Fable: Blood of Heroes (7 page)

He nodded. “First in the belly, then in the side.”

Glory looked around. Most of the gathered workers had pushed back their head coverings, so she could see a few dusty faces wrinkle as they realised something about that story wasn’t quite right.

“What about the others?” asked Winter. “How did they die?”

Several men responded at once, pressing closer to Winter. “Connor tied himself up and jumped off the dam. He’d bound rocks to his feet to make sure he’d drown. A fisherman hooked him two days later, in the shade where the dam meets the mountainside. Good fishing there. I once caught a trout big enough to feed a family of four.”

“Little Rob cut off his head with an axe.”

“If the rest of you are any indication, he won’t miss it.” Glory sighed. “Did Billy say anything about what he was doing, or where this new foreman had taken him?”

“They were all sworn to secrecy.” The woman spat in the dirt. “I noticed his boots were muddy, though. It’s not rained in five days.”

So they were working somewhere wet and presumably hidden from view. “The other men who died—Connor and the Big and Little Robs—they were on this secret project as well?”

“That’s right.”

“Thank you for your help, milady.” Sterling captured the woman’s hand and brought it to his lips, leaving a kiss-shaped smudge in the dust on her skin. “The truth is a powerful weapon, and we shall use it to strike down all who threaten Brightlodge. And Grayrock too, of course.”

“I don’t know about all that, but if you need any other kind of help, you know where to find me.” She winked and blew Sterling a kiss.

“Keep your sword in its sheath,” Glory snapped. “We’ve work to do.”

The Mayor had lied to them. As a Hero, she intended to build such a reputation that no one would dare try to play her for a fool. That meant letting the world know what happened to those who tried.

Sterling cleared his throat and nodded towards her hand, where red light shone through the cracks between her fingers. “On you, dear Glory, even rage is like the beauty of a fresh-bloomed rose. I’ve no doubt you could make a man welcome death. But before you bring the Mayor’s tower down around his head, keep in mind that it’s difficult to extract information from a corpse.”

“Difficult, but not impossible.” Glory quenched her magic and flashed a brilliant smile. “I’m not interested in killing him. Merely in persuading him to tell us the truth.”

The Mayor’s tower was a round, two-storey building on the edge of the town square, with a single wooden doorway and a series of arched windows on the second floor.

“You really think the Mayor’s plotting against Brightlodge?” asked Winter. “He doesn’t come across as the evil-mastermind type.”

“Oh, Winter.” Glory gave her a too-friendly smile. “You of all people should be careful about judging others by their appearance.”

Winter matched her expression. “Oh, but I judge for so much more than just looks.”

“The door’s locked,” said Sterling. “I don’t see movement through those windows.”

“Allow me.” Shroud pulled out what looked like a small knife handle with a series of metal rods folded into the hilt. He unfolded one of the rods and crouched in front of the lock.

“Excellent,” said Sterling. “Winter, why don’t you stay to assist Shroud in his endeavours, while Glory and I visit the Mayor’s home.”

Subtlety was not one of Sterling’s strengths. Not that there was any need for him to play peacemaker. Winter might be an unmannered rube, but she was still a Hero. Not a particularly impressive one, perhaps, but presumably useful nonetheless.

The Mayor and his family lived two streets over, just north of the square. Their house was twice the size of any other in Grayrock, which wasn’t saying much. Smoke rose from the chimney, and Glory heard children arguing inside.

The woman who answered the door had a face like creased leather. She wore a dark green bodice and skirt over a white chemise. Nothing fancy, but a far sight nicer than the average quarry worker. “What is it?” she asked warily.

“Is the Mayor home?” Glory smiled. “We had a few more questions about the Ghost of Grayrock.”

“Haven’t seen him. He usually gets in after me and the boys have gone to bed, and lately he’s been out the door before the rest of us have had a chance to rub the sleep grit from our eyes.”

“Missus …” Glory waited for the woman to provide her name.

“Mrs. Mayor, please.”

“Really?” Glory looked past her into the house. “Is there a Mayor Junior running around back there? Perhaps playing with his sister Mayora?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want with Mayora? Has she been snogging with that no-good rock-for-brains Kris again?”

“What my fellow Hero means to say is that your husband is obviously a gentleman of fine taste.” Sterling’s bow included so many flourishes it was practically a dance routine. “Where might we find him at this hour, to seek his wisdom and counsel?”

“I couldn’t say.” The woman was clearly nervous, fidgeting and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. But was she nervous because she knew what her husband was up to, or simply intimidated by the two Heroes who had shown up at her door?

Glory folded her arms and waited, stretching out the silence before finally saying, “Mrs. Mayor, your husband lied to me. I find this upsetting. How upset I become depends on how long it takes me to find him, and how many obstacles I have to overcome in the meantime.”

The woman drew herself up. “Are you threatening me, missy?”

“Yes.” Glory opened her hand and concentrated. Mrs. Mayor leaned closer, curiosity overpowering fear, as tendrils of red and orange light blossomed from Glory’s palm and spun themselves into the shape of an apple. Flames danced eagerly along the surface.

She tossed the glowing red apple into the air, where it exploded into flames with a sound like a miniature thunderclap. Heat washed over Glory’s face, and Mrs. Mayor’s hair whooshed back as if blown by a powerful wind.

“You and your husband are important people. Possibly the most powerful people in all of Grayrock.” Glory made a show of wiping the dust from her hand. “We aren’t from Grayrock.”

“Now, now.” Sterling winked at the Mayor’s wife. “You’ll have to forgive my companion. She gets terribly jealous whenever I pay the slightest attention to another beautiful woman.”

“Keep it up,” commented Glory. “I’ll make sure you’re unable to gift a woman with your … attention … ever again.” She peeked past Mrs. Mayor to the small wooden bench sitting on one side of the entryway. A drying puddle of grey mud outlined a pair of boot prints. The people at the quarry had mentioned Billy’s boots being muddy too. “Does your husband have an office in his home?”

“He does, but he doesn’t let anyone else in, not even me or the children.”

Glory strode past, ignoring her protests. A pair of young children played beneath the kitchen table, while a young woman—another daughter, or perhaps a servant—roasted quail over a fire. Two doors in a back hallway opened into bedrooms. The third was locked.

Sterling turned to go. “I can bring Shroud to—”

“No need.” Glory conjured a smaller apple and tossed it onto the door. The explosion splintered much of the wood and part of the surrounding wall. The smouldering latch fell with a dull clunk.

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Mayor stomped on the tiny, smoking embers on the floor. “He’s going to be so angry about this.”

Glory paused. “If he threatens to lay so much as a finger on you, kindly tell him I’ll be along to burn it off.”

“You can do that?” She looked over her shoulder. “Tell me, have you ever done babysitting work?”

Glory didn’t dignify that with a response. She stepped into the small office and looked about. There wasn’t much here worth guarding: a small pouch of coins, an old sword desperately in need of oil and a whetstone, and a map of Grayrock spread out on a wobbly table. Crude sketches showed plans for what appeared to be a tunnel beneath the dam.

“What are they digging for?” asked Glory.

The woman took a step back. “All he told me was that we’d finally have the lives we deserved.”

“Either money or power,” she guessed. It always came down to one of the two. “Whatever he’s doing, he doesn’t want anyone else finding out. That’s why he killed those men, to protect his secret.”

“To be fair, we don’t
know
the Mayor was behind those deaths,” said Sterling, but he sounded dubious.

Mrs. Mayor shook her head, her face pale. “He wouldn’t—you’re lying. It was the ghost.”

“No doubt she’s involved too, whoever she is,” Glory said. “And we’ll deal with her as well. But your husband is helping her.”

“You’re wrong.” The Mayor’s wife folded her arms and steeled herself. “She’s the true evil. That woman is worse than a ghost. She’s a creature of death and smoke and darkness. She steals the innocent from their beds and lures good people to their destruction. If my husband has done these things, it’s only because of her.”

Glory had grown up watching her father negotiate with customers and fellow traders. She’d learned more than he ever imagined, including when to push and when to offer kindness. “You might be right,” she said gently. Having taken the woman’s mental balance, it was time to reel her in. “If so, riches won’t be enough to stop her. The ghost, whatever she is, will continue to endanger Grayrock. Your friends. Your children. You said she destroys good people. Is your husband a good man?”

“He’s …” She hesitated. “Well, I suppose he’s a pretty good man. Doesn’t hog the blankets. Doesn’t usually miss the piss pot in the middle of the night.”

“How charming,” Glory said flatly. “Mrs. Mayor, the fact is, four of the men he’s working with have turned up dead. If not by his hand, then that means the ghost is killing them off one by one. Eventually, it will be his turn.”

“They call us Heroes,” Sterling said, swelling up like a rooster about to crow. “But it falls to you to save your husband’s life. Find your courage and lend us your aid, my dear lady. Tell us what it is your husband seeks and prove yourself a Hero. Rescue the man you love. Rescue all the people of Grayrock. Indeed, from your ruby lips could pour the knowledge that rescues all of Albion.”

Glory rolled her eyes, but his overblown words worked.

“I heard him talking in his sleep a few nights back,” Mrs. Mayor whispered. “He said there was gold buried in the foundation of the dam.”

Glory rubbed her brow. “The Mayor of Grayrock has taken a team to dig away at the dam’s foundation. The dam that’s the only thing stopping the river from flooding this town like an enormous bucket.”

“A little water never hurt anyone,” said Mrs. Mayor. “You’ve seen these people. They could use a good bath.”

Glory turned to leave. “I don’t know whether or not your husband is a good man, Mrs. Mayor. But I can state with certainty that he is a very
stupid
man.”

CHAPTER 6

SHROUD

S
hroud carefully fitted the “Shadow Whisperer” beaver-fur silencer into place. It looked like a fat brown caterpillar trying to engage in unnatural acts with the upper portion of his bowstring, but the fur had proven the best thing for muffling the distinctive
twang
of his weapon. He finished securing the second silencer to the lower part of the string, tested the draw, and nodded to himself.

As was often the case, he found himself silently repeating the lessons and advice of his Conclave masters. He had memorised every word they spoke. His memory was one of many gifts that had propelled him to the top of his class and set him upon the path to becoming the top assassin in all of Albion.

Know your environment. If you’re venturing into caves or tunnels, you’ll often be dealing with a lot of moisture. Traction will be an issue, and too much humidity can harm your bow. Beeswax rubbed into the wood should minimise the damage.

He had already treated the bow. From his pack, he pulled out a pair of what looked like oversized black sandals with leather ties. He stepped onto the first, placing the sole of his boot in the centre of the print, and looped the ties around his foot and ankle. “Sharkskin. Good gripping power, and unlikely to be affected by dampness. They’re useful for climbing, too.”

“We’d like to get inside before sunset,” Glory said.

“A rushed job is a botched job.” He tied the second piece of sharkskin to his other boot and took a few steps to make sure everything was secure. Next, he double-checked the various knives and other tools strapped to his body and tucked away in his cloak. “Proper planning is one of the things that separates the amateurs from the professionals.”

“What are the others?” asked Winter.

“Training. Discipline.” He adjusted his black hood and smiled. “Style.”

He stepped back to assess the dam, which was essentially an oversized curved wall of grey blocks. Darker streaks marked where water had spilled over the top, filling a shallow pond at the base of the dam. Moss and weeds clung to the blocks, thickest near the edges. To one side, the dam merged smoothly into the mountain. To the other, it sheared away to join the wall around the town. A small guard tower stood at the intersection.

The Mayor had tried to hide what he was up to, but it hadn’t been difficult for Shroud to discover the fresh tracks through the gardens at the eastern edge of the pond, or the dying branches piled up to cover the tunnel where the dam met the mountainside.

He pulled a random arrow from his quiver and checked the tip.

“We don’t even know for certain that the Mayor is in there,” said Winter. “And you’re already planning to kill him.”

“I’m already
prepared
to kill him. There’s an important difference.” It was a difference drilled into Shroud by some of the deadliest men and women in all of Albion. Only a select few were selected for initiation into Albion’s oldest order of assassins. Of those who proved themselves worthy to be trained by the Conclave, fewer than half survived the training process.

Shroud had not only survived, he had excelled. He knew the twelve best knots to use when preparing a garrotte. He could demonstrate all twenty-six techniques for killing a man with his own soup spoon. As an archer, his marksmanship had impressed even the shadowy masters of the Conclave.

“Is there anyone you aren’t prepared to kill?” asked Winter.

“Certainly.” He made a show of studying each of his companions in turn. “Me.”

Shroud had no intention of killing his fellow Heroes—not unless they gave him good reason to do so. Or if someone paid him. Or if he saw the opportunity to inflict a truly memorable and impressive death, one that would significantly add to his reputation. Regardless, he rather enjoyed the sidelong looks they gave him, as if he were a serpent, sleek and deadly and unpredictable. He turned and gestured “after you” with one arm.

Sterling was the first to step through that jagged crack into the darkness. He was the only one of the group who seemed comfortable turning his back on Shroud. Foolish man. But it would make killing him easier should that become necessary.

Sterling came across as a stuck-up, overly romantic peacock, but the man could fight. Shroud had seen him in action, his blade jumping from one foe to the next, striking so quickly his enemies didn’t have time to realise they had been slain. If there ever came a day when Sterling needed to be removed, Shroud would be better off doing so from a distance. A single well-placed arrow, probably a broadhead. Or else he would simply arrange an “accident” to divert suspicion.

You’ll always be a suspect. Members of the Conclave wear death as a second cloak.

That was true enough, but suspicion was a far cry from proof.

Shroud followed Sterling into the cave. The air was cool and damp. Water dripped in the distance. The tunnel was broader than he would have expected. Had he been the one digging for treasure, he would have kept the entrance as tight as possible to better conceal it.

Glory was next. Her magic made her a very different challenge than Sterling, but the Conclave had trained him to eliminate the most powerful targets, including both those with great Strength or Skill and those who used their Will to manipulate the supernatural. Magic was a dangerous weapon, but like any weapon, it had limitations. In a straightforward fight, Shroud was confident he could plant a blade in Glory’s chest faster than she could summon her magic to use against him.

Of course, a straightforward fight was always a last resort.

Shroud moved soundlessly ahead. By the time he was five steps in, it was too dim to make out anything but shadows and shapes. After ten steps, vision was useless.

Torchlight would alert the Mayor to their presence, but darkness presented dangers of its own. A single misstep could lead to a twisted ankle, and they had no way of knowing what other creatures might have taken up residence in a place like this. And to Shroud’s ear, the footfalls of his companions might as well have been an army marching in full plate armour.

“Allow me,” he whispered, slipping past Sterling. He brushed the man’s shoulder with one hand, using the other to follow the roughness of the wall. He tested each step before shifting his weight.

How many months had he spent training to fight while blind or deaf? He touched his face, remembering the rough cotton blindfold his teachers had tightened around his eyes. His opponent for those bouts had been an old master known as the Poisoned Violet, who took great pleasure in beating the tar out of him day after day until he learned to hear the softest footfall, to feel every disturbance in the air. Ah, the good old days.

The path sloped deeper underground before veering to the left, towards the dam’s foundation. They hadn’t gone far when he began to hear the clink of metal on rock.

“Idiots,” Glory said softly. “All it would take is for a single block to shift, and the water rushing into the tunnel would drown them all.”

“More likely they—and we—would be crushed in the cave-in,” said Shroud. Once the structure of the dam failed, the weight of the rock would flatten anyone caught inside like mosquitoes.

“You two suck all the fun out of exploring dark, dangerous tunnels,” whispered Winter.

Winter was as deadly as anyone else in their little band. She fought using her Will to conjure ice and cold. Unlike Glory, her technique was more instinctive. Winter’s power could slow or even immobilise an enemy. To take her out, it would be best to divert her attention and trick her into expending that arctic power in another direction. Perhaps a whistling arrow, shot into the distance to simulate the approach of some shrieking creature … 

He nodded to himself, satisfied that he could dispose of any of his companions if necessary. Not that he expected to have to do so, but it was better to be prepared. Planning kept his mind sharp. It was one of the things that had always given him the edge over others in his classes.

His eyes began to discern the distant glow of a hanging lantern, illuminating jagged walls, glassy puddles, and bat guano. “Wait here.”

He crept silently ahead. A short distance beyond, a second lantern hung on a metal spike in the rock. Farther in, roughly twenty men worked in a small cavern. They had exposed three of the great stone blocks that formed the foundation of the dam, and were slowly chipping away at the centremost stone. Four others were piling dirt and rubble into wagons. Shroud wondered idly where they were taking the waste rock.

And then what he had assumed to be another rock pile trudged away from the wall, and surprise chased any other questions or concerns from his mind. He didn’t see the Mayor anywhere, but they had a bigger problem: The Mayor’s new foreman was an ogre.

Most ogres couldn’t supervise themselves, let alone a crew of twenty, but this one was not only shouting orders, she—Shroud was 70 percent certain the ogre was female—was even using complete sentences. Mostly.

The ogre resembled a boulder herself, round, grey, and craggy. She made the workers look like little dolls. A trio of daggers hung from her left ear like jewellery. In one hand, she carried an axe that looked capable of splitting the dam all by itself. The top of her head was bruised and bloody where it had scraped the low rock ceiling again and again, but none of the injuries looked serious enough to slow her down.

A pair of ogre heads hung from her belt like enormous, hairy grey prunes. A third was suspended by a rusty chain around her neck and sat nested in the chasm of the ogre’s cleavage. A fourth was tied to the end of a stick slung over her back.

Four noggins. Strange
… 
most ogres only carry one.

One of the reasons ogres were so tough to kill was that their anatomy was so thoroughly ridiculous. Cut off the head, and the body would eventually stop trying to kill you, but the head would keep jabbering away. Their vital organs—the heart and what passed for a brain—were both housed in their rocky skulls.

Ogres were generally born in pairs. When they grew up, the stronger twin killed the weaker and took his or her head as a trophy, companion, and source of advice. Those unfortunate noggins tended to be smarter than their full-bodied brothers and sisters, perhaps because they had nothing to do except think and talk. This allowed the victorious ogre to worry about more important things, like eating and killing.

Go for the soft targets: belly, throat, groin, and eyes.

One of the heads on her belt blinked. “Hey, who said it was time to rest?”

The ogre marched towards a worker who had slumped against the wall to mop sweat from his face. He snatched up his hammer and attacked the rock with newfound vigour, while the various heads chuckled to themselves.

“
That
is no ghost,” Winter whispered. The clang of hammers helped to muffle her voice.

“Not yet.” Shroud allowed himself a small, unseen smile. He spied a fifth head strapped to the ogre’s opposite hip, though this one wore a gag of rope and old rags.

“There’s another one in the corner,” Glory whispered, pointing to an older-looking head nested among a pile of rocks.

Using the noggins to keep watch in every direction at once. Clever.

He could have shot the ogre from here, but arrows were a gamble. A perfect shot to the eye
might
penetrate through the socket to the brain, but this was an ogre. Piercing the brain might just make her mad.

Perhaps a flash bomb to blind the noggins. That would nullify much of the ogre’s advantage. If Shroud and his companions struck quickly, they could take her down in the confusion. A standard-issue Laird-Eastman Eyeburner Bomb would work best in this confined environment. He plucked a black egg from a padded inner pocket in his cloak. “You’ll want to shield your eyes.”

Shroud pulled his cloak around his body, transforming himself into shadow. He shook the egg gently, feeling the contents warm as they mixed together. A sharp impact against something solid—like an ogre’s skull—would be more than enough to crack the shell and trigger the reaction. He double-checked that his bow and arrows were ready, raised his arm—

A gravelly shout erupted mere feet from where he was standing. A seventh noggin stared up at him from the shadows. He had mistaken it for a rock. This one had braided pigtails, of all things. “Oi, Headstrong! Visitors!”

Headstrong the ogre spun around, raised her weapon, and bared enormous yellow teeth.

With a curse, Shroud snatched the noggin off the ground and crammed the Eyeburner into its mouth. The head squawked in muffled protest as Shroud grabbed both pigtails, spun around, and hurled it at the approaching ogre.

Headstrong reacted in typical fashion for her kind, swatting the noggin away with the flat of her axe.

The blow was more than enough to set off the flash bomb, and the resulting explosion reduced the number of noggins to six, as well as effectively blinding all those who hadn’t covered their eyes. Even through his hands and closed eyelids, it was like Shroud had stared at the midday sun. He blinked rapidly as he nocked an arrow—a hardened bodkin tip had the best chance of penetrating the ogre’s hide. He sighted in on the blurred form and released the string.

Cold wind caught the end of his cloak as Winter launched her own assault. Sterling bounded past with sword drawn, eliciting a curse from Glory, who had to smother her magic to avoid hitting him.

“Fear not, good people of Grayrock,” Sterling cried. “Sterling, Hero of Albion, has come to free you from your tormentor. Behold the legend!” He thrust his sword, jabbing Headstrong in the thigh.

The ogre spun to the side and swept her axe through the air, but Sterling had already danced out of range. The wound didn’t slow her down. She continued to whip her axe to and fro, drawing unpredictable patterns of steel all around her as a noggin with a ragged scar through the remnants of her left eye and ear barked orders.

“Keep moving! Don’t let ’em get close. Chop that one like a melon!”

Another noggin, this one with a snot-covered ring through his nose, said, “Chase ’em into the tunnel. Make ’em trip over each other. Forget the axe. Yer stench will drive ’em back!”