Читать книгу The Last Reckoning - Paul Durham, Paul Durham - Страница 9

RYE O’CHANTER CREPT through a dense maze of leafless branches sharp enough to skewer her. The towering pines in this stretch of wood were charred black like victims of a great fire, yet they hadn’t been burned. It was as if the dark soul of the forest had poisoned the ground itself and bled into their roots, staining the trees forever.

Rye’s nose twitched at the smell of a cook fire wafting from the small clearing ahead. She was confident that she’d visited this spot once before and found it empty, but she’d need to check more closely to be certain. The forest Beyond the Shale hid countless invisible secrets, its rolling hills and dense stands of pine and hemlock disguising hollows you might pass right by without a second glance. She understood now how the Luck Uglies, and others like them, might disappear into the forest for months, years, or even forever.

Rye listened carefully as she dug a rotting toadstool from the ground and rubbed it over her sealskin coat. The leather was already caked with the remains of smashed birds’ eggs, mud from a beaver dam and dung from some unknown animal. The stains hadn’t got there by accident. If her friends Folly and Quinn could see her now, they would think Rye had gone daft, but the mixture of forest smells served to mask her own scent. Beyond the Shale was teeming with keen but unseen noses, too many of which might come calling if they caught wind of a human.

Satisfied that the small camp was unoccupied – at least for the moment – Rye stepped forward to inspect it. A tent made from animal hide housed a fur bedroll. Several small pots were arranged around the remains of a fire and the blade of a hand axe lay embedded in a fallen log. Rye’s excitement grew. These were the types of supplies that could be packed and transported in a hurry – just the type of camp her quarry was likely to make.

She circled the clearing, pausing when she found the familiar trunk of a thick pine. There was her symbol in the bark: a circle with a capital letter R inside. It beamed white from dried sap that had filled the hollowed letter like a scab. She’d carved dozens of these in recent months. It meant Rye had searched this spot before and found it empty. But now there was another marking next to her own. The bark was still raw, as if recently cut.

A letter H.

She didn’t blink, for fear she might reopen her eyes and find they were playing tricks on her. She was hunting for her father – the man she called Harmless.

Rye tried to temper her excitement as she glanced up at the sliver of sky peeking through the limbs high above, the muted sun hanging low behind the trees. The long days of summer were now gone and roaming after dusk was far too dangerous. She bit her lip. Could she afford to wait to see if it was Harmless who returned to this camp? No, but she could leave a message of her own and come back at first light.

Rye removed the knife called Fair Warning from the sheath in her oversized boot and began to carve the stubborn bark.

“The sap in these trees is no good for sugaring,” a coarse voice called out behind her.

Rye spun at the sound. A man appeared from the trees on the opposite side of the clearing, his footfalls nearly silent. A hunter’s bow was slung over his shoulder and he dragged the carcass of a red stag behind him. His gaunt cheeks and wary eyes reflected the face of someone who’d spent many days alone in the forest. Unfortunately, it was a face she didn’t recognise.

Rye’s first instinct was to flee, but it occurred to her that this huntsman might have useful information. Here, in the lightly travelled reaches north of the Shale, information was more valuable than gold grommets. She sheathed Fair Warning, backed away a safe distance, then stopped, confident she could outrun the stranger if need be.

“Do you speak, child?” the huntsman asked when she offered no reply. “Are you a Feraling?” He eyed the grime that covered her coat.

Feralings were humans who lived in isolation Beyond the Shale. Reclusive and untamed, they’d adapted to the way of the wood in order to survive. In all of Rye’s recent travels, she’d met only one.

“I’m no Feraling,” she said. “And I’m not looking for sap.”

The huntsman raised an eyebrow. “You do speak … and with a Drowning accent, if I’m not mistaken.” He sucked a tooth behind a rough beard.

“That’s right,” Rye said. “And if you know Village Drowning, then you’re no Feraling either.”

The huntsman abandoned the stag, pulled the hand axe from the log and plodded to the tree she’d carved. He jabbed the bark with the axe head as he stooped and examined it.

“Letter R and … H. What do they stand for?” he asked, casting a suspicious glance at her.

When he looked back, Rye had removed her cudgel from the sling over her shoulder.

“R is for Rye,” she replied. “And H is for Harmless. That’s who I’m looking for. But make no mistake, he’s not harmless at all.” She tightened her grip. “And neither am I.”

The huntsman chuckled. “Put your twig away,” he scoffed.

Her twig was a High Isle cudgel, a dangerous weapon made from the hardest blackthorn in all the Shale. If the huntsman were as well travelled as he was road worn, he would have known it. Rye didn’t put it down.

“Have you come across anyone in these woods lately?” she asked, gesturing her cudgel towards the trees. “A man maybe? Travelling alone?”

“Travellers are rare in the forest, as are young girls. And yet, strangely enough, both have wandered into my camp in recent days.” The huntsman studied her carefully before speaking again. “There was a man. Appeared like a ghost – startled me while I fixed my supper. He was cordial enough but didn’t linger.”

That sounded like Harmless, Rye thought.

“Did you notice anything else about him?” she asked. “Was he wearing an unusual necklace? Like this?” With her thumb, Rye hooked the runestone choker she wore round her neck so that the huntsman could see it.

She saw a flash of recognition in his eyes, then they shifted, as if calculating something. “It’s possible, although I don’t have a keen eye for jewellery,” he said coolly. But his expression had already betrayed his real answer.

“When did he leave?” Rye demanded. “Do you remember which way he went?”

“I do,” he replied, his face expressionless. “He was heading south along the Wend. But the rest of the details have already been bought and paid for.”

Rye narrowed her eyes, unsure of what he meant.

“Several other travellers arrived the following day. They too had an interest in this man you call Harmless.”

“Who were they?” Rye asked sharply.

The huntsman shrugged. “They wore no crest or colours. They weren’t overly friendly – but at least they paid well for my answers to their questions. Well enough that I’ll be able to spend my winter in the warm bed of a roadhouse instead of shivering in a tent. Can you offer the same?”

Rye’s ears burned. “I have no coins.”

“But if you are looking for this Harmless, he must be of value to you.” He rubbed two grimy fingers through his beard. “Perhaps, you, in turn, are of value to him?” he asked, his voice darkening. “Or maybe … to those others who seek him?”

Rye took a step away.

“Now, now,” the huntsman said. “Why not have a seat and join me without a fuss? I spend my days tracking fleet-footed creatures through this forest. If you run, I’ll surely catch you. And then you’ll have to spend the night in a sack with the rest of the game. I’ve got one right over there that’s just about your size.”

But Rye wasn’t listening. She turned and ran, darting into the trees. She was no novice when it came to being chased and, if need be, she could bite much harder than some frightened hare. But just as she reached full stride, her legs kicked up and her body lurched skywards. The forest floor spun below and the blood rushed to her head. Rye craned her neck and peered up at the nearly invisible line strung over a limb. A snare had caught her round one boot and she now dangled upside down, several feet above the ground.

The huntsman shook his head as if to say I told you so and retrieved a thick burlap sack from his supplies.

Rye still grasped her cudgel and shook it threateningly in his direction. She doubted her effort was particularly menacing as she spun slowly and helplessly in a tiny circle at the end of the snare. She desperately wiggled her foot in her oversized boot, which only made her rotate even faster.

When the huntsman came back into view he was at the edge of the clearing, his axe raised in one hand, the burlap sack ready in the other.

A looming figure loped from the shadows opposite them, covering the space in two long-legged bounds. Rye sucked in her breath with such alarm that the huntsman paused to look behind him. A huge clawed hand sent him sprawling.

Rye thrashed her whole body, sending herself spinning furiously. She saw the blur of the massive beast. It regarded the huntsman’s motionless body with bulging eyes set on top of its misshapen head. From its elongated jaws hung a plaited, rust-orange beard tied at the end with a child’s bootlace. It snuffed at the air with a long, pig-like nose and, to Rye’s great relief, briefly turned its attention towards the stag. Rye’s own nose filled with the stench of the bogs.

She was no stranger to beasts of this kind. It was a Bog Noblin.

With one final tug, her foot slipped free from her boot with a cascade of damp straw stuffing. For once it had come in handy to wear her father’s old boots that were three sizes too large. She met the ground head first, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs.

The Bog Noblin looked up from its prize. First one bulging eye turned to meet her gaze, then the other. Hunched over the stag, its grey skin hung in folds from its broad, bony shoulders and ribs. Its floppy ears were pierced with an assortment of metal hooks, and round its neck dangled a crude necklace strung with the blackened remains of human feet. The Bog Noblin sniffed the air in her direction and stood to its full height.

Rye pushed herself up from the dirt. She only hesitated long enough to draw Fair Warning and cut her boot down from the snare.

Tucking it under her arm, she rushed deeper into the forest without looking back, her runestone choker cutting through the shadows with a pale blue glow.