Page squeezed her hand. “I’ve talked with him, and believe me, he has nothing but respect for you. He just wants you to be safe.”
“I know, I know, there could be an assassin hiding in the chamber pot, Your Majesty, and then what would you do, blah blah blah,” she said. Her anger was subsiding now, and she was feeling more wounded than furious. “I feel like I have enough to worry about. I need him on my side.”
“He is, Your Majesty.”
“He’s on the king’s side. I daresay he could do without me just fine.” Page had no response to that, and the queen realized what she had said in a moment of self-pity was true. Who is loyal to me? Who sees me for who I am, not just as the wife of a king?
Does Page truly see me, or is she like Timmins?
“Majesty? What is it?”
Laylah realized that her thoughts had been reflected on her face, and she shook her head quickly and forced a smile. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Pay me no heed. I think I’ll go for a walk in the garden to clear my head for a bit.”
“It’s cold out, but pleasant,” said Page. “That sounds like a good idea. We could both use it. I’ll let Barrows know.” She reached for her cloak.
“No,” the queen said, almost as surprised as Page to hear the words escaping her lips. “I think I’d just like some time to myself.”
Page nodded. “Of course, Your Majesty.” She smiled. “You can always send Rex if you wish my company.”
“I shall,” Laylah said.
“And of course you’ll take your pistol,” Page said. Anger again flashed through the queen, but she nodded. She had promised both Page and Timmins that she would never be alone anywhere without a way to defend herself. They didn’t need to remind her as if she were a child.
“Of course.”
Page bowed courteously and left quietly. Laylah wasn’t sure if she had offended the other woman. Page often—what was the phrase? “Kept her cards close to the vest,” that was it. Laylah had seen her do so before with others, but never before with her.
She had initially used the gardens as an excuse, but now a walk in the chill, moist air to clear her head did sound like a good idea. She put on her cloak, grimaced a little as she fastened the pistol about her waist, and as she stepped out the door, she said to Barrows, “I’ll be in the garden.”
“Very good, Your Majesty.”
Laylah’s boots sank deep into the snow. By her own order, the gardens were now open to the public during daylight hours, but only a very hardy few availed themselves of the privilege. In contrast to the often clear days they had seen recently, today the air was thick with mist. She recalled Jasper’s dislike of the gardens at night and decided she didn’t like them on foggy wintry days, either. She wouldn’t encounter anyone in this kind of weather, and the thought kept her outside despite her discomfort. She walked for a bit, looking at the skeletons of rosebushes and trees as they appeared and disappeared in the mist, then found a bench piled with snow. She cleared a space with her gloved hands and sat down.
She could see her breath, and while the cloak and boots kept her warm, her face felt cold. Cold was something she had yet to grow accustomed to here in this strange land of Albion, and she privately marveled at the Mistpeak Dwellers, eking out a life in so harsh a land, and at young Shan’s hardiness in crossing the hitherto impassable Blade Mountains.
It was a bad thought. It led to her recalling the night—her wedding night—when Shan had arrived, and told them the horrors of the approaching darkness. She wanted her love back safely, wanted to wake up beside him. Laylah had understood that life as a queen would be far different from the ordinary life she had always expected to lead, and had accepted that. But to have him ripped away from her so very soon, perhaps never to come back—
It overwhelmed her. She was so very miserable. Her husband was gone, Timmins hounded her daily, and even Page didn’t seem to be quite the friend Laylah had thought. She had no one. She felt alone in a way nobody could imagine.
She bowed her head, and, alone, let the tears flow, hot down her cold cheeks. My love, my love, I miss you …
“Dear, dear,” came an aristocratic voice. “How terribly distressing to happen upon so lovely a young lady in such a sorrowful state. Here, please do take my handkerchief.”
Laylah turned, her hand on her pistol. There was no one there! Her heart sped up for a moment until a tall, elegant, dark-haired man materialized as if birthed by the fog. While he wore a cloak against the weather, the stranger also sported a top hat with goggles perched on the brim. His clothes were elegant and bespoke considerable wealth. He handed her a white handkerchief.
“Thank you,” Laylah said, gathering what dignity she had left around her even as she pulled the cloak more tightly about her slim frame. The stranger carefully swept off the snow on the bench with a gloved hand and, uninvited, sat down beside her.
“You are most welcome, Your Majesty,” he said. “Now, pray tell me, what troubles you, and how can I best serve my lovely liege?”
So, even though she was simply dressed and her cloak was far less elaborate than his, he had recognized her. As she looked at him, she realized that he powdered his face slightly, and his thin lips were very red, but not from the cold of the day. There was a sharpness to him, a precise crispness that reminded her of the cold. She noticed that he had a small heart tattoo on one cheek.
“You are most kind, sir, but I fear there is nothing you can do. I am just being a silly girl who misses her husband. No doubt I have tarnished your image of a queen, and I apologize.”
“Not at all, Your Majesty,” he said heartily. “It is heartening to know that one’s rulers are people, just like oneself. And I think that perhaps I can be of help to you. A very great help indeed.”
She smiled at his assurance despite herself and handed him his handkerchief, which had the letter “R” embroidered on it. “And who might you be, Mr. Very Great Help Indeed?”
He put a hand over his heart, mindful of the extravagant cravat. “Perhaps you have heard of me. My name, dear lady,” he said, “is Reaver.”
Chapter Eleven
“Reaver?” gasped Laylah, her eyes widening. Her heart had only just slowed from the start he had given her; now it began to pound again. She had heard stories, all right; stories about his charm and his brutality, his selfishness and ego. The king had established a détente with the man, but Page loathed him. And now, here he was, manifesting like something out of a fairy tale.
He gave her a rueful smile. “I see that those who would slander me have already done so to your ears.”
“My husband does not slander,” she snapped, getting to her feet. Beneath the cloak, her trembling hand clasped the pistol. “He and Page have both told me of your schemes and your greed!”
His elegantly plucked brows lifted. “Schemes? Greed?” He gave her a wounded look.
“You even—” She could barely get the words out. “You made sport of their lives! Pitting them against all sorts of enemies in some kind of, of gladiatorial combat to entertain your guests?”
“That was a long, long time ago,” he said, “and surely the evidence that all has been made right can be found in the fact that His Majesty did adopt some of my proposals shortly after his coronation.”
“And rejected many more,” Laylah said. She shouldn’t even be speaking to this man. She turned to call one of the guards. Swift as a cat, Reaver was on his feet, standing close to her.
“Page is an impractical idealist, and that stuffed shirt of a military mannequin Captain Jack Timmins is insufferable. Your husband is someone I respect and can work with. But he has left you with terribly poor advisors,” Reaver said. “I admit I have flaws. Though poor fashion isn’t one.” He gave her a playful little smile. “Your husband and I found a way to work together for the good of the kingdom. Granted, we didn’t always see eye to eye on everything. Such strong personalities are bound to clash from time to time. But I tell you this: My fate and my fortune,
which is considerable, is tied in with that of the kingdom. And therefore, I want to see this realm as safe and prosperous as anyone in this world—including the King of Albion.”
Before he had had an impish, almost mocking air. But now he looked deadly serious to Laylah, and she knew in her bones that he was not lying. She swallowed, still wondering if she ought to call the guards.
“I have more experience in how to manage people than either Page or Timmins. And now that your husband, the lone voice of reason crying in the wilderness that is Albion politics, has departed for the noble cause of aiding one country while protecting his own, people who have absolutely no head for business are trying to run Albion in his absence.”
“What exactly is it you want?” asked Laylah cautiously. She was still deeply skeptical of this man, who, by all accounts, was not to be trusted—and who, perversely, was also known to have his own peculiar code of honor.
“Want, or want to do for you?”
“Either. Both.”
“Well, I see no reason to feign Page’s pitiable idealism. I want to continue to expand my businesses and increase my profits, naturally.”
“Naturally.”
“And I want to provide you with the experience of many years spent being a Hero myself. I’ve traveled all around this world and learned more things than you can imagine.”
That, Laylah thought, was also likely very true.
“If you would merely admit me to your circle of advisors, all my wisdom and experience are yours to command.” He executed a perfect bow.
Laylah considered. She might be inexperienced, but she wasn’t a fool. She had been warned how dangerous and slippery this man could be. But Reaver raised several good points. It would be foolish not to avail herself of what he offered. It was just advice, which she could take or leave. He would have no real position of power, and as he had quite frankly pointed out, his own greed would ensure his loyalty.
“I will consider your request,” she said.
The passageway through the cliff side blocked the sun and stayed at a steady temperature, which was a welcome relief. It also had clearly once been used with great frequency, though not for some time. There were cobwebs aplenty, but the route was large and open and the stones over which they traveled well-worn. Compared to trying to heave siege weaponry across soft, shifting sand or hard, nearly impassable rocks, this was almost a pleasant stroll. Shalia had told them that long ago, trade between Sweetwater Trees village and Asur-keh-la had been frequent and beneficial.
“Until the Black Storm came,” she said in a low voice as she walked beside Ben and the king. They were at the forefront of the caravan, and the sounds of booted footfalls, carts, and horses’ hooves echoed behind them.
“Samarkandians are hardy people,” the king said. “To us, your land is exotic and full of wonder. And yet you face such perils as sandstorms or drought regularly. That, to me, is most wondrous of all.”
“You are kind, Your Majesty,” she said. “And yes, we have always had to deal with such things. This, we accept.” Her face grew hard in the light of the torch she carried. “It is what the Empress has brought upon us that will destroy us. I love my home, Your Majesty. I took no joy in betraying my family and friends, and truly, they took no joy in betraying others. My father saw it as the only way the village could survive. If you triumph, and the Empress is defeated, that can only help my people.”
“It must have been a terrible choice for you,” the king said sympathetically.
She looked up at him, her dark eyes serene. “It was no choice at all. We were losing who we were.”
The king thought about Shalia and Shan. As with the Aurorans, they had been strangers in a most alien fashion. And yet, as he had with the Aurorans, he was finding he liked and respected their courage and their rich culture. Even though his army had already suffered many setbacks, he was even more certain now that coming here had been the right thing to do. For Albion, and for this land of proud, hardy people.
The way seemed to be lightening subtly. At first the king thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but no—it was definitely growing brighter. “Halt,” he ordered, and as the message was passed back he heard the echoing sounds cease.
He nodded to a pair of scouts, who hastened ahead. They reported back a few moments later.
“Sir,” one of them said, “We … see nothing. Just a stretch of sand.”
“That is all that is left of a great city,” said Shalia. “The Black Storm has swallowed it all.”
While the king did not wish to pooh-pooh the strong conviction that both Shan and Shalia seemed to have that the city was a horrible place, he thought their concern unwarranted. It was the site of a great tragedy, true, but seemed to be nothing more.
“Let us be about crossing it then,” he said.
The army moved out of the tunnel, the light growing stronger with each step until they were once more in the familiar, nearly blinding whiteness and heat of sun on sand. The scouts had been completely accurate. Nothing was left to indicate that this place had ever been anything other than simply another stretch of desert wasteland. It loomed ahead of them, shocking blue sky and nearly white sand, a daunting path. He debated waiting for the coolness of nightfall but did not want to risk getting lost. Better to press on in the daylight.
It was slow going. The carts sank into the sand, and the oxen and donkeys struggled to pull them. The army had to stop often to rest. The sun beat down mercilessly, and their sweat dried instantly on their skins.
The sun began to sink, and both Shan and Shalia looked agitated. “We still have far to go,” Shalia warned.
“Maybe,” said Ben, “but it’d be safer to make camp here. I don’t much fancy getting lost in this place.”
“No, please!” Shalia insisted. The sun touched the horizon. And the sand began to shift under their very feet.
The king suddenly realized the true depth of the danger they were in, and why the city was rumored to be cursed. They did not only have to worry about the sand covering the city of Asur-keh-la, or the hot sun that beat down upon it.
They were facing the citizens of The Place From Which No Living Thing Returns.
Hundreds of hollow men burst forth, clawing their way up from the sand that had buried them so long ago—that had filled their lungs as they cried out in terror. Some were nothing more than bleached skeletons whose remains had only been recently covered by the shifting sands of the cruel desert. Others had been buried deep over centuries, preserved and desiccated, their faces like leather masks, bodies nearly intact though thin as rails. But they were all identical in their rage and hatred as they charged at the living. Some carried swords, some rocks or fragments of pottery as ancient as themselves. Others were armed only with their bony hands, which were peril enough. The numbers were staggering—it seemed the entire population of the once-thriving city had lain dormant here, to be awakened by the approach of the living.
More than swords and rifles were called for here if the army was to survive. As others charged into the fray with blades and bullets, the king held back, took a deep breath, and summoned the third skill that was the birthright of Heroes: Will.
Focusing on the strength of his intention and the power of his mind, he moved his hands in a pattern in the air. He called to him a power more than physical. And that power obeyed the call.
Chains of blue lightning sprang forward from his hands, and the king set the captured magic loose on six shambling corpses. The dried bones were pulverized into dust, but the mummified hollow men continued on. Keeping his concentration sharp, he conjured a ball of fire and hurled it at them, and their dried flesh curled as it slowly burned.
He turned, assessing where best he could attack. Something closed like a vise around his ankle and pulled hard. The king fell face-first onto the sand, and felt himself being dragged downward into the sinkhole to keep the dead men company. He struggled, but he could find nothing to grasp onto, nor could he even see his oppon
ent. Merciless sand filled his mouth as he tried to call out for aid, then something lightly struck the back of his head.
“Hold on!” came Kalin’s voice. The king grasped at what had been tossed to him, realizing as his flailing, blind hands grabbed it that it was the reins of a horse. He was buried up to his chest now. Coughing violently, he wrapped the reins around his hands.
“Hah! Hah!” Kalin shouted to the horse, and the beast surged forward. His belly scraping along the sand, the king and his undead enemy were dragged forward. Twisting around so that he was on his back, the king managed to grasp his sword and brought it down, hacking at his foe. The undead hand was severed at the wrist and the king scrambled backwards, struggling to his feet as the owner of the arm rose from the sand.
In its remaining hand, it clutched a scimitar, which slashed down at the monarch with shocking speed. The king was barely able to parry, his body quivering with the strain while his left hand summoned energy. He blasted the hollow man at close range with a whirling ball of fire.
“Thank you,” he said to Kalin. She sat atop Winter, nodding briefly as she reloaded her rifle.
The fight raged around them. Their enemy was not only the ghoulish undead creatures but the sand itself, shifting each time a new enemy erupted. Men were dying as the king had nearly died, choking as the original denizens of this place had choked—buried alive.
That was it.
“Kalin,” he said. “Find Shan and Ben. Tell them to press on as fast as they can. They’re not to stop to fight unless they have to.”
She looked around at the sand that seemed to be a living thing, realized what he intended to do, and clapped heels to Winter’s sides. The noble beast hastened off.
While the army would be retreating north, to catch up to the main road, the king turned to the south. He ran as fast as he could, skirting the fighting clusters of living and dead and aiming for solid ground—at least as solid as sand could be. Once the tide began to shift from hand-to-hand fighting to retreat, the king put his plan into action. He scanned the area, searching for a roiling patch of sand that presaged the emergence of another cluster of hollow men. Racing toward it, he dropped to his knees, pressed his hands down onto the hot surface, and sent a blast of magical energy down toward the ruins of the buried city. The shock wave rippled through the ground, then the area was still, save for pockets where the sand began to sink as it adjusted to encase what had been disturbed beneath. The king got to his feet, rifle at the ready, but no skeletal creature clawed its way to the surface.
Fable: Edge of the World Page 10
