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.
It felt like forever. And yet was it long enough for all of the Fork-Tongued Charmers to have left? She peered over her shoulder. The moonless night offered nothing but shadows and silence.
Rye kept up her count. She had seen Harmless hold his breath for six minutes under frigid water. But to wait that long would leave her with no room for error. It was now or never. With a flick of flint, she re-sparked her torch and tore out from her hiding place.
Rye ran as fast as she could, but the wet bogs seemed to grip her boots and fight her every step. It was as if she could barely lift her legs. When she did, unseen roots and creepers lurched out to trip her.
Finally she reached the place where she had last seen her father. Dropping her torch, she plunged herself into the bog, clawing and digging at the muck.
“Harmless!” she cried out, this time as loud as she could. “Harmless!”
But the bog guarded its prize jealously as it tightened round her. Soon Rye couldn’t move her legs, and her arms grew heavy. She struggled to free herself but its murky waters held fast. Too many minutes had passed. Rye looked to the darkened sky above, her voice lost.
“Harmless,” she rasped. But there were no answers. She had run out of time, for both Harmless and herself. She felt herself sinking, and could no longer move at all.
There was a loud splash behind her. Rye was pulled up violently, popping from the ooze like a cork as she was hurled backwards. She landed hard on moist but unforgiving earth, losing her breath with the impact. Through the light of her torch on the ground she saw a large grey shape plunge into the bog. It buried its head and shoulders beneath the surface, rooting and grunting like a pig in a trough.
Rye blinked her eyes in disbelief. After a moment, Leatherleaf emerged from the water, pulling himself from the bog with one clawed hand.
The other claw dragged Harmless behind him, her father’s lifeless body stained black with mire from head to foot.
A CHILL BREEZE rattled the swamp maples and sent a storm of crimson leaves fluttering down past Rye’s shoulders like hundreds of tiny kites against a grey sky. The leaves joined their fallen companions around Rye’s boots, covering every inch of turf in the tiny graveyard. A dozen or so worn and broken headstones peeked out from the rustling