by Peter David
“Sure is.”
They said little else as they continued on their way, and they were in Underwoods before they even quite realized it. There wasn’t a clear line of demarcation between village and forest. Instead, the trees seemed to increase in number until they found themselves in the midst of the forest. There had been paving on the road when it was in the village, but as they moved out into the woods, it was replaced with the plain old dirt road that it no doubt originally was.
It didn’t seem any different from any number of other forests through which they had traveled, and yet Thomas found himself far more alert than ever before. The shadows seemed to stretch out toward him, and everywhere seemed to be potential hiding places for balverines. They had come a long way from the realm where such creatures were considered harmless beings of myth.
A snap of a branch caused Thomas to jump two feet, and his sword was out of his scabbard and in his hand as he whirled to face the new threat. All he saw was James standing there, lifting his foot off a branch and not knowing whether to feel chagrined or amused. “Are you all right, Thomas?”
“I’m fine.”
“All evidence to the contrary.” James watched as Thomas sheathed his sword, and then said, “I didn’t mean to startle you ...”
“I startled myself. I just—”
“You just what?”
Thomas hesitated, and then said, “I know what I saw the night that my brother was killed. I know in my heart that it was a balverine, and such things were real. That’s why we’re here; that’s why we set out on this quest. Except I’ve spent so much of my life being told that I was wrong, that I was imagining things, that I was crazy—that my brother wasn’t killed by a balverine because such creatures don’t exist—that it’s just weird to be faced with the reality of it. There was always some element of . . . I don’t know . . . safety in thinking, in the back of my mind, that it was a delusion on my part. Now I’m in a place where there are people so worried about balverines that they slaughter dogs. It’s just requiring a bit of adjustment on my part.”
“Well . . . adjust fast, okay? You can’t be jumping at every sound.”
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m not,” James said cheerfully. “I’m worried about me. I don’t need to accidentally startle you and wind up with my head on the ground before you’ve had a chance to realize that it’s me.”
Thomas laughed at that. But then he stopped laughing and likewise stopped in his tracks. When James looked at him quizzically, Thomas simply pointed.
There was a crossroads just ahead.
“Odd,” Thomas said after a moment, “that balverines would take refuge in a forest that’s so relatively ‘civilized’ that it would have not one but two roads through it.”
“Why odd? If they’re looking for human prey, why would they spend all their time in forests that are never traveled and unlikely to see anything except the occasional lost soul? They’d want to position themselves along a busy road.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose that makes sense.”
Slowly, they approached the crossroads, Thomas keeping a wary eye on the shadows, which now seemed even more fraught with peril than before. Everything was quiet. Still as the grave, he thought. It wasn’t nighttime, the primary domain of the balverines, but daylight hadn’t prevented the creatures from assaulting Robert and his daughter, so that certainly didn’t serve as a guarantee of safety.
Once they reached the crossroads, they stopped and stood there for a few moments. It was definitely the same one, because although time and weather had washed away some of the blood, the trees were still stained with it, and some of the ground was stained as well.
Poxy stared around curiously, showing intense interest in a squirrel that was perched on a branch overhead and looking down at them mockingly.
“All right,” Thomas said to James. “Now’s as good a time as any to test your theory.”
James removed the bloodstained piece of tunic and held it up to the dog’s nose. Poxy stared at it with curiosity.
“Get the scent, girl,” said James, and when Poxy made no move toward it, he pushed the cloth forward up against her nose. “Get the scent,” he said again.
Poxy drew her head back, trying to get away from it, and James stubbornly kept moving the cloth back and forth in order to keep it in front of her nostrils. Thomas watched this for a minute, and then said, “James, I think you’re wasting your time. This is—”
“Wait! She’s got it!” James said excitedly.
It appeared that James was right. Poxy had suddenly taken a renewed interest in the cloth that he was holding in front of her, and her nostrils were flaring. And Thomas could have sworn that there was something akin to understanding in her eyes, as if an old instinct, possibly long forgotten, was being reignited.
And then, with as much confidence as any trained bloodhound had ever exhibited, Poxy went to the center of the crossroads and began sniffing around.
“I don’t believe it,” said Thomas. “This is incredible.” “Ha,” said James dismissively, as if the outcome had never been in doubt. “That’s my dog, is all.”
At which point Poxy suddenly bounded up and down, barked excitedly, and then started down the road to the right. She stopped briefly to turn and bark again, clearly wanting to make sure that the boys were going to be following her.
They set off after her immediately at a brisk trot, moving at a moderate pace since they had no idea how far they were going to be following the dog, and they did not wish to wear themselves out. Poxy could easily have left them in the dust, but every time she started to put any major amount of distance between them, she would stop, turn, and wait until they were close enough so that she could continue on her path without losing them.
As it turned out, they didn’t have to go all that far. In fairly short order they found that the road was leading them directly to a farm. A pig farm, as it turned out, which was something they were able to determine easily enough with their own noses. They may not have had the olfactory prowess of Poxy, but it was hardly required because the smell of the swine was quite pungent, and the wind was carrying it directly to them. Poxy barked with greater excitement as they drew within view of the farm. There was a ramshackle house, a barn, and a large pen in which a number of oversized hogs were feeding and grunting and acting like pigs. Poxy bounced around, running up to the pigs, barking eagerly, and then running back to Thomas and James with her tail wagging. Clearly, she was expecting to be praised.
“Great,” said Thomas, walking over to the pigpen and looking down at the inhabitants. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “This is a dead end.”
“She seemed so sure,” James said, visibly disappointed.
“It was a nice try, but I think we—”
The air exploded around them.
Thomas was so startled that he tumbled headlong over the fence and into the pigsty. The pigs bounded backwards, snorting and grunting in indignation that an uninvited guest had entered their pen.
James darted behind a tree, Poxy right with him, as there was a second explosion that chipped a huge piece of bark off the tree. “What in the—?”
“I have you now!”
A burly man with fiery red hair was lumbering toward them, and he was wielding a rifle that looked significantly larger than Thomas’s. He was the one who had shouted at them, and apparently the diatribe was only just commencing. “Came back for more, did you? Well, you’ll get more than you bargained for this time! This time I’m ready for you!”
Making sure to keep himself shielded behind the tree, James called out, “What the hell are you talking about! We’ve never been here before!”
“You expect me to believe that?” demanded the man who was approaching them. “You think I don’t know what’s what? You!” And he swung his rifle around to get a bead on Thomas, who was lying on the ground behind one of the pigs. “Get out here and die like a man!”
James rapidly cal
culated the distance between himself and the crazy man with the rifle, and realized there was no way he could cover it without presenting an easy target. That wasn’t about to deter him, though; not when it came to Thomas’s life being on the line.
And suddenly Thomas was up from behind the pig, his right arm moving in a blur. Something hurtled through the air, and the man let out a shriek of pain as a throwing knife buried itself firmly in his upper chest. Even as the hilt was still quivering, Thomas was bolting out of the pen and vaulting the fence in one quick stride. The man tried to bring the rifle to bear, but Thomas had scooped up a fistful of mud and threw it squarely into the man’s face. It blinded him, and he got off another shot, but it went wide. Thomas darted in quickly and grabbed the barrel of the rifle and shoved it straight up so that it presented no threat. Then he drove a knee squarely into the man’s groin with an impact that James could feel from where he was standing. The man opened his mouth and tried to groan, but he couldn’t gather his breath to do so as Thomas yanked the rifle completely clear of his grasp. The man sank to his knees, his eyes looking ready to leap out of his head. “You . . . bastard,” he managed to gasp out, and then he slumped over, his hands over his crotch, as if he was concerned that Thomas was going to strike him there a second time.
Thomas picked up the fallen rifle and held it across his body in a nonthreatening manner, but in such a way that he could aim it quickly at its owner if such an action was required. With one hand, he made a vague effort to brush some of the crusted mud off himself. Over in the pen, the hogs were still snorting in irritation and letting him know that they did not appreciate his intrusion.
“Now listen to me carefully,” Thomas said with remarkable calm. “We don’t have the slightest idea what you were going on about. Why don’t you tell us, and perhaps we can help each other ...”
“You buried your damned knife in my shoulder!”
“You were going to shoot me!”
“You were going to steal another one of my pigs!”
Thomas looked to James in confusion, apparently hoping that James had some idea as to what the man was talking about, but James was as clueless as Thomas. “What the hell are you talking about?” James said.
“You know what I’m talking about! Two weeks ago! One of my pigs disappeared! And now you strangers show up here, poking around my animals! Who else would it be? Criminals returning to the scene of the crime! Damnation! ” That last was as a result of the man trying to pull the blade out of his shoulder and yowling in pain.
Thomas rolled his eyes, and said, “Lie down. Don’t move. James, get over here and bring the pack.”
James did as Thomas bade him, and Thomas knelt next to the man who had, moments earlier, been ready to shoot him. “What are you doing?” demanded the wounded man. “Are you going to try and kill me now—?”
“I have a sword, I have a rifle—two rifles, counting yours—and a crossbow. If I wanted to kill you, it would prove no great difficulty. Now be quiet and try not to squirm. James, come help hold him down.”
The man let out a yelp, but he was still too much in pain thanks to the combination of the knife and the brutal kick to the groin. James pushed him over with ease, and when the man tried to sit up, Poxy trotted over, placed one of her paws on his chest and growled in his face. The sight of her bared teeth was enough to cause the man to stop moving and stare up into her muzzle with undiluted terror.
Slowly, carefully, Thomas withdrew the knife from where it was embedded and quickly pressed a cloth against it to stanch the bleeding. “You’ve got damned good aim,” the man said grudgingly. “Looks like you didn’t hit an artery or anything vital.”
“I was aiming at your heart,” said Thomas.
The man grunted.
It took Thomas and James only minutes to dress the wound. Again displaying grudging respect, the man said, “Not badly done for amateurs.”
“And you’re a professional?”
“Former soldier of fortune.”
“And now you’re a pig farmer?”
He shrugged and then winced at the pain the thoughtless gesture had caused. “Family business. My father was old, needed help, and I came here. We do things for our fathers.”
Thomas’s lips thinned, and he simply said, “Yes, I suppose we do.” James said nothing.
The former soldier of fortune looked from one of them to the other. “So you really had nothing to do with my stolen hog?”
“Not a thing,” said Thomas, and he quickly laid out for the man the circumstances that had brought them there. “I suppose the dog just smelled the pigs, and that’s what brought her here,” he concluded, but then he frowned. “Except ...”
“Except what?” said James.
“Well . . . that’s just a hell of a coincidence, don’t you think? That one of his hogs was stolen right about the same time that that Robert and Hannah vanished?”
“You’re thinking that a balverine might have done it? That that’s what Poxy was tracking?”
“That’s a possibility ...” said Thomas. “It explains some things, but—”
“Balverines?” The soldier-turned-pig farmer regarded them skeptically. “In this neck of the woods? Ain’t no balverines around here.”
“The townspeople believe—”
“The townspeople don’t know their backs from their fronts. They jump at shadows and believe that danger lurks behind every corner. Used to be balverines in these parts, and their legend still keeps everyone on edge. But they ain’t ’round these parts. Not anymore.”
“Why not anymore?”
“Because”—and he had a smile of pride—“me and some others drove ’em off. One of the last things I did before I hung up my sword. Me and some of my mates, we rooted ’em out and sent ’em packing. Last I heard, they retreated farther east. So if you’re truly mad enough to go seeking them, then that’s where you’re going to want to be.”
“But I don’t understand,” said James. “If there are no balverines around here, then why did some of them show up to attack Hannah and her father? Why did they drag her off?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” said the pig farmer. “A stray couple of pack members wandering far afield.”
“Or . . . it might be something else,” said Thomas, but he made no attempt to elaborate.
“Well, if you find my pig, or find who took it, there’s a reward in it for you if you either return the animal or put the thief’s head in my hands.”
“We’ll definitely keep that in mind.”
They departed the farm then although Thomas had taken the precaution of removing the remainder of the ammunition from the man’s rifle without his knowledge. That way, if he suddenly decided to avail himself of the opportunity to fire upon their unprotected backs, he would not be able to do so. And by the time he reloaded, they would be long gone.
“So now what?” James said. He was still obviously chagrined over Poxy’s inability to bring them to their quarry although he supposed he couldn’t blame her. The aroma of the pigs must have been powerful, even from the distance they’d initially been standing.
“We go back to the crossroad.”
“And—?”
“We try again.”
“We do?” James said in surprise. “But she’s just going to bring us right back to the pig farm, won’t she?”
“Not necessarily. We’ve got the other item, the hairbrush. We use that this time.” Thomas looked down at Poxy, who had stopped briefly to chew on some shrubs. “I think you were right about her, James. I think she does have some tracking capability. How good it is, we’re about to find out.”
James scratched his chin thoughtfully. “What’s going through your mind, Thomas? You’re thinking something, but damned if I know what it is.”
“I don’t want to say just yet. Let’s see how matters play out.”
That seemed needlessly cryptic to James, but he decided not to press Thomas on the matter. This attitude was very much in characte
r for him: Thomas didn’t like to voice opinions unless he was completely certain of them.
Returning to the crossroads, James removed the hairbrush from his bag and, once again, held it under Poxy’s nose. This time she got the idea even faster than before. She buried her nose in it and withdrew with an annoyed little yelp as the bristles from the brush scratched her tender nose. She shook her head, making an irritated snuffling sound, and then sniffed the brush more cautiously.
Then she started moving in a circle around the crossroads, sniffing the ground industriously. James considered this to be a good sign; at least she wasn’t heading straight off right back down the road that they’d just come from. She seemed to understand that she was looking for a different scent this time. The only question that remained was whether she was going to find it.
After a few more moments that seemed to crawl past, Poxy’s tail suddenly stiffened, and her ears flattened. She growled low in her throat, which made James think for a moment that some sort of threat was imminent, hiding behind a tree or some brush. Then James realized that Poxy was in fact reacting to something that was no longer there; she had instead picked up a scent that she obviously considered extremely threatening.
“She’s got it,” James said with growing excitement, and Thomas nodded in agreement. “Go find her, girl! Come on!” And he clapped his hands briskly. “Go find her!”
Poxy required no more urging. Instead, she bounded away, this time continuing straight down the path rather than moving to the intersecting crossroad. Thomas and James set out after her, moving at a full-out run yet falling behind nevertheless. As before, every so often Poxy would stop, turn, and wait for them to catch up before she continued on her way.
This, however, was not destined to be as short a trip as their first attempt to track down the missing young girl. Instead, they continued through the woods for hours. The sun moved irresistibly through the sky, and every so often they would have to stop to rest, eat from their meager supplies, and regain their strength. During those times, Poxy would return to them with what appeared to be great impatience, so eager was she to have them continue following her.