“That might be you, Shan,” said the king. “Or you, Shalia?”
“Me?” she yelped. “Oh, I’m no Hero.”
“My father was a street urchin,” said the king. “You never know.”
“Well, I for one would be bloody happy if it turns out I’m traveling with two or three Heroes,” said Ben. “Especially such a brave and beautiful one.”
Shalia ducked her head and smiled.
“Let’s hurry!” said Shan. “I can’t wait to see the cavern!”
They picked up their pace, as excited as Shan was to see the glorious cavern. Without any warning, the path suddenly widened. Cool air swirled about them, and though it was too dark to see anything, the king could sense that they had entered an enormous cavern. The single torch barely illuminated the path Shan had told them about, so they fell into single file as the king led the way.
“I can see them—sort of,” Ben said. He pointed to the shadows beyond the dancing flame of the torch. Huge shapes loomed up in the darkness, but no one could make out details.
“And there’s the pool, I can see the water glinting,” said Kalin.
“There’s the brazier, too, just like you said, Shan,” said the king. It was laid and ready to be lit, the wood no doubt so well dried and seasoned that it should give more than enough light. He took a deep breath and touched the torch to the piled wood.
A sheet of flame sprang up, its heat almost scorching them, and they all took a step back, defensively shielding themselves. When the king lowered his arm and looked around, his eyes widened.
The sight was as enormous and commanding as Shan had described. The thousand statues of Samarkand’s Heroes stood, each twenty feet tall, carved in such exquisite detail as to look like life writ large. The pool splashed and bubbled, liquid tumbling forth from the aperture in the side.
Except the liquid in the pool was black and viscous, and the Guardians had no heads.
Shan cried out in anguish at seeing the sacred place so defiled, and that sharp, pained sound shattered the paralysis that had frozen everyone in place. At that same moment, the thick liquid that had fouled the pool seemed to take on a life of its own. It formed what looked like a gigantic teardrop, falling upward in defiance of all natural law. Hundreds of smaller droplets splashed onto and oozed down the bodies of the statues, seeping into the porous stone.
And the king knew what to expect next.
Nearly ten years past, in a dark, best-forgotten place deep inside the desert of Aurora, he had watched a similar horror unfold—watched as the black, sludgy evil had animated empty suits of armor, which had turned into some of the most dangerous opponents the monarch had ever faced.
Galvanized to attention by Shan’s wail of torment, he cried, “To arms! Stay out of the reach of the black fluid! Destroy the statues!”
Samarkand had certainly been full of dangers thus far. Sirens, jakala, sand furies, and treacherous villagers, all had attempted to halt or kill the king and his army. But this—here was their first true fight against a manifestation of the darkness they had come here to defeat, and to the king’s surprise, he was eager for it.
There was a righteousness to this fray that had been lacking before, a sense that not just an enemy was now being directly faced but that if they won here, all that the enemy existed to do would be harmed. There was no latent guilt at taking a human life as in the case of the sand furies or jakala, no fraction of hesitation in dealing a death blow. No, this was pure evil, which needed only an animated stone statue of a dead Hero to use as its weapon.
His soldiers seemed to feel the same. They shouted their battle cries as they began hacking at the statues. A man could reach only to a statue’s knee, but that knee was made of stone, and stone could be cracked and the statue would stumble. Bullets peppered the torsos of the headless Heroes, chipping relentlessly away until a huge section cracked and a chunk fell down. Black goo oozed out, and the king’s men made certain to steer clear of the horrific splashes.
The king used his Will freely, sending fireballs directly into the chests of the stone monstrosities. They shattered into harmless shards, like pots dropped on a floor. He whirled, splaying both hands, striking two at a time. Another’s motion was slowed so that the soldiers battling it could get in more blows. The king, his attention honed to razor sharpness, looked over at a cluster of statues descending on several of his men. Grunting, he thrust his hand out and the four statues stumbled backwards, falling and becoming easier prey.
The fight went on and on. Statues were defeated, but others trundled forward to take their places. Male, female, short, tall, slender, muscular, the images of the Heroes of old were perverted and used to fight for a darkness that all of them would have abhorred in life. The king was glad he could not see the carved faces.
Some of the soldiers, beaten back by the attack, fell into the pool. The darkness seized them, thrusting slender tendrils of slick black ooze into eyes, mouths, ears, and nostrils, then pulling them under. Others were slain by the oversized weapons the statues bore, their bodies lying broken on the stone floor.
Still the statues came, and still they were met with defiance. “We came to fight the darkness!” shouted the king. “Well, we’re fighting it now, and we’re winning! We’re winning!”
He could tell they were, though it was at a bitter cost. Only a few dozen of the thousand guardians remained, fighting with the strength of the Heroes they were intended to honor, but with none of their wisdom or intelligence. The statues were dangerous, deadly—but defeatable.
More and more stone bodies toppled. A handful remained, now. The king was weary, but knowing they were so close to triumph revived him. He summoned every ounce of his Will, forcing his arms not to shake and blinking back sweat dripping into his eyes. One statue exploded from a ball of fire to the chest. Another fell to the onslaught of gunfire.
A final one remained, and as everyone turned attention on the armored figure with two swords, it fell almost at once, the echoing crash thunderous in the silence.
The king, exhausted, dropped to his knees. His body was shaking so badly it felt like the whole earth trembled beneath his hands and knees.
No—the ground really was trembling. The king forced himself to his feet just as something broke the surface of the black pool. The rising object was as black as the vile stuff that had kept it hidden from their view, but the thing itself was clean—the dark liquid did not cling to or sully it. Its hue was deep and compelling, and runes were etched on it in glowing blue light. Up, up it went, towering over the broken pieces of statuary, a base emerging now that provided a safe place to step. The dark fluid receded—almost recoiled, from the clean, chiseled beauty.
For a long moment, everyone stared. A soft blue glow jumped from the etched runes to slowly whirl around the obelisk, like a star dancing around it.
“What is it?” breathed Kalin.
“It’s … for me,” the king said, staring raptly. He knew, without knowing how, that this obelisk was intended for a Hero. The evil that had corrupted this very cavern dedicated to the most powerful Heroes of this land had been defeated. The darkness had retreated, scuttling away almost fearfully. And now, this humbling creation had appeared. He wasn’t sure if it was a message, or a gift … but whichever it was, only he could receive it.
His eyes fastened almost without blinking on the huge black structure, he slowly ascended the steps until he stood before it. His skin seemed alive, jumping with anticipation, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.
The glyphs on the obelisk hadn’t changed, but somehow, he could read them now. Or at least, he knew what they said—he couldn’t tell if the knowledge was before his eyes or in his own mind.
O Hero who hath need of me, release me, and I shall serve thee in the form that shall aid thee best.
The king blinked, the strange sort of spell broken. The form that would aid him best? What was this inscription all about? What did it mean, exactly? So many thoughts rushed in
to his head. The battle had reminded him, painfully so, of Walter Beck, who had been tortured and infused with the very essence of the evil while the king had frantically fought back the empty—yet not empty, not at all—suits of armor. What would Walter do if he were here? The king missed his friend terribly, missed his wise advice.
More than he realized, too, he missed dear old Jasper’s acerbic but always helpful observations. He had gotten used to talking to the old fellow. To be able to speak to him now … He had friends, good friends, with him, and he had brought a fine and well-prepared army.
In the form that shall aid thee best.
He laughed suddenly. Well, that was pretty obvious, wasn’t it? He needed something nearly impossible to defeat, that would be impervious to the harsh climate, that wouldn’t have to be left behind because of poor terrain. Something that could fly over it all, and thrive in the heat like a snake or lizard did. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a dragon out of the old fables obeying his commands! Who wouldn’t follow him then, mounted on the back of so fearsome and powerful a beast!
But he needed to halt that flight of fancy. He needed to think seriously. What form would—
The voice in his head was like thunder.
The Hero hath chosen.
“No, wait!” he yelped. “I’ve not chosen anything, I’m still think—”
The obelisk paled from inky black to golden yellow, then crumbled into a pile.
The king stared at it, his mouth working, making little noises of utter confusion. All that for a pile of sand? Was this some kind of trick? He glanced back at his friends, but all of them looked as stunned and confused as he was.
Still reeling, the king knelt and placed his hand on the sand, for sand it indeed was.
And then the pile moved.
He leaped back, drawing his sword in one hand and summoning magic in the other. Some instinct made him hold back, though, and before his eyes, the billions of tiny grains began to swirl together, as though being tossed about by an unseen wind. Faster and faster they whirled, forming a solid, elongated shape far different from the obelisk. Four tendrils erupted, then two longer ones, and the shape became less nebulous.
The center mass sprouted leathery wings, the long extensions of moving sand taking on the more delicate imagery of a tail and a neck with a sharp-toothed head at the end. More sand trickled from the jaw and head, forming a sort of mane and whiskers. The form stamped each one of its massive, clawed feet, and the wings beat as though in joyful release. The tail thumped once, and sapphire-blue eyes blinked. They fastened on the king, and the head dropped level with the human Hero’s.
“Crikey,” he said, to the monarch’s amazement, in Jasper’s clipped, slightly supercilious tone. “Go to sleep for a few thousand years and look at the mess I wake up to. You Heroes always were a rather untidy lot.”
Chapter Fifteen
The king stared. “Y-you’re a dragon,” he stammered.
The sand dragon rolled his eyes. “Brilliant deduction,” he drawled. “Oh goodness me, look, I have wings too!” He sighed. “It appears that Heroes are not quite as perspicacious as they used to be.”
The sarcasm penetrated the king’s shock. “Wait—let me get this straight. You’re my servant?”
“Alas, I fear so.” The dragon sighed. A few grains of sand drifted down with the movement. “It certainly does appear you have need of assistance from someone.”
“Why do you sound just like Jasper?” Ben demanded.
“I haven’t the foggiest idea who Jasper is, but as for my appearance and personality, blame him, not me,” the dragon said, nodding at the king.
And the king started to laugh. “Be careful what you ask for,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. He’d been thinking of Walter, of Jasper, and of a dragon—and there he was, all three rolled into a sandy package. “I certainly hope there’s some Walter Beck about you and not just snide comments,” he said.
The dragon smiled, unexpectedly, and brought his head down even with the king’s. “Sir Walter was in your mind at the moment of my creation,” Jasper’s voice said gently. “I well know he is always in your heart. Seldom has any Hero I have served had such a good and loyal friend.”
Unexpectedly and unwantedly, the king felt his eyes sting with tears. One hand reached up to touch the dragon’s cheek. It was warm, and clearly made of sand, though it held its cohesion. “What are you, really?”
“I don’t have to tell you that,” the dragon said testily, pulling back and eyeing the king appraisingly. “I only have to help you, and that, I fully intend to do. I know why you have come to Samarkand. Others before you have fought to push back the darkness from gaining a foothold. Some of them succeeded. Some did not. You have already defeated a previous manifestation of the darkness before. You stand a halfway-decent chance of doing so again.”
“Rip-roaring encouragement, that is,” said Ben.
“It’s truthful, and His Majesty doesn’t need sugarcoated words, he needs facts. Knowledge. And the aid of someone I might be able to persuade to assist us.”
“Dragon, I … what shall I call you?” asked the king.
That seemed to completely fluster the dragon. He flapped his wings agitatedly and looked about. “I … no Hero has ever asked me what I wanted to be named.”
“Well, I’m asking you now. Pick a name, and I’ll honor it. I promise.”
The dragon settled back, lost in thought. At last he brightened. “Percival,” he said, sounding extraordinarily pleased with himself.
“… Percival?” echoed the king. “You’re a mighty creature out of legend and you want to be called Percival?”
“Or Percy, if you like.”
The king exerted every ounce of control and nodded imperiously. “So it shall be done—Percy,” he said with great dignity.
The dragon beamed.
The king spread his arms. “You know what happened here,” he said. “The darkness corrupted the pool and turned the very statues of Heroes past against us. You said you know of someone who might help.”
The dragon—Percival—snapped back to attention. “Right-o,” he said. “The Thousand Guardians that were represented here were all late heroes. But one of them still exists. He is the thousand and first Hero Samarkand has produced. I know where to find him. He might listen to you, given his history.”
Sudden hope seized the king. “His history?”
“With your father,” Percy said. “I speak of the Hero Garth.”
The “council sessions,” if such a civil word could be used to describe the tension-filled meetings of Laylah, Page, Timmins, and Reaver, had not gone well at all. There would be about five minutes of actual progress, then either Reaver would say something and Page and Timmins would come down all over him, or else Timmins and Page would make a suggestion and Reaver would disagree. The queen herself kept quiet, observing, making up her own mind about things.
Reaver was, without a doubt, arrogant, irritating, and utterly self-serving. But he also put forth ideas that seemed sound. What was wrong, for instance, with a curfew at least in Bowerstone, where unrest was most likely to foment? Page herself had led an underground resistance movement against the former king! Why in the world would she so vehemently oppose so simple a method? Who needed to be skulking about at night anyway, when the restaurants and inns were closed?
And the tax—Laylah had spent a great deal of time reviewing the royal ledgers of nine years past, when the darkness had come right into the very heart of Albion. While her husband had almost always chosen the kinder solution—the solution that Page had constantly pressed for—there were times when he had sided with Reaver. And it had been those decisions that had put money in the royal coffers. Laylah realized, with a heavy heart, that every choice her husband made that followed Reaver’s advice had saved lives. Page had been so insistent on taking the higher moral ground that she was actually indirectly responsible for at least some of the death toll. While it was lovely, for inst
ance, to preserve Bowerstone Lake as a scenic spot instead of mining it, or have Brightwall Academy admit anyone who wished to study there, were those two actions really worth nearly a million in gold? How much ammunition, how many weapons could have been created for that amount—and how many lives would those defenses have saved?
Laylah had never said anything to Page about this, of course. But she was beginning to feel that perhaps her husband had been a bit too kind. Laylah was entrusted with the safety of Albion, now. And she could not afford to let sentiment get in the way of protecting her people.
And Timmins—she had never liked Timmins, and she was growing to detest him, now. Why in the world would he, a military man, refuse to increase the patrols in the city? If he would agree to the raising of taxes, more people would be on the streets protecting the populace in nearly every city, not just Bowerstone.
And now they were at it again.
“Dear Page,” Reaver was saying, “Your heart bleeds so profusely I confess a concern as to whether you have enough blood remaining to continue its beating.”
“Whatever dark deal you made, Reaver, apparently it doesn’t require you to have a heart at all!” Page snapped back.
Something broke inside Laylah, like the snapping of a dried twig. “Enough!” she shouted. “I cannot endure this any longer! You are so busy attacking one another that nothing is getting done! The country is suffering while the three of you figure out what—what the cleverest insult is!”
“They’re always mine,” said Reaver.
“This session is canceled. There’s absolutely no point in continuing when the only thing you want to do is fight among yourselves, at Albion’s expense. All of you are to leave, right now. I begin to think the only one I can rely upon is Rex!” They stared at her, stunned, achieving unanimity only in the shocked expressions on all three of their faces.
Fable: Edge of the World Page 13
