by Peter David
How was he going to tell her?
It was starting to seem as if being killed by balverines had some advantages. If nothing else, it would spare him some difficult conversations.
They came staggering out of the forest, having quickly traversed at a dead run the distance the expedition had traveled at a slow walk. The mansion was very far in the distance, though, and Thomas knew that sooner or later the balverines would emerge from the forest and come after them. He now knew that Kreel’s tale about balverines not desiring to leave the forest was nonsense. The beasts could come and go as—
He looked around. There was no sign of Poxy. He wondered where she had gotten off to.
What he did see, however, surprised him greatly. It was a groomsman, looking rather disheveled and not terribly happy to be there. He was there with four horses: One he was astride himself, the other three had their leads tied off around a tree, and they looked no more pleased to be there than their keeper. They were saddled and ready to go.
“Five more minutes, and I was gone. Heard screams like banshees in the distance, I did,” said the groomsman, his voice quavering with fear. Thomas was about to clarify for him that it was, in fact, balverines and not banshees, but then decided that that probably wasn’t the best way to handle the situation. Meantime, the groomsman continued, “Where’s my money?”
“Right here,” said Locke. He pulled a sack of coins from his pocket and flung it to the groomsman, who caught it on the fly. “You can count it if you wish. I won’t be offended ...”
“Sooner I’m out of here, the better.” The groomsman wheeled his horse around and seconds later was galloping off down the road. The three remaining horses watched him go with clear concern. Perhaps they thought they were being left behind as some sort of sacrifice.
By this point, Locke was pulling off the wig and false facial hair that had disguised his appearance. As he did, Thomas and James went to the horses and started undoing the leads, holding them tightly. The horses were definitely spooked by what they sensed was going on in the woods, and the last thing they needed to happen was to have the horses bolt and leave them standing by the side of the road. Locke quickly came to their sides and helped them steady the nervous animals. “I can’t get over that disguise,” said James. “I never would have recognized you.”
“You haven’t before. Then again, you hadn’t met me yet, so it’s understandable.”
“What are you talking about?”
“In the Library.”
“I still don’t ...” Then slow realization dawned on James’s face. “The . . . the Librarian! The one who tried to beat the crap out of me!”
“Not the ‘crap.’ Just information.” Locke placed his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. “Your interest in balverines prompted me to make certain that you were not part of the conspiracy.”
“You manhandled me!”
“And saved your life shortly before when that snow leopard threatened you. Or did you think that knife buried itself? Now get on the damned horses; we’ve no time to waste, and sitting around here blathering about the past will only guarantee that we have no future.” Without waiting for James to reply, he dug in his heels and sent the horse galloping north toward the mansion.
Seeing no choice but to follow him, Thomas and James clambered upon their own horses and urged them forward. The horses required no great incentive to start galloping. They were clearly glad to be putting as much distance between themselves and the forest as possible.
They pounded across the terrain. The sun was settling upon the horizon, the long shadows of evening creeping across the vast, rolling heath. The air that had seemed so fresh and clean now seemed thick and unpleasant. The stink of evil, thought Thomas, which he knew was subjective and perhaps even ridiculous, but he couldn’t help thinking it anyway. He still didn’t know what the plan was, or what Locke had even been talking about. They were going to try and find the three Heroes of legend? But what did the mansion have to do with it? None of it was making any sense to him, and if Locke hadn’t proven so utterly capable thus far, he would have thought that the man was insane. Actually, the possibility was still there; they might be following a madman on a demented quest with no hope of success. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as if Thomas had any better ideas, short of turning around, heading home, and trying to forget any of this had ever happened.
Yet he knew that that wasn’t an option. This was no longer simply about personal jeopardy. Not only were there three innocent people in the clutches of the Balverine Order, but the safety of Albion itself was at stake. If they did indeed manage to spread their influence throughout the ruling class, then there was no telling how much damage they could do. Perhaps they might even be able to achieve their goal and take control of the land itself. No one would be safe.
With all of that to ruminate on, the time seemed to fly by until they finally reined up at the mansion. Quickly, they tied the horses off at a convenient hitching post set off to the side. The horses seemed a bit more relaxed although Thomas was sure he could still see fear in their expressive eyes.
Thomas and James approached Locke. As they did so, Thomas scanned the horizon, and then said offhandedly to James, “I don’t see Poxy. Where do you think she got off to? I thought sure she’d be waiting for—”
“She’s dead,” James said tersely. “She tried to rescue me, and Kreel killed her.”
Thomas’s heart sank. It was just a dog, a damned dog. Yet James had gotten terribly attached to her, plus she had proven herself a valiant companion. “James, I’m so sorry . . .”
“I don’t want your ‘sorry,’ Thomas. I just want Kreel dead.”
Locke was striding toward the front door. He was briskly reloading his pistol as he did so, and once it was ready, he shoved it in his belt. He had already slid his sword back into its sheath so that it once more looked like a normal, common walking stick. The boys caught up with him just as he arrived at the main entrance. “What are we doing here?” said Thomas. “You haven’t told us ...”
“The Triumvirate.”
“What about them?”
“They’re here.”
“Here? In this mansion?”
“Below the mansion, yes,” said Locke. “They’re entombed there. This place”—and he gestured toward the mansion—“was once their hall. A hall of Heroes. And in a great battle against evil, the Heroes were brought down. And evil came in and has been here ever since. As would be expected when dealing with such chaotic forces, there were turnovers in control of the mansion until the Balverine Order finally took charge of it. It has been relatively stable since then, but the Heroes have remained there, beyond the touch of evil, waiting for successors to come to them and purge the dark forces from this place.”
“And we’re those successors?”
“That is my hope. But it will require the three of us, working in tandem, to accomplish this.”
“Wait, wait . . . I don’t understand,” said Thomas, who felt as if he’d been saying that a lot lately. “How do you know this?”
“The Omnicron. That’s why I was at the Library. I found one of the few copies extant there.”
“I was looking for that!” said Thomas.
Locke gave him a dour look. “I shall be happy to lend it to you, should we survive. Now listen carefully: According to the Omnicron, the way to the Heroes is guarded by the three spires, one representing each of them. Those who would seek the Triumvirate—‘three worthies,’ as the book put it—must provide offering to each of the spires at the same time, and the way will then be shown.”
“Fantastic,” said James. “Provide offering? What’s that mean?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Even better.” James looked up with dread toward the three spires, which stood at their respective points on the mansion. “So we have to climb up there, is that it? I think this is the time to tell you that I have a problem with heights ...”
“That is what I h
ad thought initially,” said Locke, “but having walked around the mansion last night, I’ve concluded that something more down-to-earth is what the Omnicron was speaking of.”
“The mural room,” Thomas said abruptly.
“The what?” James hadn’t seen it.
But Locke was nodding, which meant that he most definitely had. “Yes. The mural room. The three of us need to go together and explore those distended spires against the wall, for I believe that it is through there that the secret lies.”
“And you are one worthy, and James and I are the other two?”
“That is my belief. You have come all this way on a quest. There is no more classic definition of ‘heroic endeavor’ than that.”
“Then why didn’t you come to us during the night?” James demanded. “If you knew that Kreel was leading us all into a trap—”
“Suspected, not knew,” Locke corrected him.
“—then why not head it off and have us try to reach the Heroes during the night?”
“That was my intention, actually,” said Locke, casting an annoyed glance at Thomas. “I was coming to your room to gather you, except apparently Mr. Kirkman here had other plans for the evening. Had he been where he was supposed to be, rather than otherwise engaged—”
“You’re . . . you’re not blaming what happened in the forest upon me!” said Thomas.
“No,” said Locke. “I remain focused on who the true villain is. And whatever lapse your dalliances last night may have caused in our ability to protect others, we’re going to set matters right with our actions now. Come. Let us—”
“Wait,” said Thomas. “Who are you?”
“I told you.”
“You told us your name. That doesn’t explain why you’re involved in this. Your personal stake. How you happened into this . . . this madness.”
Locke nodded in understanding and sought a way to answer simply. “I am here,” he said finally, “because I am someone who has an awareness of the world. Of the way things are and the way they could be. And when you are someone who has that sort of insight, you cannot turn away. You must use whatever gifts and resources are at your disposal to have an impact and influence them. And whether you influence them for good or ill is up to you. I, for reasons that will remain my own, have chosen to influence them for the good. You, Mr. Kirkman, are of a like mind. You, Master Skelton”—and he glanced warily at James—“are on the fence, I believe, and could go either way. Let us hope that you make the right decisions.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said James in irritation.
“I believe you know, and we have wasted enough time. We need to return to the temple before midnight if we are to save the others. That is the hour,” he went on, anticipating the question as to why that time was important, “at which the others will be transformed into members of the Balverine Order. Most balverines do not transform into individuals who seem relatively normal. Most of them are ravening beasts with only the vaguest recollection of what they once were. A bite at any other time creates a simple mindless beast. But a bite at precisely the witching hour, during a full moon, administered by one who is already part of the Order, will create more of their kind. That is the moment that we are racing against. So, if you have no further questions—?” He looked from Thomas to James, and both of them shook their heads. “Onward, then.”
“How are we going to get into the mansion?” asked James.
“Yes, I have a rather cunning plan in that regard.”
At which point Quentin Locke strode toward the front door and banged on it. The thumping echoed within and, moments later, the door was opened by a puzzled-looking servant. Thomas instantly recognized him as one of the butlers who had served them dinner.
He took one look at Locke, Thomas, and James, his face twisted in fury, and he yanked out a knife from a scabbard behind his back.
Locke did not hesitate. He strode forward and, before the servant could bring the knife forward, Locke struck him full in the face. The impact of the blow spun the servant around, and he went down in a heap. Locke stepped over him and gestured for Thomas and James to follow.
“Hurry,” said Locke. “Hurry before—”
“What are you doing here! What’s going on!”
It was another servant, and his cry brought others. And from the look of them and the way they came straight at the three guests who were now clearly intruders, it was obvious that they knew that Locke, Thomas, and James were not supposed to be there. Which meant that they knew exactly what it was that the master of the house was up to.
Thomas braced himself for them to transform into balverines, but they did not. Instead, they charged forward, bearing knives and looking to carve up the new arrivals.
Unfortunately, Thomas and James were weaponless. Fortunately, Locke was not.
“They’re not worth wasting silver bullets on,” Locke said coolly, disdaining to take out his pistol. Instead, once again, he withdrew his sword from within the confines of his cane. He moved with a speed and precision that Thomas would not have thought possible, like a lethal dancer, deftly stepping between the clumsy thrusts of his attackers and striking quickly and mercilessly.
He killed no one. That was what fascinated Thomas the most. His precise thrusts inflicted wound after wound while receiving none himself. The clumsy way in which the various attackers came at him ensured that they were far more likely to trip each other up than pose a threat to Locke, and he took advantage of their disorganization. He sliced and stabbed and cut with surgical precision, and men went down clutching at wounds to their chests that would not prove fatal, or staggering about because an incision across their forehead was causing blood to get in their eyes, thus rendering them easy victims to a knockout punch. One particularly troublesome bruiser nearly got the better of Locke, clipping him with a blow that glanced off Locke’s jaw and knocked Locke off his feet. But Locke simply took advantage of his momentary position on the floor to dart behind the bruiser and slice through the man’s right Achilles tendon. The bruiser screamed and went down, flopping about on the floor like a seal, as Locke quickly bounded back to his feet and dispatched the remaining attackers.
Thomas and James would have joined in the melee, but they were mostly concerned about getting in Locke’s way. Plus, it was all happening so quickly that there wasn’t much time for them to leap into the engagement. By the time that they had picked up knives from fallen attackers and were ready to join in, there was nothing in which to join. Locke was briskly striding away from a circle of half a dozen men who were lying on the floor in various stages of consciousness and blood loss, moaning and holding different parts of their body. Other servants were appearing from other directions, but when they saw the chaos that reigned in the main hall and the fact that the man who had perpetrated it looked more than ready for more, resistance melted away. The trio headed in the direction of the mural room without further opposition.
Within minutes, they were standing in front of the vast three-wall mural that depicted the entirety of the mansion. James, who had not yet seen it, let out a low whistle. “This is it, then?”
“This is it.” Locke nodded. “Quickly . . . the two of you each go to one of the spires.”
They did as he instructed, Thomas to the right, James to the middle, and Locke at the left. “Now what?” said James.
“Now we all three push against it and see if that does something. On three and one . . . two . . . three.”
Together, at their respective places around the room, they pushed as hard as they could against the raised spires. None of them were exactly sure of what was supposed to happen next.
As it turned out, nothing did.
“That was exciting,” said James dourly after long moments of no response at all. “Was there anything in the Omnicron about what to do if you’re completely buggered?”
“There must be some trick, some mechanism to it,” said Locke, stepping back and studying the mural. “We just need to
find ...”
“No. You don’t.”
Slowly, the three of them turned and saw that Sabrina had entered the room. She was wearing a simple green frock. There was a look of infinite sadness in her eyes. “You don’t need to find anything.”
“Sabrina,” Thomas said urgently, “it’s all right. We know what he is. We understand everything.”
“No,” Locke said, “I don’t think you do understand everything, Mr. Kirkman.”
Thomas ignored him. He went to Sabrina and took her hands, speaking as quickly and passionately as he could. “We know what your father is. We saw it. And you must know, too. You do, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice small. “My mother . . . she was his . . . his offering to the darkness . . . his pledge of loyalty to the evil that made him what he is. He didn’t run from the curse; he embraced it.”
“And you’ve lived with that knowledge, with that evil, all this time.” He wanted to weep in sympathy for her.
“Mr. Kirkman,” said Locke.
“Not now.”
“Mr. Kirkman,” and he was more insistent.
“Shut up!” He turned heatedly toward Locke, and then he was astounded to see that Locke had his sword out and was pointing it toward him. “What are you—?”
“Think, Thomas. Tear the blinders of infatuation from your eyes. Do you truly think that she could exist within this house of evil all this time and remain unscathed by it? Do you not see her for what she is?”
“She is an innocent, caught up in—!”
And suddenly James, who was standing just to Locke’s right, took a step back and brought up his knife defensively. His lips mouthed, “Thomas,” but he was unable to speak.
Thomas turned back to face Sabrina, and was horrified to see her eyes, baleful and yellow, locked upon him.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” she whispered, even as she started to grow, fur sprouting all over her face. “We were going to be together, you and I. Father promised. He promised that I would feel so less lonely if I had someone. I hated it . . . hated what he was . . . hated what he made me . . . I told you that.” And each word became progressively deeper, more guttural. “Told you that I wanted to be something other than I was! I told you that! Why didn’t you listen?”
