Fable: Edge of the World (17 page)

His eyes fastened almost without blinking on the huge black structure, he slowly ascended the steps until he stood before it. His skin seemed alive, jumping with anticipation, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

The glyphs on the obelisk hadn’t changed, but somehow, he could read them now. Or at least, he knew what they said—he
couldn’t tell if the knowledge was before his eyes or in his own mind.

O Hero who hath need of me, release me, and I shall serve thee in the form that shall aid thee best
.

The king blinked, the strange sort of spell broken. The form that would aid him best? What was this inscription all about? What did it mean, exactly? So many thoughts rushed into his head. The battle had reminded him, painfully so, of Walter Beck, who had been tortured and infused with the very essence of the evil while the king had frantically fought back the empty—yet not empty, not at all—suits of armor. What would Walter do if he were here? The king missed his friend terribly, missed his wise advice.

More than he realized, too, he missed dear old Jasper’s acerbic but always helpful observations. He had gotten used to talking to the old fellow. To be able to speak to him now … He had friends, good friends, with him, and he had brought a fine and well-prepared army.

In the form that shall aid thee best
.

He laughed suddenly. Well, that was pretty obvious, wasn’t it? He needed something nearly impossible to defeat, that would be impervious to the harsh climate, that wouldn’t have to be left behind because of poor terrain. Something that could fly over it all, and thrive in the heat like a snake or lizard did. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a dragon out of the old fables obeying his commands! Who
wouldn’t
follow him then, mounted on the back of so fearsome and powerful a beast!

But he needed to halt that flight of fancy. He needed to think seriously. What form would—

The voice in his head was like thunder.

The Hero hath chosen
.

“No, wait!” he yelped. “I’ve not chosen anything, I’m still think—”

The obelisk paled from inky black to golden yellow, then crumbled into a pile.

The king stared at it, his mouth working, making little noises of utter confusion. All that for a pile of sand? Was this some kind of trick? He glanced back at his friends, but all of them looked as stunned and confused as he was.

Still reeling, the king knelt and placed his hand on the sand, for sand it indeed was.

And then the pile moved.

He leaped back, drawing his sword in one hand and summoning magic in the other. Some instinct made him hold back, though, and before his eyes, the billions of tiny grains began to swirl together, as though being tossed about by an unseen wind. Faster and faster they whirled, forming a solid, elongated shape far different from the obelisk. Four tendrils erupted, then two longer ones, and the shape became less nebulous.

The center mass sprouted leathery wings, the long extensions of moving sand taking on the more delicate imagery of a tail and a neck with a sharp-toothed head at the end. More sand trickled from the jaw and head, forming a sort of mane and whiskers. The form stamped each one of its massive, clawed feet, and the wings beat as though in joyful release. The tail thumped once, and sapphire-blue eyes blinked. They fastened on the king, and the head dropped level with the human Hero’s.

“Crikey,” he said, to the monarch’s amazement, in Jasper’s clipped, slightly supercilious tone. “Go to sleep for a few thousand years and look at the
mess
I wake up to. You Heroes always were a rather untidy lot.”

T
he king stared. “Y-you’re a dragon,” he stammered.

The sand dragon rolled his eyes. “Brilliant deduction,” he drawled. “Oh goodness me, look, I have
wings
too!” He sighed. “It appears that Heroes are not quite as perspicacious as they used to be.”

The sarcasm penetrated the king’s shock. “Wait—let me get this straight. You’re my servant?”

“Alas, I fear so.” The dragon sighed. A few grains of sand drifted down with the movement. “It certainly does appear you have need of assistance from
someone
.”

“Why do you sound just like Jasper?” Ben demanded.

“I haven’t the foggiest idea who Jasper is, but as for my appearance and personality, blame him, not me,” the dragon said, nodding at the king.

And the king started to laugh. “Be careful what you ask for,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. He’d been thinking of Walter, of Jasper, and of a dragon—and there he was, all three rolled into a sandy package. “I certainly hope there’s some Walter Beck about you and not just snide comments,” he said.

The dragon smiled, unexpectedly, and brought his head
down even with the king’s. “Sir Walter was in your mind at the moment of my creation,” Jasper’s voice said gently. “I well know he is always in your heart. Seldom has any Hero I have served had such a good and loyal friend.”

Unexpectedly and unwantedly, the king felt his eyes sting with tears. One hand reached up to touch the dragon’s cheek. It was warm, and clearly made of sand, though it held its cohesion. “What are you, really?”

“I don’t have to tell you that,” the dragon said testily, pulling back and eyeing the king appraisingly. “I only have to help you, and that, I fully intend to do. I know why you have come to Samarkand. Others before you have fought to push back the darkness from gaining a foothold. Some of them succeeded. Some did not. You have already defeated a previous manifestation of the darkness before. You stand a halfway-decent chance of doing so again.”

“Rip-roaring encouragement, that is,” said Ben.

“It’s truthful, and His Majesty doesn’t need sugarcoated words, he needs facts. Knowledge. And the aid of someone I might be able to persuade to assist us.”

“Dragon, I … what shall I call you?” asked the king.

That seemed to completely fluster the dragon. He flapped his wings agitatedly and looked about. “I … no Hero has ever asked me what I wanted to be named.”

“Well, I’m asking you now. Pick a name, and I’ll honor it. I promise.”

The dragon settled back, lost in thought. At last he brightened. “Percival,” he said, sounding extraordinarily pleased with himself.

“… Percival?” echoed the king. “You’re a mighty creature out of legend and you want to be called Percival?”

“Or Percy, if you like.”

The king exerted every ounce of control and nodded imperiously. “So it shall be done—Percy,” he said with great dignity.

The dragon beamed.

The king spread his arms. “You know what happened here,” he said. “The darkness corrupted the pool and turned the very statues of Heroes past against us. You said you know of someone who might help.”

The dragon—Percival—snapped back to attention. “Right-o,” he said. “The Thousand Guardians that were represented here were all late heroes. But one of them still exists. He is the thousand and first Hero Samarkand has produced. I know where to find him. He might listen to you, given his history.”

Sudden hope seized the king. “His history?”

“With your father,” Percy said. “I speak of the Hero Garth.”

The “council sessions,” if such a civil word could be used to describe the tension-filled meetings of Laylah, Page, Timmins, and Reaver, had not gone well at all. There would be about five minutes of actual progress, then either Reaver would say something and Page and Timmins would come down all over him, or else Timmins and Page would make a suggestion and Reaver would disagree. The queen herself kept quiet, observing, making up her own mind about things.

Reaver was, without a doubt, arrogant, irritating, and utterly self-serving. But he also put forth ideas that seemed sound. What was wrong, for instance, with a curfew at least in Bowerstone, where unrest was most likely to foment? Page herself had led an underground resistance movement against the former king! Why in the world would she so vehemently oppose so simple a method? Who needed to be skulking about at night anyway, when the restaurants and inns were closed?

And the tax—Laylah had spent a great deal of time reviewing the royal ledgers of nine years past, when the darkness had come right into the very heart of Albion. While her husband had almost always chosen the kinder solution—the solution that Page had constantly pressed for—there were times when he had sided with Reaver. And it had been those decisions that had put money in the royal coffers. Laylah realized, with a heavy heart, that every choice her husband made that followed Reaver’s advice had saved lives. Page had been so insistent on taking the higher moral ground that she was actually indirectly responsible for at least some of the death toll. While it was lovely, for instance, to preserve Bowerstone Lake as a scenic spot instead of mining it, or have Brightwall Academy admit anyone who wished to study there, were those two actions really worth nearly a million in gold? How much ammunition, how many weapons could have been created for that amount—and how many lives would those defenses have saved?

Laylah had never said anything to Page about this, of course. But she was beginning to feel that perhaps her husband had been a bit too kind. Laylah was entrusted with the safety of Albion, now. And she could not afford to let sentiment get in the way of protecting her people.

And Timmins—she had never liked Timmins, and she was growing to detest him, now. Why in the world would he, a military man, refuse to increase the patrols in the city? If he would agree to the raising of taxes, more people would be on the streets protecting the populace in nearly every city, not just Bowerstone.

And now they were at it again.

“Dear Page,” Reaver was saying, “Your heart bleeds so profusely I confess a concern as to whether you have enough blood remaining to continue its beating.”

“Whatever dark deal you made, Reaver, apparently it doesn’t require you to have a heart at all!” Page snapped back.

Something broke inside Laylah, like the snapping of a dried twig. “Enough!” she shouted. “I cannot endure this any longer! You are so busy attacking one another that nothing is getting
done
! The country is suffering while the three of you figure out what—what the cleverest insult is!”

“They’re always mine,” said Reaver.

“This session is canceled. There’s absolutely no point in continuing when the only thing you want to do is fight among yourselves, at Albion’s expense. All of you are to leave, right now. I begin to think the only one I can rely upon is Rex!” They stared at her, stunned, achieving unanimity only in the shocked expressions on all three of their faces.

“Go!”
cried Laylah.

They went. Laylah raced to her chamber. She closed the door and locked it. Barrows knocked, inquiring in a worried tone if perhaps she wanted some tea?

“No, thank you,” she said, trying to make her voice sound calm. “And please, I will take care of myself tonight. Don’t send any of the maids in. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

Alone, she flung herself on the bed and sobbed herself to sleep.

It was in the early hours of the morning when she heard a knock on the door. Rex, instantly alert, lifted his head and growled. The queen smoothed her disheveled dress—she had fallen asleep fully clothed—and went to the door.

“Yes, what is it?”

“It’s Barrows, ma’am. There’s … someone here who insists on seeing you.”

“Unless it’s the king, send him away.”

“I do wish it were His Majesty, but it’s Mr. Reaver. He says it’s urgent. The fate of the kingdom rests upon it.”

“Tell him the fate of the kingdom can wait another few hours.”

A pause. “Ma’am, he wrote a note for me to give you. I should be remiss in my duty if I didn’t at least deliver it.”

Laylah lifted a trembling hand to her forehead, pressing hard against the vein that throbbed in her temple. “Very well. Slide it under the door.”

There was a slight scraping sound, and sure enough, a crisp piece of parchment marked with a red wax seal appeared. Laylah picked it up, then lit a lamp by the bedside. The seal, of course, was imprinted with a lavish “R.” Taking a deep breath, she broke the wax and began to read the impossibly perfect handwriting.

Part of her dismissed the letter as a histrionic attempt to gain her attention. The other part of her went icy with fear. Reaver did have a wide reach in the kingdom, and it was quite likely that any bad news would reach his ears before even the queen learned of it. She held the missive tight in one hand while petting Rex, who had jumped up on the bed to lean next to her comfortingly, with the other.

Laylah decided she would at least see what kind of “proof” Reaver had. If it was nonsense, she would let him know in no uncertain terms. But if it wasn’t … she couldn’t afford to take the chance.

She opened the door, suspecting that Barrows was waiting for a reply. He was. “Tell Mr. Reaver I shall meet him in a few moments.”

He was waiting in the receiving room for her, leaning on the mantel and seemingly engrossed in the workings of an antique clock, and turned when Barrows announced her.

Usually, Reaver took an inordinate amount of pride in his appearance. Everything he wore was the cutting edge of fashion, and she had never seen either a wrinkle or a stain marring his clothing. Now, he had circles under his eyes, and his cravat was askew. His boots, too, were spattered with mud. And it was this change in appearance more than anything the letter had said that alarmed her.