Paul Durham - The Last Reckoning

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2015

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The Luck Uglies: The Last Reckoning

Text copyright © Paul Durham 2016

Map of Village Drowning © Sally Taylor 2016

Map of Beyond the Shale © Pétur Antonsson

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers 2016

Cover illustration © Jeff Nentrup

Paul Durham and Sally Taylor assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007526949

Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780007526956

Version: 2016-03-15

For the Durham girls, always. And for

Shadow, our own Gloaming Beast, who’s

been previously neglected in

these dedications.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Maps

The Truth about Heroes …

1. “H” IS FOR HARMLESS

2. THE HOLLOW

3. FOUR HORSEMEN

4. SHRIEK REAVERS

5. THE WEND

6. THE DESCENT

7. THE DEPARTED

8. BROKEN STONES

9. HOMECOMING

10. THE NIGHT COURIER

11. CREEPERS

12. A GONGFARMER’S BOY

13. LADY IN THE WELL

14. SERPENTS OF LONGCHANCE KEEP

15. THE TREASURE HOLE

16. A TOME GUARDS ITS SECRETS

17. WHAT’S WORTH SAVING

18. HOGSHEADS

19. THE RIVER WYVERN

20. THE FORTUNE-TELLER

21. ECHOES OF A DISTANT CALL

22. TRUTHS OF THE HIGH CHIEFTAIN

23. A MURDER OF UGLIES

24. MEN-AT-ARMS

25. BATTLE FOR THE DEAD FISH INN

26. MARCH OF THE WIRRY SCARES

27. A TOLL COMES DUE

28. THE RECKONING

29. RISE OF THE RAGGED CLOVER

30. AN HEIR OF UNKNOWN INTENTIONS

31. HOW IT ENDS

Epilogue: “R” Is for Rye

Banter like a Local: A Tourist’s Field Guide to Shale Lingo and Lore

Acknowledgements

Have you read?

About the Author

About the Publisher

A wise man once said that heroes can’t be painted in black or white, they come to us in shades of grey. For the choices they make are hard ones, and the actions they take leave consequences that can’t be undone.

But wise men are prone to speak in riddles, and true words should be plain to understand. Hear these instead.

There are no such things as heroes. After all, for every man we call a hero, is he not cursed as our enemies’ greatest villain?

So don your mask, young master. Don’t be afraid to bend the laws of shadow and light. And leave it to history to brand you as it deems fit.

– Last words of Grimshaw the Black

(as quoted in Tam’s Tome of Drowning

Mouth Fibs, Volume II )

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.