Edge of Destiny

by J. Robert King

  Eir held her breath and launched another salvo. The three arrows arched over the dragon’s head and dropped to stab through the thing’s back. Three more flashes, three more booms! and the creature shuddered.

  Still, the explosions seemed only to enrage it. Its massive mouth dropped wide, and golden breath roared out. The plasma splashed down across the desert, melting sand to glass in a road that led toward Eir.

  “Come on, Garm!” Eir shouted. She turned and ran through the archway of the stone sanctum, her wolf at her heels. Behind them, dragonbreath bathed the great arch, which crackled dangerously. “Take cover!” Eir leaped into a niche along one wall.

  Garm, meanwhile, ran full out ahead of a flood of dragonbreath. It filled the air from floor to ceiling and gushed around every column and crystallized anything it didn’t dissolve.

  A moment later, the caustic cloud drew back as the dragon strafed over the top of the sanctuary. The stone ceiling boomed with a huge impact. Stones split, and the archway came to pieces. Another boom sounded farther down the corridor, and this time, the dragon’s tail broke straight through. Blocks of stone plunged from the ceiling and bashed down columns and shattered the floor. The dragon’s tail ripped on toward the crystal dome.

  Just as Eir had planned.

  Kralkatorrik struck the dome, and it shattered, hurling shards of glass outward.

  And out of that shattered dome, Glint vaulted into battle.

  For thousands upon thousands of years, Glint had waited for this moment. She spread her wings, grabbed the air, and rose above Kralkatorrik.

  The Elder Dragon was gigantic, twenty times her size, but more sorcery than sinew.

  How do you fight a hurricane?

  The answer hung in her fangs—the dragon-blood yoke. It had to fit down tightly behind the horns of the giant beast, pressed against its stony skull.

  But where was that skull in this tumbling sandstorm?

  Glint knew her master—rapacious and ruthless. Its gold-beaming eyes would even now be raking the ground for her. The best way to bring its head around toward her was to draw its attention.

  Glint soared down through the pelting crystals of the storm until she could see the beast’s broad back. A blow between the wings would bring that massive head around.

  Shrieking, Glint dived onto that back and smashed into Kralkatorrik. Talons tore off scales, and fangs ripped through muscle. Green blood sprayed from it, emerald droplets plunging through the air. Glint vaulted off its back, rose up, and dived again.

  This time, though, there was nothing to strike. The Elder Dragon’s flesh had melted into a sandstorm. She tore at it with claws and fangs, but Kralkatorrik was as insubstantial as a dream.

  The dream turned on her. In midair, the Elder Dragon rolled to its back, talons reaching up. Glint tried to loft away, but those claws solidified and grasped her. They pierced her leg and flank and held on crushingly as Kralkatorrik rolled again.

  She flailed but could not escape. She could little breathe. Her lung was punctured and bubbling.

  Kralkatorrik climbed into the sky, hauling Glint away from her lair. Its hissing bulk merged with the storm.

  Eir ran back to her post at the shattered northern archway and loosed three more shafts. They rose past the gutted sanctuary and buried themselves in the storm. Three more flashes bloomed from the cloud.

  A skittering sound came behind Eir, and she turned to see Garm rush up beside her. He halted and stared up at the boiling cloud.

  Within it, flashes of light illumined two draconic figures locked in a death match.

  “She’s overmatched,” Eir said breathlessly, nocking and releasing three more shafts. “She’s a wren, and it’s a hawk.”

  The three charges blew within the cloud, illuminating the hackled back of the dragon.

  “I only hope she can place the yoke.”

  Garm nudged Eir’s leg. She glanced at him, but he was watching the horizon.

  There, on the plains of the Crystal Desert, marched new figures—giant Gila monsters and tarantulas, gargantuan lizards and snakes and coyotes. All had been turned to living stone by the breath of Kralkatorrik.

  Eir stepped back and cupped a hand to her mouth and shouted through the archway. “Man your posts! The minions approach! Let none of them through!”

  The monsters came on rapidly. They bounded over the desert—stone jackals and hackled lions and hulking hyenas. All moved with the hunger of the dragon itself.

  Eir nocked three more arrows and pointed them at the flood of beasts that approached. She didn’t want to waste arrows meant for the dragon on his minions, but they came so quickly. Eir stepped back, and Garm with her.

  A stone-skinned lion and a gibbering hyena arrived first, leaping over the trench works. Their claws were spread before them, their fangs gaping in mad grins—

  But stones shot from the trench into their bellies.

  The lion and the hyena tumbled in midair and crashed to the ground. Their translucent hides showed where the dragon-blood crystals had bedded within them. Thrashing in fury, the two beasts scrambled to their feet and turned on Eir.

  She backed up another step, the powerstone arrows jutting before her.

  But the lion and the hyena only turned away. Side by side, they bounded back over the trench and rushed into the oncoming wall of monsters.

  “Snaff’s got them,” Eir said breathlessly. “He’s got control.”

  The lion and the hyena tore apart a number of the beasts, but more slithered and pounded and bounded forward. Some dropped right into the trench, and others tried to leap over it, but all of them were brought down by dragon-blood stones. All of them turned from attackers to defenders.

  “He’s buying her time,” Eir said, at last releasing the three arrows to vault skyward and explode in the hide of the beast. “If only Glint can set the yoke.”

  Kralkatorrik held Glint in a death grip. It would never release her now. It wanted her dead, and to kill her, all it had to do was close its talons.

  But then—boom! boom! boom!—three bright green blasts erupted across its belly. Pain ripped through it, and for a moment it was not thinking of the traitor clutched in its grip.

  A moment was all Glint needed. She wrenched sideways, ripping the claws of the dragon from her side, and darted away from it on the wind. The dragon-blood yoke was still clutched in her fangs—this one slender hope for success.

  Though her lungs were filling with blood, Glint labored skyward like a wounded dove. She would have but one chance this time. Kralkatorrik knew she was there in the storm, would be seeking her with all its focus. If only she could spot its head first.

  And there it was, below her and to the left.

  Glint tucked her wings and dived. She jutted her jaw so that the blood-stone yoke reached forward to take hold. She fell from the sky, millennia of vengeance packed into a moment.

  The yoke stabbed down toward the dragon’s horns and neck.

  But it glimpsed her.

  Its head darted up.

  Before she could set the yoke, its fangs snapped onto her body.

  Glint jolted, seized in the maw of the monster.

  She could almost reach the back of Kralkatorrik’s head, could almost put the yoke in place, but one more bite from him would kill her.

  She lunged.

  Kralkatorrik bit.

  A dragon scream split the heavens.

  Eir looked up. “Which one?”

  The black cloud parted, and something plunged from it.

  “No!” Eir cried.

  The figure that fell was Glint. Broken wings streamed in the wind. Claws jutted stiffly. She fell like a comet, trailing smoke.

  The other heroes saw it, too—staggering out into the sands.

  She plunged toward the desert. Her body struck, hurling up a great plume of sand. Fire erupted around her, and she tumbled end over end across the ground.

  Two seconds later came the sound of the impact—shattering stone, a mountain br
eaking. The ground trembled and reeled, and the dragon’s broken body left a long furrow ending in a crater. A storm of sand rose into the heavens, and a rain of crystalline scales cascaded all around.

  The dragon Glint was dead.

  THE CHARR VANGUARD

  Logan Thackeray and Flinteye Blazestone marched nearly a hundred charr warriors up from the bowels of Ebonhawke Keep. As they reached the ground floor, Logan gestured through a doorway: “Weapons in there, boys!”

  The charr roared, piling through the door and greedily grabbing up swords, crossbows, axes, hammers, knives . . .

  Logan strode to the banded-iron door and hoisted the beam. The door swung outward. “Whoever wants a fight, follow me!” He turned and bolted through the archway. “Charge!”

  “Charge!” echoed Flinteye.

  The charr vanguard rushed out past the ravaged body of Dylan Thackeray and into combat with the creatures that had slain him.

  Crystalline hyenas ran rampant through the bailey and feasted on the fallen. The beasts looked up from their meals, jowls spattered in red. One loped away from its kill, and two more joined it. The pack formed up and came on. Stone hackles spiked across their backs, and they broke into a run toward the charr.

  Logan and his allies lifted their weapons and charged. Logan’s hammer crashed into a canine head, splitting the rocky carapace and smashing through to bone and brain. The beast was dead, but its momentum carried it forward so that Logan had to spin aside and let the hyena smash to the flagstones. The move brought his hammer wheeling up and bashing into the head of another beast.

  Flinteye meanwhile brought his elbow down to break the back of a hyena. With a roar, the charr lunged at another, seized its crystalline throat in his teeth, and ripped it out.

  Two crystalline creatures leaped at Flinteye. He sidestepped one and ducked down to head-butt the other. Horned brow crashed into stone brow. One skull cracked. The hyena yelped and fell to the ground, whining. Flinteye reeled back and grabbed his forehead. Even as he did so, though, he stomped on the hyena’s neck and broke it.

  Logan, meanwhile, slung his hammer overhead and shattered the hackles of the other beast. Enraged, the hyena crashed into him, knocking Logan back. Stony teeth clamped on his breastplate, digging in to gouge Logan’s chest. He slammed his hammerhead into the creature’s jaw but couldn’t break free.

  Flinteye kicked it in the throat, and when the hyena staggered back, he grasped its head and twisted to snap its neck.

  “Thanks,” Logan said.

  “Whatever,” replied Flinteye, spinning to attack another hyena.

  Logan and his charr allies waded through the pack of hyenas. They fanned out through the courtyard and bashed every beast in sight. Hyena cackles gave way to yips and barks and whines. The pack was calling for help. Every last hyena within the fortress converged on the killing ground. Fangs and claws met maces and mauls. Soon, in the bloody midst, only Logan and the charr remained.

  Logan sighed, swinging his hammer in long loops to stretch out his shoulders. “Nothing like a good fight to get the cricks out.”

  “That was nothing like a good fight.” Flinteye nodded ahead, where a band of ogres had just staggered into the courtyard. “This will be a good fight.”

  Logan pivoted toward the ogres and brought his bloodied hammerhead to bounce on his hand.

  The ogres’ eyes lit with rage, and they thundered forward.

  Flinteye roared and charged. He ducked beneath the moaning hammerhead of one ogre and ripped his claws through the back of the monster’s thigh. Two loud pops sounded, and the ogre’s leg collapsed.

  “Look out!” Logan shouted as the ogre toppled toward Flinteye.

  The charr rolled away just as the beast crashed down, driving flagstones deeper into the ground.

  Logan brought his hammer down to stave in the forehead of the ogre. “That’s one for me.”

  “This is no game, mouse!” Flinteye roared, thumping his chest.

  Logan laughed. “You’re no Rytlock Brimstone.”

  “And you’re no Blood Legion warrior!”

  Logan leaped back as a charr slumped down dead before him. The ogre that had killed the charr reached for Logan.

  He wheeled around, his hammer shattering the wrist of the monster.

  The ogre staggered back, shaking its hand, and nearly tromped on Flinteye.

  Roaring, Flinteye hamstrung the ogre. It fell to its backside, and Flinteye leaped on its chest and ripped out its throat. Clutching the grisly trophy in his claws, he scowled at Logan. “Don’t make me clean up after you.”

  “Look out!” Logan shouted, pointing.

  Flinteye never saw the massive cudgel that struck him in the stomach and hurled him through the air. He tumbled across the courtyard, crashed into the wall, and slid down in a heap.

  Logan charged the ogre and hammered its left leg. Bones broke, sending the creature to its knees. Then Logan smashed the ogre’s jaw. Down it went, rolling belly to face.

  Dodging beyond it, Logan ran to the place where Flinteye lay. The old charr’s legs and arms were shattered by the impact, but his chest still moved.

  “Flinteye!” Logan said.

  The charr stared back, blood gurgling from his mouth. “Tell Rytlock . . . tell him I died fighting.” His last breath rattled out of his lungs.

  A roar of incoherent rage shook the walls of Ebonhawke. Humans clutched their heads and charr and ogres winced back from battle.

  The cry came from Chief Kronon, who stood above the bloodbath with arms outstretched and head thrown back—bellowing. As he brought his head back down, an eerie light shone from his eyes.

  “This can’t be good,” Logan muttered.

  Chief Kronon howled again, an otherworldly sound like the cry of the Elder Dragon itself.

  That cry was answered by another ogre, and a third and a fourth. All of them were throwing their heads back and bellowing to the sky. Their voices rattled the stones of the keep and made humans and charr drop to their knees. The ogres shuffled toward their chieftain and stood beside him, wailing their lament. The remaining hyenas loped up beside them as well, adding their peculiar cackles to the cacophony.

  As the ogres and hyenas filled one side of the courtyard, the humans and charr gathered on the other, all around Logan.

  Suddenly, the howling ceased. The crystalline monsters lowered their heads, and their gold-glowing eyes stared levelly across the courtyard. Then they broke into a charge.

  Logan raised his hammer and roared, “Charge!” He swept forward, surrounded by humans and charr.

  The tide of ogres crashed on the defenders, trampling some, kicking others through the air, crushing more in titanic claws.

  A man on one side of Logan fell beneath a stomping foot.

  A charr on the other side had his head bitten off.

  The clamor of combat, the groans and screams—it was the same as that battle in the Blazeridge Mountains, as Logan and Rytlock fought side by side against ogres.

  This time, though, there would be no survivors.

  BATTLE OF THE CRYSTAL DESERT

  At the center of Glint’s sanctuary, Big Snaff stood alone, so there was no one to hear the tinny shout of joy that came from Little Snaff: “She did it! Glint did it! She got the yoke on Kralkatorrik!”

  The powerstone laurel on Snaff’s head flashed, bathing the cockpit in an eerie glow. Those stones cast an even stranger light into Snaff’s mind.

  Everything went green—solid green, as if he was staring into an emerald. He could even see his own reflection in a facet of the stone. His face looked intent, squinting, trying to peer into the heart of the gem.

  Snaff backed away.

  This jewel had many facets, all reflecting his curious gaze.

  But it wasn’t a jewel. It was an eye—a huge compound eye.

  The true eye of Kralkatorrik.

  The dragon was staring at him, seeing him in a thousand facets. Its gaze was cold and calculating, inexpressibly cruel.<
br />
  Then every reflection of Snaff in every facet began to crystallize.

  “No!” Snaff yelled.

  His flesh hardened, grew rigid and angular.

  He was becoming a minion of the Elder Dragon!

  Panicked, Snaff thrashed to get away, but the dragon saw all.

  Snaff was dying.

  Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . !

  What was that sound?

  Tap, tap, tap—

  Was it the stony heart of the dragon, mesmerizing his mind with its monotonous beat?

  “Did you call for me?”

  His eyes flashed open, and he ripped the emerald laurel from his head. The cockpit was plunged into darkness. Through the windscreen, Snaff saw the concerned face of Big Zojja.

  She crouched beside Big Snaff, tapping her finger on the glass. “Helloooooo? You in there?”

  “Yes, I’m in here!” Snaff blurted. “Of course I’m in here. There’s not an escape hatch.” He blinked in sudden alarm. “Why isn’t there an escape hatch?”

  Big Zojja straightened up, and Little Zojja’s voice rang from within. “I thought I heard you shout something, and I wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

  “I’m trying to wrestle a dragon’s mind! Of course everything’s not all right!”

  “Don’t get testy. I was just checking on you.”

  “Go guard.” Snaff said, waving his hand vaguely toward the eastern colonnade. “I’ll be safe. I’ll be fine.”

  “Better be,” she said, and Big Zojja pivoted away, her foot grinding grit into the floor.

  Snaff watched that miracle in steel and silver—that genius apprentice of his—jog away through the sanctum. “You be safe, too.”

  And then Snaff closed his eyes and lifted the emerald laurel to his head and sought out the mind of the dragon.

  It was not hard to find.

  The dragon’s eye was seeking him.

  Its mind was in every facet.

  As Big Zojja stood in the eastern colonnade, inside the cockpit, Little Zojja wondered if she or any of her friends would survive this day. They had fought dragon champions, yes, but never dragons, let alone Elder Dragons. And nobody in the history of history had ever tried to take hold of an Elder Dragon’s mind.