Fable: Blood of Heroes (8 page)

“Watch it, Schemer.” Headstrong yanked the noggin-on-a-stick from her back and used it like a club in her off hand, working to corral the Heroes. “I’ll gag you like I did Big Mouth.”

“I’m already gagging,” the noggin named Schemer replied.

“Are you seeing this?” asked Glory.

“Seeing, yes.” Shroud fired two more arrows. One lodged in the ogre’s belly. The other ricocheted off a noggin, leaving a thin cut along the scalp. “Still working on understanding.”

Few of the workers showed any interest in joining the battle. One man who tried was flattened by the accidental backswing of Headstrong’s makeshift club. After that, the rest stayed as far out of range as possible.

Headstrong continued to chase Sterling, swinging her axe like a farmer with a scythe. A drunk farmer. One who was less intent on harvesting her crop than on reducing it to a bloody pulp.

“Step to your right,” shouted Glory. Both Sterling and Shroud moved out of the way, and an orb of crackling flame hit the ground between Headstrong’s feet. The ogre howled as the fire exploded, burning her legs.

“Well done, my Lady of the Apples!” Sterling darted forwards to score another cut to the same leg he had hit before.

“Watch the ones in back,” shouted another of the female noggins. “Forget the peacock with the steel toothpick. And stop missing!”

“You don’t like it, Thinker?” Headstrong growled. “Help me kill the meat sacks!”

Thinker didn’t respond. Winter had encased the head in a layer of ice, a glassy mask that shone in the lantern light.

“Get outta dere.” That was the noggin called Schemer. “You’re outnumbered. I’m not dyin’ for some dirt and rocks.”

With a growl of frustration, Headstrong turned to flee, tossing human workers behind her to slow pursuit. Shroud put two more arrows into her back before she shoved her way into another tunnel. He started to follow.

“Shroud, wait,” Winter said. “We have to help these people.”

“Do I look like a healer? More important, imagine the injury my reputation will suffer if my enemies begin surviving their encounters with me.”

“We’re here to find the Mayor,” Winter pressed. “These people might know where he is.”

“Headstrong might know too,” Shroud countered, trying to duck around her. “I know a hundred and twelve ways of persuading her to tell us.”

“You really think an ogre is the best source for intelligence on the Mayor? Or intelligence, period?”

Shroud hesitated. “That’s a fair point.”

Sterling climbed onto the nearest rock pile and rested one arm on his bent leg. “Fear not, good villagers. Your imprisonment is at an end! And now, if you could tell us where your villainous Mayor is hiding, we’ll make certain his evil is vanquished from Grayrock for all time.”

“Ain’t seen him today,” said an older man, leaning heavily on his hammer. “Most days, he comes round with the Ghost of Grayrock to inspect the work.”

“Excellent,” said Sterling. “We’re interested in speaking with her as well.”

“What can you tell us about the ogre?” asked Shroud.

The old man shuddered. “Not much to tell. She’s an ogre. Big. Mean. Ugly. Rumour has it her job was to kill anyone who refused to work or who tried to leave these caves before the job was done. All I know is those few who walked off never came back.” He looked at them expectantly.

“Yes, yes. Your friends are dead,” Shroud said. “Where do you think Headstrong might have run off to?”

“None of us wanted to chat up an ogre,” said another worker.

The clank of a hammer cut off Shroud’s response. He stared at the man who had resumed his work on the dam. Two more moved to join him. Shroud looked at his companions, who appeared baffled.

“What are you doing?” asked Shroud.

“There’s still treasure to find,” said the old man, shouldering his hammer. “With rockhead gone, that gold will be all ours.”

“What gold?” asked Glory. “You’re digging into the
foundation of the dam.
”

“Right,” he said. “That’s where the treasure’s buried.”

“Keep digging and you’ll flood the entire town,” said Sterling.

“Ah,” answered one of the men loading the wagons. “That’s what makes it such a clever place to hide a treasure. You’d have to be a fool to dig here.”

Sterling blinked. “Well … yes.”

“You need to stop before you wipe out the entire town,” said Winter.

“We know what you’re about,” said the wagon worker. “You think you’re so clever, scaring off old granite-face and ‘rescuing’ us. Then once we’re out of the way, you’ll take the gold for yourselves.” He grabbed a rock and raised it in what he doubtless believed to be a threatening manner. “We’ve earned this treasure. There’s nothing you and your gang here can do to make us leave.”

Shroud smiled. “Is that a challenge?”

“I vote we leave them,” said Glory.

“Why am I not surprised?” Winter asked.

“You can’t save people from their own stupidity,” Glory shot back.

“Sure you can.” Shroud unshouldered his pack. He pulled out a curved, double-edged dagger with an ivory handle and made a show of inspecting the long blade in the lantern light. “I received this weapon from an assassin who trained in the Deadlands. He taught me thirty-nine ways to kill a man with it. I’ve come up with a dozen more since then.”

His smile grew. “Who wants to stick around and help me find number fifty-two?”

CHAPTER 7

WINTER

W
hy would Headstrong, the Mayor, and the Ghost of Grayrock want to flood the town?” Winter asked, once the last of the workers had left. None of them had provided any useful information.

“Why indeed?” Sterling rubbed his chin and examined the shadows, as if his piercing eyes could pry the truth from the darkness. “Neither the Mayor nor the ogre strikes me as the evil-mastermind type. The ghost must be the one behind this.”

Winter jumped onto a pile of broken stone and balanced on one foot. “Maybe someone really did bury gold here when they built the dam. These people don’t exactly put a lot of thought into their actions.”

Glory smiled. “No wonder you’ve seemed so comfortable here.”

“I enjoy life no matter where I go. It’s so much nicer than walking about like you’ve got an icicle up your—”

“Does anyone have any
useful
suggestions for finding our foes?” asked Sterling.

A blackened noggin landed on the ground between them. “Let’s ask the ogre,” said Shroud.

Winter would have thought a flash bomb in the mouth was more than enough to kill an ogre head, but this one had survived. Mostly. The noggin was missing some teeth, and the jaw looked like it was broken, but the yellow eyes burned with hate. One of the braids had burned to a stub, adding to the stink.

The jaw flopped open. “If I had arms, I’d crush you like—”

“But you don’t,” Glory interrupted. “Do you have a name?”

“Watcher.” The thing’s voice was slurred and difficult to understand. Winter wondered briefly how it spoke without lungs.

“Where can we find your master?” asked Sterling.

“If I knew where to find old Headache, I’d tell you. Long as I got to watch you gut her. Or watch her gut you. I’m not picky.” The noggin’s red-veined eyes studied each Hero in turn. “Any of you runts in need of a noggin?”

Winter sat cross-legged in front of the oversized head. She grabbed the remaining braid and turned it to face her. “Why does Headstrong want to destroy Grayrock?”

Watcher snorted, spraying the ground with bloody green snot. “Same reason she does anything. She likes killing stuff.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” said Shroud.

Glory yanked the head back around towards her. “What about the ghost?”

“How should I know? She don’t talk to noggins. She just left us in this dung-hole with the humans.”

Winter tugged the head by its less-burnt ear. “How did Headstrong end up with seven noggins?”

“Who cares,” snapped Glory. “We need it to tell us where to find the ghost.”

“She isn’t exactly a normal ogre, is she?” Winter countered. “I’d like to know exactly what we’re up against.” When the noggin didn’t answer, Winter flicked her fingers, and frost spread over the tip of the bulbous nose. “That was your cue, noggin.”

“In the beginning, it was just her and Scratcher,” said Watcher. “That’s the chump on the end of the stick. Then she took Night Axe, thanks to—” Watcher’s eyes went round, and her mouth snapped shut.

“Thanks to who … ?” asked Winter. “The ghost?”

“Every moment we waste with this talking lump helps the ogre to escape,” said Glory.

“You heard the grumpy witch.” Winter snapped her fingers, and the frost crept over the rest of the noggin’s nose. “Talk fast.”

“Night Axe helps Headstrong fight, s’all. Since then, she picked up me, Schemer, Hard-Arse, Big Mouth—he was the one with the gag, and Thinker. You got questions, Big Mouth’s the one to ask. He does the remembering.”

“Who did she take Night Axe from?” Winter asked. “Cooperate, and I’ll buy you a nice hat when we get back to town. Maybe even some earrings to go with—”

“Tell us where to find her,” Glory interrupted.

Yellow eyes twitched towards the tunnel where the ogre had fled. “Before we came here, Headstrong liked to sleep in the hills, on the rocks. Never in the same place.”

“A cunning precaution,” said Shroud.

“S’not it. She’d just forgot where she’d been from one night to the next.”

Winter grabbed the noggin by its remaining braid. “Where do we find the ghost?”

The noggin bit its lip and stared at the wall.

“You can play with the head while we hunt the ogre,” Glory said.

Sterling started towards the tunnel. “We should make sure none of the townspeople try to sneak back in to have another go at that gold.”

“I’ll take care of that.” Shroud rubbed his hands together. “What kind of deterrent would you like? Are we talking cuts and bruises or decapitations and impalements?”

Winter flinched. “We’re here to help these people. Try not to kill anyone.”

“Every killing helps someone. Oftentimes that someone is me, but the point remains.” Shroud shrugged and turned to study the tunnel behind him. “On the other hand, a couple of maimed workers dragging their bloody bodies back to town ought to scare the rest off. There’s a snare trap with barbs and explosives I’ve been itching to try.”

Winter shook her head. The man desperately needed to lighten up. Maybe an evening out dancing, followed by a good, long night with a woman. Or a man. Winter had no idea what Shroud’s preferences were. Most of his conversations were about how best to change living things into dead things.

Speaking of which … Winter glanced at the noggin and sighed. Ogres were tough, but there was a limit to the damage they could take. She tossed the expired head to Glory, who flinched.

So much for buying her that hat.

The first thing they saw when they emerged from the tunnel was a pair of goats munching a small thornbush. Both goats paused to watch Winter wipe dust and cobwebs from her face, then returned to their snack.

Smashed bushes and droplets of blood showed exactly where the ogre had fled into the hills, but the dirt and shrubs soon changed to bare rock, and the trail vanished.

Winter turned to look out over Grayrock. The great pit of the quarry stretched out below to her left. The dam stretched out to the right. Moonlight reflected from the river, and the lanterns in town glowed like fireflies. She hadn’t realised how high they’d climbed. “Look at that view!”

“We’re back to square one.” Glory folded her arms and glared at Winter. “The Mayor and the ghost are both still out there, and we’re no closer to learning their plans.”

“Oh, relax,” said Winter. “We’re on square three, at least. We might not know their full plan, but we stopped them from bringing down the dam. We don’t need to keep looking for them. Once Headstrong finishes licking her wounds, they’ll come after us.”

“Winter speaks the truth,” said Sterling. “The forces of darkness now know what it means to face Sterling and his fellow Heroes. Their schemes will come to naught while we remain in Grayrock. They will be forced to give up their plans, or else to face us in battle.”

“Exactly,” said Winter. “In the meantime, we should be celebrating. There has to be somewhere in this town people can go for a little fun.”

“What about the workers we saved?” snapped Glory. “Shouldn’t we be questioning them instead of wasting our time on childish frivolity?”

Winter grinned, refusing to let Glory’s sour tone melt her good mood. “Childish frivolity is
never
a waste of time.”

“The workers believe we’re here to steal their treasure,” said Sterling. “They’re unlikely to be of any help. We can check to see if the Mayor has returned, but if not, I second Winter’s suggestion. We fought well today, and it’s time to toast our victory! Tomorrow we hunt the ghost and put an end to this threat.”

There was no sign of the Mayor. After checking both his house and office, they headed across the square to the Broken Blade Tavern, where a pleasant-looking bald man named McCullough served up overcooked meat he swore was chicken, along with mugs of watered-down wine.

“The Mayor will return sooner or later,” Sterling said. “The man has invested too much time and work to simply abandon Grayrock.”

They could see the Mayor’s home and workplace from the window. No surprise there. Politics and alcohol often kept very close company.

Winter tilted her mug, concentrating her Will to freeze the wine as it poured forth. She broke the blood-red spike from the edge of the mug and munched on the tip as she bounced back to the bartender. “Back in Brightlodge, there were these twins who’d march into the street and perform a musical duel on their mandores.” She smiled, remembering how their feather-tip picks flew over the strings, weaving rhythmic spells that drew all within earshot to dance. “What kind of music do the good patrons of the Broken Blade enjoy?”

McCullough jerked his chin towards an older, heavyset woman in the back. “Sarah over there is known to play a few songs on the bladder pipe.”

“Excellent!” Winter spun away and slapped three coins on the table in front of Sarah. “How many songs will that buy me?”

Sarah’s eyes widened. “For that, I’ll play all night.”

Winter grinned and added two more coins to the pile, then dragged Sterling from his chair.

Sarah pulled out an instrument with an air bladder the colour and shape of a giant onion attached to the top of a wooden pipe, similar to a flute. The music was low and rich. What Sarah lacked in polish and precision, she made up for in enthusiasm, just the way Winter liked it. Soon, Winter was spinning and stomping and laughing with Sterling, while others in the tavern clapped along.

When the first song ended, she pushed Sterling towards an attractive-looking woman at the bar and snatched another man from the crowd. “My name’s Winter.” She shoved her hair back as she spun, and “accidentally” stumbled, pressing close to her new partner. “Whoops! I’m so sorry. I don’t know this dance.”

He stammered and took her hands, guiding her through the steps.

“Thanks!” She grinned. “I’ve never been to Grayrock before. How long have you lived here?”

“All my life.” He was red-faced and sweating, whether from the exertion or from Winter’s more energetic dancing was impossible to say.

“Then you know about the ghost?”

“Oh, sure. She arrived about two months back. I saw her once, from a distance. By the time I caught up, she was gone. She left burnt footprints in the dirt.”

The song came to a close, and Winter gave her partner a quick kiss on the cheek before grabbing another. For the next few hours, she danced and flirted and gathered what information she could.

“They say she rose up from Founder’s Hill,” said an elderly but surprisingly energetic man with an impressively thick beard.

“First anyone heard of her was about two months back.” This was the woman Winter had seen loading a sledge down at the quarry. She seemed far livelier now as she and Winter took turns twirling one another to the music. “She stays in the woods outside of the wall. Nobody knows exactly where.”

Winter was dancing with McCullough, the bartender, when she noticed the girl watching from the corner. She looked perhaps twelve or thirteen years of age, and she was staring directly at Winter. Seeing that she’d been noticed, the girl bit her lip and turned away.

“Who’s that?”

“Her name’s Greta,” said McCullough. “Her father works at the quarry. Mother is a seamstress. Her brother disappeared a few days ago.”

“The ghost?”

“Nobody knows. Ben was always a little odd. It’s possible he just wandered off, but …”

“You don’t think so.” Winter finished the dance and walked arm-in-arm back to the bar with McCullough. “Could you get me two mugs of that delicious hot honey lemonade?”

A short time later, she carried the steaming mugs towards the corner where Greta was lurking. The girl looked like a frightened rabbit preparing to bolt. Like most of the townsfolk, she was filthy, covered in grey dust. Her hair was a tangled mess, and her clothes were little more than rags. But she didn’t strike Winter as a beggar or a thief. Her eyes held a different kind of desperation.

Winter held up both mugs with one hand. “You look thirsty.”

Greta hunched her shoulders and looked away.

“I agree,” said Winter. “I never understood why they served this stuff hot.” She dipped her finger into her own mug and stirred until the surface brimmed with ice. “I prefer my drinks chilled.”

“How’d you do that?”

“Practice.” Winter grinned and waved her free hand, showing off her tattoos. She pursed her lips and blew a minor enchantment, just enough to raise goose bumps on the girl’s exposed arms.

Normally, such tricks elicited giggles and demands to “Do it again!” from children, but the girl looked like she was about to cry. Winter lowered her hands and stepped closer. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

The girl didn’t answer.

Winter looked through the crowd. Glory had finally thawed enough to join the fun, performing some elegant and overly stiff dance while three men tried to shoulder each other aside for the chance to join her. Winter eventually caught Sterling’s attention. She shifted her head to indicate the girl. He nodded his understanding.

“Why don’t we step outside?” Winter asked. The air was refreshingly cool on her skin. Sunrise lightened the sky to the east. No wonder she was fighting yawns. How long had it been since she danced through the night like that? “My name’s Winter. You’re Greta, right?”

“You’re a Hero,” she said flatly. “You and your friends. Even the scary one.”

“Even Shroud, yes.” The assassin had returned halfway through the night. “We came to protect Grayrock from the ghost.”

“You can’t.”

“McCullough told me about your brother. Do you think the ghost took him?”

Silence.

Greta was lucky Winter had been the first to notice her. Had she gone to Shroud, the man would be threatening her life to find out why she was watching them and what secrets she might be keeping. Glory would be lecturing in that irritatingly condescending tone, and Sterling would give one of his speeches about courage and duty and how people can be True Heroes if they only try. None of which would hold a candle to teenage stubbornness.

Winter, on the other hand, knew exactly where to take the girl. She had memorised the layout of the town on her first day. Not that there was much to learn. The poorest homes were in the eastern part of town, close to the quarry. The more money you had, the farther you could get from the dust and noise.