by Peter David
. . . and then knowledge flooded through them, and memories that were not their own. Their muscles acquired reflexes that they had never had before, which elevated them to levels they had not yet achieved and might never be able to in this lifetime.
And Locke, who had fancied himself a crack shot, was humbled in the face of how much he did not know, and how his beloved accuracy was actually off by millimeters, even inches, and he was shamed and shown how he could do better, would do better.
And Thomas, who believed himself a fair swordsman, saw that he had not even begun to master the blade, and that the true berserker power that a melee swordsman required was not even close to being his, but it would be, at least for now.
And James, who believed himself to be strong-willed and determined, saw how he had not even begun to understand how he could truly manipulate his will, transforming it into a weapon that was as formidable as any sword or axe forged by the hand of man. He saw that if he truly believed that he could be unstoppable, he would be, and nothing and no one would be able to withstand him.
The three came together as one, and just as suddenly as the chamber was filled with the roar of energies being unleashed for the first time in ages, all became deathly silent.
The three who were now operating as one nodded in agreement without having to speak a word.
They strode with utter confidence down the corridor that they had just walked so tentatively mere moments before. Beyond the area where lay the three sarcophagi, the rats were still swarming. When the three of them approached, however, the rats seemed to look at them in unison, and then, without so much as a squeak, the mass of them parted to either side. The way was now clear. The Heroes simply nodded as if that were the natural order of things, and they kept moving.
Before them was the stairway they had taken down into the underground crypt. They strode up the steps, radiating certainty and confidence.
There were servants in the mural room.
They had gathered around the fallen body of Sabrina and were trying to determine what to do. When they saw the Heroes, their knee-jerk reaction was to attack, correctly intuiting that the three were responsible for the death of the mistress of the house. But all they managed was several steps toward the Heroes before the unbridled power that the three of them were radiating froze them in their tracks. They backed down without even fully comprehending why.
The Hero of Will approached Sabrina’s rapidly cooling corpse and stood over her. Then he stretched out his hand and a dark force began to issue from it.
“James,” said the Hero of Strength sharply. “What are you doing?”
“A useful spell called Raise Dead, Thomas,” replied the Hero of Will. “It will animate her and enable her to fight our enemies alongside us.”
“Animate her? You mean bring her back to life?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Meaning her body will obey commands, but she will have no soul.”
“Small matter. She was a balverine. She had no soul anyway.”
The dark force was building around his hand as he prepared to unleash the spell, and then, to his surprise, a sword gently tapped his hand. He turned and saw Thomas, the Hero of Strength, wielding it. There was no overt threat to the gesture; merely a firm warning. “No, James.”
“But she can be of use.”
“She had a soul, James. Blackened and burned by the curse of the balverine it may be, but it was there. I touched it—”
“A long with everything else,” James said with a coarse laugh.
“—and I will not have you do this,” Thomas, the Hero of Strength continued. “It is unjust for her, and unworthy of us . . . and of you. Do you understand me?”
“I understand that you do not seem willing to do whatever is necessary to crush the Order.”
“Yes, I am. I just do not believe this to be necessary.”
James thought it might well be his imagination, but at that moment he felt as if he could see an aura of light shimmering around his fellow Hero. He closed his eyes and opened them again, but there it still was. It was the damnedest thing.
“Do we understand each other, James?” said the Hero of Strength.
James, the Hero of Will, was clearly considering pressing the matter, and then the Hero of Skill stepped in between the two of them. “We need to be united, gentlemen. We must be precise in our efforts, or they will come to naught. And the united front of the Heroes does not support the issuance of this spell. Will you defer to us, James?”
James’s hand had been closed tightly in a fist. Now, though, he opened his hand, and the spell dissipated before becoming fully formed. “If you wish to restrict our resources in combat, then I will abide by that,” he said sourly.
“Good man,” said the Hero of Strength.
“Come, gentlemen,” said the Hero of Skill. “Our enemy awaits, and time is not on our side.”
They headed out, James bringing up the rear. He was sure that he was seeing that same strange glow around Locke as he was Thomas, and could not fathom what it was. He thought perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him, and as he passed an oversized mirror, he glanced in it to see if his eyes appeared tired or bloodshot.
They were not bloodshot, or if they were, he could not distinguish the tiny vessels within.
Instead, they were solid red, glowing at him ominously. It was as if he were looking into someone else’s eyes.
James withdrew, startled, uncomprehending of what he was witnessing. He blinked rapidly and even changed the angle, looking this way and that, to see if it was some sort of trick of light. They remained exactly as they were, scarlet and fearsome to behold.
After he got over the initial sensation of being startled and a bit afraid, he regarded them a little longer and decided he rather liked them. They made a statement that he was someone not to be trifled with and would doubtless strike fear into those who beheld them.
“James!” came Thomas’s sharp voice. “You will have plenty of time to admire yourself later on! There is work to be done!”
“Coming!” He smiled at his menacing reflection one final time and then headed out after the others.
They reached the front door without any further problems from servants, who parted in their advancement in much the same way the rats did. When they reached the horses, the animals reared up at first, startled by what they instantly perceived as changes to their riders that—due to their uncanny nature—were enough to cause them consternation. The moment the Heroes drew near, however, the horses calmed, although James noted with annoyance that his horse still appeared a bit nervous around him. He opted not to dwell upon it; what did the reaction of a dumb animal mean to him, anyway.
Moments later, they were galloping at full speed toward the Elderwoods.
The midnight hour was approaching for the Balverine Order. And so were the Heroes.
Chapter 16
LAIRD ETHAN KREEL STALKED THE temple, an uneasy feeling having settled upon him.
It was a vast structure, a seemingly perfect synthesis of architecture and natural cave. It was impossible to determine where nature ended and human—or inhuman, as it were—efforts began. The names of the builders of the balverine temple were long lost, presuming they had ever been known. All that remained were their efforts, which served as a gathering place to balverines to this day. It was their most revered of shrines, and a testament to the fact that they were far, far more than the mindless beasts that many thought them to be.
Towering columns reached from floor to ceiling. It was impossible to determine whether they were supporting the structure within or if they were simply decorative. In a way they were both, for the columns had images of balverines twisting around them, depicting them in full pursuit of cowering so-called Heroes who lacked the nerve to face them.
At the far end of the main cavern was an altar that had been erected long ago. Images of the phases of the moon decorated the front, running from left to right, with the fu
ll moon naturally in the middle. It was a wide enough altar that it could accommodate up to six new converts; this evening only three would be taking up space upon it.
“What ails you, brother?” said Lugaru, slowly approaching Kreel. When in human form—as he and Kreel were now, since human bodies were better suited for simple conversation than those of balverines—he very much looked his age. When he was a balverine, on the other hand, he was as agile and powerful as any of his kind, and more so than most. Although he was not a literal brother of Kreel, it was he who had transformed Kreel into one of them and mentored the laird during his transition and embrace of the balverine way of life and death. “You seem distracted. The fire has been extinguished, and the midnight hour approaches. All is well.”
“All is not well,” said Kreel angrily. “There should be five converts up there, not a mere three.”
“Two escaped. Of what consequence is that? We have balverines in pursuit of them. They will overtake them, as surely as I am standing here. Night belongs to us, brother.”
“But if they are not brought here before midnight—”
“Then it matters not.”
“It does matter. The transition must be accomplished during the first of the full moon. Tomorrow night will not suffice.”
“Then we will hold them for a month or, if that proves inconvenient, they will simply be fed to our brethren.” He looked at Kreel sadly. “You worry too much about things of no consequence.”
“But there is something else,” said Kreel. “I just . . . I am uncertain what it is. Something has happened, something that fills me with unease.”
“You let your imagination get the better of you. Look at this place.” And he gestured toward the balverines stalking around, prowling, on guard for any possible intrusion. “Behold our past”—and he gestured toward the altar—“and our future.” On the altar, Carter, Laird Shaw, and Lady Molly Newsome were strapped down hand and foot. Carter was lying there, studying the surroundings; Shaw looked to be in shock; and Molly Newsome was still pulling at her bonds with a ferocity that had not lessened. Lugaru watched her approvingly. “That one, in particular, will be a greatly valued addition. Perhaps I shall take her for myself. What think you, milady?” he called out to Molly Newsome, causing her to cease her struggles for a moment. “Once you have been brought over, I may honor you with my personal attentions. You will, at that point, be in a far better position to fully appreciate me.”
“The best position for me to be appreciating you,” shot back Molly Newsome, “will be when you’re a carpet in my den, and I’m standing on top of you.”
“Ha!” said Lugaru. “You see, Kreel? This one is extraordinarily feisty. I will enjoy bringing her around to our view of the world.”
“Perhaps . . .”
“Perhaps what?”
“Perhaps you are correct,” Kreel said. “Perhaps I am worrying about nothing.”
“No ‘perhaps’ about it. Your heart will lighten once you see our brethren returning with young Skelton and Kirkman. You will see: All will be well.”
Kreel very much wanted to believe it. And yet he could not shake the feeling that something profound had changed in the last few hours.
FOUR BALVERINES WERE SPRINTING ACROSS the heath, tracking the scent of the escaped offerings, when they saw three horsemen pounding toward them. The balverines were downwind of them, else their own scents would have been detected by the horses. Consequently, they crouched low in the high grass, waiting for the horses to draw within range. The moment they did, the balverines would leap upon them, two from each side, take down the riders, and devour the horses. A worthy meal, for the balverines had had a busy evening thus far, and sating their constant hunger was a priority for them.
As the riders drew nearer, the balverines caught their scents and were overjoyed to discover that it was the ones they had been tracking. Their lives had just become that much easier: Their quarry was coming to them and bringing dinner with them besides. How utterly considerate.
Still, something seemed wrong. It was definitely the scent of their prey, but something had changed, something indefinable. It was enough to give the balverines pause, but only momentarily.
The horses charged directly into the trap, between the two groups of balverines. With a collective roar designed to freeze their enemies in their tracks, the balverines leaped at them from both sides.
The lead rider never so much as hesitated. A pistol that had been in his belt was now in his hand, so quickly that it never seemed that he drew it; it was simply there. He fired twice to the right, transferred the gun to his left and fired again, all while the balverines were still in midair, before the horses had even had time to register that they were under assault.
Each bullet thudded squarely into the heart of its target. The last balverine to be struck had barely enough time to see the first of his group fall to the ground stone dead before he himself was hit. The impact of the bullet blasted him backwards in a manner that would have seemed impossible; no gun should have been able to drive a bullet with that degree of force. But this one did, and the balverine flipped over backwards and was dead before he hit the ground. His brethren likewise lay sprawled upon the heath, and the horses never even slowed their stride.
THE HERO OF SKILL HAD RELEASED HIS hold on the reins, guiding his mount with the strength of his legs only, and was calmly reloading his gun. “Locke!” the Hero of Strength called over to him. “How many bullets does that thing fire, anyway?”
“Six, James,” the Hero of Skill replied. “A definite improvement over the two that my previous weapon could hold. And with far greater stopping power, as you have seen.”
“No kidding! I think you could have knocked over a tree with that thing!”
“Not quite, but I would say that the tree would come away the worse for it.”
As they continued to gallop, the Hero of Strength shouted, “James! Did you see that—?”
“It was nothing I couldn’t have handled. A simple Time Control spell would have slowed them enough for a child to dispatch them,” said the Hero of Will.
Thomas was somewhat taken aback by James’s casual dismissal, but the Hero of Skill merely said, “He brings up a valid point. We will be at our most formidable if we are working in concert. The forest approaches.”
The three Heroes reined up at the edge of the wood. “It’s too dangerous to ride in,” said the Hero of Skill. “The terrain is far too uneven. The horses would break their legs, like as not.”
“But if we tie them off here, then they would be prey to any passing balverines,” pointed out the Hero of Strength.
“Then we let them go. They will retreat to a safe distance and wait for us,” said the Hero of Will.
“Are you sure, James?”
“Yes,” James said flatly. “They will wait. I will see to it.”
The Hero of Will was as good as his word. He looked into the eyes of each of the horses and, as if they understood his intent, they moved off a short ways away and herded together. Each of them was watching in a different direction so that, no matter which way a balverine approached, they would be able to react.
Quentin Locke, the Hero of Skill, turned to James. “That Time Control spell of yours,” he said. “How pervasive can you make it?”
“Pervasive?”
“I see what he’s saying, James,” said the Hero of Strength. “Midnight is approaching faster than we can reach the temple. But if—”
Immediately, James comprehended. “Say no more. I understand.” He closed his eyes, stretched out his hands, and felt the flow of time all around them. He knew that he was endeavoring something that was unprecedented: a combination of single-target localization and employing time control in radial mode. He was going to speed the three of them up while simultaneously slowing down the world. A hundred Heroes of Will could have studied a hundred lifetimes and still never acquired the technique or ability to accomplish such a feat.
But James was
not a Hero of Will. He was the Hero of Will, unique in the whole of Albion. There was little within the realm of existing spells that he could not perform once he was able to conceive of it.
Energy rippled from his hands, and throughout the forest, as far as the Temple of the Balverine Order. The inhabitants therein were unaware of the fact that they were moving and talking incredibly slowly. To them, there was no change in the world around them.
As it so happened, however, the ripple effect generated by the Hero of Will stopped just short of the altar upon which Carter, Shaw, and Newsome were strapped down. They watched in bewilderment as the balverines, who had been stalking the temple, were now moving at a pace that would have allowed a snail to hurtle past them. Kreel and Lugaru, who had been in the midst of a conversation, had come to a virtual halt, their mouths frozen.
Even Shaw, who had been near catatonic with fear since they had fallen into the clutches of the balverines, was roused from his stupor at the bizarre sight. “What in the world—?”
Dean Carter regarded the strange scene with the same academic detachment he viewed everything else. “It’s some manner of time-disruption spell.”
“A spell?” said Shaw, beginning to sound like his typical doubting self. “What are you saying? That there is a magic user in the area . . . ?”
“Let’s hope so,” said the Lady Molly Newsome. “Because I think it’s going to require something akin to the miraculous to free us from this situation.”
THE WORLD WAS BEGINNING TO SPIN AROUND James.
He had been utterly confident of his ability to hold matters static as they moved through the forest at what was, comparatively, incredible speed. They even passed several immobilized balverines that Thomas was able to dispatch with a flash of Quicksilver.