Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) (38 page)

 

 

THE STAIRWAY WAS NARROW, AND THEY HAD
to make their way down it carefully. Locke, using some of the incendiary oils in his pack, had fashioned a torch for them, which was fortunate since there was no other light source available. He followed directly behind Thomas and in front of James, thus providing an equal amount of light for all, albeit limited.

There was high-pitched squealing and skittering of feet as rats scattered to get out of their way. The smell in the place was almost overwhelming; it was all James could do not to pass out from the stench.
This is where Heroes lie?
James thought.
It hardly seems a suitable resting place. One would have thought something more grand. Even penniless paupers get something better than this.

They continued to move single file through the corridor, and then there ceased being rats in their path. James was thankful for that. Hadn't they already faced enough without having to deal with vermin?

His heart went out to Thomas. The poor bastard had given himself over to this girl, had allowed himself to take an emotional plunge, and it had ended with a literal plunge of a sword into her. The first girl he had ever been with—of that James was reasonably certain—and he'd had to kill her. How in the world was he going to achieve any sort of closure as far as his brother's death was concerned when he had a brand-new tragedy to dwell on? James knew that an adventure like this changed people. His worry was that it was going to wind up changing Thomas into someone who was unrecognizable as the friend he'd known for so many years.

“Up there,” Locke said, raising the torch slightly. “Do you see it?”

James did, and, presumably, so did Thomas.

There were three sarcophagi lying at the far end of the corridor.

They were upright rather than horizontal, and each of them had a body propped within. They couldn't quite make them out from where they were standing; the flickering torch was sufficient only to provide the general outlines of their forms.

“No lids?” said James.

“Sarcophagi lids are rather heavy. Who would have lifted them on?” said Thomas.

James nodded. “Good point. Still, it's a wonder they weren't—I don't know—devoured by the rats or something.”

“I don't see any here,” Thomas pointed out.

“Let us proceed carefully,” said Locke.

They did as he suggested, treading carefully, wary of perhaps some manner of booby trap that might have been left in place.

Nothing seemed to spring out at them, though, and the closer they drew, the more they were able to make out. The flesh had long since rotted away, and only the bones of the great Heroes remained, the remains of their clothes hanging loosely upon them: a humbling reminder that time and death had no respect even for the mightiest of mortals.

“I see them. The dean was right,” he whispered, and the others immediately knew that the “them” to which he was referring were not the bodies of the long-dead Heroes. Instead, they were the icons, exactly as Dean Carter had described them. The arms of the Hero on the farthest left were crisscrossed over a great sword that, miraculously, did not have so much as a speck of dust upon it. The body in the middle had a pistol tucked into a timeworn belt. The body on the far right had a gauntlet adorning its bony left hand. It appeared to be crafted from elegantly spun copper, spanning most of his forearm, and it glittered in the torchlight.

James couldn't take his eyes off it. He had been concerned over the prospect of trying to remove a bauble from a desiccated arm. Now, faced with the reality of it, it didn't bother him in the least. It was as if the gauntlet were calling to him, urging him to free it from its lengthy languishing in the darkness. He could only imagine that the other icons were similarly calling to Thomas and Locke.

“The Black Dragon,” whispered Locke. For once even the unflappable Locke seemed overawed. “That pistol may well be the Black Dragon.”

“The what?”

“A sister weapon to another legendary pistol, the Red Dragon. Never misfires, perfectly weighted. It's said it's as if you're wielding an extension of your own arm. And that sword,” he said, “has to be Quicksilver. It is a silver-augmented melee sword of substantial power; nothing can withstand it. As for the gauntlet”—he turned to James—“I do not know. Magic users tend to guard their secrets, and they believe that names have power. But I'll wager that, should you be able to harness its abilities, you would be extraordinarily formidable.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” said James.

As one they walked forward.

Abruptly, the air in front of them seemed to congeal, and there was a sense of raw power all around them. Then, as if they were standing at the beach and slammed by a gigantic wave, a blast of heat that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere washed over them. They staggered, James squinting and shielding his face, Thomas doing likewise, and for a moment it felt as if their very skin was going to be flayed from their bodies by the unknowable force that was enveloping them.

Then, as quickly as it had arisen, the overwhelming force dissipated, leaving no sign that it had come through there.

“What the hell was that?”
said James.

“If I were to hazard a guess,” said Locke, who was the only one who didn't seem the least nonplussed by what they had just experienced, “I would say that we just passed through a ward of some sort.”

“What's a ward?”

“It's a mystic barrier,” Thomas spoke up. “Something that can be erected to keep people out.”

“In this instance,” said Locke, “it was doubtless designed to prevent anyone deemed unworthy from approaching the presence of the weapons. We certainly need no further proof than that that the Heroes placed their very essence within these weapons.”

“Okay,” said James cautiously. “And just out of curiosity, what if this ward thing had decided we
weren't
worthy?”

Locke appeared to be considering that possibility for the first time. “In all likelihood, we would have been incinerated.”

“
Incinerated?
And you didn't think to
mention
that?”

“No,” said Locke calmly. “It never occurred to me that that would be a problem.”

James suddenly felt as if he couldn't get enough air in his lungs, but then Thomas put a steadying hand on his shoulder and looked at him grimly. “James,” he said tersely, “it's time to grow up.”

There was a tortured look in Thomas's eyes such as James had never seen, and also a cold, burning fury. It was clear that Thomas's mind was back on what had transpired in the mural room, and on the corpse of Sabrina, the girl whom he had slain. He had neither patience nor interest in anything save payback for her, and also for what had been done to his brother.

Without a word, he reached forward and gripped the hilt of Quicksilver. He pulled it from the hands of the Hero of Strength. Even as he did so, Locke extracted the pistol from the Hero of Skill. James, seeing that they had done so, stepped over to the Hero of Will and reached down into the sarcophagus. “Sorry about this,” he murmured to a being long dead, and he slid the gauntlet off the arm. He hoped that the action would not cause it to snap off at the elbow and was relieved that it did not do so.

“Now what?” James said.

Locke appeared a bit flummoxed. Even though it was ill timed since they needed him to know what was going on, James took some small pleasure in that. “I . . . am not sure,” Locke admitted. “Perhaps there is some incantation that is required to activate them. But there was nothing in the
Omnicron
about it.”

“That's just perfect,” said Thomas, clearly annoyed.

“After all that?” said James. “After everything we had to do, and with lives at stake, you don't even know how to turn the things on? How are we going to use them if—?”

“Wait,” Thomas said abruptly. “We're not all using them yet. We're holding our weapons, but James, you need to be wearing yours. Put it on.”

“All right.” He slid it onto his wrist. “But I don't see how—”

Then he let out an alarmed scream. The gauntlet had been hanging loosely on his arm when he first put it on, but suddenly it burned white-hot with energy, then shrank and clamped down with such ferocity on his arm that it might well have been alive. Instinctively, he tried to remove it, but he had no chance. Instead, energy lanced out from the gauntlet, striking the pistol and the sword, forming a triangle of pure power that threatened to burn their eyes out of their sockets. All three of them, even Locke, cried out . . .

. . . and then knowledge flooded through them, and memories that were not their own. Their muscles acquired reflexes that they had never had before, which elevated them to levels they had not yet achieved and might never be able to in this lifetime.

And Locke, who had fancied himself a crack shot, was humbled in the face of how much he did not know, and how his beloved accuracy was actually off by millimeters, even inches, and he was shamed and shown how he could do better, would do better.

And Thomas, who believed himself a fair swordsman, saw that he had not even begun to master the blade, and that the true berserker power that a melee swordsman required was not even close to being his, but it would be, at least for now.

And James, who believed himself to be strong-willed and determined, saw how he had not even begun to understand how he could truly manipulate his will, transforming it into a weapon that was as formidable as any sword or axe forged by the hand of man. He saw that if he truly believed that he could be unstoppable, he would be, and nothing and no one would be able to withstand him.

The three came together as one, and just as suddenly as the chamber was filled with the roar of energies being unleashed for the first time in ages, all became deathly silent.

The three who were now operating as one nodded in agreement without having to speak a word.

They strode with utter confidence down the corridor that they had just walked so tentatively mere moments before. Beyond the area where lay the three sarcophagi, the rats were still swarming. When the three of them approached, however, the rats seemed to look at them in unison, and then, without so much as a squeak, the mass of them parted to either side. The way was now clear. The Heroes simply nodded as if that were the natural order of things, and they kept moving.

Before them was the stairway they had taken down into the underground crypt. They strode up the steps, radiating certainty and confidence.

There were servants in the mural room.

They had gathered around the fallen body of Sabrina and were trying to determine what to do. When they saw the Heroes, their knee-jerk reaction was to attack, correctly intuiting that the three were responsible for the death of the mistress of the house. But all they managed was several steps toward the Heroes before the unbridled power that the three of them were radiating froze them in their tracks. They backed down without even fully comprehending why.

The Hero of Will approached Sabrina's rapidly cooling corpse and stood over her. Then he stretched out his hand and a dark force began to issue from it.

“James,” said the Hero of Strength sharply. “What are you doing?”

“A useful spell called Raise Dead, Thomas,” replied the Hero of Will. “It will animate her and enable her to fight our enemies alongside us.”

“Animate her? You mean bring her back to life?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Meaning her body will obey commands, but she will have no soul.”

“Small matter. She was a balverine. She had no soul anyway.”

The dark force was building around his hand as he prepared to unleash the spell, and then, to his surprise, a sword gently tapped his hand. He turned and saw Thomas, the Hero of Strength, wielding it. There was no overt threat to the gesture; merely a firm warning. “No, James.”

“But she can be of use.”

“She had a soul, James. Blackened and burned by the curse of the balverine it may be, but it was there. I touched it—”

“A long with everything else,” James said with a coarse laugh.

“—and I will not have you do this,” Thomas, the Hero of Strength continued. “It is unjust for her, and unworthy of us . . . and of you. Do you understand me?”

“I understand that you do not seem willing to do whatever is necessary to crush the Order.”

“Yes, I am. I just do not believe this to be necessary.”

James thought it might well be his imagination, but at that moment he felt as if he could see an aura of light shimmering around his fellow Hero. He closed his eyes and opened them again, but there it still was. It was the damnedest thing.

“Do we understand each other, James?” said the Hero of Strength.

James, the Hero of Will, was clearly considering pressing the matter, and then the Hero of Skill stepped in between the two of them. “We need to be united, gentlemen. We must be precise in our efforts, or they will come to naught. And the united front of the Heroes does not support the issuance of this spell. Will you defer to us, James?”

James's hand had been closed tightly in a fist. Now, though, he opened his hand, and the spell dissipated before becoming fully formed. “If you wish to restrict our resources in combat, then I will abide by that,” he said sourly.

“Good man,” said the Hero of Strength.

“Come, gentlemen,” said the Hero of Skill. “Our enemy awaits, and time is not on our side.”

They headed out, James bringing up the rear. He was sure that he was seeing that same strange glow around Locke as he was Thomas, and could not fathom what it was. He thought perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him, and as he passed an oversized mirror, he glanced in it to see if his eyes appeared tired or bloodshot.