Edge of Destiny

by J. Robert King

  “She’s my queen.”

  Caithe interrupted, “Let’s forget about the queen and focus on whatever’s behind that gate.” She pointed across the arena, where men dragged a set of bars away from an entrance.

  In the darkness, flames flared. They showed a massive form with red-glowing joints.

  “Did you see what I saw?” Logan asked.

  “Yep,” Rytlock replied.

  “Some kind of giant destroyer,” Caithe said.

  The announcer broke in on their conversation. “And now for the exhibition match this afternoon—the one you’ve been waiting for. In honor of our special guest, Queen Jennah of Kryta, and in honor of our new alliance with Kryta to battle the dragon menaces, we match up today the crowd favorites, Edge of Steel”—cheers flooded the arena, and the white-faced warriors dutifully waved—“against a minion of the dread dragon Primordus. Feast your eyes upon the destroyer harpy Racogorrix!”

  The crowd roared.

  Out lumbered the creature of living lava. It was shaped like a woman, but with the wings and talons of an eagle. It bounded forward across the sands, dragging a team of ten men, who held its enchanted shackles. Despite a metal muzzle fastened across the harpy’s mouth, it screamed, and flame roared out.

  “More magma magic.” Rytlock hoisted Sohothin. “Probably impervious to this thing.”

  Caithe looked down at the skintight strapping she wore. “I’m wearing a wick.”

  “I’ll take this one,” Logan said, thumping his new steel breastplate.

  “You kidding? That thing’ll melt on the second barrage,” Rytlock said.

  “Then there can’t be a second barrage,” Logan replied. “Caithe, advance about a hundred paces ahead of us and draw it in. When it starts to dive, run back to us. Pass us before it reaches you. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  Caithe looked warily at her comrades. “I’m trusting you with my life, as usual.” She turned and stalked away, counting the paces.

  Beyond her, handlers slid iron keys into the shackles that bound the harpy. The moment the restraints fell away, Racogorrix vaulted into the air. Its huge wings spread and beat. The shock wave sent a pulse through the arena. A second stroke, and a third, and the harpy circled slowly higher. Its shadow swarmed, horrible and huge, across the sands.

  Caithe strode into the circling shadow. “Ninety-eight . . . ninety-nine . . . one hundred!” She stopped and glanced back.

  Rytlock pointed into the sky behind her. “Start running!”

  Caithe looked up to see that Racogorrix had reached the top of its spiral and had now turned to swoop down on her. She began to run.

  Rytlock muttered, “So, what’s the brilliant plan?”

  “Put your sword away.”

  Sohothin slid it into its stone sheath. “And . . . ?”

  “Cup your claws and lean forward.”

  The charr grinned, fangs splaying. “You want me to throw you?”

  “Precisely.”

  As Rytlock bent down, cupping his claws, Caithe ran full speed toward him across the sand. The black shadow of the harpy fell over her, growing larger with each step. The harpy screamed, and a gout of red flame billowed down toward Caithe.

  The crowd leaped to its feet.

  The harpy was nearly on her.

  She ran full out past her comrades.

  Rytlock hurled his shoulders back, flung his arms up, and launched Logan into the path of the beast.

  The crowd screamed.

  Fire burst over Logan, enveloping him.

  Agony.

  He couldn’t see a thing but swung his hammer where the head should be. The cloud of flame rolled past, and the hammer crashed down across the harpy’s stony shoulder.

  “Damn.”

  The beast slammed into Logan. He folded across its shoulder, hammer wedged beneath its wing. Screaming fire, the creature carried him away.

  Logan caught a foothold on one of the harpy’s talons and flung himself up onto the monster’s back.

  Racogorrix banked above the roaring crowd, jigging right and left to shake Logan loose. It snarled fire back along its neck, but he ducked, only singed.

  The harpy circled, spotting Rytlock and Caithe below, and dived toward them.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Logan muttered. He lifted his hammer overhead and, with one massive stroke, bashed the harpy’s brow.

  Stones broke, and magma gushed out, but still the harpy flew.

  A blue aura gushed from Logan’s fingertips and wrapped around his hammer. He hoisted the weapon overhead and roared.

  The enspelled weapon crashed into the head of the harpy and broke it free from the body. The magma joints grew gray and seized up.

  Suddenly, the harpy was not flying but falling.

  Dead weight.

  Rytlock ran away in one direction and Caithe in the other.

  The ground rose up to meet the harpy. It crashed down and flipped over, breaking into hundreds of pieces. Logan was flung a few dozen paces through the air. He tumbled end over end in a welter of sand.

  Then there was a blow to the head and blood in his nose and nothing else.

  When he awoke, the first thing Logan saw was Rytlock’s face, his whiskers curled at the ends. “He’s back!” Rytlock said.

  Caithe moved into view and smiled her rare smile. Beside her, Dylan appeared, his white face flushing red. And then, even Queen Jennah was there.

  Logan couldn’t breathe. And suddenly . . .

  Jennah stood above him, smiling. Her hand gently touched the royal scarf tied to his armor. “You are a champion, in the mold of your brother.”

  “I fight for you . . . forever.”

  “Ssh, now . . . rest.”

  Logan opened his mouth to reply but once again lost consciousness.

  AGREEMENTS

  The summer sun beat down on Rata Sum, but within Snaff’s ziggurat, everything was cool.

  He and Zojja and Eir worked away contentedly in the shade. Eir pounded her chisel, breaking loose a few more chunks of sandstone. She glanced at Snaff. “Keep flexing.”

  Snaff snorted, tensing his chest muscles. “I’ve never flexed so long.”

  “You’re the one who wanted a ‘buff golem,’” Eir reminded. “Besides, it can’t be harder to flex muscles than to actually use them.” A few more blows knocked the last of the large pieces from the sandstone block, which now had the rough shape of Snaff—only five times larger. Eir switched to a smaller chisel. “I’ve never carved sandstone before. Very soft. It doesn’t hold up.”

  “All the better,” Snaff said enigmatically. “So, you’re confident in this plan of yours?”

  Eir nodded. “I know we can defeat them. They don’t plan. They just react. They wait until their opponents attack, and then they exploit the weaknesses they see. If we don’t attack, they’ll have to, and we’ll be a mystery.” Eir carved a long, swooping curve that would be the lid beneath Snaff’s left eye. “Let me turn the question on you, Snaff: Are you sure about this sandstone golem? Zojja says no asura has ever created anything like it.”

  “No other asura could—well, maybe Oola, or one of her students, but nobody else.”

  “But you can?”

  “We’ll see,” Snaff said with a grin.

  “You’ll have control?”

  “Yes, but not with a single powerstone. With millions.”

  She shifted to the lower lid of his right eye. “A pretty expensive golem.”

  “No. I’ve designated one powerstone for each body part, and then ground them into fine powder. Each grain is a minipowerstone. We’re going to spread them over the whole statue once it’s finished. I’ll have power over every inch.”

  “Ingenious.”

  “Thank you.” Then Snaff coughed into his hand. “By the way, once you’re finished carving this statue, we’ll have to deconstruct it.”

  “What?” Eir stepped back and stared at him. “How do you deconstruct a statue?”

  His smile grew devilish,
and he pantomimed giving it a push.

  “You’re cracked.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Flex!”

  The day after downing a destroyer harpy, Logan was back on his feet and fighting like never before. He credited the scarf of Queen Jennah for healing him, but of course the chirurgeons didn’t hurt.

  Sangjo was anxious that his newfound team keep fighting—especially since they still had such a large billet to pay off—but Edge of Steel seemed in no particular hurry to pay up. Logan had used his cut to complete his plate mail, Rytlock had moved on from thundershrimp to skale omelets, and Caithe had rented a private room in a tower near the arena, where she could “keep an eye on everyone.”

  The delirious winning streak continued. Even two months in, Edge of Steel was undefeated. They headlined the arena and bashed all comers: warriors and elementalists, devourers and drakes, humans and charr and whatever—no team could defeat them, and Lion’s Arch hailed them.

  Then Queen Jennah herself hailed them—or at least Logan.

  The message came on a scroll of fine parchment, sealed with wax that was imprinted with the royal signet. Logan’s eyes lingered on that emblem, the same sewn into the scarf on his shoulder. Then he broke the seal and unrolled the scroll and read:

  From Her Royal Majesty, Jennah,

  Queen of Kryta,

  Regent of Ascalon

  To Logan Thackeray,

  Gladiator of the Arena in Lion’s Arch

  Greetings:

  Your presence is required. Report to the royal palace in Divinity’s Reach, Kryta. We will receive you at our convenience.

  “She’s calling me,” Logan gasped, eyes darting again across the scroll. “She’s summoning me.” It was still morning. He had time to don his best clothes and go through the asura gate to Divinity’s Reach and see his queen—all before the night’s match. He looked again at the letter in his hand. “She’s calling me.”

  An hour later, Logan was stepping through an asura gate, leaving behind the hurly-burly streets of Lion’s Arch and stepping into the white splendor of Divinity’s Reach. Sultry winds gave way to cool stillness, the loud menagerie of species to the sedate capital of a single, ancient people.

  Humanity.

  Divinity’s Reach was the last bastion of human glory. White limestone walls, great statues, shrines to gods—Divinity’s Reach was the world as it had once been, as it would be again.

  It was laid out like a great wheel, with the high outer walls as its rim and six inner walls radiating like spokes from the hub at its center.

  Logan stood in that hub—a broad, beautiful parkland with green lawns stretching to white pavements, beyond which rose great shining buildings. The buildings were grand, with columned porticoes and hanging galleries and friezes carved in their tympana. The carvings showed scenes of glory from Kryta’s past, scenes of beauty from Ascalon before the fall.

  This was the heart of the greatest human city on Tyria.

  That building was the Chamber of Ministers.

  Those white-walled barracks housed the Seraph.

  Beyond them lay one of six elevated high roads, each dedicated to a god that the rest of the world had forgotten.

  Logan turned to his right, seeing at last the glorious palace of the queen. It was a magnificent structure of spiraling columns and recessed arches, rounded roofs and overhanging stone gazebos and spires reaching to the sky. Before the royal palace sat an amazing domed garden. The dome consisted of a wrought-iron framework covered in a skin of glass. Circular limestone walls rose to a lattice of iron, holding up vast panels of glass. The sun beamed through them onto suspended orreries and solar clocks. Mature oaks and elms and beeches towered among winding paths and trim green lawns.

  Logan strode toward the palace gate.

  A Seraph emerged from a guardhouse, his armor gleaming mirror-bright but his brows glowering cave-dark. “Who approaches?” he barked while Logan was still half a block away.

  “I am Logan Thackeray.”

  The storm clouds around the guard’s face suddenly parted. “Logan Thackeray? The Logan Thackeray?”

  Stepping up, Logan nodded. “Yes.”

  “You look a lot smaller up close.”

  “You’ve seen me in the arena?”

  “Are you kidding? I was there when you killed that destroyer harpy. I’ve seen you a couple times since then. You’re terrific!”

  “Thanks.”

  The guard suddenly straightened. “Erm, what is your business here today?”

  “I’m here to see Queen Jennah,” Logan replied simply.

  “No one sees the queen except by special appointment.”

  “How’s this?” Logan lifted the scroll and unrolled it. “A summons from the queen herself.”

  The guard squinted at it, reading. Then he stepped back, set a horn to his lips, and blew three times. “One of her attendants will come gather you and take you to her.”

  Beyond the guard, a Seraph strode from the arched doorway of the castle. It was Logan’s brother, Dylan. He smiled ruefully as he approached. “You’re blowing the horn for my kid brother?”

  The guard blurted, “The queen has summoned him.”

  “Him?”

  Logan lifted the scroll.

  Dylan scowled as he read it. “What would she want with you?”

  Logan refused to be daunted. “I don’t know. She no doubt has heard of my acclaim.”

  “Acclaim?” Dylan huffed.

  “Yeah. You may not know this, but I’m one of the greatest warriors alive. The arena doesn’t lie.”

  Dylan sniffed. “Follow me.” He led Logan into a side garden ringed with tall windows and balconies.

  “Wait here, Brother, until we are summoned into her presence.”

  Logan glimpsed a pair of wooden swords leaning on a nearby bench. “What are those for?”

  “Practice matches,” Dylan said offhandedly, then a smile cracked his face. “You say you’re the greatest warrior alive?”

  “I don’t,” Logan corrected. “Everyone else does.”

  “Then, how about you show me.” Dylan gestured toward the practice swords in the side garden.

  “All right.” Logan entered the garden—benches circled around an elaborate white fountain, with sculpted shrubs standing sentry over beds of flowers. “Nice spot for sparring.”

  Dylan lifted one of the wooden swords and used the blade to hoist the other, flinging it to Logan.

  Logan caught the sword and took some practice swings. “I’m used to a war hammer.”

  “You would be.” Dylan bowed regally. “Pounding things. All power, no finesse.”

  Logan bowed likewise.

  Dylan lunged, his sword striking Logan’s breastplate.

  Logan staggered. “I wasn’t ready.”

  “You bowed.” Dylan followed the first stroke with an overhand blow.

  Logan dodged, letting the sword swing past, then elbowed his brother out of the way. Spinning, Logan retreated. “In the arena, we don’t bow.”

  Dylan pivoted. “Yes. I’ve seen what you do in the arena. You fight like a charr.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That wasn’t a compliment. And that last shot of yours didn’t count. We’re fighting with swords, not with elbows.” Dylan charged again, sword jabbing.

  Parrying the blow, Logan stepped behind one of the benches.

  “Out of bounds,” Dylan called. “That’s a second point for me.”

  Glowering, Logan whacked Dylan’s blade out of the way and stepped back into the garden. “Is that how it’s played here? Battling for points?”

  “That’s the civilized way.”

  Logan was about to respond when he spotted a figure on a balcony high above the garden. It was she, the queen—Jennah.

  His heart pounded.

  Dylan lunged, his sword ramming Logan’s breastplate. “That’s another touch. Three points.”

  “That wasn’t fair! I was looking at the queen.�
��

  “She is mesmerizing you,” Dylan said, grinning. “I’m beating you three points to zero.”

  Logan huffed. “Of course you can beat me if this is a parlor game. But I thought it was a duel.”

  “It is a duel.”

  “Then let’s forget about touches and out of bounds. The one who wins is the one who stands over the other.”

  “Fine with me.”

  Smiling, Logan flipped the practice sword over in his hand, catching the narrow end and swinging the crosspiece as if it were a hammerhead. Dylan ducked back and glared. Logan laughed. “That’s more like it.”

  With a snarl, Dylan rushed forward, sword stabbing.

  Logan’s hammer cracked the blade to one side, and he bulled through to ram Dylan backward, causing him to sit down on a garden bench.

  Distant laughter drifted down from the balcony.

  Logan stepped back, giving his brother room.

  “That counts for nothing,” Dylan said. “I didn’t go out of bounds, and you used your shoulder.”

  “It counts for me knocking you on your ass.”

  Dylan roared murderously, swinging his sword to brain his brother.

  Logan sidestepped.

  Dylan’s blade struck a stone bench and rattled stingingly. “Why, you—”

  Laughing, Logan scurried away.

  Dylan followed with sword swinging.

  Logan bounded onto a bench and leaped to the next and the next while Dylan’s sword swiped impotently at his heels.

  “Stand and face me!”

  “This is how we do it in the arena.”

  “What, run away? Stand and face me!”

  Logan planted his feet on the grass and raised his hammer. “Here’s my face.”

  “Almost as ugly as the other side,” Dylan noted as his sword jabbed.

  Logan’s hammer bashed the blade, entangled it, and yanked it free, flinging it behind him.

  Shrieking in frustration, Dylan head-butted his brother.

  Crack!

  Both men staggered back. Logan shook his head, trying to get the multiple images of Dylan to coalesce. His brother meanwhile shambled backward, eyes crossed and hands flailing for balance. Logan’s vision cleared just in time to see his brother stumble back into the fountain and sprawl into the water. He thrashed ridiculously for a moment, but then sat back against the central figure. It was a mermaid spitting water, which rolled down his face. “I hate you.”