Fable: Edge of the World

by Christie Golden

  “Me too,” Page said. “And that pie smells heavenly.”

  They went inside. The pie maker was attending two other customers, a large, burly youth with his first growth of beard and a genial manner, and a slender, plain girl who stood closely by the man’s side.

  “The dried apricot pie was perhaps your best yet, Tabitha!” the young man enthused. “But I hear you’ve got a dried berry pie that will top that this week!”

  “Peg, does Fergus butter you up like this?” the pie maker asked playfully. The plain girl smiled, and as she did so, Page thought her beautiful.

  “He does,” Peg said, leaning close to the man who was clearly her husband. “Young love is so sweet. By the time he’s done, I think I’m the queen herself.”

  “Lucky, the pair of you,” the pie maker chuckled. “I’ll bet you’ll be saying that the second month you’re married, too! Here you go—and an apple tart on the house.”

  “Talented, lovely, and generous too,” Fergus said. “What a blessing to have you here, my dear.” He picked up the pie and tarts and turned his beaming smile upon Page and Timmins. “Well, well, new faces! What brings you to Thorndeep—other than Tabitha’s superb pies?”

  “What’ll it be, loves?” Tabitha asked cheerfully.

  “One berry pie, if you have any left,” Timmins said. To Fergus, he said, “We’re heading to Bowerstone, to see if we can get some work there.” No one had to know that they had come from Bowerstone.

  Fergus sighed. “And here I was hoping you and the young lady might stay on. You and the rest of the populace are heading for Bowerstone, it seems,” he said in a melancholy tone.

  “Several boys joined up when the king asked for recruits,” Peg added in her soft, shy voice, “and since then many more people our age have decided to seek their fortune in the big city.”

  “I see,” said Page. “And that’s not really helpful to Thorndeep’s continued success, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t,” came an angry voice from the corner. A cadaverously thin man sat there eating a piece of pie. “This town needs stability; it needs good, strong, devoted people. Else those bal—”

  “Hush now, Theo,” Fergus scolded. “Finish your pie.”

  “Bal?” asked Page, then her eyes widened. “Balverines? Here?”

  Fergus gave Theo a glare. “A few, now and again,” she said. “They’re under control, for now. But I do worry that if more and more people leave, what’s to become of the rest of us? Can’t go to the king for help, he’s away fighting a war and I hear his captain of the guards has turned traitor.”

  “Indeed?” said Timmins blandly.

  “Aye. Now Reaver will be running the place, I imagine. And I don’t think we’ll get any help from the likes of—”

  Gunfire interrupted him. Page met Timmins’s eye and with no words spoken, they rushed as one out of the shop.

  Four balverines had charged into the square. One of them was attacking the woman they had just seen leaving with a pie. Two others had attacked other passersby, and the fourth had broken into one of the shops from which screaming could be heard.

  Page drew her pistol and took aim at the one mauling the shrieking woman, but she wasn’t in time. The balverine’s teeth crunched down on its victim’s throat, and her cries ceased. It threw back its head and howled its victory. The gooey red remnants of the smashed berry pie on the ground looked sickeningly like the blood on its hideous muzzle. Page dropped it in midhowl with a precise shot to the head. Timmins had already drawn his sword and was battling another balverine. Page quickly reloaded, aimed, and dropped the second one.

  Both of them ran into the shop to find the balverine lying on the floor and a stunned blacksmith standing atop it. The man had felled the creature with a red-hot blade still being held by a pair of tongs.

  “First time I’ve ever killed anything with a blade I was still making,” he stammered.

  “Well done!” exclaimed Timmins. “Are you sure you got it?”

  The man peered at the balverine, at its elongated ugly limbs and hunched body, and his face hardened.

  “Awful things. Better make sure,” he said, and brought the hammer down on the creature’s skull.

  A sudden familiar sound reached Page’s ears as Timmins checked to make sure the man hadn’t been bitten. She hurried out of the shop to see a bedraggled black-and-white dog running up to her and jumping into her outstretched arms.

  “Rex!” exclaimed Page, hugging the dog tightly. He was thin and trembling from the cold, and his coat smelled very rank. She didn’t care. She was thrilled to see him.

  “How did he manage to track us down?” asked Timmins, coming out of the shop and patting the dog himself.

  “A long time ago, Laylah trained him to come fetch me, using a pair of gloves I’d left behind,” Page said. “She must have sent him.”

  His expression hardened. “Why? What does that mean?”

  Page noticed something fastened to the dog’s collar. “I bet this will tell us,” she said, forcing her voice to stay calm. She placed Rex down and with trembling fingers untied the tightly-rolled-up note, unfolded it, and read:

  To my true friends—

  I have discovered, to my anguish, that I should never have doubted you. All is indeed as you tried to warn me. I send this stout fellow to you, both to ensure his safety and to let you know—I know. I am unharmed and believe I will stay so … he needs me too much.

  Forgive me, my friends, and know—I will not let him win!

  “Nice and mysterious, in case someone caught Rex,” Timmins said approvingly. “Smart girl.”

  Page was overcome and held the letter to her heart. Laylah believed them now—and was on their side. “She’s going to put herself at risk if she tries to defy Reaver and he finds out,” Page said, clearing her throat and rising. She tore the letter into small shreds and tossed them into a nearby brazier.

  “Well,” Timmins said, “we’ll have to make sure that someone’s working on her behalf on the outside. That would be us.”

  “Indeed it would be,” said Page. “We’ll stop Reaver and the darkness—the three of us, and anyone else we can find who believes in our cause. Somehow. We’ve got to!”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  There were two more oasis villages along the Great Road between Zahadar and the monastery. The vast majority of the monks had agreed to accompany the king; a few remained behind, to tend to the crops and the animals. The king thought that, with the legendary Hero Garth and several dozen warrior monks as allies, the villagers might be persuaded to join in the fight.

  “They live closest to the heart of darkness,” the king had said. “When they see their countrymen joining with me, they may be inspired to offer their aid.”

  “And they may not,” said Garth.

  “We have a dragon,” Ben pointed out.

  It was decided that the effort at least would be made at the first village. It was met with success beyond the king’s wildest imaginings. There was no true loyalty to the Empress this close to the capital city. The outlying towns were obedient only out of fear. When the king and Garth arrived on the back of a legendary creature, along with an already-assembled army and several of the famed warrior monks, the villagers wept happily and ran to get their own weapons, simple though they might be.

  “Before you came,” the leader of one village said, “we had no hope. Now, we see two Heroes and a mythic beast, with an army behind them, ready to put an end to this evil that has cowed us for so long. Yes, we will fight with you. With pitchforks and scythes and our bare hands, if need be.”

  “That is what we will be using,” one of the monks said, shrugging.

  The king was glad of the extra supplies the monks had contributed as the army expanded as they marched. By the time they were ready to depart the second oasis town and head into the final stretch of the march on Zahadar, their ranks had increased by over five hundred able-bodied and willing villagers.

  Scouts who had gone
ahead reported what Garth had feared. “There is a standing army. Our numbers are greater, and our weaponry similar, but they are rested and well fed and watered. They also have many mounted units. We could not tell what sort of military presence is inside.”

  “Do they appear to have been there for some time?” asked the king.

  “Yes, Sire. There was a familiarity and ease among the men as they went about their business.”

  “Well, that means that she didn’t bring them in just for us, then,” the king said.

  “Which is both good and bad,” Garth replied. “It means that the Empress probably isn’t aware of our presence yet—but it also means she’s been prepared for some kind of attack for a long time. And it also means those fighters are highly trained and deadly. And, no offense, but yours is largely a volunteer army.”

  “Many of them saw action when Albion defeated the Nightcrawler nearly ten years ago,” Ben said. “The rest have more than gotten their feet wet since they’ve been here. Maybe this Empress does have more professionals than we do—but don’t count out the Albion army yet.”

  “Plus,” put in Kalin, “we have two Heroes.”

  Garth looked pensive. “I’m not sure what the Empress is, exactly,” he said, “but she certainly is more than an ordinary woman. Let us hope that she, too, is not a Hero.”

  The river Zaha flowed westward from the eastern mountains, through farmlands, then into the city. Most of the Empress’s soldiers were stationed to the south and west of Zahadar, where they could keep a sharp eye on the main roads. No army would approach from the east; they couldn’t march sufficient numbers through the mountains. So it was here, with the silhouette of the great Samarkandian capital looming up against a skyful of stars, that the attack began.

  The king and about a dozen others selected for this first mission were strong swimmers capable of holding their breaths for much longer than usual. They would have to be to complete their tasks. They were naked, carrying their clothing—traditional Samarkandian wear offered by the villagers—in empty, pitch-sealed water gourds. The gourds were weighted, so the swimmers would not be overly buoyed. The vanguard waded into the river, shivering a little at the cold, then slipped in fully and began to swim.

  They were not fighting the current, so the first part was easy—swim steadily, keeping their heads above water so as to navigate by starlight. After a time, the king could see the wall of the great city looming. He raised a hand, and they all halted, drifting over to either embankment.

  Here was where it got tricky. From this point on, all was an unknown. The king handed his gourd to one of the other swimmers, inhaled and exhaled a few times, then dove straight down.

  He was completely blind, and went slowly, his arms outstretched. Questing fingers brushed up against an expected obstacle—a gate of metal bars. The gaps were large enough for water to flow in easily, but the bars filtered out larger items. Such as human beings, the king thought. But, they had expected this. His air was starting to run out; he would have to act quickly or else surface and try again.

  The king extended his gauntleted arm and summoned his Will. He tried to concentrate, to remember how to augment the spell as Garth had taught him. A shock rippled as an invisible force pushed hard against the gate. He heard it groan, the sound muffled by the water. He tried again, and again it gave—but not enough. His lungs burning, the king shot to the surface.

  “There’s a gate, like we expected,” he said to the waiting soldiers. He was gasping a little and slowed his breathing to normal. “It’s weakening. One more good one should do it. Four of you—come down with me. We’ll need to hide it once it’s free.”

  He dove again, accompanied by the others. Once more he concentrated, focused, force-pushed—and the gate gave way. The four others seized it and bore it a safe distance back upstream. The others would have cheered if they’d dared.

  The way into the city was now clear.

  Ben wasn’t the most patient of men, certainly not right before a battle. He kept stealing sneaking, admiring glances at Garth, who sat cross-legged on a small rug on the sand. In the darkness, the strange symbols on his skin glowed bright blue. Ben had protested against the king’s being one of the initial scouts. “We can’t take the risk of anything happening to you,” he had said.

  “We can’t not take the risk, Ben,” the king said kindly, dropping a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I need to know what it looks like in there. And I have abilities that no one else but Garth has. You know I want to do this as efficiently and humanely as possible.”

  “You’re too good for your own … well, good,” Ben had muttered. He still didn’t think they should risk the king in this way, but his liege was adamant.

  The first group was to find a way in through the river entrance, scout out the city, and report back before dawn. And dawn was on its way.

  There was a soft squeeze on his arm, and he turned to see Shalia sitting beside him. “It will be all right,” she said. “The king is very wise. He will take all precautions.”

  “Suppose some overeager guard spots him and arrests him for something stupid, like a broken curfew? Or loitering with a water gourd?”

  Shalia smiled. “He will have gotten rid of the gourd,” she said, her voice holding a hint of amusement.

  “I know, I know, I just—”

  Garth’s eyes snapped open. “The scout returns,” he said, getting to his feet. Ben looked in the direction of Zahadar, and saw nothing for several long minutes. How had Garth—never mind. He didn’t want to know.

  “Good news, I hope,” he said as the man hurried up. It was one of the monks, Sohar.

  “Very good,” Sohar replied. “We were able to assess the climate. The people here are not happy but they are obedient, and when they obey, their lives are tolerable. The military moves among them freely. There are several Palace Guards stationed at key areas. But the best news is that the king has found a way to slip into the palace itself. Here is his plan.”

  Shortly after delivering his report, Sohar led a second round of expert hand-to-hand fighters through the river to enter the city. They would meet up with the others, prepare, and await the next phase of battle. As soon as Sohar had gone, Garth gave the orders, and the army, siege engines in the front, began to move on Zahadar.

  Under cover of the night, they would not be sighted quite as soon as they would have been during daylight hours but they would be detected eventually. The men kept pace with the oxen as the beasts steadfastly pulled several small cannons, the single surviving catapult, and the ballistae. Ben cursed the fate that had robbed them of so many siege weapons. He was well aware it could mean the difference between success and failure.

  They were spotted when they were still two miles out. A moving line appeared on the horizon, and Ben realized he was looking at dozens of mounted soldiers.

  “The jig’s up,” he cried to Garth. “Here we go!”

  “Indeed,” muttered Garth. “Shan—you stay behind me and do everything I say. Do you understand?”

  Percival’s shadow fell on them, then the sand dragon landed. “Yes, sir,” Shan stammered, his eyes wide at the approaching tide of riders. He followed Garth, scrambling atop the dragon and clinging tightly. Percy made a vertical leap upward, bearing the two Samarkandians aloft.

  “Line one, formation!” came Garth’s voice from above the fray. “Take aim, and fire at will!”

  As if it were a choreographed performance, several dozen armed soldiers hastened into a line. Almost simultaneously, their rifles cracked. The soldiers dropped to their knees, reloading.

  “Line two, formation! Take aim, and fire at will!”

  This was Ben’s line, and he joined the others, mowing down the onrushing soldiers before they could get close enough to attack. There were a few stray shots from the Empress’s army, but a man standing—or kneeling—on the good solid earth was always going to have the advantage over one on horseback.

  Percival wheeled above them, dov
e in low so that Garth could attack, and then bore the Hero out of harm’s way. For a moment—a very short one—Ben felt sorry for the guards. They had no idea they were attacking a Hero and looked more stunned than anything as vortices of wind whirled them about, scouring them bloody with sand the eddies had picked up. When at last the dust devils Garth controlled threw the hapless soldiers aside, they were easy for the king’s foot soldiers to pick off.

  Cannon fire roared, blasting a cluster of the enemy. The drivers of the oxen pushed the frightened beasts onward grimly, the heavy weapons making their slow-but-inexorable way to the wall of Zahadar. The fighting was largely hand-to-hand now that the two armies had closed on one another. The advantage the Empress’s army had—horses—had all either fallen with their masters or else, terrified beyond anything they had been trained for in battle, had bucked off their riders and, very sensibly Ben thought, galloped the hell out of the way.

  Percival swooped low again. This time, Garth’s Will manifested itself in pillars of lightning that paralyzed and killed, cutting a swath through the soldiers.

  On the army of Albion and Samarkand marched, the oxen bellowing in protest as their drivers forced them to tread on the fallen bodies and bloody sand. Finally, the enemy’s numbers diminished. When Percy and Garth bore down on them for another attack, the soldiers of the Empress turned and fled back to the safety of their walled city. A ragged cheer went up and some made as if to give pursuit, but Garth called down, “Fall back! The battle has only begun, do not squander your energy!”

  He landed and dismounted, Shan scrambling down after him. “Scout ahead, Percy, and let us know what’s waiting for us when we get there,” Garth instructed the sand dragon. Percy inclined his head and took off, his great wings carrying him swiftly upward.

  “They’ll have men on the wall,” Ben said. “Hoping to pick us off.”

  “Most likely,” Garth agreed. “But we have a dragon and a Hero.”