Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable)

by Peter David

  He halted the transformation, seemingly through willpower alone, at a midway point between being a human and a full balverine. But James could see that that was where the metamorphosis was taking him.

  “Do you begin to understand now?” Kreel said, his voice deep and guttural and sounding more like a snarling animal’s than a human’s.

  “You’re . . . you’re a white balverine,” he managed to gasp out, stating what was patently obvious. “But . . . you wear the fur of—”

  “Of a former rival.”

  “You’re a monster!”

  Kreel’s clawed hand lashed out and wrapped itself around the petrified James’s throat. “We,” he snarled, “are not the monsters. It is humanity that performs the monstrous acts. Hunting our kind into oblivion. Changing the world, remaking it into their image. Even though you have been gone from your home for a time, you still stink of industrialization and ‘progress.’ Albion was once a land of myth and magic. Now look at it! Forests being chopped down to make way for cities, which in turn pollute the air with their foul industry. Creatures of wonder being driven into hiding or away from the eyes of man altogether, while mundanity steadily increases its choke-hold upon the collective imagination of the population. You’ve seen a world without greatness, without quests, without Heroes and fables of them. Do you truly think it an improvement over what once there was? Do you?”

  And James’s eyes locked into those of Kreel, and even though he could barely speak, still he managed to command with a hoarse whisper, “Let go of my throat!”

  Kreel did so without even thinking about it, and then looked at his own hand in mild surprise, as if it belonged to someone else. Then he turned back to James, his eyes narrowed, cautious where he had not been before. “We are going to change things, James. The Balverine Order is making sure of that, slowly but surely.”

  “Change things to what?”

  “To a world that is more suitable for our kind, James. One where we can run free without fear of assault and extinction. Where we can prey upon food with impunity. Where we can halt the building of cities and the annihilation of forests, take back the land, and live the sort of life to which we are entitled.” He reached out with a single clawed finger and stroked the side of James’s face. “And the way to do that . . . is to be in control. That’s how we’re going to do it, you see. By being—”

  Suddenly Kreel’s head snapped around as an infuriated barking came from just to his left. Bursting out of the brush, her teeth bared, snarling and snapping, came Poxy, barreling straight toward Kreel, defiance in her eyes.

  She had come for James. She had overcome her fear of the forest, her trepidation, and—seeing James in the hands of the enemy—did not hesitate to charge her opponent.

  “Poxy, no!” screamed James.

  Kreel did not pause. He took two quick steps forward, meeting her charge as she leaped straight at him. He swung his hand as if swatting a fly and gutted Poxy while the dog was still in midleap. Poxy let out an agonized cry that mingled with James’s own, and then the dog hit the ground and lay still. She scarcely had time to whimper, and then there was a rattle in her throat and a look of surprise in her eye that quickly faded and became blank.

  James cried out and tried to get to her side, even though she was already gone, but the balverines holding him yanked him back alongside them. “You didn’t have to do that!” he howled at Kreel.

  “I was attacked, and I struck back,” Kreel said calmly, taking the time to lick the blood from his claws. “That is the balverine way. You will understand that before very long, when you become one of our Order.”

  Hot tears were running down James’s face, and he snarled in a manner that would have rivaled that of a balverine, “I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you, you bastard. You’re going to die.”

  “I very much doubt that,” said Kreel, and then—as if James no longer mattered—he said, “Ah. We’re here.”

  James was hauled into a clearing and, moments later, Thomas was dumped by his side. Thomas moaned softly, just starting to come around, and the balverines stepped back, releasing their hold on James. Neither of the boys were now being restrained, but balverines were ringing them, and escape was clearly impossible.

  At that moment, though, James wasn’t thinking about escape. Instead, he was trying to comprehend just what exactly it was that he was seeing.

  It was a temple of some sort. It seemed as if it had been carved out of solid rock, right into the side of a mountain, and it towered above them, at least fifty feet high. There was a large opening that served as a gateway to whatever was inside. There was what appeared to be a large, irregular circle with points chiseled into the stone, and it was only after looking at it for a few moments that James realized he was staring at a rendering of a wide-open jaw. The meaning was clear: Whoever entered there was effectively being swallowed up by those within.

  There was a man standing directly in front of the temple entrance. Even in the dimness, he appeared familiar to James, and he couldn’t quite place where he knew him from.

  “It took you long enough,” growled the man, and that was when he knew.

  “You’re . . . you’re the coachman!” James said.

  Thomas, who was clearly trying to shake off the unconsciousness that had settled upon him before, didn’t seem to comprehend. “Coachman . . . ?”

  “The one who suggested we go to Windside! To the Library to learn about balverines!”

  “Kind of you to remember,” said the coachman. He wasn’t talking at all in the manner that he had been when they first encountered him. He sounded more polished and educated and even a bit contemptuous of them. “Tried to set you on the right path, hoping you’d get here sooner or later. I thought right from the start that you boys had potential. Good to know that I was right. Sent word on ahead to Kreel to be on the lookout for you.”

  “And here they are, sir,” said Kreel with a touch of pride. “James, Thomas . . . this is Lugaru, the undisputed leader of our Order.”

  “We’ve met,” said James tightly.

  “Yes. Yes, we have,” said Lugaru, but he was paying no attention to James. Instead, he was focused entirely on Thomas. “And I want to say that it is going to be a personal pleasure turning you, Thomas. As one of our Order, you will travel the land, encouraging other young bravos such as yourself to join Laird Kreel in balverine hunts. As much as we have a dearth of Heroes upon the land, there is still always the possibility that more may rise. Yours and James’s particular task will be to seek them out, bring them to us, and help convert them to our cause. Eventually, the Balverine Order will control all the nobility, all the richest and most powerful individuals, all the potential Heroes, and—with just a bit of luck—the monarchy itself. We will use that power and influence to remake Albion into what it was rather than into the pestilent rathole that it is currently being turned into. And you will be a part of that, Thomas.”

  “Go to hell,” Thomas snarled.

  Lugaru made a scolding, clucking noise with his tongue. “That is uncharitable of you, Thomas. Especially when you realize that I am being truly generous, all things considered.”

  “What ‘things’?”

  “Why . . . that I’m not seeking vengeance upon you.”

  And Lugaru began to transform. He did not reach a halfway point as Kreel had done and then pull back. Instead, he grew, larger and larger, black fur growing upon him, his face distending, bones audibly breaking and reknitting as they came together in a new form. The other balverines backed away, and several of them started to howl, and then all of them were.

  Something popped out of his face, pushed out by the restructuring of the bones therein. It was a fake eye, crusted over so that it looked like it was a genuine one that had simply been overtaken by disease.

  His clothes, hanging loose and shapelessly upon him, began to fill out as his size increased. Within moments, he had transformed into a full-sized balverine, his black fur rippling, his single glittering
yellow eye locked upon Thomas. He spoke and the words were more animal growl than human, but still understandable.

  “Vengeance,” he snarled, “for taking my eye when I killed your mewling puke of a brother. But having you in my Order, under my rule . . . that is a far more elegant revenge, don’t you think?”

  THOMAS FELT AS IF HE WERE GOING MAD. He prayed that he was still unconscious and had yet to awaken. But he knew that, no, that was not the case. He was here, he was facing the monster that had killed Stephen, and now—apparently—was going to do even worse to him.

  He screamed then, a howl of rage that itself was almost as far from human as Lugaru was. Lugaru laughed in response, a terrible thing to hear, and Thomas yanked at the balverine that was now holding him back. The balverine simply snarled, holding him tight, giving him no chance to escape.

  And suddenly there was an explosion that echoed through the forest.

  The balverine who had been holding onto Thomas pitched forward, and there was blood all over the fur on the back of its head. Just like that, Thomas was suddenly free, and then there was a second, similar explosion, and the balverine that had been holding James immobilized likewise pitched over.

  Thomas’s first instinct was to charge straight at Lugaru, even though he knew it would be suicidal. But that instinct was overridden by a loud voice shouting, with authority so commanding that it could not be ignored, “Run! Run now!”

  They did as they were instructed, bolting toward the forest. With a roar, the balverines turned in pursuit, and then there was a rapid series of shots, and in quick succession four more of the balverines went down, grasping at their chests and keeling over.

  Kreel and Lugaru were both far enough back that there were balverines in front of them who were taking the brunt of the shots. Kreel no longer held on to his human form; instead, he began to grow and change into a white balverine, howling fury that someone was daring to attack them in this manner. “Get them!” he bellowed, pointing at James and Thomas as they fled into the forest. “Get them!”

  Thomas was certain this was about to be the shortest-lived escape in history, for there was no matching the balverines when it came to speed.

  And suddenly one of the foremost balverines erupted in flame.

  Thomas had never seen anything like it. The balverine twisted around, screeching, batting at itself, trying to extinguish the fire, and then a second balverine went up. They staggered, pitched forward, and then, an instant later, the entire area in front of the temple burst in flame. It spread far more quickly than seemed humanly possible, and within seconds there was a virtual wall of flame between the balverines and the escaping boys.

  Thomas tripped and fell over an extended branch, and then someone reached up from the darkness, yanking him to his feet. “Run,” said a clipped voice, and he looked up, uncomprehending, into the face of Bell. “Run if you value your life. Both of you!”

  The “both of you” comment referred to the fact that James had just stumbled into view next to him. “You’re alive?” James said to Bell.

  “Yes,” said Bell, his thick accent gone, “and I intend to keep it that way. Come! Quickly!” With no further urging, he started sprinting into the forest, and Thomas and James ran after him.

  James quickly took the lead, his typical ability to never get lost serving him well in the darkness of the Elderwoods. “Keep going!” Bell urged them. “The smoke and fire should cover our spoors. Plus they’re pinned down, at least for a while. By the time the fire burns itself out, they won’t be able to catch up with us. At least in theory.”

  “What the hell happened back there?” Thomas managed to say, trying to avoid tripping over more obstacles that seemed determined to throw themselves in his path. “Was that you shooting them—?”

  “Yes, with silver bullets. Our host took it upon himself to make certain that the weapons you were all carrying were not genuine silver,” Bell said grimly. “Naturally, I anticipated that and made sure to have my own ammunition with me. What I wouldn’t give for some manner of moveable turret gun.”

  “But the flames—?”

  “Flammable oil in bottles, stuffed with cloths that I ignited before hurling them. The brittle and dried-out nature of the forest made the immediate area particularly susceptible. With any luck, the whole damned place would burn down, but I seriously doubt we’re going to be that fortunate.”

  That was when Thomas saw that Bell was carrying a walking stick tucked under his arm. It was familiar to him, and now so was Bell’s voice. “Wait!”

  “Waiting isn’t an option.”

  “I mean, I know you! You’re—”

  At that instant, a balverine came leaping out of the forest straight at them.

  There was a sharp hiss of metal, and Bell was now holding a long, slender blade that he had pulled from concealment within the cane. Without hesitation, he thrust forward with it, and the blade drove directly into the balverine’s chest, piercing the creature’s heart. The balverine fell back and was about to let out a dying howl that might well have alerted the others, but Bell reacted swiftly. Even as the balverine opened its mouth to cry out, Bell yanked out the blade and swung it with perfect precision. It didn’t cut off the monster’s head, but it didn’t have to; it sliced expertly through the beast’s vocal cords, aborting any outcry before it could be given voice.

  Bell turned and held up the blade. “Silver-augmented,” he said. “Particularly effective against the beasts.”

  “You’re Locke! From back at Windside, at the tavern.”

  “I don’t believe this,” said James. “Did the whole damned town follow us here?”

  “Hardly,” said Quentin Locke. “I told you there was a conspiracy, and now you’re neck deep in it. Now . . . I suggest we keep moving and get to the forest perimeter. There we should find what we need in order to go where we need to go before the balverines overtake us.”

  “And . . . and where’s that?” said Thomas. But Locke was already moving, and Thomas had no choice but to run to keep up. “I said where’s that? Where are we going?”

  “To Kreel’s mansion.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “No. That is where we’re going to find what will be required to put an end to this.”

  “That being?”

  “Heroism.”

  “Heroism?” Thomas gasped, trying not to run out of breath as they sprinted through the woods. Behind them, the forest was alight with the flames. “But the only living Hero is the king of Albion! What are you saying, that we run and tell him what’s happening and bring him back here?”

  “A functional plan, but far too lengthy, particularly if we have any hope in hell of saving the others from the clutches of the Order. We are going to have to deal with Heroes far closer in proximity.”

  “Heroes? You . . . you can’t mean us ...”

  “Yes and no, Mr. Kirkman,” said Locke evenly. “We are going in search of Heroes. The Heroes Three. The Triumvirate. Whatever it is you wish to call them.”

  “But . . . but they’re legends!”

  “No, Thomas, they’re quite real. And they are the only hope we have of putting an end to this Balverine Order and saving Albion from their unholy influence. I apologize for the melodrama, but there you have it.”

  “But even if they existed, aren’t they long dead?” said James.

  “Yes, Master Skelton. But last I looked, the three of us are alive. And that is going to make all the difference in the world.”

  Chapter 15

  THEY’RE GOING TO CATCH UP WITH US. There’s no way they can’t. Even if we’re lucky enough to make it to the edge of the woods, once we’re out into open land, there’s simply no way that they’re not going to overtake us.

  Those depressing thoughts kept tumbling through Thomas’s frantic mind as they continued to sprint through the forest. Every shadow seemed to conceal a balverine ready to leap out at them. Every branch was a skeletal hand ready to snag them and drag them back into the
woods. He was even sure at several points that he could feel the heat of a balverine’s breath on the back of his neck, but he dared not look behind him because at any moment he could trip over something that could possibly cause him to twist or even break an ankle. At that point, James would have no choice but to leave him behind. Except he knew that James would never do that, just as he would never abandon James. They would either make it together or not at all.

  When he wasn’t giving thought to surviving the forest, he was trying to process what he had just witnessed. The monster who had slain his brother was the leader of some . . . some sort of balverine cult? Their quest had been monitored from the very beginning both by the balverines and by this mysterious man, this Quentin Locke. Had they ever been in control of their destiny at any point?

  He asked the question of Locke as they neared the edge of the forest.

  “Yes,” Locke said in a no-nonsense tone. Amazingly, he didn’t seem the least out of breath. “At any point, you could have turned back. Your determination to see matters through was entirely your own affair. Likewise, how this all ends is also in your control, at least for the moment.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning as long as they don’t catch us. There. Through there,” he said, pointing to a separation in the trees. It occurred to Thomas that Locke’s sense of direction was as unerring as James’s. He envied them; at one point he’d gotten lost inside the mansion while wandering from room to room.

  The mansion.

  Sabrina. What was he going to say to Sabrina?

  Everything that she had said about her father, all of it now was understandable. She had somehow intuited what her father was, a secret that he must have been hiding from her. But he had only been partially successful in keeping his true nature from her. This was about more than just her blaming him for the death of her mother. Instinctively, she had sensed the evil within him.