Edge of Destiny (12 page)

His pursuer swung a stone claw that missed, then stepped in the long grass and tripped on the guardian aura. The destroyer overbalanced and crashed into the ditch.

A blue aura lit Logan’s hands and spread to encompass his hammer. The glow seemed to hoist him into the air, and he brought the weapon down in a massive overhead stroke. The blow struck the destroyer’s solar plexus and shattered it into five pieces.

“Let me get in on that!” Rytlock said, bounding over to land flat-footed on the creature’s spine. Rocks snapped, and lava welled up between the broken parts.

“Nice footwork,” Logan said, “but, of course, you’ve brought
yours
over here.”

Rytlock’s destroyer rushed the man, reaching for him, but Logan ducked beneath the grasping claw, spun on his heel, and hammered the beast’s thigh. More rocks snapped. The destroyer roared, stumbling toward Rytlock.

“Get out of the way!”

Rytlock jumped off the fallen destroyer as the other one crashed down on its back. “Better yet!” the charr enthused. He scooped water from the spring and flung it on them. The droplets struck and sizzled, solidifying magma. “How do you like that?”

“Nice,” Logan said, splashing both monsters.

“While you two mess around,” Caithe said, “I’ve had to keep this one occupied by myself.” She moved wraithlike, ducking beneath an arm, reeling back from another, and diving between its legs.

“Nice, as well,” Logan said.

Behind him, the two destroyers climbed up from the ditch.

“None of us can take a single destroyer,” Logan noted, “but maybe together, we can beat all three.”

Puffing a sweaty lock out of her eyes, Caithe said, “What’s the plan?”

“Well,” Logan said as he ducked a hundred-pound fist, “I seem best at defense.”

“Which means retreating,” Rytlock said as he kicked a destroyer in the chest. The monster reeled back unsteadily.

“And Rytlock seems best at being offensive,” Logan said.

“Hey!”

“Which leaves me,” Caithe added as she high-stepped away from her destroyer. “What’s my role?”

“You deliver the killing blow—like with the devourers.”

Rytlock landed a haymaker on one destroyer’s jaw—then shook out his claw. “These aren’t scorpions. They’re magma monsters. You can’t stab them in the tailbone.”

“Not the tailbone,” Caithe replied as a destroyer grabbed her and began to squeeze. “But magic has channels just like nerves. Weak points.” She thrust a dagger into the lava joint at the creature’s shoulder, twisted, and cracked the arm loose. It clattered to the ground as the destroyer staggered back and Caithe stepped away.

Meanwhile, the charr dodged behind a boulder, a lava creature in pursuit. “What’s the plan?”

“We take out one foe at a time,” Logan responded. “This one, for instance.” He was slowly backing away from a destroyer. “I draw one in”—Logan hooked his war hammer on the lowest limb of a nearby birch and yanked himself up, scrambling onto the branch. The destroyer grasped the tree, setting it alight—“then Rytlock attacks.”

The charr rushed up behind the destroyer and kicked its knee sideways, shattering it. The destroyer crashed to the ground.

Amid flaming branches, Logan shouted out, “And then Caithe delivers the kill.”

The sylvari bounded over to sink her stiletto into the back of the destroyer’s neck. She wrenched the blade in an arc, and the destroyer’s stony head rolled away. She drew out her stiletto and said, “Their necks are weak: all magma. Cuts like butter.”

The lava in the destroyer’s joints turned gray, and the solid bits decayed into separate stones.

“Pretty good,” Logan said.

“Damn good,” Rytlock said.

Caithe grinned at the other two. “Let’s do another.”

They turned and strode side by side toward the other two destroyers.

One roared, flecks of lava flying from its mouth. It charged.

Logan broke from the other two, charging as well.

The destroyer reached with massive hands toward him.

Logan slid beneath them and rammed his war hammer into the monster’s groin. He posted the butt of the haft in the ground, and the beast’s momentum carried it over the hammer. The destroyer hung in the air for a split second, then crashed face-first to the ground.

Rytlock followed on, leaping onto the monster’s back and marching double time. His claws shattered the stony skin, leaving the creature a pulpy mass. Lava oozed up, and Rytlock leaped free, patting out the flames on his dewclaws.

Caithe arrived, her white stiletto spearing the neck of the monster and twisting to rip loose the head. She kicked it away. “Too bad you can’t put these on a pike.”

“I was thinking rock garden,” Logan responded, watching the head roll down the green slope.

Rytlock joined them above the kill, which crackled and dissipated to dust.

The team turned toward the final destroyer.

It stood at the edge of the meadow beneath the tree its comrade had set alight. It planted its massive feet and lifted its brutal arms and roared with the voice of a volcano.

“Here goes.” Logan rushed it.

The destroyer’s hands dropped down.

Logan sprang over them. He bounded off one rock wrist and onto the creature’s shoulder.

It reached up to swat him.

Rytlock’s shoulder crashed into the destroyer’s stomach. Rytlock leaped free as the flaming minion toppled.

Caithe plunged her white stiletto into its neck and twisted, harvesting the monster’s head.

She stepped back. The ropy ends of neck cooled. The beast shuddered and segmented and settled on the ground. In moments, it was a pile of rubble and ash like the other two in the clearing . . . like thousands in the ruined city of the dwarves.

“We’re getting good at this,” Logan said with a laugh.

“Yeah.” Rytlock nodded breathlessly.

Caithe kicked the pile of smoldering stone. “Teamwork.”

The man, the charr, and the sylvari grinned at each other, then turned awkwardly away.

Rytlock looked around. “So, where do you think we are?”

Logan scanned the green glens and hardwood glades, the gentle hillsides sloping down toward golden plains. “It’s not Ascalon. Not since you lot moved in. I’d say Kryta. But we can’t know until the stars come out.”

“I’m hungry,” Rytlock groused, sitting down on a fallen tree.

“Yeah,” Logan agreed, plopping down as well. “Scorpion tail doesn’t stay with you.”

Caithe shook her head. “There may be some grubs for you two in that log. I’ll see what else I can find.” She drew her dagger and stalked off into the brush.

The charr and the man sat on the log, looking out at the green landscape. Long moments passed before either spoke.

Logan said, “This is crazy. We’re supposed to be killing each other.”

“I never do what I’m supposed to do.”

Logan huffed, “Me neither.”

Rytlock cocked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Taking a deep breath, Logan said, “I’ve got this big brother in Divinity’s Reach. He’s in the Seraph, for gods’ sake. Guarding the
queen,
even—”

“One of
those
brothers.”

“Yeah,” Logan said, pointing at him. “He wears armor that shines like a mirror . . . white everything . . . stands by the queen all day. I was supposed to follow him, but a white knight casts a long shadow.”

“Heh. You’re pretty far from that shadow.”

“Huh?”

“Mercenary scout for a supply caravan in the Blazeridges?” Rytlock said. “That’s about as far from your brother as you can get.”

Logan looked at his hands. “Guess so.” They sat awhile in silence before he asked, “You got any brothers?”

“About a dozen,” Rytlock said with a rueful laugh, “and a dozen sisters.”

“Big family.”

Rytlock shook his head. “Charr don’t have families. We have warbands. The bonds are even stronger.”

Logan’s eyes grew wide. “Was that them, back there? That funeral pyre?”

“Course not,” Rytlock snapped. “Those were Iron Legion. I’m Blood Legion.”

“You guys all look alike,” Logan said with a shrug. “So, where’s your warband?”

“Back east somewhere. I left them.”

That comment hung in the air between them. “Why?”

“My reasons are my own.”

Just then, Caithe returned, flopping a brace of dead rabbits down on a nearby rock. “All right, so, I hunted them. You cook them.”

“Sure,” Rytlock said, relieved to end the conversation. “I’m a good cook.”

Logan blasted a laugh. “Yeah, right! Charr cooking?”

“What’s wrong with charr cooking?”

“It’s right in the name!”

“Shut it,” Rytlock advised, “and don’t open it again until there’s roasted rabbit.”

Caithe brushed off her hands and sat beside Logan. They watched as the charr cracked burning branches from the birch and piled them into a campfire. He sharpened three other sticks into spits. Sticking a claw into each rabbit’s pelt, he ripped it away to reveal the meat. Then he slid the spits through the gutted rabbits and propped the skewers in the flames.

“So, you come from a grove?” Logan asked Caithe.

“
The
Grove,” Caithe corrected.

“A whole lot of trees.”

“The Pale Tree. I was born out of it. Out of a seedpod. I am one of the Firstborn.”

“Coming out of a tree—” Logan whistled. “Must be weird.”

Caithe’s brows canted. “And your method isn’t?”

They sat for a while, the scent of cooked rabbit coming to them on the air.

At last Logan ventured, “How come you left the Grove?”

“I knew everything there. I left to learn more.”

“Admirable.”

“What do you mean?”

Logan shrugged. “Lots of people stay right where they were born. They don’t want to know anything else. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with the world.”

Caithe shrugged. “I think Elder Dragons are a bigger problem.”

Logan laughed. “Yeah, I guess they are.”

Caithe looked deadly serious. “They
are.
We just fought the minions of one of them—Primordus. He was the first one to rise, and he’s still spreading his power through the deep places, like that dwarf city. But there are others. The Ice Dragon Jormag is taking over the northern mountains, and there’s another dragon in the black heart of Orr. Who knows how many more are rising.”

Logan nodded politely. “Not one for small talk, are you?”

Caithe’s eyes were wide and guileless. “Why talk small when there are such big things happening?”

“Perfectly done!” Rytlock announced as he lifted three smoking rabbits from the fire. “Black outside and pink within.”

Logan nodded as he dutifully received his meal, and Caithe did likewise.

Holding his own charred rabbit, Rytlock sat down on the log and began to eat. The charr’s eating habits—gnawing teeth and flying meat and grunts of satisfaction—at first put the other two off. But soon all three were feasting. The rabbit was delicious—a creature alive half an hour ago, slain unknowing, and roasted moments later.

As he bit into a haunch, Logan said, “I’d never guess you could cook.”

Rytlock wiped grease from his chin. “You’d be amazed what I can do.”

The comrades ate in silence as the sky deepened to dusk.

“Kryta,” Logan said at last, staring upward.

Rytlock glanced at him over the picked skeletons. “What?”

“That’s where we are. That constellation overhead puts us two days’ march west of Lion’s Arch.”

The charr’s face darkened. “Long way from Ascalon.”

Logan smiled. “Come on. You’ll
like
Lion’s Arch. Everybody there’s from somewhere else.”

“Whatever,” Rytlock said. “Surely they’ll have a gate back to the Black Citadel.”

Nodding, Logan glanced at the stone scabbard hanging from Rytlock’s belt. “You can go through such a gate, but you’re not taking Rurik’s sword.”

Rytlock barked a laugh. “I’d like to see you stop me.”

IN THE COLD

E
ir ran up to Big Snaff and Big Zojja and pounded their metal hides. Whether because of the blows or the aura of her gray powerstones, the two golems jolted, and the otherworldly light left their eyes.

“Where are we?” came Snaff’s tinny voice.

“You’re in battle with the Dragonspawn,” spat Eir. “Wake up!”

Big Zojja shivered. “Point me at him. I’ll get him.”

They were back, in control. Their eyes no longer glowed with the blue-white aura of the Dragonspawn. Eir turned toward their foe.

The Dragonspawn stood with hands outflung, eyes gushing wrath on Garm.

“No!”

The dire wolf stood enveloped in blue-white energy. Power sluiced past his gaping jaws and coursed over his hackles. It sought entry. It probed for a chink that would let its icy talons reach into his heart, into his mind. But there was no such chink.

Garm had only one alpha, now and forever.

“This is our chance!” Eir shouted to the Bigs. “Let’s go!”

Eir stepped out from behind her dire wolf into the full brunt of the boreal blast. More frost etched across her armor, but she strode toward the Dragonspawn and broke into a run.

Garm did, too, alongside her.

Big Snaff and Big Zojja joined the charge.