by Jim C. Hines
“Dibs!” shouted Tipple as he charged into the melee, clocking the giant with a roundhouse punch that sent him staggering.
One of the outlaws swung a heavy club at Inga’s head. She raised her shield at the last second. The crack of the impact sounded solid enough to split a boulder, but it was the club that cracked. The outlaw stared dumbly at his broken weapon.
Rookie mistake. Inga punched the back of his hand. A blow to those bones would hurt under any circumstances, but the hilt of her sword gave the strike more than enough power to shatter the man’s hand.
Rook searched for his next target. The archer had fallen back to the rear of the room, along with a hunched man covered in feathers and chicken crap. Then there was that crone hiding in the shadows—or was that a bloke? Too hard to tell beneath the vines of greasy hair and the loose layers of clothing. She was holding a human leg bone, to which she had tied strings of glass beads and what looked like a mummified fish head.
From the look of her, she was either the magical firepower for this little band or else she was utterly loony. Possibly both. Rook didn’t care to find out which. He stepped out to get a clear shot past Inga and put half a dozen bolts into the crone’s chest and gut.
“Careful.” Inga lashed out with her sword. “I don’t want to spend the day picking your prickles out of my armour.”
Tipple scooped up two staves from a broken barrel on the floor. He broke them both over the giant’s head with a roar, then unleashed a storm of punches to the fellow’s gut and face. Rook kept moving, trying to line up another shot. The archer was his next priority.
Before he could squeeze the trigger, the hunchback shouted a command, and four of the wandering chickens flew into the brawl. Some sort of sharpened steel spurs glinted on their claws and beaks. Rook adjusted his aim and shot one out of the air. “What is it with Albion and all these damned chickens?”
The birdmaster pointed at Rook. “Spike, kill!”
A rooster charged. In addition to the metal spurs the others wore, this one had hammered metal plates around his body, with additional spikes along the back. The bloody bird had better armour than most warriors.
Rook got one shot off, but the bolt ricocheted off the rooster’s tiny helmet, then a chicken launched itself at Rook’s face. Hooked metal claws reached for his eyeballs. Rook twisted aside and punched the bird out of the air.
The rooster jumped onto Rook’s boot and drove the steel beak-spur into his lower leg.
“Bloody hell!” He reached for the rooster, but the spiked armour protected the neck and back. It looked like there were blades strapped to the wings, too. With the way the thing was flapping and fussing, there was no way to get a good enough hold to wring its neck.
“Hah!” said Tipple. “Rook made a friend!”
Rook stepped back and finished cocking his crossbow, then kicked hard enough to launch the rooster into the air. From the pain and the blood, he guessed those beak spikes were barbed, too. He pulled the trigger, and a spray of missiles buzzed through the air to find the gaps in the bird’s armour. It hit the ground and didn’t move.
Warmth pulsed through Rook’s leg, and the pain of his wound eased. He glanced down. The bleeding had stopped, and the skin scarred over as he watched. Behind him, Leech stood with his hands outstretched. Rook wasn’t sure exactly how the man was able to pull life from one body and transfer it into another, but it got the job done. He tested the leg and nodded his thanks to Leech.
An arrow whizzed past. Rook dropped to one knee, sighted between Tipple’s legs, and shot the birdmaster in the thigh.
“Oi!” Tipple shouted. “Mind the goods!”
“Mind your own goods,” Inga shot back.
He laughed. “Not in the middle of a fight, Ingaling!”
One of the outlaws staggered, pale and off balance, despite the lack of any visible injuries. That would be the source of whatever healing Leech had pumped into Rook’s leg. There was always a price to be paid, but sometimes it was nice to let someone else foot the bill. Tipple boxed the drained outlaw about the ears, and he dropped.
Rook stepped forwards to club a chicken off Inga’s back. Half the outlaws were down, and the rest looked to be losing their nerve. The archer had fled down the tunnel, and the birdmaster was limping after, howling and clutching his leg. No discipline at all. Rook shot him in the back.
Now, where had the bloody redcap run off to?
One of the remaining outlaws, a bulky man whose rags and mismatched scraps of armour appeared slightly newer than the rest, shouted, “Get back here, you worthless cowards. Don’t let them—”
Shadows lurched and danced as the redcap yanked the lantern from the wall and clubbed the outlaw on the head. The outlaw caught the redcap by the wrist and tried to wrench the lantern away, but the little beggar was tougher than he appeared. He kicked the outlaw square in the groin, then went right back to beating him about the head.
“I’m starting to like this fellow,” said Tipple.
Again and again, the redcap swung, sparks shooting from each impact as the lantern cracked and broke. Burning oil spread to the man’s hair, then to his tattered cape.
Screaming, the outlaw finally peeled his attacker loose and threw him aside. He tried to shove past Inga, presumably hoping to douse himself in the sewer beyond. A thrust of Inga’s blade put an end to the man’s worries.
With that, the fight was all but over. The outlaws—and chickens—were either dead or fled. Rook was tempted to chase after the ones who had escaped, but they had a head start and knew the terrain. Let them run. Men who panicked left a clearer trail.
“Not bad.” Routing a nest of outlaws from the sewers might not be the glamourous adventure most people imagined when they daydreamed about becoming Heroes, but it was all part of the job. Today, that job had been both quick and efficient. Some of his companions were a little short on experience, but they fought well.
“That was fun.” Tipple brushed his hands together and belched. “So much for death and doom and whatever.”
“Cockiness killed the cat,” said Rook.
Leech looked up from examining the corpses. “I thought it was curiosity.”
“That too.” Curiosity, cockiness, carelessness … cats didn’t survive long in the Deadlands.
For generations, the Strangers had guarded Albion against whatever the Deadlands to the north cared to throw at them. But you didn’t beat back the nightmares with enthusiasm or overconfidence; you did it with skill, a cool head, and a well-kept weapon.
Tipple was a tough old bastard. Looking at the bodies sprawled throughout the room, you couldn’t question the man’s effectiveness. And there was something to be said for raw, unbridled arse-kicking. But the man lacked the discipline Rook had grown used to among the Strangers.
“Right.” Rook pointed his crossbow at the redcap, who was gleefully laughing and jumping about, searching for more things to set on fire. “Where can we find Nimble John the outlaw, and what’s with this pending-doom nonsense?”
Inga put a hand on Rook’s arm. “He helped us.”
“Redcaps can’t tell one human being from another.” Tipple rubbed his eyes and looked around. “Wait, what were we talking about?”
“Inga’s right,” said Leech. “He spent the whole fight watching that particular outlaw, waiting for the chance to kill him.”
The redcap had begun singing to itself, a high-pitched rhyme about bones and stones. He grabbed a blanket and held it over the burning body of the outlaw until it caught fire, then dropped it and grabbed one of the dead chickens. Singing happily, he began plucking the chicken and tossing feathers onto the flames.
“You think he led us here deliberately?” asked Inga.
Rook’s nose wrinkled. The stench of burning plumage was enough to turn even his stomach. “What’s your story, redcap?”
The creature set the partially plucked bird on the fire, then scampered about, searching for additional fuel. Leech snatched a book out of h
is reach, and the redcap hissed in frustration.
“What is it?” asked Tipple.
Leech turned the pages. “Looks like someone’s diary. Oh, here’s a ‘To Do’ list dated last week.”
1. Unload shipment from Grayrock.
2. Find redcaps.
3. Get paid.
4. Buy beer and second pair of underwear.
He flipped to the last entry. “There’s a badly sketched map noting the location of the pubs—”
“Important information,” Tipple said solemnly. “When I first got to Brightlodge, I wasted an entire half hour finding the nearest pub!”
“—and a reminder to get out before Brightlodge is overrun,” Leech finished.
The others fell silent. Rook stepped sideways, keeping his crossbow pointed at the redcap. Something about this place gnawed at him like a hound with a fresh boar hoof. This wasn’t the first criminal lair he had cleared out, and for the most part, it was no different from any other: stolen goods, the smell of lousy cooking, unkempt bedrolls … most outlaws were sadly lacking in discipline.
He crouched to examine the empty cage near the back. Muddy feathers and bird crap littered the bottom. This was where the birdmaster had kept his killer chickens. But the bars of the cage were the width of Rook’s finger. That was overkill even for these birds.
The bars had corroded. One was broken loose at the bottom. It looked like it had been shoved out from the inside. A bit of red thread hung from the rust near the top.
The redcap went still, all of his attention on Rook. He found this sudden attentiveness far more disturbing than the redcap’s earlier madness.
The thread was stiff. Dry blood flaked away on Rook’s fingertips. He held it to the firelight, comparing the colour to the pointed hat drooping over the redcap’s nose. “They locked you up, too, did they? That’s why you killed that outlaw?”
The redcap didn’t move.
“ ‘Find redcaps,’ ” Inga said. “That’s what the book said. But what did they do with them once they found them?” She stepped closer. “He wasn’t locked up. He was coming to rescue his friends.”
“Redcaps don’t have friends,” said Tipple. “Not like us Heroes. Come ’ere and give Jeremiah Tipple a hug, you!”
While Inga evaded Tipple’s embrace, Rook used a knife to sift through the mess in the cage. He found a chipped tooth among the feathers and crap, along with several bloodstains on the floor. “How many, redcap?”
The redcap held up three fingers.
Rook looked at the cage. “That’s a tight fit. Especially squeezed in with the birds.”
The redcap shrugged and waved his fingers again, then jammed the middle one up his right nostril.
“He led us here,” said Inga. “He got our attention—”
“By trying to burn down the bloody pub,” Tipple interrupted.
“—and once we reached the tunnels, he left a trail even a blind dog could track.” Inga’s tone softened. “But you were too late to save them. What’s your name?”
Bloodshot yellow eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Blue.”
“Blue the redcap?” Tipple chuckled. “How’d you end up with a name like that?”
“Blue flames in the eyes,” said the redcap. “Always whisperin’ nasty lies.” He held a chicken feather over the small fire and stared, entranced, as it shrivelled and blackened.
“What happened to the rest of the redcaps?” asked Inga.
“Bones and stones. Stones and bones. Magic groans.”
Tipple threw up his arms. “Well, that explains everything.”
“Splintered bone makes a serviceable weapon.” Rook searched the ground. It didn’t take him long to find a broken chicken bone the length of his finger. The end was dark with blood, though it was impossible to say whether that blood belonged to the chicken or one of the outlaws. “So do rocks.”
Blue smiled and rocked back and forth, staring into the distance like he was reliving a pleasant memory.
“I’ve found the other redcaps,” Leech called.
They found him standing over three corpses, a short distance up the tunnel. Old blood darkened the ground. Leech had already unrolled a leather tool kit, and was using a pair of pliers to try to remove one of the nails securing the cap to a redcap’s skull. “I want to see if removing the hat causes any changes, postmortem.”
Rook studied the bodies. What was the profit in imprisoning redcaps in the first place? It wasn’t like you could ransom them back to their families, and keeping prisoners alive was a bigger headache than most people imagined. Especially nonhuman prisoners.
“Bones and stones and groans and crones,” Blue chanted.
The outlaws had cut the redcaps’ throats. Rook pinched the dirt between his fingers. The dark clumps crumbled under pressure. “There’s not enough blood.”
“How much do you need?” Tipple asked.
“No, he’s right,” said Leech. “Three bodies that size, we ought to be standing in enough blood to fill a bucket or two.”
Rook turned back to the redcap, his crossbow pointed not so subtly at the creature’s leg. “What did they want from you?”
“Give him a drink,” suggested Tipple. “Strong ale loosens tongues and morals both. And occasionally bladders.”
“Right, because what we need now is a drunk redcap,” said Inga.
Rook was tempted to just shoot the redcap and head out to track the rest of the outlaws, but experience and instinct both told him there was more going on here. The outlaws had slain redcaps, but this particular redcap hadn’t been a prisoner. Had he tricked the outlaws into trusting him, only to betray them?
“Blue, do you know why those humans wanted redcaps?” asked Inga.
Blue shook his head.
People said redcaps were cursed, transformed by changeling magic. In that instant, Rook could believe it. Blue looked almost human, confused and exhausted. And then his expression turned crafty, and any trace of humanity vanished. “Heroes helped Blue. Blue will help you.”
“What kind of help?” Rook asked warily.
Blue grinned, showing off crooked, green-stained teeth. “Help kill outlaws. Kill Nimble John. Kill everybody!”
Tipple nudged the burning outlaw with his toe. “I take it this ain’t Nimble John, then.”
“Nimble John? Ha!” Blue spat on the body. “That’s Ugly, Stupid Weaselface.”
“Who’s this one?” asked Tipple.
Blue glanced over. “Ugly, Stupid Dogarse.”
With an exasperated sigh, Rook grabbed a coil of rope from beside the cage. The instant he turned towards Blue, the redcap shrieked in dismay and tried to flee, but in his panic, he ran face-first into Inga’s shield. He bounced off and fell to the floor like he’d collided with a mountain.
While Blue groaned and clutched his bleeding nose, Rook tied a quick noose and looped it over the redcap’s head. He pulled it snug, then coiled the rest of the rope over his shoulder.
“How’s a twisted-up wreck like you going to help us?” asked Tipple.
Blue climbed to his feet. His eyes went round as plates. “Magic.”
“You can do magic?” Tipple folded his arms.
“Very strong Will,” Blue snapped. In his enthusiasm for killing, he seemed to have forgotten to rhyme. Rook hoped that lapse continued.
Tipple sniffed. “Very strong stench is more like it.”
“Watch, watch.” Blue tugged what looked like an old finger bone from beneath the rags of his shirt.
Rook tensed, and even Inga readied her weapon, but the redcap didn’t act like he was trying to fight or escape. He seemed excited, bouncing in place and muttering as he gripped the old finger in both hands.
Blue closed his eyes. His forehead wrinkled like a prune. A rotted prune, one that had sat in the mud for three days in the hot sun. Veins bulged beneath his skin, and his muscles trembled.
“Will, Will, can’t sit still.” Blue rocked faster and faster, his body taut with concentration. Ro
ok rested his finger on the trigger of his weapon. This crossbow was as much a wife to him as any woman could be, and he knew precisely how far he could squeeze her trigger before she spat death from her maw. He brought the trigger to that razor-thin edge, until the slightest twitch would send a series of bolts into Blue’s throat. Any hint of attack, and Blue would be dead before he could blink.
Leech, Inga, and Tipple leaned closer. Blue raised the bony finger towards the ceiling. “Here it comes, ugly humans!”
At the end of Blue’s pronouncement, a thunderous fart echoed through the tunnel. Blue toppled forwards, as if the force of the expulsion had flung him to the ground. The others staggered back.
Rook kept Blue in his sights, which was difficult, given how badly his eyes were watering. By the old king’s ghost, he could taste the foulness in the air. “That was your ‘magic’?”
Blue’s eyes were wide, like he was just as surprised as anyone. He sniffed the air. “Nope.” He glared at the dead finger, then shoved it back into his shirt. “That was bad seagull.”
“It smells like a corpse crawled out of his arse,” Tipple wheezed.
Blue twisted about, snatching at the seat of his trousers as if to reassure himself that they remained corpse-free.
“We should—” Inga coughed and rubbed her face. “The quicker we escape these tunnels, the sooner we can bring the rest of these outlaws to justice.”
“Yes!” Blue whirled and grabbed the rope trailing from his noose. He tugged hard, trying to drag Rook along. His apparent terror from before had vanished like it never existed. “Kill the outlaws. Blue knows where.”
“You’ll take us there?” Leech asked.
Rook scowled, but for the life of him, he couldn’t tell whether or not Leech had made the rhyme intentionally.
Blue nodded so hard, his cap would have flopped off if not for the nails holding it in place. “This way, Heroes.”
Rook doubted anyone else saw the way the redcap’s eyes narrowed, or the crafty smile that peeled his lips back. The expression vanished an instant later, washed away by madness and mania.
Rook tightened his grip on the rope and followed.
