Rise of the Ragged Clover

by Paul Durham

  “If the village is overrun, how will we get through?” Folly asked.

  Rye looked up at the stone arch. Scowling, carved pumpkins leered down at them from their posts all along the road, their black robes billowing.

  “Quinn, you said there are Wirry Scares all over the village?” Rye asked, an idea taking shape.

  “At least the ones the squirrels haven’t devoured yet. But they aren’t going to help; the Bog Noblins couldn’t care less,” he added, throwing up his hands. “They ignore them like they don’t exist.”

  “Perfect,” Rye said. “That’s just what we want them to do.”

  26

  March of the Wirry Scares

  Two towering Wirry Scares staggered awkwardly down the street, their snaggletoothed grins and sinister eyes glaring out from carved pumpkin heads. A stray cat inspected them curiously before darting into an alleyway.

  Rye navigated from behind one pair of angular eyeholes. Her nose was filled with the smell of rotting produce and the world around her sounded dull and hollow, like the time she got her head stuck in the milking pail.

  “Straight ahead, Truitt. Okay. Now step to the right.”

  Truitt strained beneath her. She sat atop his shoulders, both of them concealed by the billowing robes. She didn’t know who had the worse job. Truitt did the carrying, but she was the one thrust neck-deep in a rotting pumpkin.

  “Do you need a break?” she whispered.

  “No,” he groaned. “I’ll be fine. But if you could stop squirming that would be helpful. You’re heavier than you sound.”

  The first stretch of their journey was ominously uneventful, the streets deserted as the full moon rose higher overhead. But as they approached Old Salt Cross the structures around them began to glow. Not from window candles or lanterns—the homes and buildings were shuttered. It was Drowning itself that was burning.

  Rye craned the pumpkin head and tried her best to glance up at the rooftops as they went. No Ragged Clover flew from the bell tower on the other side of the village. She saw no sign of the Luck Uglies or Fork-Tongue Charmers. Or her mother. She wondered again if it was possible that they’d abandoned the Reckoning altogether. More ominously, she worried whether the Bog Noblins had gotten to them first.

  “Rye,” Truitt said, straining. “The squirming? And . . . ouch . . . pinching?”

  Rye realized she had been anxiously burrowing her fingers into Truitt’s shoulders.

  “Sorry.” She loosened her grip and turned her attention back to the streets. There was little, if anything, she could do for her parents at the moment, but she could at least help some of the other villagers. “Keep to the right again up here.”

  But as they rounded a corner and headed toward Old Salt Cross, she gasped and lurched in shock, nearly sending Truitt tumbling.

  “What is it, Rye?” Truitt whispered.

  Rye had to swallow hard before speaking. “It’s worse than I imagined.”

  What awaited them was mayhem. Rye had seen three Bog Noblins attack Drowning last year. Later, she saw enough of the creatures to fill an entire clearing and decimate Longchance’s soldiers at the edge of the forest Beyond the Shale. But now the village streets were overrun by the hulking, riotous beasts. Frenzied and disorganized, they battered their way through windows and doors. Street lanterns toppled, leading to even more blazes. From the noise, commotion, and smoke rising from the distant streets around her, she knew that the assault wasn’t limited to Old Salt Cross.

  Several other Wirry Scares watched the scene unfold helplessly from their corner posts, entirely ignored by the Bog Noblins just as Rye had hoped. But one carefully stepped back toward Rye and Truitt. Its stick arms shrugged, as if to ask, What now?

  They had no choice. Rye just waved the stick in her own hand, gesturing for Folly and Quinn to follow.

  The living Wirry Scares continued on toward Apothecary Row, stopping regularly to be less conspicuous and to give Quinn and Truitt a break. When they paused to catch their breath at the corner where the four streets intersected, Rye noticed yet another stray cat studying them from the shadows. Its tawny fur was long and matted, but unlike most strays, this one was thick and powerful, its eyes more watchful than timid. Could it be something more than just a cat? The animal disappeared, and Rye didn’t have time to give it another thought.

  “The sewer grate is over there,” Folly whispered from the jagged mouth of her pumpkin. It was on the opposite side of the road, which, like the other streets they’d crossed, was thick with rampaging Bog Noblins.

  “Let’s make a run for it now, before it gets any worse,” Folly suggested.

  “All right,” Rye replied. “On the count of—wait. Look there.”

  Ahead, a man’s body lay facedown in the puddles of the cobblestones. He appeared to be wearing thick leather armor, his head covered by a cowl. Rye’s heart sank.

  “Truitt, straight ahead. Quickly,” she said, and they stumbled forward.

  “Rye, wait for us!” Folly called after them.

  Rye’s panic grew as they drew closer to the fallen man. His build and armor were all too similar to Harmless’s. In her eagerness to reach him she shifted awkwardly, and heard Truitt call out under her. She felt herself falling, and when she hit the ground just short of the prone body, the large pumpkin rolled off her and cracked in two.

  Heavy footfalls splattered puddles as three Bog Noblins suddenly bore down on them. Rye wrapped her arms around her head, but never felt their claws. She peered through her fingers. They had each grabbed hold of the body, baring their teeth and snarling at one another like wolves laying claim to a fresh meal. As they fought among themselves Rye saw the ashen face loll to the side. It wasn’t Harmless, but the Fork-Tongue Charmer called Lassiter. The fletching of an arrow protruded from his back.

  A frantic, animalistic screech called out to Rye and Truitt just as the Wirry Scare manned by Folly and Quinn ambled up behind them. Rye turned toward the sound. Shortstraw’s round eyes and white teeth gleamed from underneath the shelter of a toppled merchant’s stall. Rye and Truitt clambered forward on hands and knees and rolled underneath.

  Shortstraw hovered nervously by Bramble’s side. Rye’s uncle sat hunched in the shadows, his mask at his side, revealing a face tight with pain. His pale eyes jumped at the sight of them.

  “Riley,” he said between gritted teeth, “you have a way of turning up in the strangest places.”

  “Are you hurt?” she asked, and moved to touch him.

  He raised a hand that had been clutched deep in his cloak to stop her. At his side was a broken sword. “I’ll get by. And I appreciate your concern, but I think I’ve been poked and prodded enough for one night.”

  “Bog Noblins?” Rye asked.

  He shook his head. “My old friend Lassiter. The Fork-Tongue Charmers ambushed us here.”

  Rye felt a pang in her gut as her hope for the Luck Uglies’ assistance waned. “So the Reckoning goes on despite all of this?”

  “Once the Reckoning starts, it cannot be interrupted until there’s a winner. Although I must say, I don’t think anyone had circumstances like these in mind.” Bramble struggled to stifle an ominous, hacking cough. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I was in dire straits, but it seems a lucky charm has been hovering over our shoulders.” He cast his eyes upward, where the toppled merchant’s stall created a roof above them. “And unless there’s another High Isle archer in Drowning, my guess is that your mother has found herself a nice perch somewhere. Tonight her stubborn streak was our good fortune.”

  “And the others?” Rye asked.

  “That weaselly little Charmer turned tail and ran as soon as the first blades were drawn. He’s probably halfway to Trowbridge by now—if a Bog Noblin hasn’t snatched him up first.”

  Hyde, Rye thought. The boy might have been an expert at skulking and spying, but he didn’t have the stomach to wear the cowl and mask.

  “Your father and Burbage have taken to the roo
ftops,” Bramble continued, pointing a finger over their heads. “Slinister, too, last I saw. The streets are becoming impassable. Which leads me to wonder how you—” Bramble paused, and shook his head. “I must be delirious. It seems a Wirry Scare has followed you.”

  Folly removed the pumpkin from her head as she and Quinn squeezed under the toppled stall.

  “Flunky?” Bramble asked in disbelief. Rye was relieved he still had enough strength to tease.

  “Wirry Scares might not frighten Bog Noblins, but they don’t seem to interest them either,” Folly explained.

  “Even so, I’m not sure how long they’ll stay disinterested if they catch wind of us under here,” Quinn added.

  “There’s an entrance to the Spoke just across the street,” Rye said to Bramble. “Can you run?”

  “Running might be a tad ambitious, but I can stumble and flop.” He strained to move into a crouch.

  Rye turned to Folly and Quinn. “Can you put on your pumpkin and sneak over there to open the storm grate?”

  Folly eased the pumpkin over her head. “Stumble and flop quickly,” her muffled voice suggested to Bramble.

  The Wirry Scare bobbled out from under the stall and staggered to the grate. Rye saw it crouch down and wave a clawed hand as a signal.

  Rye and Truitt each wrapped a hand around Bramble’s waist and helped him out from their hiding place. They struggled across the road to the grate, and pitched themselves into the sewer before any Bog Noblins could reach them.

  Rye and her friends dragged themselves away from the mouth of the sewer, spill from the earlier rain draining down on them. Bramble followed, and found a damp wall to lean against. Shortstraw climbed to his shoulder and jabbered soft grunts of concern.

  “Don’t worry, my hairy friend,” Bramble said, and scratched the monkey’s chin. “I’ve still got life in me yet.”

  “This tunnel leads to the Cistern,” Truitt said, pointing to one of several dark hollows that twisted into the distance. “Find yourselves some torches and I’ll have us there quickly.”

  Quinn retrieved a torch from a casing, but a dull clack from the tunnel behind him made everyone else pause. Something heavy scraped across the earthen floor.

  “That’s the sound of the creeper,” Truitt said in alarm.

  Rye recognized it too. But this time she realized that she’d not only heard it here in the Spoke, but also in the forest Beyond the Shale.

  Quinn turned his torch to the source of the noise, and recoiled in horror at the unexpected sight awaiting him. The jagged antlers and bony head of a Shriek Reaver stared back from the gloom, disoriented by the bright light.

  “What is that?” Quinn asked, aghast.

  “Really bad news,” Rye whispered.

  Quinn reacted quickly, casting his torch at the Shriek Reaver’s knotted limbs. It lurched back momentarily, but Quinn’s distraction proved short-lived.

  “Run!” Truitt cried. “Follow me to the Cistern!”

  Rye hesitated, grabbing Bramble by the arm to help him. She’d seen Shriek Reavers up close before, and there was no way her uncle could outpace it in his injured condition. But it was Shortstraw who moved next. As if he too shared Rye’s concern, the monkey leaped from Bramble’s shoulder and rushed at the Shriek Reaver, baring his small white teeth. The Shriek Reaver slashed at Shortstraw with its sharp, branch-like claws but missed, the quick monkey leaping past him. Shortstraw chattered at it, and the Shriek Reaver spun toward the sound, clacking its jaw and rattling its nub of a tongue.

  Having caught its attention, Shortstraw scuttled off down a different tunnel, the Shriek Reaver whipping its body around and dragging itself after him at alarming speed.

  “Hurry,” Truitt called, and they all headed off after him, away from the Shriek Reaver and deeper into the Spoke.

  Rye, her friends, and Bramble were silent for a long while as they navigated the subterranean catacombs, the only sound the splash of water at their feet and the drip of storm water above them. The leaks were so great that at times it felt like it was raining, and Rye understood why Truitt feared for the future of the Spoke.

  Truitt didn’t pause until they reached the stone steps that descended into the Cistern.

  “What was that creature?” Folly asked. “It looked more horrible than the Bog Noblins.”

  “It’s called a Shriek Reaver,” Rye said. “They’re some sort of guardians of Beyond the Shale.”

  “What’s it doing down here?” Folly asked.

  Rye had been wondering the same thing while they traveled. “Harmless told me that, last year, when we first opened the door to Beyond the Shale for the Luck Uglies, some less-welcome visitors had made their way through. I think that Shriek Reaver was one of them.”

  Bramble had been uncharacteristically silent throughout their journey through the Spoke. Rye turned to him.

  “I’m sorry about Shortstraw,” she said. He had never been a pleasant animal, but his last act was certainly a brave one.

  Bramble just nodded. “He could be stubborn as a stump, but he was a good companion. And a better friend.”

  They all descended into the Cistern. It was still illuminated by hundreds of overhead lanterns, but the water had risen much farther up the stone steps and now submerged the first several levels of the link children’s makeshift island. The narrow beams that formed a bridge now floated awkwardly on swirling water as the Cistern slowly filled.

  “We’ve made it with little time to spare,” Truitt said.

  As they prepared to cross, a screech echoed behind them.

  “Shortstraw!” Rye found herself calling, relieved to see the sopping wet monkey for perhaps the first time ever.

  The monkey didn’t pause to greet them and instead rushed across the beams, sending them bobbing on the water.

  “No, Shortstraw,” Rye repeated, shaking her head as her relief turned to alarm. There was a clatter of teeth and claws as the Shriek Reaver dragged itself down the stone steps.

  This time no one needed to shout what to do. Truitt, Folly, and Quinn darted single file over the beams to the platforms at the center of the Cistern. Rye followed with Bramble, doing her best to support his back with her hands as they struggled to balance on the shifting bridge. The beams bounced violently underneath her, and Rye knew the Shriek Reaver had leaped on behind them. She didn’t look back.

  Bramble dove onto the more stable wooden island first, and as his weight cleared the plank it lurched upward under Rye’s feet. Rye felt herself stumbling, and her eyes fell on the water and the dark shapes cruising below the surface. She launched herself desperately, and landed stomach-first on the platform, where Truitt and Quinn dragged her from the edge.

  Rye spun to check on the Shriek Reaver. It hurried over the bridge quickly but clumsily, its body not built to navigate the narrow beams. One clawed hand slipped and its long arm plunged into the water, sending it off balance. As it moved to right itself it fell over the edge, and splashed about as it clambered to drag itself back up.

  Rye hoped the delay would give them time to retreat higher up the platforms, but the water began to stir and bubble like a frothing cauldron. The Shriek Reaver flailed its claws and warbled its stubby tongue. It wasn’t drowning; it was trying to defend itself.

  Countless white tails and fins thrashed in the water. Rye marveled as the frenzied school of eyeless fish snapped at the much larger creature. Eventually the Shriek Reaver retreated, dragging itself away in a tumultuous wake until it disappeared into the recesses of the Spoke.

  “Snarklefish,” Truitt said with a shake of his head. “They really will eat anything.”

  The friends sat and composed themselves among the link children’s pallets. The link children themselves had gathered around, the familiar faces of Hope, Darwin, and Poe pushing to the front. Bramble had sprawled out on some bedding to rest. Shortstraw perched on his chest and watched him like a doting nurse. Rye’s eyes were on the water. She could see the Cistern continue to fill with ev
ery passing minute.

  “Should we be on our way to the Keep?” Folly asked.

  Rye was silent for a long while. “It’s not enough,” she said finally.

  “What do you mean?” Folly said.

  “You saw the village. The Bog Noblins have completely overrun it. Even if we warn the villagers, they’ll never make it across Drowning safely. We can probably get to the Keep ourselves before the Spoke fills, but how long will we last there? And what will become of the rest of the villagers? Of our families?”

  “Rye’s right,” Truitt said. “The situation is worse than any of us expected.”

  “Can we signal the Luck Uglies?” Quinn asked. Rye heard his voice rising, and knew that Angus’s well-being must be weighing heavy on his mind.

  Rye looked to Bramble. His eyes were shut, his breathing shallow.

  “I don’t think so, Quinn,” she said. “They’re all in the Western Woods, under strict orders to remain there until the Ragged Clover flies over Village Drowning. Who knows where Harmless is, or where the Reckoning stands? And if it continues, who’s to say Harmless—or Slinister—will even be able to raise the Ragged Clover?”

  Quinn wrung his hands. “So what’s left to do?”

  Rye’s eyes drifted back to the rising water.

  “Bog Noblins can’t swim,” she said, a desperate idea taking hold. “Harmless told me once that the twin culverts—the huge tunnels south of the village—drain the waters under, rather than over Drowning. If they were blocked, or destroyed, the village would flood. The Bog Noblins would have no choice but to flee. Or drown.”

  “Along with everyone else,” Folly said dismissively.

  “Not if we could warn them first,” Rye said. “With enough voices, we could tell the villagers to climb to the top floors of their homes, or take to the roofs. They’ll have a better chance of climbing away from a bunch of soggy, distracted Bog Noblins than fleeing across the village with them in pursuit.”

  Rye glanced around at the link children’s gritty faces hesitantly. “It may be too much to ask of you.”