Many carriages were on those bridges. From these heights, Prusias could only make out their lanterns—hundreds of tiny lights creeping along in single file as they entered or left his splendid capital. The possibilities they represented held the demon spellbound. Some carried friends, some carried foes, and one contained two fearsome assassins. Prusias wondered which of the carriages was theirs, or if they had already crossed the river and acquired that grisly artifact. The demon grinned.
Prepare yourself, Hound. They are coming for you.
Scholars classified hags among the lower orders of semiexotic, semi-intelligent beings. Their abrasive natures, willingness to be displeased, and readiness to eat the offending party set them apart from polite society. Lurking on the fringes of towns and villages, they inhabited dank cottages or burrows where they might brood over slights real or perceived. Strangers were meals, cooperation rare, and commercial enterprise unknown.
Which is why the Shropes were such an unusual family. The closer one ventured to Shrope Hovel, the plainer it became that they were not merely the area’s most prominent hags, but also the leading creatures of any size, type, or persuasion. Ample evidence could be found in the form of regular signposts advertising the hags’ presence and services. The latest stood upon a knuckled hill, its copperplate a siren’s song to the weary and stupid.
Ease your feet and fill your tum
Rest your sore and aching bum
We got soft beds and fragrant soaps
Seasoned travelers Stay at Shropes!
Shrope Country Inn & Day Spa ~ 5 km
~ Humans welcome—Cash only ~
A pair of travelers stopped to contemplate the sign. The smaller of the two was Max McDaniels, a strapping youth in his late teens with wavy black hair and an amused glint in his hazel eyes. Max read this latest aloud, sparing his companion the need to fish for his monocle. The Russian ogre listened patiently until the call for cash-bearing humans. With a snort, he shook his head and spoke in a deep rumble.
“Bellagrog has fallen into old ways. Bob hopes his Mum has not.”
“They can’t have any customers,” said Max. “Who’s dumb enough to stay at a hag-run inn?”
The ogre gave a noncommittal grunt and gestured for the canteen. Weeks of summer sailing had scorched Bob’s fair skin, but his back was straight and his blue eyes were bright with anticipation. His long strides swallowed up miles of gray-green hills, little rivers, and quiet woodlands in the west of what had once been England. Sipping from the canteen, the ogre turned to await the rest of their party.
Most appeared within the minute: a man, a woman, and a sagging mule that wheezed as he clopped toward the summit.
“L-lemonade,” cried the mule. “My kingdom for some lemonade!”
With a grimace, the woman tugged at the mule’s bridle. Despite her youth—for she was not yet thirty—Hazel Cooper’s ramrod posture, old-fashioned glasses, and short brown hair lent her an academic air. Almost anyone would have marked her for a teacher. A prim mouth and withering stare hinted further that this was not a teacher to provoke. The mule, however, was oblivious.
“Come now, Hazel,” he chided in a patrician baritone. “You’re a so-called Mystic. What say you conjure up a trough of lemonade and put this smee in proper order, eh? Hop to it, woman. Pip! Pip!”
The teacher pursed her lips. “If you’re parched, turn into a camel, Toby.”
The shape-changer scoffed. “A camel? Humbug! During my glorious career, I’ve taken many forms, but never the ignoble camel. It’s hardly a guise worthy of me.”
As a newlywed, Hazel Cooper should have been enjoying a blissful honeymoon. But she, along with many at Rowan, had sacrificed personal wants in order to aid the war effort. Had she known her sacrifice would require traveling with a pompous smee, she might have reconsidered.
“Rather arbitrary standards for a former dung beetle,” she observed coolly.
“That was entirely different,” Toby sniffed. “I only employed that disguise to steal the crown jewels of Bohemia. I had to smuggle them out, you see, and—”
“Enough.”
The command was delivered in a quiet Cockney accent that brought the smee to an indignant pause. The speaker was Hazel’s husband, a middle-aged man, lean as a greyhound and pale as a specter. His clothes were black, along with his boots and a brimless wool cap that framed a face so scarred and burned it resembled a molten mask.
And while looks can be deceiving, in this case they were not. When things went bump in the night, Rowan sent William Cooper to silence them. As Commander of the Red Branch, it was his duty. As a dangerous man, it was his calling.
“I’ll remind you that I’m lugging almost all the baggage,” Toby groused. “I could be something sleek and sexy like … like a cheetah! Instead, I persevere as a lowly mule. And why? Why, to stagger on weary legs in abject service of my fellows. Some might grumble. Some might clamor for recognition or gratitude, but not I. You’ll never hear me complain of—Oh thank God!”
The smee had glimpsed the sign.
“I call first bath!” he roared. “You heard me. And first crack at the buffet, too! The very thought of potatoes and cheeses, fruit pies and sweets …”
The Shropes could not have wished for a more eager and clueless victim. While Toby pranced and tittered at the prospect of a bed and a bath, the others took turns with Max’s spyglass, which provided a view of the valley, several farms, and a distant cluster of buildings and pavilions.
“Half an hour if we set a decent pace,” said Cooper, returning the glass to Max. “Let’s get moving before we get caught in that.”
The Agent pointed to a band of dark clouds looming beyond the northern hills. Already, the wind was picking up. Before they continued, however, the ogre cleared his throat.
“If Bob may say a word. He knows you have important business elsewhere and that you did not have to take him to find his little Mum. Bob is grateful.”
“Of course,” said Hazel. “We wouldn’t have it otherwise.”
“But,” added the ogre emphatically, “you must let him handle his affairs. Bellagrog may be difficult. She may not agree to let Mum go. You must not interfere.”
“You’re not going to throttle her,” said Cooper, looking seriously at him.
The ogre’s hands were spotted with age yet gnarled and tough as old tree roots. Glancing at them, he chuckled. “No. Bob is gentleman.”
Toby stomped a hoof impatiently. “Yes, yes, we’ll stay out of your incomprehensible ‘hag quest.’ Now, stand aside and let me set the pace!”
The eager smee went trotting down the hill, their baggage bouncing atop his back as Bob and the rest hurried after. Max lingered at the hilltop to await the party’s stragglers.
The first to arrive was Scathach, a lithe young woman with black braids, gray eyes, and a fearsome infantry spear that rested upon her shoulder. Giving Max an exasperated look, she nodded toward a patch of trembling undergrowth. Something suddenly bolted forth, a black blur that might have been a kitten as it bounded up the hill.
But kittens were not nearly so dense. They did not have spiny coats or oversized claws, and they did not devour meat and metal with equal voracity. The snorting blur was not a kitten but a juvenile lymrill. Juvenile in both age and demeanor, for Nox knew better than to scramble up her steward and sprawl across his shoulders as though he were her slave. Despite many lectures, bribes, and pleas, the lymrill refused to behave and Max’s clothes were now heavily scored and patched.
“Your father was never this bad,” Max hissed, shifting her surprising weight. His charge merely yawned and methodically cleaned her claws.
“She rooted out a stoat,” said Scathach, coming up the hill. “Big one, too.”
Max nodded; he could smell the blood. “Shrope Hovel’s just a few miles ahead.”
With a grin, Scathach slipped her hand within his. “I can hardly wait!”
Other than Bob, no one was enjoying the trip to Shrope Hovel m
ore than Scathach. It had been nearly two thousand years since the warrior maiden had inhabited this world. She had forsaken eternal life to return, but she never appeared to doubt her decision. If anything, mortality seemed to infuse her with a greater appreciation for life and even its mundane little joys. She loved learning about new things—or even very old things if they’d escaped her attention once upon a time. Her latest interest was hags.
“And so they sniff you?” said Scathach, continuing their earlier discussion.
“Only if they’re reformed,” said Max. “Reformed hags memorize some scents as ‘not for eating.’ Once a hag has sniffed you properly, you’re safe from her. At least in theory.”
“And do they smell? I imagine hags would smell very, very badly.”
“I can’t believe you’ve never encountered any hags.”
“There weren’t any in my homeland, much less the Sidh.”
Max smiled. “Wherever humans live, hags won’t be far away. They’re pretty wily. Bellagrog’s clever as a fox.”
“And she’s the head Shrope,” Scathach clarified. “Mum’s older sister.”
“Right,” said Max. “She fled to Rowan when Astaroth came to power. Mum had been at Rowan for decades, but when her sister showed up, everything changed. Hags are strictly hierarchical and Bellagrog’s bigger in every way. Mum got shoved off to the side. And that was before the haglings even came along …”
“Haglings?”
Max nodded gravely. “Bellagrog spawned them one night and by morning they were all over the kitchens. Bawling. Pooping. Attacking. We had to fit them with muzzles. I wonder how many are left.”
“What do you mean?”
Max considered how best to explain. “Haglings have it kind of rough. By the time the Shropes went on trial, I don’t think there were more than five or six.”
Scathach looked unsettled. “What happened to the others?”
When Max patted his stomach, she gasped.
“Mum?”
“Oh no. She’d never dare gobble up her nieces. But Bellagrog …”
“Their own mother ate them?”
“They’re not the only ones. Spiders do it. Hamsters, too, I think.”
“Hamsters don’t run country inns.”
“Well,” said Max, “I never said a hagling’s life was easy. Anyway, some must survive. Otherwise there wouldn’t be any hags. I’ll bet Number Five’s still kicking. She was a tank.”
Shaking her head, Scathach gazed ahead at Bob. “Why does he care so much about hags?”
“He doesn’t,” said Max. “He cares about Mum. They were like an old married couple. Always bickering but devoted to each other. I always thought Bob kept Mum in line. But now I think he needed her as much as she needed him. Maybe more.”
“So why did she leave?” asked Scathach. “Wasn’t she innocent?”
“Not exactly,” said Max. “Mum was just as guilty as Bellagrog of trying to cook that Workshop man. But in light of the circumstances and her testimony, the Director suspended her sentence. It was Bellagrog who ordered her to leave.”
“Couldn’t she just have refused?”
Max shook his head. “Hag Law,” he explained. “Scholars think hags are mindless brutes, but they haven’t spent much time with them. Hags have all kinds of rules and customs about vendettas, gatherings, and who gets to be the boss. Bellagrog declared Hag Law and ordered her sister aboard the ship she was boarding. That was that. Mum didn’t even bring a suitcase.”
“But if Mum has to obey Bellagrog, how can Bob get her back?”
Max shrugged. “I don’t know. But he doesn’t want us to interfere.”
“If that’s the case, maybe we should have left him to it,” observed the ever-efficient Scathach. “This detour’s cost us nearly a week.”
“The Fomorian isn’t going anywhere,” said Max. “And Rowan’s fleet won’t land for a month. We have plenty of time.”
“And you know what they say about making hay.”
“That it’s a very good thing?”
“To make it while the sun shines.”
Max eyed the darkening sky and the pall settling over the landscape. “Well,” he reasoned, “if that’s true, we’re out of luck. Come on.”
Nox didn’t even stir as they caught up with the others and hurried on to Shrope Hovel. The weather was growing wild, spurring the group from a brisk hike to an anxious trot.
“So much for summer,” laughed Scathach, catching Hazel’s hat as a freezing gust nearly whisked it away.
The strange weather was an inconvenience for travelers, but it was wreaking havoc on the workers about Shrope Hovel. Dozens were running to and fro, trying to reinforce pavilions, tie tarps over rosebushes, and rescue what appeared to be preparations for a party. Chinese lanterns tugged at their tethers while colorful streamers soared clear away, twisting and tumbling over barns, buildings, and a leaning curiosity that could only be Shrope Hovel. In all the excitement, it took a moment for Max to register two surprising facts: he had yet to see a hag, and all of the workers were human.
With a clap of thunder, the clouds burst, drenching one and all in torrents of icy rain. Abandoning their efforts, the workers ran for shelter as lightning laced the sky. Max and the others hurried after, kicking up gravel and weaving through a noisy phalanx of sheep, goats, and geese. They piled in after the workers, crowding into a dark barn that smelled of dung, hay, and wet clothes.
It was only when someone lit a lamp that the workers noticed strangers among them, much less a ten-foot ogre. There followed an earsplitting shriek, an ineffectual panic, and finally an expectant silence.
“Hello,” said Bob, nodding politely. “We are looking for Shropes.”
“You ain’t gonna eat us, then?” cried an unseen voice from the crowd.
The ogre looked amused. “Bob is sorry to disappoint.”
There was a ripple of nervous laughter and some of the workers stood on tiptoe or inched forward to get a closer look. They were a mixed group: men and women, young and old, with hard faces and many scars. They reminded Max of Rowan’s refugees and those he had seen at Piter’s Folly, a human settlement in the midst of demon lands. Each had undoubtedly survived many horrors, but to find humans working for hags struck Max as profoundly odd. Apparently Toby agreed.
“Are you being held against your will?” he demanded of a nearby boy. When the astounded child failed to answer the talking mule, the smee spoke as though to a simpleton. “Are the hags using you for food?”
“No,” said a woman. “They use us for farming.”
Toby gave a disbelieving snort. “Farming you for meat, no doubt. Well, never fear, good woman. Your savior has arrived.”
“Whatcha saving us from?”
“Grim death in a hag’s belly.”
“They don’t eat us, sir.”
“Slavery, then.”
“We ain’t slaves. The Shropes pay good wages.”
“Verbal abuse?”
“Well, I guess that’s fair,” she muttered, the others nodding in agreement.
Shushing Toby, Hazel apologized for startling them and inquired if rooms were available at the inn.
“Ain’t none to be had,” said a man. “Inn’s all stuffed up with hags, three and four to a room. Must be eighty of ’em here for the Naming, though Mistress Bellagrog might have to cancel if this storm don’t let up.”
“Naming?” asked Hazel, raising her eyebrows.
“The haglings are getting proper names,” explained the little boy.
“I see,” said Hazel, glancing at her companions. “And is Bellagrog home?”
“She’s went out for a carriage ride,” said the man. “But the little one’s about. I saw her tending her hives. There she is now!”
Turning, Max glimpsed a squat silhouette trudging toward Shrope Hovel. Squinting at the figure, Bob lumbered out into the storm.
“Mum!” he called, giving a shy, almost hesitant wave. Turning, the figure merely stared
as though Bob were a mirage, an echo from another life. Then, with a sudden wail, she tottered forward and clung to the ogre’s waist.
Even when Bob kneeled, Mum could not quite reach his shoulder. Instead she buried her face in his armpit and sobbed like a child rescued from a nightmare. For a time the two simply huddled in the rain, the ogre patting the hag’s wilted topknot.
Toby turned to his companions. “Is she always this unstable?”
“Shhh!” they hissed.
At last, the hag wiped her nose on Bob’s shirtsleeve and waddled with him, red-eyed and blinking, into the barn.
“Th-there’s my Max,” she simpered, patting his hand and giving him a look of deep affection. “And that uptight teacher I never cared for. Hazel-Boon-with-Peas-and-Gravy. Yes, yes, that was her name.”
“Hazel Cooper,” said the teacher. “William and I were married last month.”
“A lid for every pot I guess,” said Mum. She looked Cooper up and down, mildly disappointed. “Still a beanpole, eh? Most humans plump up by forty.”
“Well, I want to plump up now!” declared Toby. “Are you going to feed us or not, hag?”
With a startled “Oi!” Mum spun to face the impatient mule. “What we got here?”
“A master spy, saboteur, bon vivant, and international—”
“Stew meat,” finished Mum, pinching the mule’s shoulder with a distracted air. Recovering herself, the hag brightened and gazed about. “Yes, yes, we’ll feed you. We’ll fatten you right up. The inn’s bursting with relations but we’ll squeeze you into the Hovel. Maybe Bob will even help his Mum make lunch. That’s if the big oaf hasn’t forgotten how to cook!”
The ogre’s eyes twinkled. “Bob remembers.”
“No, you don’t! You could never manage without me!”
“Mum,” said Max. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. This is Scathach.”
The Red Winter Page 3