Fable: Edge of the World

by Christie Golden

  “Two Heroes,” Ben corrected.

  “Of course, two of us. I pray our second Hero is able to take advantage of the distraction we will be providing him.”

  “Funny, when you think about it,” Ben said, “a dragon, siege engines, rows of firepower, a Hero throwing magic about—and all this is just a distraction. The real battle will be going on inside there.”

  “Not if we don’t get that gate down,” Garth said. Percy was returning, dropping to the sand a few yards away and striding over to them.

  “Marksmen on the walls,” Percival reported, and Ben tried hard not to look smug.

  “Let’s remove that threat right away, shall we?” replied Garth. Percival lowered himself so Garth could climb atop his back. Shan started to follow, but Garth stopped him.

  “We’ll be flying lower this time and will present the main target,” Garth explained. “You’re safer here, at least for now.”

  Shan nodded. He was disappointed but trying not to look it. Ben clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t be overeager to see war, my young friend.”

  “Everyone is doing something except for me,” Shan said, uttering the classic complaint of young boys. “I want to help!”

  “Shan, if you didn’t do a thing from now till the day you died, hopefully at a ripe old age, you’ve already been of tremendous help to His Majesty and your own people. We’d never have gotten this far without you.”

  “Then—you don’t think I am a tool of the darkness?”

  Ben felt a stab of guilt, remembering that once he had indeed had such suspicions. “Lad,” he said, “if you’re of the darkness, then I’m the poorest marksman in Albion.”

  Garth sat astride Percival, his body relaxed, his mind tranquil and focused. He breathed deeply, summoning his Will, and as Percival dove, roaring fiercely, the Hero shoved his hands in front of him. Blades whirled, wielded by invisible hands, slicing down the Empress’s marksmen. Those who were not cut to pieces he simply forced off the wall. Those who were out of range fell with a swipe of Percy’s tail. A few lucky ones tumbled down inside the wall. The rest were quickly defeated by the encroaching army.

  “Now!” yelled Garth as Percy flew back. There was a volley of cannon fire.

  The siege of Zahadar had begun.

  While cannons and the battering ram pounded mercilessly against the gate, others of the king’s men were placing ladders provided by the diligent monks up against the north, east, and west walls. Percival’s shadow fell repeatedly upon the streets of the city; he knocked off those of the enemy who had climbed atop the walls and carefully dropped some of the army’s best hand-to-hand fighters literally on top of their foes. Once he had done that, the sand dragon clutched the Empress’s men and dropped them, much less carefully, outside the city walls.

  The streets below were chaos. Civilians screamed and sought shelter in their homes while the battle raged right outside. The king’s men had been told in no uncertain terms that they were not to fight anyone who was not clearly in the pay of the Empress.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  The city’s weak point was the size of its gate. The walls itself would have been nearly impossible to fell. They were made of rammed earth and designed to last for centuries. If the gate had admitted only one or two at a time, there would have been no hope. But the gates to Zahadar, one behind the other, were made of wood and steel, and would yield to the relentless onslaught of cannon balls and the pounding of the battering ram.

  Garth, on the ground now, made his way through to the gate, gazed at it, then smiled a little. The siege engines fell silent. He spread his hands, closed his eyes, and a fireball, half as large as he himself was, flew from his palms to slam into the wooden gate. Fire licked greedily at the dry wood, its heat eating through.

  Boom. Boom. Boom. Again the battering ram swung back and slammed into its target. There was a groan as the iron gate shuddered. A second time Garth focused his Will, and another orange ball of flame exploded. This time, the wood was completely consumed, and even the iron bars were starting to glow orange. The cannons fired again simultaneously and the gate could no longer offer any resistance.

  Garth strode through the main gate of Zahadar, the lines of blue dancing across his body with the strength of his controlled and focused Will. Casually, he extended a hand and lightning crackled, killing six would-be attackers at once. A sweep of the other hand hurled a dozen enemy soldiers out of the way, slamming them hard into the wall they had thought would protect them.

  Shan kept close beside him, and Garth glanced back and winked at the boy. Siege engines were maneuvered into position to bring down the wall to the inner city.

  “One wall down, two to go,” said Garth.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  “That’s our cue,” said the king. He, Sohar, and the other monks darted out into the chaotic streets, blending in with the frightened citizens rushing about. Most were running to their homes, seeking shelter, and as the king glimpsed a woman clutching her baby trying to evade the clatter of carts and horses, he felt a pang of regret. If only this attack weren’t necessary.

  The plan he and the others had come up with was designed to reduce loss of life among civilians, but there would still be casualties. There were always casualties. He set his jaw and turned away from the terrified inhabitants and focused his attention on the wall encircling the palace.

  The chaos, and the dust stirred up by it, served them well. There was a single entrance, well hidden, where the water from the Zaha was channeled into the Pleasure Gardens. In the panicked crush of people, no one noticed as he and the monks dropped down, removed the small metal gate much more easily than they had its larger cousin outside, and squeezed through. The lean, wiry monks had no trouble, and the king was glad that he still had the slenderness of youth. Even so, it was a tight fit, and he thought of claustrophobic Walter as he edged along the narrow passageway.

  They emerged in the small reservoir at the base of the garden, cautiously poking their heads up. The two monks at each end shook their heads.

  No guards.

  Slowly, carefully, the king and the monks emerged from the shallow water, and the king beheld the Pleasure Gardens.

  They were as beautiful as Shan had described them. There were three tiers, each stretching for several yards in a semicircle that enclosed a flat area at the top. Sweetwater trees grew at each end of the first level, their roots dipping into the life-giving water. Benches and small tables invited one to sit and reflect. On the second level, flowers grew in every hue imaginable. Their fragrance was lush and heady. Vines twined about the walls, and small stairways connected the three tiers. From this angle, the king couldn’t see the final tier clearly and gestured to his men. They nodded, also wary of a trap.

  Utilizing cover where they could, they climbed up to the next tier. Still no one raised an alarm. After a few moments, the king gestured, and they ascended to the third tier.

  Here, a table draped with an intricately embroidered cloth and a single chair sat alone, a multicolored pavilion providing shade. A half-eaten meal of fresh fruit, bread, and cheese was left on a plate, along with a single goblet. Someone had been disturbed at his—her?—meal.

  They had come for the Empress, and it seemed they had come close to finding her.

  If the king and his small, elite group could capture the Empress amid the chaos and confusion of the siege, there was a good chance his goals could be achieved without bloodshed. She would not be expecting so brazen an attack within the very walls of her own palace. Once they had her, the king would do his best to see if she could be reasoned with. If she refused, he could keep her prisoner and negotiate with those who stepped in to fill the power vacuum.

  His ears strained to hear over the sound of battle raging outside. The booming of cannon fire was coming closer now, which meant that Garth had succeeded in breeching the main gate and was now attacking the wall of the inner city.

  Behind the little pavilion area with i
ts single chair and table was an open door. It could be that the guards had rushed their mistress off and neglected to close the door behind them in their haste, perhaps never thinking of attack from the gardens.

  Or it could be a trap.

  A soft sound—the quivering intake of breath.

  The monks heard it too, snapping to attention but awaiting his orders. The king lifted a hand, staying them, and gazed at the cloth-covered table. “They must be inside,” he said, and jerked his head in the direction of the open door. “Let’s go.”

  The monks nodded and headed for the door. Their feet slapped on the stone tiles while the king stepped backward quietly and waited.

  For a moment, nothing happened. There was a rustling sound, and a slender, blue-draped, veiled figure emerged from where she had been hiding beneath the table. Quick as a snake, the king dove, snatching her by the arm and whirling her to face him.

  Her veil fluttered to the ground, revealing a face so exquisite, so perfect, that—

  He heard gunfire, then there was only darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The king had come to realize that no matter how exotic the country might be, or how much money and fame one’s captor possessed, prison cells, everywhere, were much the same.

  He had been given a cot, filthy and flea-riddled, and a chamber pot that wasn’t emptied nearly often enough. Food and water were offered and the chamber pot removed by means of a small second door at the base of the cell door. It had its own lock, and the king knew that even Rex would be hard-pressed to wriggle through it.

  After the first hour of attempting to sleep on the cot, he found the stone floor much more comfortable. There were no windows; the king estimated, given the coolness of the place—the only positive thing about it—he was deep underground. The guard, a large man who resembled Boulder but without his gentleness, spoke only to offer such comments as “Get up, you jackal” or similar pleasantries.

  The king remained silent as well. He went over what had happened, trying to figure out how it was that he had been captured. He remembered entering the Pleasure Gardens and something about a table … and then nothing. His failure to recall the events was disturbing, but not as much as other things he didn’t know: Had his friends survived? What about Percy? Had the sand dragon forsaken the Hero he was supposedly bound to serve? When the king couldn’t fight off the bleak despair any longer, the questions became as dark as the evil that was plaguing Samarkand itself: Will I ever escape? Do they all think I’m dead?

  Will I ever again see my Laylah?

  His brooding was interrupted by the arrival of the Boulder look-alike … and a companion. This man was as slender as the other was bulky, well-groomed, and smelled pleasant.

  “I am Ayar,” the smaller man said. “It seems our Great Empress has taken an interest in meeting her royal prisoner. She has ordered that you be made presentable, so that you are fit to enter her august presence.”

  “You tell your Empress she’ll see me as I am, or she’ll not see me at all.”

  Ayar chuckled. “How amusing you foreigners are! Let me phrase it this way: I am providing you with hot water, soap, towels, a razor, and clean clothing. You may avail yourself of them freely. If you choose not to, Harul and I will clean you up ourselves.”

  The king glowered at them, then nodded. “All right. I’ll pretty up for your Empress.” He remembered Ben’s comment about the Empress probably looking like a horse, and added defiantly, “Provided she’s prettied up for me.”

  The two men exchanged amused glances. “You may be a king of another country,” Ayar said, “but even you will fall to your knees once you behold her beauty.”

  “I doubt that very much,” the king said, and accepted the toiletries passed through the small aperture. He looked down at the steaming bowl of water, scented with fragrant herbs; at the round cake of soap, the small mirror, the neatly folded towel and the long, sharp straight razor.

  In his ravenous and weakened state he briefly fantasized seizing it and cutting his own throat. They would not be able to enter the cell in time to save him. He would thus deny this evil Empress any access to him. But he couldn’t do that to his people. So many of them had died already, fighting for a cause he convinced them to believe in. He could tell himself that he was doing it to protect state secrets from being tortured out of him; that he would remove himself as a game piece in her strategy. But in the end, it was a coward’s way out, at least this early on. Perhaps the Empress could actually be reasoned with; perhaps he would learn some valuable information. As he lathered up the soap and began to shave stubble off his chin, he realized he would never give up hope.

  He was the King of Albion. He had a whole nation relying on him and one woman whom he adored. And that was more than enough to keep him going for now.

  The monarch had to admit, he felt much better having had a chance to clean up. There was no guarantee that another such opportunity would come his way again for a good long while, and at least he would meet his fellow royal looking like a king.

  The clothing was clean and of high-quality fabric, but simple: tunic, breeches, and sandals. He was led up a winding stone stair, then down a long corridor through several doors, then up stone steps again. When the door was opened, he blinked from the brightness after so long belowground with only lamplight for illumination.

  As his vision adjusted, he had to struggle to conceal his awe. Before him was an enormous open chamber. Vaulted ceilings made of carved whitewashed stone arched high above. Frescoes adorned them, a riot of colors in glorious geometric patterns. The pillars were exquisitely carved in meticulous detail, depicting geometric shapes, leaves, and flowers. Healthy foliage grew everywhere, from flowers to fruit trees, and an exquisite smell suffused the area. The sound of bubbling water filled the air, pouring with reckless generosity from an enormous fountain in the center of the room. The chamber opened onto a patio, where clear blue sky could be glimpsed. Comfortable-looking chairs, lounges, and cushions were provided, with low tables that bore platters of fruits and other delicacies.

  All was harmonious, bright, beautiful—Samarkand at its best. Except for the fact that she who dwelt here epitomized Samarkand at its worst.

  He turned to say something to Harul, who had led him up here, but the huge man had somehow vanished. The king looked around, puzzled, then saw the cunningly hidden doors set into the white walls.

  “So this is the King of Albion,” came a soft voice. It was warm, husky, almost purring, and the king steeled himself as he turned around.

  He bowed low. “I am indeed,” he said, straightening. “And you must be the Empr—”

  The words died in his throat.

  She smiled at him, red lips parting over pearl-white teeth. Her skin was a shade of soft golden brown, her eyes large, deep, and expressive. Gleaming black hair, covered partially by a jeweled scarf the shade of the sky, tumbled to her trim waist. Full breasts, demurely covered, swelled as if in rebellion against the restraining drape of lavishly embroidered silk. Rings, simple but elegant, adorned hands that were decorated with ink made from a local plant. The king swallowed hard, his mouth having suddenly gone dry and his brain empty of thoughts.

  Her smile broadened. “I am she,” she said in that purring voice. She lifted a hand, and with a dancer’s movements indicated that he might sit on one of the lounges.

  He nodded. “Th-thank you,” he said. His voice cracked on the last word, as if he were an adolescent again. Indeed, he felt like a gawky teenage boy around this composed, graceful woman. Unable to tear his gaze away from her, he felt for the couch and managed to sit down without falling on his arse.

  She sank down beside him. She wore some kind of perfume or oil; the scent was sweet, clean, and intoxicating.

  “I hope you have been treated well,” she said. “I regret that circumstances have prevented our meeting ere now.”

  “So do I,” the king blurted. Inwardly, he frowned. Get ahold of yourself! She’s beautif
ul, yes, but she’s just a woman. Focus, dammit. “Thank you for permitting me to clean up a bit before our meeting.”

  Her smile became mischievous. “I know how I would feel about meeting fellow royalty in such a disheveled condition. I dressed my best for you.” The last was almost … shy. The king tried and failed to suppress a sense of achievement. So, she found him attractive too. Use that, his logical self told him.

  Her smile faded, and she turned away. “I wish our meeting were under happier circumstances,” she said. “Your effort has failed, and in the most sorrowful of ways. I understand that you fought not just with a devoted army, but with friends as well. We found among the fallen a fair-haired man, an Auroran female, and a teenage boy too young to really fight.” She turned eyes to him that glistened with compassionate tears.

  Anguish twisted his gut. Ben, Kalin, and Shan? All of them?

  “Your—beast?—has fled, along with the aged Hero he bore. I do not know how you managed to tame a dragon out of legend, nor where you found Garth, but as soon as it was clear which way the battle had turned, they both took to the sky and vanished. I do not think such creatures are capable of understanding true loyalty. Nor, it would seem, does a once-famous Hero.”

  Percy and Garth, too? The king clenched his jaw, hard. He didn’t want her to see how badly this had affected him. He wanted to say something dismissive, but he couldn’t speak.

  She reached and laid a gentle hand on his cheek. The perfume from her wrist wafted about him, and he closed his eyes. “We had to defend ourselves. I know you must understand that. But believe me, I grieve that the loss was so personal to you.”

  “I want to see them,” he said hoarsely. “The bodies of my friends.”

  The Empress looked even sadder. “It is our custom to burn the bodies of the fallen, both our own soldiers and those of our adversary.”

  “Burn?”

  “It is a way of honoring them,” she said, looking confused and retreating slightly, as if hurt. “There was no disrespect. To burn the bodies of your soldiers is to honor them as worthy foes—to give them the same courtesy we give our own fallen.”