Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) (30 page)

THE ASSEMBLAGE IN THE VAST DINING ROOM
was indeed a most regal one. Neither Thomas nor James had ever been to a king's court, and this was probably as close to one as they were going to get. There was an elaborate spread upon a vast table that included fresh-roasted mutton, potatoes that smelled remarkably sweet, cooked squab, sumptuous green beans, delectable cheeses, and much more. Wine flowed freely, and the combination of the food and the lofty company was more than enough to make the entire thing one of the headiest experiences the boys had ever had.

Thomas and James met the three highly placed individuals who were slated to be in the hunting party on the morrow. The first was Roland Shaw, Duke of Entwhistle, a cheery fellow with a ruddy complexion who was positively ebullient about the prospect of seeing “something mythic.”

The second was introduced as Dean Simon Carter, the headmaster of a noted school of higher learning called the Hale Academy. Dean Carter was not yet nobility himself, but he was a widely respected academician at a school noted for catering to the youth of all the most highly placed families, and it was expected that he would receive his own title within the next year. Of all the people intending to hunt balverines, Carter seemed the least likely: an older man, slightly stooped, with bushy eyebrows and a strained manner as if he were uncomfortable outside a room filled with books. Perhaps, Thomas reasoned, Carter was deliberately undertaking the adventures as a means of expanding his horizons.

The third participant was Lady Molly Newsome. She was the most unusual of the crew. She had apparently been married to one Laird Peter Newsome, himself quite an adventurer who had demanded in a wife a woman who could keep up with him. Not only had Molly met that expectation, she had in fact exceeded it. They had been inseparable for a number of escapades, and it was during a mountain-climbing expedition that an unexpected rock-slide had caught his lairdship off guard and swept him off a cliff, much to the screaming horror of his now-widowed wife. Molly Newsome had sworn that she would maintain the adventurous lifestyle that she and her husband had embraced and live every moment to the fullest. She certainly seemed every inch the adventurer: a tall, robust woman with red hair piled atop her head, twinkling eyes filled with merriment, and a voice like a trumpet.

They displayed some mild interest in Thomas and James, readily accepting Kreel's explanation for their presence. They were far more interested in conversing with each other, though.

Also present at the dinner were the eight servants Kreel had recruited for the hunt. It was unusual for servants to be allowed to eat at the same table as nobility, but Kreel was egalitarian in his attitudes. “We will all be sharing the same hazards of the hunt,” he informed the assemblage, “and therefore it is only appropriate that we become accustomed to each other's company in more relaxed circumstances.”

Because they didn't have to pretend to be more than they were, James found himself more comfortable interacting with the servants than with the nobility. Seated next to him at the table was a rather curious fellow whose name was apparently Bell . . . “apparently” since he was speaking with such a thick and unfamiliar accent that it took James a while to be confident in understanding what he was saying. He had a mane of hair that made him look more lion than man, and he was tall and muscular and seemed extremely impressed to be in the company that he was.

“Have yuh ev'r seen th'like of sich a gath'ring?” said Bell, looking extremely impressed at the company around him.

“Very impressive,” said James.

“Demned near heroic, is what it is. Sutcliff is legen'dry fer it, y'know.”

“Is it?”

“It is indeed,” said Kreel, taking an interest in their conversation, seated several people away. “Sutcliff is renowned for its proud history of Heroes, and likewise its population of creatures of myth and magic.”

“Why is that, do you think?” Thomas spoke up. “I mean, what's the big attraction of Sutcliff?”

“Well, now, I could explain it to you,” Kreel began.

“And ordinarily he would,” said Sabrina. She had been seated at the far end of the table, as far away from everyone else as possible, and that seemed as much her choice as anything else. It was the first time that she had spoken the entire evening. Thomas had never seen someone who seemed quite so determined to be disassociated from their father . . . unless, of course, he counted himself.

“However,” Kreel continued as if Sabrina had not spoken, “we have one of the premier scholars in such matters present at our table. Dean Carter, would you care to enlighten the young fellows?”

“Well,” said Carter, leaning forward and steepling his fingers, “I should emphasize that we
are
discussing legend rather than fact. I dislike the notion of elevating a fable to the status of absolute truth. Oftentimes, you'll find that myths are created in order to explain that which cannot be explained by rational means. The
fact
of the matter is that Sutcliff remains a location replete with beings that are considered, in many other parts of Albion, to be extinct, if they ever lived at all. It could be any number of factors: environmental, availability of prey, population, climate changes. Many more that I could not even begin to guess.”

Sabrina made a loud snoring sound at her end of the table.

“Sabrina!”
For the first time, Kreel did not sound amused at his daughter's deliberately provocative behavior. She retreated into herself and said nothing.

Carter, surprisingly, chuckled. “Do not reprove your daughter, my laird. My students would likely agree that I tend to perambulate around a subject before getting to the heart of the matter. Very well, then: The explanation that is rooted in legend has its basis in the tales of the Heroes Three.”

Thomas perked up considerably at this. “Heroes Three? You mean the Triumvirate?”

“I,” said Shaw, “have heard of a group called the Trinity. Is that they?”

“All one and the same. Different appellations for the same three,” said Carter, warming to his topic. “Presuming they actually existed, their true names have been lost to antiquity. Supposedly they came together, the three of them, for each of them represented the absolute spire of learning for their respective disciplines. Individually they were formidable; as a team, they were absolutely invincible.

“The first was the Hero of Skill. Anything that came into his hand could be used as a weapon with unerring accuracy. Knives, spears. If he used a sword, he did not hack or slash, but instead always attacked with a thrust that inevitably found a vital organ. Some claimed that firearms were initially invented specifically for his use, for with a pistol or rifle, he was a marksman of exceptional mastery.”

There had been other conversations going on up and down the lengthy table, but all of them had ceased. Instead, all eyes and ears were upon Carter. He was all too aware of it and clearly enjoying the attention.

“The second was the Hero of Strength. He was a premier swordsman, and unlike his more precise comrade of Skill, the Hero of Strength was like unto a berserker with a sword in his hand. It was said that the Hero of Strength was a massive bear of a man, as wide as a tree trunk and easily as durable. He wielded a sword that was said to be so heavy that none but he could lift it. And when he did . . . when he went into battle . . . nothing could withstand him. He could hack his way through an army of menaces, and all would fall before him.

“The third was perhaps the most formidable of all: the Hero of Will. He needed no weapon save his own mind and inner energies. He could conjure up lightning strikes, blasts of power that could annihilate enemies from a distance. None could withstand him.

“And when the three of them came together, there was nothing beyond their abilities, no quest that they could not fulfill, no goal they could not accomplish.”

“Save one.” It was Molly Newsome who had spoken, and when she continued, it was with an understandable air of melancholy. “Death. They could not stave off death. Immortality is one goal that eludes us all.”

There was a moment of silence, for everyone at the table knew precisely why she had spoken thus. The shade of her late husband was obviously still hovering near her thoughts even though it had been several years since his disastrous fate. If there were any in the room who were uncharitable enough to think that perhaps the Lady Newsome had somehow sought to arrange her husband's demise and make it look like an accident, they would have dismissed the notion the moment they saw the haunted sadness in her eyes.

“Not to be insensitive,” Dean Carter said gently, apparently aware of the pain that Newsome was feeling and the reason behind it, “but actually—according to legend—that is precisely what they did.”

The Lady Newsome had seemed in danger of drifting into her own recollections, but this snapped her back to reality. “They defied death? Truly?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He leaned his elbows on the table and interlaced his fingers. “According to the legends, death came to the Heroes Three through most pernicious means: a curse called down upon them through terrible magics. Had the Heroes been in their prime, they might yet have thwarted it. But their years were advanced, and their powers somewhat diminished. They fought back and fought back, but the curse was a truly irresistible force, and it drove the Heroes back and back, down and down, into a secret place deep beneath the earth. And there did the curse finally strike them down.”

“But not before they were able to accomplish their final masterstroke!” Thomas jumped in, and then immediately looked abashed when all eyes turned to him. “I'm . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—”

“No, that's quite all right,” said Carter. “I'm merely a teacher; let us hear from one who is obviously a student of such things. Complete the tale, young sir.”

“Uhm . . . well . . . according to what I've read,” Thomas said, clearing his throat, “the Hero of Will joined the powers of the Heroes of Strength and Skill and, in one final burst of his magical prowess, imbued three power talismans with the essences of the Triumvirate. A pistol, a sword, and a gauntlet, for the Heroes of Skill, Strength, and Will respectively. Icons that, if worthy successors were to put them on, would make them—for a time, at least—Heroes on par with the originals.”

“Very good,” said Carter. “You read of them in your books, back in your home to the far west?”

“Oh yes.”

“That shows how far the tales have spread, then.”

“I read that they died peacefully, but I far prefer this version,” said James.

“But,” Thomas said eagerly, anxious to have holes in the stories filled in, “nothing that I've read details whatever happened to the icons.”

“The icons remained where they were, with the bodies of the Heroes who had crafted them. Unfortunately, they were in the hands of the enemies who had brought the curse down upon them,” Carter said immediately, as if he had been waiting for the question. “Posing an eternal threat to their enemies should anyone worthy manage to get their hands on them.”

“Then why didn't the enemy destroy the icons and so remove the threat?” said Shaw. “Doesn't make much sense to me.”

Carter turned to Shaw with a raised eyebrow. “You doubt me, my laird?”

“You? No. The story? Well, that is another matter.”

“Laird Shaw is something of a skeptic,” Kreel said indulgently. “He wishes to see things for himself before accepting their veracity. It is his nature to question.”

“Understandable,” said Carter. “Questioning is good; it is the only way to get at answers. According to the story, the power of the Hero of Will was able to keep their enemies at bay even after his passing; such was the force of his will. The enemies could not approach the icons, or come within range of the remains of the Heroes. They had to content themselves with guarding the entrance in eternal vigilance so that none would be able to get to them.”

“And where exactly is this last resting place?” said Thomas, trying to keep the eagerness from his voice and only partly succeeding.

“Ah, there I cannot help you, young sir. There is purportedly one tome, called the
Omnicron
, that contains that information—that and much more ancient arcana—but I have never seen a copy of it. Fitting that a book about legends is nigh unto legendary itself.”

“Fitting and convenient,” said the ever-doubting Shaw.

This caused a ripple of laughter up and down the table, and Kreel said cheerfully, “Well, on the morrow, Laird Shaw's doubts about the reality of such mythic beasts as the balverines—the doubt that drove him to join us on this expedition—will be more than satisfied. Thank you, my good dean, for giving us some compelling background on the legends of Heroes.”

“More than background, my laird,” Carter reminded him. “Remember, it was an endeavor to explain why our land remains a source of such mythic power. The point was that wherever the Heroes are, their remains—and their puissance—are somewhere in Sutcliff or its vicinity. And that puissance draws mythic and legendary beings to this area, as honey draws bees ...”

“Or flame draws moths?” suggested Thomas.

“That may well be the better analogy,” said Carter. “It is a weakness of such creatures that they are perversely drawn to that which can destroy them.”

After the impromptu lesson about things legendary, the conversation broke back down into smaller groups. Thomas could not help but notice, however, that Sabrina continued to keep to herself. Except every so often he saw that she was stealing glances his way, and he wondered what—if anything—he should make of that. Ultimately, he decided that it was best to make nothing of it at all, for the young woman was clearly nothing but trouble.