Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) (41 page)

THE HERO OF STRENGTH STOPPED IN
his tracks, alerted by a low, warning growl. He had already unsheathed his sword, ready for any attack, so he did not even have to withdraw it from its scabbard. Thomas could feel power flowing from it into his sword arm, although for additional strength he was now holding the sizable blade with both hands. It was as if he were inside his head, looking out—which was usual enough—but also standing outside of himself, looking down at the assemblage of balverines who were converging upon him.

They stopped several feet away from him, forming a ring around him. There were at least a dozen of them, varying colors of fur, their claws extended, their evil eyes fixed upon him. They snarled their defiance.

But none advanced. Instead, Thomas noted with quiet amusement, they were now casting sidelong glances at each other, and he realized what was happening: Each of them was waiting for another to make the first move. Their ferocity was tempered with caution.

“You're right to be cautious,” said the Hero of Strength, with a grin on his face that was as wolfish as any of the creatures facing him. “For years—for
years
—your kind haunted my dreams. Not anymore. For now I will haunt yours. Not that you will survive this night, but the slaughter your kind will experience will be so monumental, so traumatic, that it will sear itself into the collective memory of your entire race. Balverines will jump at shadows because they will think I am in them. And in this instance, they will be right. So . . . come on, then. Come on and die.” When still they hesitated, he bellowed,
“Come on!”

Triggered by the shout, they did as he bade them. They converged on him from all sides, thinking that they could take him down through overwhelming force.

The silver blade whipped through the air like a windmill. Several of them froze in their tracks, ducked back, but most of the balverines continued their charge.

They never got near him. Instead, the blade sliced through their necks without slowing. Two of them endeavored to duck beneath the blade and the result was to have the upper part of their heads sent flying.

The power of the Hero of Strength surged through Thomas as he completed his spin and came to a set position, awaiting the next charge. One cycle of the blade and, just like that, eight balverines were lying dead on the forest floor beneath him.

The remaining four spread out, more cautious this time, no longer being able to assume that overwhelming force would carry the day, and cautiously circled him. Thomas countered their moves, and no matter which way they tried to come at him, his blade was always a barrier, as if it were in several places at once.

Suddenly, there was a quick noise from overhead, a rustling of air, nothing more, but that was all the warning Thomas needed to bring his sword swinging up and around. The balverine that had tried to drop down upon him wound up bisected at the hip, falling in two separate pieces.

But the necessary change in Thomas's angle of attack left, for just a moment, his back exposed. That was all that was required for one of the balverines to land on Thomas's back, knocking him to the ground, the full weight of the balverine pressing him down. The balverine let out a triumphant cry and was about to rip Thomas's spine from his back and dangle it in front of his eyes.

Then there was a thunderous explosion, and the balverine was blasted backwards with such force that it flipped over. The remaining balverines tried to scatter, but a second explosion, like a thunderclap on the ground, took down a second one. It fell, clawing at its chest, and then it ceased all movement and simply lay there.

The remaining two balverines melted into the woods and, seconds later, were gone.

The Hero of Strength clambered to his feet and saw, as he might have expected, the Hero of Skill emerging from the woods. The barrel of his gun was still smoking.

“You may want to rethink your ‘run on ahead and nearly get killed if not for me' strategy,” Locke said drily.

“Good point,” Thomas was forced to admit. “Thank you for the save, by the way.”

“You would have managed to fight your way out entirely on your own.”

“Maybe not.”

“Undoubtedly not,” replied Locke. “I was being generous in order to assuage your ego.”

“All I need to feel assuaged is to kill the bastards.”

“Then let us attend to it,” said the Hero of Skill.

They sped through the woods then, and as they did so, they quickly put together what seemed a reasonable plan: the Hero of Strength would handle the bulk of the heavy lifting when it came to dispatching the balverines, while the Hero of Skill would see to rescuing the intended victims of the Balverine Order.

The minimal distance between them and the temple was hardly without difficulties. Balverines leaped out at them with seeming randomness, trying to throw them off step, catch them by surprise, take them down. In every instance, they failed: the Heroes of Skill and Strength were not to be caught off guard, intercepting attacks and ruthlessly gunning or cutting down all opposition. The Hero of Strength carried the lion's share of offense since the Hero of Skill did not have an infinite number of bullets.

They left a trail of bloody mayhem in their wake and, upon reaching the temple with minutes to go until midnight, saw they had a clear path to the mouth of their goal.

“It's too easy,” said Quentin Locke, putting an arm out and preventing Thomas from advancing.

Determined to reach the temple's interior and find the monster who had crippled his family and destroyed so much of his life, it was everything Thomas could do to heed Locke's counsel. “You think they're waiting for us?”

“I surely do.”

“But that's the only entrance.”

“So far as we know.”

“Then we need to draw them out if they're in hiding.”

“I suppose, but—”

“Then,” said the Hero of Strength, “it is necessary for us to remember the plan. I will draw them out, and you will get to the prisoners.”

He half rose to standing, and Locke said sharply, “Getting yourself killed so that you can join your brother is hardly a wise plan.”

“That is not my plan.”

“I would be hard-pressed to prove otherwise.”

“We,” said Thomas, “are losing time.”

“Then,” came a slightly out-of-breath voice from behind, “you are not going to benefit anyone by wasting more of it here.”

They turned and saw the Hero of Will walk boldly past them without slowing so much as a step. “James!” Thomas cried out, overjoyed, and suddenly fear for his friend caught up with him. “Wait!”

James did not wait. Instead, he strode out into the open, making no effort to look around or anticipate any manner of assault.

He had taken five paces out into the open and suddenly balverines were descending from on high, like sleet, roaring their triumph.

They had been secreted against the rock face of the temple itself, flattened, waiting, their eyes closed so that their presence would not be betrayed by their gleaming yellow orbs. Now they fell en masse toward their target, far too many to count, anticipating sinking their claws and fangs into the flesh of the lone Hero.

The Hero of Will glanced up at them and spread his hands. The air rippled upward and then blasted like a geyser of pure power.

The name for the spell was Force Push, and it carved a divide between the plummeting balverines, scattering them to either side, halving their forces. Some of the balverines were hit directly with such intensity that they were crushed against the very rock face that had been their shelter only seconds earlier.

The rest of them endeavored to regroup, and James promptly switched tactics.
“Inferno!”
he called out, and a wall of fire erupted from him, blasting in all directions. A number of the balverines retreated in the face of it, but some of them weren't fast enough. They went up in flame, shrieking.

“Going to need some help!” James called. “Flame alone won't do it!”

“My pleasure!” Thomas leaped from the concealing woods and charged forward, wading into the melee with unrestrained joy. With each swing of his sword, with each balverine head that went flying, with every drop of blood that was spattered because of him, a bit more of the nightmares that had haunted him were shredded and sent screaming off into oblivion. The Hero of Strength was there to rescue not only his friend, not only the prisoners, but first and foremost, himself.

The Hero of Skill, as per the collective plan, sprinted through the battle, avoiding getting caught up in it so that he could reach the prisoners. Even as he disappeared into the mouth of the temple, there were more howls, the sounds of reinforcements.

“Follow Locke!” James said, turning to face the oncoming hordes who had not yet made themselves visible. “He may need help getting to the prisoners!”

“What about you?”

“I can handle it,” the Hero of Will said firmly, and his eyes burned red as he spoke. He brushed away some flies that were swarming about him. “Trust me . . . I'm going to enjoy this.”

Thomas hesitated, but only briefly. Then he stuck out a hand, and James clasped it firmly. “Remember who and what you are,” Thomas said.

“And you,” replied James.

Thomas turned and ran into the temple as James wheeled to await the inevitable oncoming mass. He was starting to feel the drain on his will, but he knew this was no time for weakness.

And then, with a collective roar that would have wakened the dead, a pack of balverines thundered out of the woods toward him.

“Vortex!”
shouted the Hero of Will, throwing wide his arms, commanding the winds to do his bidding. It was a temporary spell to allow him time to prepare Blades, a spell that would enable him to conjure multiple magical swords that would, with any luck, cut them to pieces.

The air hardened, and the winds sprang to life, creating a whirlpool of air that picked up the foremost balverines and sent them spinning. Others of them fell back, grabbing at the trees, sinking their claws into the bark, and holding on for all they were worth.

James kept it up for as long as he could, smiling grimly as the balverines spun around him, up and up, tossed into branches or slammed into each other and sustaining terrible damage because of it. And when the balverines regrouped and Vortex had run its course, then came Blades, and after that, Shock, with living lightning flowing through him and into his enemies.

They kept coming at the Hero of Will, and he kept beating them back, keeping them at bay, determined not to let so much as one slip through.

But one finally did.

 

 

LOCKE, MOVING QUICKLY THROUGH THE
temple, heard a swift footfall behind him, turned, and fired without even looking to see what it was.

It was a rare misstep for the Hero of Skill, and one that nearly had tragic consequences, because he saw to his horror that his target was the Hero of Strength. But the bullet was already flying, and the Hero of Skill never missed.

Thomas reacted without thinking. Instead of trying to dodge, he brought up his sword and slapped the bullet aside. It lodged in the wall to his right, right in the eye of a sculpture of a balverine. They both stared at where the bullet had lodged, and then at each other. “Well, that was a waste of a silver bullet,” said Thomas.

“Sorry.”

“I think that's the first time I've ever heard you apologize, and it only took you almost shooting me to do it.”

“I said it once; don't expect seconds. Come,” said Locke, “it's almost midnight.”

 

 

TWENTY BALVERINES RINGED THE MAIN
chamber where the sacrament of the Balverine Order was about to be administered. No timepieces of any sort were required; the balverines, by their very nature, were attuned to the world around them and knew precisely when the midnight hour was to strike.

Lugaru, retaining his full, menacing balverine form, had stepped up onto the altar with the three new converts. His jaw was slightly open in anticipation of administering the bite, and saliva dripped down from it on Molly Newsome's face. She twisted her head away and spat out some that had dribbled into her mouth. Shaw was whimpering; Dean Carter was observing the activities in that same detached manner of his, as if he were endeavoring to make mental notes of everything so that he could tell others all about it.

In his deep growl, Lugaru said, “You are about to begin a new life. I know that all of this may be confusing to you now. But all will become clear to you.”

“The only thing clear to me is that I'm going to see you dead,” said the Lady Newsome.