FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Balsalom subdued, Cragyn and his army marched west by midday with a blare of trumpets and a great shout of triumph from his army. He left a formidable force behind, including giants and mammoths. Mol Khah, whose enemies called him the butcher of Beltan, after the city he’d razed earlier in the year, stayed to keep Balsalom quiet and raise more troops from the Western Khalifates. He’d brought Kallia to Toth’s View to witness Cragyn’s army issue forth.

  “There marches the high khalif of Mithyl,” Mol Khah said proudly. He dwarfed her in height; his sword alone stood to her shoulder when he planted it on the flagstones.

  “Mithyl? The entire world?” Kallia questioned, resisting the urge to flinch at the expected blow. “King Daniel and the Citadel would argue that assertion. Perhaps the wizard grows overconfident.”

  “By spring, all of Eriscoba will be his. Those foolish barbarian lordlings are no match for Cragyn.”

  “Again,” Kallia said, feeling bold and taking advantage of the pasha’s buoyant mood, “the wizard overestimates his own strength. What man can defeat a Knight Temperate in combat? Now imagine five hundred such knights riding in formation. Your army will be put to flight like sheep beset by wolves.”

  Mol Khah fixed her with a cold glare. “You have no idea what power the wizard wields or you would not make such foolish statements. Perhaps if Balsalom had resisted rather than falling to its knees, woman, you would have seen Cragyn’s wrath kindled.” He smiled. “Yes, but you will see the power soon enough. Perhaps nine months from now.”

  Her stomach clenched. “What do you mean? It was one night. One night is rarely enough for such things.” She turned away, remembering with comfort the tea Saldibar had brewed to prevent such a calamity.

  He shrugged. “One night or many, it does not matter. The wizard cannot plant his seed without it taking root. And when the child is born . . . ” He looked out to the marching army and laughed.

  Kallia turned away. Yes, well she would see. She would drink willow and savin tea every day until she was sure his seed had not taken root. She would drink so many cups of tea that she would throw up at the mere taste of it.

  Mol Khah let his attention slip from the khalifa, and that would prove his downfall. Kallia, who had learned the palace’s secret passages during the paranoid years after the assassinations, made her way that night to a chamber deep in the heart of the palace, where Saldibar had arranged a meeting.

  Father had used this room as sleeping quarters on those nights that he didn’t feel safe. It could be accessed by two hallways. The first from a hidden staircase, itself reached by pulling up tiles in the corner of the garden apartments’ second closet. The second came from a building behind the Fountain Court. It was small enough that the light of a single lamp proved sufficient. Ten men plus Saldibar and Kallia crowded the room, sitting on footstools and chairs. She had a representative of every major guild but the corrections guild. She’d dearly wanted their support as well, but the loyalty of their torturers was suspect. A couple of men grumbled that it was too cold this far beneath the ground, but Saldibar glared them into silence.

  Fenerath, the guildmaster, looked about the room for a moment, before saying, “And you think we can trust everyone here?” He snorted.

  Fenerath had climbed to guildmaster from the weavers guild, a compromise between the powerful merchants and their chief rivals the masons and the wine-makers. Saldibar himself had endorsed Fenerath’s nomination to end an increasingly bitter dispute. But when appointed, the man proved a puppet of nobody, ruining reputations and drying the flow of crucial supplies to any who opposed him. Some accused him of plundering the guild coffers for his own enrichment. Indeed, the man’s ostentatious show of wealth—gold rings, chains, rich robes—did little to dispel this rumor.

  “Yes, I have faith in all of you,” Kallia said, in answer to Fenerath’s question. She held out her hands in a pleading gesture. “There are many hatreds in this room, some of them directed at me. But the one thing you all love is Balsalom.” And money, Kallia thought, but didn’t voice this opinion. “I love Balsalom too. More than my own life. I suggest we forget past rivalries to retake our city.”

  “Still,” Nabah from the merchants guild said with a shrug. He was probably the second least liked person in the room after Fenerath. The merchants guild was rather fond of using its power and wealth to bludgeon the other guilds. “How can we be sure? What if we have a spy?”

  Saldibar said, “Let us hope that we don’t have a spy.” The grand vizier was not liked by everyone either, but all respected him. His presence bolstered this meeting. He raised his eyebrow significantly. “If we do, then every person in this room will be tortured to death.”

  A few uneasy glances went around the room as they each tried to guess who might be a spy. Some eyes strayed to Fenerath, while others merely eyed their opponent from a rival guild.

  Kallia nodded her agreement with the grand vizier. She could sense them swaying, torn between fear and hatred of what the wizard had done. “Yes, and the spy himself will die as horribly as anyone else. Remember how Cragyn made an example of my brother? He doesn’t trust traitors. And why should he? What kind of man turns against his own city, against his brother, his son, his wife.”

  “The first step,” Saldibar said, “is to spirit the khalifa from the palace. Once we get her away from Mol Khah, we can spring our uprising.”

  “And then what?” Fenerath asked the khalifa. “Will you flee the city and leave us to win or lose by our own strengths and weaknesses?”

  She rose from her seat and put her hand on the guildmaster’s arm, then walked around the room, touching each man on the face or hand and looking them in the eyes. Some met her gaze, others looked awkwardly at their hands or fiddled with beards. If they looked down, she lifted their chins so they could meet her gaze. As she did, she expressed her love for her people with her eyes. She bared her soul, showing them the pain in her eyes and her hope. It was a difficult and humbling task. She didn’t know if she succeeded.

  Kallia said, “I surrendered Balsalom once. Never have I made a graver mistake, and never again will I abandon my people. I love this city more than my own life. And if giving my life is what it takes, I will gladly do so.”

  She laid out the details of her plan.

  Each guild maintained a private army from the watchmans guild to enforce city and guild law and, at annoying intervals, to skirmish with other guilds over property and trade rights. These men were not as well armed as the regular army, but they were disciplined, organized, and great believers in the virtue of Balsalom. Gather them together and you would have an army of a thousand men.

  The plan went thus. Saldibar would slip Kallia from the palace while Mol Khah drilled his men in the courtyard. After that, the watchmen would overwhelm the guards on the city walls, and free those men who languished under the corrections guild. They would then surround Mol Khah’s garrison at the palace while the guilds recruited a larger army from the city. Supplementing the watchmen with these new recruits to keep Mol Khah from breaking free, they could then infiltrate the palace through Kallia’s secret passages and destroy the garrison.

  But first, they would wait to let Cragyn’s army entangle itself in the mountains. Move too soon and the wizard would simply turn around and be at their throats before they could retake the city.

  “And now,” she said, returning to her feet, “will all of you swear an oath? Not to me, but to the people of Balsalom that you will do everything in your power to free them from the dark wizard’s tyranny?”

  They rose to their feet and raised both fists to shoulder height. But it wasn’t this gesture of oath-taking so much as the looks in their eyes that gave her the answer she was looking for. That look told her that to a man they would fight and die by her side.

  Chapter IX

  DARIK STOOD ATOP THE EAGLE Tower next to Hoffan and the others, watching the cavalry approach Montcrag. It was dark, but the enemy didn’t hide its numbers. Instead, it
lit its way with torches. About thirty horsemen climbed the road that led to the gates, three abreast, which was as wide as they could get on the narrow road. They couldn’t spread out until much closer to the gates, and that would put them in range of arrow fire.

  Darik could see a much larger force making its way up the Tothian Way. There were perhaps two hundred horsemen in this second group, and Darik could see more down in the valley who would arrive soon, although he couldn’t tell from here if they were more horse or footmen.

  “Hah,” Hoffan said. “They’ll never mount an assault that way. What, are they going to send their cavalry three at a time to bang against the gates and beg us to let them in? And if they mean to simply starve us out, let them try. I’ve got enough foodstuffs here to last a year or more. One of the benefits of taxing every shipment that passes through.” He shook his head. “We won’t see the Famine Child at Montcrag.”

  “I don’t think that’s their goal,” Markal said. “The dark wizard means to pin us in place until he can bring other weapons to bear.”

  The big man looked skeptical. “This castle has withstood all manner of siege weapons and assaults. It will survive one more.” He shook his head. “No enemy has taken Montcrag by force since it was built in the wars.”

  “The castle is much older than the Tothian Wars. Perhaps a thousand years older.” Markal explained, “The writing carved into stones outside the gates is an ancient version of the old tongue. Magical bindings to the stone. That would explain why the castle didn’t fall into ruins after the wars, when the passes were deserted for two hundred years. The talismans are worn, but still hold power.”

  This bit of news clearly surprised the warlord. “All the better, then.” He grinned. “Won’t it amuse the world that the dark wizard was able to conquer the entire east but broke his army against a castle manned by eighty fighting men?”

  True to Markal’s prediction, the horsemen stopped just out of bow-shot and waited. Their bath from Montcrag’s chamber pots must have taught them a lesson, for nobody attempted to approach the gates under olive branch.

  Hoffan turned to climb down the stairs. “Come, they’ve not caught us by surprise. Let’s prepare for siege.” He looked at Darik and Sofiana. “I can even find use for our young companions.”

  Darik had hoped that this use would include sword training, but no, it meant physical labor. While Hoffan talked strategy with Whelan and Markal, he sent Darik and the girl to help the fletcher carry stacks of arrows to the towers, then had them deliver supper to the men in the towers and on the walls. Darik suspected that if battle came, he’d be left with similarly menial chores. Sofiana too, chafed at this work, but Darik remembered Whelan’s comments about how she could shoot the crossbow. She, at least, would see some action.

  Whelan told Darik of their plans after dinner. “We leave in the morning. We’ll hike over the mountain that rises behind the castle walls. Flockheart and his griffins live back in the mountains and I hope to convince him to fly us to the Citadel, where I can warn King Daniel and gather the Brotherhood.”

  “What about Markal?”

  “Markal is staying to defend Montcrag. He’ll catch up with us later if he can.” Whelan must have caught Darik’s concerned expression, for he added, “Don’t worry about the wizard. Whatever happens, Markal will escape. He always does.”

  But that hadn’t been Darik’s worry, he realized somewhat guiltily. If Markal stayed, no doubt he would keep the steel book with him. Darik had begun to think of the book as his own, although he couldn’t say why. The wizard had recovered it from the tomb, after all, and the book was wizardry, pure and simple. No business of a sixteen-year-old boy.

  Darik turned in for bed early at Whelan’s suggestion. It was nice to sleep on a bed rather than the hard ground or the back of a camel, but he’d have liked to see Montcrag defend itself. There would be no excitement for him, he thought as he fell asleep.

  Darik woke in the night to a booming echo. At first he thought it part of his dreams and rolled over in bed. A moment later, another boom. He sat up in his bed.

  “Darik,” Sofiana called through the darkness. She slept in the next bed over, between Darik and Whelan. “What’s that?” Genuine fear sounded in her voice.

  “I don’t know. Where’s your father?”

  “His bed is empty. So is Markal’s.”

  Darik climbed to his feet and threw open the door. It was dark outside. A cold wind blew in, a blast so unexpected that he took a step backwards. Yesterday, Montcrag was cooler than the valleys, yes, but Darik was unprepared for this bite in the air.

  Another boom sounded, louder now that the door hung open. Shouts sounded from the walls and a fire burned on the far end of the green. He threw on his pants and shirt, while Sofiana hurried to do the same. She grabbed her crossbow and strapped a quiver over her shoulder. Darik wished he had a weapon of some kind, any kind. Together, they ran toward the front gates where the fire burned.

  A man intercepted them. “Go back to your rooms. This is no place for children.”

  “Children?” Sofiana said angrily. “We’re not children. We have work to do. Move out of our way.”

  “No,” the man said, grabbing her by the arm and reaching for Darik. Sofiana held her crossbow outstretched to keep it away from the man. Darik didn’t know whether to keep running toward the tower, or obey. “Come on, then, boy, before I give you a whipping.”

  “It’s all right, Traint,” a voice boomed. Hoffan strode toward them from the darkness. “They’re with me.” His voice was worried.

  Hoffan led them to the Eagle Tower. At the top, archers fired arrows into the darkness. Whelan was nowhere in sight, but Markal overlooked the battle. The wizard gave them a glance, then turned back to the action below.

  The boom sounded again, and Darik saw the cause. A dozen Veyrians bashed at the door with a battering log. Other men held aloft a platform topped by shields, deflecting most of the arrows. Every so often, a lucky shot slipped through the platform and a man fell to the ground, or scrambled backwards with an arrow in his shoulder. But every time that happened, another man ran toward the doors with his shield held overhead until he reached the safety of the battering platform.

  Hoffan’s men clumped inside the bailey, ready to fight back any breach of the gates. Whelan strode amongst them, shouting instructions and encouragement. A cauldron of oil bubbled on a fire burning just beyond Whelan’s men, while men turned a spigot on the cauldron and carried buckets of oil to the walls.

  Outside the castle, beyond bow shot, a row of torches lit the road leading up from the Way; Cragyn’s army readied a charge for when the doors broke. More fires burned all along the Tothian Way.

  “Why aren’t we doing anything?” Darik asked, concerned at the lack of response.

  “We could stop them, but as soon as we show our weapons, we lose the advantage. There’s no reason to panic. They’ll never break through unless they find something bigger than that stick to poke at us,” Hoffan said.

  “And here it comes,” Markal announced.

  Four giants carried an iron-headed ram between them. They pushed aside the men crowding the pathway. Horses snorted nervously and one danced out of the way, only to slide down the slope while the man on its back threw himself clear. Flailing, the horse screamed and disappeared from sight. The giants wore heavy armor and helmets that deflected the hail of arrows that challenged their advance. The Veyrians at the gate hastily retreated with their own battering ram. Another boom sounded, this one louder.

  Markal said, “We need more wizards.”

  Hoffan pulled nervously at his beard. “Whelan said you’d be enough.”

  “Of course he would say that. But what you really need is Nathaliey or Chantmer the Tall.”

  Hoffan listened to the ram boom again, then turned to Markal and smiled. “Not enough. The doors will hold.”

  “No, nothing can destroy those doors,” Markal agreed. “But they might break the hinges. And if the
hinges break—”

  A light gathered back at the enemy’s army and Darik saw four men huddle together with a light in their hands. It grew larger until it illuminated their faces, clenched together in concentration. The men wore long robes inscribed with writing and cartouches. Dark wizards. The light spread toward the walls.

  The giants roared and smashed their ram into the doors with new ferocity. Darik felt the light wash up the walls, sending a surge of strength through his body. What strength would the magic give the giants, who bathed in its full power?

  The Veyrians who’d stepped aside, still holding their ram but no longer protected by the platform, galloped forward, impossibly fast for the terrain and ignoring the swarm of arrows. They threw themselves against the door. The giants bashed again. A scream of stressed iron filled the air. The doors would not hold long under the twin assaults.

  “Now?” Hoffan asked Markal. “Now?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  Hoffan cupped his hands to his mouth and turned toward the men in the bailey. “Now!” The men below shouted to others.

  Hot oil and pitch poured from arrow loops and murder holes in the wall. The men and giants below shouted and danced backwards, but others rushed to take their place. Arrows cut them down before they reached the doors.

  “Move back!” Markal shouted.

  They gave him space. The wizard held out his right hand, muttering words under his breath. A light flashed from his palm to the ground. Pitch and oil ignited in a fireball, and a wave of heat washed up the side of the castle.

  Men screamed and scrambled away from the fire. A giant, flames roaring like a torch from his head to his boots, ran toward his army, knocking into men and beast and setting them afire. Two horses fell down the slope, taking riders with them. The giant himself lurched from the path, scorching the grass as he fell.

  There was more magic in Markal’s action than a mere spark for oil and pitch. The fire roiled back from the doors toward the enemy forces like water pouring down a hill. The Veyrians had broken ranks when the burning giant ran amongst them, but now they lost all discipline. With nowhere to go, footmen and cavalry fought each other out of the way, knocking people over the edge, burning, and screaming. Some of the cavalry speared their hapless companions on foot to drive them from the path.