Fable: Blood of Heroes (14 page)

Tipple whistled. “What happened?”

“I killed it, obviously.” If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been here. “I’m sure I’ve told you this before.”

“I get the occasional gap in my memory these days.”

Leech wasn’t surprised. Between the drinking and the fighting, Tipple’s body had taken a lot of abuse over the years. “I was living in Whitehollow at the time. I’d been out working in the graveyard—”

“Working?”

“Collecting samples,” Leech explained. “The shadowblight surprised me in the woods on the way home.”

The sun had been setting, turning the sky a darkening shade of red. He remembered the shadowblight swooping towards him like a strip of midnight torn from the blackest sky, with eyes like red flame. It moved quickly, circling Leech and cutting off his escape. Deep in the woods with nobody else around, armed only with the tools of his trade, Leech had expected to die. “I think the body parts I’d harvested confused it, scattering its power like a crystal to sunlight. I sliced its neck with a bone saw and stabbed it in the shoulder with a pair of scissors.”

“Ha! Good on you, Leech. Everything’s a weapon when you’re desperate.”

“It wasn’t enough.” The shadowblight had fought viciously, shrugging off its wounds and biting and clawing at Leech’s flesh. At the same time, the creature had continued its efforts to reach into Leech’s soul, ripping the heat and life from his body. He remembered hearing his weapons fall away, and the forest whirling around him. He must have fallen, but he didn’t recall hitting the ground. Only the darkness, blotting out the sky, the trees, the feel of the air, the smell of the leaves.

In the silence that followed, nothing existed but the shadowblight tearing at his soul like a carrion bird.

“We were connected,” Leech said. “I should’ve died. But while it was busy ripping the life from my body, I reached out and did the same to it.”

Few people saw a shadowblight and lived. Leech knew of none who had fallen into the shadowblight’s darkness and escaped.

“You’re walking around with part of a bloody
shadowblight
inside you, and you’ve got me tied up for drinking a little poisoned ale.”

Leech grabbed a knife and carefully used the tip to clean the blood from the thin white crescents of his nails. “It’s certainly given me a useful skill set. Fixing you lot, draining our enemies. And then there’s this.”

Leech wiped the knife on his sleeve, then set it aside. Through the lenses of his mask, he peered not at Tipple’s flesh, but at the life pulsing within. Smaller flickers of life glowed like dying embers from the bones arranged through the house. Shadows reached out, but instead of drawing on those lives, he simply wrapped the darkness around himself like a blanket. He felt himself becoming
thinner,
while at the same time growing beyond the bounds of his human body.

Tipple flinched. “By the king’s balls. I’ll never get used to that.”

Leech allowed his phantom form to fall away. “It’s fascinating to perceive the world of shadows. I always feel cold afterwards. But you should’ve seen the way those greencaps ran when I showed them my shadow face.”

“Makes that bloody mask of yours look downright friendly.” Tipple was breathing faster than usual. “Don’t you worry about losing yourself to that thing?”

“Occasionally.” Leech checked Tipple’s colour, then pressed a hand to his throat to feel his pulse. “You seem to be getting stronger. Time for another dose of Yog’s antidote. If all goes well, we’ll have you up and about by nightfall.”

“And if all doesn’t go well?”

“In that case, would you mind if I kept your liver? For study, of course.”

CHAPTER 12

TIPPLE

J
eremiah Tipple had never been one to worry about things he couldn’t control. He’d either recover or he wouldn’t, and so far, it looked like he’d gotten off lightly. That said, he hadn’t been thrilled about getting hauled back to Brightlodge on Inga’s shield twice in as many days. And Leech’s poking and prodding was getting old.

Leech kept adjusting Tipple’s bonds to keep him from stiffening up and helping him to eat and drink—nothing stronger than goat milk, sadly. But the sooner he was out of these ropes and able to use the chamber pot without an escort, the better.

It wasn’t so much the indignity of Leech helping him with his trousers as it was the running commentary on the colour of his urine.

The door swung open, and Inga stepped inside. “How’s he doing?”

“Well enough to travel,” said Leech. “I was just getting ready to set him loose.”

Tipple waited while Leech unbuckled the straps holding him in place. Inga helped him to sit. He stretched and cracked his back, then rotated his arms to work the stiffness from his limbs.

Rook stood in the doorway, one hand on his crossbow. “You’re sure he’s not going to turn on us?”

Leech looked about. “Let me show you. When we first brought Tipple back, his urine smelled like molten copper. That’d be the poison getting expelled from his body, of course. This morning, the scent is more—”

“We’ll take your word on it,” said Inga.

Tipple massaged his forehead, pressing his thumbs hard against the upper edges of his eye sockets. The poison might be out of his system, but he hadn’t yet pissed away his headache.

“We brought three vials of the cure to the captured greencaps,” said Inga. “It didn’t change them back, but they’ve calmed down a bit. Any luck cooking up more?”

Leech grabbed a scrap of parchment. “I’ve jotted down my best guess as to the ingredients. Haven’t had a chance to test it yet. If nothing else, it shouldn’t make the greencaps any worse.”

The small house felt uncomfortably cramped with the four of them—plus one partially dissected greencap—crowded inside. “Enough standing around and talking,” said Tipple. “It’s far more civilised to
sit
around talking. Preferably in the pub. I need something to drown the goat milk I’ve been belching all day.”

Tipple squeezed past the others and stepped onto the street, where he breathed in the smell of the morning air. The scent of fresh-baked rolls was a welcome change. Heck, after being cooped up inside, even the musty smell of the mud was refreshing. He started walking, trusting the others to follow. “Have you lot learned anything else about Yog and her plans?”

“We’ve spoken with the other Heroes,” said Inga. “But so far, we’ve got little more than old tales.”

“I been thinking,” said Tipple. “If it’s Heroes she wants, Brightlodge is the place to go. But why harass Grayrock?”

“You have a theory?” asked Leech.

“Nope! But when it comes to unanswerable questions, there’s only one man in Albion to talk to.” Tipple didn’t say another word until they reached the pub. He pushed open the door and bellowed, “My good friend Rook here will pay five gold to anyone who can tell us where to find Beckett the Seer!”

The consensus in the pub was that Beckett was likely hiding out in Rosewood, south of town. He couldn’t have gone too far, as he’d come back to Brightlodge twice so far to stock up on supplies. Most of which came in bottles. Rosewood was still a lot of land to search, but it was a start, and they had Rook to sniff out his trail. Strangers were supposed to be as good as hounds when it came to tracking, and far less likely to sniff each other’s arses.

Tipple’d first met Beckett in the tavern, where the older man had been attempting to tell a particularly buxom barmaid about his vision of the future, a vision that had apparently involved Beckett, the barmaid, and the barmaid’s sister. Alas, that particular prediction had ended with Beckett drenched in drink and Tipple pounding the table with laughter.

Beckett had been an adviser to Old King Wendleglass. He claimed he’d tried to warn Wendleglass about his coming demise, but seeing the future was one thing. Persuading a king to listen was a much bigger challenge.

Beckett had disappeared after Wendleglass’s murder. Some said he was searching for clues about the king’s killers. Others believed he was on the run from a group of bruisers who hadn’t taken kindly to Beckett’s using his gifts to cheat them out of their gold at the chicken races.

Either way, he’d gotten himself into a spot of trouble, and Tipple had been one of the Heroes to come to his rescue. Hopefully, that would be enough to get him to share some answers about Yog in return.

“Have you found him yet?” Tipple asked.

Rook didn’t answer, though his shoulders tightened. He moved slowly and silently between the trees, stopping from time to time to examine a bit of scuffed dirt or a broken branch.

“Let the man work,” said Inga. “Like Old Mother Twostraps always said, you can’t eat the chicken before it’s hatched.”

“Beckett’s not the only one to wander these woods.” Rook pointed to a bright green fern at the side of the trail. To Tipple’s eyes, it looked exactly the same as a hundred other bright green ferns they’d passed since leaving Brightlodge. “But if you think you can do better, you’re welcome to take point.”

A shrill scream echoed through the trees. Tipple grinned and punched his fist into his palm. “I think I will, thanks!”

He heard the others readying their weapons behind him. Tipple merely unhooked one of the mugs strapped to his pack. He’d commissioned this three years back. Reinforced with iron bands and pointed rivets, a blow from this mug could crack stone and still hold a drink when it came time to celebrate victory.

Pipe music floated through the trees, lively and alluring. Perfect! All fights went better with a good tune in the background.

“By the river,” he shouted. With the noise he was making as he tore through the woods, there was no use worrying about surprise.

He jumped into the shallow water of the riverbank, giving him a clear view of three pucks surrounding Beckett the Seer. A fourth lunged at Tipple from the shore. Dark claws slashed at his throat.

Tipple barely broke stride as he blocked the blow and delivered a backfist that sent his attacker reeling. The puck disappeared before Tipple could follow up.

Two more of the goat-legged creatures broke away from Beckett. Dark fur covered their legs. Their chests were bare, revealing lean muscle. Pucks were tough for their size. Thick horns curved from their skulls. This crew wore wooden masks decorated with green leaves and pine needles. They spread out, brown tails lashing from side to side.

Rook dropped one of the pucks with his crossbow before they knew what was happening. Tipple roared and charged the next, who turned invisible. Tipple stumbled right past and smashed his mug into the face of the third, hard enough to split the puck’s mask in half.

Tipple looked about. “I meant to do that!”

Another puck reappeared to one side. Claws slashed Tipple’s arm. He caught the thing’s hand and squeezed until the fingers broke. Without letting go, he brought the mug down like a hammer, sending the puck to the ground.

“Where are the pipers?” shouted Inga.

Tipple searched the trees. The music surrounded him, making it impossible to pinpoint the music’s origin.

Glass shattered behind him. He spun to see a puck staggering back, his body covered in leeches and small cuts. A roundhouse/uppercut combination knocked him out cold. Tipple looked over to see Leech standing on the shore, another jar ready in his hand.

“Nice throw!” Tipple enjoyed brawling with goodfellows. Like him, they enjoyed good drink, good song, and good fun. Unfortunately, they were also cruel, sadistic killers, gleefully tormenting and murdering whoever crossed their paths.

The pucks liked to sneak in, cut you up with them claws, then turn invisible, but the pipers were a whole other matter. The sneaky bastards hung back in the shadows, weaving spells and illusions to torment the mind.

Inga grabbed Beckett by the arm and hauled him around behind her. “I’ve got the seer!”

Tipple looked around for the source of the music. The song mingled with the air, filling his body with every breath. He spied movement by a fat oak to his left. The piper ducked behind the tree, but when Tipple followed, it had vanished.

“You want to play games with Jeremiah Tipple, do you?” He spun and slammed his fist into what he thought was another goodfellow but turned out to be the all-too-solid trunk of a tree. “Come ’ere, you!”

The air around him blurred. He heard whispers and giggles from the woods. Women stepped shyly from behind the trees, clothed in wisps of cloud that left just enough to the imagination. They were strong, too. No dainty damsels these, but broad-shouldered lasses capable of taking whatever life threw their way and punching it in the face.

Tipple raised his mug in salute. “Hey there, ladies. Any of you seen …” What was it he’d been hunting?

The women formed a ring around Tipple. Their strong, bare arms reached out, stopping just short of touching him. He frowned. There was something he was supposed to be doing, someone who needed a sound thrashing … 

They began to sing one of his favourite songs, an old folk tune about a mythical drink of the fairies.

“Won’t you take this lovely lass

To your home down in Thistlecrown?

To that fine little cottage by Crowsgate Pass

To share a jug of brown-brown.

“Ha, ha, hee, hee, just you and me,

And a fine old jug of brown-brown.

We’ll go for a walk in the evening sun,

And drink ’til we both fall down.

“Brown-brown, brown-brown,

Together in Crowsgate Pass.

Brown-brown, brown-brown,

It’ll knock you on your ass!”

He tried to catch the hand of the closest of the young ladies. Her fingers turned to smoke in his grasp. She ducked away with a flirtatious grin, beckoning for him to follow. Step by step they led him away.

He laughed and raised his mug to his lips.

“Wait, where the hell’s the brown-brown?” Not a single drop of the fairy brew darkened the bottom of the mug.

“From old Sam Sykes we stole the still

And brought it here to Thistlecrown.

A week we brewed that fairy swill,

The magic drink called brown-brown.”

He was as fuzz-headed as if he’d been drinking through the night, but the mug was bone-dry. What was wrong with him? First his blackout at Yog’s hut, and now this.

Yog’s hut.
He squinted and looked around. “This ain’t Thistlecrown.”

His body felt numb. He searched clumsily about his person until he found one of the bottles he had brought along for the hike. The woods spun around him, women dancing in and out of focus.

The song faded, replaced by the haunting sounds of a goodfellow’s pipe. Tipple tugged the cork from the bottle and drank deep. He filled his mouth until his cheeks puffed like the throat of a frog. A hand touched his arm, trying to draw him back into their spell.

Tipple sprayed the contents directly into the faces of the closest women. They shrieked and fell back, coughing and wiping their eyes. Illusion fell away, revealing slender, sharp-toothed forest sprites.

“Sorry, ladies. You’re not my type, and all the drink in the world isn’t going to change that.” Tipple searched for the source of the music. One of the pipers stood half-hidden behind a pine tree. Tipple filled his cheeks a second time, then flipped the bottle in his hand and hurled it through the air to smash against the piper’s brow.

He saw his companions standing entranced, mumbling softly to whatever illusions the pipes had created. He sprayed this mouthful at his friends. Their contented murmurs changed to cries of disgust and protest, but they looked to be shaking off the spell.

The remaining piper played more frantically. Music assaulted Tipple’s senses, but he had spent most of his adult life fighting while the room seemed to spin around his head. He roared and charged. The piper raised his instrument, but Tipple snatched it away and broke it over the piper’s head, then laid him out with a left hook.

Bolts from Rook’s crossbow thudded into the trees, sounding like an angry woodpecker. The piper Tipple had stunned with his bottle cried out in pain. Tipple moved in and finished him up with an uppercut that lifted the piper off the ground. The piper hit the dirt hard and didn’t move.

Tipple stomped the fallen pipes and turned around. “About time you lot joined the party,” he said. “Do I have to do everything around these parts?”

Inga wiped her face and grimaced. “That was foul.”

“The pipers created a potent illusion,” said Leech. “How’d you break through it?”

“Pah. You want potent, stop by the Drunken Dragon in Crowsgate and ask Blind Becka to mix you a Hollow Man’s Spirit. After a couple of those, a little magic music is nothing.”

He was curious what the others had seen, particularly Leech. What kind of vision would entrance that man? But he could ask about that later. He strode towards the shore and helped Beckett the Seer to his feet. “We were hoping you might answer a couple of questions.”

“Whatever it is, you don’t want to know.” Beckett had brought them back to his campsite, a small hollow between two fallen trees, with a bit of canvas stretched over the top for shelter. “Answering questions about the future is nothing but trouble.”

“We can handle trouble,” Tipple said.

Beckett stared. “I didn’t mean trouble for
you.
People don’t like the answers, so who do you think they blame for their future mistakes and misfortunes?”

“It’s important,” said Rook.

“It’s
always
important.” Beckett sat on a log and began poking the ashes of an old fire. He blew on the embers until he roused a small flame, then fed it a handful of dried pine needles.

“Are you sure this place is safe?” asked Inga.

“For three more days, yes. A bear was sleeping here before I came, and her scent is strong enough to scare off most threats.”