Читать книгу The Last Reckoning - Paul Durham, Paul Durham - Страница 13

THE WEND RESEMBLED a tunnel more than a footpath. A menacing canopy of finger-like branches curled over the trail, as if ready to reach down and pluck any traveller who displeased the forest. Creeping roots bulged across the overgrown ground, seeking to reclaim the narrow corridor that had been forged through the trees.

Rye, Lottie and Mr Nettle bounced along the unforgiving trail, the clop of hooves thumping the ground beneath them. They had woken to find the Fork-Tongued Charmers’ skittish mare drinking from a puddle not far from the Hollow. After some soothing words from Mr Nettle, the horse had permitted them to mount it, making for an easier trip now that they didn’t have to wait for Lottie’s short but eager legs to keep up.

Rye watched the sharp branches pass around them as she bobbed in the saddle. The path’s jagged canopy thinned the further south they rode, eventually giving way to an overcast afternoon sky. The Wend ran north and south, twisting like a looming snake hole in each direction, and travellers hoping to cover any real distance had no choice but to traverse it. The Hollow sat along its more southern stretch. Village Drowning, the closest settlement, was still a two-day journey. But Rye’s village might as well have been a mythical city in a book of fairy tales. Neither the House of Longchance nor any other noble family in all the Shale held sway over the inhabitants of these ancient trees.

There was a familiar odour in the air, and she had the unnerving feeling that something had been following them quietly through the brush. She quickly glanced at her choker. Fortunately, the runestones round her neck remained dull.

“My nose isn’t nearly as good as yours,” she said to Mr Nettle, looking back over her shoulder, “but I can’t get the smell of the bogs out of it.”

Mr Nettle grunted affirmatively from behind her. “We’re in the southern reaches of the forest. The bogs aren’t far now, and beyond them … villages.” He seemed to shudder at the thought.

“You don’t like villages?” Rye asked.

Mr Nettle shook his head adamantly. “Never been to one, luckily. But I’ve heard all about them from travellers. Trapped in dwellings, deafened by noise and crawling with … people.” He scratched his neck furiously like a hound fighting fleas. “Just the thought of it makes me itch.”

“It’s not all bad,” Rye said with a nostalgic shrug, and watched the muted light filter through the treetops overhead. They hadn’t come across Abby, and Rye’s mind wrestled with a dozen unpleasant possibilities as the afternoon wore on. The obscured sun hung low behind the clouds by the time they stopped to rest. They dismounted and shared some of the skimpy provisions they’d found in the horse’s saddlebags. Rye sat on the ground at the edge of the trail and wrapped her arms round her knees. The mare scuffed the dirt anxiously and tugged at her reins.

“We should have crossed paths with your mother by now,” Mr Nettle said as he tried to settle the nervous animal. Then he forced a smile and changed his tone in a manner that Rye knew was for her and Lottie’s benefit.

“But I’m sure there’s a good reason. She must have decided to camp along the Wend for another night. Miss Lottie, don’t wander too far …”

Lottie had taken Mona for a walk to “stretch her claws” and now took great interest in a small rodent scurrying through the underbrush.

Mr Nettle’s eyes followed a sharp turn in the path up ahead. “We may want to find a place to shelter for the night sooner rather than later. Better not to push on and then find ourselves exposed after dark.”

Rye gnawed at a strip of dried venison with her front teeth and nodded, grateful to have a companion so familiar with the forest.

The mare jolted and startled her. Mr Nettle tried to soothe it, but the horse tore off down the Wend with a furious snort, kicking up dirt and pebbles as it bolted away. Rye jumped to her feet as Mr Nettle called and rushed after it, but she stopped abruptly. A cry caught her attention.

Lottie’s familiar voice. Yelling. Angry.

Rye’s mouth fell open, still full of chewed meat. “This way!” she yelled to Mr Nettle, spitting it out.

Rye hurried off the Wend and through a thicket.

“Mean! You a mean monster!” Lottie’s voice screamed.

Rye’s heart raced at the sound of Lottie’s words. She plunged into a small clearing in the pines, and jolted to a stop. Lottie stood at one end, hands on her hips with Mona Monster tucked under her armpit.

Just opposite her stood a Bog Noblin – the very one Rye had seen two days before. Its grey skin shimmered damp and clammy, the air around it thick with the smell of the bogs. Rye looked quickly to Lottie’s neck, then her own.

Their protective runestone chokers did not beam blue.

Rye tensed and pulled Lottie close to her side. But the Bog Noblin didn’t move. Surrounding it were two other familiar beasts.

Shady crouched alertly between the Bog Noblin and the O’Chanters, the thick fur on his back standing straight, eyes agleam with mischief. Gristle had positioned herself behind the Bog Noblin, blocking its escape. If the Bog Noblin was indeed following them, at least the Gloaming Beasts had stayed close behind. They looked as if they might pounce at any moment.

“Mean Gob Boblin did sneaky peek on me,” Lottie huffed. “I think him tried to take Mona.” She wrapped her arms round her doll protectively.

Shady circled the small clearing menacingly, Gristle working her way round the opposite direction, until the Bog Noblin shifted, its eyes rotating independently so it could keep watch on each of its antagonists.

Mr Nettle arrived behind Rye, tugging the terrified horse by its reins.

“Perhaps we should be going now,” he suggested out of the side of his mouth. “The Gloaming Beasts seem to have this well in hand and I don’t think we really want to see the results of their dance with this ugly fellow.”

But Rye found herself studying this Bog Noblin carefully. It was clearly the one she’d seen at the huntsman’s campsite two days before and yet the familiarity ran deeper than that. She noticed the old bootlace at the end of his plaited, rust-orange beard; the fish-hooks adorning his ears and nostrils. She had already seen more Bog Noblins than she cared to remember and one thing she’d learned was that, like people, each had their own unique traits – after you got past their more common, toothy features.

The Bog Noblin watched Rye with its bulging, drippy eyes. There was a hint of fear but also an awareness, as if he too was searching Rye’s face for recognition. She knew now that she had looked into those eyes before.

Leatherleaf?

The Gloaming Beasts closed in.

The Bog Noblin extended a veiny arm, its clawed palm open as if ready to defend itself. Round its wrist, she spotted a large decayed tooth strung on a string like a bracelet.

Shady’s tail twitched, his body tense and ready to strike.

The Bog Noblin raised its distended jaw to the sky and let out a terrible beast-baby wail. Rye cringed, recognising it clearly now – the first cry of a Bog Noblin she had ever heard. It was Leatherleaf, the juvenile Bog Noblin that had wandered into Drowning nearly a year ago and turned her life upside down. He had grown since she’d last seen him, but she was now certain of his identity.

“Wait!” Rye yelled and, inexplicably, found herself rushing to stand between the Gloaming Beasts and Leatherleaf.

“Miss Riley!” Mr Nettle called out in alarm.

Rye raised her hands, gesturing to Shady and Gristle as if to hold them back. Gristle returned an indignant glare, and skulked off into the trees. Shady’s eyes narrowed, more pensive. She doubted she could keep him at bay for long.

Rye looked to Leatherleaf. One of his strange, bulging eyes rotated from Shady to her. It was joined by the other. He fixed his gaze on Rye and she could tell that he was examining the choker round her neck. He seemed as surprised as Rye that her runestones no longer glowed in his presence.

Shady let out a low rumble from his throat.

“Please, Shady. Wait,” Rye urged.

Her hand went to her throat. The runestones were cool to the touch and dim – no different from ordinary stones. Why hadn’t they warned her of Leatherleaf’s arrival?

“Why are you here?” she called to him.

He extended a large fist, his grey skin bulging with knots and blue veins. Rye tensed.

“What do you want?” she tried.

He gestured his outstretched hand in reply. She didn’t expect that he understood her words, but perhaps the confusion in her tone had resonated.

Summoning her courage, Rye took a step forward. Leatherleaf watched her approach intently. He didn’t move to meet her, nor did he retreat.

“Miss Riley!” Mr Nettle gasped from behind her, and held Lottie back.

Rye trembled, but forced herself closer, close enough that she could smell the stench of the bogs on Leatherleaf’s breath. She extended an open palm under the enormous fist that dwarfed her own. The Bog Noblin unfurled his long, clawed fingers as if he would snatch her, but before Rye could flinch, something fell from his grasp into her hand.

Leatherleaf quickly retreated several paces to a deeper gap in the trees. Rye back-pedalled into the clearing before looking at what he’d offered.

She opened her hand, cupping it with her other palm as several hard objects spilled between her fingers. Runestones. In her hands was a broken leather necklace, similar to hers, Abby’s and Lottie’s, but larger. She knew exactly whose it was.

The necklace belonged to Harmless.