Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) (44 page)

BOOK: Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable)

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I WAIT FOR THE STORY TELLER TO CONTINUE
, but he lapses into silence. The sun has almost set upon the horizon, the cold is more profound than ever, and I display more patience than a king ordinarily possesses. Yet still the storyteller says nothing.

“Andâ?” I prompt.

“And that is it.”

“What is it? That cannot be the end.”

“Of course it is not the end, Majesty, because nothing ever truly ends. One action always leads to a reaction; one answer begets another question.”

“But what of the Balverine Order? Did they eradicate all of it? Did Thomas and James eventually return home? And what of Quentin Locke? What happened to him? And how
did
he know so much about Thomas and James when he first met them? You never explained that.”

“It was all some time ago, Majesty. The details escape me. Besides, life is not about easy answers.”

“Do not,” I tell him, bristling, “seek to dismiss it as easily as all that, or presume to tell me what life is all about. This is about a story, after all. A fable. The excuses of real life do not excuse lapses in a fable. How do youâ”

I hear a calming voice behind me. “Majesty, you sound out of sorts,” it says. “Is something amiss?”

I do not bother to get up. I do not have to. These are the benefits of both kingship and old age. Instead, I remain seated as I see a familiar individual coming toward me. “Ah. Terrance, Duke of Overland. It has been an age, old friend.”

Tall, slender, with rakish good looks, the Duke of Overland approaches, and says, “Far too long, Majesty. And who, may I ask, isâ?”

The storyteller stands and, without hesitation, pulls a pistol from within his cloak, aims, and fires.

The bullet embeds in the duke's shoulder, and he lets out a scream as he clutches at it. “You bastard!” he howls.

I lurch to my feet, the old reflexes returning to me, slowed with age but not entirely gone. “Guards!” I shout, reaching for my short sword. “Assassin! Assassin in theâ”

Then I hear a thunderous roar and turn and gape in shock.

The Duke of Overland is transforming before my eyes. His clothes tear away, there is that horrible sound of bones cracking, and white fur sprouts from his body. He is now towering over me, and he looks like nothing that could ever have been human.

The balverine roars, its foul breath washing over me. I am too stunned to move. Death looks down upon me, and I do not attempt to escape it, for I have seen enough to know that I desire to see no more.

The air explodes from the gun's second discharge, and this time, the bulletâsilver, I realize belatedlyâthuds squarely into the chest of the balverine. The monster clutches at its chest, lets out an agonized howl, and then falls. It crashes onto the stone bench upon which I had been sitting and shatters it.

I stare down at it, dumbfounded.

“Of course, I could have shot him in the heart with my first bullet,” says the storyteller. “But then you never would have known him for what he was. The pain of the silver in his shoulder made the transformation inevitable.” The storyteller calmly replaces the pistol within his clothes. “I truly did not mean to consume so much of your day with this business, Majesty. Unfortunately, the duke was running late. Still, we found a pleasant enough way to pass the time, did we not, Majesty? Hopefully,” he says with astounding calm, “that is the last of the Balverine Order. It certainly took long enough. Still . . . one never knows. Vigilance is the watchword of safety, and even those who walk side by side with danger can never be too careful.”

“Are you . . . Quentin Locke?” I say to him.

He smiles cryptically. “I am whoever you need me to be, Majesty. Sometimes I think the best Heroes are those who remain nameless, don't you?”

There is a pounding of feet from the castle. I turn and see that my guards are now running to my defense, albeit belatedly. They see the balverine lying dead upon the ground and gasp at the sight. They approach slowly, their weapons out, as if the corpse were capable of assailing them. Naturally, they recognize it for what it is.

“The king has slain a balverine!” says the captain of the guards.

“Someone certainly has,” I correct, “but 'twas not I. 'Twas he.”

The captain looks at me in confusion. “He who, Majesty?” he says carefully, clearly not wishing to offend me.

“Why, him,” I say impatiently, and turn to point at the storyteller who just saved the life of an old fool.

The storyteller is gone.

The story is ended.

Except, as he said . . . nothing ever ends.