Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) by Peter David Read Free Book Online

were thunderous . . .”
    â€œLong years of practice.” He tilted his head slightly, his gaze shifting from Thomas to James, and back. “Balverines, eh?”
    â€œYes.”
    The old man coughed deeply and brought up a wad of spit that he expelled on the ground nearby. Thomas noted that it was tinted red. “The parents of the Hero of Southcliff were attacked and killed by a white balverine, or at least so it’s said. They’re among the most dangerous of the breed although some say the frost balverines are worse.”
    â€œHave you ever seen one?” Thomas said eagerly.
    â€œNo, and I’ll be perfectly happy to reach the end of my days—which are probably coming far sooner than either of us would like—without ever having done so. But’cha don’t have to see something to know something. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, ya ken what I’m sayin’?”
    â€œYou’re saying that with all the talk of balverines, they have to have existed in order to spawn it. And other creatures, too?”
    â€œMost like.” He spat again. This wad looked even darker red than the first, and he coughed a few times in order to clear his lungs. “Say what’cha will about the creatures of the night—and I could say plenty—but at least they’re natural.”
    James exchanged a confused look with Thomas. “I thought they were unnatural, actually,” said James.
    â€œPfaw!” The coachman snorted contemptuously at James and turned away from him, apparently having decided that he wasn’t worth his time. Instead, he said to Thomas, “Machines are unnatural. Technology is unnatural. Great belching clouds of black smoke are unnatural. Balverines and dragons, scorpions and screamers . . . some of those things were old when the world was young. They have every right to be crouching in the shadows, waiting for unwary travelers such as you”—and he poked Thomas in the chest with a gnarled finger—“to let down your guard. They are beings of purest nature, and if they’re recoiling from the damnable technology and the rotting of magic that passes for the world today, then who can rightly blame them. I certainly can’t. Can you?”
    Thomas shook his head. “No, sir. I sure can’t.”
    The coachman seemed to be trying to determine whether Thomas was being sarcastic. When he evidently decided that Thomas was not, he crooked that same finger that he’d been poking Thomas with a moment earlier, motioning the young man to draw closer. Thomas did so.
    â€œWindside,” growled the old man.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œYou want to be going to Windside.”
    â€œI do?” He looked to James, who shrugged. “Never heard of it.”
    â€œAnd Windside likes it that way.” He pointed toward a distant mountain range that looked to Thomas to be about a day’s walk. “Those mountains yonder are called Mistpeak. Just stay on this path and follow it up into them. Ain’t navigable for horses; if you’re on four legs, you’d have to be a mountain goat. But on two legs, you should be okay, especially if you pick yourselves up walking sticks in town to help steady you. Can’t miss Windside; the buildings cling to the sides of the mountain more like bats than human structures.
    â€œAnd what’s in Windside that’s worth all that effort?”
    â€œThe Library.”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œJust the Library,” he said to Thomas with a sour look, apparently annoyed that Thomas had felt the need to ask. “It’s got books on the exact sorts of things you want to find out about.”
    â€œNot sure that’s a worthwhile use of our time,” James said.
    The coachman gave him yet another disdainful glare. “Wasn’t talking to you.”
    James bridled at that, but Thomas put out a hand, cautioning him to silence, as he said,