The Luck Uglies

by Paul Durham

  Tonight the entire bridge glowed orange. This was not typical. It was on fire.

  “That’s a creative way to block a bridge,” Rye noted.

  “I guess the soldiers didn’t appreciate the effort,” Folly said.

  Atop the bridge, about halfway across, a faction of men from the Dead Fish was engaged in a fierce battle with soldiers in Longchance tartan. Rye spotted the telltale blond mops of Folly’s father and older brothers. The twins weren’t fast on their two legs, but their four hacking, slashing arms made them a force to be reckoned with.

  “How do we get up there?” Rye asked.

  “Are you sure you want to?” Folly said.

  “The vine ladder,” Fifer said, pointing to a crude ladder made from the thick roots and vines growing down the side of the stone archway. The problem was, it started at least six feet above their heads.

  Rye considered the obstacle. “Is there any other way?”

  “We’d have to go back up through the village,” Fifer said.

  “We can make a pyramid,” Folly said. “We’ll be our own ladder. If we climb on each other’s backs, we can get at least two of us up there.”

  “It has to be us, Folly,” Rye decided. “We’re the lightest.”

  Folly looked back up at the fire. She took a deep breath.

  “Okay,” she said.

  Fifer and Fowler knelt on the ground and Fallow got on their backs. Rye climbed up and over the three boys and it gave her just enough of a boost to grab the vine ladder.

  “Don’t look down,” Folly yelled from below her. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Folly hesitated, but summoned her courage. Climbing over her brothers, she seemed to relish the opportunity to step on Fallow’s head as she took hold of the vine ladder herself. Their arms and legs ached from the climb as they both reached the top, and they pulled themselves onto the bridge. Smoke from the fire blasted their faces, burning their eyes and making it difficult to see. Bodies ran past them, but in the confusion it was difficult to tell whether they were soldiers or allies from the Dead Fish Inn.

  “There are the cauldrons,” Rye said.

  Folly froze in her tracks. “Rye,” she said softly, “I think we’d better move fast.”

  She pointed.

  Rye saw Folly’s twin brothers leap off the bridge into the river below. Then Folly’s father jumped too. They clearly had no idea Rye and Folly were on the bridge. The soldiers had turned and were now running, swords drawn, toward Rye and Folly.

  “Rye, take these,” Folly yelled, thrusting something from her pack into Rye’s hands. “I’ll create a distraction.”

  Rye examined the two pieces of cold metal.

  “What are they?”

  “Flint,” Folly said. “Strike them together to make a spark. That should light the cauldrons.”

  Most anyone else would have leaped from the bridge with the others. Or run in the opposite direction. Folly braced herself, took a potion bottle from her pack, and stepped forward, right into the path of the soldiers.

  “Folly, no!” Rye yelled. Not another one of her potions.

  “Go, Rye! Now!”

  The soldiers bore down on Folly, their armor and weapons rattling as they came. When they were within throwing distance, Folly cocked her arm, closed her eyes tight, and threw the bottle with all her strength.

  The bottle sailed well over the oncoming soldiers’ heads, hit the bridge behind them with an unimpressive plunk, and rolled harmlessly off the edge, into the river.

  “Pigshanks!” Folly cursed with clenched fists, just before the soldiers engulfed her.

  The men bowled over Folly and Rye like a wave, knocking them both aside. But, to Rye’s surprise, the girls might as well have been invisible. The soldiers stormed past them without further regard on their charge toward the village side of the bridge.

  Rye shook off the bruises and dragged herself to the first Luck Cauldron.

  “Folly,” she yelled, “get the other one.”

  Rye pushed aside the heavy stone top and looked inside. It was filled with thorny nettles and branches knotted like strings of rope. She flicked the flint together like Folly had instructed. Once sparks caught the nettles, they burned furiously and whipped around like snakes struck by lightning. A thick blue haze flared from the cauldron and flew forth like ghosts released into the night. The blue haze streamed as far into the night sky as Rye could see.

  Folly was able to stagger to her feet and, with the help of more flint from her pack, repeated the process on the second cauldron. The sky was now tinged with an otherworldly blue glow.

  Rye stumbled over to Folly, her friend’s wild blond hair now singed black and smoking at the edges.

  “What do we do n—?” Folly started to ask.

  Folly hesitated and followed the stare of Rye’s wide eyes. Farther down the bridge, through the haze of smoke, Rye had spotted the Bog Noblin. It was Muckmire of the gray-green skin and webbed fingers, the one that had emerged from the canal and dragged an armful of villagers under. Muckmire was what had sent the soldiers running.

  Rye touched her bare neck and silently cursed Malydia. The familiar glow of her choker was gone.

  “You need to get back to the inn,” Rye said.

  She looked over the edge of the bridge, where Folly’s father and the twins were helping one another out of the river. “That way,” Rye said with a nod downward.

  “What about you?” Folly asked.

  “I need to go that way,” she said, nodding to the end of the bridge where the fleeing soldiers had gathered.

  “Then I’m coming.”

  In the distance, Muckmire examined the flames, seemed to consider them, then roared and charged forward.

  “Jump now before I throw you off,” Rye said, grabbing her arm.

  Rye’s eyes told Folly she meant it.

  “Take these,” Folly said, hoisting her pack of potions over Rye’s shoulder before she could object.

  They were both trembling as they hugged good-bye. Folly puffed her cheeks full of air, pinched her nose, and stepped off the side of the bridge.

  Rye heard the splash but didn’t have time to check on Folly. Muckmire was nearly upon her, his damp skin smoking from the flames, and Rye had no choice but to sprint for the soldiers, Folly’s potions jangling on her back.

  24

  A Shady Situation

  Rye guessed that the threat of an exhausted, stumbling eleven-year-old girl would pale in comparison to the one posed by a charging, snarling, soldier-gutting monster. Fortunately she guessed right, and Longchance’s soldiers barely noticed her as she slipped through their perimeter. She didn’t linger to watch the results of the looming collision.

  Rye was back in the Spoke now; she had checked her map and found the entrance in the old well not far from the bridge. She’d been navigating the dark tunnels for quite some time, as fast as her legs would take her, when she felt the sweat go cold on her cheeks. The temperature around her began to drop. She stopped and exhaled hard. She could see her breath. There, just a few steps away, was the wide iron door with the metal grate. Its heavy chains were still fastened. It was the door to Beyond the Shale.

  Rye took a tentative step toward it. She measured one of the deep clawmarks with her fingertip and pulled her hand back quickly. The door was frigid to the touch.

  She dug into her boot and retrieved the puzzle piece Harmless had pulled from his mouth. Now came the hard part. Connecting the heavy chains were two dozen locks in different shapes and sizes. They each had a slot wider than a conventional keyhole, with enough space to slide a cast iron figurine up and inside the lock. She began trying them. The wailing banshee fit halfway inside some but not at all in others. It fit all the way inside several of the locks, but it was such a tight squeeze the locks wouldn’t click open. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen tries. The piece slid with ease into the fifteenth lock. When she turned the clasp, the lock fell off onto the ground but the chains remained in place. Rye
bent over and examined the lock that had dropped.

  “You have got to be joking,” she whispered.

  The lock had opened to reveal another puzzle piece, this one shaped like a clawed paw. Rye sighed and picked it up. She began trying the locks again. Six, seven, eight tries. Finally the ninth lock opened and dropped off. Another piece was exposed. Rye repeated the process over and over and over again.

  By the fifteenth lock, her fingers were aching. At twenty, the chains were sagging and the door seemed to bulge out toward her. Rye shook her head, thinking her eyes and fatigue might be playing tricks on her. The metal groaned as if straining itself. The sounds became louder and the chains actually rattled when she finally obtained the last puzzle piece. It was an iron four-leaf clover, black as coal.

  Rye regarded the last remaining lock. The door unmistakably shuddered in anticipation. Rye hesitated. Something didn’t feel right. She eyed the grate. Standing on her tiptoes, she peered through. There was nothing but darkness on the other side.

  With a deep breath, she undid the final lock. The lock and chains clattered loudly into coils on the ground that sent Rye jumping back.

  The door was now still. She wondered if she was supposed to open it.

  She did not have to wonder long. The door flew open, followed by a frigid blast of air that blew the hood right off Rye’s head. The air moaned as it rushed forth, as if it had been trapped in a tomb for hundreds of years. The torches on the walls flickered and went dark.

  Rye remembered the next part of Harmless’s instructions clearly. He had said to get out of there. But as she turned, the cold air around her seemed to pause and change direction. What had been an inward rush from Beyond the Shale suddenly became an outward suction of even greater force. Clouds of loose earth kicked up into the air and skittered through the hungry mouth of the doorway.

  Rye struggled for a few steps but the force was too much for her, and it pulled her backward. She fell to her hands and knees and clawed her fingernails into the earth, trying to secure her grip. Just as her feet disappeared into the blackness behind the door, she was able to grab hold of its frame. She pulled forward and rolled herself to the side so that her back was pressed against the wall of the Spoke. Folly’s lumpy pack of bottles dug into her spine. She looked down and saw her own feet dangling off the ground. The suction pressed her against the wall like an insect against a window in a storm. Her eyes watered. Drool ran from her mouth and across her cheeks.

  Then, just as suddenly as the vortex had started, it stopped.

  Rye fell to the ground. She looked at the great darkness beyond the door.

  She now had another decision to make. She’d accomplished both tasks Harmless had given her, but in the wrong order. If she was going to stick with the plan at all, or what was left of it anyway, she should return to the Dead Fish Inn. But the circumstances had changed rapidly—Muckmire was already in the village and only now had she finally opened the door. Quinn wasn’t at the Dead Fish, which meant that, despite her mother’s warning, he and his father had stubbornly decided to ride the night out on Mud Puddle Lane. Was it more important for Rye to follow Harmless’s plan, or do whatever it took to save the people she cared about? She kept thinking about House Rule Number Five.

  “Oh, pigshanks,” Rye whispered as she climbed to her feet. “Break them all.”

  She ran as fast as she could, down the tunnel, toward the secret entrance to the cottage on Mud Puddle Lane.

  If Rye had stayed longer, she might have seen the masked figures that slipped into the Spoke like ghosts from Beyond the Shale.

  At long last, Rye reached the ladder that led to the workshop of the O’Chanters’ cottage. It felt like forever since she had first seen it. Rye climbed the rungs and slid aside the trapdoor. She wriggled out from under the workbench, bumping her head on the way up. She clenched her eyes but felt grateful for the sting. It meant she was home.

  Rye pulled off her hood and rubbed her head. When she opened her eyes, she found a sharp sword pointed at her face.

  “Quinn,” Rye snapped, “put that down. You scared me half to death.”

  Quinn lowered the sword. “Rye, I didn’t know it was you. You’re okay?”

  “So far, assuming you don’t skewer me with that thing.”

  Rye looked Quinn over in the lantern light. He appeared tired and unwashed. His clothes stuck to his thin frame.

  “What are you doing here, Quinn?”

  “I came to check on Shady, like you asked,” Quinn said. “The soldiers left and I was able to sneak in two mackerels and some goat milk. They came back while I was still here. It’s been getting colder, so they’ve been spending more time inside by the fire.”

  Rye did not like the idea of dirty soldiers lounging around her house.

  “That was yesterday,” Quinn added.

  “You’ve been hiding here for two days? What did you eat?”

  “Shady was willing to share,” Quinn said. He grimaced and bared his teeth. They were full of silvery scales.

  “Your father must be crazy with worry,” Rye said.

  “I’d imagine so.”

  Rye bit her lip. Something had been gnawing at her since Grim Green. It all came pouring out.

  “Quinn, I’m sorry about all this. I know you think the Luck Uglies are terrible, and they are—I mean they were—but you don’t know the whole story—”

  “Rye—”

  “The village has it wrong,” she implored. “They didn’t take Lady Emma. Longchance lied—”

  “Rye, it’s okay.”

  “I know it’s hard to believe. And maybe you can’t forgive me for who my father is but it wasn’t his fault. I mean, some things were, but he kept his deal—”

  “Rye,” Quinn said louder. “I know.”

  “What?”

  “I know the truth. I’ve been reading about it. In Tam’s Tome. It’s all in there—the truth. The good, the bad, and the in between.”

  “Really?”

  Quinn nodded. “Tam’s Tome tells what really happened to Lady Emma. It was Longchance himself.”

  No wonder the book is banned, Rye thought.

  “So you don’t hate me?” she said.

  “Of course not.” His eyes were kind. “I think I’ve had my fill of your cottage for a while, though.”

  Rye felt a great weight fall from her shoulders, one she hadn’t realized she was carrying until it was gone. After a deep sigh of relief, that particular burden was quickly replaced by another.

  “Let’s get you home,” she said.

  “It’s crawling with soldiers out there,” Quinn said. “And maybe worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “Yes,” Quinn said, lowering his voice. “About half an hour ago. There was—I guess you’d call it a roar—from the bogs. I heard the soldiers run outside to investigate. They haven’t been back. I was waiting a bit longer to be sure they didn’t return.”

  “Well, we need to get your father and bring him with us,” Rye said. She explained, as best she could, everything that had happened that night. She described her instructions, the run through the Spoke, the Luck Cauldrons at the bridge, and the door to Beyond the Shale.

  Quinn tried to absorb it all. “And what have you got there?” Quinn asked, nodding to her pack.

  “Potions. From Folly.”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, don’t drink them.”

  They exchanged smiles.

  “You said they’ve been gone for half an hour?” Rye said, moving toward the door.

  “More or less.”

  Rye pressed her ear against the door to the workshop. It sounded quiet. “Come on, let’s go. You first.”

  “Me?”

  “You’ve got the sword.”

  They slid open the secret door and looked into the main room of the cottage. A lump rose in Rye’s throat when she saw the family chairs around the table and Lottie’s paintings on the wall. It hadn’t been that long since they’d fled their home, but she
’d begun to fear she’d never see it again. Then Rye saw the mess the soldiers had made, and her ears went red with anger. The cook pots were scattered in filthy piles. Greasy, bare chicken bones were strewn about the floor. She would bet the soldiers had eaten their hens. On the bright side, she didn’t see any actual soldiers.

  “It looks clear,” Rye whispered. “You check my mother’s room and I’ll look in mine.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yes, go.”

  They soon met back in the main room. The cottage was empty, but Rye had a growing pit in her stomach. Something was missing.

  “Quinn, when’s the last time you saw Shady?”

  Quinn thought. “I fell asleep in the workshop for a few hours last night. At least, I think it was a few hours. He curled up with me under the workbench.”

  “Last night is the last time you saw him?”

  Quinn hurried back to the bedrooms. Rye could hear him dropping to his knees and calling Shady’s name, checking under the beds. Rye’s heart sank as she joined the search, halfheartedly checking Shady’s favorite hiding places.

  “The soldiers must have taken him,” Rye finally said. She had to choke back tears.

  “Maybe we can find him,” Quinn said, although he didn’t sound convinced.

  Rye and Quinn peered out the shuttered windows. The street was quiet.

  “I’m sorry,” Quinn said, his eyes on the floor.

  “Come on,” Rye said. She took her friend’s hand so he would know he wasn’t to blame. They creaked open the front door together.

  Mud Puddle Lane was completely deserted. Farmers’ carts were overturned on either side of the road, and farther down there were large wooden rain barrels stacked up like barricades. Rye and Quinn ducked down in the overgrown grass by the door.

  “Look,” Quinn whispered. “There. And there.”

  Rye studied the shapes in the darkness. There was movement behind the carts and barrels.

  “Soldiers,” Quinn said.

  More of them huddled in the trees. Rye even spotted one soldier perched on Old Lady Crabtree’s roof. Still more soldiers, armed with bows, watched the woods at the far end of the road.