Fable: Edge of the World (2 page)

“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a safe distance, an arm or a wing occasionally venturing into the light in a threatening manner before being quickly withdrawn.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
.

“M
y 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 monarch’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.

Speaking of devils …

“No whispers of Reaver returning?” he asked of Jasper, who
seemed to know everything about everyone. “It’d be just like him to try to spoil today.”

“I can honestly say that I have not heard a breath of Mr. Reaver’s whereabouts, and I am buoyant with delight at the fact.”

“Ben Finn’s just gotten back from wandering about, and Page’s network hasn’t heard anything either,” the king said. “We may just have gotten lucky.”

“I would touch wood when you say that, Your Majesty. Repeatedly.”

The king grinned. He glanced down at the other “old friend” who sat patiently at his feet, as he had done for over a decade. His border collie, Rex, had been a faithful ally on the long road to rule. Now that he was growing old, he slept more than he played, but was still alert and healthy. Rex’s eyes were fixed on his master, and he barked happily as he saw the king smile.

“Good dog,” said the king. “The best dog ever.”

Rex pranced a little at the praise, then sat down attentively. The king surveyed his reflection in the mirror and liked what he saw. Like Rex, he too was older, and time had begun to make its presence noticed in the crinkles around his brown eyes and the occasional thread of silver in his hair. His face was still strong and, if the blushing and giggling ladies of the court were to be believed, handsome. But he didn’t care what they thought. There was only one woman whose opinion mattered, and today, she would become his queen and his life’s companion.

“You do look happy, Your Majesty,” said Jasper, and there was an unusual hint of warmth and pride in his voice.

The monarch turned from the mirror. “I am, Jasper. My kingdom is content and growing, we are at peace, trade with Aurora is good, and I am about to be wed to the most wonderful girl in the world. And,” he added, whispering conspiratorially, “I’ll be happier still tonight.”

“One should hope so, Your Majesty.”

Chuckling slightly, the monarch clapped his old friend on the shoulder. “Let’s go. Can’t keep the love of my life waiting.”

Rex trotted after them, tail waving, as the king and his butler left the room.

The throne room was exquisite testimony to the majesty of the castle’s design. Stairs covered with rich blue carpeting led up to a raised dais, upon which the throne itself was seated. The walls were lined with portraits of former royalty, and the whole was illumined by colorful light filtered through three stained-glass windows. The room’s formality had been gentled through the use of flowers adorning the walls and fixtures, and a white canopy that draped from the ceiling. The throne was still present but had been moved back slightly to make room for a small table presided over by an elderly robed woman. All the guests had arrived and were chatting quietly among themselves. Over to the right, a quartet played.

A slender blond man stood by the door, peering into the room and fidgeting as the king and Jasper approached. The king grinned as the young man tugged on a collar that was apparently too tight. Even from behind, Benjamin Finn looked quite out of his element. As indeed he was. Finn, who had been one of many who had helped the monarch claim the throne, came from common roots and had spent most of his life as either a soldier or a mercenary. Nonetheless, the king knew the man’s worth. Finn was brave if a little reckless, and a master sharpshooter, and the king appreciated his wit and rather tall tales. Despite his devil-may-care attitude, Ben Finn had a great heart.

“You look so anxious, one might think you were the one to be
married today,” the king said casually. Ben started, then glared at him.

“Crikey, don’t
do
that. I’m likely to drop the rings, and it’d be all your fault.”

“No, no, my best man would never do that, not if he doesn’t want to start posing for ‘Wanted’ posters again.”

“Too right,” Ben muttered, but the king noticed nonetheless that the soldier put his hand in his pocket with an overly casual movement, making sure the rings were still there. As he did so, he glanced up at his friend and liege.

“Thank you again for the honor. I know that there would have been someone else you’d have picked if you’d had the chance though—and I would have cheered it.”

The king sobered. Ben was right. One very important man was missing on this special day—his friend and weapons tutor, Sir Walter Beck. It had been Walter who had guided the then-prince on his quest, from that night when he, Beck, and Jasper had fled the castle, up until Walter’s tragic demise. While Captain Jack Timmins had taken over Walter’s role in things martial, no one had ever been as loyal as the knight, and the king knew he would never have quite that same kind of bond with anyone again.

“Walter would have been very happy today, wouldn’t he?” the king said quietly.

“Your Majesty—wherever he is, I suspect he
is
happy.”

The king nodded and took a breath. Ben was right. Walter was the last person who would have wished to cast any pall over his king’s wedding day, and so, the king would not let that happen.

“Ready, sir?” asked Ben.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure? Because you know, you’re the king; if you don’t
want to go through with it, if you’re getting cold feet or anything like that—there’s no one who’s going to force you to do it, now, is there?”

“You’re babbling, Ben.”

“Oh. I am, aren’t I?”

“Come on. Let’s go.”

As they walked in, Rex trotting behind his master, they saw many familiar faces. Sitting in the area reserved for special guests of the kingdom were two others who looked as out of place as Ben clearly felt. One was an extraordinarily large and powerfully built man with a long, curling black mustache. He wore a thick-brimmed hat and his wide leather belt was adorned with a skull and crossbones. To look at him, no one would guess that he had a soft spot a mile wide for animals. This was Boulder, the taciturn bodyguard of King Sabine of the Mistpeak Dwellers.

Sabine was as different from Boulder as could be imagined. Little more than half the big man’s size, he could best be described with words like “knobby” and “spry.” His beard was as pointed as his hat and his strange, upturned shoes. Propped up beside him as he sat was a staff that his gnarled hands gripped tightly. Affixed to the top of the staff was a purple bottle that served Sabine as a pipe. Smoke usually rose from its opening as Sabine puffed away on a long stem, but for the occasion, the Dweller leader had grudgingly agreed not to smoke.

The Dwellers had been the king’s first allies and had remained loyal friends. It was quite a trek from Mistpeak to Bowerstone, and the monarch was pleased to see that the cranky old man had made the journey.

Another who had made an even longer journey was the exotic Auroran leader, Kalin. Her only concession to the cold climate of Albion in winter was a cloak currently folded in her lap. Otherwise, her body and garb proclaimed her origins proudly,
from her shaved and tattooed head and arms to her green, gold, and red robes. She was here not only as a true ally but as a countrywoman of the bride-to-be. Indeed, Kalin had been the one to introduce the couple. Kalin caught the king’s eye and gave him a sweet, fond smile. He returned it, then turned his attention to the front of the room as he and Ben walked up the stairs and stood on the priestess’s left. As it had been important to his fiancée to have the wedding performed in the traditional manner of her people, the elderly and wise Priestess Mara had accompanied Kalin across the ocean to officiate.