Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) (18 page)

“Then they'll be well-preserved, thoroughly pickled corpses!” James declared loudly. “To success!” And he raised the mostly empty bottle and finished draining it.

“To success!” Thomas said, just as loudly and raising his hand, which was bereft of bottle.

Neither remembered much of anything after that.

 

 

THEY AWOKE AT ROUGHLY THE SAME TIME,
but neither of them was particularly inclined to stand up. Instead, they simply lay there on the floor, staring glassy-eyed at each other, as if they had just awoken to discover, much to their mutual surprise, that they were about to be dropped into their graves.

“Am I dead?” James said after a time.

“No.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

He started to sit up, and the world spun around him so violently that he had no choice but to thud back to the floor. The noise startled Poxy awake. She raised her head, looked around, then glowered at James to make sure he was aware of her lack of approval for rousting her. Then she settled her head back on her paws and closed her eyes once more.

“Why,” said James with a low moan, “am I
not
dead?”

“Well . . . because no one killed you.”

“Why didn't they? Why couldn't they do me that favor? Some random assassin, maybe, coming to me in my sleep and slitting my throat. Then I wouldn't have to wake up feeling like this.”

Thomas was now sitting up, squinting against the few shafts of daylight that were filtering into the room. “James,” he asked tentatively, “are my legs longer this morning?”

“What?”

“My legs. Are they longer this morning than they were last night?”

James studied them for a bit. “No,” he finally decided. “They look pretty much the same. Why?”

“I could swear that my feet are farther away than when I last looked at them.”

“No. Same distance. Still attached to your ankles. But I think my tongue is about to fall out of my mouth.”

“You'd be lucky,” said Thomas. “I wish I didn't have a tongue. Then I couldn't taste anything, and I wouldn't feel like I have a mouth full of sewage.”

“There's only one thing to do.”

“Yeah? What?”

“Drink some more. I liked how that felt.”

Thomas coughed roughly, which brought up some phlegm that he spat into the far corner of the room. It struck a roach that had been trying to make its way across the floor and knocked it over onto its back, where it lay with its legs frantically waving. Thomas watched it until he lost interest. “We can't keep drinking, as tempting as that might be. We've made it to the eastern lands. Now we keep heading east.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said James

“And one that I absolutely intend to put into action right after I go outside and vomit.”

“An even better plan. Let me know how it goes.” And then he flopped back onto the floor and fell back asleep.

Between Thomas's extended bout with nausea and James's thundering headache that pounded in his skull as if someone were striking him repeatedly with a club, they were not fully themselves until the sun had crawled nearly to the noon hour. They ate a simple meal of bread and cheese since the innkeeper didn't exactly have much variety, nor were they feeling especially hungry, although Poxy certainly fed eagerly enough on table scraps.

Finally, packing up their effects, they took ready leave of the inn, with the master of the house continuing to glare suspiciously at the dog. The boys remained as clueless that day as they were in the evening as to why Poxy was garnering those sorts of suspicious and angry looks from the innkeeper but were willing to chalk it up to the idea that he simply despised canines.

But as they walked about the undersized, underdeveloped city, James slowly began to realize that the master of the house had not been alone in his objections to Poxy. There were not many people out in the streets, but those who were quickly crossed to the other side of the street when James and Thomas passed by, and the dog was the subject of much discussion and many sidelong and suspicious glances. Poxy was blissfully unaware, of course, but it was impossible for the attention the dog was drawing to escape the notice of the boys.

“What the hell is going on around here?” James finally said in exasperation to Thomas, only to discover that Thomas was paying him no mind. Instead, he saw, to his surprise, that Thomas's hands were trembling as he held a sheet of paper in his hand. He had plucked it off the outside wall of a tavern. It was hardly unique; from where they were standing, James could see copies of the hand-scrawled notice running up and down the length of the main cobbled street, as if the poster were concerned that they would be remiss if someone should be able to walk ten feet without encountering it.

“Look at this. James, look. Can you believe it?”

“It is truly astounding,” James said drily. “It looks to be some sort of flexible material—possibly made from trees—with writing upon it. Here I thought writing could only be chiseled upon stone tablets.”

“You're a riot, James.”

“My head is still throbbing. You're lucky I'm walking. Asking for jokes that are funny is just way too much. What is all this about—?”

“A woman ...”

“That's when the trouble usually starts,” James said ruefully.

“A woman,” Thomas pressed on, with a warning look to James that he should not make light of the situation, “is looking for help over the disappearance of her daughter. A daughter that she swears was taken by a balverine.”

“Taken by—?” He took the paper from Thomas and read it. It was exactly as Thomas described it. A local woman was seeking out a Hero to investigate the disappearance of her daughter, and she was convinced that a balverine, or possibly balverines, were responsible.

“She wants a Hero and believes in balverines,” said James in wonderment. “It's like we've stepped back in time or something.”

Thomas said, “The eastern lands seem to be more backwards than where we came from.”

“No kidding. Maybe it's because they're way less industrialized. Hell, maybe that's the problem with machines in general,” said James.

“You lost me.”

“Well, it takes work to believe in what can't be seen. The whole purpose of machines is to make life and tasks easier. Industrialization takes the wondrous and makes it mundane. How can people be amazed in a world of mundanity?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Thomas. “Believing in the unseen requires no effort at all. Faith is a convenient substitute for thought.”

“I'm not sure I agree.”

“And I'm not sure I care,” Thomas said firmly, waving the sheet of paper in James's face. “All I care is that, back home, the whole idea of Heroes is considered quaint, out-of-date, even arrogant. To say nothing of how people look at us like we're idiots every time we bring up balverines.” James couldn't refute that; he knew it to be true. “And here,” continued Thomas, “is a woman who is reaching out for help. Screw the reasons for it. All I care about is that if we can find her daughter, maybe we can find the balverines we're looking for.”

“And once we find them?”

“We save the girl, hopefully without getting killed.”

James thought about it a moment and then nodded approvingly. “Okay, then. Let us see a mother about a daughter.”

 

 

IT TOOK ONLY A BIT OF ASKING AROUND TO
locate the home of the woman who had put up the flyers. Everyone in the town knew her, and although they continued to cast suspicious glances at the dog, they didn't hesitate to point Thomas and James in the right direction so that, within the hour, they were standing outside a house that was only a step or two up from a hovel, situated on a decent-sized piece of land that served as a not-particularly-prosperous farm. Thomas rapped on the door with as much authority as he could muster. They heard some shuffling about from within, and then it creaked open to reveal a man so massive, with a sullen glare so inherently threatening, that Thomas stepped back and almost reached for his sword out of reflex. The man had a thick chin to which some grayish whiskers were clinging, a low-hanging unibrow from beneath which piglike eyes glowered, a wide nose that appeared to have been broken at least twice, a mass of salt-and-pepper curls . . .

... and a shapeless dress that hung almost down to his thick ankles.

“Who are ye?” said the man in a voice that was surprisingly light and even female in nature . . .

Thomas could see that James was coming to the same conclusion and looked equally stunned in the realization. Rebounding as quickly as he could, Thomas held up the flyer that was fluttering in a stiff breeze. “We—” And his voice cracked slightly, so Thomas cleared his throat and began again. “We are here because of your notice. Because of your daughter.”

“Aye, but who are ya?” she said again. “Yer not from around here. I can tell from yer accent, yer clothes, yer—” Then her eyes widened as she looked past Thomas. Quickly, she reached into her home, grabbed something that he couldn't see, then shoved him out of the way as if he weighed nothing and came out wielding a muck-encrusted spade. She came right at Poxy, bellowing a string of profanities. Poxy bounded back, her ears down, barely escaping the sweep of the digging implement.

James had been momentarily paralyzed by the unexpected assault, but with a moment to adjust to the situation, he leaped onto the woman's back and clung to it like an infant monkey to its mother.
“Hold it!”
he shouted, and the female behemoth backpedaled quickly, a move that confused James right up until she crushed him up against her home. Fortunately, the wood of which the sides were composed was not particularly sturdy, and instead of breaking every bone in his body, the impact caused him to crash right through the house and wind up lying on the floor of the room that served as the living room, dining room, kitchen, and, for all he knew, privy, at least judging by the smell of it.

In the street, she continued to swing the shovel at Poxy, who dodged this way and that, desperately avoiding her but clearly reluctant to vacate the area since she had no desire to abandon her masters. The woman continued to bellow imprecations at the dog, and the entire business might well have gone on all day if she hadn't heard the distinctive cocking of a crossbow. She turned, still holding the shovel defensively, and Thomas was standing a safe distance away with his crossbow aimed at her.

“I could be using my rifle right now,” he said with a calmness that he didn't quite feel, and thus had to force his voice to remain flat and even. “But I'm not sure I could shoot you without killing you. I'm a bit more confident with this that you'll survive it. So that should tell you that we're not here to hurt you ...”

James staggered out the front door, bracing himself against the frame since the world was still spinning around him a bit. “And it should further tell you to stay the hell away from my dog,” he added defiantly.

“It's evil,” she said with a snarl, clutching the shaft of the spade so tightly that her beefy knuckles were turning white.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because all dogs are evil. They're cousins of balverines.”

“That's utterly ridiculous.”

“Ayuh?”
she grunted. “That beast . . . it's waiting. Waiting for ye to lower yer guard so it can tear yer throats out in your sleep.”

“She's been with us any number of times that we've been asleep,” James said, “and our throats are just fine. Why didn't she kill us then since she had the opportunity?”

She fixed her angry gaze upon Poxy, who backed up with her tail between her legs and a faint whimper. “She's verrrry crafty,” said the woman.

“Look, I don't mean to be rude here,” said Thomas, “but we really don't have to put up with this kind of abuse and suspicion. We came here because we thought you needed help. Not to be assaulted or to have our dog—”

“She's my dog,” said James.

“—or to have his dog maligned.”

“Then why do you travel with the creature in the first place?”

“Because . . .”

“Because,” James said abruptly, “we are balverine hunters from a far western land. And this dog, whom you would so readily try to dispatch, is one of our greatest weapons in that endeavor. She's a tracker. She helps us track balverines. And we have tracked them here, to this land. Fate and our four-legged ally have led us here, but if you have no interest in our services”—he shrugged in what seemed a significant manner—“then we will be on our way. Isn't that right, Thomas?”

“That is indeed right, James,” Thomas said, nodding. He backed up, keeping the crossbow aimed at the woman. James followed suit.

Abruptly, the woman dropped the spade. “Wait,” she said sharply, and the boys both held their places. “I might have been . . . hasty.”

“At the very least,” said James.

“I am a woman alone, of limited means. But if ye can help me, I'll pay whatever I can.”

“This is not about payment,” said Thomas. James looked at him in a surprised way that said,
It's not?
Thomas quickly shook his head, and continued, “This is about trying to aid your daughter . . . although if I understand your flyer correctly, I'm not sure how much aid we could provide. Not if she's really been kidnapped by balverines. I hate to sound cold, but she's probably dead by now—”