by Jim C. Hines
The pig ignored the former regent.
It wasn’t as exciting a foe as Nimble John and his band of outlaws, but Inga knew damn well the damage a full-grown pig could do once it worked itself into a fit.
“I’ve got him,” said Rook, raising his crossbow.
“First off, that’s a she.” Inga stepped between the grizzled veteran and the charging sow. “Second, the poor thing’s obviously scared to death. You don’t have to shoot everything that looks at you funny, you know.”
“I don’t have to, no.” But he lowered his weapon and nodded at her to proceed.
Inga grabbed an apple from the fruit cart on the side of the road and hurled it up the street. The sow skidded to a halt. After a cautious sniff, she snatched it up and gulped half of the fruit in one bite.
Inga moved towards the animal, trying to minimise the noise of her armour. She hardly noticed the weight these days, any more than she did the enormous wood-and-brass shield strapped to her arm, but to a poor, frightened animal, she must be a terrifying sight.
“Where are you running to in such a hurry?” she asked. “Poor girl. You must be starving after all that fussing about.”
The pig snorted and lowered her head. Saliva bubbled from her mouth, and she made a popping sound with her jaw. Whatever had sent her racing through the streets of Brightlodge, she was riled up and ready to trample anything that got in her way. The sow was fully grown and probably weighed as much as Inga did.
“Rook, circle around behind her right flank,” said Inga. “Walk slowly towards her. Try to herd her my way.”
Rook’s snort sounded a lot like the sow’s, but he did as she instructed. He kept his crossbow ready as he approached.
“Everyone stay calm,” Inga called. “Tipple, find us some rope. Leech, take the left flank.”
The pig finished scarfing down the apple. Inga smiled and made an encouraging clicking noise with her tongue. The sow’s filthy black hoofs clopped against the street as it stepped closer, snuffling and sniffing.
“There you are!” A furious-looking man roughly the same size, build, and cleanliness as the sow stomped up the road, a heavy stick clutched in one hand. The pig emitted an ear-stabbing squeal and fled … directly towards Inga.
“What did you have to do that for?” Inga lowered her stance and met the sow head-on with her shield. It was like an ogre had flung a boulder at her, but Inga was the girl who had once knocked out a pain-maddened cow back home to stop it from trampling some village children. She could handle this.
Her boots skidded along the street. The sow pushed her into the fruit cart, which toppled over backwards. Inga shifted her angle and used her shield to shove the sow sideways, then lunged to grab one of the rear legs.
The squeals grew louder. The sow kicked and struggled to break free of her grip. They crashed onto the fruit cart, crushing its spilled contents into jelly, but Inga held tight. “Easy, girl. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
Jeremiah Tipple cinched a rope around the sow’s neck and added his bulk and strength to Inga’s. The sow shrieked and convulsed one last time, then the fight seemed to drain out of her.
“Doesn’t look like much of a threat,” Tipple boomed. Whereas Rook was quiet and deadly, Jeremiah Tipple was loud, boisterous, and more often than not, intoxicated. But also deadly, in his own way. “Maybe we could put a hat on her head, call her a redcap, toss her in the stocks, and retire to the Cock and Bard?”
Inga stretched out her leg and hooked another apple with her foot, kicking it towards the sow. The animal snorted again but snatched the apple and began to chew.
“You’d need nails to make it convincing,” said Leech. “Redcaps don’t take chances when it comes to losing their caps. They believe the caps are magic and that a redcap without a hat becomes a deadcap.”
He looked to the others expectantly, and his shoulders sank when no laughter followed. The only reaction came from the sow, who shifted and kicked anxiously. Leech had that effect sometimes.
While not a large man, the plague mask Leech wore gave him an inhuman appearance. A leather cone covered his face like an oversized beak. Red-tinted glass lenses were worked into the leather above the beak, like the eyes of an enormous insect. The bulk of the mask was stuffed with straw, mint, and rose petals. The pleasant smell was a sharp contrast to the pouches and jars he carried about his person, filled with leeches and blood and all manner of nastiness. A broad-brimmed hat shaded his head, and a green cloak hung from his shoulders.
“Thanks for catching her,” called the man with the staff. His eyes widened. “You’re some of them Heroes, aren’t you?”
“Right you are,” Tipple said.
The man fumbled about his person. “The wife’s a big fan. Would you mind autographing Bacon for her?”
Inga’s ears were still ringing from the pig’s squeals. She reached down to scratch the animal’s bristly neck. “You named her Bacon?”
“That’s right. Named her after my dear departed mum.”
Inga glanced at Rook, who rolled his eyes. To the pig’s owner, she asked, “You want us to sign your pig?”
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
Leech was already dipping a quill into a bottle of indigo liquid. He drew an illegible scrawl over the pig’s rump. The fur caused the ink to smear and run, but the man didn’t seem to care. Leech passed the quill to Tipple.
“We’re supposed to be searching for outlaws and a redcap,” Inga said.
“The redcap?” Bacon’s owner scowled. “No good looking around here. The filthy thing busted the gate on my pen earlier this morning, then ran off. Killed three of my animals and set the trough on fire. I’ve been chasing pigs all morning.”
“Did you see where the redcap went?” asked Inga.
“Didn’t see it, but I heard it laughing and shrieking.” The man pointed eastward.
Brightlodge was spread out over a series of small, interconnected islands, most of which had only a few ways on or off. If they could corral the redcap, trap him on one of the smaller islands, they’d have a much easier time of it. “Thank you.”
“Wait, you haven’t signed Bacon yet!”
Inga snatched the quill and scribbled her name. The ghost of Old King Wendleglass crouched on the other side. It looked like he was trying to stamp the pig’s ear with his spectral signet ring. The pig shook her head in annoyance, and the dead king gave up, vanishing to wherever it was ghosts went when they weren’t following Heroes about.
“What about my cart?” A woman was straining to right the overturned fruit cart.
Inga hurried over to help. “We’re sorry about the mess. We didn’t mean to—”
“Who’s going to pay for all this?”
Tipple picked another apple off the ground, wiped it on his shirt, and flipped a coin to the woman. “Put the rest on the redcap’s tab.”
“Come on,” said Rook before the woman could argue further. “Before the trail grows cold.”
There was little risk of losing the redcap. It had apparently given up on secrecy, leaving a trail of destruction and chaos like a balverine in a glassware shop.
An old drunk showed them the mouse skull that had struck him in the ear. A pair of red-faced, dripping kids described how they had been snogging on the bridge when a hail of rocks knocked them into the water. A librarian pointed to the fresh urine stain on a tome he was carrying back from the bookbinder, and directed them towards the bridge to Library Island.
Across the bridge, Rook spotted the remains of the creature’s breakfast beside a drainage pipe where the island’s waste flowed into the water. Little remained but a scattering of bones and seagull feathers on the rocky slope beside the tunnel. Judging from the trail of well-gnawed bones, the redcap had continued to snack as it crawled into the sewer tunnels.
“Smells like the wrong end of an ogre in there,” said Tipple.
Leech was picking through the bones. He examined the seagull skull. With its beak, it look
ed distressingly like a miniature version of his plague mask. “Did you know bird bones are lighter than ours? They’re porous like cork, and—oh look, there’s still a bit of brain left in here!”
Inga strapped her shield to her back and hunched to peer into the tunnel.
“Oi, Ingadinger,” said Tipple. “Are you sure that overgrown slab of wood will fit through there?”
“Bulwark stays with me.” The enchanted shield had been her constant companion since the day she took it off a grave-robbing bandit in Pinescrub.
Even as she spoke, Bulwark stirred on her arm. From the metal-bound wood came the shadowy shape of a hand, which twisted into an old-fashioned but obscene gesture, telling Jeremiah Tipple exactly what it thought of his suggestion.
“Same to you, shield!” Tipple returned the gesture with both hands.
Inga had felt oddly protective of the shield from the moment she touched it. It reminded her of a stray mutt, desperate for affection and unfailingly loyal. To judge from the way Bulwark lent her its power, it felt the same way about her.
She stepped cautiously into the tunnel. Bulwark’s edge scraped the loose brick overhead, bringing down a sprinkle of what she hoped was dirt. She kept her feet to the edges, where the flow was shallowest. It meant walking like she was straddling a saddle, but it kept her boots out of the worst of the muck.
“What’s this forecast of doom and downfall all about, do you think?” she asked as they walked.
“Disease,” Leech guessed. “A good plague could wipe out the whole town in less than a month.” He followed a little too close for Inga’s comfort. She could feel his feet and body brushing against hers. She didn’t think he was afraid. Leech would happily confront—or dissect—things that would send most people screaming. Nor was it a clumsy attempt to get his hands on her. She had seen him do this indiscriminately, to men and women alike. Leech simply didn’t notice other people’s space the way everyone else did.
Tipple shook his head. “You want a real disaster, I heard a rumour Les at the Cock and Bard’s started watering down the ale. Any day now, there’ll be rioting in the streets.”
“Don’t waste time with groundless guesswork,” Rook said firmly. “Be prepared, and focus on the job.”
Inga twisted around. “We’re going to need a torch pretty soon.”
Rook pulled a brand from his pack. The moss-slimed rock didn’t appear to bother him, and he gave no sign of noticing the smell of waste. Then again, you could probably set Rook’s beard on fire and carve his pet crossbow into toothpicks, and he wouldn’t so much as blink.
Oh, he’d kill you dead for the slight against his beard and his weapon, but he’d be utterly stone-faced when he was doing it.
Jeremiah Tipple, on the other hand, looked green as an unripe tomato as he squeezed his way into the sewer.
“You all right there, big guy?” asked Inga.
Tipple belched. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Rook brought his torch close to the wall. “Someone’s been here.”
“We knew that,” Tipple snapped. “That’s the whole point of us rooting around like sewer rats.”
“Not the redcap.” Rook pointed to fresh scratches on the bricks. They looked like random white marks to Inga.
“Cellar guards?” she guessed. Before his demise, Old King Wendleglass had assigned a group of town guards to patrol the tunnels beneath the islands, chasing off the occasional creatures who tried to breach the city from below and repairing any damage. A section of cleaner brick up ahead showed where one of the walls had recently been replaced.
“Smugglers. I learned their signs when I was patrolling with the Strangers.” Rook traced three parallel slashes with his finger. “They use them to mark their territory. This one’s a warning about the guards.”
“Do they tell you where a man could find a privy?” asked Tipple.
Rook ignored him.
“Smugglers, eh?” asked Inga. “Looks like the little mite’s leading us right to Nimble John’s band, just like Wendleglass said he would.”
For Inga, this was what being a Hero was all about. Chasing monsters in the darkness, wading through the muck to protect the people of Albion.
The tunnel split a short distance ahead. The left passage was broad and dry, while the right smelled like a swamp after the first spring thaw.
“Left,” said Leech. “Redcaps avoid the water when they can. Like cats.”
Tipple looked pointedly at the right tunnel. “You think that sludge qualifies as water?”
“Sure. From the smell, I’d say water mixed with faeces, urine, rotting food, algae, mildew”—he adjusted his mask and sniffed—“and just a hint of vomit. None of that matters to a redcap. They’re just worried it will wash the blood out of their headgear.”
That was good enough for Inga. She turned the corner and caught a glimpse of movement in the distance. Her body reacted automatically, raising her left arm as the filthy, hunchbacked creature with the pointed red cap drew back his slingshot.
Something sharp crashed into her forearm where Bulwark should have been. An animal skull fell into the dirt at her feet. Manic laughter echoed through the tunnel as the redcap scampered away.
“Get back here, you pointy-headed pimple!” Tipple roared. “If you’re gonna ambush someone, do it to her face, like a man!”
The tunnels here were larger than the sewer and better maintained, but Inga still felt like a bull in a barrel. She shifted Bulwark onto her arm in case the next missile was deadlier. There was just enough room for her to hold it at an angle across the front of her body.
“Easy,” said Rook. “Only a fool charges into the monster’s lair.”
Inga nodded. The ground was hard-packed dirt, which muffled the redcap’s retreating footsteps. The walls were made of irregularly cut stone. Thick timbers helped to support the ceiling. She kept bumping the overhead beams with her shield.
The redcap couldn’t have gone far. This was one of Brightlodge’s smallest islands, housing little more than the library tower. There might be a few underground storage rooms where he could hide, or perhaps another tunnel running to the foundations of the bridge, but little more.
She couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor thing. Trapped underground, pursued by four armed Heroes. Did he realise how hopeless his situation was?
But he had started that fire, a fire that could have killed everyone in the tavern. Not to mention setting that sow free and all the other mischief he had caused. What if next time he attacked a child or an old woman? Worse, once he settled in to Brightlodge, would others follow like rats to a leaking grain sack?
Bulwark shifted of its own accord as she rounded the next corner. An arrow cracked against the wood. Inga glimpsed eight—no, nine—outlaws hunched behind an assortment of barrels and crates. She waved for the other Heroes to stop. The outlaws had been here for several days, judging from the rumpled blankets, discarded food, and remnants of an old cook fire. It looked like she had interrupted their breakfast.
Inga looked pointedly at the arrow on the ground. “I’m willing to pretend that didn’t happen.” She used the same tone her mother used to take with her when she came home covered in mud and blood. “Put down your weapons, and we can talk things out over some of that fish.”
“Forget the sewer fish,” Tipple called out. “What do they have to drink?”
A pair of chickens wandered aimlessly through the mess, searching for bugs. The redcap perched atop an empty cage, his manic smile displaying far too many teeth as he rocked from side to side.
“That redcap looks comfortable,” Inga said. “Is he with you?”
The man with the bow scowled. “Not by choice.”
“Nonsense.” Inga inched closer, ready to knock down anyone who so much as twitched. Bulwark’s surface rippled like the air over a sunbaked field as the shield gathered its power. “Granny Brody used to say even a fly can choose which cow pat to live on. Why hide away like animals in the dark
ness when you could fill your purses with honest work? Smithing or baking or—”
“Do we look like bakers to you, lady?” said another outlaw, this one nearly as large as Tipple. He picked up a small barrel and hurled it at her.
The barrel cracked against her shield, spilling fish and seawater onto the floor. The man scooped up a club and charged.
Inga drew her sword. “That was the wrong choice.”
CHAPTER 2
ROOK
Rook had begun assessing the outlaws the moment their arrow smacked into Inga’s shield. Only a single shot, suggesting a lone archer. He’d heard two distinct voices, plus the redcap, before all hell broke loose.
He jammed the end of his torch into a crack in the wall. “How many?”
“Nine.” This was followed by the distinctive sound of a heavy shield smashing a body to the ground. “Eight. Plus some chickens.”
Rook leaned around the corner and raised his weapon.
Your regular crossbow packed a decent punch, and probably would have been enough against this band of outlaws.
Rook preferred to carry more than enough. Much more.
That meant the Catsgut repeating crossbow: standard issue for the Strangers who patrolled the north. You could load multiple bolts into the oversized weapon. A series of weights and counterweights used the weapon’s own recoil to reset for the next shot. You lost a bit of accuracy, but you could empty a full magazine of bolts into your enemies in the time it took them to piss themselves. When you spent your days fighting hollow men freshly risen from the grave, not to mention the never-ending tide of other nasties, that Catsgut was a better friend than any man or woman.
Rook’s first three shots thudded into the outlaw’s chest. The man staggered back. He wasn’t dead, but he wouldn’t be doing much fighting with a punctured lung. The rest of the outlaws froze.
Amateurs. Rook took in the layout of the room in a single glance. Cracks of light from a shuttered lantern near the back illuminated the outlaws, plus the damn redcap. Three looked like your run-of-the-mill brawlers. Nothing special there. The fourth fellow could have been part giant.
