by Paul Durham
Dedication
For the Durham girls, always.
And for Shadow, our own Gloaming Beast,
who’s previously been neglected in these dedications.
Contents
Dedication
Maps
The Truth about Heroes . . .
CHAPTER 1: H Is for Harmless
CHAPTER 2: The Hollow
CHAPTER 3: Four Horsemen
CHAPTER 4: Shriek Reavers
CHAPTER 5: The Wend
CHAPTER 6: The Descent
CHAPTER 7: The Departed
CHAPTER 8: Broken Stones
CHAPTER 9: Homecoming
CHAPTER 10: The Night Courier
CHAPTER 11: Creepers
CHAPTER 12: A Gongfarmer’s Boy
CHAPTER 13: Lady in the Well
CHAPTER 14: Serpents of Longchance Keep
CHAPTER 15: The Treasure Hole
CHAPTER 16: A Tome Guards Its Secrets
CHAPTER 17: What’s Worth Saving
CHAPTER 18: Hogsheads
CHAPTER 19: The River Wyvern
CHAPTER 20: The Fortune-Teller
CHAPTER 21: Echoes of a Distant Call
CHAPTER 22: Truths of the High Chieftain
CHAPTER 23: A Murder of Uglies
CHAPTER 24: Men-at-Arms
CHAPTER 25: Battle for the Dead Fish Inn
CHAPTER 26: March of the Wirry Scares
CHAPTER 27: A Toll Comes Due
CHAPTER 28: The Reckoning
CHAPTER 29: Rise of the Ragged Clover
CHAPTER 30: An Heir of Unknown Intentions
CHAPTER 31: How It Ends
EPILOGUE: R Is for Rye
Banter like a Local: A Tourist’s Field Guide to Shale Lingo and Lore
Acknowledgments
Back Ad
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Maps
The Truth about Heroes . . .
A wise man once said that heroes can’t be painted in black or white, they come to us in shades of gray. 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)
1
H Is for Harmless
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 gotten 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 recognize.
Rye’s first instinct was to flee, but it occurred to her that this huntsman might have useful information. Here, in the lightly traveled 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.
“Letters 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 cudg
el, a dangerous weapon made from the hardest blackthorn in all the Shale. If the huntsman was as well traveled 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 toward the trees. “A man maybe? Traveling alone?”
“Travelers 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 around 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 jewelry,” 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 travelers 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 colors. 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 skyward. 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 around 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 oversize 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 toward 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 headfirst, 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 gray skin hung in folds from its broad, bony shoulders and ribs. Its floppy ears were pierced with an assortment of metal hooks, and around 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.
2
The Hollow
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 around a mossy glade and looped back into itself, hollowing the glade 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 color 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—a
t 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.”
“Traveling 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 meager meal into wooden bowls. She placed one of them on the round stump of a sawed-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 emphasized after completing the tale. “And the way the huntsman described the traveler—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 rumors from wayward travelers. 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.