Fable: Blood of Heroes (3 page)

“Same to you, shield!” Tipple returned the gesture with both hands.

Inga had felt oddly protective of the shield from the moment she touched it. It reminded her of a stray mutt, desperate for affection and unfailingly loyal. To judge from the way Bulwark lent her its power, it felt the same way about her.

She stepped cautiously into the tunnel. Bulwark’s edge scraped the loose brick overhead, bringing down a sprinkle of what she hoped was dirt. She kept her feet to the edges, where the flow was shallowest. It meant walking like she was straddling a saddle, but it kept her boots out of the worst of the muck.

“What’s this forecast of doom and downfall all about, do you think?” she asked as they walked.

“Disease,” Leech guessed. “A good plague could wipe out the whole town in less than a month.” He followed a little too close for Inga’s comfort. She could feel his feet and body brushing against hers. She didn’t think he was afraid. Leech would happily confront—or dissect—things that would send most people screaming. Nor was it a clumsy attempt to get his hands on her. She had seen him do this indiscriminately, to men and women alike. Leech simply didn’t notice other people’s space the way everyone else did.

Tipple shook his head. “You want a real disaster, I heard a rumour Les at the Cock and Bard’s started watering down the ale. Any day now, there’ll be rioting in the streets.”

“Don’t waste time with groundless guesswork,” Rook said firmly. “Be prepared, and focus on the job.”

Inga twisted around. “We’re going to need a torch pretty soon.”

Rook pulled a brand from his pack. The moss-slimed rock didn’t appear to bother him, and he gave no sign of noticing the smell of waste. Then again, you could probably set Rook’s beard on fire and carve his pet crossbow into toothpicks, and he wouldn’t so much as blink.

Oh, he’d kill you dead for the slight against his beard and his weapon, but he’d be utterly stone-faced when he was doing it.

Jeremiah Tipple, on the other hand, looked green as an unripe tomato as he squeezed his way into the sewer.

“You all right there, big guy?” asked Inga.

Tipple belched. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Rook brought his torch close to the wall. “Someone’s been here.”

“We knew that,” Tipple snapped. “That’s the whole point of us rooting around like sewer rats.”

“Not the redcap.” Rook pointed to fresh scratches on the bricks. They looked like random white marks to Inga.

“Cellar guards?” she guessed. Before his demise, Old King Wendleglass had assigned a group of town guards to patrol the tunnels beneath the islands, chasing off the occasional creatures who tried to breach the city from below and repairing any damage. A section of cleaner brick up ahead showed where one of the walls had recently been replaced.

“Smugglers. I learned their signs when I was patrolling with the Strangers.” Rook traced three parallel slashes with his finger. “They use them to mark their territory. This one’s a warning about the guards.”

“Do they tell you where a man could find a privy?” asked Tipple.

Rook ignored him.

“Smugglers, eh?” asked Inga. “Looks like the little mite’s leading us right to Nimble John’s band, just like Wendleglass said he would.”

For Inga, this was what being a Hero was all about. Chasing monsters in the darkness, wading through the muck to protect the people of Albion.

The tunnel split a short distance ahead. The left passage was broad and dry, while the right smelled like a swamp after the first spring thaw.

“Left,” said Leech. “Redcaps avoid the water when they can. Like cats.”

Tipple looked pointedly at the right tunnel. “You think that sludge qualifies as water?”

“Sure. From the smell, I’d say water mixed with faeces, urine, rotting food, algae, mildew”—he adjusted his mask and sniffed—“and just a hint of vomit. None of that matters to a redcap. They’re just worried it will wash the blood out of their headgear.”

That was good enough for Inga. She turned the corner and caught a glimpse of movement in the distance. Her body reacted automatically, raising her left arm as the filthy, hunchbacked creature with the pointed red cap drew back his slingshot.

Something sharp crashed into her forearm where Bulwark should have been. An animal skull fell into the dirt at her feet. Manic laughter echoed through the tunnel as the redcap scampered away.

“Get back here, you pointy-headed pimple!” Tipple roared. “If you’re gonna ambush someone, do it to her face, like a man!”

The tunnels here were larger than the sewer and better maintained, but Inga still felt like a bull in a barrel. She shifted Bulwark onto her arm in case the next missile was deadlier. There was just enough room for her to hold it at an angle across the front of her body.

“Easy,” said Rook. “Only a fool charges into the monster’s lair.”

Inga nodded. The ground was hard-packed dirt, which muffled the redcap’s retreating footsteps. The walls were made of irregularly cut stone. Thick timbers helped to support the ceiling. She kept bumping the overhead beams with her shield.

The redcap couldn’t have gone far. This was one of Brightlodge’s smallest islands, housing little more than the library tower. There might be a few underground storage rooms where he could hide, or perhaps another tunnel running to the foundations of the bridge, but little more.

She couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor thing. Trapped underground, pursued by four armed Heroes. Did he realise how hopeless his situation was?

But he
had
started that fire, a fire that could have killed everyone in the tavern. Not to mention setting that sow free and all the other mischief he had caused. What if next time he attacked a child or an old woman? Worse, once he settled in to Brightlodge, would others follow like rats to a leaking grain sack?

Bulwark shifted of its own accord as she rounded the next corner. An arrow cracked against the wood. Inga glimpsed eight—no, nine—outlaws hunched behind an assortment of barrels and crates. She waved for the other Heroes to stop. The outlaws had been here for several days, judging from the rumpled blankets, discarded food, and remnants of an old cook fire. It looked like she had interrupted their breakfast.

Inga looked pointedly at the arrow on the ground. “I’m willing to pretend that didn’t happen.” She used the same tone her mother used to take with her when she came home covered in mud and blood. “Put down your weapons, and we can talk things out over some of that fish.”

“Forget the sewer fish,” Tipple called out. “What do they have to drink?”

A pair of chickens wandered aimlessly through the mess, searching for bugs. The redcap perched atop an empty cage, his manic smile displaying far too many teeth as he rocked from side to side.

“That redcap looks comfortable,” Inga said. “Is he with you?”

The man with the bow scowled. “Not by choice.”

“Nonsense.” Inga inched closer, ready to knock down anyone who so much as twitched. Bulwark’s surface rippled like the air over a sunbaked field as the shield gathered its power. “Granny Brody used to say even a fly can choose which cow pat to live on. Why hide away like animals in the darkness when you could fill your purses with honest work? Smithing or baking or—”

“Do we look like bakers to you, lady?” said another outlaw, this one nearly as large as Tipple. He picked up a small barrel and hurled it at her.

The barrel cracked against her shield, spilling fish and seawater onto the floor. The man scooped up a club and charged.

Inga drew her sword. “That was the wrong choice.”

CHAPTER 2

ROOK

R
ook had begun assessing the outlaws the moment their arrow smacked into Inga’s shield. Only a single shot, suggesting a lone archer. He’d heard two distinct voices, plus the redcap, before all hell broke loose.

He jammed the end of his torch into a crack in the wall. “How many?”

“Nine.” This was followed by the distinctive sound of a heavy shield smashing a body to the ground. “Eight. Plus some chickens.”

Rook leaned around the corner and raised his weapon.

Your regular crossbow packed a decent punch, and probably would have been enough against this band of outlaws.

Rook preferred to carry more than enough. Much more.

That meant the Catsgut repeating crossbow: standard issue for the Strangers who patrolled the north. You could load multiple bolts into the oversized weapon. A series of weights and counterweights used the weapon’s own recoil to reset for the next shot. You lost a bit of accuracy, but you could empty a full magazine of bolts into your enemies in the time it took them to piss themselves. When you spent your days fighting hollow men freshly risen from the grave, not to mention the never-ending tide of other nasties, that Catsgut was a better friend than any man or woman.

Rook’s first three shots thudded into the outlaw’s chest. The man staggered back. He wasn’t dead, but he wouldn’t be doing much fighting with a punctured lung. The rest of the outlaws froze.

Amateurs. Rook took in the layout of the room in a single glance. Cracks of light from a shuttered lantern near the back illuminated the outlaws, plus the damn redcap. Three looked like your run-of-the-mill brawlers. Nothing special there. The fourth fellow could have been part giant.

“Dibs!” shouted Tipple as he charged into the melee, clocking the giant with a roundhouse punch that sent him staggering.

One of the outlaws swung a heavy club at Inga’s head. She raised her shield at the last second. The crack of the impact sounded solid enough to split a boulder, but it was the club that cracked. The outlaw stared dumbly at his broken weapon.

Rookie mistake. Inga punched the back of his hand. A blow to those bones would hurt under any circumstances, but the hilt of her sword gave the strike more than enough power to shatter the man’s hand.

Rook searched for his next target. The archer had fallen back to the rear of the room, along with a hunched man covered in feathers and chicken crap. Then there was that crone hiding in the shadows—or was that a bloke? Too hard to tell beneath the vines of greasy hair and the loose layers of clothing. She was holding a human leg bone, to which she had tied strings of glass beads and what looked like a mummified fish head.

From the look of her, she was either the magical firepower for this little band or else she was utterly loony. Possibly both. Rook didn’t care to find out which. He stepped out to get a clear shot past Inga and put half a dozen bolts into the crone’s chest and gut.

“Careful.” Inga lashed out with her sword. “I don’t want to spend the day picking your prickles out of my armour.”

Tipple scooped up two staves from a broken barrel on the floor. He broke them both over the giant’s head with a roar, then unleashed a storm of punches to the fellow’s gut and face. Rook kept moving, trying to line up another shot. The archer was his next priority.

Before he could squeeze the trigger, the hunchback shouted a command, and four of the wandering chickens flew into the brawl. Some sort of sharpened steel spurs glinted on their claws and beaks. Rook adjusted his aim and shot one out of the air. “What is it with Albion and all these damned chickens?”

The birdmaster pointed at Rook. “Spike, kill!”

A rooster charged. In addition to the metal spurs the others wore, this one had hammered metal plates around his body, with additional spikes along the back. The bloody bird had better armour than most warriors.

Rook got one shot off, but the bolt ricocheted off the rooster’s tiny helmet, then a chicken launched itself at Rook’s face. Hooked metal claws reached for his eyeballs. Rook twisted aside and punched the bird out of the air.

The rooster jumped onto Rook’s boot and drove the steel beak-spur into his lower leg.

“Bloody hell!” He reached for the rooster, but the spiked armour protected the neck and back. It looked like there were blades strapped to the wings, too. With the way the thing was flapping and fussing, there was no way to get a good enough hold to wring its neck.

“Hah!” said Tipple. “Rook made a friend!”

Rook stepped back and finished cocking his crossbow, then kicked hard enough to launch the rooster into the air. From the pain and the blood, he guessed those beak spikes were barbed, too. He pulled the trigger, and a spray of missiles buzzed through the air to find the gaps in the bird’s armour. It hit the ground and didn’t move.

Warmth pulsed through Rook’s leg, and the pain of his wound eased. He glanced down. The bleeding had stopped, and the skin scarred over as he watched. Behind him, Leech stood with his hands outstretched. Rook wasn’t sure exactly how the man was able to pull life from one body and transfer it into another, but it got the job done. He tested the leg and nodded his thanks to Leech.

An arrow whizzed past. Rook dropped to one knee, sighted between Tipple’s legs, and shot the birdmaster in the thigh.

“Oi!” Tipple shouted. “Mind the goods!”

“Mind your own goods,” Inga shot back.

He laughed. “Not in the middle of a fight, Ingaling!”

One of the outlaws staggered, pale and off balance, despite the lack of any visible injuries. That would be the source of whatever healing Leech had pumped into Rook’s leg. There was always a price to be paid, but sometimes it was nice to let someone else foot the bill. Tipple boxed the drained outlaw about the ears, and he dropped.

Rook stepped forwards to club a chicken off Inga’s back. Half the outlaws were down, and the rest looked to be losing their nerve. The archer had fled down the tunnel, and the birdmaster was limping after, howling and clutching his leg. No discipline at all. Rook shot him in the back.

Now, where had the bloody redcap run off to?

One of the remaining outlaws, a bulky man whose rags and mismatched scraps of armour appeared slightly newer than the rest, shouted, “Get back here, you worthless cowards. Don’t let them—”

Shadows lurched and danced as the redcap yanked the lantern from the wall and clubbed the outlaw on the head. The outlaw caught the redcap by the wrist and tried to wrench the lantern away, but the little beggar was tougher than he appeared. He kicked the outlaw square in the groin, then went right back to beating him about the head.

“I’m starting to like this fellow,” said Tipple.

Again and again, the redcap swung, sparks shooting from each impact as the lantern cracked and broke. Burning oil spread to the man’s hair, then to his tattered cape.

Screaming, the outlaw finally peeled his attacker loose and threw him aside. He tried to shove past Inga, presumably hoping to douse himself in the sewer beyond. A thrust of Inga’s blade put an end to the man’s worries.

With that, the fight was all but over. The outlaws—and chickens—were either dead or fled. Rook was tempted to chase after the ones who had escaped, but they had a head start and knew the terrain. Let them run. Men who panicked left a clearer trail.

“Not bad.” Routing a nest of outlaws from the sewers might not be the glamourous adventure most people imagined when they daydreamed about becoming Heroes, but it was all part of the job. Today, that job had been both quick and efficient. Some of his companions were a little short on experience, but they fought well.

“That was fun.” Tipple brushed his hands together and belched. “So much for death and doom and whatever.”

“Cockiness killed the cat,” said Rook.

Leech looked up from examining the corpses. “I thought it was curiosity.”

“That too.” Curiosity, cockiness, carelessness … cats didn’t survive long in the Deadlands.

For generations, the Strangers had guarded Albion against whatever the Deadlands to the north cared to throw at them. But you didn’t beat back the nightmares with enthusiasm or overconfidence; you did it with skill, a cool head, and a well-kept weapon.

Tipple was a tough old bastard. Looking at the bodies sprawled throughout the room, you couldn’t question the man’s effectiveness. And there was something to be said for raw, unbridled arse-kicking. But the man lacked the discipline Rook had grown used to among the Strangers.

“Right.” Rook pointed his crossbow at the redcap, who was gleefully laughing and jumping about, searching for more things to set on fire. “Where can we find Nimble John the outlaw, and what’s with this pending-doom nonsense?”

Inga put a hand on Rook’s arm. “He helped us.”

“Redcaps can’t tell one human being from another.” Tipple rubbed his eyes and looked around. “Wait, what were we talking about?”

“Inga’s right,” said Leech. “He spent the whole fight watching that particular outlaw, waiting for the chance to kill him.”

The redcap had begun singing to itself, a high-pitched rhyme about bones and stones. He grabbed a blanket and held it over the burning body of the outlaw until it caught fire, then dropped it and grabbed one of the dead chickens. Singing happily, he began plucking the chicken and tossing feathers onto the flames.

“You think he led us here deliberately?” asked Inga.

Rook’s nose wrinkled. The stench of burning plumage was enough to turn even his stomach. “What’s your story, redcap?”

The creature set the partially plucked bird on the fire, then scampered about, searching for additional fuel. Leech snatched a book out of his reach, and the redcap hissed in frustration.

“What is it?” asked Tipple.

Leech turned the pages. “Looks like someone’s diary. Oh, here’s a ‘To Do’ list dated last week.”

1. Unload shipment from Grayrock.

2. Find redcaps.

3. Get paid.

4. Buy beer and second pair of underwear.

He flipped to the last entry. “There’s a badly sketched map noting the location of the pubs—”

“Important information,” Tipple said solemnly. “When I first got to Brightlodge, I wasted an entire half hour finding the nearest pub!”

“—and a reminder to get out before Brightlodge is overrun,” Leech finished.

The others fell silent. Rook stepped sideways, keeping his crossbow pointed at the redcap. Something about this place gnawed at him like a hound with a fresh boar hoof. This wasn’t the first criminal lair he had cleared out, and for the most part, it was no different from any other: stolen goods, the smell of lousy cooking, unkempt bedrolls … most outlaws were sadly lacking in discipline.

He crouched to examine the empty cage near the back. Muddy feathers and bird crap littered the bottom. This was where the birdmaster had kept his killer chickens. But the bars of the cage were the width of Rook’s finger. That was overkill even for these birds.

The bars had corroded. One was broken loose at the bottom. It looked like it had been shoved out from the inside. A bit of red thread hung from the rust near the top.

The redcap went still, all of his attention on Rook. He found this sudden attentiveness far more disturbing than the redcap’s earlier madness.

The thread was stiff. Dry blood flaked away on Rook’s fingertips. He held it to the firelight, comparing the colour to the pointed hat drooping over the redcap’s nose. “They locked you up, too, did they? That’s why you killed that outlaw?”

The redcap didn’t move.

“ ‘Find redcaps,’ ” Inga said. “That’s what the book said. But what did they do with them once they found them?” She stepped closer. “He wasn’t locked up. He was coming to rescue his friends.”

“Redcaps don’t have friends,” said Tipple. “Not like us Heroes. Come ’ere and give Jeremiah Tipple a hug, you!”

While Inga evaded Tipple’s embrace, Rook used a knife to sift through the mess in the cage. He found a chipped tooth among the feathers and crap, along with several bloodstains on the floor. “How many, redcap?”

The redcap held up three fingers.

Rook looked at the cage. “That’s a tight fit. Especially squeezed in with the birds.”

The redcap shrugged and waved his fingers again, then jammed the middle one up his right nostril.

“He led us here,” said Inga. “He got our attention—”

“By trying to burn down the bloody pub,” Tipple interrupted.

“—and once we reached the tunnels, he left a trail even a blind dog could track.” Inga’s tone softened. “But you were too late to save them. What’s your name?”

Bloodshot yellow eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Blue.”

“Blue the redcap?” Tipple chuckled. “How’d you end up with a name like that?”

“Blue flames in the eyes,” said the redcap. “Always whisperin’ nasty lies.” He held a chicken feather over the small fire and stared, entranced, as it shrivelled and blackened.

“What happened to the rest of the redcaps?” asked Inga.

“Bones and stones. Stones and bones. Magic groans.”

Tipple threw up his arms. “Well, that explains everything.”

“Splintered bone makes a serviceable weapon.” Rook searched the ground. It didn’t take him long to find a broken chicken bone the length of his finger. The end was dark with blood, though it was impossible to say whether that blood belonged to the chicken or one of the outlaws. “So do rocks.”

Blue smiled and rocked back and forth, staring into the distance like he was reliving a pleasant memory.

“I’ve found the other redcaps,” Leech called.

They found him standing over three corpses, a short distance up the tunnel. Old blood darkened the ground. Leech had already unrolled a leather tool kit, and was using a pair of pliers to try to remove one of the nails securing the cap to a redcap’s skull. “I want to see if removing the hat causes any changes, postmortem.”

Rook studied the bodies. What was the profit in imprisoning redcaps in the first place? It wasn’t like you could ransom them back to their families, and keeping prisoners alive was a bigger headache than most people imagined. Especially nonhuman prisoners.

“Bones and stones and groans and crones,” Blue chanted.