Fable: Edge of the World by Christie Golden Page B

on the dagger that he kept constantly at his side. A strangled “Dammit, it’s me! Ben!” reached his ears just in time to stay the blade.
    “Ben? What the bloody—”
    The king released him at once, and saw that Ben had not come alone. With him was the lovely young lead dancer. She looked scared, and Ben looked furious.
    “I’ve been—er, talking with Shalia here. She’s old Pahket’s daughter. She told me that we’re all in danger. We need to go now.”
    “What? What’s going on?”
    “I am ashamed,” Shalia said. “Two years ago, the sand furies came to us. They threatened to murder the whole town unlesswe tricked all those who came to trade or buy. We would sell them goods and—”
    “We were going to be killed in our sleep,” said Ben.
    “Sounds like this has been going on for a while,” the king said. “What made you change your mind and try to save our lives, Shalia?”
    She glanced down, and even in the dim lantern light he could see her blushing furiously. Few actresses were accomplished enough to do that at will, and the king realized that Ben Finn’s charms had entranced yet another young female.
    “Well, thank goodness for your sex appeal, Ben,” the king said, getting to his feet. He threw on his clothes and grabbed his sword. “Thank you, Shalia,” he said. “Go wake Kalin and Shan. But be quiet. We don’t want them to know that we’re on to—”
    Howls rent the night, ululating cries that raised the hairs on the back of the king’s arms. The noise was closely followed by that of gunfire.
    “Too late,” Ben said, and they charged out of the tent.
    The fires had died down, and the only light was moonlight. Even so, it was enough to see what was going on. The king’s men were engaged in hand-to-hand combat with several of the villagers. Many of both had fallen, some of them writhing in pain, others too still.
    Dark forms could vaguely be seen, like something glimpsed out of the corner of one’s eye. Sand furies—bandits of the desert. The king knew them well. Their dark clothing served them even better at night, but the king’s army was well trained. There were only a hundred or so villagers, and the army numbered in the thousands. Even with an entire tribe of sand furies thrown into the mix, the fight would go to the king.
    He and Ben sprang into the fray. The king wielded his sword with devastating speed, the blade clashing against the scimitarof one sand fury. He shoved hard and the bandit staggered back. Two others charged him. With the skill and strength of a true Hero, the king whirled in a circle, lopping off the head of one attacker, slicing a furrow through a second, and completing the move to impale the first who had charged him.
    He caught his breath, looking around. His gaze fell on the supply carts. He saw movement, and realized that one of the villagers was stealing water gourds. The king raced toward the thief, quickly ascertaining that the man had no weapon. He lifted his sword and brought the hilt down on the back of the man’s head. The robber fell silently, the gourds tumbling down next to him. Sensing a presence behind him, the king turned, bringing the sword around quickly in a blur. It caught the attacker, his sword raised to cleave the king in two, across the midsection. The sand fury fell to the ground, blood spurting. In a mercy blow, the king lifted the sword, drove it straight down into the man’s heart, and looked around for more foes. There were only a few left fighting; apparently the sand furies and the villagers realized how badly they were outnumbered and had fled. Even as the king hurried up to offer his aid, the last of the combatants turned and slipped into the night.
    “That’s got ’em!” said Ben. “So, how bad was it?”
    The king looked around. Most of the bodies stiffening on the ground were clad in either the long white desert robes of the villagers or the black tunic and trousers of the sand furies. “Looks like there are only