Rise of the Ragged Clover

by Paul Durham

  She spun on her heels, and found the armored soldier in the cottage’s doorway.

  Rye gasped in surprise. The soldier hesitated for a moment, as if in shock. Rye struggled to free her cudgel but was too late as he rushed forward. He flung his metal arms around her.

  “Let go! You’re crushing me,” she groaned.

  “I can’t believe you’re back!” a muffled voice cried from underneath the helmet. “We thought we’d never see you again!”

  “What?” Rye said, squirming free. “Quinn? Is that you under there?”

  The visor of the helmet flicked open with a clank. The wide eyes of Quinn Quartermast blinked back at her, his friendly face stunned but beaming.

  “Where have you been?” he asked in disbelief.

  “In the forest,” Rye said. “We found Harmless.”

  Quinn’s jaw dropped.

  “I’ll tell you all about it,” Rye added, then paused and looked him up and down. He was a head taller than when she’d last seen him. “What happened to you? You’ve sprouted like a weed.”

  Quinn blushed.

  “And what are you doing in all that armor?” she asked.

  “Things have changed since you left, Rye,” he replied. He shrugged his shoulders with a squeak of metal plates. “And not for the better, I’m afraid.”

  The Quartermasts’ cottage was only three doors down from the O’Chanters’, and since Rye had last seen it, the place had become more armored than Quinn himself. It looked like a giant, scrap-metal toadstool growing alongside Mud Puddle Lane. His father, Angus the blacksmith, had done an expert job of encasing it in protective siding. The cottage was as dark as a fortress when they entered, the windows covered with plated sheeting. Quinn sparked several lanterns.

  Stacks of books were piled precariously atop a small bed—those were Quinn’s. The rest of the cottage was filled with the products of Angus Quartermast’s trade. Iron shields were stacked like plates in a cupboard, heaps of chain mail lay strewn like fishing nets, and all manner of blades and bludgeons poked out from weapons racks. They navigated a narrow pathway through the disorderly mess.

  “Give me a hand,” Quinn said, wriggling out of his breastplate. He kicked off his armored shoe and stuck out his leg.

  Rye grabbed his greave and gave a firm tug, pulling the piece free from his shin.

  “So why exactly are you wearing this shell?” Rye asked, falling back onto a pallet of woolly gray blankets that smelled of peat and stale cabbage. “I’m not sure what you’re going for, but I’m afraid you look more like a tall, skinny sea bug than a soldier. All you need are claws.”

  To Rye’s alarm, the blankets underneath her got up and ambled away with Rye still on them. She leaped to her feet. It was Woof, Quinn’s old wolfhound. The huge dog blinked at Rye slowly, scratched an ear with a long hind leg, and settled himself back down in a corner.

  “My father makes me wear it while I’m out,” Quinn said, dumping his gauntlets in a pile. “To be honest, I can’t stand it. It’s hot in there, and I feel like I’m wearing a tin bucket on my head. I can hardly move, never mind run.”

  Quinn had always been the fastest runner on Mud Puddle Lane.

  “I’d rather take my chances unarmored and light on my feet,” he added.

  “Take your chances with what?” Rye asked.

  Quinn adjusted his shirt and plopped himself down on a stool. He tugged on his regular leather boots and gave Rye a sad smile.

  “Bog Noblins, Rye,” he said.

  “Noblins?” Rye said, furrowing her brow. “Where?”

  “Here, in the village.”

  “In Drowning? Now?”

  “Well, not at this very moment, but soon enough. They come after dark. The raids were sporadic throughout the summer, but now, with the shorter days, they’ve become more frequent.” He shrugged. “Lately, it’s been every night.”

  Rye shook her head. “That’s why the street’s deserted? And why the neighbors put up all the fences?”

  Quinn nodded. “Supplies have run scarce. With no soldiers to protect the caravans, goods don’t flow into the village anymore. Merchants from other towns won’t take their chances on the more remote roads.”

  “There are no soldiers?” Rye asked.

  “No one has seen any in months. For that matter, no one has heard from the Earl himself.”

  Rye bit her lip. The last she’d seen of Morningwig Longchance, he was being dragged off by Slinister Varlet. She wondered if the Fork-Tongue Charmer had finally exacted his revenge upon him.

  “What about the Shambles?” Rye asked. “Surely the Bog Noblins can’t block the river and sea. Goods must still flow in by boat?”

  Quinn shook his head. “Drowning’s luck has gone from rotten to worse,” he said. “Rumor has it a beast as nasty as the Bog Noblins has taken up residence in the river. Some sort of sea monster. It’s already made off with a dozen fisherman and three whole merchant crews. The Shamblers are calling it the River Wyvern.”

  “A sea monster?” Rye asked, incredulous. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Something’s got the Shamblers spooked, Rye. And you know those port folk—they don’t spook easily.”

  Quinn popped off his helmet and scratched his matted hair.

  “The Floods have been keeping their eyes out for it,” he continued, “but ale and wine is their game. They’re pretty useless on the water. The port is effectively closed.”

  Rye shook her head. After their months of isolation in the forest, neither Abby nor Harmless could have any idea how dire things had become in Drowning.

  “With winter coming, our prospects look bleak,” Quinn added. “Those who can afford it are making arrangements to get out of Drowning. The rest of us don’t have that option.”

  “Where’s your father?” Rye asked.

  “He works practically around the clock, now. Forging as many blades and shields for the villagers as he can. He spends more nights at the shop than he does here. I run errands and deliver his handiwork once it’s done. At least I get to come and go as I please these days.”

  Behind them, there was a louder rap on the cottage door.

  “Quinn!” a girl’s voice cried from the other side.

  Quinn flashed Rye a smile. “She’s going to jump out of her boots.”

  He flung open the door.

  “Quinn!” the girl shouted. “Where have you been? We were supposed to meet twenty minutes—”

  The voice of the hooded girl in the doorway came to a dead stop. She pulled the hood of her cloak from her head. Quinn beamed and proudly pointed a finger at Rye, as if he’d found a long-lost treasure.

  A heavy basket fell from Folly Flood’s arms, spilling bundles of dried fruit and several whole fish wrapped in waxed paper. Jars of jam rolled across the floor. Folly’s blue eyes were as wide as marbles. They welled as her cheeks flushed red.

  “Folly—” Rye said softly, but lost her breath as Folly plunged forward and wrapped her arms around her. Her affectionate hug soon became too snug for comfort.

  “Folly . . . ,” Rye repeated, gasping this time.

  Folly pushed Rye away, her eyes now burning. “How could you leave like that without telling us?” she demanded, fists clenched. “We thought you’d been eaten by a Bog Noblin, or worse!”

  “I’m not sure what could be worse than that,” Quinn noted.

  “I’m sorry, Folly,” Rye said. “We had to keep it secret—”

  “No, no, no,” Folly said, holding up her hand and showing Rye her palm. She turned to Quinn. “Tell Rye I’m too angry to speak with her right now.”

  “Folly’s at a loss for words at the moment,” Quinn said to Rye.

  “Folly, I never meant to upset you. I’m sorry you were so worried—”

  “Shush,” Folly said, waving her hands at Rye as she hastily stuffed the spilled supplies back into the basket. “Not talking!”

  Folly crammed the last of the jars into the basket, huffed, and scowled at Rye out
of the corner of her eye. “You’re okay?” she asked under her breath.

  “Yes,” Rye said. “We all are.”

  “Good,” Folly said. “But I’m still not talking to you. And I’m so angry I could beat you with a fish.”

  Folly removed a herring from the basket and did just that.

  “Ow!” Rye cried. “Stop that!” But she was smiling as she said it, and saw that Folly was struggling to hide a smirk too.

  10

  The Night Courier

  Rye caught Quinn and Folly up on the highlights of her months in the forest Beyond the Shale, culminating with Harmless’s directive to summon the Call for a Reckoning.

  “As it happens,” Rye said, looking to Quinn, then Folly, “I’m going to need your help.”

  “How so?” Quinn asked.

  “This isn’t just any Call,” Rye explained. “It’s a Call to summon all of the Luck Uglies, both near and far. And the directions for how to make it are written somewhere in Tam’s Tome.”

  Quinn’s eyes went wide. “There are special instructions?”

  Rye nodded. “Harmless mentioned that it requires some sort of chemical concoction.”

  “Like a potion?” Folly asked, her interest piqued by her favorite subject.

  Rye shrugged. “Sounds like it.”

  Quinn dropped to his hands and knees and dug out an assortment of hidden treasures from under his bed. A tin of green licorice, a small coin pouch, and a raggedy doll shaped like a rabbit went flying.

  “Quinn, is that your stuffed bunny?” Rye asked.

  “No,” Quinn answered quickly. “I mean . . . that old thing? That’s just Woof’s chew toy.”

  He picked up the doll and tossed it to Woof in the corner. The dog opened one lazy eye before promptly returning to sleep, entirely disinterested.

  Finally Quinn found what he was looking for. A dusty old book that both Rye and Folly knew well—Tam’s Tome of Drowning Mouth Fibs, Volume II.

  He handed the book to Rye, then hurried to the window and peered through the seams in the metal covering. He frowned at the waning sunlight and turned to her. “If you plan on spending the night at the Dead Fish Inn, we better get on the road right now. We can find out about the Call as soon as we’re safely there. Unless you want to stay here.”

  Rye looked around the small, cluttered cottage. The only spare space was in the fireplace. She glanced at Folly hopefully.

  “We’ve got plenty of room,” Folly said with a nonchalant shrug. “Lots of folks are leaving Drowning, but not so many are coming to visit.”

  Rye was relieved that Folly was quick to forgive her—and she wouldn’t be forced to spend the night in the soot of the Quartermasts’ chimney.

  Quinn emptied the basket Folly had brought him and refilled it with various hand-forged utensils, nails, horseshoes, and a variety of small tools.

  “Any weapons for the inn?” he asked.

  Folly shook her head. “We’ve got plenty of those.”

  “Okay,” Quinn said, handing the basket to her. He retrieved a large leather satchel. “Rye, can you give me a hand?”

  She nodded and placed Tam’s Tome carefully in her own pack. Quinn handed her the satchel, and she held it open while he filled it with small daggers and a helmet. When he was done, Quinn took the heavy satchel and slung it over his shoulder. “Let’s go. We’ve got no time to waste.”

  Mud Puddle Lane remained deserted as the friends hurried over long shadows cast across the dirt road. When they reached the loosely filled hole in the village wall, Quinn showed them a narrow path that had been hollowed through the discarded junk and rubbish.

  “Who filled the wall?” Rye asked, making herself flat as she pressed past broken table legs and some old shutters.

  “The villagers,” Quinn said, ducking under a bent and rusted weather vane. “Trying to slow down any Bog Noblins that might try to come this way. Of course, they didn’t bother to think it might slow the rest of us on Mud Puddle Lane too.”

  Once past the wall, Rye, Folly, and Quinn continued through the residential neighborhood of Nether Neck on their way to the narrow streets of Old Salt Cross.

  Tall, skeletal wraiths in tattered black robes watched them from every corner. The eyes and jagged mouths of their carved faces gaped, orange and fiendish. Wirry Scares—pumpkin heads set atop scarecrow-like frames. Despite their ominous stick-finger claws, Rye and her friends knew better than to fear them. They were old-fashioned totems, built to ward off creatures that went bump in the night. Apparently, the villagers were leaving no stone unturned in their defense against the Bog Noblins.

  Quinn explained that, unfortunately, they’d been of little help. The Bog Noblins just ignored them, hardly giving them a second glance. It seemed the local squirrels were even less deterred; Rye spotted one burrowed tail-deep in a Wirry Scare’s head as it searched for tasty seeds.

  Quinn extended his palm and gestured for Rye and Folly to stop when they finally reached the darkened end of a disused alley. The three friends stared out at the deserted cobblestones stretched before them. The crossroads were eerily silent. The only sign of any inhabitants was the dim glow of candles behind the wooden planks and scrap metal sheets covering barricaded doors and windows. This corner was known as Apothecary Row. Most of Drowning’s merchants were situated on Market Street, but Drowning’s healers and medicine men—members of the Apothecaries’ Guild—had set up their shops in the pricier neighborhood of Old Salt Cross.

  “Why are we stopping?” Rye asked. “I thought we were short on time.”

  “Just wait here,” Quinn said. “I’ll be right back. If you see anyone . . . or anything . . . just whistle.”

  “I can’t whistle,” Rye said, puckering her lips and blowing out a silent puff of air in demonstration.

  “I used to be able to whistle between the gap in my teeth but it closed up on me. They’re all straight now,” Folly added glumly.

  “Oh, never mind,” Quinn said. “Just yell instead.” He hurried out to the center of the crossroads. He crouched low to the ground, peering down one road, then the other. When all looked to be clear, he set his satchel of weapons down on the cobblestones.

  “What’s that about?” Rye asked Folly.

  “They’re for the Night Courier.”

  “The who?”

  “The Night Courier,” she repeated. “He should be starting his rounds shortly.”

  “Shhh,” Quinn said with a finger to his lips, hurrying back to join them. “You don’t want to scare him off.” He stared across the road to the opposite alleyways.

  “Nobody knows who the Night Courier is,” Folly explained. “But every night, just before dusk, he delivers parcels of supplies for the more remote villagers who don’t have easy access to them.”

  “He just shows up?” Rye asked.

  “At different spots around the village,” Quinn said. “Most of the villagers have banded together—cooperating to share provisions as best they can. But the streets can be treacherous. The Night Courier collects supplies from one part of town when the villagers can’t, then delivers them where needed. It seems impossible that he’s avoided the Bog Noblins this long, but whatever he’s doing, it’s worked.”

  “Of course, not all of the villagers have been so cooperative,” Folly added with a frown.

  Rye raised an eyebrow.

  “The Apothecaries’ Guild voted to shutter their doors,” Quinn said. “Now they only sell medicine to the highest bidder.”

  “That’s awful,” Rye said, a twinge of anger heating up her ears.

  “Fortunately, the Night Courier has put an end to that,” Quinn said. “He’s been raiding their storerooms, taking whatever medicine he can get, and delivering it where needed. We don’t know how he’s getting in there either, but those of us who are short on coins are grateful for the effort.”

  “That’s what we’re doing here?” Rye asked.

  Quinn nodded. “The Pendergills need a poultice for the babies.
They’ve been battling fevers for a week . . . and we’re afraid they’re losing the fight.”

  The Pendergills were Rye and Quinn’s neighbors on Mud Puddle Lane.

  “Look,” Folly said in a hushed voice.

  They turned their attention to the crossroads.

  A slender figure had appeared from the shadows. He was garbed in a fitted brown leather coat and a wide-brimmed hat cocked low over his eyes, a blue feather tucked in the hatband. He moved silently like a wisp across the cobblestones, a deep blue scarf wrapped over his lower face, masking his features.

  “That’s him,” Quinn whispered.

  The Night Courier paused at the satchel Quinn had left in the street. He seemed to examine it for a moment, tilted his head toward the shadows, then lifted it and slung it over his shoulder. A small brown sack dropped from his gloved fingers, taking the satchel’s place on the ground.

  He turned on a heel, his slender legs hurrying quickly toward the alley from which he’d come.

  A low rumble echoed through the crossroads, like a wind through a forest corridor.

  “Quinn, tell me that was your stomach,” Folly said.

  “That was my stomach,” Quinn replied.

  “Really?” Folly asked hopefully.

  “Afraid not.”

  The Night Courier heard it too. He skidded to a stop, and was lucky he had. From the alley emerged a hulking gray figure, its skin hanging from its massive frame. Rye saw its wild rust-orange hair and the tusklike teeth protruding from its lips. She craned her neck to check her choker but, of course, it no longer glowed.

  “Bog Noblins,” Folly gasped.

  Quinn shook his head in disbelief. “It’s too early,” he muttered. “It’s not even dark.”