Fable: Blood of Heroes

by Jim C. Hines

  “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.

  Rook lifted one free and studied the contents. The potion looked like a blend of blood, swamp water, and sea foam. He held it towards Blue. “Drink up.”

  The redcap’s eyes went round. He shook his head frantically.

  “Trying to poison us, were you?” Rook asked.

  “No!” Blue covered his mouth with both hands and spoke through his fingers. “Cure smelly human. Kill real redcap.”

  The hut trembled. Rook scowled and opened the door a crack to see what was happening. As he did, the entire building tilted to one side, tossing him back into the worktable. The door swung inwards. Before he could regain his balance, the hut shifted like a seesaw. Rook snatched the chest by the open lid, dragging it with him as he spilled out onto the muddy earth. “Bloody hell.”

  With a creak like old, arthritic bones, the hut rose up on four thick, stilted legs. There was a wet slurping sound as they pulled free from the mud.

  “I’m getting too old for this.” Rook tried shooting the hut in the leg like he had done to Tipple. The bolt lodged in the gnarled, knotted wood but didn’t affect the hut’s movement.

  The fence of bones went mad, ripping free and swirling about the hut like a tornado. Skulls battered Rook, forcing him to retreat. The hut began to walk into the woods like an overgrown, lumbering, wooden bear.

  A stone thumped into Rook’s gut, hard enough to bruise. Blue stood in the open doorway, a slingshot in one hand. Rook scowled. Blue yelped and tried to hide his crude weapon behind his back. Rook aimed his crossbow, but the door slammed shut before he could return the favour.

  He watched with frustration as the hut fled, gaining speed with each step. Rook had been thrown out of people’s homes before, but this was the first time the home itself had been the one to evict him.

  “Did you get the cure?” Leech called.

  Two of the flasks had fallen onto the ground, but they were intact. He gathered them back into the chest. “I hope so. If not—what’s the matter, lass?”

  Inga stared after the hut, her normally ruddy face pale. Save for a few bloody bites and scratches, she had come through the fighting unscathed. “I know who Yog is.”

  Curious as Rook was to know the truth about their enemy, there were a few things to take care of first. He took his time binding Jeremiah Tipple’s hands and feet. The man was strong, but Rook knew a thing or two about securing prisoners. Between this and the wounds to his legs, Tipple wasn’t going anywhere.

  Tipple groaned and looked up at them. “Where are … Oi, you shot me!”

  “You’re welcome.” Rook checked the perimeter, making sure none of Yog’s flying skulls had remained behind to spy on them. By the time he returned, Leech was bandaging Tipple’s knees.

  “Don’t move.” Leech swatted Tipple’s hands away from the crossbow bolts embedded in his legs. “Leave ’em. They’ll plug up the bleeding while I get to work.”

  “What do you remember?” asked Rook.

  “Not much.” Tipple winced. “I was … my head felt like it was on fire. I couldn’t move. S’like when you dream you’re running, but it feels like you’re slogging through a swamp.”

  Rook looked pointedly at their surroundings.

  “Right.” Tipple blinked. “Wait, what was the question?”

  Rook rubbed his forehead. At least the man didn’t look ready to rip free and attack them again. He turned his attention to Inga. “Well?”

  “There’s a story Old Mother Marguerite—we called her One-Armed Maggie—told to frighten the young ankle-biters, about a woman who long ago roamed the forest in a walking hut, stealing children and devouring Heroes.”

  “Devouring?” asked Tipple. “As in eating?”

  Leech shrugged. “People should be just as tasty and nutritious as beef or pork. And Heroes are likely to have a lot of meat on ’em.”

  “Go on,” said Rook.

  “Maggie called her by a different name. Baya, not Yog.” Inga ran a hand over her shield, as if for comfort. “Baya held power over death and transformation. She lived alone, constantly moving through Albion. In the beginning, if your courage and honesty impressed her, she might help you or give you a gift. But over time, she began to see people as nothing more than animals.

  “She set out to punish humanity for abusing her gifts. She would fly
through the night sky, and she could sniff out her prey from five miles off. She commanded three Riders, sending them to bring the strongest Heroes and the naughtiest children for her cauldron. I … used to have nightmares about Baya swooping out of the darkness to snatch me up, like an eagle catching a rabbit.”

  “You’re saying a witch from an old wives’ tale is mucking about with redcaps and flying bones, trying to destroy Brightlodge?” Tipple said dubiously.

  Rook cocked his head. “Right. This is probably a completely different enchanted hut tromping through the swamp.”

  “They say Baya took the children’s beauty and the Heroes’ might for herself,” said Inga.

  Tipple snorted. “Some Heroes have plenty of beauty too, you know.”

  Leech picked up one of the broken skulls. “Eating not just the meat, but the power as well. I imagine it’d have to be done quickly, before the life drained from the flesh.”

  “You mean she’d eat us alive?” asked Tipple.

  “It was just a story.” Inga rubbed her arms. “If Baya was real, she’d have died ages ago.”

  “Unless eating Heroes’ power extended her life as well,” said Leech. “Or maybe someone found her old hut and moved in.”

  Rook stood and walked to where the hut had stood. The stilts had left deep impressions, but water already seeped into the tracks, and the mud sagged inwards, filling the holes. The hut had been moving too quickly, and even if he managed to follow the trail, he doubted the others would be able to keep up.

  Heavy footsteps squished through the mud behind him. He recognised Inga from the sound of her armour. “You all right, lass?”

  “I believed Blue would help us, but all he wanted was to get back to Baya. To Yog.”

  “Maybe.” From the sound of things, Inga had shaken off the fear of old nightmares, just as he’d known she would. She was too tough to let such things cling to her for long. He glanced over his shoulder at the chest. “But if those potions can cure whatever’s happened to Tipple, then he gave us fair trade. Better than fair.”

  “Better?”

  “He gave us knowledge. Now we’ve a better idea what we’re fighting.” He returned to the chest, took one of the vials in his hand, and carefully removed the stopper. Whatever this was, it smelled vile, like blood and decay and foul beer. “No point wasting any more time.”