Fable: Edge of the World

by Christie Golden

  “Ah, here we are,” said Timmins. He turned around and Laylah saw that he had a dagger in one hand and a short sword in the other.

  “Two weapons?” she asked.

  “Why not?” said Timmins, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You may well be the target of an assassination, Your Majesty. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “Of course she does,” said Page before Laylah could answer.

  “You can’t content yourself with simple swordsmanship,” Timmins continued. His voice was hard. “You need to be prepared to defend yourself with a pistol on the bedstand, the knife you use to slice cheese for a snack, a figurine you can break and use to gouge out eyes, even your own body. Do you understand this?”

  Laylah, taken aback by the flurry of words and the seemingly angry tone, nodded.

  “Then have at me!” Timmins cried, and charged.

  Laylah had thought sparring with Page had been difficult and challenging. She realized now that Page had been going easy on her. Timmins attacked with lightning speed and strength, shouting words at her she was too overwhelmed to even understand. A scant few seconds later she was unarmed and on the floor, staring up at a man who had both a dagger and a sword respectively pressed to her throat and belly.

  Timmins grunted and stepped back. Page hastened over to Laylah and helped her up. Laylah was shaking violently but did her best to hide it, folding her arms tightly across her chest. Timmins clearly thought little of her; she had no desire for him to think less.

  “What are you doing?” Page snapped at Timmins. “We’ve only been practicing for a couple of weeks!”

  “That’s all some of the recruits had to train, and they’re on ships sailing to fight a terrible and terrifying darkness,” Timmins said. “The king—”

  “Was trained by Sir Walter Beck from childhood how to fight,” Page said. “Laylah didn’t have that luxury.”

  “No one has the luxury now to let others down—or get themselves foolishly and senselessly killed,” Timmins said. “Least of all the queen who’s currently ruling Albion.” He put away the weapons and rang for Barrows. As he shrugged into his coat and took his hat and cane, he said, “Step up the sparring, Page. I’ll come work with her again once she’s got the basics down.” He bowed deeply, and, it seemed to Laylah, with genuine courtesy, which confused her. “Your Majesty.”

  He turned and strode out. Page squeezed Laylah’s arm. “I’m going to talk to him. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  Laylah nodded, endeavoring to look relaxed and composed. As soon as Page had gone, she forced herself to calmly put away her weapons properly, then rang for Barrows.

  “Have a chambermaid draw me a bath, please,” she said.

  “Right away, Your Majesty.” Barrows bowed and withdrew.

  Alone in the sparring room, Laylah finally unfolded her arms. Blood was wet and sticky on her right hand, where she had clamped down on the thin slice across her left bicep. The shirt was damaged beyond repair, and indeed, Laylah had no desire for anyone to see it. The cut would heal quickly once it was cleaned and bandaged for a day or two.

  Was she so terrible at defending herself that even a master swordsman like Jack Timmins couldn’t stop himself from injuring her?

  Or was this Timmins’s way of teaching her a lesson?

  Page hastened through the castle, racing down the stairs until she caught up with Timmins. He didn’t slow his long-legged stride but did glance down at her.

  “Was that really necessary?” asked Page.

  “Yes, it was.”

  “There are other ways to teach rather than shouting at someone and making her feel useless.”

  “There are,” Timmins agreed, “and I’d prefer it if this was simply teaching Queen Laylah how to fight in order to keep her figure trim. But it’s not. I appreciate that she’s suddenly been hurled into the deep end of the ocean, but she either sinks or swims. And I know you understand that.”

  Page sighed. “I do,” she admitted.

  He softened a little. “She’s got to rule so that this country believes in her as much as they do her husband. And she’s got to be able to defend herself in case no one’s around to do it for her. She can’t keep quailing like a doe every time someone raises their voice or approaches her with a weapon. Do you think I want to hear the hue and cry and find her dead on the floor one night?” He looked stricken at the thought. “She’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. It’s no wonder the king loves her so much. But she’s got to help us help her to stay safe!”

  “I know, I know,” said Page. “But—give her a little time. I’ll step up the training, I promise. You need to understand she still gets sore from simply holding a sword.”

  He did come to a halt now and looked at her. “You treat her how you wish, Page,” he said. “But I intend to do everything necessary to make sure that she’s strong enough to inspire her people and to defend herself if some bloody assassin sneaks past the guards and into her room one night. That’s what I pledged to do when I swore fealty to her and the king—to devote myself to serving them and protecting them. I couldn’t bear to let them down.”

  “I understand,” said Page, and she did. The trick was, how to make Laylah understand.

  Chapter Seven

  After two weeks during which the idea of dry land that was actually both A) dry and B) land became everyone’s wildest dream, the shore was finally sighted. The joyful cry of “Land ho!” from the first ship to behold it was caught up and echoed with cheers from ship to ship. Right now, it was only a speck against the horizon, but in a few hours, they would all have to get their land legs again. Everyone was pleased at the prospect. Everyone, it seemed, except Kalin, who stepped beside the king and turned her aquiline face to the brownish smudge on the horizon.

  “The sun is already sinking,” she said.

  “It is,” said the king. “It will be full-on night before we can make landing. Not only would it be unwise to attempt to unload such massive weaponry in the darkness, but—”

  “But there is the darkness itself to fear,” said Kalin. “We will have to wait until dawn.”

  The king agreed and issued the orders. No one overtly complained—the logic was too sound—but no one was happy about it, either.

  “At least we can have a hot meal tonight,” said the Queen Laylah’s cook, and that seemed to brighten a few spirits. As night fell, everyone came up on deck to enjoy the clear, calm evening. The sunset was beautiful, and the hot meal, a simple beef stew and hard tack to go with it, tasted like the finest meal the king had ever had.

  “Look!” said Finn. He held up a spoonful of stew, and the king could see steam wafting off of it. The king laughed. Someone broke out a lute and began to regale them with lively tunes. Many voices joined in, and some brave folks even got up to dance.

  The cold set in once the sun finally set. Even so, most seemed to prefer settling in for the night on deck, where there was fresh, if cool, air, and no rain for a change. The king stood and leaned up against the railing. He peered down but could see nothing in the darkness as the ship peacefully rocked at anchor. He looked up, to the north, the shore of Samarkand no longer visible.

  But something was.

  He rubbed his eyes, making sure they weren’t playing tricks on him. No—they were lights, bobbing gently, pinpricks in the darkness but closing.

  Lights from the lanterns of approaching vessels.

  “All hands on deck!” cried the king. “Battle stations!” So the bastards weren’t even waiting for them to land before attacking. They—

  A hand fell on his arm. “Your Majesty, these are not Samarkandian vessels. They are the trading ships from Aurora! Look at the colors of the lights—we tint our lantern glass that particular hue of red!”

  Relief washed through him. “Belay that order!” he cried. “These are our ships!” The bustle of a crew about to engage in attack muted to shaky laughter then cheers.

  “This is a good s
ign,” said Kalin, beaming. “The ships are greatly overdue, but they are intact and free to sail to greet us.”

  “But why were they delayed at all?” the king asked.

  “We will ask the crews and find out,” said Kalin. “I’m sure they will have much to tell us.” The ships were drawing closer now, and the king could faintly make out the distinctive Auroran design. He could even see faint shapes moving about on the deck. He narrowed his eyes. There was something he couldn’t put his finger on—something about the way they were moving, in a halting, jerky sort of manner, and there were little lights, barely visible, where their eyes—

  “They’re hollow men!” he cried. “It’s a trick! Battle stations, everyone!”

  The captain took over shouting orders while the king began loading his rifle. Beside him, Kalin looked stricken. “Get below and take Shan with you!” he shouted to her. “You’re a leader, not a fighter. Let us handle this!”

  “I am no Hero,” said Kalin, “but I have learned how to handle a rifle. Give one to the boy as well. Thank goodness there are only the eight ships.”

  The ships were drawing closer. There was no time to argue, so he merely nodded.

  Finn, not surprisingly, was already in position. His rifle, dubbed “Vanessa,” cracked with what seemed like lightning speed, and the king saw a shape drop with every shot.

  The enemy vessels were converging on the flagship Queen Laylah. Only eight they might be, but it was still a terrible sight—eight tall ships manned by the dead. Their eyes shone with an eerie red glow, mimicking the deceptive lanterns that had gulled the king’s navy into thinking the approaching ships were allies.

  “Fire!” came a shout. The ship’s timbers shivered as the port cannons roared, striking one of the Auroran ships full on.

  “What are they?” Shan cradled a rifle at his shoulder and fired. He was nowhere near as good as Ben or the king, but he had clearly used a rifle before.

  “They were once men,” the king answered. He steadied the rifle, held his breath, then exhaled as he pulled the trigger. It struck in the center of a hollow man’s chest, and the walking corpse dropped. “They should have a peaceful rest. Instead, their bodies are inhabited by angry spirits, who would live on at any cost. Most of them are mindless, but not all. Aim for the center of mass. Some of them survive losing arms”—he fired—“legs”—he fired again—“even heads.”

  Shan nodded, reloading. “I have heard of such things,” he said. “But I only ever saw the Shadows and the beast-men—the jakala.”

  Click. Click. Out of ammunition.

  The air was pierced by screaming—not the angry, take-that-you-rotter shout of one person attacking another, but the scream of someone utterly in terror.

  The king swung around just in time to see four hollow men crawling over the railing. Soldiers were hacking at them wildly, their wits and skill returning. Two of the undead, cut literally to pieces, splashed—multiple times—into the ocean below. The other two made it onto the deck and began fighting, each carrying two pitted but lethal swords.

  The king unsheathed his own sword. Blue-white runes danced along its edges as he swung in a wide arc, cleaving through one of the leathery, skeletal, undead creatures. The red light in its eyes went out. Six more were clambering up the sides.

  “Crossbows!” he cried. “Dip them in pitch and set them aflame! Aim for the sails!”

  He swung again and again, cutting a swath through the lurching things that once were men. A huge boom sounded, and the ship shivered again. Good. Keep firing. Some would surely be trapped by the sinking ship, and he and the crew could take those that survived as they tried to climb aboard.

  And then suddenly there was another boom, and the king was knocked off his feet as the ship lurched violently to starboard.

  These hollow men were clearly not all mindless.

  The king scrambled to his feet. Other ships in his navy were firing on the hollow men’s ships as well. One of them was almost completely blown to timbers, while another one was halfway sunk. Hollow men were crawling off it like the proverbial rats, heading straight for the Queen Laylah.

  “We’re taking on water!” the captain cried. “Your Majesty—what should we do?”

  Panting, the king swiftly assessed the situation. The hollow men seemed exclusively focused on the flagship—and his soldiers were hampered, as they dared not fire their cannons too close to their king.

  “It’s the Queen Laylah, and me, they’re after,” he said. “Tell everyone to abandon ship. Have them head for the nearest friendly vessel or else strike out for shore. We’re not that far. Give everyone a few moments to get clear, then have every single ship still afloat target both us and the remaining two enemy vessels.”

  The Auroran captain nodded. The monarch was impressed by his calmness. “Aye, sir,” he said, and began to shout the orders. The Queen Laylah was sinking quickly, and staying upright was becoming nearly impossible.

  “We’re not going to leave you!” Ben shouted. He, Kalin, and Shan hurried up to their king.

  “No, you’re not,” said the king. “Because we’re all going to swim for it. The shore is due north! Come on!”

  And with that, he grabbed Kalin and Shan and leaped overboard.

  The water was freezing and black as pitch. The sinking flagship threatened to pull them down to the briny depths with it, and the king kicked and pulled furiously to escape. He sank for what seemed like forever, then his head broke the surface and he gasped for breath. Beside him, Ben, Shan, and Kalin surfaced.

  The ploy seemed to have worked. The flagship was partly submerged by now and was crawling with hollow men. “Go, go!” the king urged, setting action to word and striking out with all his strength toward a gap between two ships. If the Queen Laylah’s captain had made it to another vessel and relayed the king’s orders, they didn’t have much time.

  They had barely gone twenty feet when it seemed like chaos itself was unleashed. The nearly deafening sound of several cannons firing at once made the king wince and he dove, letting the water muffle the sound. He went as far as he could, his lungs burning for air, and when he surfaced he looked back.

  The Queen Laylah was nothing more than a pile of burning flotsam. So were most of the hollow men who had been on it. The cannons kept roaring as the royal naval ships slowly swung about to target the rest of the enemy.

  The king sucked in air, relieved, and was even more pleased when he saw so many survivors. He waved his arm, and gasped, “To shore!”

  A few minutes later, they drew close—and Ben swore. Quite colorfully.

  Not all the hollow men had been on the ships.

  Ben let out a yell and charged, wielding the soaked and useless Vanessa like a club. Running at full tilt, the king unsheathed his sword. The wet hilt was slippery in his hands, but the blows he struck were true. He grasped the weapon and swung mightily, turning the hollow men into just so many body parts. Out of the corner of his eye the king saw Shan fighting desperately, and even Kalin, unfamiliar with swords, was doing the best she could. Several yards out to sea, the skies were lit with red and orange, against which rose plumes of smoke.

  They kept fighting. The sound of gunshots erupted behind the king, and he realized that some of the soldiers had made it to shore in small boats. More and more came, firing guns and charging with swords, until at last it seemed that they were finally outnumbering the enemy.

  The king continued to fight. Finally, the sounds of gunfire slowed, then ceased. A cautious cheer went up.

  “That should teach those buggers,” Finn said cheerfully. He picked up Vanessa, tilted the rifle muzzle down, and sighed as water poured out. Vanessa would be usable again, but not without some tender loving care.

  The king looked back over the ocean. The fighting was over there, too. The ships were approaching, and he realized sickly that there were several fewer of them. One of the men strode up to him.

  “Sir,” he said, touching his forelock, “we lost four o
ther ships.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Sea Lady, Good Boy Rex, the Sir Walter Beck, and the Tiderunner,” the man said somberly. “Seems like many of the crew and passengers survived, but all the cargo’s at the bottom of the ocean.”

  “No,” breathed Kalin, who had stepped beside the king. She folded her arms closer to her chest, shivering.

  “Please don’t tell me those were carrying ballistae and catapults and other very handy siege weapons,” said Ben. “Or food supplies and ammu …” When silence from the king and Kalin was the answer, he grimaced and turned away. “How is that possible? They’re bloody walking corpses!”

  “Remember the scarecrow when we first fought together, Ben,” the king said grimly, and Ben grew pale. Ben and the king had met at Mourningwood Fort, where the first indication that the hollow men were coming was when one of them disguised itself as a scarecrow—that came to terrifying life. Or undeath, as the case may be.

  “What about … scarecrows?” asked Kalin, unfamiliar with the term.

  “Let’s just say that both Ben and I have run across some hollow men who seemed to know exactly what they were doing,” the king said grimly. “At least some of them had enough of a mind left to steer the ships and direct the attack.” He sighed. “Come on. Let’s get a fire going—we don’t want to be surprised by anything else tonight. Once it’s light, we’ll assess our situation.”

  Few slept that night even though the fires offered warmth and comfort. Morning arrived early, with a heat that was at first welcomed but hinted at a scorching day to come.

  The news was not as good as they had hoped, but not quite as bad as they had feared. Over two hundred soldiers and crew were lost, but considering only five ships were sunk, the loss of life was small. Ben was cheered after locating his friends Russell and Thorpe alive and well, if a bit waterlogged. A few heavy weapons still survived, and enough horses and oxen to move them. And best of all, they had sufficient rations for the time being, including precious fresh water. The morning was spent unloading and inventorying, and the day grew ever hotter.