Edge Chronicles 10: The Immortals

by Paul Stewart;Chris Riddell

  ‘It’s coming from outside,’ his colleague – Klug Junkers – replied, jumping to his feet and striding to the door.

  The whole chamber was shaking now, with books and papers slipping from the tabletops, apparatus clattering about on the shelves and dust rising up from every surface, filling the sun-shot air with a cloud of dancing specks. The rumbling grew louder. Togtuft put the valuable light magnifier carefully down on the floor, pulled off his heavy topcoat and placed it over the fragile instrument, then followed Klug outside.

  ‘Make way! Make way!’ a loud voice shouted from their left as a rotund gnokgoblin carrying a long tasselled spear strode across the bridge, waving his free arm about stiffly.

  Behind him, clattering over the sumpwood boards, were eighteen orange prowlgrins, triple-harnessed and lined up in six rows. Their freshly brushed fur gleamed like burnished copper and, as they struggled forward, the sprays of ornamental feathers secured to their shoulder straps waved in the breeze. Despite their number, their eyes bulged and their legs shook with the effort of pulling the heavy load over the trembling boards of the swaying bridge.

  ‘It’s amazing they can move at all,’ said Klug with a grin. ‘Look at the size of her!’

  Togtuft shook his head in wonder. Even among grossmothers, clan leader Meadowdew was huge. Vast rolls of fat hung from her face, obscuring her eyes and reducing her breathing to a series of snuffled snorts. Like molten wax, the fat flopped down, swallowing up her neck and resting on her heaving shoulders. As for her body, great folds of flesh sagged over the sides of her carriage, the woodrose-pink taffeta of her dress straining at the seams, threatening at any moment to give way to an undignified tear.

  ‘There must be a High Council meeting,’ said Togtuft.

  Klug nodded. Why else would Grossmother Meadowdew have left the magnificent Gyle Palace on the summit of East Ridge, squeezed herself into her state carriage – a specially designed eight-wheel affair with a vast padded bench, ornate gold trim and a framework capable of supporting half a dozen ironwood trees – and endured the bumps and jolts of the steep cobbled streets of Hive as she made her way to the great Clan Hall high atop West Ridge?

  ‘Make way!’ bellowed the gnokgoblin, and jabbed his spear at a bevy of cloddertrog urchins, all wide-eyed with wonder at the sight before them and hoping to touch a fold of fat to bring them luck. ‘Go on, clear out of it!’

  As the entourage came closer, Klug and Togtuft saw attendants – gyle goblins with huge feathered fans – flitting round the vast carriage like iridescent damselbugs fluttering round a lake lily. They beat the downy fans up and down, trying in vain to keep their queen cool. But neither they, nor the silk carriage parasol that cast a shadow across her grotesque head, were enough to stop the sweat pouring down her bloated features and turning the woodrose-pink to deepest magenta.

  Unable to raise her arms high enough, Grossmother Meadowdew depended on personal attendants to minister to her needs. One gyle goblin, sitting cross-legged on a ledge beside her headrest, would lean forward every few seconds and mop the folds of her dripping brow with a huge grey lake sponge. Two more attendants crouched on the footplates, each one massaging thick unguents into soft folds of skin, while a fourth knelt on a jutting platform behind the driver’s seat, feeding the grossmother spoonfuls of thick pink honey that he ladled from a large urn into her lolling mouth.

  ‘May gyle honey drip into our poor mouths!’ chanted a harassed-looking cloddertrog matron with eight bony young’uns in tow as she reached out and touched a wobbling fold of overhanging flesh.

  The carriage rumbled noisily on, setting the bridge creaking and swaying. Once – and then again, where the bridge narrowed – the great wheels became wedged between the side rails of the bridge. Then it was a matter of shoving the back of the carriage and whipping the prowlgrins until, with a loud squeal, the carriage moved forward once more. The grossmother slurped and snorted all the while, seemingly unaware of the commotion she was causing.

  ‘May the golden blessings of the colony flow down to us all,’ called out a stooped flathead, his filthy bandages flapping as he hobbled towards the carriage, brandishing a crutch.

  ‘Away with you!’ roared the gnokgoblin, lunging towards him with the spear.

  The gathering crowd jostled one another and reached out to grasp at this symbol of the good luck and prosperity that they all desperately wanted. The carriage trundled on, the gnokgoblin herald angrily batting the desperate clutching hands away with his long spear. But he was fighting a losing battle.

  ‘Grossmother Meadowdew! Grossmother Meadowdew!’ the crowd chanted in unison.

  ‘Stand back! Stand back!’ came gruff voices from the far side of the bridge, and Klug and Togtuft turned to see half a dozen guards of the Low Town division of the Hive Militia tramping towards them at a half run, the ornate H insignia on their tall stovepipe hats gleaming in the high sun. Their short topcoats were buttoned back to reveal waistcoats, chequered with bulging pockets and jangling with attachments – lamps, keys, hooks; sometimes medals. In their hands, raised and pointing forward, they carried phraxmuskets.

  ‘All right, clear the road!’ shouted their leader, a rangy White Lake webfoot warrior. His bare feet echoed on the wooden boards of the bridge as he strode this way and that, pointing the barrel of the phraxmusket into the faces of any he considered not to be moving briskly enough.

  All round him, the others in the militia were doing the same, either driving the onlookers back along the bridge or forcing them to climb onto the balustrades on either side, so that the carriage might pass through unimpeded. Slowly – though no less noisily – the entourage of Grossmother Meadowdew made it to the far end of the bridge.

  Klug chuckled. ‘Now all those prowlgrins have got to do is haul her up to West Ridge. Think they’ll make it?’

  Togtuft shrugged. ‘Poor creatures,’ he muttered, and frowned. ‘I wonder what’s going on up there?’

  ‘That’s for them to know and us to wonder, I reckon,’ said Klug. ‘What you and I need to do is finish our experiment – now our world’s stopped shaking,’ he added, and laughed.

  Up in the elegant Clan Hall at the top of West Ridge, Kulltuft Warhammer – the powerfully built leader of the long-hair goblins and High Clan Chief – scowled. He pressed his nose against the glass of first one of the tall windows, then another, scouring the road which wound its way down the hill beneath him for any trace of the absent clan leader. He banged his staff down heavily on the floor, the skull handle trembling as he did so.

  ‘Where is she?’ he muttered irritably. ‘Noon, I said, and it’s already … already … what is the time?’

  ‘Ten off one hour,’ said Firemane Clawhand, his chief guard, gruffly.

  ‘Almost an hour late!’ Kulltuft Warhammer snarled, the tips of his elaborately spiked hair quivering with irritation. ‘Let’s hope our beloved grossmother isn’t stuck fast on the Sumpwood Bridge being tickled by beggars, or we’ll be here till nightfall!’

  Gathering his feathered cape around him, Kulltuft strutted across the Clan Hall, kicking impatiently at the snarling heads of the quarmskin rugs that littered the floor. In the centre of the hall was a large table with five sides, a different clan chair standing at each one. He had called a council meeting to vote on whether or not to put Hive on a war footing against their enemies in Great Glade. It was to be the most momentous decision the council had ever taken, yet only three of the clan chairs were occupied.

  To the right, on a tall-backed throne hewn from dark grey leadwood, sat Turgik, clan leader of the hammerheads, his legs sprawled and dark eyes glaring down furiously at his feet. Tall and muscular, the look of intense consternation on his face was typical of all furrow-browed goblins. Though leader of the hammerhead clan for little more than three months, Turgik had already developed a reputation both for his quick thinking and his even quicker temper.

  To his right, Leegwelt the Mottled – clan leader of the lop-ears – moved slowly back and
forward on a padded rocking chair, the ironwood runners rumbling on the floorboards beneath. Small, plump and with a face covered in round copper-coloured patches, Leegwelt had benefited from the open hostility between the other elders of his clan, playing one off against the other and growing fat on the bribes most of them paid him.

  On the opposite side of the table sat Ragg Yellowtooth, clan leader of the tusked goblins, prodding at a piece of meat stuck between his two front teeth; both of them yellow, long and jutting – and the reason for his name. With his great paunch and lazy expression, Ragg Yellowtooth let the affairs of the Clan Council wash over him, and generally could be relied on to agree with anything the High Clan Chief said.

  ‘Keeping us all waiting,’ Kulltuft Warhammer muttered furiously through gritted teeth as he swept past them, his feathered cape flapping and skull-mounted staff hammering on the floor. He took his place between Ragg Yellowtooth and Leegwelt the Mottled, his hair spikes quivering as he cursed under his breath.

  ‘She’s on her way,’ Firemane Clawhand announced from the far window. He tapped on the glass with the metal hook that glinted at the end of his left arm. ‘Leastways, I can see a cloud of dust on the road. And it’s coming closer.’

  Kulltuft Warhammer sat back in his throne. Raised upon a mound of skulls, the high arch-backed chair with its carved curlicues and sweeping ball-ended arms, was higher than the rest. The gurning, yellowed skulls beneath it had been taken from every battle fought, stretching back far into the past. Many were older than Hive itself; some, older even than the Goblin Nations, while others – tufts of hair still clinging to the bony jaws and around the eye sockets – had only recently been added, when venerable elders had passed away, their spirits finding a home in Open Sky.

  Kulltuft Warhammer’s right foot rested on his favourite skull, worn flat at the apex where he rubbed his bare heel over the hard surface. Slowly, his breathing became more even and the quivering ceased. The contact with the skull gave him a great sense of well-being and, as his foot moved back and forward, he felt charged with the legendary power of its owner, Hemtuft Battleaxe, the greatest warrior chief of them all.

  ‘She’s here,’ Firemane Clawhand announced – unnecessarily, for already the four assembled clan chiefs could hear the gasped huffing and puffing of Grossmother Meadowdew as she lurched towards the chamber doors. With a loud crash, the two ironwood doors flew back on their hinges, slamming into the walls behind, and the clan leader of the symbites loomed into the doorway.

  ‘ ’Scuse,’ she mumbled, her voice sounding as though her words were bubbling through treacle. ‘Held up.’

  Ragg Yellowtooth raised an eyebrow lazily, but kept his thoughts to himself. Turgik the furrow-brow was less reticent.

  ‘She certainly is,’ he whispered behind his hand to his neighbour.

  Leegwelt’s mottled face broke into a smile, for as the grossmother advanced towards her chair it became apparent that she was surrounded by a circle of gyle goblins, each one propping her up with a crutch. She waddled slowly across the floor, looking for all the world as though she had been raised up on moving scaffolding. Gasping for breath by the time she reached her seat – a reinforced quilted sumpwood settle, almost five strides long – she sat down heavily. For an instant, the floating chair dipped down to the floor before rising slowly up again beneath its huge occupant.

  As the last of the gyle goblin attendants scuttled from the chamber, Firemane Clawhand moved forward and placed the ceremonial cudgel – a polished blackwood club studded with ironwood bolts – at the centre of the table before them. Then, without meeting the gazes of any of the clan leaders, he took up his position at Kulltuft’s left arm, standing with his legs apart and his eyes staring straight ahead.

  ‘Let the Grand Council meeting begin,’ he announced.

  With a soft groan, Kulltuft Warhammer leaned forward and picked up the cudgel. Bitter experience of meetings collapsing into rancorous bellowing, and even bloody fights, had led to its use. A clan chief might only address the council when the ‘mace of Hive’ was in his possession. Cradling it in his arms, Kulltuft looked round the table.

  ‘We all know why we’re here,’ he said, his voice low and dark. ‘I propose we go straight to a vote.’

  Surprised, the other clan leaders looked round at one another. Eyebrows were raised. Grossmother Meadowdew muttered something unintelligible; Turgik the furrow-browed looked more worried than ever. Finally, Leegwelt the Mottled raised a hand. With a grunt of irritation, Kulltuft passed him the cudgel.

  ‘A matter of such importance must, I feel, be discussed by all present,’ he said.

  Kulltuft raised his hand.

  ‘Otherwise, we run the risk of plunging headlong into a crisis from which there might be no escape,’ Leegwelt continued, ignoring the seething long-hair goblin to his right and addressing his comments to the others, who nodded sagely at his words. ‘I say we must consider all courses of action, not just the one that the High Clan Chief proposes …’

  ‘Give me that here,’ Kulltuft growled, seizing the cudgel and brandishing it in the air. ‘The rich merchants and phraxmine owners of Great Glade have had things their own way for too long. They have grown wealthy on the trade with our great city, charging what they like for their stormphrax – more and more each season – until our clans grow thin and can take no more of it, and steal away from the hive huts in the dead of night.’ He looked from one to the other of the clan chiefs, nodding as he spoke; inviting them to nod back in agreement. ‘They want to humble us. Belittle us. They want to bring us to our knees. But we shall not be cowed. We shall stand up straight, our heads held high, look them in the eye and demand that they supply us with stormphrax at a fair price. And if they don’t …’

  Leegwelt and Grossmother Meadowdew exchanged glances across the table. The pair of them had heard it all before. After all, hadn’t Kulltuft Warhammer come to power vowing to deal with Great Glade ‘from a position of strength’? They could see, however, that young Turgik the furrow-browed was being swept away by the High Clan Chief’s words. Suddenly, his face set in a snarl of hatred, Turgik brought his fist down heavily on the table.

  ‘Death to the Great Glade robbers and thieves!’ he roared.

  Grossmother Meadowdew gurgled with disapproval and nodded towards the cudgel. Turgik should not speak without its being in his hand. The young furrow-brow reached forward, but lost out to Leegwelt, whose mottled fingers closed firmly around the handle.

  ‘I acknowledge that the high price of stormphrax is causing hardship to our citizens,’ he said, choosing his words carefully, ‘but surely we must consider negotiations with Great Glade. They raise their prices, so we build up our militia – then they feel threatened and raise their prices again. Now we have phraxcannon and muskets and weaponry of all kinds, yet our merchants and traders are facing ruin …’

  ‘I sometimes wonder whose side you’re on, Leegwelt,’ Kulltuft growled under his breath.

  Turgik nodded; Ragg Yellowtooth shook his head.

  ‘The choice is clear,’ the old lop-ear continued. ‘We halve the militia, break up the weapons and use the stormphrax they contain to power our factories and merchant vessels. Show the Great Gladers that we mean them no harm …’

  ‘Or we take their stormphrax by force!’ Kulltuft roared, tearing the cudgel from Leegwelt’s grasp. ‘It is time to vote.’

  He looked round the table, from one clan chief to the other. Ragg Yellowtooth frowned slightly, but left it unclear what he thought, whereas Grossmother Meadowdew gurgled her assent as distinctly as she was able. Of Turgik, there was never any doubt, either as to whether he wanted to cast his vote, or where that vote would fall. Kulltuft nodded warmly at him before turning his gaze to Leegwelt. His cold dark eyes bore into the old lop-ear’s mottled face.

  ‘Well?’ he said. His face broke into an unpleasant smirk. ‘There is clearly a majority in favour. So …’

  Leegwelt reached forward stiffly, his mottled face paine
d. He wrenched back the cudgel. ‘As I have pointed out on so many occasions, the council no longer reflects the population of Hive,’ he said, trying to remain calm though his heart was thumping in his chest. ‘Half of its citizens are not represented at all. The cloddertrogs. The mobgnomes. The venerable shrykes. Why, even the fourthlings have no say – and I can tell you, they would not back these proposals …’

  ‘The fourthlings?’ Kulltuft said icily, his right cheek twitching violently. His voice rose. ‘The fourthlings! Those filthy, lowdown, double-dealing parasites! Half of them have got relatives in Great Glade. Their loyalty lies with them, not with Hive. They are spies, traitors …’

  Leegwelt raised the cudgel. ‘I am speaking,’ he said.

  But Kulltuft would not be still. He could not. Foot rubbing back and forward on the ancient skull, his face twisted up with rage.

  ‘It is because of the treacherous fourthlings that our fair city has been brought to its knees. And you, you Leegwelt, propose that they are given more power!’

  ‘I am speaking,’ Leegwelt repeated evenly. ‘I have the mace of Hive.’

  ‘You have the mace of Hive,’ said Kulltuft, his voice suddenly loaded with hushed menace. His foot fell still and the twitching stopped as the colour drained from his face. ‘You have the mace of Hive,’ he repeated, climbing to his feet and towering above Leegwelt the Mottled from the top of the heap of skulls. ‘But I have the militia of Hive!’

  In one smooth movement, he lunged forward, seized the heavy blackwood club from the startled lop-eared goblin’s hand, swung it in a wide circle through the glittering air and brought it down in a crushing blow on Leegwelt’s head. There was a dull thud and a splintering of bone. Kulltuft struck him again, and again, before tossing the blood-flecked cudgel onto the table below him.

  The clan chief fell back in his seat, the slow rocking of the chair gradually coming to a halt. His head slumped to one side. Blood trickled down the side of his shattered skull.