Edge of Destiny

by J. Robert King

  Logan bowed. “I love you, too, Brother.” He rubbed his forehead, wondering if his skull was cracked. When he dropped his hand, though, he saw the queen on her balcony, beckoning to him. “I must go. Our sovereign calls.”

  Straightening his clothes, Logan strode from the garden toward the royal residence. He held his summons up before him, and the first Seraph he encountered led him up a broad stairway. At the top, they reached a high chamber with columns on either side and a thick red carpet down the center. Courtiers in samite and silk lined the carpet, turning to see this rough-and-tumble gladiator in their midst. They watched him, eyes narrowing and mouths curling in smiles of disdain.

  Logan didn’t care what they thought. The queen had summoned him, and he had come.

  She awaited him, sitting at the end of the red carpet, on a throne of gold.

  Logan strode toward the queen of Kryta.

  Pallid-faced guards dressed in blue and gold—the Shining Blade—stepped up protectively around her throne.

  Logan flashed them a smile and then went to his knee, bowing. “Greetings, Your Majesty.”

  “Rise,” she commanded.

  Logan got to his feet and stared wonderingly at her. She was more beautiful than before—her brown hair pulled back from her neck, her dark eyes locking with his, her lips a red to match the rich robes that mantled her. He almost forgot the words he’d been practicing: “Your Majesty, I came the moment I received your summons.”

  She smiled dazzlingly. “You must have. I sent it just this morning.”

  “I am at your command.”

  “Then I command you to stand with me.” The queen rose from her throne. Logan stood there numbly as his queen stepped up next to him. She grasped his hand—her fingers soft but strong—and turned him outward to face the roomful of courtiers. She lifted their hands together. “Friends, senators, courtiers—” She looked pointedly at a proud bald man with a long goatee, and said in an almost growl, “Minister Caudecus—I want to introduce this young man to you. He is a warrior of a new stripe—a gladiator who slew a minion of Primordus in my honor. This is Logan Thackeray.”

  The courtiers nodded politely, donning smiles and clapping gloved hands in a muffled ovation.

  “He fights for me,” the queen went on, “as certainly as his brother fights for me. Yes, I have champions beyond the Seraph and the Shining Blade. I have champions such as this warrior. I said he was of a new stripe, but in fact, he is of a very old stripe. He is a hero, like Rurik of old.”

  Again came the muted applause, the supercilious smiles.

  Logan blushed as the queen lowered his hand and squeezed his fingers. She leaned toward him and murmured into his ear, “Thank you for answering my summons.”

  He squeezed her hand in return. “I will always answer your summons.”

  “Will you?” she replied in a voice of sudden steel. Turning toward him, she pinioned him on her gaze. “Then you will be bonded to me.” She lifted her hand as if in blessing, but then reached out to lay her palm on his forehead and lace her fingers into his hair.

  Power poured through her touch.

  It roared into Logan.

  The queen’s mind entered his own mind like a thief through a window. But he welcomed this thief. He took her hand and led her deep within and showed her vistas of memory.

  They walked together at the height of the Blazeridge Gap as stones buried the charr.

  They swam together through the depths of the underground river.

  They fought side by side in the meadow against the destroyers.

  They stood hand in hand on the arena sands before the Killers.

  Logan showed her every moment: when he was a boy clapping his hands red as his brother was inducted into the Seraph; when he was a young man leading his first scouting party to escape a wildfire; when he was first blooded, slaying a centaur raider and taking the creature’s war hammer; when he was most proud, using that hammer to destroy a minion of Primordus in the name of his queen. . . .

  Jennah’s hand broke from his forehead, and she stepped back, catching a slight breath. Once again, the two of them were standing in the throne room, staring wide-eyed at each other.

  Jennah whispered, “The things you have done.”

  Logan smiled. “The things I will yet do—in your name.”

  The senators and courtiers of Divinity’s Reach listened in silence.

  Jennah glanced toward them and drew a deep breath, becoming the queen once again. “You are bonded to me, now, Logan Thackeray,” she pronounced, speaking to everyone. “If ever I am in mortal peril, I will call to you, and you must come to me.”

  “Yes, my queen,” Logan said, dropping again to one knee.

  Jennah’s eyes moved among the courtiers, fixing on certain ones. “Let those who plot against the throne beware.”

  “Where’ve you been?” Rytlock asked.

  Logan wandered dumbstruck onto the arena sands. “I’m not exactly sure.”

  “Sangjo wants to talk with us,” the charr growled. “All of us.”

  Caithe walked up to join her teammates. “Something about a big matchup.”

  The three walked side by side through the main trainer’s gate into the foul-smelling underbelly of the arena. They passed among rows of caged gladiators, who hollered excitedly to see Edge of Steel among them, and reached an infirmary, whose operating tables just now were empty. Beyond the tables, Sangjo stood in conference with a female norn, her dire wolf, and a pair of asura.

  Wending among the empty tables, Edge of Steel approached. They stopped a few strides away, planted their feet, and folded their arms over their chests.

  Logan spoke for them. “You wanted to see us?”

  Sangjo dipped his head. “I’ve just arranged a special match for you.”

  “With whom?” Logan asked.

  “With this group—Eir, Snaff, Zojja, and Garm.” As Sangjo named them, he pointed to each one.

  Rytlock blinked. “Are they suicidal?”

  “No,” replied the norn named Eir.

  “You’ve seen us fight, yes?”

  The little asura named Snaff waddled forward and nodded happily. “Oh, yes, many times. We’ve studied—”

  “We’ve seen you fight,” broke in the norn. “We’re ready.”

  Rytlock strode along before the group. “How many matches have you fought?”

  “We fought the Dragonspawn,” Eir responded.

  “Did you win?” Rytlock asked.

  “No.”

  The charr lumbered over to Sangjo. “What is this? Is it some kind of trick?”

  “It’s no trick,” Eir responded. “It’s a bet.”

  Rytlock turned toward her. “A bet with whom?”

  “With your owner—Captain Magnus the Bloody Handed.”

  Rytlock scowled. “What kind of bet?”

  “If we beat you in the arena,” Eir explained, “he will lend you to us on our quest to slay the Dragonspawn.”

  “What?” Rytlock snarled, backing away among his teammates. “He can’t lend us out to fight a dragon champion.”

  “He’s afraid,” Snaff said in a stage whisper.

  “Afraid of what?” barked Rytlock.

  Snaff shrugged. “Of us, of course.”

  The charr made a hawking sound. “Of you?”

  “You’re afraid we’ll defeat you. That’s the only way you’d have to face the Dragonspawn—which, by the way, we’ve already faced and will again.” Snaff turned to his comrades. “Maybe they aren’t as tough as they look from the stands.”

  Rytlock roared with wounded pride and blurted, “We’ll beat you. We’ll destroy you!” He looked toward his comrades, who nodded shallowly. “Sangjo, you better promote this match. I want this place packed the day we shred these four.”

  Sangjo said simply, “It shall be done.”

  The evening sun cast long shadows as Eir, Snaff, Zojja, and Garm headed toward the Lion’s Arch asura gate.

  “That cost us,�
� Zojja groused.

  “Money well spent,” said Eir. “My money well spent. We couldn’t afford their billet, so a bet with Magnus was the only way to win them. And even if we win their billet, we also have to win their respect. And the only way to do that is to beat them.”

  “How?” Zojja wondered.

  “Oh, we’ll beat them,” Eir replied, “and with Edge of Steel, we’ll bring down the Dragonspawn, too.”

  Zojja sniffed, “You make it all sound predestined.”

  “It is, Zojja. We’re the Dragonspawn’s destiny.”

  CONTEST

  For the first time in two months, Edge of Steel canceled their scheduled match.

  The fans were outraged.

  “They will not fight tonight or tomorrow,” proclaimed Sangjo, standing in the announcer’s tower. “Or the next night or the next.”

  Boos answered his pronouncement, welling up around the arena.

  “What’s the matter?” Sangjo asked. “There are plenty of other gladiatorial teams.”

  A chant of “Edge of Steel! Edge of Steel!” began in one sector of the arena and propagated through the whole. It shook the stands and washed across the other gladiatorial teams waiting below. In the announcer’s tower, Sangjo smiled secretly and waited for the chants to die down. After five minutes, they did.

  “Friends. Friends—they will fight again. In five days, you will see them face their greatest rivals ever.”

  A wild cheer went up. The cry evolved into a single chanted question—“Who? Who? Who?”

  “In five days, you will see.”

  Throughout those five days, Sangjo furiously promoted the match. He sent out a small army of stable hands to stand in the streets and shout teasers. The one bit of information they did not divulge, though, was whom Edge of Steel would fight.

  Edge of Steel themselves spread the news through the taverns of Lion’s Arch. They promised “a strange challenge,” “a brutal whupping,” and “a bloody massacre,” depending upon which group member was giving the report. Soon, the taverns rang with speculation about the mystery challengers.

  But even Edge of Steel knew little about their opponents. Just after laying down their challenge, the foes had vanished through an asura gate. They were a complete mystery.

  As Edge of Steel worried about their unknown foes, Lion’s Arch boiled into a frenzy over them.

  Then the night of the match came.

  Crowds clogged the streets all around the arena, shutting down traffic as they jostled to get inside the huge overturned ship. The stands filled with hundreds and then thousands. Banners announced the crowd’s favorite—Edge of Steel—but no one knew the name of the challengers.

  Then the time for battle came, and Sangjo ascended the announcer’s tower to call out, “Welcome, everyone, to tonight’s epic spectacle. The famous versus the obscure, the known versus the unknown. The heroes versus the villains. Many have asked who these challengers may be. Now is the moment you will see for yourselves. Here they are, Dragonspawn’s Destiny!”

  The crowd leaped to its feet, applauding and cheering—craning to see what great menace would emerge from the gladiators’ hold.

  The barred gate rolled back, and from the darkness waddled two tiny asura onto the newly sanded arena floor.

  A rumble of uncertainty answered, followed by a roar of derisive laughter. These two? They looked like aphids. Shouts of outrage began to pierce the laughter.

  “What is this?”

  “No!”

  “A joke!”

  Then, a towering norn warrior stepped from the darkness, dragging a huge bow from her shoulder. She drew from her quiver three heavy-headed arrows, each bolt the height of a man. When a great black wolf loped out beside the woman, the furor of the crowd died down, and a few people began to chant, “Wolves! Wolves! Wolves!”

  But then the men rolled the gates closed. No more wolves emerged—no more creatures at all.

  Heckling shouts filled the stands.

  “And now, the team you have come to cheer for, the champions of the arena, the undefeated. They are Caithe, Rytlock, and Logan, but you know them better as Edge of Steel!”

  The air turned solid with cheers.

  From a gate on the opposite side of the arena trotted the sylvari, charr, and human, and the shouts redoubled. The gladiators lifted their hands in greeting, and the fans responded with a growing chant.

  “Edge of Steel! Edge of Steel! Edge of Steel!”

  “And now, let the match begin!”

  Rytlock ripped Sohothin from its stone scabbard and stabbed it skyward. The blade added its hungry roar to the roar of the crowd. Logan meanwhile lifted his war hammer from his belt and swung it in a series of deadly figure eights. Caithe pulled the daggers from her bandoliers and twirled them before her. The three stared across the arena sands at the norn, her wolf, and the two asura.

  The storm of cheers quieted, and a watchful hush fell over the crowd.

  Edge of Steel stood, waiting.

  So did Dragonspawn’s Destiny. They didn’t move a muscle.

  “What’s taking them so long?” Rytlock asked.

  Logan said, “Probably terrified.”

  The members of Dragonspawn’s Destiny still stayed put.

  “Probably planning something,” Caithe said.

  An ugly rumble began in the crowd and rose like a wave.

  “Don’t they care that they look like idiots, just standing there?” Logan asked.

  Rytlock snarled. “Don’t we?”

  With that, he strode forward and broke into a run. Sand flew up in a dust cloud behind him.

  “Let’s go,” Logan said with a sigh, bolting after his comrade.

  Caithe lit out as well, catching up to Logan, who caught up to Rytlock. Side by side, the gladiatorial champions charged across the sands toward their mysterious foes.

  Dragonspawn’s Destiny had still not moved. They seemed frozen in fear.

  Rytlock roared a war cry, and his comrades took it up.

  At last, the norn warrior moved. She nocked three arrows, hoisted her huge bow, and let fly. The arrows arced up above the sands and then came whistling down toward Edge of Steel.

  “Dodge!” Logan called out, swerving to one side as Caithe and Rytlock swerved to the other.

  The arrows swerved as well, falling upon them.

  “Knock them away!” Logan cried, swinging. His war hammer cracked the shaft that angled toward him, but the head of the arrow sprung open, releasing a metal net. It spread over him and draped to his feet. He tripped and sprawled to the ground, seeing that Rytlock and Caithe were down as well. “Damn it!”

  Logan struggled to get free, but the metal mesh clung to his armor. He fought against it, managing to drag the clinging stuff from his left arm. His right was still fouled.

  The norn warrior rushed across the sands toward him, pulling a heavy mallet from her belt.

  Desperate, Logan stood up, though the mesh still clung to his war hammer.

  The norn was there, and her mallet fell like thunder.

  Logan tried to leap aside, but the maul smashed his breastplate and sent him tumbling across the sand. He rolled to a stop and staggered up, finally yanking his war hammer free. The norn warrior was stalking toward him, her red hair gathered in braids.

  This was not going to be an easy fight.

  Rytlock, too, was in trouble. He had scrambled up from the metal net but had left Sohothin within it, hopelessly tangled and sending up metallic smoke.

  Worse, the dire wolf was upon him. It leaped for his throat, its jaws gaping.

  Rytlock crouched, curling into a ball.

  The wolf’s massive teeth closed over the neck piece of his armor. The fangs skirled on the metal as the wolf flew past, carried by its momentum. It pounded to the ground just beyond Rytlock and turned, snarling.

  He rose and snarled back, his claws out.

  The dire wolf eyed him and began to circle, looking for a chance at the charr’s throat.
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  Rytlock laughed. “You look flammable to me. If I had my sword, there’d be wolf on the menu.”

  The dire wolf lunged, fangs bared. It bashed into Rytlock and knocked him to his back. Its teeth snapped just short of his throat. Roaring, the charr raked his claws down the wolf’s neck, drawing blood. The beast reared back and brought its massive forepaws down to pound Rytlock’s chest. Breath blasted from his lungs, and once again the wolf lunged for his throat. Rytlock rolled aside, and the wolf got a snoutful of sand. It sneezed massively and bounded off the charr.

  Rytlock scrambled to his feet and struggled to regain his breath. The air around was thick with shouts. The crowd chanted, “Edge of Steel!” but also, “Des-ti-ny!”

  They didn’t care which team won. They only wanted a spectacle, and they were getting it.

  On one side of the arena, Logan and the norn warrior traded hammer blows. On the other, Rytlock and the dire wolf circled each other, snarling. That left one other member of Edge of Steel, the one who always struck the killing blow. . . .

  Caithe, too, had escaped her net, and she stalked toward the two asura. They lingered near the arena wall as if petrified. She had a dagger for each one, and she could easily plant them from thirty paces. She was nearly in range. Flipping a blade in her hand, Caithe caught the keen tip of it and raised it to throw at the male asura.

  But he threw something first—a handful of red sand. It flew out and whiffed down in front of Caithe.

  Did he want to blind her? He would have to throw better than that.

  Caithe took two more steps. In range. She threw her dagger—

  Except that the ground shifted underfoot, and the blade spun off-target, only nicking the asura’s ear.

  He didn’t even flinch, focused instead on the sand beneath her feet. It was mounding up. The asura spread his fingers toward the ground, and it rose in response.

  Caithe’s feet sank to midcalf in the clinging sand. She tried to pull them free but plunged to her knees. Clawing the stuff only trapped her hands as well.