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“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.
“But at the moment we are tired and starving. If you truly have no food, we’ll just have to test the old superstitions.” Lassiter pressed the tip of his blade against Mr Nettle’s chin. “After all, everyone can use a little extra luck.”
Mr Nettle pinched his eyes tight.
“Let him go right now!” Rye yelled from the darkness above them. She wrapped her white knuckles round her cudgel in anger.
Mr Nettle opened his eyes and, along with the Fork-Tongued Charmers, looked up.
“So there is someone else here.” Lassiter nodded his head at one of his companions. “Gibbet, go get whoever’s in there and bring them down.”
Rye’s heart climbed into her throat.
The Charmer named Gibbet moved in the direction of the oak but paused at a sound from the surrounding woods. The night choir had come to life – the first voice, a gravelly growl, took up its song on the other side of the Rill.
Lassiter loosened his grip on Mr Nettle’s vest. “The denizens of this forest are relentless,” he said in exasperation. With his blade, he gestured for the other two Charmers to watch the trees opposite the Rill. They unsheathed their own weapons and moved to the edge of the little stream, angling their lanterns so their light might penetrate the shadows.
The chorus grew louder, their throaty warbles and wicked ramblings calling to one another, excitement in their mysterious tone.
“Gibbet, to the tree,” Lassiter ordered again. “And you two, cut down any creature foolish enough to trifle with us.” He gave Mr Nettle a hard shove towards the two Charmers by the Rill. “Feed the Feraling to them if need be.”
One of the Charmers took him by the shoulder.
“No!” Rye yelled. She pressed herself over the rails, her eyes flaring at them. “Stop it!”
As suddenly as it began, the night chorus fell silent. Mr Nettle and the Fork-Tongued Charmers froze in surprise, none of them more shocked than Rye herself. Then she heard it – a thumping plod followed by slithering through the dried leaves outside the Hollow.
Mr Nettle caught her eye, then glanced at the rowanbranch platform still laid across the Rill.
“Oh my. Shriek Reavers,” he observed quietly, but when his eyes briefly met hers again they were wide with fear. “Climb, Miss Riley!” he bellowed. “Climb!”
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THREE LONG SHAPES, low to the ground, scurried over the rowan platform with remarkable speed. Sharp fingers clawed the soil as they dragged their legless, serpentine bodies behind them, black tails undulating like eels through water. The first Shriek Reaver reared up, and Rye saw that its head was elongated like a stag’s, its skinless skull charred the colour of soot. Two jagged, multi-pronged antlers jutted menacingly from its head.
The Hollow echoed with the sound of clacking bone. Dozens of oversized teeth chattered not from cold, but purposefully – with hunger.
Like a cornered badger, Mr Nettle lurched forward and buried his own teeth into the nearest Fork-Tongued Charmer’s shoulder. The Charmer growled in pain, but before he could move to strike Mr Nettle, a Shriek Reaver’s whip-like tendril slashed the Charmer’s arm and sent his lantern flying.
“Climb, Miss Riley! Go!” Mr Nettle called out again, and she saw him dart across the Hollow, a hand on his head to keep his skullcap from flying.
Rye tore back into the tree house and grabbed Lottie by the hand. Lottie’s eyes were wide as Rye dragged her through the main room, to the opposite landing at the top of the spiral staircase. She looked at the enormous oak ascending above them as far as her eye could see.
“Lottie,” she whispered, crouching down to face her and placing her hands on Lottie’s shoulders, “you love to climb trees, right? But Mama won’t always let you?”
Lottie nodded suspiciously.
“Well now’s your chance. We get to climb the tallest tree of them all. I promise not to tell.”
Lottie gave her an uncertain smile.
“Really. Go ahead. I’ll follow you.”
Lottie’s eyes drifted down the staircase to the base of the oak. The Hollow was filled with the pained shouts of the Fork-Tongued Charmers as they called to one another; the hacking sound of metal into what sounded like damp, rotting wood; and the relentless gut-churning clack of bony teeth.
Rye put a finger on her sister’s chin and gently lifted it so she was looking into Rye’s eyes once again. “No looking down, Lottie. And don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you.”
Rye saw Lottie swallow hard. She knew Lottie must be as frightened as she was, but the little girl was doing a remarkable job of hiding it. Rye gave her a boost on to the tree-house roof, from which the thick trunk of the oak towered upwards like an endless chimney. Lottie clung to the moss-riddled shingles on her hands and knees, and Rye moved to join her.
“Mona?” Lottie asked, peeking down over the edge at Rye.
“What?” Rye asked, and her eyes darted to the inside of the tree house. The pink polka-dot hobgoblin lay on the floor where Lottie had dropped her.
Rye checked the spiral stairs. She saw a dark shape scuttle over the oak’s roots and disappear out of sight, the sounds of the calamity below still loud in their ears. She thought better of it, but dashed into the tree house anyway, snatching up Mona Monster. She returned, showing the doll to Lottie before stashing it safely in the folds of her own coat.
“Now get to the trunk,” Rye said, shooing Lottie on.
Lottie disappeared from the edge and Rye took hold of the roof, digging her fingers into the shingles and pulling herself up. She steadied herself and climbed to her feet, balancing on the sloped pitch. She gasped in alarm as she looked down, where the Fork-Tongued Charmer named Gibbet met her gaze. He was just below her, on the tree-house landing.
But behind him was something even more terrifying.
A Shriek Reaver was deftly climbing the spiral stairs on two long tendrils that looked more like knotted roots than arms. This close, Rye now saw its teeth: grotesquely oversized for its jaw, their edges chipped from their relentless clacking and grinding.
Rye opened her mouth to scream but found her throat dry. Gibbet must have read her look of alarm and pivoted on his heels.
The slithering creature pressed itself up on its long, spidery arms as it reached the top of the platform, extending its torso so that it stood as tall as Gibbet. It cocked its hairless, antlered skull and warbled something deep in its mouth, like the stub of a tongue flicking against the back of its throat.
Before Gibbet could attack the monster with his sword, the hideous creature lashed forward, pinning Gibbet’s arms to his side with its own. Its long body coiled through the Charmer’s legs, round his chest, and finally gripped his neck. They fell backwards together, tumbling in a heap down the stairs even as Gibbet gasped for breath and struggled to free himself.
Rye didn’t wait to see the outcome. She scurried towards Lottie, hurrying her up and on to the oak’s trunk. She was thankful that they’d both spent so many days scaling trees together in Drowning, and fortunately the oak’s branches were twisted and knotty – perfect for climbing. Rye followed her own most important rule whenever being chased: Don’t look back. Or in this case, down.
Rye felt bark under her fingernails and scratches on her face, but she was otherwise unscathed by the time they reached a fork in the trunk where they could sit side by side. She put an arm round Lottie to be sure her sister was steady. Rye risked a quick glance down. Her head swam – they were higher than even the tallest rooftops of Drowning.
Only the faint flickering of scattered lanterns lit the Hollow far below, but in the shadows of the tree house, she could see the three black shapes weaving in and out of doors and windows, turning over every corner and cranny in search of some sign of life. One slid through a window only to emerge moments later from the crumbling stone chimney.
Rye heard nothing more from the Fork-Tongued Charmers … nor Mr Nettle. She didn’t know if the horrible Shriek Reavers would search the oak itself, and wasn’t inclined to wait and find out. That presented a problem. They could keep climbing, but eventually the only way left to go would be down.
“Bingle-black!” Lottie huffed in a coarse whisper.
Rye looked in the direction Lottie pointed. Two saucer-like eyes stared at her a healthy distance away from the tree trunk, as if hovering in midair. Rye looked more closely. It was a brindleback on a branch – several branches intertwined together – where the limbs of the oak had mingled with a neighbouring ash tree that grew outside the Hollow.
The brindleback blinked, then turned and scampered away along the branches, his long, ringed tail trailing behind him. That’s the answer, Rye thought. She was suddenly relieved that Mr Nettle was so fond of procrastinating his chores.
“This way, Lottie,” Rye whispered, and on hands and knees they shimmied across the branches. Rye cried out as they bowed under their weight, but their bridge held true, and she watched the Hollow and Rill pass far below them as they reached the other side. Climbing down the neighbouring tree was more difficult, and they both fell from a higher distance than they would have liked, Rye cushioning Lottie’s fall.
She pulled Lottie tight in her arms and leaned back against the base of the ash tree. Only now, with her sister’s small warm body pressed against her, did Rye feel her own heart pounding like a desperate fist inside her chest.
But Rye’s sense of relief didn’t last long. She carefully craned her neck and peered around the ash tree. The Hollow and the oak were not far away and she could still hear the chattering teeth of the stag-skulled monsters as they destroyed what was left of the tree house. Once finished, they would surely head back this way.
Rye put her hands on Lottie’s shoulders. “Lottie, you stay here. Don’t move, understand?”
Lottie looked at her in disbelief. Rye reached into her coat and dug out Mona, pressing her into Lottie’s trembling hands.
“I’ll be right back. Be brave for Mona.”
Lottie embraced Mona and nodded. Rye took a deep breath and hurried cautiously towards the Rill. She hoped the Shriek Reavers would still be too busy hunting through the tree house to notice her coming. Her plan seemed to work as she neared the edge of the Rill, but then there was a sharp crack at her feet. She sucked in her breath and looked down. She’d stepped on a fallen branch. Her eyes jumped to the tree house. The Shriek Reavers seemed to hang there for a moment, cocking their eyeless sockets towards her. Then suddenly they sprang to life, weaving their ways down and round the spiral staircase.
Rye considered turning and running but realised it would be hopeless. Her only chance was to beat them to the Rill. She barrelled forward, leaves and pine needles crunching under her boots. The three beasts were on the ground of the Hollow, dragging themselves on their spidery arms at a remarkable speed. Rye headed straight for them and reached the rowan bridge first. With all of her strength she pulled it up in her arms just as the monsters reached the waterline. They flailed their sharp antlers and snapped their teeth a mere arm’s length from her face, the smell of rot and mould on their breath. She fell backwards towards the forest, the platform coming to rest on her chest.
When she pushed it off, she saw the Reavers circling the Rill frantically. Their nubby tongues warbled in their throats. Angry and agitated, they slunk around searching for a way over the water. Like every other non-human inhabitant of Beyond the Shale, they were unable to traverse the tiny streamlet without the rowan bridge.
The Shriek Reavers clacked their teeth in furious protest. They were now prisoners of the Hollow.
Whether or not the Shriek Reavers would find their way up the oak to the overgrown limbs was another matter altogether, and Rye didn’t intend to linger to find out. She hurried back to the ash tree where she’d left Lottie and slumped down to huddle with her sister in the dark. They might be safe from the trapped monsters for the moment, but they now found themselves on the outside of the Hollow looking in, along with all of the other creatures of Beyond the Shale. It seemed that their long-term prospects had not greatly improved.
A nearby rustling of dried leaves startled Rye. She didn’t have time to react before a body threw itself upon them. She shoved away its stocky form and raised her cudgel, but stopped when she felt the curved horns of a goat against her outstretched palm.
“Mr Nettle?” she gasped in relief.
“Children! I was just heading back into the Hollow to find you. I’m not exactly sure what I would have done once I got there, but then I caught the scent of … your feet.” He pushed his horned cap back up over his eyes, glanced at Rye’s boots, then at the dark, sinister shapes circling the interior banks of the Rill. “I’m grateful for my sensitive nose … and your pungent toes,” he added.
“What were those things?” Rye whispered. “You call them Shriek Reavers?”
Mr Nettle nodded grimly. “Ancient guardians of Beyond the Shale. They are extremely rare and normally only stalk the northernmost reaches of the forest. I’ve never seen them this far south.”
“Monsters,” Lottie huffed, and furrowed her brow. “Not nice ones,” she clarified, patting Mona apologetically.
“There’s no easy way to label the Shriek Reavers, Miss Lottie. They are neither good nor evil, just … single-minded,” Mr Nettle explained, chewing his beard. “The forest does not welcome outsiders. Feralings believe that when the balance shifts – when too many human outsiders penetrate the confines of these trees – the Shriek Reavers awaken from their slumber and take up their hunt. They don’t stop until the balance tips back in the forest’s favour.” Mr Nettle seemed to shiver at a memory. “It was a Shriek Reaver that destroyed the other hollow where you found me.”
For a moment, Rye found herself hoping that the Fork-Tongued Charmers had indeed found Harmless. At least that meant a Shriek Reaver hadn’t beaten them to it. As for her mother, Rye could only hope she was well on her way down the Wend.
“What happened to the other men – the Fork-Tongued Charmers?” she asked. “Did they get away too?”
“One clearly did. I heard other footsteps as I ran.” He glanced towards the Hollow. “At least one other surely didn’t.”
Rye had seen all too clearly how quickly the Shriek Reaver seemed to squeeze the breath out of the Fork-Tongued Charmer named Gibbet.
“The Shriek Reavers aren’t the only dangers out here.” Mr Nettle squinted at the shadows around them. “We need to find shelter until morning. Come on.”
Mr Nettle led Rye and Lottie away from the Hollow, carefully searching the gloomy terrain until he found what he was looking for. A fallen tree stretched far into the darkness in front of them. Its enormous root system had been torn from the earth and fanned out like jagged tentacles. Mr Nettle helped Rye and Lottie duck into a gap in the broken limbs. The tree’s knotted roots jutted around them like protective spines, but its pulpy core was soft against Rye’s back.
Tomorrow they would set out at first light in hopes of meeting Abby along the Wend. So for now there was nothing Rye could do but try to rest. She pulled Lottie close against her, and was eventually able to drift to sleep, comfortable in the knowledge that Mr Nettle slept with one watchful eye open.
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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.
