Edge of Destiny (22 page)

The other guard, his hair dirty white like glacial runoff, hitched his chin at the wagon. “What’ve you got in there?”

“Provisions,” Eir said simply.

“Like what?”

“Like meat. Charr eat meat.”

The charr flashed a smile.

The guard stared at Rytlock. “You look familiar. Are you a gladiator?”

Rytlock’s smile only deepened. “One-third of Edge of Steel.”

“Edge of Steel!” the guard said, smacking himself in the head. “Of course! You’re famous. Everybody was talking about you, coming and going through the gate—so I went and saw you. Incredible! When you killed that destroyer harpy—”

“Racogorrix, yeah,” Rytlock supplied, hitching a claw over his shoulder. “That was Logan—”

“I thought the crowd was going to tear the place down!” the guard enthused. His eyebrows suddenly knitted. “Hey, did I hear something about you guys losing a match?”

It was Eir’s turn to smile. “
We
beat them.”

“
You?
You three? You and these two?”

“We’re geniuses,” Snaff explained.

Eir nodded. “We three and the dire wolf. We’re called Dragonspawn’s Destiny.”

“Yeah. Whoa! You beat Edge of Steel, and they
joined up
with you? That would make you, like, Edge of Dragonspawn’s Steely Destiny . . . uh, what do you call yourselves?”

“Destiny’s Edge,” Eir supplied.

Just then, the first guard returned, followed by a broad norn warrior with much scarred skin. Knut Whitebear’s eyes were black pits beneath his glowering brows.

Before he could speak, the second guard blurted, “Do you
know
who this
is
?”

“Eir Stegalkin,” Knut said, addressing her.

“Not just her, but these are Destiny’s Edge—the best gladiators ever with the band that beat them!”

Knut ignored the guard. “
This
is your band?”

Eir met his gaze. “Rytlock is a Blood Legion soldier, and Logan has fought for Queen Jennah. They, with Caithe, one of the firstborn sylvari, slew an ogre chiefling, his warband, and his hyenas. They killed devourers and destroyers and went undefeated in the arena in Lion’s Arch—”

“But the rest of these are the same hapless creatures you took before—”

“The rest of these defeated this undefeated team in combat not two weeks ago,” Eir said flatly.

Knut nodded, impressed, but doubt still lingered in his eyes. “What of those blasted clockwork creatures?”

“Do you see any?” Eir asked. “This is a force like no other. We go north to destroy the Dragonspawn.”

Knut gritted his teeth. “You’d better not fail again, or his wrath will fall on us all.”

“It won’t happen again. We’ll destroy him this time.”

“Outlaw, huh?” Rytlock muttered as he and Eir drew the heavy wagon through Hoelbrak.

“Outcast, more like,” Eir corrected, “temporarily.”

The charr nodded. “An outlaw steals a pig. An outcast pretty much destroys a whole city.”

“That’s right.”

Rytlock mulled the response for a while before asking, “What did you do?”

“Brought on a blizzard—twenty feet of snow. Ice sharp as daggers. Roofs caved. People died. The Dragonspawn did not like being nearly killed.”

The charr whistled through his teeth. “Never leave an enemy alive. That was your mistake.”

“It’s the Dragonspawn’s mistake, too.”

Well north of Hoelbrak, the charr and the norn staggered to a stop and parked the wagon on the tundra. Just beside the wagon lay the wreckage of Big Snaff.

“There’s one of them,” Eir said.

The damage was severe. The golem’s stone head had split in half, with Big Snaff’s left eye and nose and mouth lying close by but the rest of his face some fifty feet away. His golem body lay in three pieces nearby—two mangled legs and a battered torso with broken arms.

Snaff and Zojja jumped down from the wagon to investigate. After a few minutes of stooping and peering, Snaff called back, “Worse than I thought.”

“What happened to it?” Rytlock asked.

Eir pantomimed a pair of talons hoisting the golem into the air and letting it go.

“You mean, you marched that thing in against the Dragonspawn, and it hurled it back out?” Rytlock asked.

“Many miles back out,” Eir replied.

“The stanchions are shattered,” Zojja reported. “The servos are split. We could salvage some thylid crystals—maybe—use some of the gear work elsewhere—maybe—but there’s no way this golem’s going to fight again.”

Garm let out a howl, his nose pointed north.

The team looked to the horizon, where the other broken figure lay.

“Take them there,” Eir commanded.

The dire wolf trotted to Snaff, bit down on his shirt, and hurled him up across his back. The wolf then did the same for Zojja. Once the two were seated, he galloped out across the mossy ground, heading for the next wreck site.

“Let’s go,” Eir said, hauling on the wagon.

Amazed and unnerved, Rytlock staggered forward, pulling as well.

That night, the group gathered around a campfire. Eir and Rytlock reclined on the wagon they had hauled all day while Caithe, Logan, and the two asura perched on pieces of scavenged golem. Actually, the asura didn’t perch. They worked. With wrenches and screwdrivers, mallets and awls, they struggled to resurrect the wreckage.

“This Snaff matrix won’t fit inside the Zojja fuselage,” Zojja complained.

“Do your best,” Snaff replied, not for the first time. “It just has to
work.
It doesn’t have to be pretty.” He was currently replacing the shattered ankle joint of the golem.

“Can we march by morning?” Eir asked.

“Yes. Yes,” Snaff responded absently, “by morning.”

Logan took a deep breath of the frosty night air and looked to Eir. “Tell us about the Dragonspawn.”

Eir nodded pensively. “The Dragonspawn isn’t so much a man but a creature of ice and cold. He leads an army of the icebrood and Sons of Svanir.”

“I’ve heard the name,” Logan said. “What are they, anyway?”

“Two hundred fifty years ago, a hunter named Svanir and his sister Jora led a band of norn to slay the wolves that ruled Drakkar Lake. They were crossing the frozen waters when a strange presence grasped Svanir’s mind. It whispered seductions to him, promised power and prey. It was a voice of infinite hunger and hate, and Svanir listened to it.

“Jora heard the voice, too, but it terrified her. She refused its dark gifts and tried to drag her brother away, but he struck her and told her she was weak, told her he had discovered the well of power. She fled.

“Svanir remained to commune with his newfound lord. In time, the voice began to change him. It taught him to hate all living things. It stripped him of his human form and made him a champion—half bear, half norn, encrusted with ice. Svanir wandered the wastes in madness, attacking any who came near. He became a monster that his own sister had to destroy.

“Over the next hundred fifty years, the voice seduced more norn, and they joined the cult, becoming the Sons of Svanir. They believed they were drawing upon the ancient voice, but in fact it was drawing upon them, gaining the power to rise.

“And it did rise. One of the Elder Dragons. Jormag was its name.

“We fought Jormag—gladly we fought it, for norn are made for battle. But never had we fought a beast like this. It was a living blizzard. It and its minions froze us where we fought and buried our lands in snow and ice and tore apart Gunnar’s Hold with a massive glacier. It took our lands. It drove us south.

“And despite the destruction, there are still foolish norn who hear the call of Svanir and seek the power of Jormag. In the end they are reduced to icebrood themselves, flesh wrapped in ice, fed by malevolence and hatred.”

As Eir’s tale fell to silence, her comrades stared into the fire and listened to it crackle.

At last, Rytlock said, “You want us to destroy a living blizzard that defeated the entire norn nation?”

Eir’s eyes were fierce. “I want us to destroy the dragon’s champion, his right arm. When the Dragonspawn is dead, Jormag will be maimed. Then we can strike the dragon’s heart.”

Rytlock took first watch while Eir, Caithe, Logan, and Garm took their rest. Wrapped in blankets, they nestled down on the mossy tundra, seeking warmth. Only the two asura worked on. By the middle of Rytlock’s watch, Zojja had became cruel and cranky, like a tired child. Her verbal barbs grew sharper by the minute, and at last Snaff sent her off to sleep.

Rytlock walked the perimeter. Overhead, a sickle moon tore through rags of cloud. On the icy desolation all around, moon shadows flitted like ghosts. Rytlock shivered. “We should let the dragon keep this place.”

At the darkest corner of night, Rytlock returned to the camp to wake up Logan.

“You’re quite a pair,” came a nearby voice, accompanied by the rasp of a socket wrench.

“Hm?” Rytlock turned to see Snaff straddling the leg of the golem and working by the faint blue glow of a powerstone.

“You and Logan,” Snaff replied, flashing a smile. He turned back to the conduits he was repairing. “After all this time, a charr and a human make peace.”

“Ha!” Rytlock blurted, but then glanced toward the sleepers. He went on more quietly, “It’s not peace. More like mutually assured destruction.”

Snaff laughed. “Ah, it’s more than that. He idolizes you.”

“He covets my sword. It’s not the same.”

“Oh, it
is
the same. What little brother doesn’t want what his big brother has?”

“And what big brother doesn’t hate his little brother for wanting it?”

Snaff nodded. “Yes. I suppose that’s part of the dynamic. Love and hate hand in hand. Apprentices feel the same way toward masters—love them for all the knowledge they have, and hate them for the same reason.”

Rytlock glanced over at Zojja. “Nah. You’re her whole world. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

“Funny how that works,” Snaff said philosophically. “People become part of you, and you don’t realize until they’re gone.”

“Right. Listen, uh, my watch is over and Logan’s up next.”

“Good, good. He’ll be good company.”

By the next morning, Rytlock, Logan, and Eir had each taken a watch while Snaff worked on. Soldering and shaping, rewiring and refitting—by the time he was done, Big Zojja had been resurrected. She stood at the edge of the camp, dented and dinged but ready for action.

Eir gazed soberly at the result. “You’ve worked a miracle.”

“That’s what I do,” Snaff said with a smile.

Zojja rubbed sleep from her eyes. “Too bad the other one couldn’t be salvaged.”

Snaff’s smile never wavered. “That’s all right. We brought a spare.”

“A spare?”

Snaff donned a powerstone laurel, and with a boom and a hiss, the tarp on the wagon bulged up and rose. The canvas dragged away to reveal the sand golem, towering there and grinning like his master.

“
That’s
why the wagon was so heavy,” Rytlock groaned. “Least we won’t have to drag it any farther.”

“Exactly.”

Eir looked around at her crew—Big Zojja and Sandy, Little Zojja and Snaff, Garm, Caithe, Rytlock, and Logan. “All right, everyone, we have a long hike today, and a tough battle ahead. We have water and food for two more days. Beyond that, we’ll have to live off the land.”

“Oh, there’s one more thing we need,” Snaff broke in, fishing in his pocket. Behind him, Sandy seemed to do the same. Snorting, Snaff pulled off the powerstone laurel, letting the golem slump in a heap in the wagon. Snaff then pulled from his pocket a vial of gray dye. “We need tattoos.”

“Tattoos?” Eir asked.

“As you know, the Dragonspawn has a mesmerizing aura that takes hold of minds. Last time, we combated it with gray powerstones on our armor—but if the stone gets struck from the armor, the result could be fatal.”

Eir nodded, trying to follow the thread. “Yes, but—tattoos?”

“Powerstones in our skin!” Snaff enthused, holding up the vial. Tiny stone chips shimmered within the dye. “They’ll block the mind of the Dragonspawn.” He pulled back his tunic, showing a beautifully inscribed emblem that read
de.
“That for us, Destiny’s Edge, you know? Zojja has one, too. Show them.”

Zojja huffed and pulled back her collar, revealing the same de pattern in a slightly less deft hand.

“I did hers, and she did mine. Give us half an hour, and we’ll have the rest of you done.”

Reluctantly, the others agreed. Snaff inscribed the emblem onto Logan, then shaved a clear patch on Rytlock and Garm and did the same. Zojja took a bit more time and care to work on the shoulders of Eir and Caithe. In the promised half hour, though, the deed was done.

“Here,” Snaff said, slipping the vial of gray dye into Eir’s hand. “I’m always breaking things.”

Eir took a long look at the vial, and an uncommon smile spread across her face. “I know just what to do with this.” She slid the vial into her pocket. “Let’s move out.”

Claws, boots, bolts, and sandy pseudopods set out across the tundra, heading for the icy peaks in the north. They walked in a loose group, Caithe scouting ahead and Garm loping behind. Zojja rode within her golem, and Snaff rode atop Sandy’s head.

The party moved at speed, and the land rolled back around them.

In time, Rytlock and Logan happened to be walking side by side. Neither wanted to fall back, and neither could casually stride ahead. As the awkward silence stretched, Logan at last ventured, “Listen. I know things haven’t been right, not since I tried to take Sohothin.”

The charr’s hand settled on the hilt of his sword. “You’d better not try again.”

“No. That’s the whole thing. I never should have tried to take it. Sohothin is your sword. I see that now.”

Rytlock looked Logan in the eye for the first time in weeks. “Really?”

“Really.”

“You don’t mind seeing a charr carry a ‘man’s sword’?”

“It’s not a man’s sword. It’s a hero’s sword. It’s yours.”

They walked a while longer in silence. Rytlock caught sight of Snaff, who just smiled back at him.

“It’s going to be bad, you know,” Rytlock said.

“Yeah,” Logan said. “Worse than any gladiatorial team. Worse than destroyers or devourers or ogres.”