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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.
Rye’s first instinct was to flee, but it occurred to her that this huntsman might have useful information. Here, in the lightly travelled reaches north of the Shale, information was more valuable than gold grommets. She sheathed Fair Warning, backed away a safe distance, then stopped, confident she could outrun the stranger if need be.
“Do you speak, child?” the huntsman asked when she offered no reply. “Are you a Feraling?” He eyed the grime that covered her coat.
Feralings were humans who lived in isolation Beyond the Shale. Reclusive and untamed, they’d adapted to the way of the wood in order to survive. In all of Rye’s recent travels, she’d met only one.
“I’m no Feraling,” she said. “And I’m not looking for sap.”
The huntsman raised an eyebrow. “You do speak … and with a Drowning accent, if I’m not mistaken.” He sucked a tooth behind a rough beard.
“That’s right,” Rye said. “And if you know Village Drowning, then you’re no Feraling either.”
The huntsman abandoned the stag, pulled the hand axe from the log and plodded to the tree she’d carved. He jabbed the bark with the axe head as he stooped and examined it.
“Letter R and … H. What do they stand for?” he asked, casting a suspicious glance at her.
When he looked back, Rye had removed her cudgel from the sling over her shoulder.
“R is for Rye,” she replied. “And H is for Harmless. That’s who I’m looking for. But make no mistake, he’s not harmless at all.” She tightened her grip. “And neither am I.”
The huntsman chuckled. “Put your twig away,” he scoffed.
Her twig was a High Isle cudgel, a dangerous weapon made from the hardest blackthorn in all the Shale. If the huntsman were as well travelled as he was road worn, he would have known it. Rye didn’t put it down.
“Have you come across anyone in these woods lately?” she asked, gesturing her cudgel towards the trees. “A man maybe? Travelling alone?”
“Travellers are rare in the forest, as are young girls. And yet, strangely enough, both have wandered into my camp in recent days.” The huntsman studied her carefully before speaking again. “There was a man. Appeared like a ghost – startled me while I fixed my supper. He was cordial enough but didn’t linger.”