FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 5

  Hardaker spat in her direction.

  “I made sure it was real gold by pounding it into a flake and testing it against a touchstone. It’s real, all right.” Alma beamed on the villagers. “You folks have a nice little gold mine here. And before we leave, we’ll draw you up a charter so you can all share alike in the work and the profits.”

  Oh well done! Elyn thought with pride. Get them to agree to a charter now, so that there are no quarrels about it after we’re long gone. Good thinking, Alma!

  “It’s on my land!” Hardaker spat. “Ye’ve got no rights! And it weren’t me! ’Twas them! ’Twas all their ideer!”

  “Oh really?” Rod drawled.

  And that was when one of the strangers finally caved in. “You demmed old bastard!” he snarled. “Sell us out, ye think?” He struggled a bit with his bonds, then gave up. “We heerd about ye Heralds. Ye’re hard, but fair. Lemme tell ye what this old coot had up ’is sleeve. ’E found the gold, aye, an’ mined out ’nuff t’ pay us with, but wouldn’ tell us where it was. Just told us to scare these turnip-heads out. An’ if’n he couldn’t scare ’em out, we was t’get rid of ’em—however.” There was a flicker of uncertainty in the man’s face then. “We nivver really reckon’d on hurtin’ no one, we figgered these clodhoppers would scare out right easy. But... well, he was getting’ impatient, an’ talkin’ ’bout getting’ some’un else in here t’get rougher...”

  Now Hardaker looked both furious and alarmed. “Was just talk! Meant t’give ye layabouts reason t’do what I paid ye fer!”

  “That will be enough, old man,” Elyn said impassively. “What we’ve heard is enough for us.” She looked about at the villagers. “Do you consent to giving us the same rights of judgment as we would have in Valdemar?”

  They looked at one another and then back at Elyn. “Put it in that there charter,” said Benderk, finally. “I’fact...” He scratched his head. “Reckon it’d be better all around if—c’n ye make us part of Valdemar?”

  Elyn blinked. “Well,” she said cautiously, “Yes. You folk aren’t actually part of any other Kingdom. But the Crown would take a percentage from the gold from your mine—five percent, if I recall correctly—in exchange for things like a Guard detachment to keep it and you safe, and for twice-yearly visits from Heralds, and—”

  “And we mostly trade with Valdemar an’ the Crown’d take more than that fer trade taxes,” Benderk said shrewdly. “Aye, that’ll work.” He looked at Alma. “Draw up yer charter, missy. We’ll all sign it. What’s t’be done with this lot?”

  He toed Hardaker.

  “As subjects of Valdemar, I can declare his land and goods confiscated and turned over to you. He and these men will be taken to the nearest Guardpost—“

  ::I have already passed the news up the line. Guards will be on the way in the morning. We need only stay here long enough to keep this lot locked up until they arrive.::

  “—and men are on the way,” she continued smoothly, thanking the Havens for the swift mental communication between Companions. “Meanwhile we will see to—everything, including guarding these men for you.” She looked sternly down at Hardaker. “You, I am afraid, are going to be subjected to the Truth Spell to find out exactly how far your intentions towards these people were going to go. And we will find out exactly how many wrongs were originally on both sides.”

  Some of the villagers had the grace to look embarrassed and a little guilty. But not so much so that Elyn feared anything terribly ugly was going to come out of the investigation.

  “Nevertheless, I do not think it excuses the intent to drive people out of their homes,” she concluded. “That was an entirely immoral plan. Clever, but immoral.”

  “And I would have gotten away with it too, if it hadn’t been for you meddling Heralds!” the old man spat.

  Elyn could only shake her head. “Let’s find a good place to lock this lot up,” she only said. “I want him confined away from the rest for his own safety.” She nodded at Rod. “Take charge of that, will you?”

  “Gladly.” Rod prodded them to their feet with a toe. “ Get going, you.”

  “And well done, all of you.” She finally allowed herself to smile.

  And then felt a nudging at her shoulder-blade, and turned to look into Ryu’s big brown eyes.

  “Ru-rer row?” the kyree asked plaintively.

  “Supper!” Arville said, his expression identical to Ryu’s. “We’re starving!”

  Oh, kill me now, Elyn sighed.

  Afterword

  MERCEDES LACKEY IS THE ACCLAIMED author of over fifty novels and many works of short fiction. In her “spare” time she is also a professional lyricist and a licensed wild bird rehabilitator. Mercedes lives in Oklahoma with her husband and frequent collaborator, artist Larry Dixon, and their flock of parrots.

  Websites:

  Mercedes Lackey

  Larry Dixon

  MZB Literary Works Trust

  Recommendations for other works by Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon can be found here:

  Shipscat Collection, (SKitty, A Tail of Two Skittys, Scat, A Better Mousetrap)

  Aliens Ate My Pickup, 1998

  Balance, 1986

  Dragon in Distress, 1995

  Grey, 1997

  Grey’s Ghost, 1997

  On the Other Side, 2003

  Poetic License, 1994

  The Simple Gifts, 2011

  Stolen Silver, 1991

  Strike a Pose, 2007

  Sword Sworn, 1986

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2008 by Mercedes Lackey and Larry Dixon

  All rights reserved.

  The distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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

  MAGEBORN: THE BLACKSMITH’S SON

  Michael G. Manning

  Prologue

  ELENA DI’CAMERON WAS WORRIED ABOUT her husband. He seemed fine when he returned from dinner that evening, but now he was ill. They were visiting her parents, the Count and Countess di’Cameron. Normally she would have dined in the hall with him and her family, but her baby had been fussy. Rather than drag him downstairs, she had fed him in her room and taken a light meal there for herself.

  Tyndal, her husband, and counselor to the King of Lothion, had returned right after dinner complaining of tiredness and had gone to bed early. A few hours later she woke to the sound of him retching violently. “Tyndal? What’s wrong?” She sat up and lit a lamp. He sat on the floor, holding the chamber pot as he heaved. She was shocked at his appearance. His face was pale, and his black hair was damp with sweat. As she looked on, he convulsed again, but his stomach was already empty.

  She went to him and wiped his face with a towel, “You don’t look good. Let me get the physician.”

  He waved his hands, “I just want some water. I don’t need a healer.”

  “I’ll get some for you.” There was no use arguing with him, she would call for the physician while she got the water. He could complain later, the stubborn fool. She crossed the antechamber and stepped out into the hallway. Her parent’s rooms were across from hers, and the door was slightly ajar. That’s odd, she thought, but she continued down the hall, intent on her goal.

  As she rounded the corner she saw two men in black garb entering one of the empty rooms. Stepping back quickly, she knew things were very badly wrong. Then she remembered her parents’ door. Rushing, she was back to it within seconds, and thrusting it open she burst into the room. The doorway led into a small sitting room, similar to her own rooms. It was empty. A scream came from the bedroom, and the opposite door flew open as her mother struggled to get through. She was held from behind by another of
the black garbed men, and the front of her nightdress was soaked with blood. In the space of a heartbeat, Elena saw her mother’s head jerked back, and smoothly the man drew a short blade across her neck in a circular motion.

  Blood fountained from her ruined neck, and the Countess di’Cameron sagged to the floor. In Elena’s heart a voice was screaming, but no sound came from her lips; her teeth were clenched and her jaw set. The assassin looked at her grinning, the woman before him was no challenge, barehanded and still in her nightgown. Two short strides and he was to her, his open hand reaching for her hair. He barely lived long enough to regret his mistake.

  Elena was one of the Anath’Meridum, the secretive guardians that protected the line of Illeniel; a lethal warrior with or without weapons. She stepped into him, and her palm struck him in the chin, snapping his head back. The force of it caused him to topple backward, off balance. She stayed close, giving him no space as he stumbled. Holding his shirt, she ripped his other dagger from its sheath and pushed him to the floor while sliding the blade into his chest, just under the sternum. A second thrust under his chin made sure he would not rise again.

  Her mother was dead; she knew that before she got to her. Her father, the Count, was dead on the floor of his bedroom. The blood pooling around him shone blackly in the candlelight. Elena came close to collapsing then as the sight overwhelmed her, but a flash from behind kept her from giving in to her emotions. Returning the way she had come, she saw the hallway fill with incandescent fire, and the screams of dying men found her ears.

  The flames vanished as quickly as they had appeared, and she ducked her head out, scanning the hall. Two men lay smouldering on the floor outside her own room, and Tyndal stood there clutching the door frame. He was having difficulty staying upright. Gradually he sagged downward holding his stomach. More men ran past, one leaping over Tyndal to enter her bedroom, while the other two paused to finish the dying wizard. They never saw her stepping out from the other bedroom.

  One raised his sword to strike Tyndal, while the other looked on. Behind them an angel of death rose up in a white nightgown, blond hair framed flashing blue eyes as Elena struck. The dagger went into the kidney of the man watching her husband, while her free hand jerked backward on the collar of the one raising his sword. Her bare foot was planted behind his right boot, and he fell backwards. He never got the chance to get up; the dagger was back and in his throat before he had finished striking the ground.

  Tyndal was staring at her as she raised her head, loose hair hanging like a golden cloak over her shoulders. Her eyes met his, and he tried to speak, “Our son...” his voice was dry and weak. She took up the dead man’s sword and raced past Tyndal without a sound. The nursery door was open, and within she could see a dark form, the third man, holding a sword over the crib.

  This one heard her coming and faced her head on, forgetting his target momentarily. Steel flashed in the dim room for tense seconds, seconds that felt like hours. He was good, few swordsmen could have held her at bay so long, but he knew he was losing. A moment more and she would have him. Desperate, he stepped to the side and feinted, not at her, swinging instead for the crib with its tiny occupant. Elena made the choice every mother would make, not that it was a choice, for there was no thought in it. The instinct of every woman in history that had ever held babe to breast made this choice for her, not that she would have changed it. She lunged, seeking to block the sword that sought her son’s life, and barely made it, but it left her off balance and exposed. The assassin’s riposte took her in the stomach, steel ripping her gown and the flesh beneath. Her own sword whipped back as she retreated, slicing into his face.

  The assassin screamed, blood running from his right eye. The pain and blood disoriented him for just a moment, and he tried to defend himself as Elena came back. She was clutching her gaping stomach with her left hand, while her right drove him mercilessly backward with the sword. Her face was lit with rage and fury as she struck at him. “You will not have my son!” She struck again, and this time his response was too slow. She batted his clumsy defense aside and pierced his heart; driving the sword between his ribs and out between his shoulder blades, pinning the dead man to the wall.

  Elena had no time for dying. She went to the crib, still trying to keep herself together. Because of the injury, she only had the use of one hand, so she dropped the sword and tried to comfort her son with her free hand. She heard a noise behind her and if it had been another assassin she might have been undone, but it was Tyndal. He looked like death warmed over as he made his way into the small room. “Your belly...” he said as he gasped for air.

  “Never mind that, you look worse than me, and that’s saying something.” She smiled at him; the same smile that had won his heart years before, then she leaned back against the wall and slid down. Loss of blood had begun to make her dizzy.

  Tyndal sat down beside her and tried to ease her flat onto the floor, but the skin of her stomach separated as she straightened out, drawing a choked cry from her. “Dear gods Lena! I can’t fix this... it’s too much...” Tyndal Ardeth’Illeniel was the most powerful wizard of his time, but his knowledge of the healing arts was limited, and his own body was dying. The meal at Castle Cameron had been poisoned, and every man woman and child within the keep that had eaten it was dying as well.

  He put aside his pain, focusing as he drew his finger across her belly like a knife. The skin drew together and closed at his touch, and within a moment, only a silver line remained to show where she had been cut. Elena’s pain subsided, and she looked into Tyndal’s face. It was covered in sweat and drawn by pain and exhaustion. Still his brilliant blue eyes looked on her with the same sharp intellect that had always fascinated her. This man, her husband, was dying and she could do nothing.

  Able to sit up now, she drew him to her, tears brimming in her eyes. They held each other for a long minute, ‘till he began heaving again and pushed her away. He was bringing up blood now. After an eternity he stopped and managed to speak, “You’ve got to take our son and go.”

  Some women might have argued or wept, but Elena di’Cameron did not. She was Anath’Meridum, and she knew what had to be done. Nodding she rose and tested her wound. The skin and muscle seemed whole, but a deeper burning told her that more was yet wrong within her. Tyndal leaned over the crib and picked up their son. He swayed a bit as he stood there, making her concerned he might fall with the tiny child, but he kept his feet. “Grow strong my son, live and make me proud.” He kissed his son on the cheek and handed him to Elena. “I love you both.”

  “Forever,” she replied and kissed him quickly.

  Taking her free hand Tyndal led her into the bedroom. She left him for a moment and gathered a few things. Dressing quickly she put on simple breeches and a plain tunic, then she slipped her surcoat over it. She buckled on her sword and joined her husband; he had gone out onto the balcony.

  Standing there, she looked at the man she had pledged her life to protect. The man she had to leave behind. Doubt assailed her, “Are you sure?”

  “There is no other way. I am dying already; you must break your vow. You have to escape if our son is to live,” he replied. Tears stood out in his eyes.

  Elena looked away, and then she went back inside. She pushed the furniture in the anteroom against the door, and went to reclaim the assassin’s sword. Pulling it from his body, she wiped it and put it in her scabbard, keeping her own sword in her hand; then she returned to Tyndal. Holding out the blade, their eyes met. “I, Elena di’Cameron forsake my bond, and I ask for your release.” She spoke the words no Anath’Meridum had ever spoken.

  Tyndal reached out placing his hand over the blade, “I, Tyndal Ardeth’Illeniel release you.” As he spoke, the blade glowed for a moment before going dark, and then it shattered like glass. “My strength is almost gone, Elena. You have to hurry.”

  Dropping the hilt she embraced him and then took their child from his arms. “How is this going to work?” She wasn’t
sure how he planned to get her down, the balcony stood nearly a hundred feet above the courtyard below.

  “You will be light, like thistledown. You’ll have to jump, but my magic will keep you safe ‘till you reach the ground. I’m sorry, it’s all I have strength for...” he said. He spoke a few words in the ancient tongue and put his hand on her brow.”

  I love you,” she said, and put her hand to the rail, holding their son close with the other.

  “I know. You carry my heart in you and my life in your arms. I do not die tonight, so long as you live.” He kissed her, and then she jumped, drifting down like a feather in a light wind. As she floated downward she heard a noise come from the room above, and Tyndal turned back to the bedroom. Men were forcing the door inward, pushing the furniture aside. Tyndal walked toward them with fire dripping from his hands. A second later he was lost to her sight as she drifted lower.

  The night grew bright for a moment as flames shot from the balcony. The fire grew brighter and brighter till it seemed as bright as the sun, consuming their bedroom and a large portion of that floor of the keep. Then it dimmed, fading back to an orange glow as the keep began to burn from within. Tyndal Ardeth’Illeniel, the last wizard of Lothion, was no more.

  Elena reached the ground and gazed upward a moment longer. Then she looked away and began running for the stables. She wept silently as she ran, holding her infant son. It would have been shameful for someone to have seen one of her order crying, but then she was Anath’Meridum no longer.