The Luck Uglies (23 page)

“The soldiers will turn you into a pincushion with those arrows.”

“I'm fast. Besides, when they see I'm just a boy, they won't fire. Come on, it worked before.”

“Those brutes would shoot their own mothers,” Rye said.

“We can do this, Rye,” Quinn said. “Put your hood on. Here I go.”

Quinn tiptoed through the shadows along the houses and then darted out into Mud Puddle Lane a fair distance past Shady, toward the wooded end of the road. The first arrow flew past his head. He had to twist, jump, and skip to avoid three more.

“Wait!” he yelled, shielding his face with his hands. “I'm just a kid!”

The soldiers stepped from their hiding places, lowered their bows momentarily, and blinked their eyes. The distraction worked. They exchanged confused looks. Rye ran to the middle of Mud Puddle Lane and grabbed Shady's cage with both hands.

Quinn peeked from between his fingertips and tried to smile.

“See,” he yelled, raising both hands in surrender. “Just a boy.”

The soldiers yelled in a collective gasp, turning their attention from each other back to Quinn. They raised their bows again and took aim.

Quinn's jaw dropped and he shielded his head with his hands. “Please, no!”

Before they could release their arrows, Quinn was plucked from the ground. It looked like he was hovering in the air, but when Rye blinked and strained her eyes, she could make out the clawed hand gripping her friend by the nape of his neck. In one swift motion, Quinn was pitched, bottom first, into the mouth of a Bog Noblin. No one had noticed the horned Bog Noblin known as Dread Root appear silently from the woods behind Quinn. Rye gasped as Quinn struggled to pry himself free, his arms, legs, and torso dangling from the creature's mouth.

Dread Root looked from side to side as if searching for something better to eat, his long beard loose now and dragging at his feet. He then bit down hard into Quinn's behind.

Quinn's scream of pain nearly broke Rye's heart. She yelled Quinn's name and ran toward him.

Apparently Dread Root wasn't fond of the taste of Quinn's backside, and he spat him headfirst on the ground near Rye. The soldiers let loose a stream of arrows that bounced off Dread Root's knotted skin or landed in the dirt. It was only by some freakish luck that Rye and Quinn weren't impaled. She dropped Shady's cage and tried to comfort Quinn.

Dread Root pulled an arrow from his forearm as if it were a splinter and cast it aside. His eyes turned toward Rye and the metal cage, which rattled violently on the ground as Shady struggled to escape. Again Rye reached for her choker and found herself shouting in frustration. Dread Root licked his lips with a long black tongue. He reached down and picked up the cage first, peering inside.

“Stop!” a voice boomed and a huge figure sprinted down Mud Puddle Lane, an axe over his shoulder.

The Bog Noblin dropped the cage.

The voice belonged to Angus Quartermast. He placed himself between Dread Root and Rye and Quinn, using his thick, round body as a shield. On the ground, Shady had knocked the cage on its side and was bouncing it forward, launching his head against the metal bars again and again. His collar glowed so blue it was nearly white.

Dread Root's eyes grew enormously wide as he looked down at the gyrating cage. In a burst of speed, he leaped over all of them and ran off down Mud Puddle Lane toward the village. To Rye's horror, the cage rattled behind him. Dread Root must have landed on it, and the cage was now caught in his unkempt tangle of beard.

“Shady!” Rye called out helplessly into the night.

The soldiers let loose another barrage of arrows as Dread Root rushed past, swatting archers from the trees and rooftops. Those who remained unharmed took up his pursuit.

Angus reached down and took Quinn in his arms. “Quinn, my boy, are you all right?”

“I'll be okay,” Quinn said with a pained look.

He didn't sound convincing.

Rye remembered that Bog Noblin bites were poisonous. Quinn's face had gone gray, but his eyes sparkled when he said, “Papa, that was amazing. You scared away a Bog Noblin.”

Angus hoisted Quinn in his arms. “Riley, come with us where it's safe.”

“Quinn, will you be all right?” Rye said, torn between her friend and her pet.

“I'll be fine,” Quinn said, his voice weak. “Go.”

His father began to protest.

Rye wasn't listening. She chased after the Bog Noblin, the cage, and the soldiers before Angus could stop her.

25

Luck Uglies

R
ye's pursuit took her through Nether Neck and Old Salt Cross, where the deserted streets and boarded windows bore the signs of a village under siege. Rye gawked at the number of tattered black flags shopkeepers had hung over their shuttered storefronts—ragged clovers—but she had no time to stop for a closer look. Dread Root and the soldiers were moving quickly. She saw neither Bog Noblin nor soldier as she ran, but she could hear their nearby calls as she rounded every corner. Smoke rose from distant roofs.

Rye slowed her pace as she progressed down the last alleyway toward Market Street. She placed her hand on Folly's pack to silence the jingling bottles inside. The men's voices were numerous. Some barked commands, others called for help, and many cried out in pain. The roars echoing through the night were even more chilling. Rye was no expert, but it sounded like they came from more than one Bog Noblin.

She stepped from the alleyway onto Market Street, where the scene almost overwhelmed her. To her left, Dread Root pummeled soldiers with his fists, cracking their helmets like walnuts. She couldn't see Shady's cage, and guessed the Bog Noblin must have shaken it off along the way. To her right, Muckmire plucked a soldier up by his feet and beat him repeatedly against the ground like a big dead fish. Rye guessed he'd made his way through the troops at the bridge without much trouble.

The soldiers who weren't already lying in broken piles hopelessly attempted to surround the Bog Noblins. Their blades bounced off the creatures' knotted skin as they tried to corner them against buildings. Rye made her way back to the alley, but the mob of soldiers snaking their way through the narrow, twisted street choked off her escape route.

Even with the smoke, the light of the moon indulged no secrets, and Rye felt naked amid the swarm of dangers. She needed to find shelter. Except for the Willow's Wares, which was currently on the wrong side of the battle, the shops were all shuttered. She looked up to the roofs. It had worked before.

Rye darted to the walls, desperately digging her fingers into cracks in search of handholds. The soldiers were falling rapidly. One dropped at her feet. The sight of what the Bog Noblin had done to him made her sick to her stomach. She scrambled furiously. She found a crack for her fingers, then one for her foot, and pulled herself up.

Over her shoulder, she saw Dread Root finish off the soldiers on his end of Market Street. Muckmire toyed with the last remaining troop. The cobblestones were now littered with black-and-blue tartan.

Rye pushed upward, clearing the windows and doorframes. She studied the bricks in the moonlight to find a path. The walls suddenly went dark behind a looming shadow. She smelled the Bog Noblin before she saw it.

A quick glance back and there he was. Dread Root. Just below her now, he eyed her as Rye might study a tree frog on a fence. She panicked and dug frantically at the wall's surface until her fingers went raw, clawing her way higher. She cursed Malydia at the top of her lungs, but no one was listening.

Dread Root unfurled his long black tongue upward, licking at her feet. She kicked at him with her boot. It only seemed to amuse him.

“Go away!” she screamed, scrambling higher, but she was still nowhere near the rooftops. The sounds coming from his throat sounded like cruel laughter.

Rye tried to push on but felt herself stuck. She yanked and pulled without success. Then it occurred to her—she wasn't stuck, Dread Root had reached up and taken hold of the pack on her shoulders.

“Stop it,” she yelled. “Let go!”

His sickening laughter only worsened. Now Rye found herself digging into the walls, just trying to hold on. One foot slipped. There was a rough tug at her shoulder and, after the initial jolt, she was able to move it more freely. One of the straps on Folly's pack had given way, and it now dangled in the crook of her arm. The straps were in Dread Root's fingers.

She wiggled and squirmed, trying to free herself from the pack in hopes that it might buy her even an instant more time.

Dread Root reached up with his other hand and took hold of her foot. Rye had no choice. She dropped one hand from the wall and lowered her arm so that she dangled by just one set of fingertips. Her grip wouldn't last long, but the pack slid off her shoulder into Dread Root's claws. He fumbled with it, lost his own grip, and it fell to the street.

Market Street exploded in a white light so loud and bright that it knocked Rye off the wall.

She landed hard, and for a moment couldn't see or hear anything. Her vision returned first and she looked around—everything filtered through a white haze still burning in her eyes. All was silent except for the ringing of bells somewhere deep inside her head.

The remaining soldiers were on the ground too, trying to climb to their feet without success. Dread Root staggered around blindly, clutching at his eyes and ears. He circled like a dancer drunk on too much wine, and backed into Muckmire, who held his hairless head in his hands.

On the ground near Rye's feet, sizzling fluids oozed from the bottles smashed in Folly's pack.

“Folly, you did it,” Rye said aloud, or perhaps in her mind—she couldn't tell. Either way, she couldn't help but smile.

Her smile didn't last. The Bog Noblins started to recover, and they turned their attention toward her again. Rye tried to stand but couldn't keep her balance. She dragged herself away on her hands and knees as fast as she could, but she knew it would never be fast enough. She kept her eyes straight ahead as she crawled toward the Willow's Wares at the far, smoky end of Market Street.

Rye imagined her mother and Lottie, her newly found father, and her oldest, truest friends. These were the images she wanted to hold on to when the end came. The Bog Noblin was close behind her now. She couldn't hear it over the deafening ringing, but she could feel its vibrations on the cobblestones under her body. She wouldn't look back. She would not let its evil black tongue be the last image she ever saw.

Then, through the haze, she saw the pale blue light. It was at ground level in the distance. Shady? It disappeared behind a cloud of smoke and ash.

Rye squinted through the dark. She could no longer see a light, but in the distance, three figures were coming her way.

She blinked to clear her eyes, but the white haze persisted. The figures drew closer. They were cloaked and hooded, all in a color best described as dead-of-night. If their boots made a sound, Rye couldn't hear them.

Rye held her breath as they approached. All three stopped when they reached her.

The closest one took a step forward and tilted its head. She could see just a portion of its face from under its hood. Its hairless skin was an inky purple. It had angular black eyes and a long pointed nose that extended out from its face like an angry beak. Its garish mouth was filled with jagged shards of scrap-metal teeth.

Masks.

These masks weren't feathered or bejeweled. They weren't funny. They didn't make Rye laugh.

Suddenly, the ground stopped vibrating under her.

A chill ran up Rye's spine.

The figure extended an arm. Rye carefully took hold of its cloaked elbow; its gloved fist was embedded with claws made of nails and broken glass.

After it helped her to her feet, the figure stooped over so that it was eye level with her. Its strange black eyes studied her. Its terrible beaklike nose almost touched her own.

Rye swallowed hard.
Walk strong and act like you belong . . .
now she truly did.

“Thank you,” Rye said, in the strongest voice she could muster.

The figure lifted its arm like the wing of a huge crow, and quickly threw its cloak over her.

Everything went dark and Rye felt the heavy fabric fall across her body. She closed her eyes, wondering if it would grab her. But the cloak kept going over her head and she felt its weight pass her by. When she opened her eyes, all three of the black figures were gone.

She spun around. They'd reappeared at the far side of Market Street, behind Muckmire and Dread Root.

A movement above made Rye look up to the rooftops.

The gargoyles were coming now. They crawled down the faces of the buildings like giant spiders.

She turned to the old well. More masked figures emerged, black and dripping, like snakes from a hole.

And, for the first time, Rye understood the fear and the awe. Because as the legendary villains encircled them like nightmares in the moonlight, Dread Root and Muckmire pressed close to one another in the manner of two warriors prepared to make their last stand. These two terrible monsters seemed to know, without a doubt, that the end had come for
them
.

The Luck Uglies had returned to Drowning.

 

Rye found the cage, bent and twisted but still securely shut, in an alley not far from Market Street.

She stared down into it and almost cried out in relief when she found Shady in one piece. He was licking his paws with delight—his sharp claws full of coarse orange hair from where he'd snagged Dread Root's beard and unwittingly hitched a ride into the village. His collar glowed a now-familiar blue. Rye was confident that she'd finally figured out one of Harmless's mysteries. It wasn't Angus Quartermast who had terrified Dread Root on Mud Puddle Lane.

For an instant, Shady's blue collar grew brighter than she'd ever seen it, then the mystical glow faded and it was ordinary once again. Did that mean the Luck Uglies had finished off Dread Root and Muckmire? Perhaps. But even so, Rye remembered there was one more.

Iron Wart had not yet revealed himself.

Harmless had told her that the worst monster dwelled within the walls of the Keep. Rye knew he was speaking of Longchance. That was the real reason he'd stayed behind. To rid Drowning of the Earl once and for all.

Unfortunately, Rye didn't think Harmless would also be expecting Iron Wart.

Rye dragged the cage through the alley behind the Willow's Wares. She picked up a loose brick from the curb.

“Sorry, Mama,” she said to herself, and threw the brick through the shop's rear window.

“Come on,” she said, lifting Shady's cage as she cast a final glance toward the dark shadows on Market Street. “Someone else needs you more than the Luck Uglies do now.”

 

Rye sat alone in the dark, with no sounds to keep her company but her own breath and the beating of her heart. There was Shady, of course, but he had chosen now to go silent. Back at the Willow's Wares, she'd taken two leather belts and some old leggings and fashioned a harness of sorts, strapping the heavy iron cage to her back and fastening the straps across her chest with the buckles. No wirry troubled her as she searched the basement for the entrance to the Spoke. Shady didn't appreciate her efforts and yowled and caterwauled the whole way through its tunnels.

This last trip through the Spoke had brought her full circle. She was now somewhere deep beneath the Keep. She didn't return to the tunnel of the Lost Lady, for she knew Malydia had sealed that entrance tight. There was only one way into the Keep now. She'd studied the map carefully. It was here that the tunnel called the Long Way Home ended. Above her, beyond an unlocked iron hatch with a round pull-down handle, was the Deepest Darkest Dungeon of Longchance Keep.

Harmless had forbidden her from returning. But that was before everything had been turned upside down. She hadn't followed the steps in order—not that she'd had much of a choice. But she had a terrible feeling that her choices had put Harmless in grave danger. While the Dead Fish Inn was spared, her delay might have allowed the last Bog Noblin to make it through the village to the Keep. She suspected that Harmless could manage the Earl and his minions, but Iron Wart on top of all that sounded like more than even a High Chieftain could handle.

Rye couldn't stay still any longer. Her body was beyond exhaustion, and if she didn't start moving again soon, she wouldn't be able to.

She reached up and pulled down the door. It opened with surprising ease, and she was immediately pummeled as hard, blunt objects rained down on her head. Clouds of dust and debris covered her and choked her lungs. Once things had stopped falling, she reached down and examined one. It was an old bone. She quickly flicked it aside. Rye placed her lantern inside the dungeon and pulled herself up.

The dungeon was the darkest place she had ever seen—or not seen. Darker than Mud Puddle Lane on the Black Moon. So dark that her lantern barely penetrated the gloom. Rye had no idea how she was going to find her way to the upper dungeon. The silence felt like it was swallowing her. The scuffling of Shady's claws as he huddled in the cage sounded like trumpets in the vast emptiness of sound and light.

She extended her free hand in front of her and pressed on through the darkness, reaching for something—anything—that might give her a clue of what to do. She searched in a circular pattern, not knowing whether she was going to feel the cold hands of a specter, the grasp of some hidden dungeon wirry or, worse, nothing at all. Instead, on her fourth or fifth pass she felt rough fibers. It was a rope, hanging down from somewhere above, tied with heavy knots to make for an easier climb.