The Edge of the World

by Steven Lochran

  Flocks of wild dodos waddled throughout the chaos, hopping up onto windowsills and generally getting underfoot. The locals looked to have made the most of the infestation, however, with dozens of stallholders offering roasted dodo alongside the obligatory seafood dishes. One man was ripping into a barbecued drumstick, the juices running down his beard as he sidestepped a group of young children. The kids were entertaining themselves with a game of hop ’n’ skip, keeping time by chanting the Sevenday rhyme:

  ‘On Kingsday morn we give praise, then rest,

  Regentsday follows at the king’s behest.

  On Tallyday we pay our dues,

  On Witnessday we break bread and share our news.

  Harvestday comes with fields to be worked,

  While on Fairday morning there’s buyers to serve.

  Messengersday arrives ahead of the king,

  Then Kingsday dawns to start the week again.’

  Joss’s mind flashed to all the times he’d heard those words chiming from the Orphan House’s yard. And now here he was standing in the Northern Tundra, not only having completed the first round of training to become a paladero but also with the Champion’s Blade strapped to his side. Not bad for an orphan boy from Daheed.

  The children kept repeating the rhyme as the prentices loaded out of the wagon and waved goodbye to their driver. Traversing the muck and mire of Stormport, they queued for the costly service elevators, where they piled their modest assortment of luggage onto Pietro’s back. The tundra bear was sent down in the elevator by himself, which was all Joss and his brethren could afford. Then it was off to the nearest stairwell to begin the long climb down on foot.

  ‘What a view!’ Edgar said as they stared out from the cliff’s edge at the expanse beyond. Joss had to agree. The sky was a raw blue, the ocean a richer and more royal shade. Both stretched on as far as the eye could see, interrupted only by ribbons of white cloud and the curl of foamy waves.

  Ships, numbering in their dozens, bounced and bobbed and fought their way to shore, where Joss could see a trio of plesiosaur carcasses with deep holes cut into their flesh. People dressed in linen nightshirts lined up beside each of the rotting bodies, and handed wads of cash to a squat man in a tattered coat who led them, one by one, towards the beasts’ bellies.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Joss asked, pointing out the sight to the others.

  Drake squinted down at it as he explained, ‘Oh. That. The heat and gas from putrefying plesiosaur flesh is meant to be good for treating rheumatism. So those vendors buy a few of the slaughtered carcasses from the trawlers and then they charge people to bathe in the liquefied blubber.’

  ‘Bathe in the what?’ Joss asked, watching in horror as the customers jumped into the fleshy cavities to swim around in the putrid goo. Joss turned from the spectacle and tried not to gag.

  The folk of Stormport certainly hadn’t been engaging in anything like that the last time he and his brethren had been here. But then, that visit had been remarkably brief, with the hostages they’d rescued so desperate to get back home to their families it had left little time for much else.

  In fact, for all their gratitude, the rescued townsfolk had scattered so quickly that there’d been nobody left to speak to the authorities about the circumstances of their return. That had left only Joss, Hero, Drake and Edgar. And their stories of discovering the lost city of Daheed and defeating a mystical death cult had been quickly dismissed as the exaggerations of boastful youths.

  It had been dispiriting to say the least, especially when word of their story had spread to Starlight Fields, only to be gossiped about and derided by the other prentices and fieldservs. Still seething from the injustice of it all and overwhelmed by the growing stink of rotting plesiosaur, Joss kept his eyes rooted on the narrow steps of Stormport as he descended them with his brethren. The scaffolded gangways were packed, with Joss and the others having to push their way through throngs of people dressed in cheap oilskins and knee-high boots, either prepared for a stormy voyage or having just returned from one.

  Eventually the three prentices and their young steward stepped clear of the last of the spiralling staircases to stroll Stormport’s boardwalks on the way to their ship. While Drake ventured off to collect Pietro from the elevator hub, Edgar excused himself to visit the postmaster’s office and collect the tickets for their voyage. That left Joss and Hero alone to fill the silence between them.

  ‘So. Blade’s Edge Acres …’ Joss said, searching for something to discuss.

  ‘Yes,’ Hero replied, and said nothing more.

  Joss tried again. ‘Been a while since you were last there.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Looking forward to going home?’

  Hero rolled a stiff shoulder. ‘Hard to say,’ she replied. But then she jutted forward, as if pushing herself to add, ‘I’m nervous, truth be told. I don’t want to mess this up. Not where it matters most.’

  Surprised by her candid response, Joss was unsure of how to respond. ‘You’re far too accomplished for that to happen,’ he said after a moment. The faintest of smiles fluttered across Hero’s face, leaving Joss satisfied that he’d managed to say something of value to her. But that satisfaction was quickly quelled as a hulking figure lurched at Joss from the crowd.

  ‘You!’ the figure thundered. He was dressed in mammoth furs and a low-hanging hood, with a black visor that obscured his face. Joss’s hand went straight for his sword. The figure didn’t stop. Instead, he proffered a sack full of masks identical to the one he was wearing. ‘You’ll need a blizzard visor if you’re planning to navigate the Northern Tundra. I can give you the fairest price in Stormport!’

  The Champion’s Blade was halfway out of its scabbard. Joss sheathed it again, though he maintained his grip on the handle. ‘I’m shipping out, actually.’

  The hooded man was not so easily dissuaded. ‘Souvenir of your time here, then. Gift for a loved one.’

  ‘Not interested,’ Hero told him. ‘Move along.’

  With a grunt of annoyance, the hooded man continued down the boardwalk in a quest for his next customer.

  ‘Thanks,’ Joss said to Hero.

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ she replied. Only when she looked away did Joss let go of his sword, fearing that she might see how much his hand was shaking. He felt foolish at having been so easily unsettled – though in his defence, he didn’t have the best history with hooded men in masks. The spectres that haunted Edgar at night held the same menace for Joss, leaving him wide awake with visions of Thrall floating before him.

  It was no coincidence that he had again encountered the stone-masked sorcerer in Daheed – at least, Joss assumed him to be a sorcerer. How else could he have shifted between shadows, moving from one place to another completely untethered by earthly bounds? What other explanation was there for his hypnotic gaze, his supernatural abilities?

  But for all that power, Thrall had still met his gruesome end in the depths of Daheed’s underground harbour, preventing him from summoning his so-called Shadow God. Or so Joss hoped. Could other fanatics be out there somewhere, determined to succeed where Thrall had failed? Would they be willing to go to the same murderous lengths to achieve that purpose, sacrificing innocent lives to spur on their mysterious master’s arrival?

  Chewing his cheek, Joss wondered how much stock he should put in the ravings of madmen. On one of the few afternoons he’d found himself with free time, he’d sought out the library at Starlight Fields in an attempt to research Thrall’s Shadow God, or ‘His Highness’ as the masked man had called it. But the mere handful of books and incomplete encyclopaedia collection made no reference to any such being, nor any cult that worshipped it.

  In desperation, Joss had flipped through the library’s old leather-bound edition of the Holy Somnium, the Sleeping King’s own sacred text. But all he could find within its pillowy white pages were descriptions of Shoda’s Pits, the nightmarish abyss of eternal punishment that awaited the wicked i
n the afterlife. No rituals. No Shadow God. Nothing.

  So Joss had tried his best to put it all out of his mind and focus instead on his duties. And he mostly succeeded. But then, in the odd moment of quiet reflection, he would hear the chant that Ichor and his followers had repeated over and over again, the words echoing in Joss’s head the same way they had echoed through the ruined streets of Daheed.

  Darkness take us all.

  He shivered.

  ‘I have the tickets!’ Edgar announced as he reappeared with a stack of papers in hand.

  ‘All that just for four people and a tundra bear?’ Hero asked, while Drake approached with Pietro in tow.

  ‘Ha, no. It turns out the postmaster’s office got their tails in a bit of a tangle. All of our mail’s been getting held here instead of being sent out to us.’

  ‘What?!’ Hero exclaimed.

  Drake scrunched up his face. ‘I thought it was strange that we hadn’t heard from anyone,’ he said.

  ‘Here are yours, ma’am,’ Edgar said, handing Hero her mail. Drake was next, with what looked like a letter from his sister for every day he’d been away, while the largest collection of mail was addressed to Edgar himself. ‘My folks,’ he explained, his blush darkening to a shade of mauve that Joss didn’t think could occur in nature. ‘And this one’s for you, Joss. Lovely paper on that.’

  Edgar wasn’t wrong. The envelope was as thick and stately as an aristocrat’s wedding invitation, and Joss received it with surprise. After all, the only people he could think of who might write him a letter were gathered around him. That surprise intensified into astounded disbelief as he turned the envelope over and saw the wax seal fastening it shut.

  ‘We should make a move. The barge will be leaving soon,’ Drake said, shaking Joss from his stupor. Before anyone could ask him who the letter was from, he stuffed it inside his coat, where the parchment sat as heavy as a helmet discarded in quicksand.

  Hero peeled through her stack of letters as they trekked towards the docks, where the Byfrost barge awaited them. They were halfway up the gangplank when they heard the strangest noise. It wasn’t a shriek, or a yelp, or a sob, but something that sat uncomfortably between all three. And even stranger than that was its source.

  Joss, Drake and Edgar all looked at Hero. She was staring in disbelief at the paper in her hand, her mouth still hanging open.

  ‘Hero? What’s wrong?’ Drake asked, concern bubbling over.

  ‘It’s Lord Haven. The leader of my order,’ she said, looking up from the letter. ‘He … he’s dead!’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AN UNREACHABLE SHORE

  THICK black smoke was curling up to the heavens from the battlements of Blade’s Edge Acres, high atop the mountain Joss and his brethren were ascending. As she stared at the twisting plume in the distance, Hero’s feelings were plain to see despite the dark goggles hiding her eyes.

  ‘The funeral ...’ she noted with numbed sadness. ‘We missed it.’ Crumpling in her saddle, she didn’t seem to notice as Drake leaned over and extended his arm, finding her just out of reach.

  ‘I’m sorry, Hero,’ he said, drawing back. ‘I know he meant a lot to you.’

  ‘More than a lot,’ Hero replied. ‘I was his prentice.’

  A look of surprise circled between Joss, Drake and Edgar. This was news to all of them, and significant to say the least. It was rare for a paladero lord to take a prentice, as they were usually far too busy running their order. Only the most promising candidates were considered for such a position, which was often seen as the first step in the prentice one day becoming a lord in their own right. Joss was a Prentice of First Merit to Sur Verity, an apex-ranked paladero, but that paled in comparison to Hero’s role. And this was the first time she had mentioned anything about it.

  ‘Then let’s not delay any further,’ Drake said, prompting everyone to push onward up the mountain track. ‘We may have missed the funeral service, but we can still attend the wake.’

  Overhead, a whole wing of skyborne paladeros flew past in a sunburst formation as a sign of honour and respect to their fallen lord. Despite the fatigue of their voyage and the solemnity of the situation, Joss couldn’t help admiring the sight. The skyborne flew with such grace and precision that it would put even a phoenix of the Eastern Wilds to shame. He watched with rapt fascination, imagining the thrill of flying alongside them.

  Ordinarily, the handful of paladero orders located outside of Thunder Realm were viewed as somehow inferior to their cousins in the heartland. But the skyborne rose above that bias to hold a special place of esteem in the paladero ranks. Perhaps it had to do with the rigorous training they put their prentices through, starting them out by having them scale mountainsides atop sabretooth tigers before allowing them to progress to their mount of choice; the pterosaur.

  The skyborne had bred the lizard-birds for countless generations. Originally it had been for the purposes of aerial combat with rival paladero orders, but over time those intentions had shifted. Now the pterosaurs were used purely for riding and scouting, in addition to being a sought-after status symbol for the Kingdom of Ai’s wealthier denizens. Not to mention the eggs and meat that the smaller breeds offered.

  But fewer and fewer prentices had the opportunity to train with pterosaurs these days, with even fewer paladeros going on to qualify as full-fledged skyborne. Having Hero in their ranks meant Joss and Drake had gained an invitation to her order for training, with the added good fortune of skipping the sabretooth lessons to take immediately to the skies. How Lord Haven’s unexpected demise might affect those plans, however, Joss couldn’t say.

  Would the turmoil at Blade’s Edge Acres mean that he and his brethren would be grounded for the foreseeable future? He wanted to ask Drake for his opinion on the matter, to see whether he was worried as well. But speculating on it too much left Joss with a pang of guilt for considering his own self-interest over Hero’s grief. The last thing she’d be contemplating right now would be who was going to train them all.

  Not that her feelings were the only ones to take into account. As if sensing Joss’s focus on the pterosaurs, his mount, Azof, bucked his head, the feathers on his skull bristling.

  ‘Easy now, boy,’ Joss said, smoothing the feathers down. ‘Easy.’

  He and Azof had been separated for a full season while Joss had been across the Silver Sea, training in a place too cold for his raptor to join him. He’d missed the cranky creature every day they’d been apart, though their reunion at Crescent Cove stables hadn’t been as joyful as Joss had envisioned it; not only because of the sombre circumstances, but also due to the fast pace they set as they made their way to the mainland.

  The boat ride back from the Northern Tundra had been a tense and mostly silent voyage. Neither Joss nor Edgar had known what to say or do while Hero paced the ship, grief-stricken and desperate to get home. It was only Drake who had any luck in reaching her, ensuring that she ate and slept.

  The journey should have given Joss time to sit and read his letter. But the mere prospect of opening the envelope overwhelmed him, let alone having to deal with the lies and anger and accusations it would no doubt contain. So instead he stuffed the letter into his bag and occupied himself watching pods of plesiosaurs and schools of ichthyosaurs swimming alongside the ship, or playing cards with Edgar. He’d almost tricked himself into thinking he was on some leisurely cruise – until they’d pulled into harbour and begun their frenzied ride to the northern reach of the Backbone Ranges, driven by Hero’s all-consuming need to get there as soon as possible.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Drake had reassured her. ‘We’ll make it.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ she’d told him. Even Callie, Hero’s sabretooth tiger, was having trouble raising her owner’s spirits. Joss had noticed the giant cat offering Hero more and more nuzzles of affection, but Hero seemed oblivious to them as she focused only on the road ahead. Now here they were on the winding mountain trail that led to Blade’s Edge Acre
s and she was more distant than ever, her heartache an emergency beacon transmitting from an unreachable shore.

  The jagged mountain range was cloaked in a rich blanket of frosted fir trees. The prentices rode across suspension bridges that traversed mist-flooded chasms, passing waterfalls so clear they better resembled great glass curtains, the menacing roar of the falls met in turn by the brooding silence of the forest.

  Here, hidden among the vivid green foliage, Joss spotted a statue of a holy Messenger that was caked with moss and lichen and worn soft by age. The figure held a lantern in one hand and a sealed scroll in the other, its hood drawn to make a mystery of its face, its cloak splayed like a pair of wings. It seemed to be hovering on its tiptoes, barely connected to its pedestal, keeping watch over the forest and all those who passed through it.

  The statue turned out to be the first of many, the Messengers discreetly appearing between bushes and branches until they numbered in the dozens. Some of the statues looked to be decades if not centuries old, while others appeared to have been deposited in the middle of the forest mere weeks ago. Though the research he’d done at Starlight Fields had been limited, Joss had read enough to know that this was a tradition often carried out in superstitious rural communities. The statues were meant to act as wards against evil spirits; the more statues, the stronger the defence. And Joss had lost count of the number of statues here.

  What could have happened to have scared the locals so much? he wondered.

  He didn’t have to wait long to find his answer.

  Rounding a bend in the road, the prentices came to a small glade that gave them their first unobstructed view of Blade’s Edge Acres high atop the summit. Much like Stormport, the fortress had been built on the edge of a cliff. Its smooth limestone walls merged seamlessly with the rock face, making it appear as one natural formation. But to focus on the fortress alone was to ignore the gruesome sight on the other side of the glade.

  The wild grass surrounding the pterosaur’s body was brown with dried blood. Flies swarmed around it, black and buzzing. It was hard to tell from this distance, but the body didn’t appear to have been eaten. Its skin had been stripped completely clean, and the wet, raw flesh left behind was already beginning to rot. The prentices drew to a stunned stop, cupping their faces to block out the smell.