The Red Winter Page 7

  It was Bob.

  While the crowds cheered and jeered those hags that were positioning themselves around the mound, Bob sat on the barrel in a white undershirt and gray trousers, methodically folding the dress shirt he had removed. Bob was ancient and his skin hung loose on a lanky frame, but an elderly ten-foot ogre is still a ten-foot ogre. Even in his undershirt.

  “Bob!” Mum hissed. “What are you doing?”

  He pulled his suspenders back over his bony shoulders. “Playing game.”

  “But you can’t!” said Mum. “It’s called Queen o’ the Mound!”

  The ogre shrugged. “Game is for guests, no?”

  “Yes,” said Mum, considering. “Only hags ever enter but there isn’t a rule that says others can’t.”

  The ogre pulled one arm over his head to stretch. “Then Bob plays, too.”

  When nearby revelers realized what Bob intended to do, an excited buzz swept over the crowd.

  “The ogre’s gonna enter!” cried a ruddy-cheeked satyr.

  This brought laughter and a fair number of jeers, for it seemed ogres were not terribly popular in these parts. As Bob made his way toward the mound, the crowds parted nervously.

  “Boo!”

  “A pox on ogres!”

  “Go back where ye belong!”

  “Spit and roast ’im! Boil and toast ’im!”

  This last outcry was quickly taken up and repeated as a sort of cheer. Bob did not acknowledge it. He did not acknowledge the lutins that aped his plodding gait or the bits of tomato, pies, and cheese that now pelted him. The ogre simply walked on, the crowd closing behind him as he marched toward a scowling Bellagrog.

  “Whatchoo doin’, you dumb brute?” she demanded. “Put your shirt back on! We ain’t boghags!”

  Bob rolled his neck in slow circles. “After game.”

  “Queen o’ the Mound ain’t for ogres!” declared Bellagrog.

  He continued plodding toward her. “It is for guests,” he rumbled. “Bob is guest. You said so in front of these three.” He gestured toward a stupefied Smidge, Specs, and Gurgle.

  “Ya did say it, Bel,” said Smidge. “And any guest at a Naming can play Queen o’ the Mound. It’s Hag Law.”

  “HAG LAW!”

  This was shouted—with gleeful enthusiasm—by nearly every hag in attendance. The only exceptions were Bellagrog, her daughters, and fifteen mortified contestants.

  When Bob reached the mound and took his spot around its perimeter, Max saw that the contestants on either side barely reached his waist. Lean as he was, the ogre outweighed any three hags together. One of them (Tortugla, according to a breathless Mum) backed away from the mound and shimmied back into her party frock.

  “Boo!” jeered Bellagrog. “For shame, Torty! That’s disgraceful!”

  “You take my spot!”

  But Bellagrog did not appear to have any intention of doing so. Instead, she narrowed her eyes at Bob. “Any hag what draws blood on this ogre gets a gold sovereign. Any hag what knocks him cold gets ten gold sovereigns.”

  “What if we kill ’im dead?” asked a one-eyed contestant, not even bothering to hide the hammer in her fist. “What’s that worth?”

  “No deaths,” said the hostess firmly. “It’s bad luck at a Naming.”

  “I can’t watch!” hissed Mum, clamping a hand over her eyes and squeezing Max with the other. “Tell me what happens!”

  “On your marks!” bellowed Bellagrog as the contestants eyed the maypole. “Get set … Go!”

  Instantly, Bob seized the hags on either side of him by the ankle, whipping them off their feet as if they’d stepped onto snares. Even as the others tried to gang up on him, he swung the two hags like wriggling, flailing bludgeons. In an ogre’s powerful hands, they made marvelous weapons. Bob even settled into a kind of rhythm, swinging one and then the other like overstuffed laundry bags that knocked his attackers aside like tenpins.

  “What’s happening?” hissed Mum, hopping from foot to foot. “Tell me what’s happening!”

  Max tried his best to relay the action, but things were happening very quickly.

  “Bob’s got two hags by the ankles and he’s swinging them … Ooh! A hit! Two are down … one’s getting back up. Another hit! There goes a tooth. No, I think that was an earring.”

  “What kind?” asked Mum.

  “I don’t know. Pearl?”

  “That’s Teelu,” squealed Mum. “She loves pearls!”

  “Three more hags are down,” reported Max. “Bob’s climbing the mound. Looks like one of his clubs is woozy. Oh! He faked left, dropped her, and got himself a new one. NICE WORK, BOB!”

  “Where is he?” asked Mum anxiously. “Did he make it to the top?”

  “Almost,” said Max. “But some hags are clinging to him. One’s biting his shin. Bob dropped his club and … Oh, what a throw! She’s in the paddock.”

  “Which hag?”

  “No clue. They’re covered in mud.”

  “I hope it was Lolo,” said Mum hopefully. “She acts so mighty and she’s only got one more letter than I do! Now what’s happening?”

  “It’s winding down,” said Max. “He’s just up there with his clubs catching his breath. The others won’t climb up. Jeez, some are in bad shape. Bob plays rough. Now his clubs are begging to be let down. Oh. BOO! One tried to stab him after asking quarter.”

  “That’ll be Hizzalu,” said Mum. “She’s always been stabby. She get him?”

  “Nope. He tossed her in the paddock, too. Bob could throw the hammer …”

  “He’s fighting for me!” exclaimed Mum, jumping up and down. “My Bob is fighting for me!”

  “And winning,” said Max. “I think it’s all over. No one’s going to knock him off of there.”

  Removing her hand, Mum gazed up at Bob, who stood atop the mound, leaning against the maypole in the cold drizzle. His breath came in fogging gasps and he looked spent, but no hag was within fifteen feet of him. They lay sprawled in muddy heaps about the mound’s base, coughing and sputtering, moving slowly as though a cyclone had just blown through the Naming.

  The revelers counted down the minutes, clapping, laughing, hooting, and jeering. Max heard several insist this was the best Naming they’d ever attended—they’d be telling their grandspawn about this. When time was up, the party roared “Queen o’ the Mound!” and bowed to Bob.

  The ogre returned the bow before descending the mound. His attention was fixed on Bellagrog.

  “Queen o’ the Mound will claim his prize.”

  “You ain’t gettin’ nothing!” snapped Bellagrog.

  Bob wagged a finger. “It is Hag Law.”

  “HAG LAW!” cried the crowd.

  Bellagrog spun about, taking stock of her grinning, delighted relations. Her eyes darted here and there, searching for an out, an escape from this highly public trap. With a murderous look, she gave a bloodcurdling howl.

  “You want my sister, Bob?” Bellagrog cried. “Take her! TAKE HER! She’s a worthless runt. Three letters to her name and it’s three too many! She deserves to live with a toothless oaf!”

  Mum was clutching Max’s hand so tightly it had turned purple. Bob didn’t acknowledge the insults. He merely climbed down the mound and took Mum’s hand from Max. As Bellagrog witnessed this, the finality of what was occurring seemed to register. Her rage seemed to burn away in the cold drizzle, replaced by a blank, melancholy stare.

  “Is this what you want, Bea?” she croaked. “My girls is all heading off. You leaving me, too?”

  Mum was crying. Releasing Bob’s hand, she waddled toward her sister and the two sobbed against one another while the stunned crowd looked on. At length, Bellagrog peered into Mum’s face.

  “Is this really what you want?”

  Mum gave a teary nod. “Rowan’s my home. I miss my cupboard.”

  “But … what if I never see you again?” whimpered Bellagrog.

  Mum wiped away her sister’s tears. “If I’m a free hag, tha
t means I’m free to visit.”

  Bellagrog blinked as though consensual visits were an unfamiliar concept. “I … I guess that’s true. Would you do that? Would you visit us?”

  “If you’re nice.”

  “What if I can’t be?”

  “It’ll be a short visit.”

  Bellagrog nodded and slung a muscled arm around her sister. Clearing her throat, her voice reassumed its gruff authority. “I, Bellagrog Shrope, declare Bob the Ogre Queen o’ the Mound and hereby renounce all claims on Bea Shrope. My sis is free to do what she likes, even if it means livin’ in a stinky cupboard with a stupid ogre. A hag keeps her word. Hag Law.”

  “Hag Law!” cried the partygoers.

  “Aye,” said Bellagrog, cocking a suspicious eye at Bob as he walked toward her with his moneybox. He pressed the heavy box into her hand.

  “To hire new beekeeper,” he said.

  Bellagrog was stunned. “I … I can keep the money anyway?”

  The ogre nodded.

  “Your sister is most valuable hag in the world.”

  Mum nearly swooned before burrowing into Bob, mud and all. He patted her topknot, but his attention remained on Bellagrog.

  “Our business is concluded?”

  “Aye,” Bellagrog grumbled. “But you had this planned and don’t pretend you didn’t! You knew about Naming Days. You knew about Queen o’ the Mound.”

  The ogre spread his hands. “Dryads gossip, no?”

  Bellagrog glared up at him. “When did cooks get so stinkin’ clever?”

  A gnarled hand came to rest on her shoulder. “Before Bob was cook, Bob was ogre.”

  “Hooray!” exclaimed a pompous baritone. “Top-notch! Shall we get back to feasting? Strike up the band! Pass the brandy!”

  Every head turned and stared at the speaker, a tartan-wimpled hag whose toothy grin began to waver. Bellagrog narrowed her eyes.

  “Who is you?” she demanded. “I don’t recognize ya.”

  “Er, I’m Bulbossa,” replied the speaker, her voice resuming a haglike pitch. “Your cousin from the Orkneys.”

  “There ain’t no Shropes in the Orkneys.”

  “We’re MacShrupes.”

  “You ain’t no hag,” growled Bellagrog. “You’re that bloody smee.”

  “A smee?” croaked Toby’s neighbor, pinching his arm.

  “A SMEE!” cried a dozen eager hags.

  They converged like piranhas, tossing fauns and lutins aside in their eagerness to tackle the shape-changing delicacy. With a shriek, Toby bolted for the Hovel, holding up his petticoats until he regained his senses and changed shape. In a blink, Bulbossa disappeared and a tawny barn owl soared over the Hovel’s roof, hooting and screeching.

  “Give it up, ye silly things,” roared Bellagrog, collaring a drooling aunt. “You’ll never catch ’im. And he’s right! It’s time we got back to celebrating. Full kegs make a dull party. Hag Law!”

  “HAG LAW!” cried the rest.

  A fiddle struck up “Bless My Bonny Haglings” and the party resumed with a whoop and a clash of tankards. Bellagrog’s daughters were hoisted off their feet and passed about their older relations, who tossed them high and clapped their hands before catching them at last. Shaking Bob’s hand, Max struggled to find the right words.

  “You are … quite an ogre.”

  Bob inclined his craggy head. “It has been good day.”

  “The best day!” exclaimed Mum. “I’m free! When do we set sail? When do we return to Rowan?”

  “Someday,” said Bob. “But Rowan’s army sails for Blys. Armies need cooks. We go there, Mum. Ms. Richter needs us.”

  “She needs me,” insisted Mum. “She misses my coffee and cakes and little ways. My cupboard can wait. To the front!”

  “Oi!” said Bellagrog, bellying in. “Who’s going to the front?”

  “I am!” Mum declared patriotically.

  “Well,” growled Bellagrog, “you’re a free hag, Bea. You can do whatcha like. But you’re still a Shrope.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Mum. “Of course I am!”

  “Armies need vittles,” observed Bellagrog coolly. “Canned vittles if ya catches my drift …”

  Mum blinked. “I could bring our samples,” she breathed. “I’ll show ’em to Richter myself. The Director’s putty in my hands!”

  Bellagrog looped an arm about Mum’s shoulder. “You’re catching on fine. Let’s talk this through, eh? With proper coaching, you could be a saleshag.…”

  As the two hags wandered off, Scathach took Max’s hand. “Did you have any idea what he was planning?” she asked.

  “Not a clue.”

  “You’re a deep old file, Bob,” said Cooper. He clapped the ogre’s back as he and Hazel joined the group. “Well played.”

  The ogre inclined his head.

  “How was your meeting with the goblins?” asked Scathach.

  “Profitable,” said Hazel. “Ozerk certainly knows a good deal about the Workshop and their doings with Prusias.”

  “And?” pressed Max.

  “Change of plans,” said Cooper. “I need to head out. I can bring Hazel and the others with me but it would mean you and Scathach would have to seek the Fomorian on your own. Can you do that?”

  Max glanced at Scathach. “Of course.”

  “Good,” said Cooper. “That makes things easier. Meanwhile, I’ve got to get a message to Richter. The Spindlefinger said Prusias may have some new weapon in the works.”

  “More dreadnoughts?” said Max.

  Hazel sipped her wine. “We don’t know. It’s hard to imagine he’d rely on dreadnoughts again, but who knows? It could be some variation.”

  Max nodded. “When are you heading out?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” replied Cooper. “The Spindlefingers have a cog waiting at the Channel. They’ll smuggle us as far as Verilius.”

  A raucous cheer went up behind Max. He turned to see a flushed and muddy satyr shaking hands and doffing a tweed cap. The fellow was evidently popular, for others hurried over to greet him and press a mug into his grateful hands.

  “Where ya been, Podge?” cried Smidge. “You missed the Naming!”

  Drinking deep, the satyr wiped foam from his whiskers. “Sorry, love, but I had to wind about some. There’s funny folk on the road. Dangerous folk. I’m lucky I made it here!”

  A strange uneasiness came over Max. He tapped the satyr on the shoulder. “Who’s on the road?”

  The satyr turned, glanced up at Max, and nearly fainted. His ale spilled as he staggered back into several hags.

  “Wh-whatchoo want?” he cried. “Why you following me?”

  “Take it easy,” said Max. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  “Then who was that on the road, eh?” demanded the satyr.

  The question was like a needle in Max’s spine. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Cooper crouched to Podge’s height.

  “You saw someone like him on the road?” he asked.

  The satyr could only squeak. Cooper snapped his fingers.

  “Answer me. You saw someone like him? Someone like this boy?”

  “No,” Podge gasped. “Not like him. It was him.”

  Cooper looked grim. “How long ago?”

  “I dunno,” said the satyr. “Two hours. Maybe three.”

  “What is wrong, malyenki?” asked Bob.

  “My clones are alive,” said Max quietly. “They’re alive and they’re close.”

  Cooper shook his head, his eyes scanning the nearby tents and buildings. “They’re not close. They’re here.”

  Cooper remained eerily calm. Taking a sip of ale, the Agent spoke in a casual, conversational tone. “Max and Scathach, get in the Hovel and fetch Ormenheid. Don’t act like anything’s amiss. I’ll meet you by the basement stairs. Are you armed?”

  “Always,” said Scathach.

  Cooper nodded. “Good. They might be in the Hovel.”

  Max’s f
ingers twitched. Shock was swiftly giving way to anger. “I’m not running. I can end this right now. I want to.”

  The Agent set his mug on a waiter’s tray. “You stay, this party might turn right ugly. Collateral damage, hostages, you name it.”

  Scathach tugged at Max’s elbow. “Cooper’s right. We have to draw them away.”

  The two wove through the revelers. Max tried to appear calm, but his hands were shaking. The Atropos had not merely marked him for death; they had hired his clones to do the deed. The last time Max had seen the pair, David Menlo had buried them beneath half a ruined castle. Apparently, it had not been enough.

  Were they both here?

  He couldn’t be certain. Only one of the clones could be mistaken for Max’s twin; the other looked barely human. As they neared the Hovel, he registered every face, every conversation, every shadow for any hint of their presence.

  Stepping in front of Max, Scathach entered the Hovel first. A blade slipped from her sleeve into her hand as she took three swift steps into the kitchen, poked her head into the dining room, and scanned the downstairs hallway. Shutting the door behind them, Max followed her swiftly up the staircase.

  In the attic, Nox was still dozing on Max’s bedroll. She mewled irritably as Max plucked her up by the ruff.

  “Not now,” he muttered, setting her atop the clothes in his pack. The lymrill must have sensed their anxiety, for she lay flat without protest. From beneath her, Max fished the Ormenheid, an enchanted ship no bigger than a matchbox. Tossing it in his pack, he set to buckling a leather baldric from which hung a singular and terrifying weapon.

  The gae bolga’s hilt was cool to the touch, but that didn’t mean it didn’t sense the tension, too. At the moment, the weapon was a short sword—a dark blade some eighteen inches long with whorls like Damascus steel. But it could also serve as a spear—Max’s preferred weapon when he went into battle. The gae bolga didn’t care which form it took so long as there was blood to spill. The weapon was an extension of the Morrígan, a terrifying entity that prowled and feasted at the world’s battlefields. Even Max was frightened of the weapon’s power. The blade could cut, pierce, cleave, or slay anything—even gods.