Fable: Edge of the World (25 page)

“Suppose some overeager guard spots him and arrests him for something stupid, like a broken curfew? Or loitering with a water gourd?”

Shalia smiled. “He will have gotten rid of the gourd,” she said, her voice holding a hint of amusement.

“I know, I know, I just—”

Garth’s eyes snapped open. “The scout returns,” he said, getting to his feet. Ben looked in the direction of Zahadar, and saw nothing for several long minutes. How had Garth—never mind. He didn’t want to know.

“Good news, I hope,” he said as the man hurried up. It was one of the monks, Sohar.

“Very good,” Sohar replied. “We were able to assess the climate. The people here are not happy but they are obedient, and when they obey, their lives are tolerable. The military moves among them freely. There are several Palace Guards stationed at key areas. But the best news is that the king has found a way to slip into the palace itself. Here is his plan.”

Shortly after delivering his report, Sohar led a second round of expert hand-to-hand fighters through the river to enter the city. They would meet up with the others, prepare, and await the next phase of battle. As soon as Sohar had gone, Garth gave the orders, and the army, siege engines in the front, began to move on Zahadar.

Under cover of the night, they would not be sighted quite as soon as they would have been during daylight hours but they would be detected eventually. The men kept pace with the oxen as the beasts steadfastly pulled several small cannons, the single surviving catapult, and the ballistae. Ben cursed the fate that had robbed them of so many siege weapons. He was well aware it could mean the difference between success and failure.

They were spotted when they were still two miles out. A moving line appeared on the horizon, and Ben realized he was looking at dozens of mounted soldiers.

“The jig’s up,” he cried to Garth. “Here we go!”

“Indeed,” muttered Garth. “Shan—you stay behind me and do everything I say. Do you understand?”

Percival’s shadow fell on them, then the sand dragon landed. “Yes, sir,” Shan stammered, his eyes wide at the approaching tide of riders. He followed Garth, scrambling atop the dragon and clinging tightly. Percy made a vertical leap upward, bearing the two Samarkandians aloft.

“Line one, formation!” came Garth’s voice from above the fray. “Take aim, and fire at will!”

As if it were a choreographed performance, several dozen armed soldiers hastened into a line. Almost simultaneously, their rifles cracked. The soldiers dropped to their knees, reloading.

“Line two, formation! Take aim, and fire at will!”

This was Ben’s line, and he joined the others, mowing down
the onrushing soldiers before they could get close enough to attack. There were a few stray shots from the Empress’s army, but a man standing—or kneeling—on the good solid earth was always going to have the advantage over one on horseback.

Percival wheeled above them, dove in low so that Garth could attack, and then bore the Hero out of harm’s way. For a moment—a very short one—Ben felt sorry for the guards. They had no idea they were attacking a Hero and looked more stunned than anything as vortices of wind whirled them about, scouring them bloody with sand the eddies had picked up. When at last the dust devils Garth controlled threw the hapless soldiers aside, they were easy for the king’s foot soldiers to pick off.

Cannon fire roared, blasting a cluster of the enemy. The drivers of the oxen pushed the frightened beasts onward grimly, the heavy weapons making their slow-but-inexorable way to the wall of Zahadar. The fighting was largely hand-to-hand now that the two armies had closed on one another. The advantage the Empress’s army had—horses—had all either fallen with their masters or else, terrified beyond anything they had been trained for in battle, had bucked off their riders and, very sensibly Ben thought, galloped the hell out of the way.

Percival swooped low again. This time, Garth’s Will manifested itself in pillars of lightning that paralyzed and killed, cutting a swath through the soldiers.

On the army of Albion and Samarkand marched, the oxen bellowing in protest as their drivers forced them to tread on the fallen bodies and bloody sand. Finally, the enemy’s numbers diminished. When Percy and Garth bore down on them for another attack, the soldiers of the Empress turned and fled back to the safety of their walled city. A ragged cheer went up and some made as if to give pursuit, but Garth called down, “Fall back! The battle has only begun, do not squander your energy!”

He landed and dismounted, Shan scrambling down after him. “Scout ahead, Percy, and let us know what’s waiting for us when we get there,” Garth instructed the sand dragon. Percy inclined his head and took off, his great wings carrying him swiftly upward.

“They’ll have men on the wall,” Ben said. “Hoping to pick us off.”

“Most likely,” Garth agreed. “But we have a dragon and a Hero.”

“Two Heroes,” Ben corrected.

“Of course, two of us. I pray our second Hero is able to take advantage of the distraction we will be providing him.”

“Funny, when you think about it,” Ben said, “a dragon, siege engines, rows of firepower, a Hero throwing magic about—and all this is just a distraction. The real battle will be going on inside there.”

“Not if we don’t get that gate down,” Garth said. Percy was returning, dropping to the sand a few yards away and striding over to them.

“Marksmen on the walls,” Percival reported, and Ben tried hard not to look smug.

“Let’s remove that threat right away, shall we?” replied Garth. Percival lowered himself so Garth could climb atop his back. Shan started to follow, but Garth stopped him.

“We’ll be flying lower this time and will present the main target,” Garth explained. “You’re safer here, at least for now.”

Shan nodded. He was disappointed but trying not to look it. Ben clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t be overeager to see war, my young friend.”

“Everyone is doing something except for me,” Shan said, uttering the classic complaint of young boys. “I want to help!”

“Shan, if you didn’t do a thing from now till the day you died,
hopefully at a ripe old age, you’ve already been of tremendous help to His Majesty and your own people. We’d never have gotten this far without you.”

“Then—you don’t think I am a tool of the darkness?”

Ben felt a stab of guilt, remembering that once he had indeed had such suspicions. “Lad,” he said, “if you’re of the darkness, then I’m the poorest marksman in Albion.”

Garth sat astride Percival, his body relaxed, his mind tranquil and focused. He breathed deeply, summoning his Will, and as Percival dove, roaring fiercely, the Hero shoved his hands in front of him. Blades whirled, wielded by invisible hands, slicing down the Empress’s marksmen. Those who were not cut to pieces he simply forced off the wall. Those who were out of range fell with a swipe of Percy’s tail. A few lucky ones tumbled down inside the wall. The rest were quickly defeated by the encroaching army.

“Now!” yelled Garth as Percy flew back. There was a volley of cannon fire.

The siege of Zahadar had begun.

While cannons and the battering ram pounded mercilessly against the gate, others of the king’s men were placing ladders provided by the diligent monks up against the north, east, and west walls. Percival’s shadow fell repeatedly upon the streets of the city; he knocked off those of the enemy who had climbed atop the walls and carefully dropped some of the army’s best hand-to-hand fighters literally on top of their foes. Once he had done that, the sand dragon clutched the Empress’s men and dropped
them
, much less carefully, outside the city walls.

The streets below were chaos. Civilians screamed and sought shelter in their homes while the battle raged right outside. The king’s men had been told in no uncertain terms that they were not to fight anyone who was not clearly in the pay of the Empress.

Boom. Boom. Boom
.

The city’s weak point was the size of its gate. The walls itself would have been nearly impossible to fell. They were made of rammed earth and designed to last for centuries. If the gate had admitted only one or two at a time, there would have been no hope. But the gates to Zahadar, one behind the other, were made of wood and steel, and would yield to the relentless onslaught of cannon balls and the pounding of the battering ram.

Garth, on the ground now, made his way through to the gate, gazed at it, then smiled a little. The siege engines fell silent. He spread his hands, closed his eyes, and a fireball, half as large as he himself was, flew from his palms to slam into the wooden gate. Fire licked greedily at the dry wood, its heat eating through.

Boom. Boom. Boom
. Again the battering ram swung back and slammed into its target. There was a groan as the iron gate shuddered. A second time Garth focused his Will, and another orange ball of flame exploded. This time, the wood was completely consumed, and even the iron bars were starting to glow orange. The cannons fired again simultaneously and the gate could no longer offer any resistance.

Garth strode through the main gate of Zahadar, the lines of blue dancing across his body with the strength of his controlled and focused Will. Casually, he extended a hand and lightning crackled, killing six would-be attackers at once. A sweep of the other hand hurled a dozen enemy soldiers out of the way, slamming them hard into the wall they had thought would protect them.

Shan kept close beside him, and Garth glanced back and winked at the boy. Siege engines were maneuvered into position to bring down the wall to the inner city.

“One wall down, two to go,” said Garth.

Boom. Boom. Boom
.

“That’s our cue,” said the king. He, Sohar, and the other monks darted out into the chaotic streets, blending in with the frightened citizens rushing about. Most were running to their homes, seeking shelter, and as the king glimpsed a woman clutching her baby trying to evade the clatter of carts and horses, he felt a pang of regret. If only this attack weren’t necessary.

The plan he and the others had come up with was designed to reduce loss of life among civilians, but there would still be casualties. There were always casualties. He set his jaw and turned away from the terrified inhabitants and focused his attention on the wall encircling the palace.

The chaos, and the dust stirred up by it, served them well. There was a single entrance, well hidden, where the water from the Zaha was channeled into the Pleasure Gardens. In the panicked crush of people, no one noticed as he and the monks dropped down, removed the small metal gate much more easily than they had its larger cousin outside, and squeezed through. The lean, wiry monks had no trouble, and the king was glad that he still had the slenderness of youth. Even so, it was a tight fit, and he thought of claustrophobic Walter as he edged along the narrow passageway.

They emerged in the small reservoir at the base of the garden, cautiously poking their heads up. The two monks at each end shook their heads.

No guards.

Slowly, carefully, the king and the monks emerged from the shallow water, and the king beheld the Pleasure Gardens.

They were as beautiful as Shan had described them. There were three tiers, each stretching for several yards in a semicircle that enclosed a flat area at the top. Sweetwater trees grew at each end of the first level, their roots dipping into the life-giving water. Benches and small tables invited one to sit and reflect. On the second level, flowers grew in every hue imaginable. Their fragrance was lush and heady. Vines twined about the walls, and small stairways connected the three tiers. From this angle, the king couldn’t see the final tier clearly and gestured to his men. They nodded, also wary of a trap.

Utilizing cover where they could, they climbed up to the next tier. Still no one raised an alarm. After a few moments, the king gestured, and they ascended to the third tier.

Here, a table draped with an intricately embroidered cloth and a single chair sat alone, a multicolored pavilion providing shade. A half-eaten meal of fresh fruit, bread, and cheese was left on a plate, along with a single goblet. Someone had been disturbed at his—her?—meal.

They had come for the Empress, and it seemed they had come close to finding her.

If the king and his small, elite group could capture the Empress amid the chaos and confusion of the siege, there was a good chance his goals could be achieved without bloodshed. She would not be expecting so brazen an attack within the very walls of her own palace. Once they had her, the king would do his best to see if she could be reasoned with. If she refused, he could keep her prisoner and negotiate with those who stepped in to fill the power vacuum.

His ears strained to hear over the sound of battle raging outside. The booming of cannon fire was coming closer now, which
meant that Garth had succeeded in breeching the main gate and was now attacking the wall of the inner city.

Behind the little pavilion area with its single chair and table was an open door. It could be that the guards had rushed their mistress off and neglected to close the door behind them in their haste, perhaps never thinking of attack from the gardens.

Or it could be a trap.

A soft sound—the quivering intake of breath.

The monks heard it too, snapping to attention but awaiting his orders. The king lifted a hand, staying them, and gazed at the cloth-covered table. “They must be inside,” he said, and jerked his head in the direction of the open door. “Let’s go.”

The monks nodded and headed for the door. Their feet slapped on the stone tiles while the king stepped backward quietly and waited.

For a moment, nothing happened. There was a rustling sound, and a slender, blue-draped, veiled figure emerged from where she had been hiding beneath the table. Quick as a snake, the king dove, snatching her by the arm and whirling her to face him.

Her veil fluttered to the ground, revealing a face so exquisite, so perfect, that—

He heard gunfire, then there was only darkness.