She saw a flash of recognition in his eyes, then they shifted, as if calculating something. “It’s possible, although I don’t have a keen eye for jewellery,” he said coolly. But his expression had already betrayed his real answer.
“When did he leave?” Rye demanded. “Do you remember which way he went?”
“I do,” he replied, his face expressionless. “He was heading south along the Wend. But the rest of the details have already been bought and paid for.”
Rye narrowed her eyes, unsure of what he meant.
“Several other travellers arrived the following day. They too had an interest in this man you call Harmless.”
“Who were they?” Rye asked sharply.
The huntsman shrugged. “They wore no crest or colours. They weren’t overly friendly – but at least they paid well for my answers to their questions. Well enough that I’ll be able to spend my winter in the warm bed of a roadhouse instead of shivering in a tent. Can you offer the same?”
Rye’s ears burned. “I have no coins.”
“But if you are looking for this Harmless, he must be of value to you.” He rubbed two grimy fingers through his beard. “Perhaps, you, in turn, are of value to him?” he asked, his voice darkening. “Or maybe … to those others who seek him?”
Rye took a step away.
“Now, now,” the huntsman said. “Why not have a seat and join me without a fuss? I spend my days tracking fleet-footed creatures through this forest. If you run, I’ll surely catch you. And then you’ll have to spend the night in a sack with the rest of the game. I’ve got one right over there that’s just about your size.”
But Rye wasn’t listening. She turned and ran, darting into the trees. She was no novice when it came to being chased and, if need be, she could bite much harder than some frightened hare. But just as she reached full stride, her legs kicked up and her body lurched skywards. The forest floor spun below and the blood rushed to her head. Rye craned her neck and peered up at the nearly invisible line strung over a limb. A snare had caught her round one boot and she now dangled upside down, several feet above the ground.
The huntsman shook his head as if to say I told you so and retrieved a thick burlap sack from his supplies.
Rye still grasped her cudgel and shook it threateningly in his direction. She doubted her effort was particularly menacing as she spun slowly and helplessly in a tiny circle at the end of the snare. She desperately wiggled her foot in her oversized boot, which only made her rotate even faster.
When the huntsman came back into view he was at the edge of the clearing, his axe raised in one hand, the burlap sack ready in the other.
A looming figure loped from the shadows opposite them, covering the space in two long-legged bounds. Rye sucked in her breath with such alarm that the huntsman paused to look behind him. A huge clawed hand sent him sprawling.
Rye thrashed her whole body, sending herself spinning furiously. She saw the blur of the massive beast. It regarded the huntsman’s motionless body with bulging eyes set on top of its misshapen head. From its elongated jaws hung a plaited, rust-orange beard tied at the end with a child’s bootlace. It snuffed at the air with a long, pig-like nose and, to Rye’s great relief, briefly turned its attention towards the stag. Rye’s own nose filled with the stench of the bogs.
She was no stranger to beasts of this kind. It was a Bog Noblin.
With one final tug, her foot slipped free from her boot with a cascade of damp straw stuffing. For once it had come in handy to wear her father’s old boots that were three sizes too large. She met the ground head first, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs.
The Bog Noblin looked up from its prize. First one bulging eye turned to meet her gaze, then the other. Hunched over the stag, its grey skin hung in folds from its broad, bony shoulders and ribs. Its floppy ears were pierced with an assortment of metal hooks, and round its neck dangled a crude necklace strung with the blackened remains of human feet. The Bog Noblin sniffed the air in her direction and stood to its full height.
Rye pushed herself up from the dirt. She only hesitated long enough to draw Fair Warning and cut her boot down from the snare.
Tucking it under her arm, she rushed deeper into the forest without looking back, her runestone choker cutting through the shadows with a pale blue glow.
RYE SCURRIED UNDER, over and around razor-sharp branches. She squeezed through the narrowest gaps she could find in the thicket, forging a path impossible for anyone larger than a young girl to follow. She didn’t stop to catch her breath until she’d reached the edge of a narrow stream. The afternoon’s dying light disappeared behind her.
Rye put her hands on her knees, examining her flushed reflection in the clear water. Where her brown hair wasn’t stuck to the sweat on her forehead, it fell to her shoulders now, longer than she’d ever grown it before. Normally, by summer’s end, Rye’s face glowed like a creamy pecan after long days helping her mother in the garden. But life Beyond the Shale was one of perennial shade and her cheeks still maintained last winter’s pallor. At the moment, she was just relieved to see that her choker was no longer glowing either. Its runestones only stirred when Bog Noblins were near.
She stood up straight, water flickering silently at her feet. The stream was called the Rill. It flowed like a silver thread round a mossy glade and looped back into itself, hollowing it out from the rest of the dense forest. The Hollow was dominated by an enormous old oak tree, its thick roots engorged like veins bulging from the ground. A spiral staircase of knotted wood planks snaked around the oak’s massive trunk, leading to a series of landings and ramshackle buildings embraced in its boughs. Rope bridges slumped like clotheslines between the main house and several smaller, overgrown cottages nestled in the tree’s outstretched limbs.
A stocky, horned figure barely taller than Rye hurried forward, a handmade platform of intertwined rowan branches tucked under his arm.
“Miss Riley,” the barrel-shaped man called breathlessly. “Where in the Shale have you been? It’s practically nightfall!” He laid the makeshift bridge across the stream at her feet.
“It’s all right, Mr Nettle,” she said. “I made it back, didn’t I?”
Mr Nettle lifted the bridge as soon as Rye crossed, his ferret-like eyes glancing at the shadows on the other side.
“Without an eyelash to spare,” he replied, sniffing the air.
Mr Nettle’s curled horns were, in fact, part of the fur-lined mountain goat’s skull that he wore on his head like a hat. His cheeks were buried beneath a curly beard the colour of dried pine needles, and the hair on the backs of his hands and knuckles seemed as thick as the scruff on his neck. He wore a rather formal vest and coat that looked to have been quite regal at one time, but his trousers were made of raw, crimped wool that gave him the vague look of a woolly ram from the waist down. Despite his wild appearance, Mr Nettle wasn’t part animal or beast. He was a Feraling – a native forest dweller – the only one Rye had encountered in all of her months Beyond the Shale.
“I found a message from Harmless – at least, I think it was from him,” Rye explained breathlessly. “There was a huntsman who said he saw him too, or someone who sounded like Harmless anyway.”
“Perhaps that’s who I smell,” Mr Nettle said, his wary eyes still on the looming forest.
“I doubt it,” Rye said. Her eyes