by Jim C. Hines
Shroud sat in a corner by the door, his back to the wall. He’d disappeared for several days after they returned, saying it was “Conclave business,” but had returned to Wendleglass Hall as determined as ever to explore Albion and find new and interesting ways of killing its inhabitants. He’d spent the evening diagramming Yog’s death and trying to calculate just how fast she’d been going when she hit the hut.
Leech was talking to a man who looked faintly ill. Knowing Leech, he was probably describing the anatomical effects of freezing a witch’s head from the inside out, or talking about the best way to remove the heart of a still-living balverine.
“’Scuse me.” Tipple grabbed another mug and made his way towards Leech’s table. His guesses had been good, but not quite correct. Leech was deep into a lecture about the cranial structure of ogre and redcap skulls.
Tipple grabbed Leech in a one-armed hug. “You need another drink, my friend!”
Leech’s captive audience took that opportunity to make a break for it. He stopped only to whisper to Tipple, “Get away while you can. This fellow’s not right in the head.”
Tipple’s good cheer vanished. He set down his mug, caught the man by the collar, and hoisted him into the air. “I’ll give you the count of one to apologise. Leech took me into his home when I had redcap poison eating away at my guts. He’s faced redcaps and smugglers and flaming skeletons and nightmares you can’t imagine. You should be grateful he’s more tolerant of idiots than I am.”
Tipple grabbed the man’s belt with his left hand and lifted him overhead, fully prepared to toss him headfirst out the door.
“Jeremiah, stop.” Leech folded his arms. “Put him down.”
Tipple grimaced, but dropped the man, who fled into the street.
“How’s your gut feeling?”
Tipple settled into the chair beside Leech. “Full to bursting, and all the better for it.”
Leech grinned and tapped his mug to Tipple’s. “Did I tell you what I learned about redcap brains? They look like ours, all pale and wrinkly, but the texture is very different. More gelatinous, with a thicker skin. Slide a nail into ’em and they just kind of ooze around the metal like soft cheese. There’s damage, but significantly less than you’d get with yours or mine.”
Tipple peered into his mug and wondered if he should order another. He figured he’d need it by the time this conversation was through. “Forget redcaps. What can you tell me about balverines. They’re saying some idiot tried to make a zoo of the things. Naturally, they’ve escaped and started killing everything in sight. There are even rumours of hybrids.”
Leech’s face lit up. “The balverines are crossbreeding?” He leaned in, his drink forgotten. “I assume you know the basics of balverine anatomy. Teeth, claws, fur, and so on. What really distinguishes them from other predators are their more human traits. Take the hip bones, for example. They’re shaped like those of a human, allowing balverines to walk and fight on two legs.”
Tipple chuckled and stretched out to listen, crossing his feet on an unoccupied chair to his right. He doubted he’d remember a quarter of what Leech was telling him come morning, but that didn’t matter. They’d beaten Yog, protected Brightlodge, and saved … well, most of the people from Grayrock, at any rate. And Tipple had stories enough to keep people paying his tab for weeks.
Tonight was for celebrating. Tomorrow he would head out with his friends and do it all over again.
It was the life of a Hero, and Jeremiah Tipple wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JIM C. HINES made his professional debut in 1998 with “Blade of the Bunny,” an award-winning story that appeared in Writers of the Future XV. Since then, his short fiction has been featured in more than fifty magazines and anthologies. He’s written ten books, including Libriomancer, The Stepsister Scheme, and the humorous Goblin Quest series. He promises that no chickens were harmed in the making of this book.
www.jimchines.com
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@jimchines