by Paul Durham
Waldron was gone.
“Pigshanks,” Rye cursed, and spun around, calling for him. Her heart sank as the masses grew thicker around her, bodies closing in on all sides.
It was then that Rye noticed a flurry of activity on the recently abandoned seawall. A cluster of Belongers streamed behind a solitary figure as he fought his way through Longchance’s troops. Despite the impossible odds, soldiers seemed to fall in their path as the small group advanced down the rocks. Rye squinted. Their leader’s white hair flowed behind him, two short swords flashing in his hands.
Harmless!
Her father sent two soldiers into the water. He ducked the strike of a third and flung himself at another who stepped in front of him. By the time they’d run their gauntlet, only Harmless and two Belongers remained, but at least they’d made it safely to the catapult. Rye didn’t think the three men would be enough to load another cask into position, but her jaw dropped when she realized what Harmless had in mind.
Harmless sheathed his swords and climbed into the basket of the catapult. From his belt he removed a flask and examined it. He took a long swig, followed by a deep breath, and settled himself as his companions readied the trigger. He raised his hand and then dropped it by way of a signal. The catapult lurched up and forward.
Rye craned her neck and gawked as Harmless hurtled awkwardly through the air. She held her breath, fearful that she would see her father bashed on the rocks or splattered against the side of the hull. But good fortune was with him, and the mainsail swallowed him up. Like an enormous nightshirt falling from a clothesline, it billowed and tumbled to the deck, trapping several stunned sailors beneath it.
Rye dashed to the harbor’s edge for a better look. The downed sail rustled and fluttered as bodies struggled to free themselves. Then she spotted Harmless—staggered but apparently unbroken—a sword in one hand, the flask still in the other. Rye clapped her hands in relief.
Harmless ran to a jib—one of the sails stretching from the bowsprit to the foremast—and paused to take a mouthful of spirits from his flask. But instead of swallowing, he sparked something in front of his mouth and spit forth a plume of fire, setting the sail ablaze.
The ship’s crew rushed to the burning sail, trying to contain the blaze. Harmless weaved through their ranks, pausing at the base of the mainmast. Rye saw him take hold of a pulley, slash at a rope in the rigging, and quickly take flight again—rocketing high up the mast. He perched there for a moment, pausing to examine the scene below him.
Then, cocking his head back, he filled his cheeks with one last swig from the flask and pitched it aside. With a final roar, he bellowed a stream of fire into the sails all around him.
The intense light of the blazing sailcloth illuminated the entire harbor. Even the soldiers on dry ground seemed to freeze at the spectacle, unsure of what to do. Harmless peered through the smoke, watching the terrified crew struggle to extinguish the flames below. Unfortunately, there was now no way down through the inferno of burning canvas. His white wig smoldered and his cloak glowed red with sparks.
On his toes, he carefully maneuvered to the farthest end of the yardarm. Then he placed a hand on his singed cap, measured his jump, and plunged off, hurtling downward like a rock until he hit the harbor with a heavy splash and disappeared beneath the surface.
Rye couldn’t believe her eyes. Harmless had managed to disable the enormous vessel. She hoped he hadn’t drowned in the process.
Still, the conflict in Wick raged on. The Belongers were able to hold their ground while the soldiers turned to the threat on their ship, but the village teetered on the verge of being overrun. Valant’s warship loomed in the harbor now, and she saw its crew ready more boats for launch. The Belongers would never be able to fend off more reinforcements. She feared the time had come for everyone to abandon Wick and make their retreat.
Clouds shifted overhead and the Salt made twilight look more like nightfall across the island. Rye had no idea how long she’d been trapped in the assault on the village. She turned toward the hills, hoping her mother and friends were well on their way to Westwatch.
Then she had to blink, for surely her eyes were playing tricks on her.
In the darkness of the hills, everywhere she looked, eerie green lights dotted the highlands. There were so many, they all couldn’t possibly be of Folly and Quinn’s doing.
Suddenly an explosion boomed like a clap of thunder from a far-off peak. Rye jumped at the sound. For an instant, the Belongers and Longchance’s men alike paused and peered into the distance. There was another loud boom, followed by several more all over High Isle. Their echoes rumbled throughout the valleys.
And then, as if on cue, the glowing orbs were in motion, charging down from the hilltops. It was as if the island itself had awakened. Rye watched, mouth agape. She knew of no potion that could make rocks and trees come to life.
“Shellycoats!” a Belonger howled in joy. “They’ve risen to protect the island!”
Longchance’s soldiers all cast their eyes upward, staring in disbelief. An army of glowing shapes even larger than the Belongers’ and soldiers’ combined forces raced down the slopes and hillocks, on their way to Wick. It only took the first soldier to step back toward the harbor before the others joined in retreat.
Emboldened, the Belongers pushed forward, driving the soldiers to the edge of rocks and piers. The Belongers had already set fire to the soldiers’ longboats, so no return to their ship was possible. Many of the soldiers splashed into the water to swim for it but, weighed down by their cumbersome helmets and gauntlets, they were swept away by the currents. Faced with the choice of drowning or being slaughtered by unseen spirits, others threw down their weapons. The survival instinct spread quickly, and soon the soldiers were casting aside their arms and throwing up their hands in surrender to the advancing Belongers.
Rye quickly extended her spyglass and directed it toward the remaining ship. Valant was at the bow over the clenched-fist bowsprit, a grim look on his face as his crew awaited their orders. He seemed to weigh the new development carefully. Finally, he turned and marched from the bow and Rye lost sight of him.
Rye looked back at the village and the seawalls, where the Belongers now stood watch with pointed weapons over the surrendered soldiers. They remained at the ready, waiting for the assault from the second warship. Valant’s ship loomed on the water. The next wave of longboats might be launched at any moment. It began to move; its enormous hull was creeping broadside, repositioning itself. Rye held her breath.
Yet, instead of launching another attack, it began to ease away. Could it be? Yes, it was retreating. Rye braced herself, waiting for whatever surprise Valant might have in store for them. But the warship headed for the darkness of the sea, leaving the harbor and sailing for open water, where the only surprise waiting was an enormous jagged shoal hidden just beneath the surface. The ship lurched to a stop and its towering masts tilted at an irregular angle. It squatted lower in the waves, slowly at first, then rapidly as its hull took on water.
The Belongers thrust their cudgels and swords in the air when they realized what was happening, and Wick echoed in cheers even louder than the explosions that had set the Shellycoats in motion.
The lanterns of the Constable’s ship went dark as it vanished beneath the waves, the ocean swallowing the massive vessel so completely it was as if it had never existed at all.
In the aftermath of the failed assault, Rye finally found Waldron, who was safe and speaking with some of the village elders. A Belonger rushed to meet them. He gasped and buckled over, as if he’d just run a great distance, but his face was beaming.
“The Salt has claimed the third ship on the reefs south of the Wailing Cave,” he reported breathlessly. “Fishers are on hand to greet any Uninvited who try to paddle to shore.”
She was even further relieved to catch a glimpse of the wet, flowing white hair of a shoemaker, who just nodded before drawing his cloak and disappearing into the shado
ws. Exhausted, Rye stumbled out of the village and headed for the farm. She hoped she might find Folly and Quinn at the farmhouse, where they’d arranged to meet. Her mother was likely there too, and Rye hoped Abby would understand why she’d rushed off to Wick.
The footpath was dark and it was only when she rounded a bend that it occurred to her that she had not previously ventured out into the hills after dark.
She stopped short and caught her breath. Ahead, blocking the path in front of her were a dozen glowing green beasts. They were four legged and stocky, shorter than Rye. She could see their breath in the night air.
“Shellycoats,” Rye whispered to herself.
Rye might have fled back to Wick, but surely they had already seen her. If they meant her harm, running would do no good. She swallowed hard and crept forward carefully.
The closest Shellycoat turned. It licked its lips with a long tongue. Rye paused, stood up straight in alarm, and then squinted through the darkness. She began to laugh so hard she had to put her hands on her knees to keep from falling over.
A flock of disoriented sheep blinked back at her. Their wool was matted with glowing paste, and they must have wondered what could possibly have been so funny.
25
What the Wind Brings, the Tide Takes Away
The morning dawned bright. Small toes greeted Rye’s face when she finally woke. They were Lottie’s—her sister was wedged between Rye and Abby in the small bed, sleeping head-to-foot. Rye slipped out of her mother’s arms, stepping carefully over Folly and Quinn, who dozed in blankets on the floor. They’d all taken comfort in each other’s company at the end of a harrowing night.
Rye opened the farmhouse door, pushing her way through a large flock of wayward sheep who’d finally stopped glowing. She climbed atop the hull of the fishing boat and anxiously surveyed the horizon, but quickly realized that Pest’s victory had not been imagined. She extended her spyglass.
The flooded wreck of the warship that had attempted to circumnavigate the harbor was now hung up on a jagged archipelago to the northeast. Seabirds circled it before darting in and out of the ship’s hold to loot any remaining provisions. Turning her attention to Wick Harbor, she could see the burned and broken masts of the warship seized by the Belongers. There was no sign at all of the ship with the clenched-fist bowsprit. The Constable’s vessel must have come to rest on the ocean floor, and she could see the growing evidence of its demise strewn across a sandy beach below her. The tide washed ashore a steady stream of planks, shredded sails, and other flotsam.
Rye lowered the spyglass and peeked down through a large hole in the fishing boat’s hull. Harmless’s blankets were empty.
“Did you like my explosions?” Folly’s voice called. She rubbed her blue eyes awake as she worked her way past the sheep.
“My ears are still ringing,” Quinn mumbled behind her, scratching his scattershot hair.
Rye nodded enthusiastically. “That was you, Folly? How did you do it?”
Folly waved a hand as if it was nothing, but couldn’t conceal her grin. “Explosions are old hat. Sometimes I make them without even trying.”
“I was nearly stampeded by those sheep,” Quinn said. “I don’t think I’ll wear wool pants ever again.”
One of them bleated at him.
“Don’t listen to his grousing. It was all his idea,” Folly said, turning to Quinn. “I think those Strategist’s Sticks are finally rubbing off on you.”
“How did you ever get so many sheep pasted in time?” she asked.
“The Tarvishes helped,” Quinn said. “Lots of Tarvishes.”
“Turns out Hendry has even more brothers than me,” Folly added. “Plus cousins all over the island.”
“Your mother, too,” Quinn said. “She found us on her way back from Westwatch.”
“Here are more!” a voice called from the edge of the farm.
It was none other than Hendry. He hurried forward, wading hip-deep into the flock of sheep. Rooster, Padge, and a shaggy herding dog were right behind him.
“We’ve been rounding them up since daybreak,” he said, out of breath.
Rye greeted her new friends with a wide grin. “You all helped save Pest. That’s even better than winning the Pull.” She gave Hendry an apologetic shrug. “Sorry about that, by the way. I know this was supposed to be the Crofters’ year.”
Hendry flashed a mock scowl. “There’s always next year,” he grumbled, then smirked back.
“Told you no one was going to win,” Padge said to Rooster. She paused and tapped her finger to her chin. “Then again, maybe everyone did.”
“Truth be told, I hope we’ve seen the last of those ropes too,” Hendry said. He put his hands on his hips, and turned his attention to the matted and sticky-looking sheep with a heavy sigh. “It’ll take me all summer to get that mushroom goop out of the wool.”
“We can help,” Rye volunteered cheerfully.
“Yes . . . at least until we get home,” Folly said, her voice drifting off.
Rye looked at Quinn. His eyes drifted to the ground. And for the first time it occurred to her—while her best friends and all of her family happened to be right there on Pest, Folly and Quinn had been torn away from their own families. She never stopped to think how hard that might be on them. In fact, right now the Dead Fish Inn might be home to a new brother or sister Folly had never even met.
And they weren’t the only ones far from home.
“What will happen to the captured soldiers?” Rye asked Hendry.
“Your grandfather and the clan elders are meeting at Cutty House today to discuss it,” Hendry said, pointing a thumb in the direction of Wick. “In the past, I’m sure we would have marooned them on the Lower Isles.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Would have kept Black Annis fat and happy for a year. But now I’m not sure. They did surrender, after all, and without their armor and weapons they aren’t the most fearsome-looking lot. Reluctant sailors at best.”
Rye remembered Longchance’s men she’d seen the night before. They were rough around the edges, but their eyes betrayed an underlying sadness. Their faces reminded her of Drowning itself. She suspected most didn’t want to come to Pest any more than the Belongers wanted to have them. A pang of guilt jabbed at her gut.
“Nobody’s sure why the Uninvited chose to return to Pest after all these years,” Hendry said. “But whatever the reason, I don’t think Long Pants will have much of a fleet left to trouble Pest again.”
Folly and Quinn giggled.
“Longchance,” Rye corrected.
“Him either,” Hendry said with a wink.
Rye, Folly, and Quinn arrived at the sandy beach under the cliff just as the tide was heading out, leaving in its wake seaweed, scuttling crabs, and an assortment of wreckage from the sunken warships. Hendry, Rooster, and Padge had stayed in the fields to herd the scattered sheep. Quinn rushed forward excitedly.
“There’s sure to be a souvenir around here,” he said. “Spread out and help me look.”
A crowd of Belongers combed the beaches themselves. On an island with scarce resources, flotsam was as valuable as treasure, and they eagerly gathered scraps of metal and wood that could be used to fashion hooks and repair fences. A party of Fishers patrolled the shore, keeping an eye out for any sopping Uninvited who might swim in with the debris.
Rye spotted a familiar figure a short distance down the beach—a man with a leather cap and white hair singed black at the ends.
She trudged across the sand to join him. Harmless stared out at the sea.
“You asked me once if I was ready to learn how to fly,” she said. “Was that what you had in mind?”
He shook his head with a smile. “Last night’s flight was a first. And one I hope never to repeat.” He arched his back and stretched until his joints cracked in protest. “I may have knocked a few misaligned bones back into place, though.”
“Will you now reveal yourself to Waldron?” Rye asked. “To the Belongers? Shouldn�
�t they know that the High Chieftain of the Luck Uglies came to their aid, without asking for any price in return?”
“Does it really matter?” he asked with a tilt of his head. “Might Waldron forgive me for my past transgressions? Perhaps. But this is not my home . . . I will never be a Belonger.” He gave Rye a sad smile. “Even I cannot deny that Pest will be a better place without the Luck Uglies.”
“So what happens next?” she said. “When can we return to Drowning?”
“It’s difficult to say. Longchance will be furious once he receives word of this disaster. The loss of so many men and ships leaves him more vulnerable than ever. Trouble still brews there . . . perhaps even more so now.”
Rye caught sight of Folly and Quinn hurrying toward them before he could continue.
“And here we have two other heroes of the day,” Harmless said warmly. “I believe High Isle has never seen two more important sheepherders.”
Quinn eagerly showed them something in his hand. “Look what I found!”
Rye squinted at the strange item Quinn had plucked from the beach. A slimy blue puddle in the shape of a bell rested in his palm, long opaque strings dangling down between his fingers.
“Quinn,” Harmless said, “you should probably put that down.”
“What? Why? Ow!” Quinn shook his hand frantically and the blue creature dropped to the ground, its long transparent tentacles wriggling in the sand.
He looked down at his wrist. The skin was red and swollen as if he’d been lashed by a whip.
“A jellyfish,” Harmless said, pursing his lips. “Their sting is terribly painful, but not lethal. It will leave a scar, though, if you don’t treat it right away.”
“With what?” Quinn screeched, dancing in pain.
“The saliva of some animals will soothe the sting.”
“Which animals?” Quinn asked suspiciously.
“Well, sheep are said to be best—you might be able to find one or two around here.”
“No,” Quinn said, shaking his head. “No more sheep!”
