Fable: Blood of Heroes (12 page)

Inga sheathed her sword, caught the cane on her forearm, and yanked it away. The old greencap wobbled and fell.

“Stop it!” yelled the boy.

Inga crouched to look Blue in the eye. “What happened to these people?”

Blue shrugged and stared at the road.

“They say redcaps were once ordinary humans,” said Leech. “Rumour has it, if you drink the blood of a redcap and spend the night under the light of the full moon, you become one of them.”

“I thought it was if you mooned a redcap in the middle of the night,” said the man.

“The redcaps beneath the library,” said Leech. “They’d been drained of blood.”

“Someone’s transforming the people into these things.” Inga glanced at Blue. “This isn’t an invasion. How much did you know about this?”

Blue turned to flee. Two paces later, the rope went taut and he landed hard on his back, clawing at the noose.

Tipple stumbled up, one hand clutching his gut. “If Blue was trying to poison people, why’d he try to burn down the tavern?”

“Redcaps aren’t known for well-thought plans,” said Rook.

Across the road, a man screamed as a greencap chased him out of his home. The greencap was dressed in pyjamas and was swinging a broken, burning chair about his head.

Rook sighed, raised his crossbow, and shot the greencap in the hip.

Inga grabbed Blue’s rope and lifted.
“What did you do to these people?”

“Hard to talk without air,” Leech pointed out.

She lowered the rope until Blue’s toes touched the road. He twitched and squirmed like a fish on a line. He had been tied up throughout the night and had never left the Heroes’ presence. “How did you do it, and how many people—”

“Can’t say!” Blue squealed. “Can’t say or Yog will flay and slay!”

Inga glanced at the boy. “You said your granny was at the pub,” she whispered. “Did Clump go to the pub last night too?”

The boy nodded. “He went most nights.”

“The ale,” said Rook.

“It wasn’t poison. It was something worse.” Inga spun back to Tipple. “How much of that stuff did you drink?”

“A pint, maybe?” He grimaced.

Leech studied Tipple, checking his pulse at the wrist, then standing on tiptoes to examine his eyes. “Drink this,” he said, handing over a small flask. “It’ll help heal whatever war’s ripping through your guts.”

“Thanks.” Tipple downed the contents in one gulp.

“An’ if it doesn’t work, at least I’ll get the chance to dissect you.”

“How are you feeling?” Inga asked, jumping in before Tipple could answer.

“Like I swallowed a balverine, and the bastard’s trying to dig his way out from the inside.” He looked down at the moaning greencaps. “Am I gonna wake up tomorrow morning and nail a bloody cap to my skull?”

Leech circled around, continuing to poke and prod Tipple’s body. “Tomorrow? I want to know why you haven’t changed already. I guess it could just be your greater mass, hey?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tipple whirled, one hand going to his gut, the other balling into a fist.

“Blue, what’s happening to them?” Inga demanded. “Can it be cured?”

Blue touched a finger to his cap and held it out. Red blood smeared the skin. “Blood gets tainted, caps get painted.”

“People are dying, dammit!” Bulwark began to glow, responding to Inga’s anger. Throughout Brightlodge, families were watching their loved ones twist into monsters. In that moment, she could have killed Blue for his role in this.

Blue licked his lips. His whole body was trembling, and his eyes were moist. He had dug that old bone finger out of his shirt and was clutching it with both hands the way a frightened child might cling to a favourite doll. He even seemed to be whispering to it.

Pity dulled the edge of her rage. “Why is their blood tainted, Blue? What else was in that ale?”

“Don’t know. Have to go.” Blue tugged weakly at the rope.

“Enough.” Rook pointed his crossbow and pulled the trigger. A series of bolts ricocheted off the cobblestones between the redcap’s feet, making him squawk and dance away as far as the rope would allow.

“Don’t know!”
Blue squealed. “Have to go! Have to go!”

Inga crouched to speak to him at eye level. “Is there a cure?”

“Moonwort bud,” he whispered. “Human blood. Mixed with sun and other mud.”

“Other mud?” asked Leech. “What does that mean?”

“Don’t know.” He watched Rook warily, moving closer to Inga as if using her as a shield. His eyes widened, and he tugged Inga’s sleeve. “Nimble Johanna knows.”

“Fat lot of good that does us,” said Tipple. “Nimble Johanna is fish food. Toasted fish food.”

Blue’s eyes narrowed, and he spoke in a whisper Inga had to strain to hear. “Johanna had a secret place. With secret door. Secret potions, and lots more.”

Hope made Inga’s heart pound harder. “If you help us cure my friend—and if you swear to leave Brightlodge in peace—we’ll let you go when all this is done. You’ll be free.”

Blue stared at her, barely breathing. “Free?”

“You have our word.” She glared at the others, daring them to argue. Rook shook his head, but said nothing. Tipple shrugged and took a drink from a bottle he’d been carrying somewhere on his person.

With his blood-smeared hand, Blue yanked the bone finger from around his neck. “Free.”

“I promise,” said Inga.

Arm shaking, Blue flung the bone away. “Follow me.”

CHAPTER 10

ROOK

W
ell done, Heroes!”
Old King Wendleglass floated through the streets of Brightlodge, congratulating everyone he encountered. For the moment, those streets were empty save for Heroes and the occasional groaning greencap. Most of the people had retreated to their homes, hoping to find safety behind locked doors. As if safety was anything but an illusion, a luxury bought with the blood of men and women like Rook and his companions.

“My kingdom is saved, thanks to you.”
The old ghost spread his arms, and for a moment Rook thought he might try to hug them.

“Not yet,” said Rook. There couldn’t have been more than thirty greencaps running about town, and most of them had been cut down or locked up within hours. This had been nothing. A feint, or perhaps a test. The true threat was out there waiting.

He stepped past the ghost, heading purposefully towards the bridge out of town. He kept one eye on Blue and the other on Jeremiah Tipple. There was no telling what damage even a small dose of redcap blood might do to a man. Rook had never bought that whole “Anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” philosophy. There were plenty of ways to break a man without killing him. Just look at the survivors from that hollow man attack in the Deadlands a few months back.

Tipple’s ability to imbibe inhuman amounts of alcohol and still function were legendary, and that healing potion might have helped, but there was always the chance he would succumb and change into one of those green-capped killers before they found Nimble Johanna’s cure. If it even existed.

The good thing about Rook’s crossbow was that it would allow him to put down both Blue and Tipple in short order if it came to that.

“Wait!” Young Wendleglass ran after them, flanked by his guards. “I was hoping you might, um … report back to the hall.” He stopped to catch his breath. “I’m told you were the ones … who discovered the cause of this plague. We need you … to share what you’ve learned.”

Son and dead father glanced at one another, but neither spoke. The ghost looked vaguely annoyed, and the young king just looked uncomfortable. Theirs was an odd relationship if ever there was one.

“We will,” said Inga. “Just as soon as we return.”

“Oh. You have another quest? I don’t remember anyone mentioning—”

“Jeremiah Tipple drank blood-tainted ale,” said Leech. “We’re hoping to cure him before we have to kill him.”

“I see.” Young King Wendleglass took two steps back, while his guards shifted nervously. The man had all the confidence and spine of a wet dishcloth. “Do you think it might be better—I mean, if you’d like, I could ask my men to, um, take him into custody?”

“He’s our friend.” Inga stood like a boulder, hard and immovable. “We’re going to take care of him. If something happens, we’ll subdue him ourselves. We
won’t
be killing him.” That last was aimed at Leech.

“But—”

“The lad’s with us,” said Rook. “The longer we stand here gabbing, the more likely he is to start pounding nails into his head and trying to kill everyone. If that’s to happen, I’d rather it be outside of Brightlodge, wouldn’t you?”

The king swallowed, then nodded.

“Right. Let’s be off.” He shouldered his crossbow and started walking.

Young Wendleglass wasn’t wrong. Rook would have been happier with Tipple locked away for everyone’s safety. But he knew Inga wouldn’t go for that. The lass had a heart of gold when it came to protecting her friends. Rook could respect that kind of loyalty. He just hoped it didn’t get them killed.

“How far to Nimble Johanna’s hideaway?” asked Leech.

“Always three lives away,” said Blue.

Rook’s jaw twitched, but he said only “Quiet.” They were nearing the Boggins. This region was home to threats both magical and mundane, and if anything tried to get the drop on them, he wanted to be able to hear them coming. “This could all turn out to be a trap.”

“You think everything’s a trap,” said Tipple.

“That’s why I’m still alive.”

“What’s it like up north, anyway?” asked Tipple. “They say half the men who set foot in the Deadlands never return.”

“They say a lot of things.”

“Is it true a band of Strangers fought off an entire swarm of … what were they … ?”

“It’s true.” Mud squished underfoot as he moved ahead. A low hum filled the air, a combination of buzzing insects and the guttural yawp of frogs.

Rook had never regretted the choices that led him to the Strangers and a brutal life on the edge of the Deadlands, guarding the rest of Albion against things pulled right out of their worst nightmares. A life of constant battle and vigilance had forged him into the man he was today.

Blue tugged Inga’s arm and pointed to a clearing up ahead, where a yellowed fence surrounded a rickety wooden hut. Blue began muttering to himself and playing with the point of his cap.

The hut was raised on thick stilts, placing it about two feet above the damp ground. No smoke rose from the stone chimney. The fence was poorly constructed, little more than old bleached sticks wound together with black cord, topped with larger stones.

“Doesn’t look that secret to me,” said Tipple.

“Oh, sure.” Leech shrugged. “Anyone could find it, s’long as they were wandering hours out of their way through the swamp.”

Rook approached the edge of the clearing, ignoring the insects that swarmed like a buzzing cloud, drawn by his breath and sweat.

Any man who claimed to feel no fear was a liar or an idiot. Strangers learned to listen to fear, to heed its warning … and then to tie it up and toss it into a pit so they could get on with doing what needed to be done.

Rook examined the empty hut, trying to understand what had roused that tickle of fear in his gut. The oak walls were dark and dry with age but showed no trace of the rot that should have crept from the swamp to consume it.

“What’s the holdup?” Tipple grumbled.

Rook raised a hand but said nothing. He brought his crossbow to his shoulder and moved slowly into the open, testing the ground before each step. The gate rattled though the air was stagnant and heavy. He peered more closely, then swore. “This is no smuggler’s hideaway.”

What Rook had taken to be wooden sticks topped with stones were in fact bones and skulls, lashed together to form the crude fence. More ominous was the fact that the skulls had begun to move. Each one rotated to and fro, their empty sockets searching for intruders. One by one, they turned towards Rook.

Rook pointed his crossbow at Blue. “What is this place?”

The redcap clung to Inga’s leg. “Bones and crones,” he said, his voice an octave higher than normal.

Bones and crones. Blue had babbled about that before. “Bloody hell. You’ve brought us to Yog.”

Rook shouldered his crossbow and spun, searching the shadows and the trees. Inga joined him, shield and sword at the ready. Leech and Tipple stayed behind. No point in exposing them all to whatever trap or ambush Blue had led them to.

“What’s she waiting for?” whispered Inga.

Rook didn’t answer. The perfect opportunity for Yog to strike had come and gone. Could the hut be abandoned? Something might have drawn Yog away, something more important than trying to kill four Heroes.

“Maybe she saw us coming and fled,” said Tipple.

Rook glanced at Blue. The redcap was trembling, but his attention wasn’t on the Heroes he had betrayed. He was focused entirely on the hut. Rook could have drawn a knife and placed it to Blue’s throat and it wouldn’t have broken the redcap’s attention.

“I don’t think so.” Rook started towards the gate.

The skulls followed his movement, like animals waiting for the right moment to pounce.

“Bugger this.” He yanked the magazine from his crossbow, swapped in a different set of darts, and banged it home. “We’ve come this far. Might as well knock.”

Gripping the weapon with both hands, he pulled the trigger and emptied the magazine. The bolts thudded into the wall and door, then exploded into small orange fireballs. Blue-black, metallic-smelling smoke filled the air.

Rook was already slamming another magazine into place. Inga moved to cover him with her shield.

Black circles of soot and ash pocked the door, but the hut was otherwise undamaged. The thing was tougher than it looked.

“You taught that house a thing or two.” Tipple’s normally raucous voice was strained. “I hear there’s a shack over in Saltcliff that’s been giving people trouble. Maybe you oughta go there next and give it what for.”

Rook ignored him. Azure fire flickered in the eyes of the closest skulls. One by one they rose from the gate.

He tracked the first and fired. The skull exploded, scattering blue sparks and shards of bone.

This was more like it. Give him a real fight any day. “Inga, Tipple, smash the rest before they get airborne.”

Rook shot two more skulls out of the air. A third sneaked past him. It swooped towards Inga, but instead of attacking, its jaws snapped down on the rope binding her to Blue. The redcap fell back into the mud and scrambled away on all fours.

Inga’s sword cleaved a skull in half, and Bulwark’s power smashed outward hard enough to rattle the entire fence. Rook kept shooting as skulls swarmed towards him, jaws clacking like some sort of obscene musical instrument.

Blue was racing towards the hut. Where the hell was Jeremiah Tipple? He should be helping Inga or taking down the redcap.

A skull shot towards his face. He tried to twist aside, but it struck him above the left eye. His vision flashed white. Blood trickled down his face, stinging his eye. Another latched onto his arm. The teeth punched through his leather armour like blades. “Tipple, get your arse over here!” Heavy footsteps squished through the mud behind him. “About time you—”

The first punch clipped Rook on the ear, spinning him in a full circle. Rook raised his crossbow, using the stock to intercept the follow-up. “That bloody hurts!”

Tipple simply roared and waded after him. Every blow Rook blocked jarred him like a hammer striking an anvil. Damn, the man was strong.

Another skull flew at Rook. He ducked, then swung his crossbow like a club, knocking the skull into Tipple’s face with a burst of blue sparks. Tipple wiped his eyes and shook his head.

“Over here, you big ox!” Inga smacked a skull with her sword, sending it through the air to strike Tipple in the ear.

Tipple let out an inarticulate yell and charged. Inga ran to meet him head-on. Not the strategy Rook would have chosen. Inga was strong, and that shield of hers was impressive, but Tipple still outmassed her.

At the last moment, Inga dropped low, bracing herself and sliding through the mud, shield raised. Bulwark struck Tipple in the knees. With a howl of pain, the man toppled over her. Inga spun around, and a phantom shield shot forwards, hitting Tipple like a battering ram and tossing him to the edge of the clearing.

“Well done,” said Rook. “Leech, can you do anything about these skulls?”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder!” Rook rejoined Inga, standing back-to-back for protection. He reloaded his crossbow, moving with the cool efficiency his years with the Strangers had drilled into him.

Tipple pushed himself to his feet. He looked dazed. Blood dripped from his nose where Inga had flung him to the ground. One unsteady step at a time, he walked into the swarm of skulls.

“Where’s he think he’s going?” asked Inga.

He wasn’t acting like the greencaps they had fought in Brightlodge. Rook saw no madness in Tipple’s eyes. He saw nothing of Tipple at all. The man was a hollow puppet with no awareness of his own, stumbling towards the hut.

“He’s enchanted,” said Leech. “He’s got a second life inside him, thin and dark, like a shadow.”

Rook had come to the same conclusion, and it was a good bet Yog was behind it. Which meant they
really
didn’t want him getting to that hut. Rook double-checked he had loaded nonexplosive bolts, then sent half of them thudding into the backs of Tipple’s knees. Enchanted or not, Tipple wasn’t going anywhere without working legs.

“Enough of this,” Rook snapped. “Inga, give me a path.”

Inga raised her shield. Rook shot two more skulls off her back as she did whatever it was that summoned Bulwark’s power. That shield had knocked Jeremiah Tipple on his arse. Floating skulls didn’t have a chance. They were flung out of the way like draughts from a flipped board.

Rook sprinted towards the hut. He switched his crossbow to his left hand and slammed his shoulder into the door. It opened without resistance. He fell to the floor, rolled, and bounced to his feet with his finger on the trigger.

Nobody was home save for Blue, who cowered in the corner. Rook kicked the door shut behind him to keep the skulls from following. “When did you sneak in?”

Blue didn’t answer.

Rook looked around, ready to turn the redcap into a bloody pincushion should he so much as twitch. The hut was a cramped, crowded place. The clutter had an organic feel, like a carefully constructed nest of furniture, ancient woven rugs, drying herbs, and assorted bones. The floor creaked as he walked. The whole place felt ready to break apart and sink into the swamp.

Shelves peeked from behind mismatched wall hangings, offering glimpses of coloured bottles and satchels. An iron pot hung in the small fireplace. Dry lines of red crawled down the side of the pot, left behind by whatever had simmered there. The floorboards in front of the fireplace were warped, darkened by soot and age.

“You said there’s a cure.” Rook turned his full attention to Blue. “Was that a lie?”

Blue shook his head.

“Where is it?” Bones rattled against the door and walls like oversized hailstones.

Blue pointed to a shelf near the fireplace. Rook yanked a heavy curtain aside to find a small wooden box strapped to the shelf. Most everything in this place was tied down. Odd, but no deterrent to a sharp knife. He cut the box free and brought it to a stained and scarred wooden worktable.

“Open it.” Rook had seen too many inexperienced and overeager rookies fall prey to old traps.

Blue got to his feet and opened the chest. Inside, five small glass flasks were arranged in a wooden rack, padded with straw and rags.