Paul Durham - The Last Reckoning

Rye watched as one of the other figures stepped forward to meet him. This man was masked as well, but instead of the fiendish, leathery guise of the Luck Uglies, his mask was lined with scales and bore no nose. A hollow mouth and grotesquely distended jaw stretched down to his chest, a cavern so dark it swallowed the hope from Rye’s heart. She knew of only one Luck Ugly who wore a mask like that. He was the leader of the Fork-Tongued Charmers – and the most dangerous Luck Ugly of all.

Slinister Varlet.

With a nod of Slinister’s distorted chin, the Fork-Tongued Charmers on either side of the man removed his cloak and cowl. He offered no resistance as they shackled his wrists at his waist. Rye felt a lump rise in her throat. She was suddenly very aware of the thick smell of rotted wood and stagnant water around her. A Fork-Tongued Charmer reached up, pulled the mask from the prisoner’s face, and cast it to the ground.

Rye had already guessed who she might see under the mask. Still, her face fell and her head swam – first in relief, but then with dread. She placed both hands on the fallen trunk to keep from losing her balance.

Harmless’s wolf-like eyes glared back at Slinister, his jaw knotted behind a beard that was thicker and greyer than when Rye had last seen him. The faded scars on his face were drawn tight with defiance rather than pain. Harmless listened unflinchingly as Slinister recited accusations, the Fork-Tongued Charmer’s words deep and booming from the hollow of his mask, loud enough that Rye could hear them over the stillness of the bogs.

“Grey O’Chanter, you stand accused of failing to answer a Call of the Luck Uglies. A charge you have not denied. You have raised your blade and shed the blood of no less than six of our own brothers since your disappearance, with several more missing and unaccounted for. Another charge you do not deny.”

Harmless listened impassively.

Rye fumed silently. Five months earlier, Slinister had handed Harmless over to the Bog Noblins for that very reason – so Harmless would miss the Call, casting doubt on his commitment to the Luck Uglies. And surely the Charmers who Slinister had sent out in search of him had not brought any peace offering. Of course Harmless had fought them.

Slinister cocked his masked head. “Do you offer no explanation?” he asked.

Harmless’s reply came calmly, but with venom.

“I have nothing to say to this assembly of snakes. Except that you all shame the brotherhood tonight.” Harmless’s fiery eyes moved from one Fork-Tongued Charmer’s darkened face to another as he spoke. “This gathering is a farce. Where are the rest of the Luck Uglies, Slinister? I see only the freshly powdered noses of your allies here.”

“Word was sent regarding the nature of tonight’s meeting,” Slinister replied coolly. “Just because the others were unable to attend in a timely manner, that does not mean justice can be delayed.”

“No justice will be served tonight,” Harmless said slowly. “But rest assured, it will find each of you someday. Justice is a patient huntress … and a merciless one.”

Slinister stared back from the red-rimmed eyes of his mask.

“Since you have nothing more to offer, we are left with no choice,” he said, and for a moment Rye recognised the tone of mock sincerity Slinister used when he once wore the guise of a constable. “You have broken our code. Our oaths are sacred and absolute, and the punishment for such transgressions is well known by us all.”

Slinister paused, and the assembled Fork-Tongued Charmers seemed to hang on his next words.

“Tonight, High Chieftain, we gather to see you on your Descent.”

Rye’s heart jumped. His Descent ? She’d never heard that term before.

The two nearest Charmers moved closer to Harmless. He flashed his teeth and eyed them with such ferocity that they both hesitated, even though Harmless’s wrists remained shackled.

“Stay your hands,” he spat through his gritted jaw. “While you may dishonour yourselves tonight, I shall descend with the honour of a High Chieftain.”

He stepped away from them, to the edge of the mossy mound where it sloped and disappeared into the brackish darkness of the bog.

Slinister followed behind him, pausing to remove his own mask. His sandy beard, once waxed into elaborate spikes, now hung straight, its end tied into a loose knot. Where his head was not shaved smooth an elaborate plaited braid was pulled back and fell past his neck and down his broad back. In the candlelight, his eyes were splinters of cracked jewels. The other Fork-Tongued Charmers tightened around them.

Harmless stared down to the black water at his feet.

“You show no remorse, Grey,” Slinister said. “But we still afford you a brother’s farewell.”

Rye waited for Harmless’s next move. What manner of escape did he have planned? Would he run? Or perhaps lull Slinister into a sense of comfort before striking unexpectedly? She readied herself, calculating what she might do to help him when he took action.

But instead, Harmless stepped forward. His body lurched downwards as he sank up to his knees into the bog.

The Fork-Tongued Charmers surrounding him began to speak in unison, reciting words that sounded like a scripted chant.

“Once a Luck Ugly, always a Luck Ugly. Until the day you take your last breath. It’s our deepest regret that breath has come so soon.”

Rye’s insides clawed at her. This couldn’t be happening. She watched wide-eyed as Harmless took another step and the marsh rose past his waist. The Charmers’ voices droned on as one.

“Sleep well, brother. May the bogs fill your lungs so you never rise. Tonight we will toast you fondly for what you once were, and try to forget what you have become.”

A third step and Harmless’s body fell awkwardly before settling, the mire consuming him up to his shoulders. Rye’s head reeled as the chant continued.

“The blackness of the bog reveals the truth in every man. It is the rare brother who takes the final step unassisted. So we offer our hand this one last time.”

A Fork-Tongued Charmer handed Slinister one end of a thick rope and Slinister stepped into the bog, his open palm raised, as if eager to push Harmless’s head under himself.

“Back,” Harmless growled through gritted teeth. “The last step is mine alone.”

Slinister hesitated and curled his lip, as if disappointed. “As you choose,” he said, and gripping the rope, climbed back to higher ground.

No, Harmless! Rye cried from behind the fallen tree, but not aloud. Her plea was silent and went unheard.

Harmless took the last step without assistance. The black mud of the bogs covered his nose, then his eyes as the ground gave way beneath him, and finally the top of his head disappeared altogether.

Every muscle in Rye’s body strained to rush forward. But she fought back her urge, and instead began to count silently in her head.

One … two … three …

The Fork-Tongued Charmers uttered their final words.

“As the bog fills your eyes and ears, we too blow out our lights, sharing the ultimate darkness with you for but a moment, a reminder of what awaits us all should we forsake our bond.”

They blew out their candles, and all was dark.

Two hundred and eighty-nine, two-hundred and ninety.

Rye counted. One second for every three beats of her racing heart. Her clothes clung to her body from sweat as she waited, her back pressed against the pulpy bark of the split tree. Despite her panic, she forced herself to focus. The count was critical; she couldn’t lose track.

Two hundred and ninety-nine . Three hundred . Five minutes now.