Fable: Blood of Heroes Read Online Free Page A

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
    R ook 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.
    “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