by Paul Durham
“What about here?” Folly suggested. “We can lead them underground across the Spoke and up through the wine cellar. We won’t need to set foot on the streets.”
“Have you been to the wine cellar?” Truitt asked. He waved for them to follow.
The friends were forced to stop halfway down the basement steps. Bottles floated in knee-deep water.
“Sometimes it gets damp in the spring,” Folly said. “But I’ve never seen it like this.”
“I barely made it through myself,” Truitt said. “We’re too close to the river. All of the tunnels under the Shambles are flooded. The only way back down is through the village itself.”
They climbed the stairs back up to the inn.
“I stopped to warn you but I can’t linger,” Truitt said. “I’m on my way to Old Salt Cross—it sits on higher ground. The sewers under Apothecary Row should still be passable for now.”
“I’ll come with you,” Quinn said. “I’m finding my father and bringing him here even if I have to drag the stubborn hammerhead on my back.”
Again Rye considered Abby, Harmless, and Bramble. With their focus on the Reckoning—if there still was a Reckoning—they’d be walking right into a village under siege. It occurred to her that, all across Drowning, villagers must be sharing similar concerns. Loved ones, acquaintances, strangers—no villager would be left unscathed.
“Truitt,” Rye said, putting a hand on his arm as he readied to leave. “Did you find Malydia?”
“Not yet, but the Fork-Tongue Charmers have just abandoned the Keep, and its gates are wide open,” he said. “If they’ve left Malydia locked away there, I’ll go find her as soon as the link children have reached higher ground.”
Truitt moved to leave, but Rye held his arm tight.
“The Keep,” Rye said, the option suddenly dawning on her. She looked to Folly and Quinn. “We can get the link children, Quinn’s father, every villager we can find . . . to the Keep. Then close the gates. That will be the safest place in all of Drowning.”
In their urgent chatter, the children hardly noticed the Flood family gathering around them. Faye took a quick head count; Floods, friends, even a stray Feraling.
“We’ve got one extra,” Faye said, furrowing her brow. She looked Truitt up and down. “You’re not one of mine, are you?”
The single thump on the inn’s iron portals echoed like the boom of a stone fist. They all jolted at the unexpected sound.
“Someone’s heavy-handed this evening,” Fitz groused.
“We’ll see who it is,” Flint added.
The twins stomped to the door and slid open a narrow slit of a spyhole. Fitz lowered his head and peered out with one eye. He whistled in surprise.
“Now there’s something you don’t see every day,” he gasped.
“Who is it?” Flint asked.
The iron portals clattered and shook, sending the twins lurching away and tumbling to the ground.
Fletcher rushed forward in alarm.
“Bog Noblins!” Fitz growled as he and Flint clambered to their feet. They quickly lowered the doors’ heavy bar into place as the Bog Noblin pounded it again with the force of a battering ram.
“Faye, get everyone to the upper floors,” Fletcher called, rushing to secure a window. “The doors should hold, but the boys and I will stay here just in case.”
Faye gathered up Fox, the baby’s eyes growing wider with each frightening shake of the inn. Mr. Nettle snatched Lottie by the hand and pulled her to the stairs. Rye followed them with Quinn and Truitt. Folly had held back, hands on her hips.
“This is my home too,” she was saying to her father, although he ignored her protests. “I’m staying here to defend it.”
Just then the inn thundered from another blow that shook its foundation. Overhead there was a snap of chains, and without thinking, Rye ran and pushed herself against Folly with such force that they were both sent tumbling to the floor. The sea monster chandelier just missed them, landing with an explosion of a thousand bones, large and small. Rye helped Folly to her feet as her brothers darted about, stomping out the scattered candles before they could set the inn ablaze.
“Okay,” Folly said, her face pale. “I’ll go upstairs.”
They climbed to the third floor, and Rye, Folly, Truitt, and Quinn crammed onto the small balcony overlooking Little Water Street. Rye had seen the Shambles at its most frightening—silent and creeping with shadows on a Black Moon; riot-ravaged during a standoff between the Shamblers, soldiers, and the Luck Uglies; and, most recently, forebodingly shuttered and deserted under threat of the River Wyvern. But she had never seen anything like this. Below them, two hulking Bog Noblins stalked outside the inn’s iron portals. Their gray skin clung to their powerful frames, and Rye could see the rust-orange ropes of hair dangling from the tops of their heads. One of them put a shoulder into the doors, rattling the windows of the inn.
“Do you think the doors will hold?” Quinn asked nervously.
“They always have,” Folly said, although her voice wasn’t entirely reassuring.
Rye’s heart sank. At least they had doors. Harmless and Abby were on the streets. If Bog Noblins had already made their way to the Shambles, there was no telling what sort of condition the village was in.
From inside, they could hear Fox’s frightened tears. A smaller body pushed between them toward the terrace railing. It was Lottie, her face scrunched in anger.
“Lottie, you shouldn’t be out here,” Rye said.
“Mean Gob Boglin made Baby Fox cry,” Lottie huffed, and pressed her face through the rails so she might see them. Lottie narrowed her eyes. She coughed up something in her throat and pursed her lips. A thick wad of phlegm dangled from her mouth in a long thread.
“Stop that, Lottie!” Rye demanded. “You’ll just make them more angry.”
She shooed Lottie back inside, but her little sister’s taunt had given her an idea.
“Folly, what about those potions you have? You know, the really dangerous ones?”
“Yes . . . ,” Folly said hesitantly.
“Maybe you should get them . . . just in case?”
Folly bit her lip, then disappeared inside.
One of the Bog Noblins glared up at them, its dripping eyes flicking with malice. A butcher’s meat hook dangled from one long earlobe and a long metal bolt was pierced through its lip. The creature sprang on its feet, slapping a clawed hand against the wall of the inn. Rye and Quinn leaped back from the edge. Fortunately, although much taller than a man, the Bog Noblin’s leap fell well short. It let out a fearsome roar in frustration, and pounded the doors with its clenched fists. It left two dents in the doors’ iron face.
“Perhaps we’d be wise not to taunt them either,” Truitt suggested.
Rye had to agree, and was about to go inside when Quinn pointed and interrupted her.
“Rye, what’s that on the bridge?” he asked.
Rye looked to where Quinn had directed. In the dim shadows of dusk, she saw lights at the far end of the great arched bridge. Torches. Held by what appeared to be a large number of men on horseback.
“Luck Uglies?” Quinn asked hopefully.
“I don’t know,” Rye said, confused. “They’re supposed to be in the Western Woods.”
Perhaps the Luck Uglies had called off the Reckoning, and would be able to look past their differences for one more day. But the riders were led by banner men, and Luck Uglies had never been ones to broadcast their arrival.
Folly returned, carefully removing two metal flasks from a small pouch at her hip. She handed one to Rye, and kept the other in her own hand.
“So if we mix these, they’ll create an explosion?”
“Oh, yes,” Folly said.
“Well, come on, let’s do it before the Bog Noblins get inside.” She raised her flask over the rails.
“Wait!” Folly called, turning pale and grabbing her arm. “There’s enough in here to blast the entire street into the river.”
“R
eally?” Rye said, looking at the modest-size flasks.
“Yes, really. Just a few drops of each should—”
But Folly gasped before she could finish. The Bog Noblins had taken notice of them again, and the one with the hook in its ear charged, stepping on its companion’s knotty back and hurling itself upward. Extending its arms, this time a clawed hand gripped the edge of the terrace. The children screeched and lurched away as the Bog Noblin hung there, its sharpened yellow toenails digging into the walls of the inn as it struggled to pull itself up.
Before they could retreat inside, the balcony shifted under their feet and tore away from the building. Rye found herself pitched through the air, and was able to throw her arms around a nearby storm gutter that ran vertically along the length of the inn. She hung there for a moment, still clutching the flask, and watched in horror as the remains of the balcony dangled, then fell, with Folly, Quinn, and Truitt still on it. The wreckage collapsed over the Bog Noblin, tossing Rye’s three friends into the wet muck of Little Water Street. Fortunately, the Bog Noblin’s head and the mud cushioned most of their fall.
The gutter jolted and creaked, and now Rye found herself tumbling as her weight pulled it from the building. She hastily stashed the flask in her coat pocket as she rode the gutter downward—there was no telling what would happen if the glass broke. She hit the ground hard, thankful that she’d had a lifetime of practice at falling—and that the overflowing river had rendered the street a muddy cushion.
As the four friends and the Bog Noblins struggled back to their feet, the doors of the inn heaved open, and Fletcher, the twins, and a small army of Floods rushed out to engage the monsters. They were quickly met by the Bog Noblins at the base of the steps, and the twins yelled for the children to run the opposite way as they swung a pair of two-handed claymores in their four burly fists, each of the mighty blades longer than Rye was tall. Rye and her friends didn’t hesitate, and rushed down Little Water Street away from the inn.
The four children stumbled and staggered, their bones aching from the fall. They paused and looked back at the Floods as they struggled to hold their ground against the monstrous beasts. Rye cast her eyes to the water, where the lanterns of Annis’s barge glowed on the middle of the river. She recalled what the old Luck Ugly named Knockmany had once told her: Bog Noblins weren’t strong swimmers. They wallowed in mud and shallow muck but were useless in open water. Perhaps Annis was in the safest place of all. Rye considered whether they should swim for it, but Folly’s screech put an end to the thought.
“One’s coming!” she cried.
The Bog Noblin with the butcher’s hook through its ear had broken away from the skirmish with the Floods, and now lumbered down Little Water Street, gaining ground rapidly.
Rye looked to Folly and Quinn. The three friends had done this many times before. “You know what to do,” she said.
“No, what?” Truitt asked.
“Scatter!” Quinn yelled, and grabbed Truitt by the arm, dragging him away.
Quinn and Truitt darted into an alley. Folly veered toward the river, disappearing down a dock. Rye made eye contact with the fast-approaching Bog Noblin and touched the choker around her neck.
“Pigshanks,” she said. It was too much to hope that the O’Chanters’ runes would suddenly spring back to life and frighten the Bog Noblin away.
She turned and ran directly down Little Water Street, assuming the Bog Noblin would follow. But instead it turned and made for the dock, its claws scraping wood as it headed in Folly’s direction.
Rye stopped. A chill came over her as Annis’s words rang loud in her ears. The toll . . .
She shook her head, chasing away the thought.
“No,” she said aloud. Then, even louder, “No! You can’t have Folly!”
Rye retraced her steps and charged down the darkened dock. Folly had reached the end and huddled at the edge of the water. The Bog Noblin was halfway there, between them now, and Rye could count the stumps of its spine along the gray flesh of its back. Rye ran her fingers over her cudgel, but she knew even the Shale’s hardest ash wouldn’t faze the Bog Noblin’s thick skull. She glanced around the dock but found only some coils of rope and an old rusting anchor.
Folly caught sight of Rye from the far end of the dock. She shook her head, and gestured for Rye to run.
The Bog Noblin moved closer to Folly.
Rye reached into her boot and drew Fair Warning from its sheath.
“Rye, no!” Folly called out.
Fair Warning reflected in the light of the full moon rising over the mouth of the river. Rye stepped closer to the Bog Noblin, the blade shaking in her hand. She raised it, then crouched.
And tapped it against the old anchor.
Folly’s eyes went wide in disbelief. The Bog Noblin looked over its shoulder at the sound of plinking metal.
“Rye,” Folly pleaded. “Run! Please!”
Rye kept tapping the anchor. The Bog Noblin turned, its long mouth snarling as it now approached Rye.
“Folly,” Rye called ahead, as steadily as she could. “You need to get off the dock.”
“What?”
“Get off the dock!” Rye yelled, tapping the anchor more furiously. Folly rolled over the edge and disappeared beneath it.
The Bog Noblin was nearly on Rye now. Close enough she could smell the sour stench of the bogs steaming from its flesh. Rye hit the anchor one more time as loud as she could, holding her breath, pinching her eyes tight, and hoping that the sound would carry.
As the Bog Noblin reached for her, the surface of the water broke with a resounding splash and a heavy weight landed on the wooden pier, cracking the timbers as they buckled from the force.
The River Wyvern snapped its jaws tight around the Bog Noblin’s hips. The red-bearded beast emitted a terrible wail, flailing its arms and legs as the giant reptile chomped down again and again with razor-like teeth. Rye scuttled away through the wreckage of the dock, watching as the Wyvern’s slippery black body padded back into the river, dragging the Bog Noblin with it into the depths, until a final thrash of its tail propelled them both underwater and out of sight.
Rye stumbled back to Little Water Street, where she fell down next to Folly in the mud. Folly just blinked her wide eyes under her damp pink hair.
“What was that all about?” Folly said.
“I thought I’d try feeding the River Wyvern,” Rye said, her voice raw from nerves. She looked at Fair Warning’s blade appreciatively before slipping it back in her boot. “I’m just glad he was still hungry.”
They both sat quietly, catching their breath. But a rumble interrupted them as a great thunder of footfalls stomped down the street. They threw their hands over their heads, fearing they would be trampled by another onslaught of Bog Noblins. But instead, a cavalry of heavy war horses galloped past, kicking mud in their wake. The thickly armored horsemen worked their way down the embankments from the village, torches in their hands, gold banners held aloft.
Bewildered, Rye and Folly watched them race toward the Dead Fish Inn and take up the fight against the remaining Bog Noblin.
A rider at the rear of the cavalry stopped, his plated armor gilded and his chest draped in gold-and-crimson tartan.
“Miss Riley! Lady Flood!” A muffled voice called out from under the rider’s helmet.
Rye and Folly looked at each other openmouthed.
“Baron Nutfield?” Rye asked.
The rider lifted the visor of his helmet. Baron Nutfield’s familiar nose was still ruddy, but his beard had been neatly trimmed and his face scrubbed.
“Apologies for the delay,” he said. “We rode up the coast but the culverts are overflowing. The spill is so great the beach was impassable. We had to take the long way here.”
Rye knew the twin culverts were enormous manmade tunnels that drained water from the Great Eel Pond under, rather than over, Village Drowning.
“Who are all these men?” she gasped.
“My so
ldiers, of course,” Baron Nutfield declared. “They were all a bit stunned to see me after so many years but they’re nothing if not a loyal bunch. It had been rather dull in my absence so they were hungry for an adventure. Consider them at your disposal. Where shall we send them?”
Rye and Folly looked at each other again, in stunned disbelief. Folly just shrugged.
“Uh, leave them here to secure the Shambles and defend the Dead Fish Inn?” Rye said uncertainly. “Once that’s in place, maybe you can send half into the village to rescue anyone they find and bring them back here?”
“Spoken like a true war maiden, Miss Riley,” he said clenching a fist. He reached into his cloak and took a nip from a flask, wiping his lips with the back of his gloved hand. “Consider it done.”
Baron Nutfield tugged the reins and the horse galloped after his troops.
Quinn and Truitt emerged from a nearby alley and hurried to meet them.
“Who was that?” Quinn asked.
“You wouldn’t believe us if we told you,” Folly said.
“I still need to get into the village without delay,” Truitt said. “I’ll take Mutineer’s Alley.” He turned toward the winding stone steps that led up to the village proper.
“I’m going with Truitt,” Rye said. She planned on finding her mother, and directing every villager she came across to the safety of the inn or Longchance Keep.
“I’m coming,” Quinn added.
“Me too,” Folly said.
“Folly, no,” Rye said, putting her hands on Folly’s shoulders. “All of your family is here in the Shambles. With Baron Nutfield’s help, the inn should be safe. Stay with them.”
“You and Quinn are my family too,” Folly said, clutching Rye’s hands and pulling them free. Her voice was quiet, but stern. “I told you, we don’t separate again.”
Rye just nodded, and knew there was no battling her friend’s resolve.
Truitt waved them forward. “Let’s be on our way. Our path will only get worse the longer we wait.”
They all climbed the steps to the top of Mutineer’s Alley, peeking past its stone archway to Dread Captain’s Way beyond. The road was empty, but the clatter and screams of conflict weren’t far off.
