Edge of Destiny

by J. Robert King

  Logan guffawed.

  “You’re not as insufferable, either,” Rytlock said. “Neither one of you.”

  “I’m not sure why I said that,” Caithe blurted.

  Rytlock grinned. “It’s in the name, girl. Old Regret. Makes you say things—true things, of course—that you’ll regret later.”

  Caithe scowled and took another gulp, coming away with a foam mustache. “Things like what?”

  “Things like . . . well, like . . .” Rytlock huffed, making a decision. “All right, here goes: being with the two of you is like being with the striplings.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what they called us,” Rytlock reflected. “In my fahrar—that’s the pack they put you in when you’re born—in my fahrar they called the smallest of us the striplings.”

  “You were small?” Logan asked incredulously.

  “I was the youngest. The smallest. They called me Runtlock.”

  “Runtlock!” Logan snorted.

  “I made them stop,” Rytlock growled ominously. “I did, and the other striplings did. We banded together, and I was the leader. We taught the bullies a few lessons. Still can’t stand bullies.”

  “But you can stand us,” Logan said.

  “Yeah—barely.”

  Logan took another pull from his tankard. “Well, it may be the Old Regret talking, but, you know—I always thought charr were bloodthirsty brutes—”

  “We are,” Rytlock interrupted, receiving another ale.

  “But not just that,” Logan went on. “You’re also loud, foul, and pigheaded.”

  “What’s your point?”

  Logan clapped a hand on Rytlock’s shoulder. “I’d rather hang out with you than with my brother.”

  Rytlock laughed. “Oh, yeah. The Seraph.”

  “Yeah. The white knight, you know—the perfect one. He’s guarding Queen Jennah, and I’m guarding a caravan of salt pork. He’s a Seraph, and I’m a grunt. He’s always judging me—”

  “I’m always judging you,” Rytlock said.

  “But I don’t care what you think, ’cause you’re a jackass like me. There. I said it: you’re the jackass brother I never had.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Rytlock proclaimed, crashing his tankard with Logan’s.

  Logan took another sip and then turned to Caithe. “What about you? Why do you put up with us?”

  Caithe blinked. “You’re interesting.”

  The man and the charr traded looks.

  “She’s got a point,” Rytlock said.

  Caithe continued, her foam mustache disintegrating with tiny, fizzy pops, “Sylvari are one thing. We are born out of the Pale Tree, and no matter how far away the winds bear us, we still carry the life of the tree in us. Humans and charr, you don’t belong to anything, not even your mothers or brothers. Not even yourselves. You spend your whole lives trying to find something to belong to—something worth it. And it seems like most of you never do.” Another hiccup. “That’s interesting.”

  “Yeah,” Logan echoed hollowly. “Interesting.”

  Rytlock sighed. “Well, I’m sure not gonna belong to a tree.”

  Caithe stared hard at him for a moment before she laughed. She never laughed. The sound was strange, like bells ringing—rare and pure—and it left her comrades gaping. She glanced from one to the other, stopped laughing, and fell over.

  “Here they are, the up-and-coming team of Rytlock Brimstone, Caithe of the sylvari, and Logan Thackeray. You know them as Edge of Steel!”

  Rytlock, Caithe, and Logan jogged out to a smattering of applause. That was plenty, though: everything seemed loud this morning.

  “So, what do you think Sangjo’s got in store for us today?” Rytlock wondered.

  “Get ready,” Caithe broke in. “Here they come.”

  “And today, Edge of Steel faces a fan favorite,” called the announcer, “the Northern Fury!”

  Three norn warriors loped from the open gate, massive in their animal hides and gleaming armor. The crowd greeted them with shouts and applause, and the Northern Fury lifted huge hands toward them.

  “The Northern Fury?” Caithe said wonderingly.

  “They’re huge,” Logan said.

  “I’m huge,” Rytlock reminded.

  “We can defeat them easily,” Caithe said. “They all have the same strengths—brute force and fury—and all the same weaknesses.”

  Across the arena, the three norn drew morning stars from their belts and broke into a trot, heading toward Edge of Steel.

  “What are their weaknesses?” Logan asked as he pulled loose his war hammer.

  The three norn were charging now, bellowing as they came.

  “We’ll see,” Caithe said, her dagger in hand.

  The first of the three norn ran directly at Rytlock, who raised Sohothin for the charge. The norn warrior arrived with skins flying and armor gleaming. Rytlock swung the flaming sword at his foe’s morning star, severing the chain. The norn did not slow, ramming Rytlock backward. He rolled once and lunged to his feet, Sohothin forming a fiery figure eight before him. He shouted, “I know their weakness! They don’t smell so good!”

  “You don’t either,” Logan shouted back as he jumped out of the way of a morning star.

  Its spikes impaled the ground, and the norn who wielded it yanked it back for another blow. The weapon fell again, and Logan barely scooted out of the way.

  He spun and slammed his hammer into the norn’s hip guard. The thick metal plate rang, and the hammer jangled in Logan’s grip.

  Worse—the morning star swung at him again. He ducked, but the spikes snagged his leather armor, tearing it loose and dragging long lines down Logan’s back.

  “Arrhhh!” he growled. “That’s it!” He charged the norn and buried his hammer in the warrior’s groin.

  A high-pitched whine came from the towering warrior, who bent over at the waist and fell like a tree. Logan scrambled out from beneath him as the norn smashed to the sand.

  “One down,” Logan said as he glanced over to Caithe.

  She was scrambling across the back of the third norn like a squirrel running around a tree. He danced, trying to shake her loose. Caithe kept on, every once in a while jabbing her white stiletto into a weak point. The norn twisted and roared, gulped and giggled, bedeviled by the omnipresent sylvari and her ticklish blade.

  As he convulsed, a wave of laughter rolled through the crowd. They began shouting, “Caithe! Caithe! Caithe!”

  Now the norn was running and swatting, like a man beset by bees. His escape lasted only a moment before Caithe wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed. “You’re going to get sleepy,” she announced as the norn went limp and tumbled to the sand.

  The crowd went wild.

  Caithe rolled free and stood up to survey the battlefield. She shouted to Logan, “Let’s give Rytlock a hand!”

  Logan turned and saw that Rytlock was in a desperate scrum.

  Sohothin lay out of reach, twenty yards away, and a scorched norn held Rytlock in a headlock. Growling, the norn drove his weight onto the charr, hurling them both to the sands.

  The two other members of Edge of Steel jogged up to where the charr and the norn wrestled.

  “How you doing?” Logan asked.

  Spraying sand from his mouth, Rytlock said, “How do you think? Stick a blade in him.”

  Caithe leaped onto the norn’s back and jabbed her dagger into a buttock.

  “Yow!” the norn yelped as he climbed off Rytlock.

  Caithe leaped free, rolled on the sands, and came up with her stiletto ready.

  The remaining norn stared, panting, at his foes, then looked beyond them to the two figures lying in the sands. The norn’s expression went from anger to amazement. “You laid out my brothers?”

  Caithe smiled, cocking her hips. “Want to see how?”

  “There’s an easy way and a hard way, my friend,” Logan said, his comrades coming to stand beside him. “We’re the hard way.”
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  The norn nodded. “Then let it be.” He charged.

  “Let it be,” Rytlock replied. He ran head-on into the towering warrior, knocking him to the ground.

  The norn struggled to rise.

  Caithe leaped on him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and squeezed.

  The norn thrashed, trying to throw her off, but she clung on. In moments, he teetered and then toppled and flopped down, unconscious.

  Edge of Steel emerged from a cloud of dust, their latest victim lying in the midst of it.

  The stadium roared.

  Rytlock grabbed the hands of his comrades and lifted them high. The cheer redoubled. “It’ll be a thousand silver this time.”

  “Enough to buy some new armor?” Logan said faintly, his slick hand dragging from Rytlock’s grip. He fell forward, and his friends saw four red stripes down his back.

  “We need a chirurgeon!”

  Logan got his chirurgeon—and a new plate-mail breastplate, an upgrade from his leather. Rytlock got his glory and his thundershrimp. Caithe got her name spoken on ten thousand lips: the woman who fought with the frenzy of a whirlwind.

  They paid four hundred more silver toward their billet. “How much does that leave?” Rytlock asked Sangjo.

  “Four hundred ninety-three gold,” the man said with a serene smile.

  Rytlock cocked his head. “Looks like we’ll be fighting a lot.”

  “Looks like it.”

  The next day, they fought a band of charr. Rytlock was reluctant at first, until one of the charr walloped him in the head with a mallet. A quick healing touch from Logan revived him, and Rytlock was all business from then on. Logan acquitted himself well against them also, and Caithe discovered that charr could be monstrously strong but have numerous “weak points.”

  As Edge of Steel stood together atop the fallen charr, Caithe said to Rytlock, “No one has ever reported that charr are ticklish.”

  Rytlock nodded. “Ticklers do not live to report it.”

  The next day, they fought a band of six humans. It was Logan’s turn to feel chagrined, triumphant over his own people. But it was as Caithe had said—they all had the same strengths and weaknesses. Only groups of mixed races and abilities had any hope of succeeding in the arena.

  For two weeks, Edge of Steel went undefeated. Their wealth grew, and their fame with it. They moved further and further into the lineup, clearing away opponents before them. Humans, sylvari, asura, charr, and even mixed groups of all these. None could stand before Edge of Steel.

  After two weeks came a second exhibition match, which Sangjo described as “an epic battle against a secret foe for the delight of a special personage.”

  “What do you think we’re going to fight?” Logan asked Rytlock as they trotted out onto the sands, to the cheers of the crowd.

  Rytlock humphed. “Who knows? Maybe a pack of skritt. Maybe a herd of centaurs. Could even be an oakheart for all I know.”

  “At least an oakheart is flammable,” put in Caithe.

  The announcer called from his tower, “And before we announce the foe this afternoon, all rise in honor of our special guest—all the way from our ally Kryta, the most noble, most high, Queen Jennah!”

  The stands erupted with cheers, and trumpeters along the upper courses played a fanfare that echoed beneath the wooden dome.

  “Queen Jennah!” Logan whispered, looking up into the stands.

  At the top, a pair of double doors opened, and white-garbed Seraph marched through. They descended the stairs with precision, unrolling a red carpet and tucking it securely onto each step.

  Then the queen herself appeared, and mesmer magic projected her image out to hang above the center of the arena.

  Logan turned toward that image.

  Queen Jennah was young, powerful, regal—garbed in a white gown and wearing the mantle of Divinity’s Reach across her shoulders. She had dark hair, tan skin, and riveting brown eyes.

  “She’s beautiful,” Logan murmured.

  The huge image that hovered above the sands spoke to everyone gathered there: “Thank you, good people of Lion’s Arch. Thank you for this welcome to your beautiful city! Once you were a part of our homeland, and always you will be part of our hearts.”

  Cheers answered her speech.

  “Today, before Commodore Marriner and the Ship’s Council, I have confirmed Kryta’s commitment to work with Lion’s Arch for the good of Tyria’s free races. Together, our people and yours declare an alliance. We will help you fight the Orrian undead, who threaten your shipping lanes, and you will help us fight the centaurs that raid our villages.”

  Applause filled the arena, and the image of Jennah smiled beautifully.

  “She’s wonderful,” Logan sighed.

  “I asked your excellent Ship’s Council what great entertainment I must not miss in my brief stay, and they all turned as one to Captain Magnus the Bloody Handed, proprietor of this great establishment”—gleeful cheers interrupted her—“and he brought me here! And so, to all who do battle here today, I wish success and health and wealth!”

  “All who do battle?” Logan stepped back breathlessly. “That’s me!”

  As Queen Jennah’s mesmeric presence faded from the center of the arena, the stadium applauded her one last time. Waving to the crowd, she slowly descended the stairs, flanked by her bodyguards. Seraph bowed to her, one by one, as she passed.

  Logan drifted toward her across the sands.

  “Where are you going?” Rytlock barked.

  “My queen,” Logan muttered, his steps growing more sure.

  Queen Jennah entered a private platform, with guards ranked in white all around her. She had other attendants, too—blue-robed men and women in courtly attire, their eyes sharp and scanning the crowd.

  As Logan approached the stands, a number of the Seraph watched him in anticipation. Their swords raked free of silvery scabbards. One shouted for Logan to stay back, but he kept on walking.

  Then another Seraph waved the others back and descended to the rail. “So, it’s true—my kid brother’s in Lion’s Arch.”

  Logan blinked, only then seeing who it was. “Dylan!”

  Dylan didn’t return the greeting, and there was anger beneath his black brows. “What are you doing here? I thought you were guarding merchant caravans or something.”

  Logan averted his eyes—it had always been difficult looking into his big brother’s relentless gaze. “My group was slaughtered . . . down to me.”

  “By what?” Dylan asked.

  “By ogres.” Logan glanced behind him, where Rytlock was taking practice swings with Sohothin. “The charr back there saved my life.”

  “Really,” Dylan said coldly.

  “Really,” Logan responded, finally looking him in the eye.

  Dylan nodded coolly. “So, now you fight beside a charr, in the arena?”

  Logan shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “I shouldn’t have expected more,” Dylan sighed. “I hope the queen likes the exhibition match today.”

  “She hopes she does, as well,” came a woman’s voice behind Dylan.

  He looked over his shoulder, surprised, then dropped to one knee. “My queen!”

  Queen Jennah of Kryta stepped forward.

  Logan’s mouth fell open, and he staggered back.

  The queen was stunning, her dark features set off by robes as white as lightning. Her eyes were sharp, and they pierced him, baring his inner thoughts.

  Logan stood pinioned on those eyes. He wanted to turn away but couldn’t. It was as if every other woman he had ever seen was just a statue, but Jennah was flesh and blood.

  The queen smiled. “Rise, Captain Dylan, and tell me who this man is to approach my presence armed.”

  “Regrettably, my queen,” Dylan said, “this gulping codfish is my brother, Logan.”

  Logan tried to speak, but there was no air in his lungs.

  “Bow before your queen!” Dylan snapped.

  Logan fell to his
knees and bowed his head.

  “Logan is your name?”

  Logan nodded.

  Jennah leaned forward on the rail, looking down at him. “Can he speak?”

  Before Dylan could respond, Logan gasped out, “Normally, yes, my queen, I can speak. It’s only in your presence that I . . . that I can’t seem to find . . . you know, words.”

  Dylan looked from his brother to the queen. “Your Majesty, is he under a charm of some sort?”

  Jennah shook her head.

  “A charm?” Logan asked.

  “Our queen is a mesmer of extraordinary power,” Dylan said to Logan. “It’s how she spoke to the whole stadium just now. I thought perhaps she had cast some strange glamour upon you to make you gabble so stupidly. Apparently, though, you come by it naturally.”

  “Stand, Logan Thackeray,” Queen Jennah said.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Logan rose and brushed the dust from his knees. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “Do not fear, Logan. If you’re half the warrior that your brother is, you will do well today.”

  “I’d say he’s almost half,” Dylan put in.

  “My queen,” Logan replied earnestly, “I am not sure how good a warrior I am, but if I could fight this match for you, I would be ten times the warrior. Grant me a token—”

  Dylan sternly shook his head at his brother.

  But Queen Jennah leaned forward, drew a blue scarf from her robe, and handed it down to Logan. “Yes, Logan. Be my champion today. When you fight, fight for me.”

  Numbly, Logan stepped up and took the scarf as if it were a tender flower. The royal seal of Kryta was embroidered on one corner. “Thank you, milady. I will fight for you.”

  Dylan sighed, “Pity.”

  “Pity my foes!” Logan proclaimed.

  “Give me reason,” the queen said, smiling. She turned away and ascended the stairs.

  Dylan looked down at his little brother and shook his head. “Hopeless.” Then he followed his queen.

  “She’s going to watch,” Logan realized, pivoting slowly and heading away. He stared at the scarf in his hand, marked with the emblem of the royal house, then lifted it to tie to his left shoulder plate.

  As Logan approached his comrades, Rytlock wore a wry grin. “A little lovesick, are we?”