Edge of Destiny (18 page)

“We need a chirurgeon!”

Logan got his chirurgeon—and a new plate-mail breastplate, an upgrade from his leather. Rytlock got his glory and his thundershrimp. Caithe got her name spoken on ten thousand lips: the woman who fought with the frenzy of a whirlwind.

They paid four hundred more silver toward their billet. “How much does that leave?” Rytlock asked Sangjo.

“Four hundred ninety-three gold,” the man said with a serene smile.

Rytlock cocked his head. “Looks like we’ll be fighting a lot.”

“Looks like it.”

The next day, they fought a band of charr. Rytlock was reluctant at first, until one of the charr walloped him in the head with a mallet. A quick healing touch from Logan revived him, and Rytlock was all business from then on. Logan acquitted himself well against them also, and Caithe discovered that charr could be monstrously strong but have numerous “weak points.”

As Edge of Steel stood together atop the fallen charr, Caithe said to Rytlock, “No one has ever reported that charr are ticklish.”

Rytlock nodded. “Ticklers do not live to report it.”

The next day, they fought a band of six humans. It was Logan’s turn to feel chagrined, triumphant over his own people. But it was as Caithe had said—they all had the same strengths and weaknesses. Only groups of mixed races and abilities had any hope of succeeding in the arena.

For two weeks, Edge of Steel went undefeated. Their wealth grew, and their fame with it. They moved further and further into the lineup, clearing away opponents before them. Humans, sylvari, asura, charr, and even mixed groups of all these. None could stand before Edge of Steel.

After two weeks came a second exhibition match, which Sangjo described as “an epic battle against a secret foe for the delight of a special personage.”

“What do you think we’re going to fight?” Logan asked Rytlock as they trotted out onto the sands, to the cheers of the crowd.

Rytlock humphed. “Who knows? Maybe a pack of skritt. Maybe a herd of centaurs. Could even be an oakheart for all I know.”

“At least an oakheart is flammable,” put in Caithe.

The announcer called from his tower, “And before we announce the foe this afternoon, all rise in honor of our special guest—all the way from our ally Kryta, the most noble, most high, Queen Jennah!”

The stands erupted with cheers, and trumpeters along the upper courses played a fanfare that echoed beneath the wooden dome.

“Queen Jennah!” Logan whispered, looking up into the stands.

At the top, a pair of double doors opened, and white-garbed Seraph marched through. They descended the stairs with precision, unrolling a red carpet and tucking it securely onto each step.

Then the queen herself appeared, and mesmer magic projected her image out to hang above the center of the arena.

Logan turned toward that image.

Queen Jennah was young, powerful, regal—garbed in a white gown and wearing the mantle of Divinity’s Reach across her shoulders. She had dark hair, tan skin, and riveting brown eyes.

“She’s beautiful,” Logan murmured.

The huge image that hovered above the sands spoke to everyone gathered there: “Thank you, good people of Lion’s Arch. Thank you for this welcome to your beautiful city! Once you were a part of our homeland, and always you will be part of our hearts.”

Cheers answered her speech.

“Today, before Commodore Marriner and the Ship’s Council, I have confirmed Kryta’s commitment to work with Lion’s Arch for the good of Tyria’s free races. Together, our people and yours declare an alliance. We will help you fight the Orrian undead, who threaten your shipping lanes, and you will help us fight the centaurs that raid our villages.”

Applause filled the arena, and the image of Jennah smiled beautifully.

“She’s wonderful,” Logan sighed.

“I asked your excellent Ship’s Council what great entertainment I must not miss in my brief stay, and they all turned as one to Captain Magnus the Bloody Handed, proprietor of this great establishment”—gleeful cheers interrupted her—“and he brought me here! And so, to all who do battle here today, I wish success and health and wealth!”

“All who do battle?” Logan stepped back breathlessly. “That’s me!”

As Queen Jennah’s mesmeric presence faded from the center of the arena, the stadium applauded her one last time. Waving to the crowd, she slowly descended the stairs, flanked by her bodyguards. Seraph bowed to her, one by one, as she passed.

Logan drifted toward her across the sands.

“Where are you going?” Rytlock barked.

“My queen,” Logan muttered, his steps growing more sure.

Queen Jennah entered a private platform, with guards ranked in white all around her. She had other attendants, too—blue-robed men and women in courtly attire, their eyes sharp and scanning the crowd.

As Logan approached the stands, a number of the Seraph watched him in anticipation. Their swords raked free of silvery scabbards. One shouted for Logan to stay back, but he kept on walking.

Then another Seraph waved the others back and descended to the rail. “So, it’s true—my kid brother’s in Lion’s Arch.”

Logan blinked, only then seeing who it was. “Dylan!”

Dylan didn’t return the greeting, and there was anger beneath his black brows. “What are you doing here? I thought you were guarding merchant caravans or something.”

Logan averted his eyes—it had always been difficult looking into his big brother’s relentless gaze. “My group was slaughtered . . . down to me.”

“By what?” Dylan asked.

“By ogres.” Logan glanced behind him, where Rytlock was taking practice swings with Sohothin. “The charr back there saved my life.”

“Really,” Dylan said coldly.

“Really,” Logan responded, finally looking him in the eye.

Dylan nodded coolly. “So, now you fight beside a charr, in the arena?”

Logan shrugged. “Yeah.”

“I shouldn’t have expected more,” Dylan sighed. “I hope the queen likes the exhibition match today.”

“She hopes she does, as well,” came a woman’s voice behind Dylan.

He looked over his shoulder, surprised, then dropped to one knee. “My queen!”

Queen Jennah of Kryta stepped forward.

Logan’s mouth fell open, and he staggered back.

The queen was stunning, her dark features set off by robes as white as lightning. Her eyes were sharp, and they pierced him, baring his inner thoughts.

Logan stood pinioned on those eyes. He wanted to turn away but couldn’t. It was as if every other woman he had ever seen was just a statue, but Jennah was flesh and blood.

The queen smiled. “Rise, Captain Dylan, and tell me who this man is to approach my presence armed.”

“Regrettably, my queen,” Dylan said, “this gulping codfish is my brother, Logan.”

Logan tried to speak, but there was no air in his lungs.

“Bow before your queen!” Dylan snapped.

Logan fell to his knees and bowed his head.

“Logan is your name?”

Logan nodded.

Jennah leaned forward on the rail, looking down at him. “Can he speak?”

Before Dylan could respond, Logan gasped out, “Normally, yes, my queen, I can speak. It’s only in your presence that I . . . that I can’t seem to find . . . you know, words.”

Dylan looked from his brother to the queen. “Your Majesty, is he under a charm of some sort?”

Jennah shook her head.

“A charm?” Logan asked.

“Our queen is a mesmer of extraordinary power,” Dylan said to Logan. “It’s how she spoke to the whole stadium just now. I thought perhaps she had cast some strange glamour upon you to make you gabble so stupidly. Apparently, though, you come by it naturally.”

“Stand, Logan Thackeray,” Queen Jennah said.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Logan rose and brushed the dust from his knees. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Do not fear, Logan. If you’re half the warrior that your brother is, you will do well today.”

“I’d say he’s
almost
half,” Dylan put in.

“My queen,” Logan replied earnestly, “I am not sure how good a warrior I am, but if I could fight this match for you, I would be ten times the warrior. Grant me a token—”

Dylan sternly shook his head at his brother.

But Queen Jennah leaned forward, drew a blue scarf from her robe, and handed it down to Logan. “Yes, Logan. Be my champion today. When you fight, fight for me.”

Numbly, Logan stepped up and took the scarf as if it were a tender flower. The royal seal of Kryta was embroidered on one corner. “Thank you, milady. I
will
fight for you.”

Dylan sighed, “Pity.”

“Pity my foes!” Logan proclaimed.

“Give me reason,” the queen said, smiling. She turned away and ascended the stairs.

Dylan looked down at his little brother and shook his head. “Hopeless.” Then he followed his queen.

“She’s going to watch,” Logan realized, pivoting slowly and heading away. He stared at the scarf in his hand, marked with the emblem of the royal house, then lifted it to tie to his left shoulder plate.

As Logan approached his comrades, Rytlock wore a wry grin. “A little lovesick, are we?”

“She’s my queen.”

Caithe interrupted, “Let’s forget about the queen and focus on whatever’s behind that gate.” She pointed across the arena, where men dragged a set of bars away from an entrance.

In the darkness, flames flared. They showed a massive form with red-glowing joints.

“Did you see what I saw?” Logan asked.

“Yep,” Rytlock replied.

“Some kind of giant destroyer,” Caithe said.

The announcer broke in on their conversation. “And now for the exhibition match this afternoon—the one you’ve been waiting for. In honor of our special guest, Queen Jennah of Kryta, and in honor of our new alliance with Kryta to battle the dragon menaces, we match up today the crowd favorites, Edge of Steel”—cheers flooded the arena, and the white-faced warriors dutifully waved—“against a minion of the dread dragon Primordus. Feast your eyes upon the destroyer harpy Racogorrix!”

The crowd roared.

Out lumbered the creature of living lava. It was shaped like a woman, but with the wings and talons of an eagle. It bounded forward across the sands, dragging a team of ten men, who held its enchanted shackles. Despite a metal muzzle fastened across the harpy’s mouth, it screamed, and flame roared out.

“More magma magic.” Rytlock hoisted Sohothin. “Probably impervious to this thing.”

Caithe looked down at the skintight strapping she wore. “I’m wearing a wick.”

“I’ll take this one,” Logan said, thumping his new steel breastplate.

“You kidding? That thing’ll melt on the second barrage,” Rytlock said.

“Then there can’t
be
a second barrage,” Logan replied. “Caithe, advance about a hundred paces ahead of us and draw it in. When it starts to dive, run back to us. Pass us before it reaches you. We’ll take care of the rest.”

Caithe looked warily at her comrades. “I’m trusting you with my life, as usual.” She turned and stalked away, counting the paces.

Beyond her, handlers slid iron keys into the shackles that bound the harpy. The moment the restraints fell away, Racogorrix vaulted into the air. Its huge wings spread and beat. The shock wave sent a pulse through the arena. A second stroke, and a third, and the harpy circled slowly higher. Its shadow swarmed, horrible and huge, across the sands.

Caithe strode into the circling shadow. “Ninety-eight . . . ninety-nine . . . one hundred!” She stopped and glanced back.

Rytlock pointed into the sky behind her. “Start running!”

Caithe looked up to see that Racogorrix had reached the top of its spiral and had now turned to swoop down on her. She began to run.

Rytlock muttered, “So, what’s the brilliant plan?”

“Put your sword away.”

Sohothin slid it into its stone sheath. “And . . . ?”

“Cup your claws and lean forward.”

The charr grinned, fangs splaying. “You want me to throw you?”

“Precisely.”

As Rytlock bent down, cupping his claws, Caithe ran full speed toward him across the sand. The black shadow of the harpy fell over her, growing larger with each step. The harpy screamed, and a gout of red flame billowed down toward Caithe.

The crowd leaped to its feet.

The harpy was nearly on her.

She ran full out past her comrades.

Rytlock hurled his shoulders back, flung his arms up, and launched Logan into the path of the beast.

The crowd screamed.

Fire burst over Logan, enveloping him.

Agony.

He couldn’t see a thing but swung his hammer where the head should be. The cloud of flame rolled past, and the hammer crashed down across the harpy’s stony shoulder.

“Damn.”

The beast slammed into Logan. He folded across its shoulder, hammer wedged beneath its wing. Screaming fire, the creature carried him away.

Logan caught a foothold on one of the harpy’s talons and flung himself up onto the monster’s back.

Racogorrix banked above the roaring crowd, jigging right and left to shake Logan loose. It snarled fire back along its neck, but he ducked, only singed.

The harpy circled, spotting Rytlock and Caithe below, and dived toward them.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Logan muttered. He lifted his hammer overhead and, with one massive stroke, bashed the harpy’s brow.

Stones broke, and magma gushed out, but still the harpy flew.

A blue aura gushed from Logan’s fingertips and wrapped around his hammer. He hoisted the weapon overhead and roared.

The enspelled weapon crashed into the head of the harpy and broke it free from the body. The magma joints grew gray and seized up.

Suddenly, the harpy was not flying but falling.

Dead weight.

Rytlock ran away in one direction and Caithe in the other.

The ground rose up to meet the harpy. It crashed down and flipped over, breaking into hundreds of pieces. Logan was flung a few dozen paces through the air. He tumbled end over end in a welter of sand.

Then there was a blow to the head and blood in his nose and nothing else.

When he awoke, the first thing Logan saw was Rytlock’s face, his whiskers curled at the ends. “He’s back!” Rytlock said.