Fable: Blood of Heroes (16 page)

“A magical artefact. The very first Mayor of Grayrock buried it hundreds of years ago. Only a select few know of its existence.” He raised his chin, obviously proud to belong to such an elite line.

Glory turned back to the old map and frowned. “Was the dam here when they founded Grayrock?”

“No, that was built later, to divert the river and allow us to expand—”

“Then how could that first Mayor have buried anything in its foundations?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing emerged.

Glory sighed. “Do you at least know what this artefact is supposed to do?”

Silence.

“Naturally.” Glory turned to study the crest of Grayrock painted on the wall. She had assumed the treasure was a lie designed to trick the Mayor and his workers into destroying the dam and wiping out their own town.

Skye was no fool. If there was truly an artefact hidden away in Grayrock, she would know it couldn’t be in the dam. So why not simply sneak into town, retrieve the treasure, and escape?

Skye must not know where it was either. Killing off the people would let her search at leisure, without interference. But it was hard to search a town underwater.

“Perhaps the artefact is hidden somewhere that could only be uncovered by flooding?” suggested the Mayor.

“That … is not a completely awful theory.” Given the layout of the town, the worst of the flooding would hit the quarry, another area that hadn’t existed when the artefact was supposedly buried. “Did Skye share anything at all about this object?”

“Only that it was powerful.”

“And what did you intend to do once you had it?”

His face reddened, from the tips of his ears all the way down his neck. “I was hoping that it would be enough …” The rest was unintelligible mumbling.

“Enough to what?”

“To become a Hero,” he blurted.

She stared at him.
“You?”

He stood so quickly, his chair toppled over. The guards tensed. “Why not me?” he demanded. “If Heroes are truly returned to Albion, why should you and your friends be the lucky ones?”

He was shouting, assailing her with pent-up pain and outrage, along with the occasional spray of spittle. It was as if she had killed his beloved pet dog, then used the body to kill his other, even more beloved dog.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” said Glory.

The Mayor waved a hand at her. “Look at you. Your clothes. The way you talk. You’re the very portrait of a rich brat from head to toe. You probably had money and power handed to you on a silver platter.”

“Is that what you believe?” Glory whispered. The closest guard took a quick step back.

“What makes you think you’re so much better than me?” snapped the Mayor.

“Do you want the complete list? If so, you’d best clear your schedule for the rest of the day.”

“You’re a spoiled child. Your parents probably—”

“Think hard before you speak of my parents.” Glory snapped her fingers and summoned a flaming red apple. The Mayor flinched back, nearly tripping on his own chair. “My father was like you, a preening rooster in a small coop. He lacked the courage and ambition for true greatness. When he saw greatness in his own daughter, he tried to stomp it out. First with threats. Then with force.”

She caught herself and forced a smile. She hadn’t expected the Mayor to twist a knife into that particular wound.

“What happened?” he asked.

“He failed.” She clenched her fist, extinguishing the threat before the guards had the chance to do something stupid. “I spent years honing my skills, sneaking out of the house and risking my life time and again to battle hobbes around our village. I fought for what I became, making choices and sacrifices you can’t imagine.”

She turned away, pushing back memories of her father’s voice commanding his guards to teach Glory a lesson. She hadn’t thought about that night for years, and she couldn’t afford to let it distract her now.

“You think that makes you better than others?” asked the Mayor. “You fought a few hobbes and ran away from a mean father?”

“I didn’t run.” Glory cursed herself for letting him gain control of the conversation. She searched for a way to retake the reins, and her attention settled on the crest on the wall.

The seal of Grayrock was a blue circle bordered in gold. A crossed hammer and pickaxe formed an X in front of a grey brick wall. A pair of children, a boy and a girl, played near the bottom of the crest. Between them stood a bare tree, the same oak statue that stood in the centre of town.

The text beneath the seal had faded over the years, but if she was reading correctly, the official motto of the town of Grayrock was,
“In Tymes of Woe, Go Ye Forthe and Hitte Peopel Wit Rockes.”

She pointed to the crest. “What’s so special about this stone tree?”

“Nothing,” said the Mayor. “People say it was planted by William Grayrock, so they make a big deal out of protecting and celebrating it. There’s a dance every summer, and—”

“Wait. Who was William Grayrock?”

“Our founder. He was born William Fisher, but changed his name one day after almost drowning. An enormous pike took his line and pulled him into the water. They say that pike dragged him four miles upriver to the site of what would become Grayrock. His first act as Mayor of Grayrock was to outlaw pike. I’ll have you know that in my time as Mayor, we’ve captured and executed more than six hundred pike.”

“Naturally.” She pointed to the children. “That girl looks like she’s playing with a doll.”

“Yes, and the boy is getting ready to hit her with a rock. So what?”

“Do you have records going back to William Grayrock’s time? Anything that might explain the origin and meaning of this seal?”

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “For the first fifty years, the town flooded every spring. The records office included. That’s when they started building the dam.”

Glory could feel the seeds of a headache throbbing directly behind her eyebrows. “It took them fifty years to realise they needed a dam?”

He had the decency to look embarrassed. “The town leaders kept drafting orders for the construction of a dam, but they filed those orders—”

“—in the records office,” Glory finished, massaging her forehead. “You said William Grayrock planted that tree. Do you know how it turned to stone?”

“There are rumours and stories, but nobody really knows. The original tree could have died centuries ago, and someone just erected that statue in its place.”

“It’s on your sash, too.” Glory moved to the window to look out at the stone tree. “Yog turned Ben into a wooden doll, just like the one in that seal. It might be coincidence, but we need to dig up that tree.”

“You can’t,” said one of the guards. “Legend has it that’s where William Grayrock buried his dear departed brother.”

“Nah,” said the one by the window. “It’s the grave of his father, a drunken old sot who died after picking a fight with a horse.”

“A donkey,” said the first.

“A
horse.
And once a century, the tree comes alive and grows fermented fruit. A single bite is as potent as a whole barrel of mead.”

“William’s father won that fight,” said the third guard. “It’s the horse they buried that day. The tree drops horseshoes on anyone of the Grayrock bloodline. That’s how the horse takes his revenge from beyond the grave.”

The Mayor rolled his eyes, and for the first time Glory almost felt sorry for him. “Has anyone ever witnessed any of these feats?” she asked.

“My sister hit me with a horseshoe once,” said the first guard after a long pause.

Glory counted slowly until she could answer without violence. “Is your sister a tree?”

“Well, no.”

“Then I don’t think that really applies, do you?”

“These are simple folk,” the Mayor said. “They have legends about everything, from the dam to the mountain to the privies.”

“That’s true,” said the guard at the window. “If you duck into the privy south of the butcher’s and drop two coppers into the pit, you get a blessing of sorts for the belly, powerful enough you can eat three bowls of Old Marion’s chowder without suffering the runs.”

“I usually drop a silver in, just to be safe,” said the first.

“But the privy isn’t painted into the town seal, is it?” Glory had meant the question to be rhetorical, but having asked, it occurred to her that these people were entirely capable of adding such artwork to their official seal. She double-checked to make certain. “There’s a good chance the treasure we want is connected to that tree.”

“That makes sense.” The Mayor’s words were edged with triumph and satisfaction, neither of which had been present a moment before. He signalled the guards with one hand. “You said I needed you to keep me alive, and I admit it would be useful to have a Hero or four to protect me if I were to face the Ghost of Grayrock again. On the other hand, once I have that treasure, I can hire my own Heroes. Which means I’ve got no further need for a partner.”

Glory smiled as the guards closed in. “That’s funny. I was just thinking the same thing.”

CHAPTER 14

SHROUD

M
ost of the homes in Grayrock had simple wooden shutters or sheets of animal hide for windows, but not the Mayor’s tower. His windows were brown glass, tall and relatively narrow, with diamond-shaped panes. They made a right and proper crashing sound when someone tossed a body through them.

The Mayor tumbled out of the second-storey window. His frightened shrieks ended with a thump that made even Shroud wince. The Mayor clearly had never learned how to roll with the impact or absorb the jolt with his knees. He absorbed most of it with his face.

A fall from that height was potentially fatal. Of course, you could kill yourself just tripping over a rock, depending on the ground and the angle of impact. But Shroud was an expert in these matters, and he hadn’t heard the hollow-melon sound of a broken skull, which meant there was a good chance the Mayor had survived. Pained gasps affirmed his guess moments later.

The people of Grayrock stared in silence. Shroud loosened his shoulders and eased his hands closer to his knives. Winter’s breath turned to fog as she readied her magic. Sterling reached for his sword.

Glory peered out the broken window and waved. Smoke and sparks rose from her fingertips. “Everything’s all right. The Mayor tripped and fell.”

Shroud looked from the window to the point of impact. In order to land that far from the tower, the Mayor would have had to be running full speed through his office before “tripping.” But nobody argued the point. The guards on the ground moved to surround their groaning leader and looked about uncertainly.

The townspeople broke into cheers.

Shroud sniffed. “They think that’s impressive? I’d have hauled him to the rooftop and tossed him in a double somersault into the trough out back.”

“Three cheers for Mayor Glory!” shouted someone.

Glory leaned out the window. “What?”

“Hip, hip, hooray!”

“Did they call her Mayor?” Winter’s mouth and brows were crooked, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be amused or aghast.

A middle-aged woman, still carrying the chicken the Mayor—ex-Mayor?—had been kissing a short time before, said, “Grayrock prides itself on its democratic process. That was what’s known as a Motion of No Confidence.”

“She threw him out a window,” said Sterling.

“He tripped!” Glory shouted.

The woman nodded. “In my great-grandfather’s time, they held a Recall Referendum in the streets for Mayor Flotsam, complete with pitchforks and torches. This was two years after Flotsam impeached his mother with an axe. Politics were simpler in those days.”

Shroud allowed himself a small smile. Political conflicts were one of the Conclave’s biggest moneymakers. He’d settled a few disputed elections himself.

“Why Sterling, you’re not jealous of the new Mayor, are you?” Winter teased.

“Not at all,” said Sterling. “I just—Glory can’t be Mayor of Grayrock.”

“What’ve you got against democracy?” the woman demanded, raising her chicken as if she intended to beat Sterling about the head with the bird.

Three caws in quick succession, repeated again a few seconds later, tore Shroud’s attention from the spectacle to a crow perched on the edge of the tavern roof. He slipped away and whistled six notes from an old drinking song. The crow flew to Shroud’s arm, and the two of them disappeared into the shadows.

Let the spoiled and pompous elite use their gorgeously plumed hunting hawks and exotic messenger birds, while the commoners made do with clumsily inked letters tied to trained chickens. The Conclave preferred nobody notice their servants. Crows were the perfect bird: dark and dangerously clever, capable of recognising and remembering countless songs and commands, but common enough to travel anywhere in Albion without drawing attention.

The best trained of the Conclave’s birds were weapons as well as messengers. By strapping poisoned needles to a bird’s talons, you created an animal that could swoop down in silence and kill with a single scratch.

Shroud had once experimented with strapping small explosives to the birds for more dramatic assassinations. It was effective enough, assuming you cut a proper length of fuse, but the Conclave had objected to the loss of so many crows.

He slid the message free from the black tube around the crow’s leg. After double-checking that nobody could see, he unrolled the parchment. The message was written in red ink.

E
LIMINATE
THE
OGRE
. G
RAYROCK
’
S
FATE
UNIMPORTANT
.

He tore the last word off the parchment and swallowed it. The rest he rolled up and returned to the tube. Removing the end of the message signalled his assent. Had he chosen to refuse the Conclave’s assignment, he would have torn off the first word instead. He would have then spent the remainder of his life looking over his shoulder, waiting for the blade that would communicate the Conclave’s disappointment with his choice. He suspected the wait would be measured in days.

Red ink meant this went beyond a simple assassination. The target was to be eliminated at any cost. All other assignments were put on hold. And if possible, the target should know who it was that killed them.

Only the highest-ranking members of the Conclave could issue a blood order. Generally, red ink was reserved for internal matters—vengeance against those who had betrayed the Conclave. The fact that Shroud had been entrusted with such a job was a sign of the Conclave’s confidence in him. But what had an ogre done to earn a sentence?

You know better than to ask questions. Curiosity killed the cat, remember? Killed it slowly. Painfully. Probably by sneaking in one night when the cat was sleeping, throwing a bag over its head, and dragging it out to the woods, where nobody could hear its screams.

Shroud whistled a different melody, and the crow launched into the air. It flew fast and hard, as if it was eager to escape the clouds roiling in over Grayrock. He watched the crow disappear into the distance, then rejoined the others.

The Mayor lay forgotten on the cobblestones. Glory stood at the centre of the crowd, where she looked to be enjoying her new role. “Gather your best diggers and tools by the oak statue,” she called. “And you there, bring me a drink. Cider would be nice.”

“You can’t seriously intend to become Mayor of Grayrock,” said Winter.

“It would appear I already am. Besides, me running things can only help our quest.”

Shroud pointed to the tree. “Why are you so interested in that statue?”

“We won’t know until we dig it up.” From the clipped impatience in Glory’s words, Shroud wasn’t the first to ask that question.

“Glory thinks this is where we’ll find what Skye was really searching for,” Winter explained.

Shroud checked the sky. “I don’t like the idea of being out in the open when Yog starts raining magic on our heads.”

“We don’t know those clouds are magic,” said Sterling.

“True. Could be poisoned.” Shroud looked past Sterling to where a kindly citizen was helping the Mayor to his feet. He looked to have broken an arm, and the dazed expression on his face suggested he might be concussed.

The Mayor pulled free, doubled over, and vomited. Definitely concussed, then.

Shroud studied the clouds. If Yog intended to slaughter the town, a contact poison would be the way to go. Anything needing to be ingested would first have to make its way into the wells and lake, which would dilute most poisons too much to kill any but the sick and frail.

Poisoned clouds.
There’s no art there. No precision. It’s simple slaughter.

If Yog’s magic could control clouds, could that power be refined, tightened to manipulate only a single small cloud? A wisp of poisoned fog could be sent through the tiniest cracks, leaving no evidence of intrusion. Nothing but a corpse lying untouched behind locked door and sealed windows. If he could figure out how Yog had done it, this would be a technique to pass along to the Conclave when he returned.

But how to deliver the poison to the clouds in the first place? Skye could fly, but the clouds were so high up. He doubted it was as simple as flying into the clouds and dumping out vials of poison. Perhaps Yog had simply transformed the clouds from the ground, using Will. If so, she was more powerful than they had realised.

The townspeople were returning with shovels and pickaxes. Such tools were easy enough to find in a town that made its living by carving great big holes in the earth. Under Glory’s direction, they attacked the ground around the tree, tearing up the cobblestones and gouging the dirt below.

Lightning stabbed the sky to the west. Thunder rumbled through Grayrock at almost the same moment.

Sterling took up a shovel and began digging at the base of the tree while Glory examined the tree itself, pressing a hand to the cold bark as if feeling for a heartbeat. Sparks jumped from stone roots as Sterling jabbed the shovel deeper. Winter grabbed a second shovel and joined him.

Rain darkened the sky in the distance. Many of the bystanders began to disperse, and Shroud was eager to do the same. “Whatever’s here will wait until after the storm.”

“Not now that the old Mayor and the townspeople know about it,” said Glory. “If they think there’s gold or other riches buried here, they’ll swarm over the site the instant we turn our backs. They’d be mobbing us right now if they weren’t afraid of what we could do. If you’re so worried about the rain, pick up a shovel and help.”

Shroud pulled his hood over his head. The cloak was waterproof—all the better for removing bloodstains—which should provide protection against whatever was coming. Of course, if it was a contact poison, he’d have a difficult time removing said cloak without getting it on his hands.

It could be acid instead. That would be nasty. Acid from the clouds
… 

Come to think of it, Yog might not be directly targeting the people of Grayrock. Certain kinds of stone could be dissolved with simple vinegar. Maybe Yog planned to erode the dam from the sky and complete the work her nymph began. A little cloak wouldn’t save anyone from that.

Shroud snatched a shovel and started digging.

The first raindrops reached them right around the time the first shovel thunked against the small chest buried in a tangle of stone roots three feet belowground. Unlike the clouds, the rain itself had a faint reddish tinge, as well as an odd metallic smell. The stone branches and leaves provided a bit of shelter, but that wouldn’t last when the rain started falling in earnest. Most of the workers had left, despite Glory’s calling for them to stay and see the job through. Apparently there were limits to what the new Mayor could command.

“The tree has quite the hold on this thing.” Sterling jammed his shovel against another root and tried to lever it free, but the root was as thick as a man’s wrist. The shovel’s handle bowed and cracked. Sterling stumbled back. “The chest appears to be carved from stone as well, though the hinges are metal. A worthy challenge, but it shall not defeat—”

“Move.” Shroud tossed his shovel aside and pulled a small, flat crowbar from his pack. He dropped prone and reached into the hole, jamming the bar beneath the largest of the roots. He didn’t worry about precision or style, not with haunted clouds darkening the sky.

“You don’t have the leverage to break the roots from that angle,” Glory said.

“I’m not trying to break the roots. But metal hinges stuck in the damp earth all these years?” Shroud pulled the bar upwards, and one of the old hinges snapped. He moved the crowbar to the left, hastily repositioned the end below the second hinge, and repeated the process. Once both hinges were broken, he shifted his angle and wedged the bar into the crack beneath the lid, trying to shift it to the side.

Glory picked up one of the smaller pieces of broken root and held it out, displaying the striated rings in the centre. “This was once a living tree. The roots must have grown around the chest before it turned to stone.”

“You think whatever’s in the chest changed the tree?” asked Winter.

Shroud jerked his hands back.
Never allow haste or fear to make you careless.

He set his crowbar aside and pulled on a pair of deerskin gloves. If they started turning to stone, hopefully he’d be able to yank his hands free before the spell spread to his flesh.

A woman screamed in the distance, somewhere near the town gate. Shroud cast a furtive glance at the others to see if the rain had begun raising welts on their skin or transforming them into monsters or stone statues. They seemed unharmed and relatively dry thus far.

He squeezed his hand through the gap in the chest. Whatever was inside, it wasn’t gold. He felt a hard, rag-covered bundle, about the size of a dagger. He shoved the lid with both hands, opening up more space.

Was he imagining the stone roots tightening around his wrist, trying to stop him?

“What is it?” asked Winter.

Shroud yanked the object free. “Shelter first,” he said, scurrying across the street towards a small cobbler’s shop.

Another shriek carried through the town. “I think you’re right,” said Glory.

They reached the overhang in front of the shop just before the rain began to assault the town in earnest, as if the clouds were a dam that had suddenly crumbled. More shouts followed: cries of pain and calls for help. Sterling put a hand to his sword and started forwards. Shroud and Glory caught him by the arms, holding him in place.

“The people are in danger,” Sterling said. “They need a Hero!”

“Will you be fighting the rain with that sword, then?” asked Shroud. “Because I’m pretty sure the raindrops outnumber you.” He waited for Sterling to stop pulling, then turned his attention to the bundle from the chest. The rags were old and brittle, caked in dust. They cracked like plaster as Shroud pulled them aside.

Inside lay a simple doll, similar in size and shape to the boy they had rescued, Ben, but made of stone. Faint lines along the surface suggested wood grain. The doll, like the tree, might have once been wood. He turned it over. Unlike Ben, this doll was hairless, but the simple features inked onto the face remained. “Another one. Maybe Yog’s just a very dedicated doll collector.”