Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) (33 page)

“ELDERWOODS, MY FRIENDS. ONE OF
the great natural wonders of Sutcliff . . . and home to balverines.”

Laird Ethan Kreel stood on the edges of a forest that seemed shrouded in darkness even though it was midday. A road ran along the perimeter, but there was nothing entering the woods themselves. As near as Thomas and James could discern, it was an area that had been untouched and untrammeled by human beings.

The entire expedition was gathered at the forest's edge. The servants were loaded down with the equipment that the brave explorers would require for survival. They were bearing up under the burden well enough although Bell seemed to be struggling a bit with his pack, even limping slightly, and James hoped that he wasn't overloaded. When he asked out of concern, Bell simply grimaced a bit, and said, “Nuthin I kenna handle,” and spoke no more. Obviously, he was a prideful individual; James could respect that.

He wasn't entirely sure he still respected Thomas, though, considering that his old friend seemed rather distracted from the endeavor. It was hard to believe: Their entire voyage had come down to this moment, and Thomas's mind seemed elsewhere. James, of course, knew exactly where, and on exactly whom.
Why her? Why that spoiled brat? Maybe Thomas sees something in her. Yeah. He sees himself in her,
James thought mirthlessly.

Their trip to the woods' perimeters had been without incident. There had been much conversation and chatting between the members of the expedition; it was as if the previous night's get-acquainted gathering had simply been taken on the road. Conspicuous in her absence had been Sabrina, who had not departed with them that morning after breakfast and indeed had not even come downstairs.

Taking too great a chance with fate, as far as James was concerned, Thomas had nevertheless inquired of her father as to her whereabouts.

“Sabrina will not be joining us,” said Kreel easily, as if it were a matter of no consequence. “She has very little taste for these hunts. She will be remaining back at the mansion, where hopefully my servants will do a better job keeping an eye on her this time so that she does not head off into the marketplace and cause more mischief.”

This had been an answer that had saddened Thomas even as it had gladdened James. As the journey had proceeded, James had said in a low whisper into his friend's ear, “Be grateful she is not along.”

“Why?”

“Because you do not lie well, remember? And if she were hanging on your arm, or otherwise displaying affection for you, and her father asked why there was such a turn in her feelings for you, I do not believe for a moment that you would do a good job of dissembling. That's why.”

“You worry about too many things,” Thomas had said carelessly, but it was clear that he knew that what James said was true.

Now the group had reached the forest called the Elderwoods, and they were studying it. It seemed that there was, for the first time, a hint of trepidation. And the very first one to display it was, of all members of the group, Poxy. For when they drew to the edge of the forest, the dog—who had been willing to take on everything from pirates to krakens to soldiers on behalf of her master—whimpered and backed up, her ears down, her tail planted firmly between her legs.

“Poxy?” said James in surprise, clapping his hands briskly. “Poxy. Come here, girl. Come here.”

Poxy most definitely did not come there. Instead, she continued to retreat until she had taken up station a good twenty feet back, whereupon she dropped to the ground and simply refused to budge no matter how much James appealed to her to follow him.

“Well,
that
does not bode well,” said Shaw. “The dumb animal is too smart to enter where the humans would dare to go. Should we be taking our lead from her, Kreel, rather than you?”

“Life is not worth living without risk, my laird,” Kreel said calmly. “I have guaranteed none of you that we will not face any danger. Believe me, we will. All I can remind you is that I have survived any number of such expeditions, to territory far more hazardous than what is effectively my own backyard.”

“Yes, about that,” said Molly Newsome. “I admit to some curiosity about the fact that the balverine forest is within range of your home and yet you do not find yourself constantly assailed by them. Why is that?”

“A good question, my lady, and you need look no further than there for your answer.” And he pointed at Poxy, who was still cowering some distance away. “The Elderwoods are a mystic haven, and there is a line of demarcation between the end of the forest and the beginning of civilization. Whether it is a natural one that has developed through time or one that was laid down by a wizard at some distant point in the past, I could not say. The result, however, is consistent: Beasts do not wish to cross it in either direction. The balverines cower within the Elderwoods, having no desire to step out into the exposed realm of man. By the same token, even the more modest beasts, such as Master James's dog, will have no truck with setting foot—or paw, if you will—within the confines of the woods.”

“But we can enter?” she said.

“We are not beasts, my lady”—and Kreel smiled— “although it may seem to you at times that men become beasts in your presence.”

“They have at times,” she said, and this caused a ripple of laughter among the assemblage.

“Very well, then,” said Kreel. “Now . . . I would suggest that you keep your pistols at the ready. You have all assured me that you are familiar with firearms and have used them in the past. I will not lie to you: If any of you have boasted without foundation, then your personal jeopardy has been increased, for your pistols are your first, best means of offense. I have loaded them with silver bullets. Even a wound from silver is like unto acid upon the creature and will stop it in its tracks; a bullet to the heart or the head will dispose of one permanently. You all understand?” There were nods from all around. “Also, you have the silver-edged knives I have given you. Those likewise will prove fatal, although obviously the balverine would be at far greater proximity. Unless you are exceptionally skilled in the practice, I would not suggest using the knife as a throwing blade. The odds are that you will simply wind up weaponless. So . . . are we prepared, then?”

The members of the nobility looked at each other. It seemed to James that each of them was waiting for the other to say, “To hell with this; let's return to the mansion, drink and dine well in privilege, and speak no more of this ever again.” But none of them did, and collectively they nodded.

“Into the woods, then,” said Laird Kreel.

As they entered, the last thing James heard was Poxy whimpering after him, clearly asking him to remain with her and stay out of these darksome woods. For the first time since he had met her, James did not heed her. He wondered if it was a decision he was going to live to regret . . . or, for that matter, live through at all.

 

 

THE EXPEDITION HAD BEEN UNCONSCIOUSLY
bracing itself for being attacked the second they entered the Elderwoods. Certainly, the environment seemed to invite it. The darkness of the woods was not simply some manner of illusion when standing out on the roadside. Having entered the woods, it seemed to envelop them as if they had wandered into the belly of the beast. The servants had torches with them that could be lit when the sun went down. For the time being, the very minimal daylight that managed to reach the forest floor, like an intrepid soldier fighting through overwhelming enemy forces, provided them with just enough light to be able to see ahead and around them. Even so, the shadows were long, and many leafless branches stretched above them, like skeletal arms ushering them to their doom.

However, despite the morbid character of their surroundings—or perhaps specifically because of its less-than-promising nature—they relaxed a bit when assault was not forthcoming within the first five minutes. When nothing happened within an hour, they relaxed a good deal. There was casual discussion back and forth, and Kreel even took the time to point out things of interest, such as particularly old trees or curious rock formations.

The more they relaxed, though, the more tense Thomas became, so much so that James's accidentally bumping into him was enough to make him reach for the pistol tucked into his belt. His rifle was slung over his shoulder although that had likewise been filled with silver bullets. Then he saw that it was James, and he let out a relieved sigh.

“You've got to overcome that whole jumpiness thing of yours,” James said chidingly. “You can't keep being ready to open fire every time someone steps on a branch.”

“I'll be fine.”

“I don't get you. This is what we've been working for, what we've been waiting for. You're finally getting your wish; you're knocking on the back door of the balverines, about to face them down. Who knows, maybe you'll even have your dream come true and wind up with the head of the balverine that killed your brother as a trophy.”

“It won't bring him back,” Thomas said as he stepped carefully over an upright rock that seemed to have been placed there specifically to trip him up. “Kreel's wife—Sabrina's mother—was slain by balverines. Kreel wears the pelt of one as a trophy, he's killed who knows how many, and Sabrina is still mourning the loss.”

“I didn't know that about her,” said James. “Then again, I don't know her as well as you.” When he saw the look Thomas gave him, he added, “I don't mean anything more by that than what I said.”

“Sure. Okay.”

“Thomas . . .” And James lowered his voice even more, glancing to make sure that they were out of earshot from the others. “What are you going to do? About the girl, I mean.”

“I don't know. Marry her?”

“After one night of passion? Are you insane? Passion fades, Thomas.”

“Does it?”

“Well . . . so I've heard,” he said, putting on an air of mild chagrin. But then he grew serious once more. “What, are you going to bring her home with you? Or maybe move in with her in her mansion? What kind of life would you have with her?”

“I don't know, James. I haven't worked any of it out.”

James grunted in mild annoyance, but then said with false chipperness, “Look at the bright side. If you don't make it out of here alive, then hey: problem solved.”

“You're cheering me right up there, James. If you—”

Suddenly there was the sound of something coming very quickly toward them. Branches were snapping, brush was shaking, and immediately Kreel gestured for everyone to draw into a circle, everyone with their backs to each other. “Weapons up!” he called out, and all of them obeyed, their weapons at the ready.

Thomas's pulse was racing, his eyes wide. He had unslung his rifle, hoping to cut short one of the creatures' charge before it got close enough to do damage to anyone. Dean Carter had his gun leveled and a distant look on his face, as if he were studying something from far enough away that he was not at risk. Laird Shaw was grimly determined, holding his gun with two hands, keeping it steady. Molly Newsome appeared the most delighted of the three, swinging her gun in a wide arc, eager for something to unload upon. It occurred to Thomas that perhaps staring down death was her way of feeling close to her departed husband.

The eight servants were also armed, their guns out and aimed with varying degrees of confidence. Bell appeared the most prepared, and something about him seemed different to Thomas although it was not anything that he could quite put his finger on. As if he had been wearing his personality rather than inhabiting it and was now tossing it aside in favor of something new and more suitable to the occasion.

“Steady ... steady ...” said Kreel, and Thomas felt as if the shadows themselves were about to reach out and drag them off into the abyss.

And then the source of the noise burst out at them from two directions.

It was a pair of deer, a doe and a buck. Shaw, his nerves on edge, actually fired off a shot as the two animals nearly collided with each other ten paces away from the circle of hunters. They veered off at the last moment and then darted right past the band, the doe on one side and the buck on the other.

Then they were gone, and all was still once more.

The hunters looked around at each other, and then Molly Newsome chuckled. This laughter was quickly taken up by the others until it became a full-throated, unrestrained round of merriment at their own expense. “That was—” began one of the servants as the laughter began to die down.

He didn't get to finish his sentence, as a balverine dropped down from overhead, landed directly in front of him, and clamped its jaws around his throat.

The servant's eyes widened, his mind unable to process what was happening, and then the balverine yanked its head back and tore the man's throat out. Blood fountained, splashing all over the balverine's face, and its tongue darted out and licked at it as the servant fell to the ground.

There was a collective shriek from the hunters, and they opened fire on the beast. It staggered under the hail of bullets but did not go down, and suddenly there were more of them, plummeting from the canopy of branches overhead and leaping out from the shadows as if they'd been wearing them as cloaks for concealment.

The servants started firing, and it was impossible to miss the targets because the balverines were not slowing at all. They tore into the servants, and if the curse of the balverine could be passed along through biting, it seemed there would be none who were going to have the opportunity to discover if it was true. There was no biting here, but instead rending of flesh and ripping out of organs, and veins and guts being yanked out and slurped down like gluttons at a feast. There was blood everywhere, and the warm splatting of organs hurled against the trees.