Copyright

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2015

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

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The Luck Uglies: The Last Reckoning

Text copyright © Paul Durham 2016

Map of Village Drowning © Sally Taylor 2016

Map of Beyond the Shale © Pétur Antonsson

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers 2016

Cover illustration © Jeff Nentrup

Paul Durham and Sally Taylor assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007526949

Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780007526956

Version: 2016-03-15

Dedication

For the Durham girls, always. And for

Shadow, our own Gloaming Beast, who’s

been previously neglected in

these dedications.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Maps

The Truth about Heroes …

1. “H” IS FOR HARMLESS

2. THE HOLLOW

3. FOUR HORSEMEN

4. SHRIEK REAVERS

5. THE WEND

6. THE DESCENT

7. THE DEPARTED

8. BROKEN STONES

9. HOMECOMING

10. THE NIGHT COURIER

11. CREEPERS

12. A GONGFARMER’S BOY

13. LADY IN THE WELL

14. SERPENTS OF LONGCHANCE KEEP

15. THE TREASURE HOLE

16. A TOME GUARDS ITS SECRETS

17. WHAT’S WORTH SAVING

18. HOGSHEADS

19. THE RIVER WYVERN

20. THE FORTUNE-TELLER

21. ECHOES OF A DISTANT CALL

22. TRUTHS OF THE HIGH CHIEFTAIN

23. A MURDER OF UGLIES

24. MEN-AT-ARMS

25. BATTLE FOR THE DEAD FISH INN

26. MARCH OF THE WIRRY SCARES

27. A TOLL COMES DUE

28. THE RECKONING

29. RISE OF THE RAGGED CLOVER

30. AN HEIR OF UNKNOWN INTENTIONS

31. HOW IT ENDS

Epilogue: “R” Is for Rye

Banter like a Local: A Tourist’s Field Guide to Shale Lingo and Lore

Acknowledgements

Have you read?

About the Author

About the Publisher

Maps

A wise man once said that heroes can’t be painted in black or white, they come to us in shades of grey. For the choices they make are hard ones, and the actions they take leave consequences that can’t be undone.

But wise men are prone to speak in riddles, and true words should be plain to understand. Hear these instead.

There are no such things as heroes. After all, for every man we call a hero, is he not cursed as our enemies’ greatest villain?

So don your mask, young master. Don’t be afraid to bend the laws of shadow and light. And leave it to history to brand you as it deems fit.

– Last words of Grimshaw the Black

(as quoted in Tam’s Tome of Drowning

Mouth Fibs, Volume II)

RYE O’CHANTER CREPT through a dense maze of leafless branches sharp enough to skewer her. The towering pines in this stretch of wood were charred black like victims of a great fire, yet they hadn’t been burned. It was as if the dark soul of the forest had poisoned the ground itself and bled into their roots, staining the trees forever.

Rye’s nose twitched at the smell of a cook fire wafting from the small clearing ahead. She was confident that she’d visited this spot once before and found it empty, but she’d need to check more closely to be certain. The forest Beyond the Shale hid countless invisible secrets, its rolling hills and dense stands of pine and hemlock disguising hollows you might pass right by without a second glance. She understood now how the Luck Uglies, and others like them, might disappear into the forest for months, years, or even forever.

Rye listened carefully as she dug a rotting toadstool from the ground and rubbed it over her sealskin coat. The leather was already caked with the remains of smashed birds’ eggs, mud from a beaver dam and dung from some unknown animal. The stains hadn’t got there by accident. If her friends Folly and Quinn could see her now, they would think Rye had gone daft, but the mixture of forest smells served to mask her own scent. Beyond the Shale was teeming with keen but unseen noses, too many of which might come calling if they caught wind of a human.

Satisfied that the small camp was unoccupied – at least for the moment – Rye stepped forward to inspect it. A tent made from animal hide housed a fur bedroll. Several small pots were arranged around the remains of a fire and the blade of a hand axe lay embedded in a fallen log. Rye’s excitement grew. These were the types of supplies that could be packed and transported in a hurry – just the type of camp her quarry was likely to make.

She circled the clearing, pausing when she found the familiar trunk of a thick pine. There was her symbol in the bark: a circle with a capital letter R inside. It beamed white from dried sap that had filled the hollowed letter like a scab. She’d carved dozens of these in recent months. It meant Rye had searched this spot before and found it empty. But now there was another marking next to her own. The bark was still raw, as if recently cut.

A letter H.

She didn’t blink, for fear she might reopen her eyes and find they were playing tricks on her. She was hunting for her father – the man she called Harmless.

Rye tried to temper her excitement as she glanced up at the sliver of sky peeking through the limbs high above, the muted sun hanging low behind the trees. The long days of summer were now gone and roaming after dusk was far too dangerous. She bit her lip. Could she afford to wait to see if it was Harmless who returned to this camp? No, but she could leave a message of her own and come back at first light.

Rye removed the knife called Fair Warning from the sheath in her oversized boot and began to carve the stubborn bark.

“The sap in these trees is no good for sugaring,” a coarse voice called out behind her.

Rye spun at the sound. A man appeared from the trees on the opposite side of the clearing, his footfalls nearly silent. A hunter’s bow was slung over his shoulder and he dragged the carcass of a red stag behind him. His gaunt cheeks and wary eyes reflected the face of someone who’d spent many days alone in the forest. Unfortunately, it was a face she didn’t recognise.

Rye’s first instinct was to flee, but it occurred to her that this huntsman might have useful information. Here, in the lightly travelled reaches north of the Shale, information was more valuable than gold grommets. She sheathed Fair Warning, backed away a safe distance, then stopped, confident she could outrun the stranger if need be.

“Do you speak, child?” the huntsman asked when she offered no reply. “Are you a Feraling?” He eyed the grime that covered her coat.

Feralings were humans who lived in isolation Beyond the Shale. Reclusive and untamed, they’d adapted to the way of the wood in order to survive. In all of Rye’s recent travels, she’d met only one.

“I’m no Feraling,” she said. “And I’m not looking for sap.”

The huntsman raised an eyebrow. “You do speak … and with a Drowning accent, if I’m not mistaken.” He sucked a tooth behind a rough beard.

“That’s right,” Rye said. “And if you know Village Drowning, then you’re no Feraling either.”

The huntsman abandoned the stag, pulled the hand axe from the log and plodded to the tree she’d carved. He jabbed the bark with the axe head as he stooped and examined it.

“Letter R and … H. What do they stand for?” he asked, casting a suspicious glance at her.

When he looked back, Rye had removed her cudgel from the sling over her shoulder.

“R is for Rye,” she replied. “And H is for Harmless. That’s who I’m looking for. But make no mistake, he’s not harmless at all.” She tightened her grip. “And neither am I.”

The huntsman chuckled. “Put your twig away,” he scoffed.

Her twig was a High Isle cudgel, a dangerous weapon made from the hardest blackthorn in all the Shale. If the huntsman were as well travelled as he was road worn, he would have known it. Rye didn’t put it down.

“Have you come across anyone in these woods lately?” she asked, gesturing her cudgel towards the trees. “A man maybe? Travelling alone?”

“Travellers are rare in the forest, as are young girls. And yet, strangely enough, both have wandered into my camp in recent days.” The huntsman studied her carefully before speaking again. “There was a man. Appeared like a ghost – startled me while I fixed my supper. He was cordial enough but didn’t linger.”

That sounded like Harmless, Rye thought.

“Did you notice anything else about him?” she asked. “Was he wearing an unusual necklace? Like this?” With her thumb, Rye hooked the runestone choker she wore round her neck so that the huntsman could see it.

She saw a flash of recognition in his eyes, then they shifted, as if calculating something. “It’s possible, although I don’t have a keen eye for jewellery,” he said coolly. But his expression had already betrayed his real answer.

“When did he leave?” Rye demanded. “Do you remember which way he went?”

“I do,” he replied, his face expressionless. “He was heading south along the Wend. But the rest of the details have already been bought and paid for.”

Rye narrowed her eyes, unsure of what he meant.

“Several other travellers arrived the following day. They too had an interest in this man you call Harmless.”

“Who were they?” Rye asked sharply.

The huntsman shrugged. “They wore no crest or colours. They weren’t overly friendly – but at least they paid well for my answers to their questions. Well enough that I’ll be able to spend my winter in the warm bed of a roadhouse instead of shivering in a tent. Can you offer the same?”

Rye’s ears burned. “I have no coins.”

“But if you are looking for this Harmless, he must be of value to you.” He rubbed two grimy fingers through his beard. “Perhaps, you, in turn, are of value to him?” he asked, his voice darkening. “Or maybe … to those others who seek him?”

Rye took a step away.

“Now, now,” the huntsman said. “Why not have a seat and join me without a fuss? I spend my days tracking fleet-footed creatures through this forest. If you run, I’ll surely catch you. And then you’ll have to spend the night in a sack with the rest of the game. I’ve got one right over there that’s just about your size.”

But Rye wasn’t listening. She turned and ran, darting into the trees. She was no novice when it came to being chased and, if need be, she could bite much harder than some frightened hare. But just as she reached full stride, her legs kicked up and her body lurched skywards. The forest floor spun below and the blood rushed to her head. Rye craned her neck and peered up at the nearly invisible line strung over a limb. A snare had caught her round one boot and she now dangled upside down, several feet above the ground.

The huntsman shook his head as if to say I told you so and retrieved a thick burlap sack from his supplies.

Rye still grasped her cudgel and shook it threateningly in his direction. She doubted her effort was particularly menacing as she spun slowly and helplessly in a tiny circle at the end of the snare. She desperately wiggled her foot in her oversized boot, which only made her rotate even faster.

When the huntsman came back into view he was at the edge of the clearing, his axe raised in one hand, the burlap sack ready in the other.

A looming figure loped from the shadows opposite them, covering the space in two long-legged bounds. Rye sucked in her breath with such alarm that the huntsman paused to look behind him. A huge clawed hand sent him sprawling.

Rye thrashed her whole body, sending herself spinning furiously. She saw the blur of the massive beast. It regarded the huntsman’s motionless body with bulging eyes set on top of its misshapen head. From its elongated jaws hung a plaited, rust-orange beard tied at the end with a child’s bootlace. It snuffed at the air with a long, pig-like nose and, to Rye’s great relief, briefly turned its attention towards the stag. Rye’s own nose filled with the stench of the bogs.

She was no stranger to beasts of this kind. It was a Bog Noblin.

With one final tug, her foot slipped free from her boot with a cascade of damp straw stuffing. For once it had come in handy to wear her father’s old boots that were three sizes too large. She met the ground head first, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs.

The Bog Noblin looked up from its prize. First one bulging eye turned to meet her gaze, then the other. Hunched over the stag, its grey skin hung in folds from its broad, bony shoulders and ribs. Its floppy ears were pierced with an assortment of metal hooks, and round its neck dangled a crude necklace strung with the blackened remains of human feet. The Bog Noblin sniffed the air in her direction and stood to its full height.

Rye pushed herself up from the dirt. She only hesitated long enough to draw Fair Warning and cut her boot down from the snare.

Tucking it under her arm, she rushed deeper into the forest without looking back, her runestone choker cutting through the shadows with a pale blue glow.

RYE SCURRIED UNDER, over and around razor-sharp branches. She squeezed through the narrowest gaps she could find in the thicket, forging a path impossible for anyone larger than a young girl to follow. She didn’t stop to catch her breath until she’d reached the edge of a narrow stream. The afternoon’s dying light disappeared behind her.

Rye put her hands on her knees, examining her flushed reflection in the clear water. Where her brown hair wasn’t stuck to the sweat on her forehead, it fell to her shoulders now, longer than she’d ever grown it before. Normally, by summer’s end, Rye’s face glowed like a creamy pecan after long days helping her mother in the garden. But life Beyond the Shale was one of perennial shade and her cheeks still maintained last winter’s pallor. At the moment, she was just relieved to see that her choker was no longer glowing either. Its runestones only stirred when Bog Noblins were near.

She stood up straight, water flickering silently at her feet. The stream was called the Rill. It flowed like a silver thread round a mossy glade and looped back into itself, hollowing it out from the rest of the dense forest. The Hollow was dominated by an enormous old oak tree, its thick roots engorged like veins bulging from the ground. A spiral staircase of knotted wood planks snaked around the oak’s massive trunk, leading to a series of landings and ramshackle buildings embraced in its boughs. Rope bridges slumped like clotheslines between the main house and several smaller, overgrown cottages nestled in the tree’s outstretched limbs.

A stocky, horned figure barely taller than Rye hurried forward, a handmade platform of intertwined rowan branches tucked under his arm.

“Miss Riley,” the barrel-shaped man called breathlessly. “Where in the Shale have you been? It’s practically nightfall!” He laid the makeshift bridge across the stream at her feet.

“It’s all right, Mr Nettle,” she said. “I made it back, didn’t I?”

Mr Nettle lifted the bridge as soon as Rye crossed, his ferret-like eyes glancing at the shadows on the other side.

“Without an eyelash to spare,” he replied, sniffing the air.

Mr Nettle’s curled horns were, in fact, part of the fur-lined mountain goat’s skull that he wore on his head like a hat. His cheeks were buried beneath a curly beard the colour of dried pine needles, and the hair on the backs of his hands and knuckles seemed as thick as the scruff on his neck. He wore a rather formal vest and coat that looked to have been quite regal at one time, but his trousers were made of raw, crimped wool that gave him the vague look of a woolly ram from the waist down. Despite his wild appearance, Mr Nettle wasn’t part animal or beast. He was a Feraling – a native forest dweller – the only one Rye had encountered in all of her months Beyond the Shale.

“I found a message from Harmless – at least, I think it was from him,” Rye explained breathlessly. “There was a huntsman who said he saw him too, or someone who sounded like Harmless anyway.”

“Perhaps that’s who I smell,” Mr Nettle said, his wary eyes still on the looming forest.

“I doubt it,” Rye said. Her eyes followed Mr Nettle’s gaze across the Rill. “There’s also a Bog Noblin out there and he stinks worse than most anything on two legs or four.”

Mr Nettle turned to her in alarm. “A Noblin this far from the bogs?” he asked. “Just one?”

“That’s all I saw.”

“Travelling alone …” He furrowed his brow. “Even stranger. You’re quite certain that’s what it was?”

Rye nodded. “Trust me. I’ve seen more than my fair share.”

Mr Nettle pulled a curly lock of beard between his teeth with his tongue and began to chew. “Well, if he’s foolish enough to linger, he may never make it back to whatever dank moor he crawled from. Worse beasts than Bog Noblins prowl these woods …”

“Is my mother back?” Rye interrupted, glancing up at the tree house high above them.

“Yes, she returned not long—”

Rye didn’t wait for Mr Nettle to finish. She raced past him, stomping up the spiral steps so fast she nearly made herself dizzy.

Abby O’Chanter raised her thin, dark eyebrows as she listened to Rye’s story, looking up from her scavenged cook pot as she scraped the night’s meagre meal into wooden bowls. She placed one of them on the round stump of a sawn-off bough that served as their table, in front of Rye’s little sister, Lottie. The youngest O’Chanter had donned Mr Nettle’s skullcap and now looked like she had grown horns from her ears.

“The letter H was fresh, couldn’t have been more than a few days old,” Rye emphasised after completing the tale. “And the way the huntsman described the traveller – it had to be Harmless.”

Rye watched her mother carefully and waited for her reaction. Surely Abby would be as excited as she was. After nearly five months in the forest, the most they had heard of Harmless were vague rumours from wayward travellers. But now he had left them a message. Based on what the huntsman had said, he was not only alive, but nearby – not more than a day or two away.

“And the other men in search of your father?” Abby asked. “Did the huntsman have more to say about them? We haven’t come across anyone in weeks.”

“Just that they weren’t very friendly,” Rye said, recalling his words. “They don’t sound like the type of travellers we’d care to run across.”

Abby fell silent. Mr Nettle watched quietly from his stump next to the sawn-off bough, the only sound the crunch of Lottie’s small jaws. She chewed. And chewed some more. Supper consisted of tough meat and bland, boiled roots. Food of any sort was difficult to come by Beyond the Shale, where small game was elusive and the edible plants bitter.

“Tomorrow we can all set out together to search for Harmless,” Rye added, grabbing her mother’s elbow enthusiastically. “With luck, we’ll find him before anyone else does.”

She noticed a brightening in her mother’s face, but one that was offset by some unknown weight too. Rye could see the bones of Abby’s jaw rising and falling as she plucked a root from the pot and chewed it between her teeth.

“Your discovery is promising,” her mother said softly. “But we can’t go tomorrow.”

“But this is the first sign of Harmless we’ve seen! If we miss him now we might never have another chance.”

Abby seemed to weigh her words carefully before speaking, and her tone was regretful when she finally did.

“I don’t disagree, Riley. But we are running out of time. We’ve heard no news from Drowning in months. Any explorers will be winding up their travels and returning south with the coming of the cold.”

Rye glanced at the gaps in the wooden floorboards. She could see all the way down to the mossy earth below them. The walls of the tree house were built round the boughs of the oak, vines crawling through the seams of its timbers. A draught fluttered the cobwebs in its corners. Their latest shelter was not a place well suited to handle the chill of autumn, never mind the deep freeze that would inevitably follow. It would only take one storm to leave them snowbound for the season.

“We too must return to Drowning before the first flakes of winter,” Abby continued, her voice drifting off for a moment. “With … or without … your father.”

Rye clenched her fists in frustration. They couldn’t give up now! Abby raised her hand in response to Rye’s inevitable protest.

“That’s why I’m going to leave tonight to search for him,” she said.

Rye swallowed back her objection. It was now replaced by another, quieter one. “But the forest – at night …”

Mr Nettle shifted uncomfortably on his stump.

“I’ll wait to leave until after our neighbours have made their evening rounds,” Abby said, casting a glance towards the looming trees outside the shutterless windows. She flashed a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Riley, it’s not the first time I’ve ventured out alone after dark.”

“We should go together,” Rye muttered. “It would be safer.”

“I’ll return before dusk tomorrow,” Abby said. “And I’ll stay on the Wend. If your father is heading south that’s the path he’ll take. But if he’s lingered nearby he may find his way to this Hollow. It’s better that you remain here to meet him.”

Rye frowned, unconvinced.

“Lottie, you’ll be in charge while I’m gone,” Abby said with a playful wink. “Keep an eye on these two until I return.”

Lottie gave Rye and Mr Nettle a watchful glare. “I’ll try,” she said solemnly. “Them’s a lot of work.”

“Indeed,” Abby agreed with a smirk.

“Rye, is that you who be stinky?” Lottie chimed, already relishing her new role. “Leave your boots outside when you step in bear plop.”

“Mind your own beeswax,” Rye said.

“Me no beeswacker,” Lottie objected. She leaned down and crinkled her nose towards Rye’s feet, as if smelling something foul under her heels. Rye shifted away so that Lottie’s horns wouldn’t poke her in the arm.

Rye didn’t protest against her mother any further.

“Now eat,” Abby said, placing a bowl on the table for her. She gestured for Rye to sit. “None of us can afford to skip any more meals.”

But Rye’s stomach was already a twisted stew of excitement and anxiety. She looked to Lottie and Mr Nettle, who huddled over their own well-cleaned bowls. Lottie’s dirt-streaked cheeks were less full than they once had been and her soon-to-be four-year-old body had begun to stretch like an eager seedling.

“Lottie, you and Mr Nettle can finish mine.”

Lottie and Mr Nettle brightened, but they gasped in surprise as the bowl was snatched from the table.

A furry creature the size of a raccoon scurried high up the stretch of the tree trunk growing through the wall. The thief was fawn-coloured, with a long, ringed tail and saucer-like eyes that blinked down at them nervously.

“How do they keep getting past the Rill?” Abby said in frustration.

“The brindlebacks are crafty little pests,” Mr Nettle groused with a tug at his beard. “A branch high up in the forest canopy must have grown over the Rill and intertwined with the oak’s own limbs. I’ll have a look tomorrow and cull it back.”

“Bingle-blacks!” Lottie huffed, and clenched her fists.

“Maybe he won’t eat it,” Rye said, looking up hopefully. “They don’t like roots, do they?”

The brindleback held the bowl with his long black fingers, sniffed its contents with a wet, pointy snout, then cocked his head. Rye opened her hands in case the little bandit dropped it. Instead, he attacked it savagely with tiny teeth. Lottie and Mr Nettle groaned in disappointment.

When he was finished, the brindleback dropped the bowl down on to the floor with a clatter and disappeared into a hole in the wall.

Abby sighed and stared at the hole. “Well, that’s it for supper, I’m afraid. Let’s get you girls to sleep while the forest still allows it.”

The howls and cries came earlier and earlier each night – this time not long after the O’Chanter girls had huddled together in their blankets. Near and far, unseen voices of the woods seemed to call to one other as they surrounded the Hollow. Some spoke in wolfish growls, others in throaty warbles that sounded more like the clucking tongue of a hag than the beak of a raven or vulture. And yet the most unnerving sound wasn’t a voice at all but the plod and slither of something heavy dragging itself through the dried leaves and dead pine needles that carpeted the forest floor. With its arrival the rest of the nightmarish choir went silent, and the restless creeper circled the Rill over and over without crossing, dull teeth clacking as it went.

Abby sang softly in Lottie’s ear until, eventually, the slithering lurker abandoned its vigil, and its unnerving sound ebbed and faded into the distance. With the Hollow once again consumed by the silence of the massive trees, Lottie finally drifted off. Rye only feigned sleep, performing her best fake snore.

She listened as her mother gathered some supplies in the darkness, and when Abby headed for the tree house steps, Rye whispered loud enough for her to hear.

“You’ll be back tomorrow, Mama?”

Abby paused. “Of course, my love,” she said, and Rye heard her kiss her fingertips. Abby’s hand fluttered in the air as if releasing a butterfly. Rye pretended to catch it.

Abby’s silhouette disappeared and Rye pulled a blanket tight under her chin in an effort to sleep. She pinched her eyes tight, and tossed. Then turned. And tossed some more. But sleep proved elusive.

Before long, the glow of Rye’s lantern wound its way down the oak tree’s spiral steps. It passed over the mossy turf of the Hollow, then tumbled to the ground with a metallic clank.

“Pigshanks,” Rye whispered, regaining her footing after stumbling over a root. She peeked back at the tree house to see if she’d woken anyone.

The windows remained dark. The only sound now was Mr Nettle’s snoring wafting from the porch in the limbs above. The Feraling still insisted on sleeping outdoors.

Rye set the lantern down at the edge of the Rill.

She crouched along the interior bank of the peculiar little stream, careful not to wet her feet. The lantern light flickered off the water against her face.

Rye didn’t know why animals and other creatures of the forest could never cross the Rill. Mr Nettle had told her it was one of those mysteries that was just accepted and understood, like the knowledge that trees would shed their leaves and feign death during winter, only to be reborn again come spring. The O’Chanters, Mr Nettle and other humans might splash through without consequence, but without the aid of bridge or branch, the narrow stream seemed as daunting as an ocean to the forest beasts. Whatever the reason, the Rill had made the Hollow a safe haven for the O’Chanters – and whoever had originally built the tree house long ago.

Rye took a deep breath. And waited. But not for her mother – Abby was probably already on her way down the Wend.

Finally, after many minutes, she heard a sound. Not like the restless predatory voices – but the faintest rustle of leaves and pine needles in the distance. She squinted and peered forward into the gloom. Then she saw them – two glowing yellow eyes watching her from the shadow of a twisted trunk.

Rye didn’t move. The Hollow might provide sanctuary, but she still knew better than to cross the Rill after dark.

Instead, she toed the edge of the embankment, extending her hand as far across the stream as she could reach. She nearly lost her balance and had to brace herself just as the black beast emerged from the darkness.

The burly shadow padded forward and settled on the other side of the water. It opened its mouth, lantern light flickering off its sharp white teeth. It licked its whiskers. Rye smiled.

“Shady,” she whispered, and was just able to graze his thick mane with her fingertips. He pushed his head into her hand and shared a thankful rumble that sounded like a purr.

Rye had assumed she would never see her beloved family pet again – not that you could really call Nightshade Fur Bottom O’Chanter a pet any more. Rye had grown up believing Shady to be nothing more than an abnormally large house cat. However, he was in fact a Gloaming Beast, a mysterious breed of creatures with a predisposition to hunt Bog Noblins. True to his nature, Shady had disappeared into the forest last spring in pursuit of his favourite prey. But not long after the O’Chanters had returned south and found the Hollow, she was shocked to discover that he had found them.

Shady kept his distance, and never crossed the Rill, but he had stopped by the edge of the Hollow each of the last few evenings. This was as close as he’d ever let Rye get, and the first time he’d let her pet him since their days together back in Drowning. His fur was velvety in her fingers, and she remembered the many nights he’d spent keeping her lap warm – and protecting her.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered.

His bushy tail batted the night air.

Rye’s other hand fingered something in her pocket. She slowly brought it out, and Shady pulled away abruptly, dropping himself on to his side several paces away. He gave her what looked to be a disappointed glare.

“Sorry,” she said, and examined the worn leather band strung with runestones in her hand. It was the collar Shady had worn all those years he’d lived with the O’Chanters. She gave him a sheepish shrug. “Wouldn’t it hurt your feelings if I didn’t at least try?”

There was a rustle from among the trees. Shady turned his chin to the forest with interest, but no alarm. His rough tongue licked a paw so thick it looked like it could belong to a bear cub.

“Who else is out there, Shady?” Rye whispered. “What else is out there?”

Shady just blinked his yellow eyes in reply.

Rye sighed. “Oh how I wish you could talk.”

He stretched and casually strolled back to where another pair of eyes now waited. Rye knew it must be Gristle, the Gloaming Beast that had set out into the forest with Shady many months before. She seemed to want nothing to do with Rye or the Hollow.

Both Shady’s and Gristle’s eyes flickered, just an instant before an animalistic, beast-baby wail pierced the still air like an unseasonal wind. Rye jumped to her feet. The eerie sound came from close by, and she knew very well what had made it. It was the cry of a Bog Noblin. Quite possibly the one she’d encountered with the huntsman. She stepped back from the edge of the Rill.

Shady narrowed his eyes, glanced over his shoulder at Rye, and darted into the trees.

“Be careful out there,” Rye called. “And keep an eye on Mama.”

But Shady and Gristle had already disappeared into the darkness.

THE NEXT DAY, the hours seemed to crawl. Rye sat in the moss at the edge of the Rill, her arms wrapped round her knees. She’d paced the Hollow’s perimeter much of the morning, watching and listening for any sign of Harmless. But if he was still out there, the breeze brought no whisper of him. There was no sign of Abby either.

The only sign of life on the forest side of the Rill was Mr Nettle. He’d set the rowan-branch bridge across the stream and stood on the opposite embankment, his hands on his hips and his round belly jutting over his belt. Mr Nettle stared up at the limbs high above, trying to work out how the brindlebacks were getting over the Rill. He chewed his beard and scratched the curly hair that stuck up from his head. Lottie was using his horned skullcap like a makeshift net, trawling the gently flowing water, her small cage at her side.

“I think I see it,” Mr Nettle muttered, squinting. “That’s quite a branch that’s worked its way into the oak. No wonder those furry nuisances are making it across.”

He walked over the bridge, lifting it up after he’d crossed. He peered down and frowned as Lottie drained water through the hollow eye sockets of his skullcap.

There was little that the youngest O’Chanter could offer in her family’s search for Harmless, so instead she usually busied herself by searching the underbrush and streams for something that might replace her long-lost pet lizard, Newtie. Mr Nettle had helped twist branches and slender twigs into a remarkable replica of Newtie’s former wire birdcage. One day she had cheerfully filled it with some fireflies, two orange-bellied salamanders and a knotty-looking toad of poor temperament collected from the forest. But by the time she’d made it back to the Hollow, the salamanders had devoured the fireflies before disappearing themselves and all she was left with was a rather bloated, immobile toad that had apparently eaten itself into an early demise. She’d had even less success since then, and now the cage remained empty.

Mr Nettle dropped himself down on to the ground next to Rye.

“I’ve dwelled in these woods my whole life,” he said, following her gaze to the forest, “and I can tell you that staring at the trees won’t hurry along whomever you are waiting for.” He cocked his head back towards her. “It’ll just blur your vision.”

Rye looked over and smiled sadly.

Mr Nettle crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. Rye giggled.

“Oh,” he said, pressing his fingers to his eyelids, “I think I’ve made myself dizzy.”

“I’ll be glad when Mama’s back, and I can do more searching and less waiting,” she said impatiently.

“The forest moves at its own pace,” Mr Nettle said. “Live here long enough and you learn to take what it offers and ask nothing more. Those who try otherwise don’t live here long at all.”

Rye, Abby and Lottie had met Mr Nettle during their earliest days Beyond the Shale. They’d discovered a glade similar to the Hollow situated further north along the Wend. The tiny shelter there was run-down and looked to be abandoned, but they’d found Mr Nettle living in its remains. He didn’t say much at first but was eager to join them when they were leaving. They were lucky to have found him when they did. If not for Mr Nettle’s intimate knowledge of the forest, Rye doubted they would have lasted this long Beyond the Shale.

“What is Harmless like?” he asked, when Rye once again turned her impatient eyes to the shadows of the pines.

Rye pursed her lips in thought. Truth be told, she’d only really known Harmless for less than a year herself. It seemed like every time she began to get a clear picture of him, she uncovered some additional detail that blurred her vision like a half-remembered dream. That, or he up and disappeared altogether.

“He’s difficult to describe,” Rye began. “He listens more than he speaks, but he’s always answered every question I’ve asked of him. He can be funny and playful.” She raised an eyebrow at Mr Nettle. “Too much so if you ask my mother. But he’s been called an outlaw – and worse.”

Rye recalled some of the names Harmless had been tagged with: Grey the Grim, Grey the Ghastly, and, by the Bog Noblins, Nightmare and Painsmith. From what she had heard, those names had been well earned.

“And yet,” Rye continued, “whenever he’s near I feel safe. And the only reason he is out there –” she nodded towards the trees with her chin – “the only reason he exiled himself once again, to be hunted by Bog Noblins and men even more dangerous … was to protect me.”

Mr Nettle crossed his arms and furrowed his brow. “It sounds like what you have there … is a father.” He gave her a tight smile. “Their ways are riddles to all of us, whether we’re twelve or fifty-two.” He pushed himself to his feet and brushed off his crimped wool trousers with his palms.

Rye buried her chin in her hands and narrowed her eyes at the forest once again.

That evening, after finishing the remains of a sparse supper Abby had left behind for them, Rye and Lottie climbed into their blankets.

“Mama should have returned by now,” Rye whispered to Mr Nettle.

“I’ll keep an ear out,” he replied quietly. “Nothing to be alarmed over. You and your sister try to get some rest.”

Mr Nettle bid them good night and retired to his nest of loose bedding on the tree-house porch. But Rye was alarmed. Her mother wouldn’t leave them waiting without good reason.

“Buggle snug?” Lottie asked, tucking Mona Monster, her hobgoblin rag doll, tight under her arm. Mona’s polka-dot fabric was more grey than pink these days.

“Of course, Lottie,” Rye said. “We can do snuggle bug.”

Rye wrapped her own arm round Lottie and pulled her close, Lottie burying her head in Rye’s shoulder. Lottie had allowed Rye to tame her unkempt hair into a long red braid after a colony of ants had taken a liking to some sap stuck in her locks. It still smelled like pine pitch and cook smoke, but Rye didn’t mind. She just held her little sister tight until they both settled into a rhythmic breathing and eventually fell asleep wishing Abby was there with them.

Rye woke disoriented by the first voice of the night’s choir. Lottie’s eyes were still shut, her mouth open and drooling on Rye’s chest. The voice came again. But this was no growl or slither of an unknown beast. She recognised it as the sound of a far more ordinary animal – the whinny of a rather unhappy horse.

Pulling her arm free, Rye rushed out on to the treehouse porch. From the shadows of the oak tree’s boughs she looked down upon the Hollow. To her disappointment, it was neither Abby nor Harmless. Instead, on the opposite side of the Rill, four hooded men struggled with a horse laden with packs. In the light of their lanterns, she saw the frightened animal buck and rear back as one man tried, unsuccessfully, to yank it by the reins across the shallow stream.

“Worthless mule,” he cursed, splashing through the shallow water and on to the banks of the Hollow to improve his leverage. The others pushed at the horse’s rump without success, and nearly got kicked for their trouble.

“Who are they?” Rye whispered to Mr Nettle, who had joined her at the railing.

“I don’t know. Surely they’ve come down the Wend. But I don’t like their manner one bit.”

The man in the Hollow lowered his hood and raised his lantern, peering up at the branches.

“Who’s up there?” he called. “I can hear you warbling. Come down this instant. We seek shelter for the night.”

Rye and Mr Nettle stepped away from the railing, deeper into the shadows. They exchanged uneasy glances. Lottie stumbled out to join them, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Mona Monster was still tucked under her arm.

“Come down, I say,” the voice bellowed, “before I burn you out of your tree.”

The man’s ashen face reflected in the lantern light, his dark eyes squinting as he struggled to see them.

Rye heard Mr Nettle suck in his breath.

“What is it?” Rye asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But these men smell of danger … and death.”

Rye dared to return to the railing, trying to get a better look at the four visitors.

“Wait here,” Mr Nettle ordered urgently. “And be absolutely quiet. You too, Miss Lottie.”

Lottie turned an imaginary key at her lips.

“Innkeeper!” the hoodless man demanded, his black lips curling. “I’m readying the torches!”

“Coming,” Mr Nettle called. “One moment!” He gestured again for Rye and Lottie to stay put as he hurried off to the winding stairs.

Rye leaned over the railing. The man in the Hollow had smudged black face paint running from his lower lip, over his chin, and down his throat, where it split and curled at the end, like a long tongue. He gestured to his companions, two of whom left the horse and slogged through the Rill. In the light of their own lanterns Rye saw that, under their hoods, their faces were also pale and ashen, eyes and lips streaked black. She gasped.

“Mr Nettle,” she called in a desperate whisper. “They’re Luck Uglies!”

Or to be more precise, they were Fork-Tongued Charmers.

But Mr Nettle didn’t hear her. He had already climbed down to meet them.

“What are you, some sort of troll?” the Fork-Tongued Charmer asked, as Mr Nettle padded out on to the Hollow. He thrust his lantern in Mr Nettle’s face, and Mr Nettle shielded his eyes with his hand and adjusted the horns on his skullcap.

“No …” the man went on, a look of recognition in his dark eyes. “I’ve seen your kind before. I didn’t know there were any Feralings left. I thought you’d all been boiled by superstitious woodsmen and eaten for good luck.”

“Fortunately, I’ve proven to be unappetising so far,” Mr Nettle said with mock cheer and a shrug. “Here, allow me to assist you with your steed. I think she’ll be more agreeable with the help of this.”

Mr Nettle gathered the rowan-wood platform and laid it over the Rill. The other Charmers watched him with grim faces under their dark hoods, towering over the smaller man as he gently took the reins and coaxed the reluctant horse over the makeshift bridge and on to the Hollow.

“My name’s Nettle,” he said, affecting a steady voice. “And what should I call you and your companions?” he asked the hoodless man.

“I am Lassiter,” the Fork-Tongued Charmer said, lifting his arm so that his lantern light might catch the boughs of the oak above. He eyed the old buildings suspiciously. Rye was still watching from the porch and stepped in front of Lottie, easing her back into the shadows.

“These are my brothers, doom, despair and destruction,” he added, flicking his chin over his shoulder. “They ride with me wherever I go.”

The other Charmers laughed at his quip, although Lassiter’s attention remained focused on the guesthouse built in the tree. He squinted upwards through the shadows.

“Whose establishment is this? Are you the only one here, Feraling?” Lassiter asked with a crooked glance.

Mr Nettle hesitated. “Yes … just me at the moment.” He stroked the nervous mare’s muzzle with his hand. “The master of the inn and his hunting party should be returning shortly.”

“Master of the inn?” Lassiter said, his black lips curling into a smirk. “And what is this innkeeper’s name?”

“Ab— that is … Able,” Mr Nettle said, catching himself mid-sentence. “You may have heard him called Able the Imposing. Or Able the Awe-Inspiring,” he added quickly. “He’s a legend. A giant among men.”

Rye cringed as she listened. Too much, Mr Nettle. He was not a practised fibber.

“I’ve never heard any such names,” Lassiter said, glowering at Mr Nettle. “I’ll look forward to meeting this master of tree houses upon his return. This is the shabbiest flophouse I’ve ever seen, but we’ve travelled far and long. Fix us a room and a hot meal while we wait.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, but there’s not much I can do to help. We’re all out of food.”

“A guesthouse without food?”

Mr Nettle bobbed the horns on his head with a nod.

“Are you out of rooms too?” Lassiter looked up at the smaller cottages nestled in the boughs of the oak.

Mr Nettle chewed his beard for a moment. “Yes, yes, full up.” He gave Lassiter and the other glaring Charmers an apologetic smile.

“And yet you just told me you were all alone,” Lassiter said flatly.

“Right,” Mr Nettle said slowly. He pursed his lips. “I did. What I meant was … well …”

“Pigshanks,” Rye whispered to herself.

Lottie must have recognised the severity of Rye’s expression. She didn’t say a word about Rye’s colourful language, just crossed her index fingers and rubbed them together in Rye’s direction. Tsk tsk.

Rye put her own finger to her lips, reminding Lottie to keep hushed, and led her quietly inside where she began helping her with her boots and cloak. The voices below were muffled, but Rye could make them out through the gaps in the tree-house floorboards.

“Perhaps you meant to say that the guests are all out with the hunting party?” Lassiter snarked.

“Yes, exactly,” Mr Nettle said enthusiastically. Rye could hear the misguided relief in his voice. Life in the forest had made Mr Nettle resourceful, but he had no ear for sarcasm.

“Do you know who we are, goat boy?” Lassiter demanded, his voice rising.

Rye threw her arms through the sleeves of her coat and was still pulling on her boots as she ran back to the porch railing.

“Certainly,” Mr Nettle said, blinking his eyes. “You’re Mr Lassiter, and that’s Mr Doom, and Mr Gloom and –” he tapped a finger on his chin before waving at the fourth man – “Mr Desperation, was it?”

Lassiter unsheathed a blade from the scabbard at his hip. He clutched a handful of Mr Nettle’s vest.

“We’re Fork-Tongued Charmers – and no greater nightmare than us roams this forest. We have searched this forsaken wood far too long in pursuit of our quarry, and now, at long last, he’s been found and we are on our way home.”

Rye bristled. Their quarry? Surely he meant Harmless.

“But at the moment we are tired and starving. If you truly have no food, we’ll just have to test the old superstitions.” Lassiter pressed the tip of his blade against Mr Nettle’s chin. “After all, everyone can use a little extra luck.”

Mr Nettle pinched his eyes tight.

“Let him go right now!” Rye yelled from the darkness above them. She wrapped her white knuckles round her cudgel in anger.

Mr Nettle opened his eyes and, along with the Fork-Tongued Charmers, looked up.

“So there is someone else here.” Lassiter nodded his head at one of his companions. “Gibbet, go get whoever’s in there and bring them down.”

Rye’s heart climbed into her throat.

The Charmer named Gibbet moved in the direction of the oak but paused at a sound from the surrounding woods. The night choir had come to life – the first voice, a gravelly growl, took up its song on the other side of the Rill.

Lassiter loosened his grip on Mr Nettle’s vest. “The denizens of this forest are relentless,” he said in exasperation. With his blade, he gestured for the other two Charmers to watch the trees opposite the Rill. They unsheathed their own weapons and moved to the edge of the little stream, angling their lanterns so their light might penetrate the shadows.

The chorus grew louder, their throaty warbles and wicked ramblings calling to one another, excitement in their mysterious tone.

“Gibbet, to the tree,” Lassiter ordered again. “And you two, cut down any creature foolish enough to trifle with us.” He gave Mr Nettle a hard shove towards the two Charmers by the Rill. “Feed the Feraling to them if need be.”

One of the Charmers took him by the shoulder.

“No!” Rye yelled. She pressed herself over the rails, her eyes flaring at them. “Stop it!”

As suddenly as it began, the night chorus fell silent. Mr Nettle and the Fork-Tongued Charmers froze in surprise, none of them more shocked than Rye herself. Then she heard it – a thumping plod followed by slithering through the dried leaves outside the Hollow.

Mr Nettle caught her eye, then glanced at the rowanbranch platform still laid across the Rill.

“Oh my. Shriek Reavers,” he observed quietly, but when his eyes briefly met hers again they were wide with fear. “Climb, Miss Riley!” he bellowed. “Climb!”

THREE LONG SHAPES, low to the ground, scurried over the rowan platform with remarkable speed. Sharp fingers clawed the soil as they dragged their legless, serpentine bodies behind them, black tails undulating like eels through water. The first Shriek Reaver reared up, and Rye saw that its head was elongated like a stag’s, its skinless skull charred the colour of soot. Two jagged, multi-pronged antlers jutted menacingly from its head.

The Hollow echoed with the sound of clacking bone. Dozens of oversized teeth chattered not from cold, but purposefully – with hunger.

Like a cornered badger, Mr Nettle lurched forward and buried his own teeth into the nearest Fork-Tongued Charmer’s shoulder. The Charmer growled in pain, but before he could move to strike Mr Nettle, a Shriek Reaver’s whip-like tendril slashed the Charmer’s arm and sent his lantern flying.

“Climb, Miss Riley! Go!” Mr Nettle called out again, and she saw him dart across the Hollow, a hand on his head to keep his skullcap from flying.

Rye tore back into the tree house and grabbed Lottie by the hand. Lottie’s eyes were wide as Rye dragged her through the main room, to the opposite landing at the top of the spiral staircase. She looked at the enormous oak ascending above them as far as her eye could see.

“Lottie,” she whispered, crouching down to face her and placing her hands on Lottie’s shoulders, “you love to climb trees, right? But Mama won’t always let you?”

Lottie nodded suspiciously.

“Well now’s your chance. We get to climb the tallest tree of them all. I promise not to tell.”

Lottie gave her an uncertain smile.

“Really. Go ahead. I’ll follow you.”

Lottie’s eyes drifted down the staircase to the base of the oak. The Hollow was filled with the pained shouts of the Fork-Tongued Charmers as they called to one another; the hacking sound of metal into what sounded like damp, rotting wood; and the relentless gut-churning clack of bony teeth.

Rye put a finger on her sister’s chin and gently lifted it so she was looking into Rye’s eyes once again. “No looking down, Lottie. And don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you.”

Rye saw Lottie swallow hard. She knew Lottie must be as frightened as she was, but the little girl was doing a remarkable job of hiding it. Rye gave her a boost on to the tree-house roof, from which the thick trunk of the oak towered upwards like an endless chimney. Lottie clung to the moss-riddled shingles on her hands and knees, and Rye moved to join her.

“Mona?” Lottie asked, peeking down over the edge at Rye.

“What?” Rye asked, and her eyes darted to the inside of the tree house. The pink polka-dot hobgoblin lay on the floor where Lottie had dropped her.

Rye checked the spiral stairs. She saw a dark shape scuttle over the oak’s roots and disappear out of sight, the sounds of the calamity below still loud in their ears. She thought better of it, but dashed into the tree house anyway, snatching up Mona Monster. She returned, showing the doll to Lottie before stashing it safely in the folds of her own coat.

“Now get to the trunk,” Rye said, shooing Lottie on.

Lottie disappeared from the edge and Rye took hold of the roof, digging her fingers into the shingles and pulling herself up. She steadied herself and climbed to her feet, balancing on the sloped pitch. She gasped in alarm as she looked down, where the Fork-Tongued Charmer named Gibbet met her gaze. He was just below her, on the tree-house landing.

But behind him was something even more terrifying.

A Shriek Reaver was deftly climbing the spiral stairs on two long tendrils that looked more like knotted roots than arms. This close, Rye now saw its teeth: grotesquely oversized for its jaw, their edges chipped from their relentless clacking and grinding.

Rye opened her mouth to scream but found her throat dry. Gibbet must have read her look of alarm and pivoted on his heels.

The slithering creature pressed itself up on its long, spidery arms as it reached the top of the platform, extending its torso so that it stood as tall as Gibbet. It cocked its hairless, antlered skull and warbled something deep in its mouth, like the stub of a tongue flicking against the back of its throat.

Before Gibbet could attack the monster with his sword, the hideous creature lashed forward, pinning Gibbet’s arms to his side with its own. Its long body coiled through the Charmer’s legs, round his chest, and finally gripped his neck. They fell backwards together, tumbling in a heap down the stairs even as Gibbet gasped for breath and struggled to free himself.

Rye didn’t wait to see the outcome. She scurried towards Lottie, hurrying her up and on to the oak’s trunk. She was thankful that they’d both spent so many days scaling trees together in Drowning, and fortunately the oak’s branches were twisted and knotty – perfect for climbing. Rye followed her own most important rule whenever being chased: Don’t look back. Or in this case, down.

Rye felt bark under her fingernails and scratches on her face, but she was otherwise unscathed by the time they reached a fork in the trunk where they could sit side by side. She put an arm round Lottie to be sure her sister was steady. Rye risked a quick glance down. Her head swam – they were higher than even the tallest rooftops of Drowning.

Only the faint flickering of scattered lanterns lit the Hollow far below, but in the shadows of the tree house, she could see the three black shapes weaving in and out of doors and windows, turning over every corner and cranny in search of some sign of life. One slid through a window only to emerge moments later from the crumbling stone chimney.

Rye heard nothing more from the Fork-Tongued Charmers … nor Mr Nettle. She didn’t know if the horrible Shriek Reavers would search the oak itself, and wasn’t inclined to wait and find out. That presented a problem. They could keep climbing, but eventually the only way left to go would be down.

“Bingle-black!” Lottie huffed in a coarse whisper.

Rye looked in the direction Lottie pointed. Two saucer-like eyes stared at her a healthy distance away from the tree trunk, as if hovering in midair. Rye looked more closely. It was a brindleback on a branch – several branches intertwined together – where the limbs of the oak had mingled with a neighbouring ash tree that grew outside the Hollow.

The brindleback blinked, then turned and scampered away along the branches, his long, ringed tail trailing behind him. That’s the answer, Rye thought. She was suddenly relieved that Mr Nettle was so fond of procrastinating his chores.

“This way, Lottie,” Rye whispered, and on hands and knees they shimmied across the branches. Rye cried out as they bowed under their weight, but their bridge held true, and she watched the Hollow and Rill pass far below them as they reached the other side. Climbing down the neighbouring tree was more difficult, and they both fell from a higher distance than they would have liked, Rye cushioning Lottie’s fall.

She pulled Lottie tight in her arms and leaned back against the base of the ash tree. Only now, with her sister’s small warm body pressed against her, did Rye feel her own heart pounding like a desperate fist inside her chest.

But Rye’s sense of relief didn’t last long. She carefully craned her neck and peered around the ash tree. The Hollow and the oak were not far away and she could still hear the chattering teeth of the stag-skulled monsters as they destroyed what was left of the tree house. Once finished, they would surely head back this way.

Rye put her hands on Lottie’s shoulders. “Lottie, you stay here. Don’t move, understand?”

Lottie looked at her in disbelief. Rye reached into her coat and dug out Mona, pressing her into Lottie’s trembling hands.

“I’ll be right back. Be brave for Mona.”

Lottie embraced Mona and nodded. Rye took a deep breath and hurried cautiously towards the Rill. She hoped the Shriek Reavers would still be too busy hunting through the tree house to notice her coming. Her plan seemed to work as she neared the edge of the Rill, but then there was a sharp crack at her feet. She sucked in her breath and looked down. She’d stepped on a fallen branch. Her eyes jumped to the tree house. The Shriek Reavers seemed to hang there for a moment, cocking their eyeless sockets towards her. Then suddenly they sprang to life, weaving their ways down and round the spiral staircase.

Rye considered turning and running but realised it would be hopeless. Her only chance was to beat them to the Rill. She barrelled forward, leaves and pine needles crunching under her boots. The three beasts were on the ground of the Hollow, dragging themselves on their spidery arms at a remarkable speed. Rye headed straight for them and reached the rowan bridge first. With all of her strength she pulled it up in her arms just as the monsters reached the waterline. They flailed their sharp antlers and snapped their teeth a mere arm’s length from her face, the smell of rot and mould on their breath. She fell backwards towards the forest, the platform coming to rest on her chest.

When she pushed it off, she saw the Reavers circling the Rill frantically. Their nubby tongues warbled in their throats. Angry and agitated, they slunk around searching for a way over the water. Like every other non-human inhabitant of Beyond the Shale, they were unable to traverse the tiny streamlet without the rowan bridge.

The Shriek Reavers clacked their teeth in furious protest. They were now prisoners of the Hollow.

Whether or not the Shriek Reavers would find their way up the oak to the overgrown limbs was another matter altogether, and Rye didn’t intend to linger to find out. She hurried back to the ash tree where she’d left Lottie and slumped down to huddle with her sister in the dark. They might be safe from the trapped monsters for the moment, but they now found themselves on the outside of the Hollow looking in, along with all of the other creatures of Beyond the Shale. It seemed that their long-term prospects had not greatly improved.

A nearby rustling of dried leaves startled Rye. She didn’t have time to react before a body threw itself upon them. She shoved away its stocky form and raised her cudgel, but stopped when she felt the curved horns of a goat against her outstretched palm.

“Mr Nettle?” she gasped in relief.

“Children! I was just heading back into the Hollow to find you. I’m not exactly sure what I would have done once I got there, but then I caught the scent of … your feet.” He pushed his horned cap back up over his eyes, glanced at Rye’s boots, then at the dark, sinister shapes circling the interior banks of the Rill. “I’m grateful for my sensitive nose … and your pungent toes,” he added.

“What were those things?” Rye whispered. “You call them Shriek Reavers?”

Mr Nettle nodded grimly. “Ancient guardians of Beyond the Shale. They are extremely rare and normally only stalk the northernmost reaches of the forest. I’ve never seen them this far south.”

“Monsters,” Lottie huffed, and furrowed her brow. “Not nice ones,” she clarified, patting Mona apologetically.

“There’s no easy way to label the Shriek Reavers, Miss Lottie. They are neither good nor evil, just … single-minded,” Mr Nettle explained, chewing his beard. “The forest does not welcome outsiders. Feralings believe that when the balance shifts – when too many human outsiders penetrate the confines of these trees – the Shriek Reavers awaken from their slumber and take up their hunt. They don’t stop until the balance tips back in the forest’s favour.” Mr Nettle seemed to shiver at a memory. “It was a Shriek Reaver that destroyed the other hollow where you found me.”

For a moment, Rye found herself hoping that the Fork-Tongued Charmers had indeed found Harmless. At least that meant a Shriek Reaver hadn’t beaten them to it. As for her mother, Rye could only hope she was well on her way down the Wend.

“What happened to the other men – the Fork-Tongued Charmers?” she asked. “Did they get away too?”

“One clearly did. I heard other footsteps as I ran.” He glanced towards the Hollow. “At least one other surely didn’t.”

Rye had seen all too clearly how quickly the Shriek Reaver seemed to squeeze the breath out of the Fork-Tongued Charmer named Gibbet.

“The Shriek Reavers aren’t the only dangers out here.” Mr Nettle squinted at the shadows around them. “We need to find shelter until morning. Come on.”

Mr Nettle led Rye and Lottie away from the Hollow, carefully searching the gloomy terrain until he found what he was looking for. A fallen tree stretched far into the darkness in front of them. Its enormous root system had been torn from the earth and fanned out like jagged tentacles. Mr Nettle helped Rye and Lottie duck into a gap in the broken limbs. The tree’s knotted roots jutted around them like protective spines, but its pulpy core was soft against Rye’s back.

Tomorrow they would set out at first light in hopes of meeting Abby along the Wend. So for now there was nothing Rye could do but try to rest. She pulled Lottie close against her, and was eventually able to drift to sleep, comfortable in the knowledge that Mr Nettle slept with one watchful eye open.

THE WEND RESEMBLED a tunnel more than a footpath. A menacing canopy of finger-like branches curled over the trail, as if ready to reach down and pluck any traveller who displeased the forest. Creeping roots bulged across the overgrown ground, seeking to reclaim the narrow corridor that had been forged through the trees.

Rye, Lottie and Mr Nettle bounced along the unforgiving trail, the clop of hooves thumping the ground beneath them. They had woken to find the Fork-Tongued Charmers’ skittish mare drinking from a puddle not far from the Hollow. After some soothing words from Mr Nettle, the horse had permitted them to mount it, making for an easier trip now that they didn’t have to wait for Lottie’s short but eager legs to keep up.

Rye watched the sharp branches pass around them as she bobbed in the saddle. The path’s jagged canopy thinned the further south they rode, eventually giving way to an overcast afternoon sky. The Wend ran north and south, twisting like a looming snake hole in each direction, and travellers hoping to cover any real distance had no choice but to traverse it. The Hollow sat along its more southern stretch. Village Drowning, the closest settlement, was still a two-day journey. But Rye’s village might as well have been a mythical city in a book of fairy tales. Neither the House of Longchance nor any other noble family in all the Shale held sway over the inhabitants of these ancient trees.

There was a familiar odour in the air, and she had the unnerving feeling that something had been following them quietly through the brush. She quickly glanced at her choker. Fortunately, the runestones round her neck remained dull.

“My nose isn’t nearly as good as yours,” she said to Mr Nettle, looking back over her shoulder, “but I can’t get the smell of the bogs out of it.”

Mr Nettle grunted affirmatively from behind her. “We’re in the southern reaches of the forest. The bogs aren’t far now, and beyond them … villages.” He seemed to shudder at the thought.

“You don’t like villages?” Rye asked.

Mr Nettle shook his head adamantly. “Never been to one, luckily. But I’ve heard all about them from travellers. Trapped in dwellings, deafened by noise and crawling with … people.” He scratched his neck furiously like a hound fighting fleas. “Just the thought of it makes me itch.”

“It’s not all bad,” Rye said with a nostalgic shrug, and watched the muted light filter through the treetops overhead. They hadn’t come across Abby, and Rye’s mind wrestled with a dozen unpleasant possibilities as the afternoon wore on. The obscured sun hung low behind the clouds by the time they stopped to rest. They dismounted and shared some of the skimpy provisions they’d found in the horse’s saddlebags. Rye sat on the ground at the edge of the trail and wrapped her arms round her knees. The mare scuffed the dirt anxiously and tugged at her reins.

“We should have crossed paths with your mother by now,” Mr Nettle said as he tried to settle the nervous animal. Then he forced a smile and changed his tone in a manner that Rye knew was for her and Lottie’s benefit.

“But I’m sure there’s a good reason. She must have decided to camp along the Wend for another night. Miss Lottie, don’t wander too far …”

Lottie had taken Mona for a walk to “stretch her claws” and now took great interest in a small rodent scurrying through the underbrush.

Mr Nettle’s eyes followed a sharp turn in the path up ahead. “We may want to find a place to shelter for the night sooner rather than later. Better not to push on and then find ourselves exposed after dark.”

Rye gnawed at a strip of dried venison with her front teeth and nodded, grateful to have a companion so familiar with the forest.

The mare jolted and startled her. Mr Nettle tried to soothe it, but the horse tore off down the Wend with a furious snort, kicking up dirt and pebbles as it bolted away. Rye jumped to her feet as Mr Nettle called and rushed after it, but she stopped abruptly. A cry caught her attention.

Lottie’s familiar voice. Yelling. Angry.

Rye’s mouth fell open, still full of chewed meat. “This way!” she yelled to Mr Nettle, spitting it out.

Rye hurried off the Wend and through a thicket.

“Mean! You a mean monster!” Lottie’s voice screamed.

Rye’s heart raced at the sound of Lottie’s words. She plunged into a small clearing in the pines, and jolted to a stop. Lottie stood at one end, hands on her hips with Mona Monster tucked under her armpit.

Just opposite her stood a Bog Noblin – the very one Rye had seen two days before. Its grey skin shimmered damp and clammy, the air around it thick with the smell of the bogs. Rye looked quickly to Lottie’s neck, then her own.

Their protective runestone chokers did not beam blue.

Rye tensed and pulled Lottie close to her side. But the Bog Noblin didn’t move. Surrounding it were two other familiar beasts.

Shady crouched alertly between the Bog Noblin and the O’Chanters, the thick fur on his back standing straight, eyes agleam with mischief. Gristle had positioned herself behind the Bog Noblin, blocking its escape. If the Bog Noblin was indeed following them, at least the Gloaming Beasts had stayed close behind. They looked as if they might pounce at any moment.

“Mean Gob Boblin did sneaky peek on me,” Lottie huffed. “I think him tried to take Mona.” She wrapped her arms round her doll protectively.

Shady circled the small clearing menacingly, Gristle working her way round the opposite direction, until the Bog Noblin shifted, its eyes rotating independently so it could keep watch on each of its antagonists.

Mr Nettle arrived behind Rye, tugging the terrified horse by its reins.

“Perhaps we should be going now,” he suggested out of the side of his mouth. “The Gloaming Beasts seem to have this well in hand and I don’t think we really want to see the results of their dance with this ugly fellow.”

But Rye found herself studying this Bog Noblin carefully. It was clearly the one she’d seen at the huntsman’s campsite two days before and yet the familiarity ran deeper than that. She noticed the old bootlace at the end of his plaited, rust-orange beard; the fish-hooks adorning his ears and nostrils. She had already seen more Bog Noblins than she cared to remember and one thing she’d learned was that, like people, each had their own unique traits – after you got past their more common, toothy features.

The Bog Noblin watched Rye with its bulging, drippy eyes. There was a hint of fear but also an awareness, as if he too was searching Rye’s face for recognition. She knew now that she had looked into those eyes before.

Leatherleaf?

The Gloaming Beasts closed in.

The Bog Noblin extended a veiny arm, its clawed palm open as if ready to defend itself. Round its wrist, she spotted a large decayed tooth strung on a string like a bracelet.

Shady’s tail twitched, his body tense and ready to strike.

The Bog Noblin raised its distended jaw to the sky and let out a terrible beast-baby wail. Rye cringed, recognising it clearly now – the first cry of a Bog Noblin she had ever heard. It was Leatherleaf, the juvenile Bog Noblin that had wandered into Drowning nearly a year ago and turned her life upside down. He had grown since she’d last seen him, but she was now certain of his identity.

“Wait!” Rye yelled and, inexplicably, found herself rushing to stand between the Gloaming Beasts and Leatherleaf.

“Miss Riley!” Mr Nettle called out in alarm.

Rye raised her hands, gesturing to Shady and Gristle as if to hold them back. Gristle returned an indignant glare, and skulked off into the trees. Shady’s eyes narrowed, more pensive. She doubted she could keep him at bay for long.

Rye looked to Leatherleaf. One of his strange, bulging eyes rotated from Shady to her. It was joined by the other. He fixed his gaze on Rye and she could tell that he was examining the choker round her neck. He seemed as surprised as Rye that her runestones no longer glowed in his presence.

Shady let out a low rumble from his throat.

“Please, Shady. Wait,” Rye urged.

Her hand went to her throat. The runestones were cool to the touch and dim – no different from ordinary stones. Why hadn’t they warned her of Leatherleaf’s arrival?

“Why are you here?” she called to him.

He extended a large fist, his grey skin bulging with knots and blue veins. Rye tensed.

“What do you want?” she tried.

He gestured his outstretched hand in reply. She didn’t expect that he understood her words, but perhaps the confusion in her tone had resonated.

Summoning her courage, Rye took a step forward. Leatherleaf watched her approach intently. He didn’t move to meet her, nor did he retreat.

“Miss Riley!” Mr Nettle gasped from behind her, and held Lottie back.

Rye trembled, but forced herself closer, close enough that she could smell the stench of the bogs on Leatherleaf’s breath. She extended an open palm under the enormous fist that dwarfed her own. The Bog Noblin unfurled his long, clawed fingers as if he would snatch her, but before Rye could flinch, something fell from his grasp into her hand.

Leatherleaf quickly retreated several paces to a deeper gap in the trees. Rye back-pedalled into the clearing before looking at what he’d offered.

She opened her hand, cupping it with her other palm as several hard objects spilled between her fingers. Runestones. In her hands was a broken leather necklace, similar to hers, Abby’s and Lottie’s, but larger. She knew exactly whose it was.

The necklace belonged to Harmless.

RYE STARED BLANKLY at the remains of Harmless’s necklace in her palm. One of the House Rules she had been raised with, all long since broken, related to their chokers. Worn under sun and under moon, never remove the O’Chanters’ rune. Had Harmless taken his off? The alternative churned her stomach. She wondered if this was why their own chokers hadn’t glowed in Leatherleaf’s presence.

Rye cast her gaze at Leatherleaf in shock. Her ears always grew hot when she was angry, and now they burned as if singed by a torch.

“Where did you get this?” she yelled, thrusting her hands outward. She marched forward, blind to the danger. “Did you hurt him?”

Shady followed eagerly at the sound of Rye’s furious voice. He readied himself at her side, furry ears pinned back and chin on his front paws, eager to charge.

Leatherleaf didn’t flee, but his watery eyes fixed themselves on Shady uneasily.

Rye stuffed the loose runestones into her coat pocket and then gently put a hand on the bristled fur of Shady’s back.

“Easy, Shady, don’t move,” she whispered to him. “For now.”

Rye tried to settle herself. Had Leatherleaf sunk his claws into Harmless then tracked her down to show her the evidence out of spite? That made little sense. It was the Dreadwater clan of Bog Noblins who had pursued Harmless Beyond the Shale. Leatherleaf was from the Clugburrow, and an outcast even among his own kind. Although he had grown larger and more imposing than when she had first encountered him last year, she doubted that Leatherleaf had the temperament to risk challenging Harmless alone.

“Why did you give me these?” Rye called. She tightened her grip on her cudgel and stepped towards him.

Leatherleaf rose from his crouch and Rye’s body tensed. But instead of moving towards her, he took several strides deeper into the forest, stopped, and crouched again.

“Perhaps this would be a good opportunity to leave?” Mr Nettle suggested urgently.

Rye waved a hand behind her back and shushed him.

She approached the spot where Leatherleaf had just been, Shady padding softly beside her. When she paused, Leatherleaf loped further away, crouched once more, and looked back at her.

“I think he wants me to follow him,” Rye said, looking back over her shoulder at Mr Nettle and Lottie. “He probably has a nice picnic blanket set up back there and is waiting for the main course,” Mr Nettle said.

Rye hurried back to the frightened horse and pulled a torch and some flint from its saddlebags. Mr Nettle’s eyes went wide.

“What are you doing, Miss Riley? Have you gone mad?”

“What if he knows something about Harmless?” she said. “Maybe he’s trying to show me.”

Mr Nettle sputtered his lips in protest.

“If he meant to hurt us, he would have done it already,” Rye said. She sparked the flint, the torch flared, and she peered into the darkening woods. “Besides, I’ll have Shady with me.”

Shady narrowed his yellow eyes at Leatherleaf. Rye knew it was taking every bit of his willpower to refrain from bolting after the Bog Noblin.

“Take Lottie to the Wend,” she added quickly, before Mr Nettle could protest further. “I’ll hurry back as soon as I see where Leatherleaf leads me. If you find Mama, tell her which way I went. I’ll catch her fury for this – but if Harmless is out there, we can’t take the chance of missing him again.”

Rye’s boots sank into the swampy ground beneath her. Here the wetlands had broken the grip of the forest, the terrain around her filled with rotted stumps and the trunks of splintered pines felled by the water of the bogs. As fearsome as he could be when motivated, Shady was fussy when it came to wet paws. He trailed behind like some princess’s lap cat as he carefully navigated the higher ground.

Darkness fell quickly that evening. Either that or Rye had been following Leatherleaf through the moors for far longer than she’d realised. She finally came to a halt when he did, keeping a healthy distance between herself and the Bog Noblin. He had crouched knee-deep in the shallow muck. His eyes reflected red in her torchlight as they glanced towards a clearing in the distance. Rye followed his gaze. A ring of lights – dozens of them – penetrated the darkness up ahead. She squinted to make out their source.

Rye turned back towards Leatherleaf in search of an explanation, but the Bog Noblin was now gone, the sound of his feet churning the swamp somewhere in the distance.

It seemed Leatherleaf had taken her as far as he intended.

A flicker caught the corner of Rye’s eye. A light broke away from the others and approached with haste. Rye hurried to duck behind a stump covered in moss and blackened toadstools. She quickly snuffed out her dim torch.

The circular glow of a tallow candle spread out over the ground. The man who carried it scanned the bogs with probing eyes from under his cowl. Rye saw that his face was ghoulish white – covered in the traditional corpse paint of a Fork-Tongued Charmer. He paused just two short strides from her hiding place. Rye held her breath and hoped the sour smell of his candle would mask the smoke of her own smouldering torch. Not finding what he was looking for, the Fork-Tongued Charmer returned to the others, sloshing across the damp turf with his heavy boots.

Rye exhaled in relief then hurried after him as quietly as she could, this time disappearing behind the splintered trunk of a fallen tree. She pressed her back against it and waited, making sure no one had heard her, then peeked over the top of the split bark.

An assembly of hooded figures had congregated in a crescent line on a mound of earth rising from the bogs. Each held a thick, bare candle, flames barely flickering in the still air and yellow wax drippings covering their fingers. If the wax burned them, they didn’t flinch. A man was led to the centre of the mound, the jagged point of an impish beak penetrating the dark folds of his hood.

Rye watched as one of the other figures stepped forward to meet him. This man was masked as well, but instead of the fiendish, leathery guise of the Luck Uglies, his mask was lined with scales and bore no nose. A hollow mouth and grotesquely distended jaw stretched down to his chest, a cavern so dark it swallowed the hope from Rye’s heart. She knew of only one Luck Ugly who wore a mask like that. He was the leader of the Fork-Tongued Charmers – and the most dangerous Luck Ugly of all.

Slinister Varlet.

With a nod of Slinister’s distorted chin, the Fork-Tongued Charmers on either side of the man removed his cloak and cowl. He offered no resistance as they shackled his wrists at his waist. Rye felt a lump rise in her throat. She was suddenly very aware of the thick smell of rotted wood and stagnant water around her. A Fork-Tongued Charmer reached up, pulled the mask from the prisoner’s face, and cast it to the ground.

Rye had already guessed who she might see under the mask. Still, her face fell and her head swam – first in relief, but then with dread. She placed both hands on the fallen trunk to keep from losing her balance.

Harmless’s wolf-like eyes glared back at Slinister, his jaw knotted behind a beard that was thicker and greyer than when Rye had last seen him. The faded scars on his face were drawn tight with defiance rather than pain. Harmless listened unflinchingly as Slinister recited accusations, the Fork-Tongued Charmer’s words deep and booming from the hollow of his mask, loud enough that Rye could hear them over the stillness of the bogs.

“Grey O’Chanter, you stand accused of failing to answer a Call of the Luck Uglies. A charge you have not denied. You have raised your blade and shed the blood of no less than six of our own brothers since your disappearance, with several more missing and unaccounted for. Another charge you do not deny.”

Harmless listened impassively.

Rye fumed silently. Five months earlier, Slinister had handed Harmless over to the Bog Noblins for that very reason – so Harmless would miss the Call, casting doubt on his commitment to the Luck Uglies. And surely the Charmers who Slinister had sent out in search of him had not brought any peace offering. Of course Harmless had fought them.

Slinister cocked his masked head. “Do you offer no explanation?” he asked.

Harmless’s reply came calmly, but with venom.

“I have nothing to say to this assembly of snakes. Except that you all shame the brotherhood tonight.” Harmless’s fiery eyes moved from one Fork-Tongued Charmer’s darkened face to another as he spoke. “This gathering is a farce. Where are the rest of the Luck Uglies, Slinister? I see only the freshly powdered noses of your allies here.”

“Word was sent regarding the nature of tonight’s meeting,” Slinister replied coolly. “Just because the others were unable to attend in a timely manner, that does not mean justice can be delayed.”

“No justice will be served tonight,” Harmless said slowly. “But rest assured, it will find each of you someday. Justice is a patient huntress … and a merciless one.”

Slinister stared back from the red-rimmed eyes of his mask.

“Since you have nothing more to offer, we are left with no choice,” he said, and for a moment Rye recognised the tone of mock sincerity Slinister used when he once wore the guise of a constable. “You have broken our code. Our oaths are sacred and absolute, and the punishment for such transgressions is well known by us all.”

Slinister paused, and the assembled Fork-Tongued Charmers seemed to hang on his next words.

“Tonight, High Chieftain, we gather to see you on your Descent.”

Rye’s heart jumped. His Descent? She’d never heard that term before.

The two nearest Charmers moved closer to Harmless. He flashed his teeth and eyed them with such ferocity that they both hesitated, even though Harmless’s wrists remained shackled.

“Stay your hands,” he spat through his gritted jaw. “While you may dishonour yourselves tonight, I shall descend with the honour of a High Chieftain.”

He stepped away from them, to the edge of the mossy mound where it sloped and disappeared into the brackish darkness of the bog.

Slinister followed behind him, pausing to remove his own mask. His sandy beard, once waxed into elaborate spikes, now hung straight, its end tied into a loose knot. Where his head was not shaved smooth an elaborate plaited braid was pulled back and fell past his neck and down his broad back. In the candlelight, his eyes were splinters of cracked jewels. The other Fork-Tongued Charmers tightened around them.

Harmless stared down to the black water at his feet.

“You show no remorse, Grey,” Slinister said. “But we still afford you a brother’s farewell.”

Rye waited for Harmless’s next move. What manner of escape did he have planned? Would he run? Or perhaps lull Slinister into a sense of comfort before striking unexpectedly? She readied herself, calculating what she might do to help him when he took action.

But instead, Harmless stepped forward. His body lurched downwards as he sank up to his knees into the bog.

The Fork-Tongued Charmers surrounding him began to speak in unison, reciting words that sounded like a scripted chant.

“Once a Luck Ugly, always a Luck Ugly. Until the day you take your last breath. It’s our deepest regret that breath has come so soon.”

Rye’s insides clawed at her. This couldn’t be happening. She watched wide-eyed as Harmless took another step and the marsh rose past his waist. The Charmers’ voices droned on as one.

“Sleep well, brother. May the bogs fill your lungs so you never rise. Tonight we will toast you fondly for what you once were, and try to forget what you have become.”

A third step and Harmless’s body fell awkwardly before settling, the mire consuming him up to his shoulders. Rye’s head reeled as the chant continued.

“The blackness of the bog reveals the truth in every man. It is the rare brother who takes the final step unassisted. So we offer our hand this one last time.”

A Fork-Tongued Charmer handed Slinister one end of a thick rope and Slinister stepped into the bog, his open palm raised, as if eager to push Harmless’s head under himself.

“Back,” Harmless growled through gritted teeth. “The last step is mine alone.”

Slinister hesitated and curled his lip, as if disappointed. “As you choose,” he said, and gripping the rope, climbed back to higher ground.

No, Harmless! Rye cried from behind the fallen tree, but not aloud. Her plea was silent and went unheard.

Harmless took the last step without assistance. The black mud of the bogs covered his nose, then his eyes as the ground gave way beneath him, and finally the top of his head disappeared altogether.

Every muscle in Rye’s body strained to rush forward. But she fought back her urge, and instead began to count silently in her head.

One … two … three …

The Fork-Tongued Charmers uttered their final words.

“As the bog fills your eyes and ears, we too blow out our lights, sharing the ultimate darkness with you for but a moment, a reminder of what awaits us all should we forsake our bond.”

They blew out their candles, and all was dark.

Two hundred and eighty-nine, two-hundred and ninety.

Rye counted. One second for every three beats of her racing heart. Her clothes clung to her body from sweat as she waited, her back pressed against the pulpy bark of the split tree. Despite her panic, she forced herself to focus. The count was critical; she couldn’t lose track.

Two hundred and ninety-nine. Three hundred. Five minutes now.

It felt like forever. And yet was it long enough for all of the Fork-Tongued Charmers to have left? She peered over her shoulder. The moonless night offered nothing but shadows and silence.

Rye kept up her count. She had seen Harmless hold his breath for six minutes under frigid water. But to wait that long would leave her with no room for error. It was now or never. With a flick of flint, she re-sparked her torch and tore out from her hiding place.

Rye ran as fast as she could, but the wet bogs seemed to grip her boots and fight her every step. It was as if she could barely lift her legs. When she did, unseen roots and creepers lurched out to trip her.

Finally she reached the place where she had last seen her father. Dropping her torch, she plunged herself into the bog, clawing and digging at the muck.

“Harmless!” she cried out, this time as loud as she could. “Harmless!”

But the bog guarded its prize jealously as it tightened round her. Soon Rye couldn’t move her legs, and her arms grew heavy. She struggled to free herself but its murky waters held fast. Too many minutes had passed. Rye looked to the darkened sky above, her voice lost.

“Harmless,” she rasped. But there were no answers. She had run out of time, for both Harmless and herself. She felt herself sinking, and could no longer move at all.

There was a loud splash behind her. Rye was pulled up violently, popping from the ooze like a cork as she was hurled backwards. She landed hard on moist but unforgiving earth, losing her breath with the impact. Through the light of her torch on the ground she saw a large grey shape plunge into the bog. It buried its head and shoulders beneath the surface, rooting and grunting like a pig in a trough.

Rye blinked her eyes in disbelief. After a moment, Leatherleaf emerged from the water, pulling himself from the bog with one clawed hand.

The other claw dragged Harmless behind him, her father’s lifeless body stained black with mire from head to foot.

A CHILL BREEZE rattled the swamp maples and sent a storm of crimson leaves fluttering down past Rye’s shoulders like hundreds of tiny kites against a grey sky. The leaves joined their fallen companions around Rye’s boots, covering every inch of turf in the tiny graveyard. A dozen or so worn and broken headstones peeked out from the rustling red piles.

Villagers who knew of this place called it Miser’s End Cemetery. But most had long since forgotten it altogether, and didn’t call it anything at all.

Rye examined the thick bouquet of clover in her hand, the long stems tied with simple twine. She trudged through the leaves to the centre of the graveyard, where three irregularly shaped stones jutted from the overgrown weeds, their faces covered with ivy that had turned burnt orange with the season. She crouched and pulled aside the leaves from the first. The single carved name was faded but legible, and was unaccompanied by date or detail.

GRIMSHAW

It was a name she’d only recently come to know. Grimshaw the Black. Her grandfather … and former High Chieftain of the Luck Uglies. The second headstone was just as unremarkable, the ivy less dense as she tore it away.

LOTHAIRE

That was the name of Harmless’s younger brother. Lothaire the Loathsome was an uncle she’d once heard mentioned, but had never actually met. Rye swallowed hard and moved to the last of the three irregular stones. Here she didn’t need to clear any ivy. The markings on this headstone were still crisp, its face unadorned by weeds or growth.

GREY

Rye breathed deeply and looked around at Miser’s End. She had first met Harmless in this very same burial ground. They’d shared breakfast and stories sitting among these headstones. She’d played here with her friends even before that, and yet she’d never known her very own ancestors had come home to this small, unremarkable place.

There was a metallic creak behind her and she glanced quickly over her shoulder. It was just the iron gate swinging gently in the breeze as another round of crimson leaves danced past her boots. She cast her eyes to the path up Troller’s Hill, where its solitary old tree cast a skeletal shadow in the afternoon light. She thought she saw another shadow flicker on the hillside, but in an instant it was gone.

Rye turned back to the ground in front of her and resolved herself to the task at hand. She stared at the bouquet of clover one last time, pinched her eyes tight, then set it at the base of the headstone etched with her father’s name.

Rye hurried out of the cemetery and up the path to Troller’s Hill. She was just outside the northernmost fringe of Drowning, and as she climbed the gentle peak, she could see the roof of her cottage and Mud Puddle Lane not far away. She squinted, in hopes of catching a glimpse of Quinn, or the Pendergills, or even crotchety Old Lady Crabtree. But the dirt road seemed strangely deserted for midday. It would have been easy to hurry down and rap on Quinn’s door, to greet her old friend for the briefest of moments, but her instructions had been quite clear. She was to stay out of Drowning and return without delay. Abby would be waiting.

So instead Rye stopped on top of Troller’s Hill, where Mr Nettle waited, leaning against the base of the tree.

“Did you do what you needed to?” he asked solemnly.

Rye nodded.

“Good,” he said with relief. “Let’s be going then.”

Mr Nettle’s uneasy eyes were on Mud Puddle Lane, and the shadows of Village Drowning’s rooftops looming beyond it. He chewed his beard.

“All of those buildings,” he said with a mixture of awe and apprehension. “What are they?”

“Home,” Rye said with a tight smile. “Maybe I’ll get back there one of these days.”

Rye and Mr Nettle arrived at a small sod house built right in the side of a hillock, on terrain that was neither bog nor forest. Thick marsh grass grew from its turf roof, camouflaging the dwelling into its surroundings. It sat near the southernmost end of the Wend, and was the place Abby had led a shocked and desperate Rye to after finding her huddled in the bogs, still clutching Harmless’s body in her arms. The dilapidated hovel was an abandoned bog hopper’s shack – an artefact from a time when labourers would harvest the bogs for red marshberries and ship them by the cartful to Drowning. That was before the swamps crawled with Bog Noblins again.

Mr Nettle tended to their mare, and Rye opened the shack’s rounded door and stepped inside.

Her mother stooped over a cook fire, which warmed the earthen walls like a rabbit’s warren in winter. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the door, and offered Rye a smile. Lottie was too preoccupied to acknowledge her with more than a grunt. She was playing with a fuzzy caterpillar that she’d corralled within a tiny fence made from Rye’s hair clips.

Rye turned to the figure in the corner. He rested in a chair with a blanket over his legs, a steaming cup of pungent liquid sitting untouched by his side. The circles under his grey eyes were dark bruises, but the eyes themselves were keen and twinkled at the sight of her.

“Don’t just stand there. Come and give your dearly departed a hug,” Harmless said.

Rye hurried forward and threw her arms round him. He let out a little groan, but wrapped an enthusiastic arm round her in return.

Rye pulled away. “I’m sorry, too hard?”

Harmless waved away the notion. “Never,” he said.

“How are you feeling today?” she asked. “You sound stronger,” she added hopefully.

“Much better now that you’re back,” he said warmly.

Harmless carefully lifted his left arm and slowly clenched and unclenched his fist. From the short sleeve of his loose-fitting shirt, Rye could see that the muscles of this arm were noticeably smaller than his right one. It was still covered in a green mosaic of tattoos from shoulder to wrist, but where skin was visible it had taken on a greyish pallor. And his forearm was etched with an angry pink scar, raised and jagged, as if the victim of a sawblade. Rye knew that, in fact, it was the remnants of the near-fatal Bog Noblin bite he’d received last spring. The night he’d disappeared into Beyond the Shale, the Dreadwater clan close behind him.

“This old companion has seen better days,” Harmless said, running a finger over the damaged limb. “There’s still a tooth in there somewhere. Alas, extracting it is beyond my crude medical skills. I’ll get to Trowbridge to visit Blae the Bleeder soon enough. It’s been far too long and I’m afraid his business must be suffering from the extended absence of his best customer.”

Harmless gave Rye a wink.

“Your mother has helped me get most of the bog rot out of my lungs,” he added with a nod to the steaming cup on the table. “Although if I have to drink another cup of her foul herbs, I think I may jump right back into the muck.”

He shot Abby a playful look. She narrowed an eye in reply.

“If you don’t stop complaining and take your medicine, I’ll throw you back in myself,” she said.

“Riley,” Harmless said, becoming more serious, “how was your visit to Miser’s End?”

“I stayed there for a long while, just like you said. And left the clovers where you told me.”

Harmless nodded, satisfied.

“I don’t think anyone saw me, though,” Rye added, recalling the unusually quiet afternoon. “Troller’s Hill – and all of Mud Puddle Lane – seemed … deserted.”

“He will have seen you,” Harmless said, and Rye knew he meant Slinister. “With his own eyes or someone else’s. And that’s all that matters. Did you play it up?”

“I looked very sad. I almost shed a tear.”

“Excellent. If nothing else, you’ll have a future in the theatre.”

“I said ‘almost’,” Rye clarified.

“Close enough,” Harmless said. He picked up the cup with his good hand and sipped it. He grimaced and coughed. Leaning over to a wooden bucket, he expelled something black and thick from his throat, then wiped his mouth on his shoulder.

“What now?” Rye asked.

“Now we stay here,” Harmless said, “and rest. And catch up on better times.” He rubbed his chin and his weary eyes turned wolfish. “Then, in another day or two, when Slinister will have assumed the O’Chanters have left for good, you will return to Drowning.” Harmless’s jaw tightened. “And summon a Call.”

“A Call?” Rye asked.

Harmless nodded. “And not just any Call. It will be a Call of all Luck Uglies, near and far. And with it, we shall bring a Reckoning to Slinister and the Fork-Tongued Charmers.”

RYE SAT ON the grass outside the old bog hopper’s shack as the sun began to dip low in the sky. She heard the door creak over her shoulder, and Harmless hobbled outside to join her. He let out a low whistle as he carefully eased himself down on to the ground beside her.

“I may need to find a walking stick like yours until I get my legs back under me,” he said with a tight-lipped grin, eyeing the cudgel across her back.

Rye returned a smile and gazed at the clouds overhead, tinted purple in the late afternoon light.

“I wasn’t acting, you know,” she said.

“Come again?” Harmless asked.

“At Miser’s End,” she said, turning to him. “I wasn’t acting. I was sad. Seeing that headstone there – just waiting for you.” Rye clenched her jaw in silence for a moment. “When Leatherleaf pulled you from the bogs, I was sure it was too late.”

Harmless nodded grimly. “After all these years of close shaves and near misses, I thought it was finally my turn to hop the fence.”

“But you lasted for so long under there. You never gave up.”

“Yes, well, that’s not entirely true,” Harmless said with a sigh. “In fact, in the darkness, with the pressure of the bogs closing around me, you might say that I accepted my situation. I wasn’t waiting for some miraculous rescue – the unlikely arrival of you and your red-bearded friend was entirely unexpected. The reason I held on was so I might savour my fondest memories for as long as possible.” His grey eyes met her own, and he placed his palm on her cheek. “I clung to my visions of your mother … your sister … and of you. For even in the most hopeless depths, your faces make me smile. And whenever my time is finally up, I plan to go with a smile on my face.” He flashed her a smirk. “Not that I’m planning on going anywhere soon.”

But Rye didn’t find his words to be particularly reassuring. “What was it like – being buried under there?” she asked. She pinched her eyes tight and shook her head. “Sometimes I shut my eyes and try to imagine how awful it must have been.”

“Don’t,” Harmless said firmly, but kindly. “It’s not something you’ll ever have to discover.”

Rye reopened her eyes. “Slinister called it the Descent,” she said, remembering his ominous words. “Is that the punishment for violating the Luck Uglies’ code?”

Harmless nodded. “It’s a cruel fate, but an effective deterrent.”

“Have you ever sent someone to the Descent?” Rye asked hesitantly, then wished she hadn’t.

Harmless just cocked his head towards her sadly, then narrowed his eyes and stared out at the bogs in the distance. Rye supposed that was answer enough.

“Have you seen Leatherleaf in recent days?” Harmless asked, studying the shadows falling across the mire. “Of everyone who has ever done me a favour, he is the most unexpected of all.”

Rye shook her head. “I think Shady chased him off. Maybe for good this time. I haven’t seen either of them since Leatherleaf burrowed in after you.”

Rye reached into her pocket and retrieved Harmless’s broken necklace.

“He gave me this,” she said, and handed Harmless the loose runestones and torn leather band. “I didn’t know how he came by it, but I feared the worst. It seems our own chokers no longer glow either,” she added, fingering the band round her neck.

Harmless examined the stones in his hand. For the first time, Rye noticed how closely the circular pattern tattooed on his palm matched the runes on the stones.

“This was torn from my throat when I lost my struggle with several Fork-Tongued Charmers,” Harmless said. “Leatherleaf must have found it. I sensed that a Bog Noblin was following me in recent weeks. I had assumed it was another one of the Dreadwater, but was puzzled that it didn’t attack.”

Harmless furrowed his brow. “The destruction of my choker explains why yours no longer glows. But that matters little now.” Rye was stunned to see him cock his arm and cast the handful of loose stones out into the brush. “Whatever power the runestones once had to protect has faded anyway.”

Rye shook her head quizzically. Harmless spoke slowly while his eyes stared ahead, as if observing a scene far in the distance.

“Many years ago, when the Luck Uglies drove the Bog Noblins from the Shale, I led that charge. I was merciless. I unleashed the Gloaming Beasts on them – Shady and others – and when they fled and hid, disappearing in the bogs, I kept hunting. I surprised them while they were helpless and hibernating for winter. I dug them from their burrows while they slept, dragging them out one by one.”

Harmless paused. He opened one fist, then the other weakened one.

“They had a name for me. The Painsmith – the greatest monster their kind had ever known.” Harmless stared down at the faded pattern of runes etched into his palms. “The ink that stains these hands was spilled from the Bog Noblins themselves.”

Harmless’s matter-of-fact tone could not hide a hint of remorse.

“I have many regrets,” he added finally. “But I’ve long since learned that regret is an emotion with few uses.”

Rye blinked with a sudden realisation. She’d often puzzled over how the extinct Bog Noblins could have returned, but sometimes the right answer was also the simplest one.

“You didn’t honour your bargain with the House of Longchance,” she whispered aloud. “You never finished the job. That’s why the Bog Noblins have come back.”

Harmless looked up from his hands.

“At the very end, when their numbers had been decimated and I could have made the Bog Noblins no more than fossils in a history book, I hesitated.”

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