Paul Durham - The Last Reckoning

Pulling her arm free, Rye rushed out on to the treehouse porch. From the shadows of the oak tree’s boughs she looked down upon the Hollow. To her disappointment, it was neither Abby nor Harmless. Instead, on the opposite side of the Rill, four hooded men struggled with a horse laden with packs. In the light of their lanterns, she saw the frightened animal buck and rear back as one man tried, unsuccessfully, to yank it by the reins across the shallow stream.

“Worthless mule,” he cursed, splashing through the shallow water and on to the banks of the Hollow to improve his leverage. The others pushed at the horse’s rump without success, and nearly got kicked for their trouble.

“Who are they?” Rye whispered to Mr Nettle, who had joined her at the railing.

“I don’t know. Surely they’ve come down the Wend. But I don’t like their manner one bit.”

The man in the Hollow lowered his hood and raised his lantern, peering up at the branches.

“Who’s up there?” he called. “I can hear you warbling. Come down this instant. We seek shelter for the night.”

Rye and Mr Nettle stepped away from the railing, deeper into the shadows. They exchanged uneasy glances. Lottie stumbled out to join them, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Mona Monster was still tucked under her arm.

“ Come down , I say,” the voice bellowed, “before I burn you out of your tree.”

The man’s ashen face reflected in the lantern light, his dark eyes squinting as he struggled to see them.

Rye heard Mr Nettle suck in his breath.

“What is it?” Rye asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But these men smell of danger … and death.”

Rye dared to return to the railing, trying to get a better look at the four visitors.

“Wait here,” Mr Nettle ordered urgently. “And be absolutely quiet. You too, Miss Lottie.”

Lottie turned an imaginary key at her lips.

“Innkeeper!” the hoodless man demanded, his black lips curling. “I’m readying the torches!”

“Coming,” Mr Nettle called. “One moment!” He gestured again for Rye and Lottie to stay put as he hurried off to the winding stairs.

Rye leaned over the railing. The man in the Hollow had smudged black face paint running from his lower lip, over his chin, and down his throat, where it split and curled at the end, like a long tongue. He gestured to his companions, two of whom left the horse and slogged through the Rill. In the light of their own lanterns Rye saw that, under their hoods, their faces were also pale and ashen, eyes and lips streaked black. She gasped.

“Mr Nettle,” she called in a desperate whisper. “They’re Luck Uglies!”

Or to be more precise, they were Fork-Tongued Charmers.

But Mr Nettle didn’t hear her. He had already climbed down to meet them.

“What are you, some sort of troll?” the Fork-Tongued Charmer asked, as Mr Nettle padded out on to the Hollow. He thrust his lantern in Mr Nettle’s face, and Mr Nettle shielded his eyes with his hand and adjusted the horns on his skullcap.

“No …” the man went on, a look of recognition in his dark eyes. “I’ve seen your kind before. I didn’t know there were any Feralings left. I thought you’d all been boiled by superstitious woodsmen and eaten for good luck.”

“Fortunately, I’ve proven to be unappetising so far,” Mr Nettle said with mock cheer and a shrug. “Here, allow me to assist you with your steed. I think she’ll be more agreeable with the help of this.”

Mr Nettle gathered the rowan-wood platform and laid it over the Rill. The other Charmers watched him with grim faces under their dark hoods, towering over the smaller man as he gently took the reins and coaxed the reluctant horse over the makeshift bridge and on to the Hollow.

“My name’s Nettle,” he said, affecting a steady voice. “And what should I call you and your companions?” he asked the hoodless man.

“I am Lassiter,” the Fork-Tongued Charmer said, lifting his arm so that his lantern light might catch the boughs of the oak above. He eyed the old buildings suspiciously. Rye was still watching from the porch and stepped in front of Lottie, easing her back into the shadows.

“These are my brothers, doom, despair and destruction,” he added, flicking his chin over his shoulder. “They ride with me wherever I go.”

The other Charmers laughed at his quip, although Lassiter’s attention remained focused on the guesthouse built in the tree. He squinted upwards through the shadows.

“Whose establishment is this? Are you the only one here, Feraling?” Lassiter asked with a crooked glance.

Mr Nettle hesitated. “Yes … just me at the moment.” He stroked the nervous mare’s muzzle with his hand. “The master of the inn and his hunting party should be returning shortly.”

“Master of the inn?” Lassiter said, his black lips curling into a smirk. “And what is this innkeeper’s name?”

“Ab— that is … Able,” Mr Nettle said, catching himself mid-sentence. “You may have heard him called Able the Imposing. Or Able the Awe-Inspiring,” he added quickly. “He’s a legend. A giant among men.”

Rye cringed as she listened. Too much, Mr Nettle . He was not a practised fibber.

“I’ve never heard any such names,” Lassiter said, glowering at Mr Nettle. “I’ll look forward to meeting this master of tree houses upon his return. This is the shabbiest flophouse I’ve ever seen, but we’ve travelled far and long. Fix us a room and a hot meal while we wait.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, but there’s not much I can do to help. We’re all out of food.”

“A guesthouse without food?”

Mr Nettle bobbed the horns on his head with a nod.

“Are you out of rooms too?” Lassiter looked up at the smaller cottages nestled in the boughs of the oak.

Mr Nettle chewed his beard for a moment. “Yes, yes, full up.” He gave Lassiter and the other glaring Charmers an apologetic smile.

“And yet you just told me you were all alone,” Lassiter said flatly.

“Right,” Mr Nettle said slowly. He pursed his lips. “I did. What I meant was … well …”

“Pigshanks,” Rye whispered to herself.

Lottie must have recognised the severity of Rye’s expression. She didn’t say a word about Rye’s colourful language, just crossed her index fingers and rubbed them together in Rye’s direction. Tsk tsk .

Rye put her own finger to her lips, reminding Lottie to keep hushed, and led her quietly inside where she began helping her with her boots and cloak. The voices below were muffled, but Rye could make them out through the gaps in the tree-house floorboards.

“Perhaps you meant to say that the guests are all out with the hunting party?” Lassiter snarked.

“Yes, exactly,” Mr Nettle said enthusiastically. Rye could hear the misguided relief in his voice. Life in the forest had made Mr Nettle resourceful, but he had no ear for sarcasm.

“Do you know who we are, goat boy?” Lassiter demanded, his voice rising.

Rye threw her arms through the sleeves of her coat and was still pulling on her boots as she ran back to the porch railing.

“Certainly,” Mr Nettle said, blinking his eyes. “You’re Mr Lassiter, and that’s Mr Doom, and Mr Gloom and –” he tapped a finger on his chin before waving at the fourth man – “Mr Desperation, was it?”

Lassiter unsheathed a blade from the scabbard at his hip. He clutched a handful of Mr Nettle’s vest.

“We’re Fork-Tongued Charmers – and no greater nightmare than us roams this forest. We have searched this forsaken wood far too long in pursuit of our quarry, and now, at long last, he’s been found and we are on our way home.”

Rye bristled. Their quarry? Surely he meant Harmless .