The Edge of Nothing
The Lex Chronicles, Book 1
A Legends of Arameth Novel
Crystal Crawford
©2018 Crystal Crawford. All rights reserved.
Please do not copy, reprint, or otherwise reuse any portion of this work without express permission from the author.
Edited by Christy Freeman
Cover design by Jason Crawford/Fierce, Inc.
To the one who dreams bigger than I ever could
and to Jason,
for believing in me enough to defend the time and space I needed to write.
They said no man could ever cross the Aracthea and survive.
The desert Aracthea, with its barren sands hot enough to melt the soles off a man’s feet.
Aracthea, with its mile-long stretch of searing rock, the bubbling pits of lava surrounded by a sea of sand. Aracthea, the wasteland.
They called it Death’s Snare.
There was a story once, long ago, that mothers told their children, about a man so brave and so full of hope that he crossed the Aracthea barefoot in one day.
One night, one particular mother told this story to her son for the very first time.
“How could hope keep a man’s skin from melting?” the son asked.
“It didn’t,” the mother said. “The man crossed the Aracthea, but when he reached the other side, his feet were melted away and his legs were blackened stubs. Yet he didn’t care, because what awaited him on the other side was all that mattered to him.”
“What was waiting for him there?” the boy asked.
“Victory,” said his mother, “and then death.”
– Fable of Raith’il
Recorded in Book of the Ancients,
Arayear 5 p.A.;
Original reported missing from Arcalon Hall of Records,
Arayear 52 p.A.;
Copied to Arcalon Archives via Historian Memory Consensus,
Arayear 53 p.A.
PROLOGUE
The rider leaned forward, legs tense against his horse's sides as her hooves tore through the desert. He had been riding for days, though he could no longer remember why. Sand caked his short beard, making him ache for a shave. He shook his head and more sand sifted down from his hair. Sand coated his eyelids, his lips, even the inside of his mouth. He rode bareback, holding onto the horse’s mane. His horse's white coat was darkened with sand, and more flew up around them with every step. He clenched his jaw, feeling sand crunch between his teeth, and turned his head to spit. No spit would come; his mouth was completely dry. He leaned forward, urging his horse to go faster.
The horse stumbled beneath him and he murmured to her, but she had already regained her footing. He wished he could let her stop and rest, but they were almost out of time… he just couldn’t remember for what. They could not afford to slow down, that much he knew, but the reason danced just out of grasp. What had brought them to this wasteland? He could not remember, but he knew they must keep going. No matter what happened, they must not stop. The horse seemed to read this thought, surging forward to make up for the few seconds she lost when she faltered.
In the back of his mind, a memory whispered – The Fallows – a stretch of barren desert that took three days to cross at its narrowest point, even by the fastest horse and rider. And that was if the rider’s luck held, if he missed the sand pits that caved in without warning, and the vipers, and the mirages that lured men to slow deaths in the burning sun. This information came to him from a distance, like remnants of an oft-told bedtime story. Even remembering that much felt like drawing up a heavy pail from a deep well; the memories resisted lifting. The details of the past few days refused to rise at all, slipping away even as he tried to grasp them, but he couldn't shake the feeling that as they raced across The Fallows, death was only a step behind.
The sun sank down, first slowly then quickening. The air took on a chill. Still they rode. They were out of water, out of food, parched and sunburned and on the brink of collapse. His horse’s breaths grew ragged, and the heat from her body rose up to him through her skin, surrounding him in a hot, dry cloud. They had both ceased sweating long ago. Deep in his mind he knew that was a bad sign – there was no fluid left in them. He lifted a calloused hand from the horse’s mane and reached to pat her neck. He and the horse had a deep history. He could not remember it, but the memories were not as important as the knowing of it. He could read her like an old friend, and he could tell she was weakening, the last of her energy draining into the sand beneath them. Her gallop became strained, hooves laboring in the sand. He tensed his knees and leaned forward, placing a hand on her hot skin, feeling his heat mix with hers. Only a little further, Mare, he thought, noticing that he had somehow remembered her name, though nothing else. Her faltering gait grew a little steadier under his touch. He shifted, steadying himself with his knees to stroke her neck again. His hand was inches from her sand-crusted coat when something caught his eye in the distance. There was a line of black ahead, as if someone had drawn across the desert with black chalk. He raised his free hand to shade his eyes from the last rays of the setting sun. It wasn’t a black line; it was a row of trees – the edge of a forest, growing closer by the moment. Wherever it was they were going, they were almost there.
The world tilted then righted itself again, and he was staring at a girl. The desert was gone, his horse was gone; there was nothing but grass and trees and sky and the girl… and him. The world had gone still. He ran one hand across his face, feeling the chafe of days-old stubble. He spoke and his voice scraped like flint; the words dissolved into the air before he could place them. The girl was not looking at him but past him, at something beyond. Wisps of blonde hair rested on either side of her eyes, framing them. Recognition hit him, along with a wave of longing. I know her, he thought. Excitement sang in his veins. He could not remember who she was, but he knew she mattered. He reached for her. Her eyes snapped toward him and widened in surprise. Her lips parted, as though about to speak–
She vanished. The world went black. He was falling into nothingness.
He had a flash of awareness – he was dreaming. Again. It was not the first time he’d had these dreams. These same scenes, the horse and rider, the girl – they haunted him, pulling him in and then tossing him back out before he ever discovered their meaning.
He was slipping toward wakefulness when he realized he didn't remember anything of his waking life, either. Panic rushed in at him and he flailed in the darkness, afraid he was falling into yet another dream, uncertain what was real. Something in him stirred, a memory, then slid away. In its wake was a surge of familiarity: he had done this before. His fall accelerated and in the darkness a presence neared, a surface rising up to meet him as he hurtled downward. He steeled himself, preparing for impact.
CHAPTER 1
2017
Lex
Lex groaned, stirring in his chair. Pain spread through his body, greeting him as he blinked his eyes open. Even his eyelids hurt.
“Look who’s awake,” a voice spat.
Lex blinked again, struggling to focus his blurry vision. Sour breath filled his nostrils as the man towering over him leaned down, inches from Lex’s face.
“Not so fierce now, are you?” the man sneered.
Lex began to push the man out of his face, only to realize his arms were bound behind him. No wonder his shoulders hurt, his arms and legs were both tied tight to the chair. How long have I been sitting like this? he wondered. “Where am I?” he asked, surprised by how rough his own voice sounded.
The man circled Lex�
�s chair, taking him in. “You don’t look so tough. You don’t look much more than a boy.” He shoved Lex’s head, and the chair tipped precariously before righting itself back onto the packed-dirt floor with a thud. Lex felt the back of the chair give under the impact. “How old are you, eighteen? Stupid kid.”
Seventeen, Lex felt his mind respond. Now that he was waking up more, anxiety crept in. He had no memory of how he got here, of this man, of any of it. Even trying to think of his own life, he was coming up blank, a realization he shoved down so as not to panic. He knew his age, at least; he hadn’t lost all his memories. But his frustration grew as he strained to remember more with no success. His memories, whatever they were, felt trapped behind a barrier.
Lex eyed the man. He was large and muscled, and the tanned skin on his face and neck looked tough as leather. He wore dark brown trousers, boots, and a dingy tunic – work clothes. His face was faintly lined with the early creases of age, laugh lines edging his eyes. Lex couldn’t imagine this man laughing. He was scowling, fuming, his raw, jagged energy chafing the air.
Seeing Lex study him, the man crossed his arms over his chest, revealing forearms covered in thick, reddish hair that matched the curly tuft atop his head. The man looked like he could rip a tree up from the roots and barely break a sweat.
Lex glanced down at his own body. The dirty tunic and plain brown trousers he wore hung upon lines of taut muscle. He was strong, too, but in the lean way of a wolf – nothing that could match the bear-strength of the man before him. Lex’s muscles instinctively tensed beneath his restraints, but trying to fight this man was a bad idea. Besides, being tied to a chair would hardly make it a fair struggle. Lex considered asking the man how he had gotten there, but since the man seemed likely to murder him at the slightest provocation, Lex swallowed his questions and remained silent – for now.
He chanced a look around at the space as the man circled again, passing behind him. They were in a small room with a dirt floor, wood-panel walls that leaked thin strips of light, no windows, and one door. Metal tools like those used for farming hung from large, wooden pegs on one wall. A storage shed, Lex thought. A lantern swayed from a hook on the ceiling above them, its dim light shifting the shadows from wall to wall as it swung. A wheelbarrow filled with something dark sat in one corner, but the rest of the space looked empty, except for the man and Lex’s chair.
Lex strained his mind, trying again to place the sequence of events that brought him there. His thoughts felt disjointed, flashes of color and emotion. He couldn’t focus them into anything that made sense. I must have been hit on the head, he thought, but the concern that elicited was swallowed by a more immediate threat. There were footsteps and voices outside the door.
The man moved back in front of Lex. “Now the real fun starts,” he said, and his smile sent a chill down Lex’s spine.
The door slammed open and sunlight poured into the room, along with a half-dozen men. Farmers, Lex realized. They wore work trousers and boots caked with mud, and even in the dim room, Lex could see they were all tanned and muscled from labor in the sun. They were the type of people Lex might think of as decent, working folk, if they weren't studying him like a pack of hyenas who spotted prey. They hung back, making a loose semi-circle in front of the open door. Other than the man who had shoved Lex earlier, none of them seemed to want to get close to him. Maybe they didn’t see him as prey, Lex thought; maybe he was a caged predator.
Fear surged through Lex again as he realized he truly didn’t know why he was here, or even whether he was the victim or a perpetrator. Had he done something to anger these people? He couldn’t remember anything before waking up in this room. His memories were only glimpses, flashing and fading so quickly he couldn’t make them out. He tried to focus the memories, to seize one of them, but they slipped away as though he were trying to grasp oil. Panic swelled within him. He could remember nothing about his past, other than an awareness of his name and the general sense he felt about himself. He didn’t think he would have hurt anyone or done anything to justify being trapped here, but how could he say for sure if he didn’t even know who he was? That thought scared him more than the crowd of men staring him down, but he swallowed his fear and forced himself to meet their eyes.
Most of the men looked to be between their thirties and fifties in age, and their faces displayed varying degrees of uncertainty, fear, and anger. The man who shoved Lex stood in the front of the group, surlier than the rest. In the back stood a teenage boy, dirty and tanned like the rest but without their accumulation of muscle. The boy avoided looking at Lex, hiding behind the cluster of men. One other man stood off to the side, different than the rest. He was clean, well-shaven, and meticulously dressed in fine trousers and a spotless, white tunic. A startling shock of thick, black hair topped his narrow head, combed neatly to one side. His boots looked barely walked in, and his face betrayed no emotion beyond a slight air of skepticism.
Lex decided the man in the clean tunic must be in charge. The eyes of all the others kept sneaking glances in his direction, as though waiting for him to make the first move; he controlled the group with the nonchalant presence of someone who felt confident enough in his authority to have no need of asserting it.
Lex cleared his throat, and some of the men shifted nervously. He focused his eyes on the man with the black hair. “Why am I here?” Lex asked, taking care this time to control his voice so it wouldn’t sound weak or frightened.
Surprise sparked in the man’s eyes at Lex’s decision to address him over any of the others, but he said nothing. He looked back at Lex silently, studying him.
The man who had shoved Lex earlier stepped forward. “You know why you’re here, you filth.”
Whatever Lex had done, it was clearly very bad. Unless he was innocent. It was unsettling not knowing for sure. Lex was beginning to worry, but something inside of him stirred, a steel-smooth whisper like a sword blade unsheathing. You’ve gotten out of worse than this, it purred. You have this under control. Lex let its calm confidence spread through him, warming the chill of his fear. He focused his eyes on the man before him. “No, I don’t,” he said. “Why don’t you explain it to me?”
The crack of the man’s hand against Lex’s mouth rang through the air. Lex shook his head, his vision blurring. Warm liquid filled his mouth and he turned his head, spitting on the dirt beneath him. Blood.
The man raised a hand to strike again.
“Enough,” a voice cut through the room.
Lex spat once more and lifted his face toward the sound.
The rest of the group shuffled aside as the man with the black hair strode forward. He knelt, narrowing his eyes as he studied Lex’s face.
Lex returned his stare.
“You really don’t remember, do you?” the man whispered, low enough that Lex wasn’t sure anyone else heard him.
The man stood and turned back to the rest of the group. “This is a waste of time,” he said, with the finality of a verdict.
The other men fidgeted, scuffed their feet, ran hands through their hair, scratched their faces. No one met the black-haired man’s eyes. The man who had struck Lex sank back into the crowd as though trying to melt away.
Lex glanced between the group and the black-haired man. As he tried to puzzle out exactly what this all meant, the teenage boy slipped out from behind the group and stared at him, his face a mask of awe. Lex met the boy’s eyes, trying to decipher his expression.
A large, calloused hand shot out from the group and grabbed the boy by the neck, yanking him behind the other men. The farmer who had grabbed the boy turned backward. “Stay out of this,” he grunted, shaking the boy before releasing him.
“But he looks just like him,” the boy whispered, his voice rising to near-panic. “Don’t you see it?”
The other men in the group shuffled, still under scrutiny of the black-haired man’s stare.
“Hush, boy,” growled the farmer, shoving
the boy behind him.
The black-haired man’s gaze swept over the group again and they stiffened.
“Go,” the black-haired man said, and the men and boy rushed out through the open door as though the building had caught fire.
When the sound of their fleeing footsteps died down, the black-haired man turned back to Lex. “Now,” he drawled, “what do we do about you?” He stepped back and worried his lip with his teeth, studying Lex as though he were an interesting problem.
Lex opened his mouth to ask what in the world was going on, but a boom from outside interrupted him, rattling the walls of the shed.
The black-haired man snapped his head up, his nose pointing toward the ceiling like a dog sniffing the air. He spun and walked out the door.
Lex waited a few breaths, expecting the man to return. When he didn’t, Lex realized this was his chance. Lex had felt the back of his chair splinter when the farmer shoved him, so now he threw his weight from side to side, rocking the chair until it tipped. Lex slammed sideways into the floor. Pain shot through his ribs but he ignored it, jerking his shoulders forward against the weakened chair. The wood cracked free of the base and Lex slipped out, stumbling to his feet as the ropes fell from his arms and torso. His fingers fumbled on the knots that held his feet to the chair’s legs but they weren’t well-tied – apparently these farmers were not experts in the business of kidnapping and restraint – and he was free in a matter of moments. He rushed to the wall of the shed, flattening himself against it, and peered out through the open doorway.
The door opened onto a small village, an assortment of wood-frame shops and houses connected by foot-worn pathways. Beyond the small cluster of buildings lay farmland, a patchwork of crop rows and grassy meadows. The village was set in a valley, the farmland sloping up and outward around it. Steep rises of forest rimmed the area in the distance, boxing in the valley on all four sides. Nothing was visible beyond the trees.
The Edge of Nothing_The Lex Chronicles_Book 1 Page 1
