing as the shield between the people and indifferent justice.

  This Story Will Continue In…

  Masks of Terremar: Book #2

  To be notified of its release, please sign up for Endi Webb’s mailing list: smarturl.it/endimailinglist

  Afterword

  ENDI WEBB IS THE USA Today bestselling author of The Pax Humana Saga, The Rohvim Chronicles, and the Masks of Terremar. He lives in Huntsville, Alabama with his family. He is: a dad, a husband, a scientist, a writer, and a total sci-fi/fantasy nerd.

  Connect with him:

  Like his Facebook page: facebook.com/endiwebb

  Follow him on Twitter: twitter.com/endiwebb

  Website: www.endiwebb.com

  Sign up to be notified of his new releases:

  smarturl.it/endimailinglist

  Email: authorendiwebb@gmail.com

  Other books by Endi Webb

  The Pax Humana Saga

  Book One: The Terran Gambit

  Book Two: Chains of Destiny
>
  Book Three: Into the Void

  (10 books total)

  The Rohvim Chronicles

  Book One: Metal and Flesh

  Book Two: Water and Blood

  Book Three: Earth and Sky

  To hear about future bundles from Novel Bundles Services sign up to: smarturl.it/novelbundle

  THE DARK CITADEL

  Michael Wallace

  Prologue

  SURFEYN COULD NO LONGER PROTECT his master from thieves and vipers. Since his wife’s death, the high khalif had consulted with every manner of witch, fortune teller, wizard, and astrologer in the Eastern Khalifates. One evening, when waves began to crash over the seawall at dusk and a great storm gathered over the ocean, Surfeyn watched helplessly as the khalif turned his worried attention to their advice.

  “There will be wights,” a blind hag with no eyes said as she crawled on her belly to the Iron Throne. “The Harvester will come to hunt them. You need runes or they will get into the castle. Let me help you, great one.”

  “Only the catacombs will keep you safe,” said a wizard. “We will hide your passage and they will never find you.”

  “No, he must consult an oracle,” said another.

  Surfeyn stood next to the throne. “Send them away, Master,” he whispered. “I will draw tight the shutters and heap extra wood onto the fire. You’ll sleep quietly and there will be nothing in the morning except a few broken branches in the garden and maybe a seawall to repair.”

  Khalif Ahmaad Faal gripped the throne until his hands turned white. “Typhoon season has passed. This is not the turning of the weather, this is something unnatural. I’ll need other advice tonight, old friend.”

  Cragyn approached the throne. “I know what must be done, Master.” He had a cunning look on his face and Surfeyn met his gaze, knowing the wizard would do something to turn this to his advantage, and knowing he was helpless to stop it.

  Sheets of rain pounded against the shutters of the throne room, divided by a clap of thunder. “There are shadows entering the city, Master,” Cragyn continued. “The hag is right. I can see them, they are cloaked in the storm. Veyrians shiver in their beds. From the hovels on Knacker’s Row to the manors outside the palace, they sense the wights entering the city.”

  “No storm can penetrate these walls,” Surfeyn said. “And we are protected from wights. Unless someone lets them in, they’ll never get past the gates. Master, you don’t need new runes or incantations. The old ones are more than enough.”

  “What does a slave know?” Cragyn asked. “Listen to me, Great One, I know what you must do to protect yourself.”

  “What is that, Wizard?” the khalif asked.

  “Drink this.” A glass goblet appeared in his hands. Blue liquid sloshed, slow and lazy, like something molten.

  Before Surfeyn could protest, the wizard had lifted the goblet to Ahmaad’s lips. The khalif drank, sputtered, then drank some more. A smile passed over the wizard’s face.

  “That will protect you, master. Now, leave these wretches and follow me. I’ve prepared chambers below the palace. No wight shall find you there.”

  Surfeyn started to follow, but Cragyn held up a hand. The slave couldn’t move, his feet felt stiff, his limbs like stone. He opened his mouth to warn the khalif, but his tongue wouldn’t obey.

  “No, do not restrain him,” the khalif said. “I would have my servant at my side. Tonight, especially.”

  “As you wish, master.”

  Together, the three of them left the throne room. The other wizards and astrologers voiced their protest, but a glaze had come over the khalif’s features, and he ignored them.

  Barely forty years weighed on the khalif’s shoulders, but palsy and white hair made him look like a man twice his age. He supported his weight with a bronze staff. Some nights, he woke screaming like a child, his bedding soaked with sour sweat. When Surfeyn rushed to his side, the khalif would lie trembling in his guard’s arms for hours before he could sleep again.

  They found their way into the bowels of the Grand Palace. Hundreds of years old, the palace squatted atop the volcanic rock that rose from the center of Veyre. Some said King Toth himself had built the palace, after his senses had fled. Indeed, only a madman could have built such a jumble of rooms, alleyways and staircases. And in the palace underbelly, tunnels and secret apartments wormed deep into the rock.

  The upper palace had apartments for several hundred to live comfortably. Some khalifs and khalifas kept rooms for nobles, to keep their scheming under watchful eye, but during the last few years, Ahmaad Faal had forced the nobles into their own family manors. He kept the palace emptied of all but his slaves and advisers. The khalif’s vizier ordered unused wings and passageways walled off, while in other corners, Cragyn practiced his dark arts.

  The khalif stopped in front of the doors to the catacombs, and Surfeyn, misunderstanding the hesitation, opened the door with sword drawn, as pleased his master. “No, Surfeyn.” Ahmaad glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Cragyn has prepared the way. There is no need for the sword.”

  Displeased, Surfeyn bowed until the tassels of his turban swept the floor. “As you wish, my master. May you live forever.”

  Ahmaad’s lips turned in a slight smile, then he glanced back at the hall, cast in flickering torch light. “Live forever? To survive the night will suffice. By the Brothers, I saw the Harvester in a dream last night, come to gather my soul. I sense your displeasure. Come, trust me tonight.”

  The wizard led Ahmaad and his bodyguard into the catacombs, chill and dank beneath the palace dungeons. They passed below the catacombs, into mad King Toth’s secret apartments and passageways. Small creatures scrabbled and hissed in the darkness, but fled when Surfeyn drew too close with his torch. At last Cragyn led them to the rooms he had prepared. He bowed, then scuttled back into the darkness in the direction from which they’d come. Surfeyn watched him go with a sense of release. There was no sound but their own breathing and the crackling of the torch.

  Surfeyn drew the khalif inside, then lit the candles set out by the wizard, dipped from strange-smelling wax that burned with ghostly blue light. He helped Ahmaad ready himself for bed, then covered him with several blankets.

  Ahmaad gripped his wrist with a palsied hand. “Stay awake, my friend.”

  Surfeyn bowed low, ignoring the blue foam that flecked his master’s lips. “Yes, master.” He drew his scimitar and turned to guard the door.

  Surfeyn hated himself for despising the khalif at moments like this. He reminded himself of the man Ahmaad Faal had once been. He’d rebuilt the aqueducts, driven the stone giants back to the mountains, and commissioned seven new cities to reap the trade flowing east along the Tothian Way. He’d commanded such respect and love from the other khalifs of the eastern plains that they’d crowned him high khalif, with the power to tax their cities and command their armies. When Josiah Saffa, former enemy of Veyre, gave his favorite daughter Tainara to Ahmaad Faal for wife, the people of both cities celebrated for two weeks. Ahmaad built the famous hanging gardens to honor his new bride.

  Tainara Saffa lacked the beauty of her sisters, but as a queen she had no equal. She loved the people, and turned her husband’s heart to mercy. He lowered taxes in her name, forgave debts at her request. On their fifth anniversary, he emptied the treasury to feed the poor, just as the five brothers had fed the world with the work of their creation. That night, an assassin poisoned Tainara’s wine. Two days later, the khalifa lay atop a tower of silence outside of Veyre, her bones picked clean by ravens and vultures.

  Surfeyn’s heart tightened in grief. Had it really been ten years? So long, but such a short time for a king to wither and die. To give the scepter of power to his wizard and his vizier to rule in his stead.

  Surfeyn heard a noise in the hallway outside the door. It began as a whisper, followed by the patter of feet and a chill breeze that bled through the key hole. He drew his sword and climbed to his feet.

  He peere
d through the key hole, cursing the paranoia that kept the khalif from guarding his rooms with an entire regiment, as he’d once guarded the rooms of his wife. Still, Surfeyn had killed assassins before and might yet preserve the khalif’s life. But what he saw clenched his stomach with fear.

  Wights. At least ten of them, glowing with a pale blue light, milling outside the door as if waiting for something or someone to come. What could bind so many at one time? Only dark magic could keep so many hidden from the Harvester, who collected the souls of the dead lest they pollute the world with their madness. Surfeyn pulled back and looked for something to block the door.

  The door rocked backwards with a terrific blow. Behind, Ahmaad sat up straight in his bed. “The Harvester,” he whispered, drawing his blankets up to his neck. His face paled and his hands trembled. “Don’t let him take me.”

  No, not the Harvester. Surfeyn would have welcomed the dark gatherer’s presence now, as the wights would flee if he appeared. Surfeyn braced himself.

  The door rocked backwards again. Splinters burst outward and the hinges sagged. Again and again the door rocked until at last it burst open in a shower of splinters.

  Wights poured into the room, setting into him with teeth and claws. He drove them back with his sword. He chopped the head of one from its shoulders and it dissolved with a scream, then fled like a shadow back to the halls. Not dead, but rendered harmless. He destroyed another, and the rest hesitated

  And then she stepped into the room. Unlike the crippled wights surrounding her, she stood taller than she had in life, a tiara blazing on her forehead. She who had once commanded every khalifate from here to the mountains. She who had once ruled the khalif’s own heart with love and tender advice. She reached out a pale blue hand to point at Surfeyn. “Out of my way, worm.”