by Peter David
“You worry about too many things,” Thomas had said carelessly, but it was clear that he knew that what James said was true.
Now the group had reached the forest called the Elderwoods, and they were studying it. It seemed that there was, for the first time, a hint of trepidation. And the very first one to display it was, of all members of the group, Poxy. For when they drew to the edge of the forest, the dog—who had been willing to take on everything from pirates to krakens to soldiers on behalf of her master—whimpered and backed up, her ears down, her tail planted firmly between her legs.
“Poxy?” said James in surprise, clapping his hands briskly. “Poxy. Come here, girl. Come here.”
Poxy most definitely did not come there. Instead, she continued to retreat until she had taken up station a good twenty feet back, whereupon she dropped to the ground and simply refused to budge no matter how much James appealed to her to follow him.
“Well, that does not bode well,” said Shaw. “The dumb animal is too smart to enter where the humans would dare to go. Should we be taking our lead from her, Kreel, rather than you?”
“Life is not worth living without risk, my laird,” Kreel said calmly. “I have guaranteed none of you that we will not face any danger. Believe me, we will. All I can remind you is that I have survived any number of such expeditions, to territory far more hazardous than what is effectively my own backyard.”
“Yes, about that,” said Molly Newsome. “I admit to some curiosity about the fact that the balverine forest is within range of your home and yet you do not find yourself constantly assailed by them. Why is that?”
“A good question, my lady, and you need look no further than there for your answer.” And he pointed at Poxy, who was still cowering some distance away. “The Elderwoods are a mystic haven, and there is a line of demarcation between the end of the forest and the beginning of civilization. Whether it is a natural one that has developed through time or one that was laid down by a wizard at some distant point in the past, I could not say. The result, however, is consistent: Beasts do not wish to cross it in either direction. The balverines cower within the Elderwoods, having no desire to step out into the exposed realm of man. By the same token, even the more modest beasts, such as Master James’s dog, will have no truck with setting foot—or paw, if you will—within the confines of the woods.”
“But we can enter?” she said.
“We are not beasts, my lady”—and Kreel smiled— “although it may seem to you at times that men become beasts in your presence.”
“They have at times,” she said, and this caused a ripple of laughter among the assemblage.
“Very well, then,” said Kreel. “Now . . . I would suggest that you keep your pistols at the ready. You have all assured me that you are familiar with firearms and have used them in the past. I will not lie to you: If any of you have boasted without foundation, then your personal jeopardy has been increased, for your pistols are your first, best means of offense. I have loaded them with silver bullets. Even a wound from silver is like unto acid upon the creature and will stop it in its tracks; a bullet to the heart or the head will dispose of one permanently. You all understand?” There were nods from all around. “Also, you have the silver-edged knives I have given you. Those likewise will prove fatal, although obviously the balverine would be at far greater proximity. Unless you are exceptionally skilled in the practice, I would not suggest using the knife as a throwing blade. The odds are that you will simply wind up weaponless. So . . . are we prepared, then?”
The members of the nobility looked at each other. It seemed to James that each of them was waiting for the other to say, “To hell with this; let’s return to the mansion, drink and dine well in privilege, and speak no more of this ever again.” But none of them did, and collectively they nodded.
“Into the woods, then,” said Laird Kreel.
As they entered, the last thing James heard was Poxy whimpering after him, clearly asking him to remain with her and stay out of these darksome woods. For the first time since he had met her, James did not heed her. He wondered if it was a decision he was going to live to regret . . . or, for that matter, live through at all.
THE EXPEDITION HAD BEEN UNCONSCIOUSLY bracing itself for being attacked the second they entered the Elderwoods. Certainly, the environment seemed to invite it. The darkness of the woods was not simply some manner of illusion when standing out on the roadside. Having entered the woods, it seemed to envelop them as if they had wandered into the belly of the beast. The servants had torches with them that could be lit when the sun went down. For the time being, the very minimal daylight that managed to reach the forest floor, like an intrepid soldier fighting through overwhelming enemy forces, provided them with just enough light to be able to see ahead and around them. Even so, the shadows were long, and many leafless branches stretched above them, like skeletal arms ushering them to their doom.
However, despite the morbid character of their surroundings—or perhaps specifically because of its less-than-promising nature—they relaxed a bit when assault was not forthcoming within the first five minutes. When nothing happened within an hour, they relaxed a good deal. There was casual discussion back and forth, and Kreel even took the time to point out things of interest, such as particularly old trees or curious rock formations.
The more they relaxed, though, the more tense Thomas became, so much so that James’s accidentally bumping into him was enough to make him reach for the pistol tucked into his belt. His rifle was slung over his shoulder although that had likewise been filled with silver bullets. Then he saw that it was James, and he let out a relieved sigh.
“You’ve got to overcome that whole jumpiness thing of yours,” James said chidingly. “You can’t keep being ready to open fire every time someone steps on a branch.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t get you. This is what we’ve been working for, what we’ve been waiting for. You’re finally getting your wish; you’re knocking on the back door of the balverines, about to face them down. Who knows, maybe you’ll even have your dream come true and wind up with the head of the balverine that killed your brother as a trophy.”
“It won’t bring him back,” Thomas said as he stepped carefully over an upright rock that seemed to have been placed there specifically to trip him up. “Kreel’s wife—Sabrina’s mother—was slain by balverines. Kreel wears the pelt of one as a trophy, he’s killed who knows how many, and Sabrina is still mourning the loss.”
“I didn’t know that about her,” said James. “Then again, I don’t know her as well as you.” When he saw the look Thomas gave him, he added, “I don’t mean anything more by that than what I said.”
“Sure. Okay.”
“Thomas . . .” And James lowered his voice even more, glancing to make sure that they were out of earshot from the others. “What are you going to do? About the girl, I mean.”
“I don’t know. Marry her?”
“After one night of passion? Are you insane? Passion fades, Thomas.”
“Does it?”
“Well . . . so I’ve heard,” he said, putting on an air of mild chagrin. But then he grew serious once more. “What, are you going to bring her home with you? Or maybe move in with her in her mansion? What kind of life would you have with her?”
“I don’t know, James. I haven’t worked any of it out.”
James grunted in mild annoyance, but then said with false chipperness, “Look at the bright side. If you don’t make it out of here alive, then hey: problem solved.”
“You’re cheering me right up there, James. If you—”
Suddenly there was the sound of something coming very quickly toward them. Branches were snapping, brush was shaking, and immediately Kreel gestured for everyone to draw into a circle, everyone with their backs to each other. “Weapons up!” he called out, and all of them obeyed, their weapons at the ready.
Thomas’s pulse was racing, his eyes wide. He had unslun
g his rifle, hoping to cut short one of the creatures’ charge before it got close enough to do damage to anyone. Dean Carter had his gun leveled and a distant look on his face, as if he were studying something from far enough away that he was not at risk. Laird Shaw was grimly determined, holding his gun with two hands, keeping it steady. Molly Newsome appeared the most delighted of the three, swinging her gun in a wide arc, eager for something to unload upon. It occurred to Thomas that perhaps staring down death was her way of feeling close to her departed husband.
The eight servants were also armed, their guns out and aimed with varying degrees of confidence. Bell appeared the most prepared, and something about him seemed different to Thomas although it was not anything that he could quite put his finger on. As if he had been wearing his personality rather than inhabiting it and was now tossing it aside in favor of something new and more suitable to the occasion.
“Steady ... steady ...” said Kreel, and Thomas felt as if the shadows themselves were about to reach out and drag them off into the abyss.
And then the source of the noise burst out at them from two directions.
It was a pair of deer, a doe and a buck. Shaw, his nerves on edge, actually fired off a shot as the two animals nearly collided with each other ten paces away from the circle of hunters. They veered off at the last moment and then darted right past the band, the doe on one side and the buck on the other.
Then they were gone, and all was still once more.
The hunters looked around at each other, and then Molly Newsome chuckled. This laughter was quickly taken up by the others until it became a full-throated, unrestrained round of merriment at their own expense. “That was—” began one of the servants as the laughter began to die down.
He didn’t get to finish his sentence, as a balverine dropped down from overhead, landed directly in front of him, and clamped its jaws around his throat.
The servant’s eyes widened, his mind unable to process what was happening, and then the balverine yanked its head back and tore the man’s throat out. Blood fountained, splashing all over the balverine’s face, and its tongue darted out and licked at it as the servant fell to the ground.
There was a collective shriek from the hunters, and they opened fire on the beast. It staggered under the hail of bullets but did not go down, and suddenly there were more of them, plummeting from the canopy of branches overhead and leaping out from the shadows as if they’d been wearing them as cloaks for concealment.
The servants started firing, and it was impossible to miss the targets because the balverines were not slowing at all. They tore into the servants, and if the curse of the balverine could be passed along through biting, it seemed there would be none who were going to have the opportunity to discover if it was true. There was no biting here, but instead rending of flesh and ripping out of organs, and veins and guts being yanked out and slurped down like gluttons at a feast. There was blood everywhere, and the warm splatting of organs hurled against the trees.
Thomas emptied his rifle into one of the balverines that was charging straight at him and, as with the other weapons, it did nothing to slow him. The balverine leaped straight at him and Thomas, reversing his rifle, swung it around like a club. The rifle slammed against the balverine’s head and the stock shattered, the balverine being knocked momentarily to the ground. Thomas tossed aside the broken rifle and yanked out his sword. The downed balverine started to clamber to its feet, and Thomas whipped his sword around as hard and as fast as he could. It wasn’t silver, but it was sharp nevertheless. His aim was to behead the creature; in that he fell short. Instead, the sword made it halfway through, lodging in the balverine’s throat. It tried to howl but instead coughed up blood, and Thomas yanked hard on the sword, tearing it loose. The balverine, clutching its throat even as blood poured between its fingers, lunged for him, and Thomas sidestepped and brought his sword swinging around from the other direction. He connected with his target once more, and this time the force of the blow was sufficient to tear the beast’s head from its shoulders.
Then there was another roar from directly behind him. Having no time to turn, Thomas desperately thrust the blade backwards under his arms. He heard an agonized yelp and tried to turn around, but in doing so he loosened his grip for half a second. That was all the time that was required for the balverine behind him to strike him in the back of the head. Thomas was sent flying several feet and crashed into a tree. He slid to the ground and tried to see what was happening around him, the world spinning from the blow he had taken to his head.
A balverine was crouched there with Thomas’s sword buried in the upper part of its chest. With an annoyed growl, it yanked the blade out and tossed it aside. Then it advanced toward Thomas, and Thomas tried to grab for his crossbow, but he knew that there was no way he was going to have time to load the thing before the balverine was upon him. Even if he did, the odds were minimal that even a perfectly placed bolt would have the slightest effect.
Then Thomas saw Kreel, the laird himself, coming up right behind the balverine, and he had to think that he had never been so happy to see anyone in his life, ever. Kreel was going to save him and strike down the balverines with the force of his personality alone, and perhaps even wave his hand and bring the dead people back to life. Anything was possible when Laird Ethan Kreel was there.
Kreel cuffed the balverine on the side of its head as if it were a misbehaving puppy. “Not this one. You know better. You should all know which is which. Fool.” He struck him once more, and the balverine growled in annoyance but then turned and loped away.
Then Kreel looked apologetically to Thomas. “Apologies for the inconvenience,” he said, as if he had kept Thomas waiting too long for an appointment. “The bait I packed into the backpacks of the servants is supposed to draw them to who is food and who is not. As you can see, I am selective.”
“W-what?” Thomas wondered just how hard he had struck his head. Certainly the world already seemed on the verge of blacking out; perhaps this was some sort of delusion that was preceding unconsciousness. Maybe he was already out cold, and this was a dream.
Then Thomas was yanked to his feet, and there was a stink behind him of rotting meat that turned out to be the breath of a balverine that was holding him immobilized. From across the way he saw that James was being similarly held, and was screaming his name. Dean Carter, Laird Shaw, and Lady Newsome were likewise in the grasp of balverines and were already shrieking protest as they were being yanked away into the woods. The remaining balverines were feasting on the bodies of the downed servants, some of whom—horrifically—were still twitching. They’re eating them alive . . . blood and thunder . . . they’re eating them alive . . .
Kreel’s smiling face swam back into view. “I know this is most confusing for you, fellow. But trust me when I say that this is actually a tremendous honor for you. You could have been the prey. Instead”—and suddenly his eyes were glimmering yellow—“you are going to be given the honor of being made a predator.”
“What . . . what are you?” whispered Thomas, as a curtain of black seemed to descend over his eyes.
“I am Ethan Kreel, high laird of the Balverine Order,” Kreel told him. “And you are about to become one of our number. But it must be done properly, lest you be reduced to the savagery of one of these poor creatures.” And he gestured to indicate the other balverines, who were still picking through the remains of the servants. “Do not concern yourself; I assure you that all will be made clear.”
And then all went black.
JAMES FELT AS IF HE WERE GOING MAD.
He was being dragged through the forest by balverines, hauling him along as if his attempts to pull clear of them meant nothing. They had taken his weapons from him, and he obviously posed no threat in a hand-to-hand situation. But where the hell were they taking him and the others? It made no sense at all.
A short distance away, Thomas was also being hauled along. Unconscious, he’d been slung over the shoulder
of one of the balverines, who was carrying him along as if he were a bag of laundry. Carter, Shaw, and Newsome were farther ahead, their cries of terror having disappeared into the distance.
More in a display of defiance than with any expectation that it was going to do him any good, James abruptly brought his foot down and slammed it onto the paw of the nearest balverine. It let out a yelp and snarled at him, drawing back its claws as if ready to gut him like a trout. That would be better than whatever they have planned for us, he thought, and readied himself for death. He was surprised to discover it didn’t require all that much preparation: to some degree, he’d been ready for death ever since embarking on this excursion in the first place.
“Ah-ah,” a scolding voice said sharply, and the balverine backed off. James turned to see that Kreel had fallen into step alongside them. The balverines were making no threatening gestures toward him, nor were any holding him by the arms to prevent him from escaping. “He and his friend have been chosen. You know that.” The balverine growled at him but clearly understood, although that didn’t deter it from glaring fiercely at James in a way that indicated that—given the slightest opportunity—it would tear James to pieces.
James tried to speak, but his voice was so constricted with fear that at first it came out barely as a whisper. “Ch-chosen for what?” he finally managed to say.
“Why, to be added to the Balverine Order. We are a growing and influential group.”
“You . . . you’re an order of people that . . . that are friends with . . . with these monsters?”
“No, James.”
He gestured for the balverines who were dragging James to stop, and they did so. Kreel turned to face him, and—just as Thomas had seen—his eyes transformed from brown into pale yellow. But there was more. His teeth began to lengthen and become sharper, and white fur began to appear on his face, his jaw distending into a muzzle. He held up his hands, and claws began to jut out from his fingertips.
