by Peter David
“That’s it?”
This time there was no hesitation at all. The blacksmith kicked Xiro in the gut. Xiro gasped, the wind knocked out of him, and he curled up, clutching his stomach.
Jack of Blades raised his voice and he addressed the entirety of the crowd. “This man passed himself off as a Hero. He raised your hopes up. He presented himself as someone who could single-handedly rescind the generous hospitality you’ve extended to me. And he could likewise have single-handedly brought down my full wrath upon all of your heads. Who is he to have committed such arrogant deeds? Who is he to have taken it upon himself to put all of you at such risk? This fake Hero. Are you going to put up with that?”
Slowly there were shakes of heads.
Xiro was trying to stand up, propping himself on one hand and one knee. “Listen … listen to me,” he managed to wheeze. “You … all of you … you outnumber him. You’re letting your fear rule you … if you come together … you can …”
“And now he urges you on a suicidal course. He dares to suggest that you risk … no, end your lives in a hopeless group assault. Show him what you think of that. Show him now.”
Xiro shook his head. “He’s trying to twist your—”
A rock flew through the air and struck Xiro squarely on the side of the head.
Like a whistle starting off a race, it triggered what came next. The crowd converged upon Xiro. First upon him were the children who had met him when he arrived, then the candlemaker whose daughter he had saved from the unwanted attentions of Jack’s soldiers. Others pounded him with rocks and clubs and fists, all of them eager to get a piece, all of them desperate to show Jack of Blades that they were ready, willing, and able to do what was necessary for his approval.
The only one who didn’t join in was Beatrice. Instead, she grabbed at the backs of some of the others, shouting in futility for them to get away from him, reminding them that he had done nothing wrong. “We were the ones who called him a Hero!” she shouted. “He kept saying he wasn’t and we wanted him to be one so much! Get off him! Stop it!” But they would not stop, and above the pounding and thudding soared the loud laughter of Jack of Blades.
Xiro tried to fight back, but there were far too many and he was only a single nonhero. Eventually his protests faded and all he could do was try to cover up as best he could.
“That’s enough,” Jack of Blades ordered.
Immediately the beating ceased. The crowd stepped back, and there lay Xiro, a battered, bloody mess. His nose was broken and several of his teeth were gone. Both eyes were swollen. His clothing was torn and there were bruises all over his skin, vicious black-and-blue marks that indicated he might be bleeding internally. His breath was wheezing in his lungs, and when he coughed up a wad of spittle, it was thick with blood.
“Well, well … you endured that. You’re sturdier than I would have thought. You. And you …” And he pointed to two of the people in the crowd. “Pick him up. You don’t have to be delicate about it.”
The two men he had selected immediately did as instructed. They hauled Xiro to his feet, but he wasn’t exactly capable of standing on them at that moment. So they draped his arms around their shoulders and hauled him toward Jack of Blades.
Jack returned to his horse, placed a foot in the stirrup, and drew himself up so that he sat astride his beast, cutting a most majestic figure. “Bring him along,” he ordered them. “There’s a reward in it for you.”
He wheeled his horse around and rode at a slow trot out of the market with the two men dragging Xiro between them. Xiro’s head slumped forward, and it was impossible to determine if he was conscious, or even alive.
Beatrice stayed behind, her small hands curled into fists, tears running down her face. From behind her, the low voice of her father said gently, “My dear, there was no choice,” and he put a hand on her forearm.
Immediately she shook it off and turned to snarl in his face. “Yes, there was. You know there was. We could have done what he said. We could have come together and fought back against that … that bastard. We stand around talking about how much we need a Hero because we’re the cowards. We’re the ones who need others to do things for us while not risking ourselves at all. We don’t deserve a Hero, Father. We’re the ones who should be shamed and beaten in the streets. Not him. Us.”
“Why are you coming to this man’s defense?” he asked in exasperation. “You scarcely know him!”
“I know enough to know that his is a better and worthier soul than anyone else here, and one of him is worth a hundred of us.”
“That may be,” said her father. “But unfortunately, a hundred of us aren’t worth one Jack of Blades.”
* * *
The now-riderless horses were following Jack of Blades as the unlikely assemblage made its way back to Jack’s domicile. Xiro slowly raised his battered face as he was dragged toward a rather impressive-looking house. He grunted slightly when he saw it as the men on either side continued to haul him along. Jack of Blades, riding ahead of them, did not even bother to look behind him. Clearly, however, he was aware that Xiro was stirring because he addressed him.
“Hardly a castle by any means, but believe it or not, it’s the largest mansion in the entirety of Oddwood. One has to make do. Its owner generously offered to vacate shortly after my men killed him.”
“I …” Xiro spit out another wad of blood. “From what I’ve been told … of your abilities … I’d have thought you could fashion anything you wanted … wave a hand and cause the grandest castle in all the world to just … just appear.”
“If I so desired. But this serves my needs and avoids drawing too much attention to myself.”
“So there are people you’re afraid of …? People you don’t … want to notice you?”
“Do not pry too closely into my affairs, Xiro the Hero. There are answers in this world that you truly have neither desire nor need to know. Do you understand?”
“As much as possible considering … the hearing loss …”
Several more of Jack’s small army were waiting for him, puzzlement on their faces when they saw the riderless horses that were following.
“We have a guest,” Jack announced, indicating the immobile Xiro. “Bring him inside.”
Two of the soldiers immediately advanced and took Xiro’s limp body off the shoulders of the other men. Jack of Blades dismounted and turned to the villagers that he had drafted into service. “I will now give you your reward, gentlemen. Your reward is: I am allowing you to live. Very generous since you walked so slowly that it seemed an age to get here.”
The villagers immediately bowed and scraped, thanking Jack of Blades for his generosity. They backed away, afraid to turn away from him. When they were far enough away, they turned on their heels and ran.
Xiro was dragged into the main foyer, still coughing up blood. “Be so kind as to not get that on the floor,” Jack of Blades admonished him. “Granted, we do have a good deal of experience cleaning up blood, but it’s such a chore.”
The mansion might once have been the domicile of someone of great wealth, but it had fallen into disrepair. It looked like exactly what it was: a home of a man of pride, taken over by those who had no pride in anything save for their ability to damage what others cared about.
One of the taller soldiers was walking alongside Jack of Blades. His attitude and bearing, almost imperious in its manner, indicated to Xiro that he was Jack’s right-hand man. “This little nothing killed Red Richard? And Tambor and the others?”
“He did indeed.”
“Then why is he still alive?”
“Because, Virgil, I feel that his death should, at the very least, provide us some entertainment. If the shades of our lost associates still remain somewhere in the vicinity of this plane, shouldn’t they likewise have a chance to see their slayer have as violent and vicious a death as we can arrange?”
“I suppose,” Virgil admitted.
“All right, then. Alert the ca
ge keepers that our occupant is going to be feasting tonight.”
“The cage?” This seemed to brighten Virgil’s spirits. “Yes. Yes, that will be a good thing. An excellent thing.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
Xiro was dragged to a small, windowless room. “I take it this is not the cage,” he managed to say.
“Oh, you’ll be in the cage soon enough. We just want you to rest up a bit so there’s a better chance that you will remain conscious longer. Wouldn’t do to have you pass right out when you confront the cage’s occupant. That would be no fun at all.”
“That’s … very considerate of you …”
The door slammed shut behind him, plunging him into darkness. The room stank of stale air and the floor was cold and hard.
Xiro lay there for a time, listening to the distant noises. The loud discussion, the laughter, the sounds of men … and someone who appeared to be more than a man … shaking off the setback of the deaths of their fellows by reestablishing mastery of their little piece of the world.
From somewhere far away within the house, something roared in primal fury.
And there, in the darkness of his solitary confines …
… Xiro smiled.
Finally he heard a rough voice from outside, one that seemed to be Virgil’s: “All right, he’s rested up enough, and the sun is down. Get him out of there.”
The heavy locks on the door clacked and the door swung open. Xiro’s eyes had swollen nearly shut, which would have made it difficult for anyone to see, much less someone who had spent the past few hours in darkness.
“Come on, get him on his feet,” said Virgil impatiently.
“I can do it myself,” Xiro gasped out. Slowly, and with a good deal of grunting, Xiro hauled himself up, wavering slightly from side to side. He noticed that Virgil was holding Xiro’s sword. “That’s mine, I believe.”
“Yeah, it is. Thought we’d give you a chance to die with your sword in your hand.”
“Very considerate. I doubt I’ll need it, though.”
“Hah!” Virgil barked an ugly laugh, and the others with him joined in. “We have a Hero on our hands!”
“I keep telling people: You really don’t.”
“Come then, Xiro the Not Hero. We have other arrangements for you now.”
Xiro simply nodded and, without a word of protest, followed them out the door. The soldiers surrounded him, two in front, two in back. “Is this all of you?” Xiro asked. His enunciation wasn’t as sharp as it usually was since his lips were swollen.
“The rest of our group is waiting by the cage,” said Virgil. “I’m sure they’re all eager to meet you. Through here.”
Xiro obediently went where he pointed and found himself in what was easily the largest room in the house. From the rows of shelves along the walls, it was clear that it had once been a library. But they were, every one, devoid of any contents.
“What happened to the books?” said Xiro.
“Burned them,” said Virgil. “It gets cold some nights.”
Four sets of large double doors ringed the room, with a large chandelier overhead, dozens of candles casting flickering shadows around the interior. The wood floor was so shiny that Xiro could see his reflection in it.
It was not, however, his reflection that captured his attention.
Dead center of the room was an oversized metal cage, easily large enough to hold several men. What it held instead was far more terrifying.
Crouched in the far end of the cage was a Balverine.
The snarling monster looked to be seven feet tall, with thick brown fur and a long snout that had double rows of vicious teeth. Its yellow eyes burned with hatred, and the claws extending from its fingers looked as if they could rip a man apart with a single blow. It didn’t appear to have noticed Xiro. Instead, its attention was focused entirely on the men surrounding it, standing outside the bars, taunting it and jabbing at it with long sticks to get it good and mad. It would snarl and snap at the prods, unable to get away from its tormentors.
Overseeing it all from a short distance away was Jack of Blades. It was difficult to tell if he approved or not as his face remained hidden behind his mask. “Ah. I see our entertainment is here.”
A barred gate bisected the inside of the cage, separating the far end from the entrance. A rope ran up to a pulley overhead, enabling the men outside to lift the gate without getting close enough to endanger themselves.
They opened the gate on the end closest to Xiro, and it was clear what their intention was. They were going to push Xiro in, slam the door shut behind him, raise the middle wall that separated the two ends, and loose the Balverine upon him.
“Please don’t do this,” said Xiro, trying to twist out of their hold upon him. “Please. This … this is no way for a man to die.”
“Oh, but you’re not just any man. You are Xiro the Not Hero. And so we give you an unheroic death. One in which you will scream for mercy where there is none to be had. Because that, my friend, is what happens when you cross swords with Jack of Blades. But worry not. You won’t be screaming for long. Put him in.”
Xiro was thrust headfirst into the cage. He staggered, nearly tripping as he stumbled in. Just before Virgil slammed shut the door, he tossed in Xiro’s sword. It clattered on the floor, sounding pathetic and impotent. The door’s closing echoed like a funeral bell in the vast dining room.
“We are in the great library, gentlemen, where wonderful thoughts were once contained. Time to have some food for thought.”
With one quick pull from his men, the barricade between Xiro and the Balverine was hauled upward as the prods were withdrawn.
The Balverine focused its attention, for the first time, on the helpless individual that had been pushed into its cage. Its lips drew back to reveal its black gums into which the hideous teeth were set. The monster snarled once, twice, then let out a thunderous howl of fury.
Xiro didn’t so much as move. The sword lay untouched on the floor. His gaze remained fixed on the Balverine.
“Come on, boy!” shouted one of the men, and Virgil urged Xiro, “At least put up some kind of fight!”
He ignored them. He simply continued to stare at the Balverine. He didn’t move a muscle. And yet it seemed that somehow he was standing straighter, his shoulders squared. He didn’t appear the least afraid, and the injuries that he had sustained appeared less bothersome.
The Balverine charged straight at him. The cage was large but it still didn’t provide any room for Xiro to maneuver.
He didn’t try.
He didn’t have to.
Six inches away from Xiro, the Balverine skidded to a halt. Its burning gaze fixed upon him, and there was something that hadn’t been there before: confusion.
Xiro smiled.
The Balverine began to tremble, its eyes now wide with terror. It couldn’t move, it was so utterly paralyzed. Instead of the defiant roars from a moment ago, little more than a whimper emerged from its maw. Most appalling of all, a thin stream of yellow liquid dribbled down its leg and formed a puddle on the floor beneath it.
The soldiers exchanged bewildered looks, unsure of what the hell it was they were witnessing. Even Jack of Blades seemed confused, speechless for once.
And then, with a howl, the Balverine charged, and for a moment all seemed right with the world. The Balverine had overcome its initial and extremely odd reaction and was going to rip Xiro to pieces.
That did not happen.
Instead, the Balverine collided with the locked door and impossibly, improbably, almost as if by magic, the lock that secured it snapped off and the door banged open with an echo that resounded through the room.
Just like that, the Balverine was out.
The instant it was free of Xiro’s presence—for Xiro remained in the cage and simply watched the proceedings with fascination—the Balverine, having been restored to its full ferocity, whirled and tore into the nearest of Jack’s men. He had no chance to react
and immediately went down beneath the infuriated creature’s teeth and claws.
The men came together in a protective circle, backing up, their blades extended, as the creature advanced upon them. With an earsplitting howl, the Balverine leaped.
“Kill it!” shouted Jack of Blades, somewhat unnecessarily.
The men stood their ground, and when the Balverine attacked, they were ready for it. The Balverine tried to get at them, claws flashing, jaws snapping, but the extended swords managed to keep it at bay. A bizarre dance ensued then, the beast drawing closer, then retreating, each time with a few more slashes in its hide. Within minutes its fur was slick with its own blood, and it was starting to slow down, its movements becoming more sluggish. It began to back up, staggering, but it was still a wounded animal and exceedingly dangerous.
“Now! Kill it now!”
The men converged, surrounding it. The Balverine lashed out, this way and that, but the men retained control of the situation, hacking and cutting while staying just clear of the monster’s claws and teeth.
Then Virgil saw his chance. The Balverine’s back was momentarily to him, and Virgil’s sword whipped around. Seconds later, the beast’s head flew from its shoulders, rolling across the floor.
As one, Jack’s men let out a ragged, relieved cheer, standing in a tight little circle.
Suddenly there was a massive rattling of a chain, like an angry ghost.
Or a falling chandelier that had just lost its support.
The men looked up just as the massive, many-candled chandelier crashed down upon them. Several died instantly from its weight, and all of them were pinned beneath it; all save Jack of Blades, who was standing a short distance away.
Jack started to move toward it in order to try and free his men, but events happened too quickly. The flames from the fallen candles leaped upon the men as if they had minds of their own, and seconds later they were ablaze. The men who had died on impact turned out to be the fortunate ones. The rest of them went up like torches, screaming in agony as the flames—as if stoked by some elemental power into a full-blown, raging conflagration—burned large and hot. The men tried to bat at themselves, to snuff out the flame.
