Jack of Blades looked around desperately to try and find something to extinguish the fire. He found nothing that could help him.
He did see, however, the place at the far end of the room where a large chain had been anchored to the wall; a chain that had served to support the chandelier.
Xiro was standing next to it, his expression an odd mixture of chagrin and smugness. “I’m sorry … I seem to have bumped into this and knocked it loose by accident. I’m so clumsy that way. On the other hand, now you won’t have to worry about those cold nights.”
The last dying scream in the room was Virgil’s, then his head slumped forward and his eyes glazed over. Seconds later they melted. The rest of the men were already gone and the flames were licking at the walls.
Jack of Blades looked around at the carnage that surrounded him. And finally he looked straight at Xiro, standing there calm as anyone could possibly be, his blade extended and waiting for an attack.
Without hesitation, Jack of Blades turned and ran.
And Xiro was standing in front of him.
Jack of Blades skidded to a halt and muttered, “How in the—?” Not waiting for an answer, he spun and started to head in a different direction, but there again was Xiro waiting for him, a grin on his face, death in his eyes.
“You are a Hero!”
“I really wish that people would stop saying that. I am no more a Hero than you are, Jack of Blades. Admit to that, and you might live.” Two quick strides brought him up to Jack of Blades, his sword point just under Jack’s throat. “Admit it.”
Quickly, Jack of Blades yanked out the sword upon his back and tried to attack Xiro.
Xiro backed up while deflecting all of Jack’s assaults. On the surface it seemed like a continuous and unending string of luck. He exhibited no form, no style. He seemed to just slap away with his blade like a rank amateur, and yet somehow, impossibly, it formed a relentless barrier of steel that Jack’s own sword was unable to penetrate.
Jack swept his sword toward Xiro’s head. Xiro ducked it effortlessly, then smacked the back of Jack’s wrist with his blade. Had he used the cutting edge, he would have severed Jack’s hand; as it was, he used the flat of the blade and the impact alone was enough to send Jack’s sword clattering to the floor and numb Jack’s hand.
Jack lunged for it, but instead the tip of Xiro’s short sword was between him and his weapon. Jack was breathing hard, his chest heaving. “This … this can’t be. No one has … has ever …”
“Defeated you? Is that the phrase you were going for?” Xiro said. His voice sounded amused, but there was no amusement in his face. Xiro drew back his sword and calmly placed the point down into the floor. Then he began to pace back and forth, two steps one way, two the other, keeping himself between Jack and his sword. “I’m going to step away from your sword and one of two things is going to happen. You’re going to have one more chance to tell me who you are and you will perhaps, just perhaps, survive this night. Or you will go for your sword, try to attack me once more, and I will kill you. Decide.”
Jack stood frozen, his eyes invisible beneath the mask. He didn’t display much inclination to pick up the sword. “At least tell me who or what you are. If not a Hero, then … then what—?”
And Xiro smiled, and his eyes blazed, and Jack of Blades saw his death in those eyes. He saw his death …
… and he saw the truth.
With a shriek, Jack of Blades jumped backward, as if Xiro’s head had suddenly transformed into that of a serpent and tried to sink its fangs into him. He backed up, faster and faster, until he literally hit a wall and just stood there, arms splayed to either side, legs trembling.
Xiro advanced on him and said, “Take the mask off, you imposter. You nothing. Do it now.”
The ersatz Jack quickly did as he was bidden. He pulled at it, undoing the lacings, and seconds later it was lying on the floor, looking puny and powerless. Beneath the mask was an all-too-mortal, terrified face, skin the color of curdled milk, eyes brimming with sheer terror. His jaw was moving but no words were coming. Finally, he managed to find a couple to serve him: “You’re … you’re dead …”
“Obviously I’m not. I’m right here.”
As if Xiro hadn’t spoken, Jack said, “You’re … you’re using some sort of glamour. That has to be it. The Balverine, being a creature of magic, was able to discern the truth. You could have destroyed us at any time. You were … were toying with us … this whole while … but you wanted to keep a low profile … not let people realize … but you were never really hurt … never in any danger …”
“I have no idea what you’re going on about,” said Xiro calmly. “But I would know the reason for this sham, starting with your name.” When Jack of Blades didn’t respond immediately, Xiro upped the volume of his voice. “Now, you idiot.”
“F-Fred,” he managed to stammer. “Fred Barrow … me and my friends …”
“The dead ones, you mean.”
“We … we hit upon this idea. What with everyone believing Jack of Blades was dead and all, we figured I …”
“That you would impersonate Jack. Set up a cozy life for yourselves here, because you held Jack of Blades in such contempt that you figured you could—”
“Contempt? No! You … you don’t understand!”
That phrasing struck Xiro as curious. “Explain it to me.”
“Jack of Blades is everything to me. I’ve been a worshipper for years. For years.”
“Have you now,” said Xiro.
Fred’s head bobbed up and down furiously. “As a child I heard all the stories. I … I learned to read, over my father’s objections, just so I could find the texts about Jack of Blades. And I … I was small. Puny. A nothing. My father was a drunkard who beat my mother until she took her own life, then he abandoned me in the streets. I was supposed to lead a beggar’s life and I … I refused to. Because all I could keep thinking was, ‘Jack of Blades would never beg.’ ”
“That is true. He would not.”
“And …” Fred cleared his throat, looking slightly buoyed over the fact that he was still alive. “And I had no desire to be a thief, either. So I would just walk up to people and demand that they give me money. ‘Give me money,’ I would say to them, ‘for I require it more than you.’ ”
“And did that work?”
“Most of the time, no. On occasion, yes. But I received many beatings because of it from those who had no patience for me. Those beatings made me strong. Made me a formidable sell-sword. Made me dangerous. Eventually my body grew with my ambition. I put together an army of bravos. We raided cities, we plundered where we wished. And then …”
“You made enemies. Formidable enemies.”
Fred nodded. “We were ambushed by royal forces. Only a fraction of my army was left and we were wanted, dead or alive … preferably the former. And I … I thought since we were dead men, why should I not disappear into a dead man? A dead man whose reputation alone could keep an entire village in line? So I turned to he whom I worshipped. He whose strength and name and power sustained me in my darkest times. I turned to Jack of Blades. Because I …” His voice trailed off.
“You desired to be worshipped in turn by the very creatures that you despised.”
He let out a sigh of relief. “Yes. Exactly. That’s exactly right. Do you …” He held his breath, barely daring to ask. “Do you understand—?”
“I do, actually. These people these … creatures”—and he gestured vaguely as if taking in the whole of mankind—“they are insufferable things. They don’t know who their betters are.”
“Who do they think they are?” Fred said indignantly.
“They are nothing. And it is … a paradox. Since they are nothing, one should, by all reason, not care about them in the least. And yet their resistance is like a scab that will not heal.”
“I understand completely.”
“And I understand you,” said Xiro. “In many ways, you are like a spiritua
l brother to Jack of Blades.”
Tears began to well up in Fred’s eyes. “This … this is a dream come true. Thank you. Thank—”
There was a loud, awful, violent, and penetrating sound then. Fred staggered, shuddered, and looked down at the blade that had cut his heart in two.
“Understand … but not forgive,” said Xiro as he yanked his sword free of Fred’s chest.
Fred went down without a word, although the last sign of expression in his eyes was mixed: crushing disappointment combined with the feeling of being … honored.
And as the walls began to burn and the fire reached for the ceiling, Xiro walked away, leaving the former headquarters of Fred of Blades to become his funeral pyre.
* * *
The sun rose over the marketplace and Beatrice, her eyes still red from crying through the night, was sullenly arranging the display of candles when there were cries and startled gasps behind her. She turned and her jaw dropped as she saw Xiro standing in the middle of the marketplace. He was still battered and bruised from having been pummeled by the crowd the previous day, and upon seeing him, the people didn’t know whether to stare at him in shock or look away in shame. All the normal hustle and bustle of the morning gave way to stunned and abashed silence.
“That man,” Xiro finally said, his voice carrying up and down the street, “was not Jack of Blades. His name was Fred and he fancied himself the brother of Jack of Blades. I would suggest you extricate the burned remains of his body from the collapsed mansion where he’s currently situated and bury him somewhere with a headstone to that effect. I don’t know who the others were and I couldn’t care less. Good day.”
“But …” Beatrice was the only one who had the nerve to approach him. “But … but what happened? Where are … he’s dead? You’re saying he’s dead?”
“Yes. Dead. They’re all dead. You’re free of them. Jack of Blades is nothing but a dead myth, this man here who terrorized you was nothing, and if the lot of you had had the nerve to stand up to him, none of this would have happened.”
“How did he die?” asked one of the villagers, and Beatrice’s father called out, “Did you kill him?”
“Good day,” said Xiro, providing no other response.
With that, he turned and headed for the road out of town. He hadn’t gotten far, however, when there were soft footfalls behind him. He didn’t even have to look to see that Beatrice had run up alongside him. “Take me with you,” she said breathlessly.
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I do! I know it will be a difficult and taxing life, but I want to be there for you. I want to be the woman of a Hero. I’ve always known that’s what you are. I’ve certainly said it enough times.”
“Yes, you have.” He took her hand in his. “Listen to me carefully, child. You are not going to come with me. You are going to stay here. You will marry or not, as you see fit, and take over your father’s trade sooner than you think, because his lungs have a blackness and he hasn’t much time left.”
“He … what?” She looked like a crippled sparrow—sweet, wounded, and helpless. “What are you—?”
“And you will stay in this small, nothing town, and you will grow old, and you will die, and your name will be forgotten by the few who ever knew it. I certainly know I’m going to do my best to forget it as soon as I’ve departed.”
“I …” Her voice caught, but then she rallied. “I know why you’re saying these things. It’s because you care about me and figure I’ll be safe from danger if I stay here.”
“Trust me, child, when I tell you this: There is nowhere in the whole of Albion that is safe from danger. It will come, and if you’re still fortunate enough to be alive when the reality of that is driven home to you, then you certainly won’t enjoy what happens next.”
Beatrice was desperate not to believe the things he was telling her. “No. I refuse to accept that. And do you know why?”
“No,” he said with a bored air. “Why?”
“Because there will always be Heroes like you to prevent it.”
He leaned in toward her, closer than he’d ever been, almost eye to eye, and when he spoke, it was as if he had opened a small door into her brain and poured in an army of black spiders to work their will upon her:
“I’m not a Hero.”
And she began to scream and never, ever stopped.
Peter David, Fable: Jack of Blades
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