Journey Beyond the Edge

“There. Much better. But we truly must go. The entire war band will be here soon. Those two were most likely scouts, and the riders of Wingrod hate nothing more than finding the bodies of murdered comrades.”

Maniva tried to ask a question, but Eric pressed one finger to her lips.

“Be patient. You must not strain your vocal cords right now, or you may lose your voice altogether. You wanted to ask how I know the knights are coming?”

She nodded.

“Look there.” Eric pointed east. “A pillar of dust, and the ravens have started raising a clamor. We cannot hear the hounds yet, which means we still have a head start. We were fortunate it was only a hermit squid that attacked you. Those creatures rarely migrate.”

Eric searched the bodies. From inside one knight’s tunic, he drew a scroll bearing a large wax seal. The discovery plainly pleased him; he smiled as he turned to the girl.

“You have a few minutes while I drag the bodies closer to the water. Then we must leave.”

Maniva was still reeling. Only minutes ago she had been drowning in her own blood, and now she was expected to go somewhere with this strange man.

“What is Wingrod? I’ve never heard of it. What are another principality’s soldiers doing in these woods? And what was that paper you took from the dead man? Why do you need it? Saxons don’t look kindly upon looting.”

“This?” Eric waved the scroll. “Wingrod has been sealed. No one may enter or leave the city without an order signed by the citadel’s commandant. And the elixirs and tinctures made by their healers would be useful to you. At the very least, I could be sure you would not lose your voice permanently.”

“Saxony has plenty of herb women. One is supposed to live near the edge of this very forest.”

“You are no longer in Saxony, Maniva. Your spark is stronger than I believed. That is what the squid sensed.”

“I ran barely two leagues from the harbor.” She pointed north. “We should still be able to see—”

Her whisper died.

Nothing remained of the familiar landscape. Where ship masts should have risen in the distance, a mighty cliff towered instead. Behind it, an impenetrable wilderness blackened the horizon.

“Those are the Margelon Thickets,” Eric said. “The domain of the Beast of Nelum, king of the werewolves. Beyond them lie the lands of the minotaurs.”

“The what? What are minotaurs?”

“It does not matter. We must go. The Belgeste is our guiding thread. We follow it downstream.” Eric gestured along the river. “Wingrod is not far. Without healing salves, your voice may vanish forever.”

Maniva’s thoughts tangled hopelessly. Minotaurs, werewolves, a strange mountain, virgin forest… Perhaps I have a fever. Or perhaps that northerner put something in last night’s ale. Whatever the truth, he has saved my life, so I should follow his instructions—at least until the drunkenness passes, or whatever poison that healer made me drink wears off.

Meanwhile, the northerner led one of the horses to the water’s edge, where the knights’ bodies lay, and felled the animal with a sharp blow to the neck. The horse reared and screamed. At the sound, tentacles Maniva recognized rose from the water. They coiled around the mount and dragged it beneath the surface.

Eric returned to the other horse and began adjusting its girth.

Maniva tore her gaze from the feeding monster and approached him.

“Can you ride?” the northerner asked at once.

Maniva shook her head. A fresh breeze scattered her curls across her shoulders, and Eric went still at the sight.

“What?” she asked with a quiet laugh, watching him stand openmouthed.

That soft, nearly soundless laughter brought Eric back to himself.

“It isn’t difficult. Better than fleeing on foot, at any rate. Climb onto the buckskin. I’ll give you a lift,” Eric muttered, taking the horse by the bridle.

The animal obeyed, and a moment later the Norseman had swung Maniva into the campaign saddle.

Eric walked quickly, leading the horse by the bridle. Swaying in the saddle, Maniva was terrified she would fall from the graceful, powerful animal. After a time, however, she grew accustomed to it. Her body found the rhythm and began rocking with the horse’s stride, freeing her mind to think.

One moment she reviewed the events of the previous day, trying to understand and accept everything that had happened. The next, she found herself studying her strange companion. There was something deeply unusual about him—frightening and enchanting at once. He was plainly no ordinary mortal.

She watched Eric, admiring the man’s strength and grace. Then she devised a plan of escape. Then memory carried her back to the night when this strange northerner had awakened feeling within her.

The cycle continued until sleep closed her eyes and she nearly fell from the horse. Eric reacted in time, catching her in his powerful arms.

“You’re exhausted. Forgive me—I didn’t think. We’ll make camp. You probably haven’t eaten since morning, and I’ve been dragging you across the countryside.”

“I didn’t think either. I grabbed your gifts and ran. Just as you told me.”

“Forgive an old fool,” Eric muttered, avoiding her eyes.

Maniva helped the healer spread a blanket bearing the emblem of the knights of Wingrod beneath a thicket of lilacs. Eric removed a saddlebag from the horse. To their good fortune, it contained a fresh loaf of bread, a ring of dried sausage, a wedge of cheese, and several eggs.

Eric laid everything directly upon the blanket and rubbed his hands together.

“Enough for a feast. Only one problem—nothing to drink. We’ll have to eat it dry.”

He broke the bread and sausage in half, then cut the cheese into slices. The smell made Maniva’s stomach growl like a kitten.

But she had barely taken her first bite when a war horn sounded in the nearby woodland. Several male voices raised a battle cry in the distance. Hounds barked, and a wolf howled.

Arnaur’s horse reared and bolted.

Eric seized the blanket by its corners and dragged it deeper into the bushes. Maniva hurried after him. He had barely concealed her beneath his dark green cloak when an enormous black wolf with a silver ruff burst into the clearing. An arrow protruded from its shoulder, and a pack of hounds raced close behind.

The beast stopped for an instant and turned its head toward the hidden travelers, nostrils working.

“It caught a scent. Whether ours or the sausage’s remains to be seen,” the healer whispered as he drew his dagger.

The answer surprised Maniva so much she could not help herself.

“Is there a difference?”

Eric nodded without taking his eyes from the motionless opponents.

“If it smells only the sausage, it will assume there is an ambush, a snare, or a trap and keep its distance. If it smells us…”

“What can one wolf do against a pack that size—even a huge one?”

Eric merely smirked.

A moment later, the hounds attacked, trusting in their superior numbers. The great wolf seemed to have been waiting for exactly that. Its jaws snapped several times, and two of the boldest dogs dropped to the ground. The rest hesitated.

Then the wolf rose onto its hind legs and charged the pack.

Maniva gasped loudly enough to make the werewolf turn toward them.

The hounds attacked as one. Howls, yelps, and snarls merged into a savage cacophony.

The dogs managed to drag the creature down, and one nearly closed its jaws around the werewolf’s throat.

Nearly.

The wolf fought both as a beast and as a man, and that gave it an undeniable advantage. Throwing the enormous wolfhound from its body, the werewolf broke the dog’s neck with a single wrench of its forelimbs—arms or paws—and then kicked two more aside.

Eric turned to Maniva and whispered almost directly into her ear.

“That is a werewolf—a Gwendal. If it charges us, promise you will run straight for the river. You said you were a strong swimmer.”

Maniva nodded.

“Then dive in and swim to the other side. Do not look back and do not stop, no matter what happens. Werewolves are afraid of water. Understand?”

She nodded again, though her heart sank. In truth, she could barely keep herself afloat, but she was too frightened to tell him.

“What about you?”

“The battle will reveal the plan. I don’t know how the Claw will behave. I have never fought a two-faced one before.”

Maniva held her breath, afraid the slightest sound might draw the predator’s attention again. She felt the healer tense beside her, gripping his dagger, and suddenly she was warm and calm. She wanted to press her entire body against him—not as she had at the inn. This was different.

She knew in her heart that this northerner would fight anyone for her. And for his sake, she would throw herself into the river and swim simply because she had promised. Resolve filled her small heart with courage.

Having finished with the hounds, the wolf rose onto its hind legs and looked once more toward the bush where Eric and Maniva hid.

“When I shout, run.” The northerner’s voice was commanding again, allowing no argument.

The wolf bared its teeth and flattened its ears. Eric stood to his full height.

“Easy, Gray One! I am no enemy of yours, but I will not surrender one of my own without a fight!” the Norseman shouted, raising the hand that held his dagger.

The strange steel appeared woven from myriad strands of impossibly fine wire and gleamed with a blue cast.

The wolf crouched to spring, judging the moment of attack and the time it would need to cross the distance.

Then a hunting horn sounded close by.

The beast howled as though uttering a battle cry, dropped to all fours, and bounded away.

Eric disappeared behind the bushes.

Moments later, cavalry burst from the forest—a war band of twenty lances, perhaps thirty—and thundered after the beast.

Once the hoofbeats had faded and the dust raised by the hunters settled, Eric spread out the blanket and bit into the sausage as though nothing had happened.

Maniva followed his example.

The ordeal had left her shaking as if with fever. She wanted to laugh and cry at once. To master the storm inside her, she sank her teeth into the sausage.

“You are no coward. That is good. But next time, do as I tell you,” the healer grumbled, brushing crumbs from his beard. “I said, When I shout, run.”

Maniva felt ashamed.

“I can’t swim. Not really. I can barely keep myself above water.” She took another bite to keep from blurting out anything else.

The sausage had an unfamiliar yet wonderful flavor. Maniva bit off an enormous piece and chewed, savoring the moment. A strange feeling filled her heart: the joy of being alive, the happiness of a survivor, and the dignity of an honest person all swept over her at once.

“Good?”

“Vewy. Wha’ kind of food is this? Never tasted anyfing so good,” she mumbled around her mouthful.

“I’ll teach you to make it. It isn’t difficult.” Eric smiled. “How are you? Were you badly frightened?”

“Not with you.”

“Swallow first. There is no hurry. Talking with your mouth full is dangerous—you could choke.” He sighed. “A shame about the horse. We’ll have to walk now.”

Maniva swallowed before taking another bite.

“That’s all right. We’ll buy one in Wingrod. You said it wasn’t far.”

“We cannot. First, the pass has been ruined. Second, no one will be admitted until the king returns from the hunt.”

“You knew we couldn’t enter Wingrod, so you spread the pass beneath us like a tablecloth? But how? Who are you?”

“That is not important right now. We still cannot remain here. We have to move on.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere far from here. If I remember correctly, these meadows will be drenched in blood in about two hours.”

“How can you remember something that hasn’t happened yet?” Maniva was growing angry. She disliked the way the healer withheld what he knew.

“I have read the prophecies.”

“You really are a sorcerer.” Maniva snatched up the salt and flung it into Eric’s face.

He swore. Maniva covered her face with both hands, a reflex beaten into her during her years in the brothel. But the blow that usually put a harbor whore back in her place never came.

She lowered her hands and cautiously opened her eyes.

The northerner sat opposite her, smiling just as he had in that little room. The strange sensation began stirring inside her once more, as though a swarm of butterflies had suddenly taken wing in her belly.

“You know, sometimes I regret that I am not,” Eric said. He brushed himself off, trying to gather the scattered crystals into a pile on his enormous palm.

The sight touched her, and her fear disappeared.

“I’m sorry…”

“Salt is dearer than gold in these lands,” the northerner grumbled. “We’ll have to go around Eridan, though the road through it would have been shortest.”

“So where do we go now?”

“Ostos is our only choice. I can hardly present you to Asmodeus dressed like this. We need to find suitable clothing, and the only decent market in the neighboring worlds is in Ostos. We could visit the Magmars, of course, but the minotaurs are in rut there, and the food is completely unsalted. So Ostos is best.”

The girl did not dare ask any more questions. Every answer only produced several new ones. One thing, at least, was clear: they were going to a market or a fair.

Chapter Five: Ostos

The sun had passed its zenith and the day had tipped into afternoon, though it was difficult to be more precise. The sun was already running homeward, down toward the rim of the horizon. The dome of the sky was far bluer here than Maniva was accustomed to, and a light breeze herded flocks of snow-white clouds across it.

The river fled toward the horizon like a ribbon of polished sapphire, vanishing among open fields framed by small groves. Maniva felt as though an eternity had passed since she left the brothel, and that she and Eric had been trudging on foot for just as long. The sun insisted otherwise.

She had never considered herself weak. She had walked everywhere all her life. Yet now she felt exhausted and battered.

“How much farther?” Maniva rasped.

Eric looked back.

“We can stop if you like. We still have some cheese and blood sausage. Not much, certainly, but enough to quiet our stomachs. Hunting is out of the question. The woods are full of game, but these are royal lands, and we cannot afford trouble with Trumvel’s guard. Besides, dressing a carcass would take two hours. Then a fire and cooking. We would lose half a day. By then, we could already be in Ostos.”

“Isn’t there a faster way? A village might have a horse and cart. You gave me money. It should be enough.” She offered him the purse.

“A farm mare would never survive this journey. I’m not even certain that knight’s mount could have managed it. Whichever way you turn it, all things happen for the best.” The northerner smiled.

“How could a horse fail to survive a road?” Maniva asked, wondering yet again whether something was wrong with Eric’s mind.

“You believe that is still the Belgeste?” He pointed at the river.

“Of course.” She stared at him, though unease began writhing in her soul.

“It is the Turben now. That”—he gestured toward the forest—“is the Krumbel. And over there”—the healer swept one hand eastward—“the Keepers’ Tower stands among the Fields.”

Maniva followed his hand. To her astonishment, the outlines of buildings and the spire of a tower shimmered in the distance.

“How do you know that? How did we get here? The river never left our sight. What is happening?”

“What kind of forest grew along the banks of the Belgeste?” the healer asked with a smile.

“Oaks, just like Saxony.” She answered without thinking.

“Correct. And here?” Eric smiled mysteriously again.

Maniva nearly gasped as she peered into the distance. A pine forest stood beyond the river, its enormous trees reaching toward the clouds as they fought one another for a place beneath the sun.

“That is impossible.” She regarded Eric warily once more. “Where have you brought me—and why?”

The healer sat upon an enormous boulder beside the trade road, which was paved with cobbles and river stones.

“A road is a road in every world. The same is true of rivers and forests. Your mind will not accept a sudden transformation. Neither you nor even I can close our eyes in a forest and step directly into a jungle or a desert.”

“What are jungles and deserts?” The innocence in her gaze stirred strings in the northerner’s soul that had long been silent.

“It does not matter. What matters is that we cannot step directly onto a mountaintop or into the sands. Our minds would reject it. That is why the journey always takes time. Do you remember what you felt while running from the harbor town?”

“Hmm.” The girl rubbed her forehead as she searched her memory. “I wanted open space and freedom. I never wanted to see that miserable gray wall again, never smell the endless reek of fish, pig shit, and stale drink.” The last memory made her shudder.

“You exchanged the town and its walls for the forests of Wingrod. That is how you entered another reality. Then I changed the forest bordering the river, and here we are. Next I would alter the horizon, paint in mountains, replace the pines with plane trees and acacias, and voilà—no longer the wall of Karnogod, but the bastions of Ostos. I do not know how else to explain it.”

The man cut a generous piece of sausage, laid it on a slice of bread, and handed it to her. While she ate, he began carving the cheese into thin slices.

“I learned this in Ember. One of its princes revealed the secret to me. I have wandered from world to world ever since. Even for me, changing too many things at once is difficult. Though…” Eric considered her. “If you can imagine a white, blazing sun and a haze of heat above a stone road—if you can remember the stifling air of a bathhouse—I can complete the rest. We may reach Ostos much sooner.”

The girl laughed soundlessly. “You mean that if I picture all of that in my mind, then we…”

“You understand correctly. Close your eyes and try.”

She obeyed.

Maniva remembered the heat of the bathhouse on Thursdays, when she and the other girls were forced to pleasure the local governor. The shimmering heat was easier. It visited her dreams during the long, cold northern nights: scorching air and a merciless white sun.

She remembered nothing of her life before the shipwreck, yet those dreams had always followed her.

Maniva squeezed her eyes shut with all her strength and summoned the image: heat shimmering above a road, the white sun cruel and searing.

When she opened her eyes, a hot gust of sand-laden wind struck her face.

The river still carried its waters into the distance, but poplars and plane trees had replaced the pines. The grass beneath her feet had yellowed and withered. Stones heated by the long summer day made the air quiver above the largest boulders.

Her gaze returned to Eric, then traveled beyond him along the river. At its bend, a city of snow-white stone now rose before them.

Maniva lifted one hand and pointed toward the wharf, asking a silent question.

The northerner answered as though nothing remarkable had occurred.

“That is Ostos, City of the Seven Trade Routes. That is where we are going.”

Chapter Six: New Clothes

The stalls of Ostos groaned beneath their wares. There seemed no end to the wonders on display, from exotic fruits that might have been gathered in the gardens of Eden to exquisitely wrought masterpieces of the artisan’s craft.

Maniva gazed at everything in delight and sampled every fruit and sweet offered to her, while the healer grumbled without pause.

“Keep gobbling samples and you won’t be able to eat supper. And where am I supposed to find breakfast for you on the road? Come along.”

The northerner was forever dragging her away—sometimes by the elbow, sometimes by the scruff of her neck—from mountains of persimmons and peaches, apples and pears.

“Smell it!” the girl breathed in rapture as she examined a fig. “And what are these berries?”

“Try one, honored lady. I charge nothing for a taste. Not a strawberry—half sugar, half honey. If you like them, I’ll give you a discount,” another vendor coaxed, until the stern gaze of Eric’s blue eyes stopped the flow of words.

The bazaar blazed with variety. The competing cries of hawkers blended into a strange melody.

The market itself was divided into several sections. At the entrance, peasants sold produce beneath the open sky directly from carts and wagons. Farther on, visiting merchants and traders from distant lands worked beneath rows of makeshift awnings. Beyond them, where the bazaar met the street of craftsmen and artisans, local masters sold their creations directly through the windows of their homes and workshops.

Eric moved confidently through the clamoring crowd toward the artisans’ quarter. The slight, blue-eyed girl with silver hair could barely keep pace.

Then her gaze fell upon a strange fruit armored in brown scales, with bright yellow flesh and a divine fragrance, and she nearly lost sight of him. Fortunately, Eric looked back in time and returned to the stall.

“That is a pineapple, a fruit from the shores of Afrikania,” the Viking said, taking her by the elbow again. “Food fit for the gods when it is ripe. Come. We will settle the matter of your clothes and have supper. By evening the crowds will thin, the merchants will be far more accommodating, and the prices kinder.”

Maniva tore her gaze from the marvel and looked up at him.

“These fruits are expensive. I promise you will taste one today, but there is no reason to overpay. The foreign traders do business around the clock. Seamstresses and craftsmen close at sunset.”

The girl nodded and stepped away from the stall.

They passed carpets, melons, and watermelons. Maniva studied clay pots and chased-metal lamps with equal fascination. When they reached the butcher’s rows, where sellers lazily swatted wasps from meat hanging on hooks, she stopped dead, eyes wide.

“What is it? Did someone steal your purse?” the Norseman began.

She shook her head.

“What happened?” Eric was genuinely alarmed now.

“I feel as though I’ve been here before—or somewhere very much like it.”

Eric exhaled in relief.

“An eastern bazaar is difficult to forget. But our memories do not always come from the past. Sometimes they come from the future. How do you think all those prophecies and predictions are written?”

“I don’t know. What is written?”

“Come. I’ll explain as we walk.”

Eric took her hand and led her deeper into the trading rows.

By the time weapons and armor appeared upon the stalls, the crush of bodies had almost vanished.

“Now we can talk without risking further damage to your voice. Do you truly not know how to read?”

“I don’t even know what it is. But if you show me, I’ll learn quickly. An Arab once showed me the riding position, and I did it almost perfectly the first time.” Her eyes shone with eagerness to impress him.

The northerner scratched the back of his head.

“Far to the south, where summer lasts all year, there is a country whose people invented special marks for recording sounds. Letters.”

Maniva stared at him without understanding.

“Like runes, only for people. Ordinary people—not sorcerers, mages, or wizards. The marks can be placed together to form words. Those words can be written down and read again later.”

“Why would anyone need that? You can simply speak.”

Eric stroked his beard.

“Suppose we were far apart and I needed to tell you something. I could write it and tie the message to a carrier bird. It would fly to you, and you could hear my words from hundreds or thousands of leagues away.”

“But what does that have to do with my remembering this place? For example, if that is veal”—she pointed toward the butcher’s stall, then raised her hand toward a cluster of tents—“there should be a game seller around that corner.”

“Memory is a remarkable thing.”

“I can’t remember something I have never seen.”

“Things belonging to the same world synchronize.”