Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) (2 page)

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Authors: Peter David

Tags: #Fantasy, #Young Adult, #Science Fiction

BOOK: Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable)
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They are waiting for me even now in the throne room, more people seeking my help or advice or who knows what else. Very likely, the Duke of Overland will step in and start adjudicating the less-pressing cases in my stead. Ah, the duke . . . when he first came to court, he seemed very much the Hero to me. Brave, noble, selfless. His emulation of the heroic ideal is why I made him one of my closest advisors. But since then, he has proven just as much the political animal as any other striving for power, if not more so. Pondering the vast gulf between what I thought the duke was, and what he is, is what has prompted me to dwell upon the nature of Heroes in the first place.
Then I remember that the duke is not at court although he is reportedly on his way back from an excursion. Running late, so I'm told. So they will be waiting on me, then. Let them wait. That is one of the few advantages of being a king. People wait on you and dare not say a word if you decide not to tailor your schedule to their liking.
Rather than sitting in the confines of my throne room— a room so vast that it would seem insane that anyone could possibly find it limiting—I have taken refuge in the royal garden. It is a crisp day as I sit here, surrounded by thick green hedges and lush beds of flowers planted by previous occupiers of the throne, or more precisely, their queens. The air is getting colder these days, and I see it in the morning frost on the flowers. It will mark their annual march toward extinction, only to be reborn in the spring.
Would that humans had the same capacity for endless rebirth.
I hear a soft footfall behind me and quickly I am on my feet. The bones may be brittle, the muscles may have lost their suppleness, but the reflexes continue to serve me well, and though my body may moan in protest, at least it continues to obey my commands. I have a short sword in my belt that I carry routinely, and it hisses smoothly out of the scabbard. I whip it around to face the unknown intruder.
It is a man with a bemused expression and empty hands. His face is narrow and hawklike, and his gaze darts around as if he is trying to determine what might be the source of my concern, only to be profoundly surprised upon realizing that it is he. He is dressed in traveling clothes and obviously has been employing them for that purpose, for they are caked with dirt. “Greetings, sire,” he says.
“Greetings,” I say cautiously. “I thought you might be an assassin.”
“If I were, I would be a rather poor one, given that I am unarmed and that you are supposed to be elsewhere. So if my plan of attack were to involve assaulting you bare-handed someplace where you are not supposed to be, then I'd be advised to find another vocation.”
His words seem reasonable to me, and slowly I sheathe my blade. “Who are you, then, and what business have you here?”
“I am no one of importance. A mere lover of horticulture. Whenever I am hereabouts, I make sure to take in the royal garden.”
“Which is intended to be for the exclusive enjoyment of the king.”
“And will you have me beheaded for enjoying the flowers
?”
“Kings have beheaded men for less.” I shrug. “Enjoy them as you wish. In the grand scheme, it is of no consequence.” I lower myself back onto the bench.
“I did not mean to intrude on the royal contemplation,” he assures me.
“I contemplate nothing of consequence. I contemplate Heroes.”
“How can you say that Heroes are inconsequential,” he says, sounding surprised at the notion.
“Because there are no more, save for the king of distant Albion—at least, so I hear—and he is roughly my age. Once he has departed this sphere, Heroes will be of no more consequence than any other extinct species.”
“Extinct? Never.”
“You know the world in which we live as well as I,” I say. “Once Heroes bestrode the land, and they were beloved and revered.”
“And now?”
“Now?” I shrug. “Now they are treated with contempt. With suspicion. Any who would pursue the noble calling are made to feel ignoble and so become mere sell swords or hedge wizards or similarly waste whatever talents they might have. The vast majority never even explore their potential, and thus their talents lie fallow while they lead mundane, unexceptional lives.”
“A very sour view of the world, Your Majesty.”
“Sour but no less accurate. What is it . . . ?” My voice trails off a moment before I recover it once more. “What is it about humanity that there is such a need to tear down Heroes? I cannot comprehend it.”
“The pendulum swings and continues to swing and never stops. Heroes were once far more revered than they are now, yes, I concede that. And over time, people have grown suspicious because . . . well, because they are fools, I suppose.
“The truth is that people always want what they do not have while being dissatisfied with that which they do have. They had Heroes, and they became suspicious and distrustful and drove the profession nigh to oblivion. But nearly is not the same as completely.”
“The time for Heroes has passed, and whatever you may believe about pendulums, oh nameless one, there is nothing to say that such a time will return.”
He looks at me with something akin to pity. “You say that there are no more Heroes, and I am telling you that you are wrong. That may be a shocking notion for a king to have to face, since kings traditionally are surrounded by people who seem obsessed with trying to convince them of their infallibility.”
“And you believe otherwise?”
“Belief indicates a lack of facts. I despise beliefs. I embrace only knowledge.”
“So you have knowledge of Heroes, then.” I keep my tone even and skeptical, not wanting to hint that there is the slightest bit of hope left within me.
“Yes indeed.”
“Firsthand?”
“Seen”—and he taps the side of his head—“with these very eyes, as surely as I am seeing you.”
“Tell me of them.”
“It is a lengthy tale,” he warns me. “A tale of such enormity and scope that some would dismiss it as a mere fable.”
“I would hear it and dismiss it as nothing.” I stretch and wince as I feel pain seizing my spine. “If it is all the same to you, I shall lie down upon this bench.”
“You are the king. You may listen however you wish.”
I lie down upon the bench, interlacing my fingers and resting them upon my chest. The position eases the spasms in my back, and I sigh gratefully. “Speak, then, and I shall attend.”
“The tale begins in Bowerstone. You know of it?”
“It is in Albion, I believe. Beyond that, I know nothing of it.”
“Bowerstone”—and the man is already warming to his tale—“in many ways is at the forefront of what Albion has become . . . and, by extension, what it has left behind. Once Albion had been a land where magic held sway. Eventually, technology supplanted much of it, like weeds overrunning a lush and green forest. At the time my story starts, the advent of technology and the growth of the population had already caused Bowerstone to expand beyond an acceptable size for any city, much less a pit such as Bowerstone. If you expand a dung heap, you just end up with a far greater stench.
“Not that the entirety of Bowerstone was execrable. The immediate area surrounding Bowerstone Castle was quite nice. And one could actually spend a pleasant day wandering Bowerstone Market, with many respectable shops and the Cow & Corset Inn, where the meat was fresh and the wenches fresher. But then there was Bowerstone Industrial, a haven of so-called progress, belching smoke and fouling the very air. And then there was Old Quarter, a depressed slum filled with thieves and lowlifes. It is also the home of one of our protagonists, but we shall get to him anon.
“Instead, our story begins in the mind of a young man.”
“How would you know what was in his mind?”
He had been about to move to the next sentence in his narrative, but his mouth remains open momentarily before snapping shut with an audible click. He pauses a few seconds, and then, his mouth in a firm line, says, “With all due deference to Your Majesty, this story will progress far more smoothly if you do not question me perpetually as I tell the tale. Please, I pray you, accept that I am the omniscient narrator of this ‘fable,' and thus am somewhat . . . what is the word . . . ?”
“Omniscient?”
“Exactly.”
I wave my hand magnanimously. “Proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he says with a slight bow that is, surprisingly, devoid of any sense of irony. “So . . . the young man. His name was Thomas. Thomas Kirkman. He was a resident of a region called Millfields, near the lake. His father was a wealthy merchant dealing in textiles and simply assumed that Thomas would devote his full efforts into going into the family business since he was about to come of age. His mother, on the other hand, was of ill health and seemingly had been for as long as Thomas could remember. As for Thomas himself, he was a large, bold, and bluff boy with a disturbing tendency to say precisely what was on his mind regardless of the consequences. But he was also haunted by his original sin.” He pauses. “You are doubtless wondering what that sin might be.”
“Dare I ask?” I say drily.
“You are a king. The king dares all.”
“What,” I say, “is Thomas Kirkman's original sin?”
“He had the unadulterated nerve to not die.”
Chapter 1
THE CREATURE WAS RIGHT IN FRONT
of Thomas, right there, its mouth wide and its jaws slavering and its muzzle thick with blood. Its pointed ears were upright and quivering. Its fur was a dirty black, covered with debris and brambles from whatever bushes it had been hiding in, and when the creature roared, its breath washed over Thomas and caused his stomach to clench and his gorge to rise.
You can't smell things in dreams! You can't! This is . . . is no dream!
Thomas's fear-stricken voice sounded in his head, and he tried to scream, but he was unable to find the breath to do so. The most he was able to muster was a paralyzed “urkh” noise that was hardly helpful when it came to summoning aid.
Thomas, lying on his bed, tried to twist away from the creature, but his body refused to obey the commands of his distraught mind. His attention remained fixed upon the blood that was all over the beast's mouth because he knew whose blood it was, and the notion that his blood was about to join it was overwhelmingly terrifying to him.
I don't want the same thing to happen to me . . . I don't want to end up like Stephen . . . please, no, please, no . . .
The creature grabbed one of his shoulders and began to shake him violently. This prompted Thomas to discover his voice, and it erupted from within him like uncorked champagne exploding from a bottle. Thomas screamed at the top of his newly liberated lungs. There were no words; it was pure, inarticulate horror spewing into the air.
Surprisingly, the creature actually seemed taken aback. It shook him even more, and then it spoke.
“Thomas!”
The fact that the monster was suddenly speaking in an understandable tongue was enough to shock Thomas to a halt. He stared uncomprehendingly at the beast with its fearsome yellow eyes, except instead of savagery, they were filled with confusion.
“Thomas, wake up!”
With those words, it was as if a veil had been lifted from Thomas's mind. Slowly, the monster that had been looming over Thomas, threatening his life, dissolved like morning dew dissipated by the sun's rays. In its stead was the face of his father. He was jowly, with a gleaming, bald head that always seemed beaded with sweat regardless of whether it was hot as hell or cold as hell. His room likewise came into focus. It was a simple affair in terms of furniture, with only a single dresser and a bed with a lumpy mattress and a threadbare sheet.

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