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Prologue


    The years since the Archons’ fall have changed the face of the landscape. They left the land littered with the ruins of the Old Kingdom and untold mysteries, dangers, and wonders.

    Slowly, the land began to grow again, buildings sprouting atop the old rubble and the people ignorant of what happened. But all around them were reminders of the Last Archon’s mistake, and the feeling of the Old Kingdom’s power over the land.

    What no one anticipated was the survival of the Archon’s bloodline, and the power it possessed. A bloodline that has the power to change the world and determine the fate . . .

. . . of Albion.

Chapter 1


    “You don’t have enough,” the blacksmith said to a man wearing a black tunic with red trim.

    “Look, I’m only short a few gold, an’ if I don’t get this new mace, then I can’t do m’ job,” the man replied in a rather raspy, gruff, voice. “And if I can’t do m’ job, I can’t make money to buy more weapons from yeh.”

    “I’m sorry, Sid, I can’t do it,” the old smith replied, returning to his anvil to hammer out more swords. “Still building my stock back up from the last sale. Maybe next week, eh?”

    The man in black, Sid, looked around the blacksmith’s shop, if it could even be called that. It was not even a building, lacking even a solid roof. It was more like a work area with weapons scattered on the ground. Those that were not on the ground were propped up against a fence, held up by a single plank that spanned the posts, or leaned against vegetable crates. The work area itself was just as pitiful. The display tables consisted of more flimsy vegetable crates with wood planks nailed to them. The ‘roof’ of the smithy was nothing more than old sheets held up by poles at one end, and nailed to the fence at the others. The smith’s forge consisted of a fire pit out from under the sheets, should stray embers light fire to them, and an anvil that was just barely in the sheets’ shade.

    Sid had thought about dismantling the ‘shop’ on more than one occasion over a small dispute. Alas, he could only imagine the satisfying snap of the flimsy wood under his boot. There was one important thing that stopped him, though. As this was the only smith in town, and the only one for many kilometers with no promise of running into a weapons trader, it was the only place Sid stood a decent chance of acquiring a new weapon at all.

    Yielding to the blacksmith’s stubbornness, Sid walked away, waving his hand in frustration. Old habits dying hard, Sid started immediately watching his surroundings for trouble. Across the path was the back of the tavern, where many people built makeshift houses out of whatever materials they could get their hands on. They belonged to the deepest poor of Bowerstone South who could not afford board or a house. The folks there might be a desperate lot, but none of them were in the shape to try a shake down. More likely to get shaken down themselves… Sid shook his head at the sight and continued on his way to the tavern itself.

    The musky smell of ale, oak, and people entered Sid’s nostrils upon entry. Most of the life was at the tables with the best window view, around the perimeter of the floor, with the handful in the middle mostly vacant. In the back was the bar, with large beer barrels sitting behind the large bartender sporting an equally large mustache. Halfway to the bar, against the right wall, was a well-used fireplace across from which was the staircase leading up to five rentable beds which were comfortable enough if you were not too picky.

    He carefully navigated through the unusually large crowd standing near the entrance which showed great interest in something to his right. He tried to peer over or around the wall of flesh, but eventually gave up and pressed on toward the bar.

    “Hey, Sid,” the barman happily called when the man in black entered.

    “’ey, Ted,” he said to the large man behind the counter.

    “Tonight’s probably going to be a busy night,” the barman explained.

    “What for?” Sid asked, leaning against the counter.

    “Well, we got Briar Rose visiting,” the barman noted, nodding toward the mass of bodies to the left of the door.

    “Well, that would explain the crowd,” Sid nodded. “ ’ates being crowded, but loves attention.” He gave a vexing sigh, shaking his head. “If she’s ‘ere tonight, then there goes my shot of getting a job.” Taking a seat, Sid set his head down on the bar.

    “I take it things didn’t go so well with the smith?” Ted asked.

    “Bastard wouldn’t even cut me a break ‘cause I was short a few gold.” He sat up.

    “Well, you never know. Maybe she’ll get folks thinking of doing some adventuring of their own? That might increase your chances of getting a job, right?” Ted tried.

    “Who’s going t’ even look at me when everyone’s lookin’ at ‘er? People want a ‘ero, not a lowlife mercenary.” He pointed at himself with both hands. “And I’m cheap!” He let out a sigh and rested his chin on the bar.

    “Maybe you’ll get lucky tonight,” Ted tried as he handed Sid a bottle of beer.

    “Let’s be fair, nobody wants this ugly mug.”

    The barman sighed and looked up in time to see a new face walk in. “I haven’t seen him before,” he said, nudging Sid shoulder.

    Sid sat up and looked in the direction of the door.

    The lad was not much older than himself, somewhere between a boy and man. He wore a pale tunic with blue trim down the center and a green ribbon hung from his left arm. His brown hair was still short in his youth yet he had the body of an athlete. Still, he did not have enough meat in his muscle for anyone to classify him as strong. The boy looked around at everything, absorbing his surroundings, yet did not seem to be very observant. He nearly ran into two folks standing at a table with his gawking at the walls.

    Sid turned back to Ted with a smirk. “Ted, I may be a lot of things, with a limited skill set, but I ain’t that desperate. ‘Sides,” he turned to look at the young man again, “he ain’t my type no ways. Doubt ‘e even ‘as ‘nough gold.”

    “Suit yourself,” Ted shrugged. “Don’t forget to pay for that before you leave.”

    Sid bit his lips, muffling a slight snarl as he slammed a few coins on the bar as he finished the bottle of beer, which he also slammed on the bar. “If you weren’t letting me board here, there’s many things I’d call you, Ted,” he growled, moving to be closer to the fireplace, and the action.

    “Good luck,” Ted saluted.

    Sid waved his hand at Ted as if he were swatting a fly away. He approached the lad, and in as a pleasant sound his gruff voice could muster, he greeted him. “Looking to ‘ire a swordsman?”

    The lad looked up almost jumping out of his skin when he heard Sid’s voice. He grasped his chest and sighed in relief. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You just startled me.”

    “I could see that,” Sid griped. “I practically saw your bones run outside.”

    “Again, sorry,” the boy replied. “Was just lost in thought. You were asking me something?”

    “I was asking yeh if you was in need of some extra muscle, you know, mercenary work?”

    The lad thought a moment and shook his head. “I can’t think of a reason to hire a mercenary.”

    Sid nodded, expecting as much. He looked the lad up and down. Up close, Sid saw something else about the boy besides his build. His eyes were the color of steel and piercing. He figured there was more to the boy than he was letting on. “You’re new in town aren’t yeh?”

    “That obvious?” the lad asked.

    “Just never seen yeh before and I see everyone that walks through that door.”

       “You make it seem like you’ve been here a long time for a mercenary,” the lad smirked.

            Sid scoffed. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

            “What’s your name?” the lad asked.

            “Sid,” Sid answered. “Just call me Sid.”

            “Fable,” the lad answered, extending his hand.

    “Fable?” Sid shook the lad’s hand, his face smiling yet puzzled. “What are ya, some fairytale?”

    “I think it was my great great grandfather’s name,” Fable smiled back. Seeing Sid’s doubtful look, he continued. “I didn’t believe my parents when they told me that, either.”

    “Better you than me,” Sid replied.

    “So, what does a mercenary do at a tavern when he’s not… mercenaring?”

    “Anythin’ that pays. Most o’ th’ time, be the tavern’s bouncer.”

    “Explains why you know everyone that comes in and out of the tap.”

    “It’s a job, but nothing beats smashing a few skulls in for some gold.”

    “Well, when I have the pleasure of smashing a few skulls in, I’ll let you know if I agree,” Fable smiled. He looked around the tavern before deciding to head back towards the door.

    Spying the coin purse on Fable’s belt, Sid had an idea.

    “Say,” he called, “since ye’re new in town and all, an’ I’m not bouncing anyone around yet, want the grand tour of the town?”

    “How much are you charging me?”

    “Oh, just a small fee o’ fifty gold.”

    “Fift- are you mad?” The Fable exclaimed in a hushed voice.

    “A man’s got t’ eat!” Sid replied in equal volume.

    The lad’s fingers gripped the bridge of his nose as he shook his head, slowly exhaling. “All right, make it worth my while and you’re on.”

    “Sure,” Sid happily agreed, rocking up on his toes. “Where shall we get started?”

    “I did say ‘make it worth my while’,” Fable reminded his new tour guide.

    “That you did. Just figurin’ out where t’ start.” Sid brought his hand up to his chin, tapping it with one finger. “’ow long ‘ave you been in Bowerstone?”

    “Seeing as how this is my first visit, only an hour. The Guild never really let us out and wander the countryside. The Guild Woods don’t count.”

    “You’re Guild?” Sid asked, looking at him with a slightly raised eyebrow.

    “Well, yes,” Fable shrugged.

    “Certainly don’t look like much for a ‘ero.”

    “Well, I haven’t exactly done any heroing, yet.” Fable scoffed.

    “Fair ‘nough.”

    Sid led the way out past the crowd and in front of the Tavern. He placed his hands on his hips and looked up at the afternoon sky for a moment as he took a deep breath. With a wave for Fable to follow along, he began the tour.

    The buildings of Bowerstone South were made dominantly of stone with wood trimmings, some with wood balconies. The roofs were a greyish green slate, if any color could be picked out from them at all. Sid had long maintained the theory that whoever decided on the color scheme of the place wanted to make Bowerstone South as brooding and depressive as possible, if only to make folks with any sort of money run to Bowerstone North that much more quickly.

    The large, oak city gates bore the old Albionite infinity knot carvings along its main beams. Just inside the gate stood a small stand selling tiny nick-nacks, beside which was the glowing, elliptical orb of blue light heralding the presence of a cullis gate. The gate allowed Heroes, or at least anyone with a Guild Seal, to travel great distances across Albion. Even to places beyond... if the rumors were true.

    To the left of the gate, opposite the stand, was the tailor’s shop following Albion’s tradition of selling both clothing and armor. As a bit of free advice, something Sid gave rarely, he suggested Fable get to know the place well. Anyone new to the adventuring business tended to get the snot beat out of them a time or three. Past the tailor’s, the pathway meandered between houses and shops up along the hill, splitting between the regal staircase leading to the rich North section of Bowerstone and the rest of Bowerstone South.

    The well decorated staircase to North Bowerstone led to an equally well decorated gate and a not nearly as well decorated guard. Sid told Fable that it was a region reserved for the rich and prestige. He also noted that the only way into North was to either be very important or have Lady Grey’s favoritism. As he had neither, they would be moving on.

    Beside the staircase was the infamous Tavern, across from which was the smith’s rickety workstation. Continuing along the path were more houses and a barbershop. It was said that the barbers of Albion could not only cut hair, but make it grow through a secret formula that is either washed onto the scalp or applied like a cream to the face. The recipe for the formula has been a long guarded secret among all barbers. He had doubted it for a long time, until another nonbeliever went in nearly bald and came out dragging hair behind him in a sack. The important lesson: never taunt the barbers.

    Across the path from the barbershop was an old stone archway leading to Bowerstone Quay, where the warehouses were kept and the ships docked. Fable barely had a chance to peer through the archway before Sid yanked him away, continuing up the path to the final destination of the tour.

    At the top of the hill there were only a few houses and a large schoolhouse where children played in the courtyard under a large oak tree. It was made completely of stone with the only wood being the furniture and the floor. As far as anyone knew, this was the only official school in all of Albion, even after the mayor sold off all of the school’s books to fund a building project. No one was quite sure what that was, and no one wanted to know what would happen to the first person who asked.

    Nestled just behind the school was a house for sale, though not much to look at, as it was completely vacant inside.

    “That about does it for the grand tour,” Sid proclaimed as he and Fable turned to stand atop the hill and look down across the town. The sky had turned to the evening’s shade of orange as shadows started to stretch further across the ground.

    “Lived here your whole life?” Fable asked.

    “That obvious, eh?” Sid replied.

    That managed to get a smirk out of Fable. “Maybe a little.” He let out an exhale, his hands resting on his belt, and walked back down the hill with Sid following. “I suppose I’ll retire for the night.”

    Sid gave Fable an incredulous look. “But the sun ‘asn’t even gone down, yet,” Sid stated.

    “I know.” Fable looked up at the sky for a moment. “I’m used to an early night with training and blistering my knuckles early in the morning. I guess I don’t have to do that anymore.”

    “Wait,” Sid placed himself in front of the lad. “You’re telling me this is your first day out of the Guild ever?”

    “Guilty,” Fable sheepishly smiled.

    “Skorm’s bow, do you need me! Stick with me and you’ll go far.” He grabbed Fable by the arm pulling him towards the Quay.

    “Where are we going?” Fable asked, confused and halfheartedly resisting Sid’s pull.

    “To watch a couple o’ blokes duke it out.” Sid smirked as they walked under the archway.

    “What for?”

    “Because it’s fun,” Sid said.

    Not far beyond the archway sat a large barn, beside which was a dirt circle. Several shirtless men started gathering around, a few already in the ring exchanging gentle blows when Sid and Fable walked up.

    “Alright, that’s enough,” said a gruff yet suave voice.

    Immediately, the men that were in the ring cleared out taking position on its edge. A strongly built man with tattoos across his shoulders and a warrior’s stripe haircut stepped into the middle of the ring. The look in his eyes and set of his jaw told Fable he was very likely the man in charge.

    “Okay, I don’t want to see any blood tonight, but I want to see a good fight,” the built man said. “I see a few new faces, so anyone who wants to partake, come see me by the barn.” The man announced the first two fighters and walked over to the corner of the barn.

    Fable and Sid moved to a spot next to a birch tree on the side of the ring opposite the barn, Sid leaning against it as Fable watched the first two begin to size each other up. “So,” Fable asked, “what is all this and who was that?”

    “This is a Fist Fighter’s match,” Sid explained. “They call themselves a ‘Fist Fighter’s Gang’. There’s a ‘andful ‘round Albion. Buncha blokes come out ‘ere and just ‘ave at to each other’s faces. The guy that was jus’ talkin’s Rund, the gang’s leader.”

    “And you come here to watch for sport?” Fable asked.

    “Me? Of course not!” Sid laughed. “I come ‘ere to make some extra cash.”

    Fable’s eyes returned to the ring as the first fighters launched their first blows. The view was quickly blocked as the crowd started to jump and clap as if it would encourage whichever man they were rooting for to win.

    A break formed in a wall, enough for Fable to see one of the men getting pummeled. Then, as if by magic, the man managed to push off his opponent and begin to advance. The cheers grew louder and louder until he finally landed a final blow on his opponent. Applause circled the ring as he waited for his next opponent.

    “So why do all these guys do it?” Fable asked.

    “Gold, glory, any reason really,” Sid shrugged. “Really, it’s t’ keep the skills sharp when weapons aren’t allowed.”

    “Have you participated?”

    “Only once, then I realized it was more profitable to gamble than to partake. Which reminds me…” Sid’s voice trailed off with him as he walked over to where the Fist Fighter’s leader stood.

    Fable watched them exchange a few words and some coin, his eyebrows furrowing whenever Sid and Rund glanced at him. He suddenly had a very bad feeling about this…

    “What was that about?” Fable asked when Sid returned to his side.

    “Gambling,” Sid said with his hands clasped behind his back.

    The crowd parted as Rund returned to the ring. “We have a new contender,” he announced. “Fable will fight the next match.” He pointed with an outstretched hand, the crowd parting once more as all eyes landed squarely upon him.

    He could have sworn he heard at least one snicker…

    The Hero stiffened, a sharp intake of air surging into his nostrils, and his eyes fell upon Sid. Before he could get a scolding word out, Sid shoved him into the ring, where he was immediately surrounded by the seasoned fighters.

    “Knock ‘em out!” Sid called from by the tree. “I got fifty gold on ya and it’s a three-hundred gold reward!”

    Fable shook his head in disbelief and brought his fists up awaiting the first fight.

    His first opponent was the winner of the last match, bald and sporting tattoos on either arm. His fist punched into his hand as he reentered the ring. Once he reached the center, he swiveled his head, making a distinct bone-cracking sound. He didn’t even seem to still be winded from his own match…

    Fable swallowed the lump in his throat and ducked at the first blow, slightly shimmying to the left out of the way of the next one. His opponent’s fist turned to follow, Fable leaning back to avoid the third potential blow. He raised his arms blocking the following blows.

    “Come on!” Fable heard Sid shout. “Don’t stand there like a lemon, hit him!”

    Fable quickly glanced over at Sid in question. The questioning look died when Fable spotted Sid up in the tree, leaning out and shaking a fist toward Fable. Fable was then immediately reminded of the task at hand by a swift jab to his face by his opponent. Shaking off the strike before another followed, he brought up his right arm into the tattooed man’s jaw.

    The man staggered back, wiping the spit from his lip, the crowd emitting an “ooo” sound. Fable could hear Sid’s encouraging cheer and smiled. He rushed the man with a left hook, then a right hook, and then a sweeping kick, knocking him off his feet. If he’d counted the first match right, only one more blow was needed for him to win the round. Fable waited.

    The opponent shook his head, his hands digging into the dirt. The crowd emitted an assortment of sounds for each fighter, none of which he could hear anymore. He got to his feet, and whirled around at Fable in a forward thrust and fist raised.

    Fable leaned back to his right, bringing his left leg up to meet his attacker’s gut and send him flat on his back. The crowd cheered, and Fable’s smile grew wider as his first opponent left the ring in a huff.

    The next challenger entered, this one sporting orange hair and few teeth. “I’ma gonna kick yer arse!” he declared.

    Fable swung his head side to side and his arms back and forth, loosening up his tight shoulders as more of his early Guild training came to the forefront of his mind. He beamed his smile, dancing toe to toe. “Then let’s go, sunshine.”

    The fights continued on, each opponent falling to Fable’s fists with increasing ease as the night went on and Fable became more comfortable with his training. There was a different between the relatively safe training ground and actual combat. There was less to predict, no specific lesson to learn, and the only thing to study was one’s opponent. Fable was always a quick study, and with each defeated opponent the crowd’s cheer started turning in favor of him.

    Rund marched into the ring from where he was standing beside the barn. Fable smiled back at him, expecting his gold reward. His arrogance fell from his face when Rund announced that he would take Fable on himself.

    Without waiting for Fable to be prepared, the larger man rushed forward. Fable stepped aside at the last moment, Rund lunging past him and exposing his back. Fable took the opportunity, advancing to give a hard shoulder shove to Rund’s back to force him to the edge of the ring. Rund tripped, falling to the dirt in a heap, but quickly recovering with a worryingly predatory smile. Fable went on the offensive the moment Rund was back on his feet, his hammering blows ineffective against Rund’s blocks. It still give him his goal, an opening. When Rund’s arms moved out to block Fable, Fable put his shoulder into another hard push to drive the larger man back.

    Rund’s foot stepped on the ring’s edge. Fable flourished a spin kick at the gang leader, planting his foot against Rund’s chest and knocking him out of the ring. The cheers became mixed, the excitement of Fable’s success tempered by the need to rally around their leader. Rund rolled back to his feet, swiftly returned to the ring. His arms flailed wildly about trying to strike at Fable, who managed to leap out of the way. He turned his leap into a roll, ending up behind Rund with a perfect chance to throw several punches Rund’s back. The leader snarled, whirling around and barely missing Fable’s face, who leaned back far enough to only feel the breeze of Rund’s fist.

    Fable fell back, dropping into a roll which brought him back to his feet. Rund looked exhausted by Fable’s acrobatics, which was exactly how Fable wanted him. It was Fable’s turn to rush in, ducking under Rund’s attempt to land a downward punch and landing a solid blow against the larger fighter’s flank. Two more punches landed square in the center of Rund’s body, ending with a final hard shove to the center of his chest.

    Rund fell back, twisting as he landed and skidding face down in the dirt. The ring went silent. Fable waited to see what would happen. Rund slowly got up, turning to face Fable and respectfully clasping his fist into his hand. “That’s enough,” Rund said. “I declare Fable the winner.”

    The ring cheered as Rund handed Fable a bag of three hundred gold, Sid letting out the loudest cheer of all as he dropped from his perch. Fable turned to the rest of the contenders and witnesses, thanking them for their approval of him. He waved at them as he walked away from the ring to allow them to continue sparring for the night, Sid in tow.

    “So, I figure since I did get you in, we split the winnings fifty-fifty,” Sid proudly said.

    “I don’t think so,” Fable said, handing Sid one-hundred gold. “I did not agree to fighting so I think you should just get your money back and what I owe you. I’ll keep the rest of the winnings.”

    “Well fine,” Sid spat, taking his hundred gold. “Be a spoil sport.” He stuck his tongue out at Fable, who had already walked past him. He held back but a moment, long enough to grab the twenty-five gold winnings of his side bed, and quickly caught up with Fable as they made their way back to Bowerstone South towards the Tavern.

    With the Tavern’s evening crowd already dispersed, the establishment was a lot quieter. Since there was nothing else needed that night, Sid smiled, eagerly dashing up the stairs to his bed in the back of the large room.

    Fable followed behind at a more moderate pace. Upon reaching the top of the steps, he looked around at all the beds, most of which seemed to be occupied, except for the one closest to Sid. His bed was in the far back and right side of the room near the railing to the lower floor. Letting out a soft sigh, he sat down on it. He removed his gloves and placed them on the night stand. “So, Sid,” he started.

    “Yeah?” Sid asked as he kicked off his boots, each one thumping against the wall as they popped off.

    “Have you been anywhere else in Albion?” He removed his belt and hung it over the bedpost closest to the nightstand.

    “Yeah, a bunch o’ places,” he answered, roughly removing his gloves, letting them drop to the floor. “Why?”

    “Is there a village in the south?” he softly asked, slipping his boots off.

    “Let’s see,” Sid thought slipping his belt off. “There’s Skorm’s Chapel… Barrow Fields… Oakvine…Oakvane..?”

    “Oakvale?” Fable asked, suddenly sounding hopeful.

    “Yeah, Oakvale,” Sid agreed, untying his bandanas from his neck and setting them on his night stand. He sat himself on the bed, his left leg propped up, leaving his right to dangle on the edge when he twisted to look at Fable. “Little village of sorts. I think burned down years ago and was rebuilt not long ago.”

    “That’s good,” Fable nodded and smiled. He sat down on the bed facing Sid.

    That sudden shift in tone… First silent, then hopeful, then happy. It was not a far stretch why Fable wanted to know. “That where ye’ from?” Sid inquired.

    “Yeah, but I doubt there’s anything for me there,” he shrugged. He then took his first long look at Sid.

    The mercenary sported a buzz cut of brown hair and matching eyes. Above his left eyebrow, marking the mercenary’s pale complexion was an “x” shaped scar. But what caught Fable’s attention was the scar on Sid’s neck that was previously hidden by the bandana. Fable guessed it explained Sid’s rough voice. “How’d you get that scar on your neck?”

    “None o’ yer business,” Sid huffed laying back onto the pillow and rolling over away from Fable.

    Fable let out a sigh. “Didn’t mean to impose.” He lied down and rolled to face away from Sid. Within moments, he heard the mercenary snoring, but Fable found himself unable to sleep.

    His thoughts wandered back to Oakvale. He remembered the ocean, the hills, the farm fields. He and other children his age laughing… his family. Fable hugged his head, curling up. Even if Oakvale’s rebuilt, there’s nothing for me there, now, he thought, remembering the blood, the fires, the stench of death, his father’s body… In agitation, the Hero got up and walked over to the bookshelf near his bed. Spying a book that he had not read before, he took it back to his bed and sat up to read it under the moonlight until his eyelids grew heavy with needed sleep.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

Prologue


    The years since the Archons’ fall have changed the face of the landscape. They left the land littered with the ruins of the Old Kingdom and untold mysteries, dangers, and wonders.

    Slowly, the land began to grow again, buildings sprouting atop the old rubble and the people ignorant of what happened. But all around them were reminders of the Last Archon’s mistake, and the feeling of the Old Kingdom’s power over the land.

    What no one anticipated was the survival of the Archon’s bloodline, and the power it possessed. A bloodline that has the power to change the world and determine the fate . . .

. . . of Albion.

Chapter 1


    “You don’t have enough,” the blacksmith said to a man wearing a black tunic with red trim.

    “Look, I’m only short a few gold, an’ if I don’t get this new mace, then I can’t do m’ job,” the man replied in a rather raspy, gruff, voice. “And if I can’t do m’ job, I can’t make money to buy more weapons from yeh.”

    “I’m sorry, Sid, I can’t do it,” the old smith replied, returning to his anvil to hammer out more swords. “Still building my stock back up from the last sale. Maybe next week, eh?”

    The man in black, Sid, looked around the blacksmith’s shop, if it could even be called that. It was not even a building, lacking even a solid roof. It was more like a work area with weapons scattered on the ground. Those that were not on the ground were propped up against a fence, held up by a single plank that spanned the posts, or leaned against vegetable crates. The work area itself was just as pitiful. The display tables consisted of more flimsy vegetable crates with wood planks nailed to them. The ‘roof’ of the smithy was nothing more than old sheets held up by poles at one end, and nailed to the fence at the others. The smith’s forge consisted of a fire pit out from under the sheets, should stray embers light fire to them, and an anvil that was just barely in the sheets’ shade.

    Sid had thought about dismantling the ‘shop’ on more than one occasion over a small dispute. Alas, he could only imagine the satisfying snap of the flimsy wood under his boot. There was one important thing that stopped him, though. As this was the only smith in town, and the only one for many kilometers with no promise of running into a weapons trader, it was the only place Sid stood a decent chance of acquiring a new weapon at all.

    Yielding to the blacksmith’s stubbornness, Sid walked away, waving his hand in frustration. Old habits dying hard, Sid started immediately watching his surroundings for trouble. Across the path was the back of the tavern, where many people built makeshift houses out of whatever materials they could get their hands on. They belonged to the deepest poor of Bowerstone South who could not afford board or a house. The folks there might be a desperate lot, but none of them were in the shape to try a shake down. More likely to get shaken down themselves… Sid shook his head at the sight and continued on his way to the tavern itself.

    The musky smell of ale, oak, and people entered Sid’s nostrils upon entry. Most of the life was at the tables with the best window view, around the perimeter of the floor, with the handful in the middle mostly vacant. In the back was the bar, with large beer barrels sitting behind the large bartender sporting an equally large mustache. Halfway to the bar, against the right wall, was a well-used fireplace across from which was the staircase leading up to five rentable beds which were comfortable enough if you were not too picky.

    He carefully navigated through the unusually large crowd standing near the entrance which showed great interest in something to his right. He tried to peer over or around the wall of flesh, but eventually gave up and pressed on toward the bar.

    “Hey, Sid,” the barman happily called when the man in black entered.

    “’ey, Ted,” he said to the large man behind the counter.

    “Tonight’s probably going to be a busy night,” the barman explained.

    “What for?” Sid asked, leaning against the counter.

    “Well, we got Briar Rose visiting,” the barman noted, nodding toward the mass of bodies to the left of the door.

    “Well, that would explain the crowd,” Sid nodded. “ ’ates being crowded, but loves attention.” He gave a vexing sigh, shaking his head. “If she’s ‘ere tonight, then there goes my shot of getting a job.” Taking a seat, Sid set his head down on the bar.

    “I take it things didn’t go so well with the smith?” Ted asked.

    “Bastard wouldn’t even cut me a break ‘cause I was short a few gold.” He sat up.

    “Well, you never know. Maybe she’ll get folks thinking of doing some adventuring of their own? That might increase your chances of getting a job, right?” Ted tried.

    “Who’s going t’ even look at me when everyone’s lookin’ at ‘er? People want a ‘ero, not a lowlife mercenary.” He pointed at himself with both hands. “And I’m cheap!” He let out a sigh and rested his chin on the bar.

    “Maybe you’ll get lucky tonight,” Ted tried as he handed Sid a bottle of beer.

    “Let’s be fair, nobody wants this ugly mug.”

    The barman sighed and looked up in time to see a new face walk in. “I haven’t seen him before,” he said, nudging Sid shoulder.

    Sid sat up and looked in the direction of the door.

    The lad was not much older than himself, somewhere between a boy and man. He wore a pale tunic with blue trim down the center and a green ribbon hung from his left arm. His brown hair was still short in his youth yet he had the body of an athlete. Still, he did not have enough meat in his muscle for anyone to classify him as strong. The boy looked around at everything, absorbing his surroundings, yet did not seem to be very observant. He nearly ran into two folks standing at a table with his gawking at the walls.

    Sid turned back to Ted with a smirk. “Ted, I may be a lot of things, with a limited skill set, but I ain’t that desperate. ‘Sides,” he turned to look at the young man again, “he ain’t my type no ways. Doubt ‘e even ‘as ‘nough gold.”

    “Suit yourself,” Ted shrugged. “Don’t forget to pay for that before you leave.”

    Sid bit his lips, muffling a slight snarl as he slammed a few coins on the bar as he finished the bottle of beer, which he also slammed on the bar. “If you weren’t letting me board here, there’s many things I’d call you, Ted,” he growled, moving to be closer to the fireplace, and the action.

    “Good luck,” Ted saluted.

    Sid waved his hand at Ted as if he were swatting a fly away. He approached the lad, and in as a pleasant sound his gruff voice could muster, he greeted him. “Looking to ‘ire a swordsman?”

    The lad looked up almost jumping out of his skin when he heard Sid’s voice. He grasped his chest and sighed in relief. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You just startled me.”

    “I could see that,” Sid griped. “I practically saw your bones run outside.”

    “Again, sorry,” the boy replied. “Was just lost in thought. You were asking me something?”

    “I was asking yeh if you was in need of some extra muscle, you know, mercenary work?”

    The lad thought a moment and shook his head. “I can’t think of a reason to hire a mercenary.”

    Sid nodded, expecting as much. He looked the lad up and down. Up close, Sid saw something else about the boy besides his build. His eyes were the color of steel and piercing. He figured there was more to the boy than he was letting on. “You’re new in town aren’t yeh?”

    “That obvious?” the lad asked.

    “Just never seen yeh before and I see everyone that walks through that door.”

       “You make it seem like you’ve been here a long time for a mercenary,” the lad smirked.

            Sid scoffed. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

            “What’s your name?” the lad asked.

            “Sid,” Sid answered. “Just call me Sid.”

            “Fable,” the lad answered, extending his hand.

    “Fable?” Sid shook the lad’s hand, his face smiling yet puzzled. “What are ya, some fairytale?”

    “I think it was my great great grandfather’s name,” Fable smiled back. Seeing Sid’s doubtful look, he continued. “I didn’t believe my parents when they told me that, either.”

    “Better you than me,” Sid replied.

    “So, what does a mercenary do at a tavern when he’s not… mercenaring?”

    “Anythin’ that pays. Most o’ th’ time, be the tavern’s bouncer.”

    “Explains why you know everyone that comes in and out of the tap.”

    “It’s a job, but nothing beats smashing a few skulls in for some gold.”

    “Well, when I have the pleasure of smashing a few skulls in, I’ll let you know if I agree,” Fable smiled. He looked around the tavern before deciding to head back towards the door.

    Spying the coin purse on Fable’s belt, Sid had an idea.

    “Say,” he called, “since ye’re new in town and all, an’ I’m not bouncing anyone around yet, want the grand tour of the town?”

    “How much are you charging me?”

    “Oh, just a small fee o’ fifty gold.”

    “Fift- are you mad?” The Fable exclaimed in a hushed voice.

    “A man’s got t’ eat!” Sid replied in equal volume.

    The lad’s fingers gripped the bridge of his nose as he shook his head, slowly exhaling. “All right, make it worth my while and you’re on.”

    “Sure,” Sid happily agreed, rocking up on his toes. “Where shall we get started?”

    “I did say ‘make it worth my while’,” Fable reminded his new tour guide.

    “That you did. Just figurin’ out where t’ start.” Sid brought his hand up to his chin, tapping it with one finger. “’ow long ‘ave you been in Bowerstone?”

    “Seeing as how this is my first visit, only an hour. The Guild never really let us out and wander the countryside. The Guild Woods don’t count.”

    “You’re Guild?” Sid asked, looking at him with a slightly raised eyebrow.

    “Well, yes,” Fable shrugged.

    “Certainly don’t look like much for a ‘ero.”

    “Well, I haven’t exactly done any heroing, yet.” Fable scoffed.

    “Fair ‘nough.”

    Sid led the way out past the crowd and in front of the Tavern. He placed his hands on his hips and looked up at the afternoon sky for a moment as he took a deep breath. With a wave for Fable to follow along, he began the tour.

    The buildings of Bowerstone South were made dominantly of stone with wood trimmings, some with wood balconies. The roofs were a greyish green slate, if any color could be picked out from them at all. Sid had long maintained the theory that whoever decided on the color scheme of the place wanted to make Bowerstone South as brooding and depressive as possible, if only to make folks with any sort of money run to Bowerstone North that much more quickly.

    The large, oak city gates bore the old Albionite infinity knot carvings along its main beams. Just inside the gate stood a small stand selling tiny nick-nacks, beside which was the glowing, elliptical orb of blue light heralding the presence of a cullis gate. The gate allowed Heroes, or at least anyone with a Guild Seal, to travel great distances across Albion. Even to places beyond... if the rumors were true.

    To the left of the gate, opposite the stand, was the tailor’s shop following Albion’s tradition of selling both clothing and armor. As a bit of free advice, something Sid gave rarely, he suggested Fable get to know the place well. Anyone new to the adventuring business tended to get the snot beat out of them a time or three. Past the tailor’s, the pathway meandered between houses and shops up along the hill, splitting between the regal staircase leading to the rich North section of Bowerstone and the rest of Bowerstone South.

    The well decorated staircase to North Bowerstone led to an equally well decorated gate and a not nearly as well decorated guard. Sid told Fable that it was a region reserved for the rich and prestige. He also noted that the only way into North was to either be very important or have Lady Grey’s favoritism. As he had neither, they would be moving on.

    Beside the staircase was the infamous Tavern, across from which was the smith’s rickety workstation. Continuing along the path were more houses and a barbershop. It was said that the barbers of Albion could not only cut hair, but make it grow through a secret formula that is either washed onto the scalp or applied like a cream to the face. The recipe for the formula has been a long guarded secret among all barbers. He had doubted it for a long time, until another nonbeliever went in nearly bald and came out dragging hair behind him in a sack. The important lesson: never taunt the barbers.

    Across the path from the barbershop was an old stone archway leading to Bowerstone Quay, where the warehouses were kept and the ships docked. Fable barely had a chance to peer through the archway before Sid yanked him away, continuing up the path to the final destination of the tour.

    At the top of the hill there were only a few houses and a large schoolhouse where children played in the courtyard under a large oak tree. It was made completely of stone with the only wood being the furniture and the floor. As far as anyone knew, this was the only official school in all of Albion, even after the mayor sold off all of the school’s books to fund a building project. No one was quite sure what that was, and no one wanted to know what would happen to the first person who asked.

    Nestled just behind the school was a house for sale, though not much to look at, as it was completely vacant inside.

    “That about does it for the grand tour,” Sid proclaimed as he and Fable turned to stand atop the hill and look down across the town. The sky had turned to the evening’s shade of orange as shadows started to stretch further across the ground.

    “Lived here your whole life?” Fable asked.

    “That obvious, eh?” Sid replied.

    That managed to get a smirk out of Fable. “Maybe a little.” He let out an exhale, his hands resting on his belt, and walked back down the hill with Sid following. “I suppose I’ll retire for the night.”

    Sid gave Fable an incredulous look. “But the sun ‘asn’t even gone down, yet,” Sid stated.

    “I know.” Fable looked up at the sky for a moment. “I’m used to an early night with training and blistering my knuckles early in the morning. I guess I don’t have to do that anymore.”

    “Wait,” Sid placed himself in front of the lad. “You’re telling me this is your first day out of the Guild ever?”

    “Guilty,” Fable sheepishly smiled.

    “Skorm’s bow, do you need me! Stick with me and you’ll go far.” He grabbed Fable by the arm pulling him towards the Quay.

    “Where are we going?” Fable asked, confused and halfheartedly resisting Sid’s pull.

    “To watch a couple o’ blokes duke it out.” Sid smirked as they walked under the archway.

    “What for?”

    “Because it’s fun,” Sid said.

    Not far beyond the archway sat a large barn, beside which was a dirt circle. Several shirtless men started gathering around, a few already in the ring exchanging gentle blows when Sid and Fable walked up.

    “Alright, that’s enough,” said a gruff yet suave voice.

    Immediately, the men that were in the ring cleared out taking position on its edge. A strongly built man with tattoos across his shoulders and a warrior’s stripe haircut stepped into the middle of the ring. The look in his eyes and set of his jaw told Fable he was very likely the man in charge.

    “Okay, I don’t want to see any blood tonight, but I want to see a good fight,” the built man said. “I see a few new faces, so anyone who wants to partake, come see me by the barn.” The man announced the first two fighters and walked over to the corner of the barn.

    Fable and Sid moved to a spot next to a birch tree on the side of the ring opposite the barn, Sid leaning against it as Fable watched the first two begin to size each other up. “So,” Fable asked, “what is all this and who was that?”

    “This is a Fist Fighter’s match,” Sid explained. “They call themselves a ‘Fist Fighter’s Gang’. There’s a ‘andful ‘round Albion. Buncha blokes come out ‘ere and just ‘ave at to each other’s faces. The guy that was jus’ talkin’s Rund, the gang’s leader.”

    “And you come here to watch for sport?” Fable asked.

    “Me? Of course not!” Sid laughed. “I come ‘ere to make some extra cash.”

    Fable’s eyes returned to the ring as the first fighters launched their first blows. The view was quickly blocked as the crowd started to jump and clap as if it would encourage whichever man they were rooting for to win.

    A break formed in a wall, enough for Fable to see one of the men getting pummeled. Then, as if by magic, the man managed to push off his opponent and begin to advance. The cheers grew louder and louder until he finally landed a final blow on his opponent. Applause circled the ring as he waited for his next opponent.

    “So why do all these guys do it?” Fable asked.

    “Gold, glory, any reason really,” Sid shrugged. “Really, it’s t’ keep the skills sharp when weapons aren’t allowed.”

    “Have you participated?”

    “Only once, then I realized it was more profitable to gamble than to partake. Which reminds me…” Sid’s voice trailed off with him as he walked over to where the Fist Fighter’s leader stood.

    Fable watched them exchange a few words and some coin, his eyebrows furrowing whenever Sid and Rund glanced at him. He suddenly had a very bad feeling about this…

    “What was that about?” Fable asked when Sid returned to his side.

    “Gambling,” Sid said with his hands clasped behind his back.

    The crowd parted as Rund returned to the ring. “We have a new contender,” he announced. “Fable will fight the next match.” He pointed with an outstretched hand, the crowd parting once more as all eyes landed squarely upon him.

    He could have sworn he heard at least one snicker…

    The Hero stiffened, a sharp intake of air surging into his nostrils, and his eyes fell upon Sid. Before he could get a scolding word out, Sid shoved him into the ring, where he was immediately surrounded by the seasoned fighters.

    “Knock ‘em out!” Sid called from by the tree. “I got fifty gold on ya and it’s a three-hundred gold reward!”

    Fable shook his head in disbelief and brought his fists up awaiting the first fight.

    His first opponent was the winner of the last match, bald and sporting tattoos on either arm. His fist punched into his hand as he reentered the ring. Once he reached the center, he swiveled his head, making a distinct bone-cracking sound. He didn’t even seem to still be winded from his own match…

    Fable swallowed the lump in his throat and ducked at the first blow, slightly shimmying to the left out of the way of the next one. His opponent’s fist turned to follow, Fable leaning back to avoid the third potential blow. He raised his arms blocking the following blows.

    “Come on!” Fable heard Sid shout. “Don’t stand there like a lemon, hit him!”

    Fable quickly glanced over at Sid in question. The questioning look died when Fable spotted Sid up in the tree, leaning out and shaking a fist toward Fable. Fable was then immediately reminded of the task at hand by a swift jab to his face by his opponent. Shaking off the strike before another followed, he brought up his right arm into the tattooed man’s jaw.

    The man staggered back, wiping the spit from his lip, the crowd emitting an “ooo” sound. Fable could hear Sid’s encouraging cheer and smiled. He rushed the man with a left hook, then a right hook, and then a sweeping kick, knocking him off his feet. If he’d counted the first match right, only one more blow was needed for him to win the round. Fable waited.

    The opponent shook his head, his hands digging into the dirt. The crowd emitted an assortment of sounds for each fighter, none of which he could hear anymore. He got to his feet, and whirled around at Fable in a forward thrust and fist raised.

    Fable leaned back to his right, bringing his left leg up to meet his attacker’s gut and send him flat on his back. The crowd cheered, and Fable’s smile grew wider as his first opponent left the ring in a huff.

    The next challenger entered, this one sporting orange hair and few teeth. “I’ma gonna kick yer arse!” he declared.

    Fable swung his head side to side and his arms back and forth, loosening up his tight shoulders as more of his early Guild training came to the forefront of his mind. He beamed his smile, dancing toe to toe. “Then let’s go, sunshine.”

    The fights continued on, each opponent falling to Fable’s fists with increasing ease as the night went on and Fable became more comfortable with his training. There was a different between the relatively safe training ground and actual combat. There was less to predict, no specific lesson to learn, and the only thing to study was one’s opponent. Fable was always a quick study, and with each defeated opponent the crowd’s cheer started turning in favor of him.

    Rund marched into the ring from where he was standing beside the barn. Fable smiled back at him, expecting his gold reward. His arrogance fell from his face when Rund announced that he would take Fable on himself.

    Without waiting for Fable to be prepared, the larger man rushed forward. Fable stepped aside at the last moment, Rund lunging past him and exposing his back. Fable took the opportunity, advancing to give a hard shoulder shove to Rund’s back to force him to the edge of the ring. Rund tripped, falling to the dirt in a heap, but quickly recovering with a worryingly predatory smile. Fable went on the offensive the moment Rund was back on his feet, his hammering blows ineffective against Rund’s blocks. It still give him his goal, an opening. When Rund’s arms moved out to block Fable, Fable put his shoulder into another hard push to drive the larger man back.

    Rund’s foot stepped on the ring’s edge. Fable flourished a spin kick at the gang leader, planting his foot against Rund’s chest and knocking him out of the ring. The cheers became mixed, the excitement of Fable’s success tempered by the need to rally around their leader. Rund rolled back to his feet, swiftly returned to the ring. His arms flailed wildly about trying to strike at Fable, who managed to leap out of the way. He turned his leap into a roll, ending up behind Rund with a perfect chance to throw several punches Rund’s back. The leader snarled, whirling around and barely missing Fable’s face, who leaned back far enough to only feel the breeze of Rund’s fist.

    Fable fell back, dropping into a roll which brought him back to his feet. Rund looked exhausted by Fable’s acrobatics, which was exactly how Fable wanted him. It was Fable’s turn to rush in, ducking under Rund’s attempt to land a downward punch and landing a solid blow against the larger fighter’s flank. Two more punches landed square in the center of Rund’s body, ending with a final hard shove to the center of his chest.

    Rund fell back, twisting as he landed and skidding face down in the dirt. The ring went silent. Fable waited to see what would happen. Rund slowly got up, turning to face Fable and respectfully clasping his fist into his hand. “That’s enough,” Rund said. “I declare Fable the winner.”

    The ring cheered as Rund handed Fable a bag of three hundred gold, Sid letting out the loudest cheer of all as he dropped from his perch. Fable turned to the rest of the contenders and witnesses, thanking them for their approval of him. He waved at them as he walked away from the ring to allow them to continue sparring for the night, Sid in tow.

    “So, I figure since I did get you in, we split the winnings fifty-fifty,” Sid proudly said.

    “I don’t think so,” Fable said, handing Sid one-hundred gold. “I did not agree to fighting so I think you should just get your money back and what I owe you. I’ll keep the rest of the winnings.”

    “Well fine,” Sid spat, taking his hundred gold. “Be a spoil sport.” He stuck his tongue out at Fable, who had already walked past him. He held back but a moment, long enough to grab the twenty-five gold winnings of his side bed, and quickly caught up with Fable as they made their way back to Bowerstone South towards the Tavern.

    With the Tavern’s evening crowd already dispersed, the establishment was a lot quieter. Since there was nothing else needed that night, Sid smiled, eagerly dashing up the stairs to his bed in the back of the large room.

    Fable followed behind at a more moderate pace. Upon reaching the top of the steps, he looked around at all the beds, most of which seemed to be occupied, except for the one closest to Sid. His bed was in the far back and right side of the room near the railing to the lower floor. Letting out a soft sigh, he sat down on it. He removed his gloves and placed them on the night stand. “So, Sid,” he started.

    “Yeah?” Sid asked as he kicked off his boots, each one thumping against the wall as they popped off.

    “Have you been anywhere else in Albion?” He removed his belt and hung it over the bedpost closest to the nightstand.

    “Yeah, a bunch o’ places,” he answered, roughly removing his gloves, letting them drop to the floor. “Why?”

    “Is there a village in the south?” he softly asked, slipping his boots off.

    “Let’s see,” Sid thought slipping his belt off. “There’s Skorm’s Chapel… Barrow Fields… Oakvine…Oakvane..?”

    “Oakvale?” Fable asked, suddenly sounding hopeful.

    “Yeah, Oakvale,” Sid agreed, untying his bandanas from his neck and setting them on his night stand. He sat himself on the bed, his left leg propped up, leaving his right to dangle on the edge when he twisted to look at Fable. “Little village of sorts. I think burned down years ago and was rebuilt not long ago.”

    “That’s good,” Fable nodded and smiled. He sat down on the bed facing Sid.

    That sudden shift in tone… First silent, then hopeful, then happy. It was not a far stretch why Fable wanted to know. “That where ye’ from?” Sid inquired.

    “Yeah, but I doubt there’s anything for me there,” he shrugged. He then took his first long look at Sid.

    The mercenary sported a buzz cut of brown hair and matching eyes. Above his left eyebrow, marking the mercenary’s pale complexion was an “x” shaped scar. But what caught Fable’s attention was the scar on Sid’s neck that was previously hidden by the bandana. Fable guessed it explained Sid’s rough voice. “How’d you get that scar on your neck?”

    “None o’ yer business,” Sid huffed laying back onto the pillow and rolling over away from Fable.

    Fable let out a sigh. “Didn’t mean to impose.” He lied down and rolled to face away from Sid. Within moments, he heard the mercenary snoring, but Fable found himself unable to sleep.

    His thoughts wandered back to Oakvale. He remembered the ocean, the hills, the farm fields. He and other children his age laughing… his family. Fable hugged his head, curling up. Even if Oakvale’s rebuilt, there’s nothing for me there, now, he thought, remembering the blood, the fires, the stench of death, his father’s body… In agitation, the Hero got up and walked over to the bookshelf near his bed. Spying a book that he had not read before, he took it back to his bed and sat up to read it under the moonlight until his eyelids grew heavy with needed sleep.