Edge of Destiny

by J. Robert King

  Puffing a sweaty lock out of her eyes, Caithe said, “What’s the plan?”

  “Well,” Logan said as he ducked a hundred-pound fist, “I seem best at defense.”

  “Which means retreating,” Rytlock said as he kicked a destroyer in the chest. The monster reeled back unsteadily.

  “And Rytlock seems best at being offensive,” Logan said.

  “Hey!”

  “Which leaves me,” Caithe added as she high-stepped away from her destroyer. “What’s my role?”

  “You deliver the killing blow—like with the devourers.”

  Rytlock landed a haymaker on one destroyer’s jaw—then shook out his claw. “These aren’t scorpions. They’re magma monsters. You can’t stab them in the tailbone.”

  “Not the tailbone,” Caithe replied as a destroyer grabbed her and began to squeeze. “But magic has channels just like nerves. Weak points.” She thrust a dagger into the lava joint at the creature’s shoulder, twisted, and cracked the arm loose. It clattered to the ground as the destroyer staggered back and Caithe stepped away.

  Meanwhile, the charr dodged behind a boulder, a lava creature in pursuit. “What’s the plan?”

  “We take out one foe at a time,” Logan responded. “This one, for instance.” He was slowly backing away from a destroyer. “I draw one in”—Logan hooked his war hammer on the lowest limb of a nearby birch and yanked himself up, scrambling onto the branch. The destroyer grasped the tree, setting it alight—“then Rytlock attacks.”

  The charr rushed up behind the destroyer and kicked its knee sideways, shattering it. The destroyer crashed to the ground.

  Amid flaming branches, Logan shouted out, “And then Caithe delivers the kill.”

  The sylvari bounded over to sink her stiletto into the back of the destroyer’s neck. She wrenched the blade in an arc, and the destroyer’s stony head rolled away. She drew out her stiletto and said, “Their necks are weak: all magma. Cuts like butter.”

  The lava in the destroyer’s joints turned gray, and the solid bits decayed into separate stones.

  “Pretty good,” Logan said.

  “Damn good,” Rytlock said.

  Caithe grinned at the other two. “Let’s do another.”

  They turned and strode side by side toward the other two destroyers.

  One roared, flecks of lava flying from its mouth. It charged.

  Logan broke from the other two, charging as well.

  The destroyer reached with massive hands toward him.

  Logan slid beneath them and rammed his war hammer into the monster’s groin. He posted the butt of the haft in the ground, and the beast’s momentum carried it over the hammer. The destroyer hung in the air for a split second, then crashed face-first to the ground.

  Rytlock followed on, leaping onto the monster’s back and marching double time. His claws shattered the stony skin, leaving the creature a pulpy mass. Lava oozed up, and Rytlock leaped free, patting out the flames on his dewclaws.

  Caithe arrived, her white stiletto spearing the neck of the monster and twisting to rip loose the head. She kicked it away. “Too bad you can’t put these on a pike.”

  “I was thinking rock garden,” Logan responded, watching the head roll down the green slope.

  Rytlock joined them above the kill, which crackled and dissipated to dust.

  The team turned toward the final destroyer.

  It stood at the edge of the meadow beneath the tree its comrade had set alight. It planted its massive feet and lifted its brutal arms and roared with the voice of a volcano.

  “Here goes.” Logan rushed it.

  The destroyer’s hands dropped down.

  Logan sprang over them. He bounded off one rock wrist and onto the creature’s shoulder.

  It reached up to swat him.

  Rytlock’s shoulder crashed into the destroyer’s stomach. Rytlock leaped free as the flaming minion toppled.

  Caithe plunged her white stiletto into its neck and twisted, harvesting the monster’s head.

  She stepped back. The ropy ends of neck cooled. The beast shuddered and segmented and settled on the ground. In moments, it was a pile of rubble and ash like the other two in the clearing . . . like thousands in the ruined city of the dwarves.

  “We’re getting good at this,” Logan said with a laugh.

  “Yeah.” Rytlock nodded breathlessly.

  Caithe kicked the pile of smoldering stone. “Teamwork.”

  The man, the charr, and the sylvari grinned at each other, then turned awkwardly away.

  Rytlock looked around. “So, where do you think we are?”

  Logan scanned the green glens and hardwood glades, the gentle hillsides sloping down toward golden plains. “It’s not Ascalon. Not since you lot moved in. I’d say Kryta. But we can’t know until the stars come out.”

  “I’m hungry,” Rytlock groused, sitting down on a fallen tree.

  “Yeah,” Logan agreed, plopping down as well. “Scorpion tail doesn’t stay with you.”

  Caithe shook her head. “There may be some grubs for you two in that log. I’ll see what else I can find.” She drew her dagger and stalked off into the brush.

  The charr and the man sat on the log, looking out at the green landscape. Long moments passed before either spoke.

  Logan said, “This is crazy. We’re supposed to be killing each other.”

  “I never do what I’m supposed to do.”

  Logan huffed, “Me neither.”

  Rytlock cocked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  Taking a deep breath, Logan said, “I’ve got this big brother in Divinity’s Reach. He’s in the Seraph, for gods’ sake. Guarding the queen, even—”

  “One of those brothers.”

  “Yeah,” Logan said, pointing at him. “He wears armor that shines like a mirror . . . white everything . . . stands by the queen all day. I was supposed to follow him, but a white knight casts a long shadow.”

  “Heh. You’re pretty far from that shadow.”

  “Huh?”

  “Mercenary scout for a supply caravan in the Blazeridges?” Rytlock said. “That’s about as far from your brother as you can get.”

  Logan looked at his hands. “Guess so.” They sat awhile in silence before he asked, “You got any brothers?”

  “About a dozen,” Rytlock said with a rueful laugh, “and a dozen sisters.”

  “Big family.”

  Rytlock shook his head. “Charr don’t have families. We have warbands. The bonds are even stronger.”

  Logan’s eyes grew wide. “Was that them, back there? That funeral pyre?”

  “Course not,” Rytlock snapped. “Those were Iron Legion. I’m Blood Legion.”

  “You guys all look alike,” Logan said with a shrug. “So, where’s your warband?”

  “Back east somewhere. I left them.”

  That comment hung in the air between them. “Why?”

  “My reasons are my own.”

  Just then, Caithe returned, flopping a brace of dead rabbits down on a nearby rock. “All right, so, I hunted them. You cook them.”

  “Sure,” Rytlock said, relieved to end the conversation. “I’m a good cook.”

  Logan blasted a laugh. “Yeah, right! Charr cooking?”

  “What’s wrong with charr cooking?”

  “It’s right in the name!”

  “Shut it,” Rytlock advised, “and don’t open it again until there’s roasted rabbit.”

  Caithe brushed off her hands and sat beside Logan. They watched as the charr cracked burning branches from the birch and piled them into a campfire. He sharpened three other sticks into spits. Sticking a claw into each rabbit’s pelt, he ripped it away to reveal the meat. Then he slid the spits through the gutted rabbits and propped the skewers in the flames.

  “So, you come from a grove?” Logan asked Caithe.

  “The Grove,” Caithe corrected.

  “A whole lot of trees.”

  “The Pale Tree. I was born out o
f it. Out of a seedpod. I am one of the Firstborn.”

  “Coming out of a tree—” Logan whistled. “Must be weird.”

  Caithe’s brows canted. “And your method isn’t?”

  They sat for a while, the scent of cooked rabbit coming to them on the air.

  At last Logan ventured, “How come you left the Grove?”

  “I knew everything there. I left to learn more.”

  “Admirable.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Logan shrugged. “Lots of people stay right where they were born. They don’t want to know anything else. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with the world.”

  Caithe shrugged. “I think Elder Dragons are a bigger problem.”

  Logan laughed. “Yeah, I guess they are.”

  Caithe looked deadly serious. “They are. We just fought the minions of one of them—Primordus. He was the first one to rise, and he’s still spreading his power through the deep places, like that dwarf city. But there are others. The Ice Dragon Jormag is taking over the northern mountains, and there’s another dragon in the black heart of Orr. Who knows how many more are rising.”

  Logan nodded politely. “Not one for small talk, are you?”

  Caithe’s eyes were wide and guileless. “Why talk small when there are such big things happening?”

  “Perfectly done!” Rytlock announced as he lifted three smoking rabbits from the fire. “Black outside and pink within.”

  Logan nodded as he dutifully received his meal, and Caithe did likewise.

  Holding his own charred rabbit, Rytlock sat down on the log and began to eat. The charr’s eating habits—gnawing teeth and flying meat and grunts of satisfaction—at first put the other two off. But soon all three were feasting. The rabbit was delicious—a creature alive half an hour ago, slain unknowing, and roasted moments later.

  As he bit into a haunch, Logan said, “I’d never guess you could cook.”

  Rytlock wiped grease from his chin. “You’d be amazed what I can do.”

  The comrades ate in silence as the sky deepened to dusk.

  “Kryta,” Logan said at last, staring upward.

  Rytlock glanced at him over the picked skeletons. “What?”

  “That’s where we are. That constellation overhead puts us two days’ march west of Lion’s Arch.”

  The charr’s face darkened. “Long way from Ascalon.”

  Logan smiled. “Come on. You’ll like Lion’s Arch. Everybody there’s from somewhere else.”

  “Whatever,” Rytlock said. “Surely they’ll have a gate back to the Black Citadel.”

  Nodding, Logan glanced at the stone scabbard hanging from Rytlock’s belt. “You can go through such a gate, but you’re not taking Rurik’s sword.”

  Rytlock barked a laugh. “I’d like to see you stop me.”

  IN THE COLD

  Eir ran up to Big Snaff and Big Zojja and pounded their metal hides. Whether because of the blows or the aura of her gray powerstones, the two golems jolted, and the otherworldly light left their eyes.

  “Where are we?” came Snaff’s tinny voice.

  “You’re in battle with the Dragonspawn,” spat Eir. “Wake up!”

  Big Zojja shivered. “Point me at him. I’ll get him.”

  They were back, in control. Their eyes no longer glowed with the blue-white aura of the Dragonspawn. Eir turned toward their foe.

  The Dragonspawn stood with hands outflung, eyes gushing wrath on Garm.

  “No!”

  The dire wolf stood enveloped in blue-white energy. Power sluiced past his gaping jaws and coursed over his hackles. It sought entry. It probed for a chink that would let its icy talons reach into his heart, into his mind. But there was no such chink.

  Garm had only one alpha, now and forever.

  “This is our chance!” Eir shouted to the Bigs. “Let’s go!”

  Eir stepped out from behind her dire wolf into the full brunt of the boreal blast. More frost etched across her armor, but she strode toward the Dragonspawn and broke into a run.

  Garm did, too, alongside her.

  Big Snaff and Big Zojja joined the charge.

  “Ten more paces,” Eir cried, “and the Dragonspawn will be a pile of ice!”

  But in five more paces, he was gone. The air folded around his frozen figure and closed on him.

  Eir took three more strides before stumping to a halt.

  Garm, Big Snaff, and Big Zojja pulled up alongside her.

  “Where did he go?”

  A sharp crack came from above. The comrades looked up to see an icicle the size of a fir tree break from the ceiling and plunge toward them. It didn’t seem to move, only to grow larger.

  “Back!” Eir commanded.

  The golems leaped back, skidding on the icy floor.

  The icicle struck, its tip hurling out hailstones. The shaft rammed downward, disintegrating until it reached its center, which struck the floor like a hammer. The cavern shook.

  Big Snaff brushed ice off his steel hide. “Lucky for us, we got out of the way.”

  “We’re not out of the way,” replied Eir, looking up at the thousands of similar icicles hanging overhead.

  Crack, crack, crack, crack!

  “He’s trying to drive us out,” Eir cried. “Deeper! Run deeper!”

  She ran forward, followed by golems that fissured the ice as they went. The four comrades ran headlong into the darkness.

  Behind them, icicles fell. Boom! Boom! Boom! They hissed and burst like rockets. Frozen shrapnel rang across the golems’ metal skins. Boom! Boom! Boom!

  One icicle grazed Eir’s elbow, dragging her sideways—away from another icicle that staved the floor before her. She spun past its disintegrating bulk over a field of slippery shards.

  “Keep going!”

  Garm leaped aside as an ice shaft struck before him, going off like a bomb.

  Big Snaff and Big Zojja danced past two more columns while a third toppled before them like a felled tree.

  “Jump!” Snaff cried.

  The golems grasped hands and leaped as the icicle hit. Big Zojja and Big Snaff sailed side by side over the shattering ice. The two golems fell into a wave of crushed ice that picked up Eir and Garm and dumped them into another chute.

  “Down we go!” Eir called.

  For a time, there was only metal scraping ice and golems spinning and the wave breaking. Then the floor flattened out again in deep darkness. Eir, Garm, and the golems ground to a halt, and the last skittering shards of ice tumbled to silence.

  “Now where are we?” Zojja wondered through her speaking tube.

  Snaff replied philosophically, “Somewhere else.”

  “Somewhere he was trying to keep us from,” Eir said as she rose. “This is probably his inner sanctum.”

  Something moved in the darkness.

  The golems turned to see.

  Ahead, the black air unfolded, and the Dragonspawn took shape. His figure glowed ice blue, and his soul whirled in a cyclone about him.

  “It all comes down to this,” Eir said, “the courage of four heroes—“

  “And the golemancy of two geniuses,” Zojja added.

  “Against the Dragonspawn.” Eir paused. “Spirit of Wolf, guide my work.” So saying, Eir transformed from a towering norn into the aspect of her totem animal. She became a dire wolf like Garm, only standing on hind legs, with eyes like fire and a coat as red as blood.

  Side by side, the red wolf and the black wolf charged through the inner sanctum, bearing down on the ice champion. Big Snaff and Big Zojja followed.

  “Kal-throk-tok!” the Dragonspawn cried in a voice like thunder. He raised his sword of eternal ice. Dark magic roiled around it. He plunged the sword into the glacier beneath him, cracking through the frozen floor. The crack spread like black lightning, splitting one side of the glacier from the other.

  Eir and Garm leaped to one side and Big Snaff and Big Zojja to the other.

  Still, the crack raced along, up the far
wall of the ice cave and onto the ceiling. The split grew wider, and above, light poured through the glacier.

  A mile of ice had ruptured, and the crevice gushed sunlight.

  Eir and Garm struggled to stay upright as the ice cave shook, and Big Snaff and Big Zojja scrabbled to keep from falling into the chasm.

  “Kal-throk-tok! Borea-kal-lu-ki Joor-maag.”

  Suddenly, something else was in that ice cavern. A presence. It was as old as the world, as uncaring of mortal creatures. It was colder than a blizzard: not just the power to freeze but the will to, to see living things shiver to stillness and crack open. This was the power behind the Dragonspawn. He wielded only a portion of it—the portion that could pour through eye sockets and skeletal fingertips. Now, Eir, Garm, and the Bigs were in the presence of the power itself.

  We are in its inner sanctum, and it is going to get rid of us, Eir thought. She shouted, “Get away from the crevice!”

  Big Snaff and Big Zojja clawed their way toward the wall of the chamber.

  Out of the fissure behind them, a blast of cold and snow erupted. It was like an inverted avalanche. Hunks of slush smashed into the golems and coated them and froze them. The storm hauled them off the floor.

  “Get out! Jump!” Eir shouted.

  The hatches of the golems opened, and first Snaff and then Zojja tumbled out. They crashed to the icy floor of the cave as their golems were hauled up on the erupting storm. The golems jolted up the chasm, occasionally smashing against the ice cliffs. Moments later, the golems flew past the surface of the glacier and were flung through the air on a storm of hail.

  “We have to escape,” Eir told Garm as she clambered toward the entrance to the hollow. Already it was filling in. If they stayed even minutes, they would be buried in the glacier’s heart. “Climb out!”

  On the other side of the rent, Snaff and Zojja also scrambled toward the chute that had brought them down. They would have to find handholds, some way out.

  Even as Eir climbed, arms stiffening beneath the onslaught of snow, she knew what this was: failure. She had not been corrupted by the Dragonspawn, but she had not slain it, either. And if she knew the Dragonspawn, her people would pay for her hubris.

  The ice cave had probably saved their lives. When at last the companions had crawled from it, they found a world buried in snow. It was more than ten feet deep and still falling. The sky was black overhead, disgorging the fury of the Dragonspawn. Snow, hail, sleet, and ice pummeled the ground and piled atop glaciers. Boreal winds whipped the white stuff into gigantic drifts and tormented pillars. Winter lightning mantled the mountaintops.