Fable: Edge of the World is a work of fiction.
Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A Del Rey eBook Edition
Copyright © 2012 Microsoft Corporation.
All Rights Reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
MICROSOFT, FABLE, LIONHEAD, the Lionhead logo, XBOX, and the Xbox logo are registered trademarks or trademarks of Microsoft Corporation in the United States and/or other countries and are used under license from Microsoft.
eISBN: 978-0-345-53941-0
www.delreybooks.com
www.lionhead.com
Cover design: Dreu Pennington-McNeil
Cover illustration: © Scott Fischer
v3.1
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my tireless and encouraging editor, Frank Parisi, and the good Lionhead folks Ted Timmins, Ben Brooks, and Gareth Sutcliffe for their enthusiastic support. You all helped make my first venture into Albion a great deal of fun.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Epilogue
Dedication
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
Prologue
The sun was setting, and Gabriel was comfortably tired. He made sure that his horse and friend Seren, who had pulled his caravan for many a year, was well tended before heading off to share supper with his fellow Dwellers.
It was, as most such gatherings were, lively and full of laughter and conversation. Yet Gabriel, a youth in his late teens whose arms and legs seemed a bit long for his body, did not join in. His thoughts were full of things other than weather, horses, customers, and the practicalities that occupied the minds of most other Dwellers.
Gabriel’s thoughts, as they often did, concerned Heroes.
A tiny hand squeezed his knee as he sat a little ways away from the firelight and music. He looked down into the small faces of Peter and Anna, twins who were about six years old. They gave him conspiratorial grins.
“Gabriel,” Peter said, “can you tell us more about Heroes?”
“Oh, please, please!” begged Anna, jumping up and down a little bit. “I want to hear about the old king and his beautiful queen!”
“Well,” Gabriel said, “if you’re very quiet, then yes.”
“Hooray!” said Peter, who then covered his mouth at Gabriel’s glare.
“That wasn’t quiet.”
“I know,” whispered Peter.
Gabriel looked over to see if his friend and mentor Katlan had noticed. The outgoing youth was talking and laughing with some of the other tribe members.
“Well,” said Gabriel, “do you remember what I told you about Heroes last time?”
“I do!” said Anna. “Heroes are special people in Albion. They have three kinds of abilities—Strength, Skill, and Will.”
“Strength and Skill are pretty obvious, right?” The two children nodded. “Tell me about Will.”
“The first Hero we know about was William Black,” said Peter. “He saved Albion a long time ago by using magical abilities, which we call the Powers of Will.”
“Very good. You’ve both been paying attention.” Gabriel smiled as he saw three more children creeping up to listen. “And of course, it’s very common for a Hero to master all three of these things.”
“No it isn’t, silly,” piped up Gerald. “Only a couple of Heroes can do that!”
“And what makes them so rare?” Gabriel prompted. Gerald’s brow furrowed as he seriously pondered the question. Anna stuck her hand up, but Gabriel waved her to silence. “Oh! Because they belong to the Archon’s bloodline. Only true descendants of the bloodline can master all three things.”
“Very good,” said Gabriel, though he felt a pang. He was hardly a descendant of the Archon. He knew he could never be a Hero. Still … it was fun to dream.
“Penny,” he said to one of the girls in back, “all Heroes are always good and helpful, aren’t they?” Penny shyly shook her dark head but offered nothing more.
“No, of course not!” know-it-all Anna scoffed. “Our old king was a true Hero, and he was very, very good. But Mr. Reaver was the Hero of Skill, and he’s very, very bad!”
“Gabriel!”
Gabriel started guiltily as he looked over at Katlan, who stood glaring at him, arms crossed. “Little ones,” he said, gentling his tone, “go back to the firelight with your families. There will be singing soon.”
The children cast sidelong glances at Gabriel, then did as they were told. Katlan sighed and sat next to Gabriel. The two were old friends, but recently, Katlan had been named leader of the Dweller tribe to which they both belonged. With that responsibility had come Katlan’s increasing concern over what he called “Gabriel’s daydreaming.”
“You shouldn’t be talking about such things.”
“Our king was a Hero, Katlan,” Gabriel said in a low voice.
“That’s all well and good, but that was a long time ago. Talking about Reaver like that could get us in trouble if it gets back to him. He’s a very powerful man.”
“Because he was a H—”
“Because he has money and a lot of political clout!” Katlan interrupted sharply. “Look. I don’t know who was a Hero and who wasn’t. And it doesn’t matter, not these days. What matters is that you’re never going to be a Hero, nor are those children. So stop filling their heads with nonsense. And stop filling your own with it too, eh?” He grinned and squeezed his friend’s shoulder, then rose and went back to the ring of firelight.
Gabriel watched him go. He would stay silent to the children. But he would never stop daydreaming about Heroes.
Forty years ago, in the Land of Albion, a king ruled wisely and well.…
The sound of shrieks issuing from unnatural voices filled the icy wind. Snow assaulted bodies as the cacophony assaulted ears. Most of the refugees were dead by now, victims of avalanche, exposure, or things far, far worse. Only a handful remained: a handful of the two dozen who had fled Samarkand—was it only three days ago?
Shan blinked eyelashes long since frozen and encrusted with ice, trying to clear his vision as he climbed hand over hand. His father had died early, at the hands—claws?—of the things that followed them. Shan shuddered and blotted out the memory. His little sister had been too weak to go on, and they were forced to leave her behind. Both his mother and infant brother had died even before they left the city of Zahadar. Shan and his older sister, Lin, were all that remained of his family.
The thick furs wrapped about body, feet, hands, and heads weren’t enough to keep out the snow that attacked like bullets of frozen water. Most of the rations they had al
l so carefully packed had been abandoned early on, the extra weight proving too great. What remained wasn’t enough to sustain them. The picks and tools weren’t enough to carry them forward. The guns and other weapons they had brought weren’t enough to protect them. Nothing would have been enough for anything, not over the Sakur Pass. There was a reason that the pass had never been crossed in living memory, even in the bright warmth of summer. To do so now, in midwinter, was to die.
But to have stayed would have been worse.
The howling still filled the air, but it had changed, subtly, and Lin, climbing steadfastly beside him, whimpered.
“The sha—” she began.
“Be quiet!” Shan snapped, his voice raw with exhaustion and terror. He didn’t even care how he sounded. The things in pursuit of them—and she who directed them—were all that mattered.
He breathed in air that was frigid even through the wrapping that covered all of his face but his eyes. His muscles quivered as he continued to slog forward, using the ice pick for better purchase. There was no energy to spare for comforting his sister, not if either of them was to survive.
Six others climbed in grim, terrified silence and agonizing slowness alongside Shan and Lin. No one helped anyone else, not anymore. Now, no one had strength to spare for anything but his own survival. At least it was still daylight. Before, they had been fortunate enough at night to find shelter of some sort, be it a cluster of pines, a cave, or even a sheer rock face that prevented attacks from at least one direction. More precious than food or even furs was the oil that kept the darkness—both natural and unnatural—at bay for those soul-racking hours.
Shan’s numb fingers managed to find a ledge. He tried to pull himself up. He couldn’t. His muscles were too cold, too weak, too starved, and all they did was quiver uselessly. A second effort, a third, and this time panic flooded him and with a growl of sheer will he hauled himself over the edge and lay there, shaking and gasping.
“Shan!” cried Lin. He forced himself to roll over and reach out to his sister’s grasping hand, bracing his feet against a rock outcropping. His fingers were so numb, he couldn’t really even feel her hand clutching his.
“Come on, Lin, you can do this! There are footholds that can help you! Try to find them!”
She turned up a face wrapped in protective furs. The only thing Shan could see were her soft brown eyes huge with fear.
“I can’t feel anything with my feet!” she cried. “Shan, please! Help me!”
Tears stung his eyes only to freeze as they tried to slip down his face. He braced himself more securely, willed his legs to stay firm, and pulled with all his might.
Her mittens came loose. He heard her shriek even over the howling wind, over the cries of the things that were hunting them, and heard his own scream of horror as he watched her tumble back down.
I have to get her. I have to climb down and get her. She’s all I have left. Lin …!
He managed to roll over onto his side before unconsciousness claimed him.
Shan awoke to the comforting warmth and, almost more important, the orange light of the torches. Someone had propped his head up and was trying to feed him some thin broth. Disoriented, Shan sipped hungrily for a moment, then memory returned like a thunderclap.
“L-Lin!”
“Easy, Shan,” said Kuvar. “It’s too late for Lin. She died hours ago. Don’t follow her.”
Shan closed his eyes in pain. He had been too weak to go back for his sister, and no one else had done so. He couldn’t blame them. He had had to suspend judgment about others’ choices days ago. It was a marvel that he himself hadn’t been tossed over the edge, much less be offered food and shelter. He would be on his own on the morrow, though; that much he knew.
“How?” was all he could manage.
“The cold,” Kuvar replied. Shan nodded, relieved. Better to freeze to death than to be injured and die in pain, or attacked by—
The Shadows rose up, just beyond the ring of firelight. Shan stumbled to his feet, forcing his fumbling hands to grasp the pistol, which he fired into the lurching, dancing shapes. Numb fingers struggled to reload while others charged forward, their katanas flashing in the torchlight. The black shapes with gleaming red eyes pressed in from all sides, even from above; the firelight, and the weapons wielded by the refugees, were all that was keeping the fiends from utterly wiping out the party. The Shadows moaned and cackled, and occasionally, gratifyingly, screamed in what sounded like annoyance as they died.
They had never before pressed their attack at night. Always, they had terrorized from a safe distance, an arm or a wing occasionally venturing into the light in a threatening manner before being quickly withdrawn. But now—now they fell upon the refugees as if done with toying with them and intent upon ending the game.
A scream to his right. Kuvar dropped his katana, his hands reaching up to clasp at the black, translucent tentacles that were wrapping around his throat. They squeezed, and Shan stared, frozen not with cold, not this time, but with horror as he watched Kuvar’s tongue bulge and his eyes pop.
He felt a sudden iciness that had nothing to do with the natural elements brush against his face. He whirled, screaming incoherently, and fired.
Click. Click.
The Shadow laughed.
Using energy he didn’t know he had, Shan dove for Kuvar’s abandoned katana. He rolled as he hit the stone ledge and slashed out with the elegant sword; the Shadow that was reaching for him howled in pain. Heartened, Shan got to his feet, wielding the weapon not with any kind of expertise but with the sheer desperation of survival. All around him the sounds of battle raged. He swung the sword wildly, sometimes cutting air, sometimes cutting something else, too crazed to even realize what he was doing.
And then he became aware of the silence. His own heartbeat a drumbeat in his ears, his panting ragged and loud. He looked around, keeping his weapon in front of him, and realized that he was the last one standing.
Six bodies lay at his feet. They looked like discarded dolls, their limbs bent at odd angles, their faces bloated and locked in expressions of horror.
Shan looked up at the hovering Shadows. Suddenly anger filled him. “What are you waiting for?” he shouted.
The lassst one. It was barely audible, and for a moment Shan was convinced he had imagined it.
Yessss, another whisper agreed. We have a purposssse for thissss one.
Shan had thought he had tasted the depth of terror. But now he dropped to his knees. Any “purpose” they had in store for him had to be the most—
He suddenly turned the katana around, placing its point at his midsection. But before he could plunge the elegant blade home to prevent their doing whatever they had in mind for him, a black tendril snatched the sword from his hands.
Be at eassse, one of them said in a mocking tone. You shall live, Shan of Ssssamarkand.
“Wh-what do you want?” Shan said. He was mortified that he was sobbing but could not control it.
You will ssscale the mountains, if you are sssstrong enough. We will not hinder you. If you ssssurvive, then we have a messsssage to give to Ssssabine of the Dwellerssss.
“What?”
Tell him … and they began to laugh.
“What!” screamed Shan, feeling insanity hovering at the edges of his mind.
We are coming.
Chapter One
“My lord, if I may?”
Jasper’s voice was slightly high-pitched and filled with suffering so long tolerated that it was no longer even felt. In other words, he sounded completely normal.
The monarch looked into the mirror as he fiddled with his crown. The cursed thing never seemed to fit correctly on his head. His eyes met Jasper’s in the mirror and he nodded.
“Please. And if you can do anything that makes this ermine stole feel less as if it’s made of armor, I’d be grateful for that too.”
“Alas,” said Jasper as he stepped beside the young king he had tended since the mo
narch’s birth, “while it is indeed in actuality merely the weight of two stuffed minklike creatures, I can sympathize with the symbolic weight it places on Your Majesty’s shoulders.”
“It’s the crown, not the wedding outfit, that has the symbolic weight,” the king shot back good-naturedly. “I can’t wait for the ceremony.”
“Then may I say that Your Majesty is among the very, very fortunate few,” noted Jasper.
The king chuckled. “It’s nice to have you back, Jasper.”
Jasper, once the king’s butler, had spent the last few years serving in a different capacity. He was now the steward of a magical, and quite secret, Sanctuary. Established by the late king, the Sanctuary was the present king’s birthright as he was both the son of a Hero of Albion and a Hero himself. When the then-prince, sickened by his older brother Logan’s cruelty to his own people, had chosen to lead a rebellion to take the crown, the loyal if acerbic Jasper had fled with the future king and Sir Walter Beck. Together, the three had found the Sanctuary, which had served as a sort of headquarters for the rebellion. Once Logan had been overthrown, Jasper had remained there, continuing to probe the mysteries of the place.
But for this occasion—a royal wedding—he had been recalled to his old duties. And while he attempted to appear much put-upon, the monarch knew Jasper well enough to realize that the old butler was secretly quite pleased.
So, for that matter, was the king himself—and, he dared believe, his entire kingdom. Nine years had passed since the monarch had stood against both his brother and the darkness that had threatened to wipe out all of Albion. The king had not been quoting a cliché when he spoke of the symbolic weight of the crown. His days gathering followers and fighting hobbes, balverines, and the occasional gap-toothed bandit seemed like a stroll in the garden compared to the very gray duties of ruling a kingdom. He had made choices he was proud of, and some he was not, and not one of them had been clear or simple. More lives had been lost than he would have wanted, but in the end, his people were now safe, happy, and well on their way to regaining prosperity without having to make deals with the devil.
Fable: Edge of the World Page 1