Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) (40 page)

But James was not a Hero of Will. He was
the
Hero of Will, unique in the whole of Albion. There was little within the realm of existing spells that he could not perform once he was able to conceive of it.

Energy rippled from his hands, and throughout the forest, as far as the Temple of the Balverine Order. The inhabitants therein were unaware of the fact that they were moving and talking incredibly slowly. To them, there was no change in the world around them.

As it so happened, however, the ripple effect generated by the Hero of Will stopped just short of the altar upon which Carter, Shaw, and Newsome were strapped down. They watched in bewilderment as the balverines, who had been stalking the temple, were now moving at a pace that would have allowed a snail to hurtle past them. Kreel and Lugaru, who had been in the midst of a conversation, had come to a virtual halt, their mouths frozen.

Even Shaw, who had been near catatonic with fear since they had fallen into the clutches of the balverines, was roused from his stupor at the bizarre sight. “What in the world—?”

Dean Carter regarded the strange scene with the same academic detachment he viewed everything else. “It's some manner of time-disruption spell.”

“A
spell
?” said Shaw, beginning to sound like his typical doubting self. “What are you saying? That there is a magic user in the area . . . ?”

“Let's hope so,” said the Lady Molly Newsome. “Because I think it's going to require something akin to the miraculous to free us from this situation.”

THE WORLD WAS BEGINNING TO SPIN AROUND
James.

He had been utterly confident of his ability to hold matters static as they moved through the forest at what was, comparatively, incredible speed. They even passed several immobilized balverines that Thomas was able to dispatch with a flash of Quicksilver.

But he was starting to feel a pounding in the back of his head, and he felt as if he were losing focus. He staggered and nearly fell, and only a quick movement on Thomas's part kept him upright. “I . . . I don't know what's wrong,” whispered the Hero of Will.

“I do,” said Quentin Locke. “There is only so long you can sustain this type of spell. You can attempt to maintain it, but it may well deplete you of power so thoroughly that you will have nothing left for the battle.”

“Don't tell me what I can and cannot do,” James said heatedly.

“I know more about these matters than you,” Locke said. “But if you desire to put us in a position where we have to function without you, then I assure you that we can triumph without you. Otherwise, you need to cease producing the spell and replenish your energies.”

“I'm the Hero of Will, not you! I—”

His legs gave way completely. Thomas, who was supporting him, sank to the ground with him. With a loud, shouted profanity, James released his grip on reality around him. Within seconds the world surged back into its normal time stream, and James pounded his fist on the ground in fury. “Just a little longer,” he said. “I needed to . . .”

“It's all right, James,” said Thomas. “You've accomplished what we needed. Come. Let's finish this.”

James nodded and started to get to his feet. But he got no further than the intention to do so.

“James—?”

“I can't,” James said, trying to keep the panic from his voice. “I have no strength . . . not enough even to stand.”

“You will,” Thomas said confidently. “You just need time to rest.”

“Time,” Locke reminded him, “that we do not have. We have to leave him.”

“
Leave
him?” The voice of the Hero of Strength rose. “To hell with that. I'll carry him—”

“He'll slow us down at a time when we cannot afford it.”

“Thomas . . . he's right,” James managed to say. “And even if I were present . . . I would be useless in a fight. I would just lie there helpless, and you'd be busy watching out for me. Go. Go, and I'll catch up.”

“I'm not sure that . . .” Thomas began, but Quentin Locke had already started moving.

“Go,” James said once more, even more firmly.

Thomas squeezed his arm again as a sign of solidarity, and then headed off into the forest.

The moment they were both out of sight, James took a deep breath, released it, and then got to his feet. The darkness that had been surging within him had been brought even more to the fore, and it was that darkness that had prompted him to play up his weakness because Quentin Locke's attitude had greatly annoyed him. He dusted himself off, and then muttered, “Arrogant prig. Trying to order me about. You could have had me at your side, but no. You give me, ‘I assure you we can triumph without you.' Fine. Let's see you do it, then.”

 

 

Kreel turned in confusion toward Shaw, who had been the one to blurt out the exclamation. “What are you talking about?”

Molly Newsome fired an angry look at Shaw, and instantly his mouth tightened. The comment had attracted Kreel's attention, however, and he approached the altar. “My laird . . . what did you mean by that?”

Shaw said nothing but simply stared blankly at Kreel.

“My laird,” and there was an edge to Kreel's voice. “I suggest you speak to me, or—”

“Or what?” Shaw was suddenly defiant. “Or you'll kill me? You have no desire to do that; you want to transform me into one of your own vile kind.”

“Want to, but do not need to.” Kreel extended a finger, and a single claw extended from it. His control over his form was absolute. “Two offerings will be sufficient.” With the extended claw, he carefully sliced open the front of Shaw's tunic, leaving him bare-chested. His torso was covered with thick, graying hair. “Pity this has to happen,” said Kreel calmly. “You're already rather hirsute. Growing fur would not have been that much of a change for you. Ah well. Now . . . where to start? When you intend to gut someone from crotch to sternum, it's always hard to know quite where to begin. Let's see, let's see.” And he moved the claw up and down repeatedly. “Crotch . . . sternum . . . crotch . . . sternum . . . yes, definitely, it will be the—”

“You weren't moving!”
Shaw blurted out. Molly Newsome rolled her eyes in annoyance, but Shaw didn't see it, and even if he had, it would have made no difference. “I mean, you were, but incredibly slowly. If we'd been able to break free of here, we could have walked right past you, and you would never have noticed us.”

Kreel retracted the claw, his thoughts racing. “For how long?”

Shaw was staring down at his exposed chest, still clearly terrified at the prospect of being vivisected. As a result, Kreel's question didn't register on him at first. Then Kreel got his attention through the simple expedient of wrapping his long fingers around Shaw's throat.
“For how long?”

“I don't know!”
Shaw cried out. “I lost track . . .”

“How could you have lost track?
How?
”

Shaw was trembling, so terrified that he could not get out a word.

The dean could stand it no longer. In his best academic manner, he said, “It is impossible to be certain of the passing of time under such circumstances.”

Molly Newsome looked poisonously at him.
“Men!”

“Shaw should not have a painful death inflicted upon him simply because he is an ignorant coward.”

“As opposed to you, a knowledgeable coward?”

“While there is life, there is hope.”

Kreel clamped a hand over the lady's mouth. “Your words are serving no use. You”—and he turned to Carter—“scholar. Speak to me. What transpired here?”

Carter did not hesitate. One would have thought, from the way he was talking, that he was back at the dinner table discussing matters of myth and legend. “The concept is called Time Control. It is something that only a Hero schooled in the use of Will would be able to implement. Except there are no longer any such—”

“Damnation!”
The people on the altar forgotten, he turned, and shouted, “Lugaru! Quickly!”

Lugaru immediately came upon being called although it was clear from his expression that he did not appreciate being summoned in that manner. “What is the problem, Kreel? With the midnight hour nigh—”

“They've obtained the icons.”

Lugaru's shock was palpable.
“What?”

“Someone used an act of will to stop time. It is the only answer. And if one of the icons has been attained, we have to assume that all of them have.”

Lugaru did not hesitate. Instead, he pivoted on his heel and strode quickly across the vast chamber. With each step he left more of his human body behind until he had reached the full height of his balverine form. At the far side, there was a bust of a balverine mounted on the wall, with its mouth wide open. Lugaru leaned forward, opened his own mouth, and then tilted his head back and let out a howl. The sound was carried up, up a stone shaft, and a second later the eerie sound was carrying to the farthest regions of the Elderwoods.

And then, after a few moments, the returning howls were heard.

Lugaru turned to Kreel and, in his deep growl of a voice, said, “The brethren are coming. All of them. More than enough to handle even three Heroes. And when midnight comes within the hour”—and he turned to the prisoners—“there will be three more to aid us in our endeavors.”

 

 

THE HEROES OF SKILL AND STRENGTH WERE
sprinting through the woods when the uncanny howling drifted to their ears. They stopped dead for a moment, listening to it and the responding howls as well.

“They're summoning additional forces,” said Locke. “They know we're coming.”

“Let them,” said Thomas, gripping his sword firmly. “Let them know. Let them think they have a chance of stopping us. They'll find out how wrong they are.”

“We need a plan.”

“I have a plan. I'm going to kill anything that stands between me and the bastard that killed my brother. And then I'm going to kill him.”

“Thomas, wait—!”

But there was no waiting. The Hero of Strength was going to depend upon his strength alone, for the blade, Quicksilver, was whispering to him that his sword arm was all that was going to be required to get the job done, and Thomas was in no mood to dispute it. Into the woods he ran, vengeance singing in his head and drowning out everything else, from common sense to the words of his fellow Hero.

The Hero of Skill, realizing that his ally wasn't listening, did the only thing he could: He took off after him as quickly as possible.

 

 

JAMES WAS WALKING BACK TOWARD THE
horses, but was doing so very slowly. Locke's words still stung him, and he felt that the Hero of Skill had been nothing but an ingrate. Nevertheless, he had a mental image of Thomas going up against potentially overwhelming odds and felt as if he was betraying his old friend by turning his back on him.

Something warned him.

He didn't know what it was: A slight breaking of a branch, or a heavy breath, or a deep snarl that the creature had been unable to restrain. Whatever it was, it was sufficient to warn the Hero of Will, and James brought his hands up in pure reflex as a snarling balverine leaped at him from the darkness.

A ball of fire leaped into existence in James's outstretched palm and straight at the balverine. It struck the creature with full force, and the balverine staggered, its fur going up in flame. Within seconds, James had hurled three more balls of fire, and the creature threw itself to the ground, rolling, trying to extinguish them.

“Fine,” said the Hero of Will, “so be it,” and with more time to focus, he summoned lightning that blasted from his hands and encompassed the struggling balverine. The creature let out a high shriek and stopped thrashing. Instead, it lay there, unmoving, as the remains of the fire eagerly consumed its body.

Even as the last of its life fled its body, the Hero of Will had already dashed past it. It would have been uplifting to say that he was doing so because he had put aside his own anger and was determined to back up his good and dear friend, Thomas, now the Hero of Strength.

But the fact was that James had simply enjoyed killing the balverine with a wave of his hand, and he was particularly keen to do it again. Even more specifically, he wanted to throw flames and lightning bolts and anything else he could at Kreel, because Kreel was the bastard who had killed his dog, and there had to be justice for that.