Fable: Edge of the World

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.

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 all 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.