by Peter David
“I would gladly be nothing with him than something with you.” He pointed the sword at Lugaru’s left knee. “Tell me, or that goes next.”
“You think . . . you are so much better than I,” Lugaru gasped out. “In swearing to take joy . . . in torturing me . . . you fail that . . . to which you aspire. You betray the greatness that is in the Hero . . . whose sword you wield. Let me show you . . . how one stays true . . . to others . . .”
And before Thomas could make a move, Lugaru brought his right claw up to his own throat and slashed across his own jugular vein.
“No!” shouted Thomas.
Gurgling, choking in his own blood, Lugaru managed to say, “In the end . . . I was stronger . . . than the Hero of Strength . . .”
And then his head lolled to the side and his tongue hung out of his mouth.
He was gone.
Thomas stood over him, trembling in frustration and also, he was surprised to discover, shame. Because at the last, he knew that Lugaru had been right.
Quentin Locke had released the prisoners from the altar. Shaw was staring off into space, looking as if he had not truly reconnected with the world around him. Dean Carter was limping; apparently he had injured his leg at some point during the “festivities.” The Lady Molly Newsome was helping to support him. He walked up next to Thomas and looked down at the unmoving body of the balverine.
“I wanted to kill him myself,” said Thomas.
“Does it matter how he died?”
“It does to me. He filled so much of my life . . . the shadow of him, the memory of him, the curse of him . . . all the times I envisioned my catching up with him, killing him . . . this was never how I imagined it.”
“So it’s not satisfying, is what you’re saying.”
“No, it’s not.” And then he gave a smile that was untouched by amusement. “But it will have to do.”
Chapter 18
THE SUN WAS JUST BEGINNING TO RISE when the haggard party of six returned to the mansion.
In quick, broad strokes, Quentin Locke had filled in the others on the specifics of what had happened. Carter seemed the only one of the three who was truly interested and would doubtless have kept on asking questions if a tired James hadn’t advised him to shut the hell up, which Carter promptly did. After that, very few words had been spoken during the entirety of the return trip. There were a few muted words of thanks, and some muttering from Shaw, who was attempting to recover some of his bluster now that danger was past and not doing a particularly good job of it.
Matters could have taken far longer if the horses had not done them the courtesy of remaining in the area, and consequently they were able to ride two to a mount, thus expediting their return.
Upon reaching the mansion, they discovered the front door hanging open. It seemed at first as if it might be some sort of trap, but once they entered, they encountered no one. The servants had all fled, perhaps fearing vengeance to be visited upon them should the Heroes return. The only thing remaining was Sabrina’s body. It had been left lying on the floor of the mural room.
“Well, this is simply scandalous,” said the Lady Molly Newsome. “Whatever she was . . . whatever her father made her into . . . she deserves a burial, at the very least. Lord Shaw, Dean Carter . . . there must be shovels around here. Find some so we can dig her a grave.”
“And are we supposed to return to the woods and give last rites to the bodies of the monsters lying back there?” Shaw said.
“This is different, and you know it’s different,” said Molly Newsome.
“I will have you know, Lady Newsome, that asking me to engage in such manual labor to—”
She spun and slapped him across the face so hard that it sounded as if Locke’s gun had accidentally gone off. Shaw staggered, his hand going to his cheek, and he stared goggle-eyed at Molly Newsome.
“Get to work,” she said between gritted teeth.
He did as he was told.
THOMAS, JAMES, AND LOCKE STOOD IN front of the three sarcophagi, staring at the remains of the Heroes from whom they had taken their heightened abilities. There was a long moment of silence, and then Thomas stepped forward and returned the sword to the Hero of Strength. Locke followed suit with the pistol.
They both turned expectantly to James.
James put a hand on the gauntlet and clenched his fist. His eyes seemed to glow in the darkness.
“James,” Thomas said with a sense of urgency. “What are you doing?”
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
He turned his gleaming red eyes upon Thomas. “You know what.”
“James . . . you cannot be contemplating trying to hold on to the power.”
“Why not?” James said, his voice rising in defiance. “Why allow it to molder here, far from the eyes of man, when I can put it to so much greater use?”
“It is not our power to keep,” said Quentin Locke, “because we have not earned it.”
“I nearly got killed using it. How does that not qualify as earning it?”
“James . . . we stood upon the shoulders of giants to acquire it,” Thomas said. “But that does not make us giants ourselves. This was never anything but borrowed power. Besides, sooner or later, separated from the beings who wielded these weapons, the power would be lost anyway.”
“How do we know that?”
“Kreel said as much . . .” said Locke.
“Oh, and he’s a reliable source . . .”
“. . . and the Omnicron said so as well. The power can only be borrowed, not kept.”
“But for how long?” James said, desperation beginning to fill his voice. “Does it say that? An hour? A year? An age? How long?”
“No,” Locke admitted. “It does not.”
“Then I say we keep it,” said James firmly. “It’s not as if our job is done. You both know that. The Balverine Order is still out there. We don’t know who they are or what parts of society they’ve infiltrated. We’re going to have to hunt them down, one by one. Figure out who they are, kill them. How are we supposed to accomplish that without the power of the Heroes?”
“The power of Heroes,” Quentin Locke said, “lies not in the weapons but in ourselves.”
James stared at him. “You’re kidding me. I’m talking about wielding icons of tremendous power in an effort to make certain that evil is crushed, and you’re giving me trite homilies?”
“That did sound somewhat pathetic, Locke,” Thomas had to admit.
Locke looked annoyed. “Fine,” he said at last. “Depart with the gauntlet of the Hero of Will.”
“Thank you for your permission,” James said mockingly with a bow. He turned to leave.
“Presuming,” Locke said, “it will let you.”
Slowly, Thomas turned back to him. “Let me?”
“We passed through a mystic ward unscathed because our hearts and goals were pure,” said Locke. “Has it occurred to you that the purity is no longer within you, and that the same ward might take catastrophic means to prevent you from departing?”
“He’s right, James,” said Thomas, trying to look sympathetic and not entirely succeeding. “I mean, you were pretty angry when Locke didn’t bother to warn us that we might be incinerated upon entry. So really, he’s doing what you wanted by letting you know what could happen to you if you try leave while still wearing the gauntlet.”
“I felt it to be the least I could do,” Locke said diplomatically.
James looked at the gauntlet upon his wrist and then back behind himself, trying to see where the ward was and determine whether it did pose a threat to him. “I don’t see why my motives are suspect,” he said, sounding defensive. “I told you I want to use the power to destroy the rest of the Balverine Order.”
“Except . . . is it? Is that your true motive?” said Thomas. “Or is it more about wanting to hold on to power for its own sake? You better be right about the answer, James, because your life may well depend upon it.”
James stood there for a time, staring at the path down the corridor that led back to the world . . . a world upon which he could have tremendous impact with the gauntlet upon his arm.
Then, finally, with a frustrated sigh, he removed the gauntlet from his arm and placed it back upon the arm of the Hero of Will.
“I would have been magnificent as a spellcaster,” he said, his voice choked with emotion.
Thomas draped an arm around him. “You still can be. There is a vast world out there and many possibilities within it.”
“That is true,” said Quentin Locke. “The icons did not produce attributes from whole cloth. They simply built upon what was already there. That which you have within you, Master Skelton, can be brought to the surface through hard work and study.”
“Study? With whom?”
“When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.”
“More homilies. Wonderful,” James said sourly.
They retraced their steps, James reflexively pausing at the point where the mystic ward had enveloped them during their first entry into the place. When nothing happened he let out a brief sigh of relief and kept going. They trudged up the steps and out into the mural room, and suddenly there was a grinding noise behind them that startled them. The wall, which had remained open all this time, slowly moved upward, until it slid back into place with a resounding thud.
“What a waste.” James sighed, and then he saw that Thomas was looking at him oddly. “Now what?”
“It’s the oddest thing, that’s all,” said Thomas. “Your eyes.”
“What about them?”
“It could be a trick of the light, but . . . they look red.”
James shrugged. “I’m not surprised. I haven’t been sleeping particularly well lately.” And with that, he walked away, leaving Thomas feeling concerned without knowing why.
SABRINA KREEL WAS LAID TO REST IN AN unmarked grave. Dean Carter said last rites over her body.
The six of them stood around her grave and, when the last words had been spoken, looked at each other.
And then, without a word being spoken among them, they went their separate ways.
I WAIT FOR THE STORY TELLER TO CONTINUE, but he lapses into silence. The sun has almost set upon the horizon, the cold is more profound than ever, and I display more patience than a king ordinarily possesses. Yet still the storyteller says nothing.
“And—?” I prompt.
“And that is it.”
“What is it? That cannot be the end.”
“Of course it is not the end, Majesty, because nothing ever truly ends. One action always leads to a reaction; one answer begets another question.”
“But what of the Balverine Order? Did they eradicate all of it? Did Thomas and James eventually return home? And what of Quentin Locke? What happened to him? And how did he know so much about Thomas and James when he first met them? You never explained that.”
“It was all some time ago, Majesty. The details escape me. Besides, life is not about easy answers.”
“Do not,” I tell him, bristling, “seek to dismiss it as easily as all that, or presume to tell me what life is all about. This is about a story, after all. A fable. The excuses of real life do not excuse lapses in a fable. How do you—”
I hear a calming voice behind me. “Majesty, you sound out of sorts,” it says. “Is something amiss?”
I do not bother to get up. I do not have to. These are the benefits of both kingship and old age. Instead, I remain seated as I see a familiar individual coming toward me. “Ah. Terrance, Duke of Overland. It has been an age, old friend.”
Tall, slender, with rakish good looks, the Duke of Overland approaches, and says, “Far too long, Majesty. And who, may I ask, is—?”
The storyteller stands and, without hesitation, pulls a pistol from within his cloak, aims, and fires.
The bullet embeds in the duke’s shoulder, and he lets out a scream as he clutches at it. “You bastard!” he howls.
I lurch to my feet, the old reflexes returning to me, slowed with age but not entirely gone. “Guards!” I shout, reaching for my short sword. “Assassin! Assassin in the—”
Then I hear a thunderous roar and turn and gape in shock.
The Duke of Overland is transforming before my eyes. His clothes tear away, there is that horrible sound of bones cracking, and white fur sprouts from his body. He is now towering over me, and he looks like nothing that could ever have been human.
The balverine roars, its foul breath washing over me. I am too stunned to move. Death looks down upon me, and I do not attempt to escape it, for I have seen enough to know that I desire to see no more.
The air explodes from the gun’s second discharge, and this time, the bullet—silver, I realize belatedly—thuds squarely into the chest of the balverine. The monster clutches at its chest, lets out an agonized howl, and then falls. It crashes onto the stone bench upon which I had been sitting and shatters it.
I stare down at it, dumbfounded.
“Of course, I could have shot him in the heart with my first bullet,” says the storyteller. “But then you never would have known him for what he was. The pain of the silver in his shoulder made the transformation inevitable.” The storyteller calmly replaces the pistol within his clothes. “I truly did not mean to consume so much of your day with this business, Majesty. Unfortunately, the duke was running late. Still, we found a pleasant enough way to pass the time, did we not, Majesty? Hopefully,” he says with astounding calm, “that is the last of the Balverine Order. It certainly took long enough. Still . . . one never knows. Vigilance is the watchword of safety, and even those who walk side by side with danger can never be too careful.”
“Are you . . . Quentin Locke?” I say to him.
He smiles cryptically. “I am whoever you need me to be, Majesty. Sometimes I think the best Heroes are those who remain nameless, don’t you?”
There is a pounding of feet from the castle. I turn and see that my guards are now running to my defense, albeit belatedly. They see the balverine lying dead upon the ground and gasp at the sight. They approach slowly, their weapons out, as if the corpse were capable of assailing them. Naturally, they recognize it for what it is.
“The king has slain a balverine!” says the captain of the guards.
“Someone certainly has,” I correct, “but ’twas not I. ’Twas he.”
The captain looks at me in confusion. “He who, Majesty?” he says carefully, clearly not wishing to offend me.
“Why, him,” I say impatiently, and turn to point at the storyteller who just saved the life of an old fool.
The storyteller is gone.
The story is ended.
Except, as he said . . . nothing ever ends.