by Paul Durham
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 grayish 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 theater.”
“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-Tongue Charmers.”
8
Broken Stones
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 onto 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 savor my fondest memories for as long as possible.” His gray 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 toward 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 favor, 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 around 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-Tongue 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 realization. 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 honor 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.”
Harmless held Rye’s eyes.
“Why?” she asked.
Harmless shook his head, as if he was still searching for an answer. “Perhaps because I saw the fear in their eyes—for themselves, and for their young. It made me step back and question who the real monster was. Was I really any better than they were? It’s a question I still ponder. But, yes, I spared them in the end. And to this day, it remains the only bargain I’ve ever broken.”
They both sat in silence.
“I left the Bog Noblins defeated and scattered,” Harmless continued, “with a promise that the Luck Uglies would show no mercy should they ever return to Drowning. These stones,” he said, plucking one last loose runestone from the ground at his feet, “were made using a dark and wicked sorcery best not dabbled in.”
Rye swallowed hard and looked at her choker in a new light. It no longer gave her comfort.
“So now you know the truth, Riley. Our runestones were carved out of fear. But that magic always fades. The Bog Noblins no longer fear the Luck Uglies. Slinister and the Fork-Tongue Charmers’ actions have shown them that the Luck Uglies are divided, and are willing to turn on their own.”
With a flick of his finger, the last runestone flew through the air. Rye watched with sinking spirits as it disappeared where he’d thrown the others.
“But it seems you have tapped into a magic even more powerful,” Harmless said.
“What do you mean?” Rye asked.
“Kindness,” Harmless explained, with a curious smile. “You showed compassion for Leatherleaf, and he has repaid it in his own way. If not for your choice, I daresay I wouldn’t be here to tell you these things now.”
Harmless placed a hand on her knee.
“Leatherleaf has confirmed what I suspected so many years ago. Like Luck Uglies, not all Bog Noblins are cut from the same cloth.”
Rye considered Harmless and Slinister, two leaders desperately tugging opposite ends of the same fabric.
“Can the rift between the Luck Uglies and the Fork-Tongue Charmers be mended?” Rye asked.
Harmless looked to her sadly. “It can’t. Slinister had hoped my recent disappearance would be enough to elevate him to High Chieftain. But he overestimated his influence. After so many years apart, many Luck Uglies were unwilling to accept my demise based on Slinister’s word alone. That’s what his farce of a Descent was about—a hasty trial and punishment designed to discredit me and pave his own way to the High Chieftain’s Crest.” Harmless’s face hardened from sadness to something darker and more primal. “Now he prepares to assume the Crest, unaware that we are still left to resolve our differences in the only manner possible . . . and that the Luck Uglies will ultimately follow whoever is left standing.”
Rye’s chest tightened. “That’s the Reckoning you were talking about?”
Harmless nodded. “It’s an ancient method of reconciliation reserved for only the most serious of differences—those that might otherwise lead to an endless war within the Luck Uglies themselves. Once summoned, the fate of the Luck Uglies will hinge on its result.”
“A method of reconciliation?” Rye repeated suspiciously.
“Think of it as a competition,” he said with a shrug.
“Like a pie-eating contest?” she asked flatly.
Harmless’s face softened. “If you’d like to look at it that way.”
“You want me to summon it?” Rye asked.
“I’d go myself, but I’m in no shape to travel and the Reckoning can’t be delayed. Slinister will take steps to be named High Chieftain as quickly as possible. We need to beat him to it.” He sighed and looked down in disappointment at his body, as if an old friend had betrayed him. “Growing old can be a cruel fate.”
“I’d say it’s a better fate than the alternative,” Rye observed. “You were almost drowned in a bog.” She looked at her father, and his eyes glinted at her in expectation. “So how do I do it?” she asked.
“It’s not a dangerous task,” he said, clearly pleased with her response. “But it may be a bit tricky. You see, the Call for a Reckoning has not been made in my lifetime. And—I’m embarrassed to admit—I am uncertain as to how that Call is made.”
“You don’t know what the Call is?” Rye said in disbelief. “Then how will anyone else?”
“No, Riley, the Call itself is unmistakable, sent via the River Drowning and spread through every port and village that lines its banks. What I mean to say is that the method to make the call is secret. A secret hidden in Tam’s Tome.”
Rye sat up straight at the mention of the banned book.
Harmless raised an eyebrow. “Although Longchance destroyed all the copies he could find, I understand that there may be one more hidden right under our noses.”
Rye just blinked in reply. Harmless blinked back. A tiny smile creased his lips. Once again, Rye would lose the who-could-stay-quiet-the-longest game.
“How did you know?” she asked incredulously. It had been a year since Rye, Folly, and Quinn had unwittingly made off with a copy of Tam’s Tome of Drowning Mouth Fibs, Volume II. It had since lain hidden in the clutter of Quinn’s cottage.
He touched a finger to the tip of his nose. “Those skilled at keeping secrets tend to be best at sniffing them out.”
With great effort, Harmless climbed to his feet, using Rye’s shoulder for support. She stood and helped him.
“There’s a chapter in Tam’s Tome called ‘The Reckoning,’” he said, gathering his breath as they made their way back to the door. “It will be written there.”
Rye held his elbow tight as they took small steps. It felt unnatural—and more than a little unnerving—helping her powerful father in this way.
“Your last attempt to resolve your differences left you buried in the bogs,” she said quietly. “How can this all end any differently?”
Harmless paused, reached his good hand across his chin, and flicked the nub that remained of his left ear. He’d lost the rest of it to an accident years before.
“Because my ears—what’s left of them—are burning,” he said. A dark smile penetrated the faded scars on his face. “And that means I’ve got one more good fight left in me.”
9
Homecoming
Rye wasn’t expecting a welcome party; she was just looking forward to the familiar hustle and bustle of Mud Puddle Lane. Instead, she was greeted by a barricade of sharpened timbers and stakes spiked with nails.
Mr. Nettle had seen her safely to the village limits before once again turning back for the bog hopper’s shack. It seemed that even just the smell of Village Drowning and its sprawl was enough to give him hives. Harmless still wasn’t strong enough to travel, so Abby had stayed behind to look after him and Lottie.
Rye methodically navigated her way through the unexpected barrier, using her cudgel to push aside strings of brambles that snagged her coat.
The winding mud road before her was soft from recent rain and empty of foot traffic. Even the wandering hens had abandoned the street. Ropes of black smoke twisted from the chimneys of the lane’s low-lying co
ttages. Rye’s neighbors’ plots were protected by nasty thorn-rigged fences she had never seen before. Hand-painted signs warned trespassers of dire consequences, complete with ominous illustrations for anyone who couldn’t read.
The far end of the road dead-ended at the village wall—or what remained of it. A small section had collapsed years before, leaving a snaggletoothed hole. Now it appeared that the gap had been recently filled—not with stones or mortar, but with refuse. Rye squinted at what looked like scraps of metal and timber, a broken wagon wheel, and other debris, all crammed haphazardly in an enormous pile like a plug in a rat hole.
Rye walked cautiously down the street she’d grown up on. Cottage windows, shuttered even by day, seemed to watch her like narrow, suspicious eyes. This place felt foreign to her now. Silent but for the plod of her boots through the mud, the stillness of the neighborhood left her uneasy.
Rye stopped in front of the largest cottage on Mud Puddle Lane. Unlike the others, its yard was bordered only by a simple, unfortified fence. There were no warning signs. Instead, a purple door carved with the shape of a dragonfly beckoned to her. The cottage was her home.
The thump of metallic boots on damp earth caught Rye’s ear. She glanced down the road, toward the broken wall. A gangly man in full armor rounded the corner, his steel helmet bobbing atop plated shoulders like the bulbous pumpkin head of a Wirry Scare. A shield was stowed across his back and the scabbard of the oversize sword at his hip nearly scraped the ground as he walked. Rye couldn’t see the crest on his shield, but she recognized it as soldier’s armor. Soldiers on Mud Puddle Lane usually meant trouble.
Rye darted through the purple door and quietly pressed it shut behind her, hoping the soldier hadn’t seen her. The unexpected changes on Mud Puddle Lane had left her feeling out of sorts. She missed her home, and hoped that waiting in the cottage for him to pass might bring her some comfort.
Instead, she was immediately struck by how lifeless and hollow the cottage had become. Rye looked around sullenly, as if seeing it for the first time. The ashes in the fireplace were cold and dusty. Her eyes drifted to her and Lottie’s artwork on the wall—the paper had curled at the edges and yellowed with time. One of the pages listed the O’Chanters’ five unbreakable House Rules: five absolutes that had framed the structure of her childhood. She hummed their rhymes softly out of habit while she pushed open the door to her bedroom, finding the bed she shared with Lottie rumpled and empty. But the tune caught in Rye’s throat as a door slammed behind her.
