Fable: Blood of Heroes (5 page)

“Only if we have to,” said Inga. “My parents raised me to be a Hero, not an executioner.”

Blue stomped his foot and spat. “Stupid parents.”

“We don’t even know if anyone’s home,” Tipple pointed out.

“They’re here.” Leech stared at the boat, feeling the faint tug of the lives moving about belowdeck. He shivered, trying to quell the shadow stirring inside him. There were times when his power left him feeling stained, like his blood had been replaced by cold and darkness, though there was no physical change. He’d taken enough samples of his own blood to be sure.

“You and Rook stay here,” said Inga. “Tipple and I will swim out and board the boat. Keep an eye on Blue and give us cover if we need it.”

Rook pointed to the dark, narrow windows about a foot above the waterline. “They’d be fools to not have someone on watch.” He tied Blue’s leash to a nearby tree and began checking his weapon.

Tipple removed his pack and kicked off his boots, then waded barefoot into the water. “I’ll be yanking leeches off my skin for the rest of the night,” he grumbled.

“Oh, good!” said Leech. “Save them for me, please?”

Inga strode after him, armour and all. By all logic and reason, she should have drowned immediately, but her shield appeared to float, despite its size and weight. Inga used it as a makeshift raft, paddling with her free hand and kicking towards the boat.

They were halfway across when the first outlaw popped up with a short bow and arrow. Rook shot first, catching the outlaw in the throat.

“That was a lovely shot,” commented Leech. “He’ll be dead in less than a minute. Faster if you hit the carotid.”

A second outlaw followed. This one ducked behind a low crate and managed to put an arrow into Inga’s arm.

Leech looked at the crouching archer, at the fragile life flowing through her skin and bones. He had never found words to describe the perception, a blend of sight, smell, and taste. Colour seemed to drain from the world, the green of the ferns and reeds fading to grey, the paint on the boat turning the colour of ash. Everything dulled save his target. Her form shone like a lantern at midnight. The sweat on her face, the quickness of her breath, the drumbeat of her heart. The human body was little more than a complicated puppet.

Leech cast his Will like a fishing line, lodging a hook through the woman’s life and pulling until it tore. He directed her strength and health towards Inga. The arrow remained lodged in Inga’s arm, but the bleeding slowed as the flesh healed around it. The archer dropped her bow and fell backwards, her strings cut.

“Thanks, Leech,” called Inga.

“Bloody hell,” Tipple shouted. “I think a fish just crawled up my breeches!”

Two more outlaws joined their companions on deck.

“I’ve got the ugly one,” said Rook.

“Can you be more specific?” asked Leech.

A spray of bolts from Rook’s crossbow cleared up Leech’s confusion. He weakened the second outlaw, then Inga and Tipple were at the boat. Tipple simply reached up to grab the rail and hauled back hard, tilting the craft just enough to ruin the outlaws’ balance, while Inga pulled herself one-handed onto the deck. “All right,” she said, “like Old Nanny Smith used to say, we can do this the easy way or the bloody painful way.”

This had been the riskiest part of the attack. Now that Inga and Tipple were on board and able to fight back, they should be more than a match for the remaining outlaws.

Behind him, Blue began to laugh. He pointed at the caps nailed to the boat. “Humans’ turn to die now.”

Leech sat on a half-rotted stump, his attention never wavering from the boat. Everything was going smoothly so far. Blue had led them to the outlaws, and from the sound of things, Inga and Tipple were laying waste to the boat and her crew alike. It made him nervous. There was no way this band of outlaws could have brought about the doom of Brightlodge, at least not on their own. If the seer’s prediction was right, the true threat was still out there, waiting.

On the bright side, he’d soon have plenty of bodies to study.

CHAPTER 4

TIPPLE

I
nga would have done well on the tavern brawling circuit. She was a fine figure of a woman. Strong as an ox to boot. It’d been years since Jeremiah Tipple met anyone, man or woman, who could go toe-to-toe with him for more than a single round, but Inga was tough enough to give him a run for his money. If she’d been a few years older, or he a few years younger, he’d have tried to find out if they were a match in other ways.

“On your left,” Inga shouted.

Tipple spun. Something smashed into his back, between the shoulder blades.

“I said
left
!”

He roared and spun around, backfisting the fellow behind him. “Come ’ere, you!” He followed up with a haymaker that knocked the man arse over ankles into the river. “Right. Now who’s next?”

“That’s everyone on deck,” said Inga. “I hear the others scuttling about below.”

They moved towards the trapdoor in the centre of the deck. Inga positioned herself to one side and nodded. Tipple gripped the metal ring with one hand and yanked the trapdoor open so hard the hinges bent. An arrow flew up from the darkness to splinter against Inga’s shield.

“Oh, so that’s how it is?” Tipple’s blood pounded like a drum, and red edged his vision. A fair fight was one thing, but trying to shoot a man—or a woman—while cowering in the shadows? He searched the deck for large, heavy things, eventually settling on one of the overturned crates. He hefted it overhead and returned to the hatch. “Which one of you rat-faced, pox-sacked, flea-scabbed cowards took that shot?”

He heard the creak of a bow being drawn. He smashed the crate down with a roar. A cry of pain told him he had hit his target.

“Watch the shore,” Leech shouted from the far shore.

Tipple stepped back from the hatch. The deck was clear, but something was moving in the trees beside the boat. Branches rustled, and he glimpsed a flash of red. He tromped to the starboard side of the deck as the first wave of redcaps leaped from the treetops. One landed heavily on the roof. Another struck the edge and toppled back onto the rocky, root-gnarled beach.

“That’s more like it!” It wasn’t a real brawl until the bystanders started jumping in from the sidelines. In true tavern-fighting tradition, he had no idea whether these redcaps were here to kill him and Inga or if they were out for revenge against the surviving outlaws. Keeping with that same tradition, he didn’t particularly care. “Come on! Who else wants to fight?”

Tipple ducked behind a stack of crates as a rain of rocks, bones, and other missiles flew at the boat. No wonder most of the outlaws stayed below, where the redcaps couldn’t pelt them from the trees.

“I’ve got this lot, Ingadinger,” he shouted. “Go crack some heads down below.”

He ripped open the closest crate, which was branded with what looked like a dead cow. A broad grin spread across his face at the sight of the bottles and jugs packed neatly inside the straw-padded crate.

“Ha! The universe rewards a good man.” He pulled out a pair of bottles, bit the cork from one, spat it over the side, and took a drink. His smile faded. “Pah. What kind of reward is this? The label says ale, not this … fermented horse piss.”

A pale, filthy head peeked upside down from the edge of the roof. Tipple smashed the first bottle against the side of the redcap’s head. He set the second bottle down for later. Horse piss or not, there was no sense in wasting the stuff.

He ducked another barrage from the trees and listened to the sounds from the roof, trying to guess where the next one would pop out. The clumsy footfalls combined with the endless chatter made the redcaps easy to track.

“Mind the water, lads!”

“Gi’ him a knife right in the lug!”

“Shut yer gobs. We’re
sneaking
!”

“Wait, wot? I thought we were goin’ fer supper. Ye promised me pudding!”

Tipple picked up a jug of what looked to be mead, waited for the closest of the voices to reach the edge, then leaned out to toss the jug up to the redcap. The creature reacted instinctively, dropping its weapon and catching the jug … which overbalanced it and sent it toppling headfirst into the water.

Tipple scooped up an oar and snapped it over his leg as more redcaps landed on the roof. There was an angry shriek, and one fell off the roof, a handful of bolts from Rook’s crossbow peppering its chest and face. Another jumped onto the deck, and Tipple clubbed him on the side of the head.

The redcaps were getting smarter, sticking to the starboard side of the peaked roof as cover against Rook and his crossbow. Others jumped directly from the trees to the rail, scrambling onto the boat faster than Tipple could knock them down.

He cocked an ear towards the ladder that led into the darkness below. The sound of steel hitting shield and shield hitting flesh told him Inga had matters under control. “You almost finished down there?”

“Like Old Mother Twostraps used to say, you can do a job quick, or you can do it well!”

“Wait, whose mother did what now?” Another redcap slammed into Tipple’s side, trying to knock him down. He clubbed the creature on the back, tossed the broken oar aside, seized the redcap by the waist and collar, and hurled it at one of its companions.

He took out two more before murderous laughter alerted him to the trio who had sneaked in behind him. Instead of attacking, they crowded around an open crate. One had broken open a tinderbox and lit a length of what looked like hand-spun cotton. They were dipping the makeshift fuse into a jar of what looked like lamp oil.

“Oh, balls.”

“Drink this, ye keech-faced stechie!” Cackling with delight, the closest redcap lifted the jar with both hands to hurl it at Tipple.

Tipple was quicker. He snatched up the broken oar and threw. The jar shattered in the redcap’s hands, splashing its contents over him and the deck. Yellow-blue flame spread from the flame. The redcap shrieked and leaped into the river, his fear of the water overpowered by having accidentally set himself on fire. His partner whooped and smashed a second jar into the flames before following. The others fled as well, laughing at the misfortune of their fellow.

Tipple tried to stomp out the fire, and when that failed he ripped open one of the remaining crates and hurled jugs of ale at the flames. Even good ale didn’t have enough alcohol to burn, and this stuff was anything but good. But the fire was spreading too quickly.

He cursed and returned to the hatch. “Last call!”

“I’ve got a bit of a snag down here, and—is that smoke? Jeremiah Tipple, did you set the bloody boat on fire?”

“Not all of it.” Not yet, anyway. The fire had spread over a quarter of the deck, and was climbing the posts to the roof. The redcaps had all retreated, though. That was the silver lining in this bucket of puke.

From below came the crack of breaking wood—or possibly bone—and an unfamiliar shout of pain.

“All right, let’s get this over with.” Teeth clenched, he jumped through the hatch into the belly of the boat.

Even a normal-sized man would have had to crouch to avoid striking his head against the thick, square-cut beams below deck, and Jeremiah Tipple hadn’t been normal-sized since age nine. He felt like a dog chasing rats through their nest. How Inga had managed to manoeuvre both herself and her shield down here was beyond him. Hunching his head and shoulders, he squeezed past barrels, hammocks, rope, and the bodies of both humans and redcaps.

Inga stood towards the bow, where a single lantern hung from a metal hook. She had squared off against the skinniest man Tipple had ever seen. The light reflected from his sweaty face and from the small, curved sword he pointed towards Inga. Behind him, a woman lay crumpled against the wall, a chain around her neck.

“Oi! Tell me the next time you have a party!” Smoke curled around the edges of the hatch, wisps spilling in after them. He could see firelight through the cracks overhead. Sparks dripped like dust between the deck boards. “Who’s the bird?”

“Ask Nimble John here,” said Inga.

“That’s Nimble John?” Tipple smothered a cough. “Aw, he’s no masterman—no mistermind—He’s no Outlaw King.”

“I am so!” It would have been more convincing had his voice not cracked. “You think a man needs to be a lumbering ox like you to command respect? Brute force is nothing against my cleverness.”

“Put that pigsticker down before you hurt yourself,” said Inga. “Whatever trouble you’re mixed up in, there’s no point dying over it.”

One semiconscious crewman groaned and reached for a belaying pin. Tipple absently kicked it out of reach, then seized the man’s collar and tossed him into a barrel full of pickles.

“I’m not afraid of you,” said Nimble John, his defiance undermined only by the quavering of his blade.

“Then you’ve got the brains of a turnip,” Tipple roared.

“You’ll never take me alive!” He thrust his sword at Inga, who knocked it out of the way with her shield. She hadn’t even bothered to draw her own sword. Instead, she simply clocked the man in the jaw, knocking him onto his backside.

“Be careful!” cried the girl behind him. She cowered against the wall, pulling a ragged blanket around herself. “He’s trying to make you underestimate him. It’s how he defeated my bodyguards and murdered my husband.”

One of the crossbeams cracked, and sparks showered them all. Tipple kicked the side of the pickle barrel. Brackish green water spilled out, extinguishing the embers on the floor. The outlaw he had stuffed into the barrel gasped for breath.

Tipple glared at the man. “Even if you’re as good as the girl says, you’re no match for the two of us. So drop the damn sword and tell us about the fall of Brightlodge and whatever it is you’re smuggling …” He coughed, then scowled. “Wait, what was I saying?”

Inga stepped back and lowered her stance. “You’re right.”

“Great. About what?” Tipple stepped back as the power of Inga’s shield stirred. The front of the shield had been carved to suggest the visage of a man. As Inga braced herself, the face blinked and looked about, first at Nimble John, then at his prisoner. A spectral double of the shield swelled forth like an expanding bubble.

“What are you doing?” cried the girl.

At the last moment, Inga turned to face the girl. The shield’s shell of force broke free and sped forth to slam into the girl, flinging her against the hull like she’d been thrown by a giant.

Nimble John looked on uncertainly. He looked like an animal waiting for the trap to spring shut and snap his neck.

The girl’s angry shout held none of the fear she had shown before. Inga seized the man’s wrist, twisted the sword from his hand, and hurled him towards Tipple. By the time she spun back around, the girl had recovered enough to point a small crossbow at Inga’s chest. Her chains fell away into the water beginning to lap at their feet. Whatever Inga had done had damaged the boat as well as the girl, and the river was seeping through cracks in the hull.

“You can’t change a sheep into a wolf.” Inga coughed, but the sword in her hand never wavered. “Not even with a crossbow hidden away and pointed at his back. That’s how you forced him to square off against us, hoping we’d kill him and ‘rescue’ you. Isn’t that right, Nimble John?”

The girl snorted. “Johanna, if you don’t mind. And you should know that the poison on this crossbow bolt is enough to bring down even a Hero. So if you don’t want to die screaming in agony, you’ll step aside and let me out of here.”

Tipple covered his head as another board gave way overhead. He moved closer, but the crossbow whipped around to point at his face. “Shoot me, Inga runs you through. Shoot her, I stuff you into the nearest porthole. Shoot me, and Inga will—”

“She gets the idea,” said Inga.

“No one has ever captured Nimble Johanna. No one ever will.”

“Fair enough.” Tipple studied at the floor. With a crooked smile, he raised his hands higher, as if in surrender. Johanna brought the crossbow back towards Inga.

Tipple pressed his palms to the hot ceiling, braced himself, and stomped his right foot hard, directly where the floorboard ended. The other end of the board ripped free to strike the underside of Nimble Johanna’s arm. Her shot went wide and thumped into the far side of the ship.

Inga jumped forwards, shoving her shield into the outlaw and the outlaw into the wall. She slammed the shield twice more, until Johanna’s protests changed to groans and she slumped to the floor. Inga’s boot crushed the crossbow to splinters.

“Thank you.” The man’s skin was pale, and he was shaking. “They ambushed me by the river. I was—”

“Run now, talk later.” Tipple started towards the hatch, his boots splashing through the water. He reached the ladder, then jumped away as a section of the burning roof crashed down, blotting out the daylight. More smoke flowed in, burning his lungs. “Hell. Never thought I’d die like this.”

“Trapped in a burning riverboat?” asked the man.

Tipple shook his head. “Sober.”

The heat was like a living thing now, a wall battering him from all directions. He covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve, but it made little difference. It was like he was trapped in a forge.

“Get behind me.” Inga’s words were hoarse and strained. She wedged her shield up above her head. “Bulwark will protect us from the flames.”

The man mouthed,
Bulwark?

Tipple ignored him. The shield’s magic swelled outward again, pressing the flames and the boards back, but it couldn’t clear a path for their escape. The question was would the smoke choke them to death before the fire barbecued them. Given the choice, he was hoping for the smoke.

Tipple rubbed his eyes and stared at the thin sprays of water coming through the hull. “New plan.” He coughed again. “Get outta the way.”

“What are you doing?” asked Inga.

“There’s an old saying. ‘Better hungover than hanged.’ ”

They both stared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Inga.

“Don’t ask me. Just seemed like something to say.” He held his breath, lowered his head and shoulder, and charged.

Tipple awoke to the smell of smoke and mint, and a dull throbbing in his right shoulder. That was odd. Usually when he woke, the pain and pounding were in his head. His stomach wasn’t happy with him either, but he’d grown accustomed to that over the years.