Edge Chronicles 10: The Immortals

by Paul Stewart;Chris Riddell

  Kulltuft sat back down on the high arched chair, his snatched breath coming in short jerks. Beside him, Firemane Clawhand, who had been ready to wield his axe in his master’s defence should it prove necessary, crossed his arms. The twitch in Kulltuft’s right cheek jerked more wildly than ever as he scanned the circle of faces seated at the five-sided table. Turgik’s eyes were blazing; while only the tight whitened lips of Ragg Yellowtooth’s mouth betrayed his innermost feelings. Grossmother Meadowdew swooned dizzily, soft slurping noises coming from her mouth.

  ‘We are agreed, then,’ said Kulltuft Warhammer, his voice tight and clipped. ‘Unless there are any more objections … ?’ he added, and glowered fiercely at each of the other clan leaders in turn, his right foot tapping on the ancient skull as he did so. ‘Good. Then my proposal is approved. The High Council has spoken.’

  • CHAPTER THIRTY •

  ‘Time for my afternoon constitutional,’ Golderayce One-Eye thought as he pulled himself out of his hanging sumpwood chair. I must see to the sluice gates, and replenish my supply of the precious waters of life before my frail body gets too weak …

  The copperwaif gathered his lampstick and sunshade, and pushed the empty ironwood flask deep into his pocket. Then, tap-tapping wearily across the chamber in the keep, the sleeping flitterwaif gripping tightly to his forearm, he headed for the door. It opened with a low whisper and Golderayce stepped outside, to be assailed by the sound of a thousand voices babbling inside his head. He stepped to the balustrade and glanced once more down the sheer rocky drop to the city below him, bathed in its golden lamplight and churning with the sound of countless thoughts.

  ‘Truly, this is the city that never sleeps,’ he mused. Chattering, chattering, every accursed hour of every accursed day.

  The flitterwaif stirred, opened its blood-red eyes and launched itself off into the darkness in search of food. Golderayce turned away. The creature would be waiting for him when he returned.

  Supported by the lampstick he clutched in his frail hand, he shuffled along the terrace of the fortified keep and onto the path. He looked ahead with his one good eye. It was a long way to the top and, even though the path was mercifully clear of fallen rocks and boulders, an unpleasantly steep climb lay ahead.

  But, of course, he had no choice. He’d already left it late to undertake the arduous trip. He could only hope it would not take too much out of him. Head down, the thick barbels at the corners of his mouth trembling as he breathed out, he set off.

  Soon, with the brightly illuminated keep behind him, Golderayce was enveloped in a blanket of matt black as he made his way slowly upwards, his gait ponderous and uncertain. Only the dim glow of the lampstick punctured the intense darkness. Its small pool of light confirmed that he was still on the path, but illuminated nothing more – yet it was not the presence of night that disturbed the Custodian General and left him unsteady on his feet. After all, the Nightwoods were his home; he was used to the lack of light. No, what made the ancient waif’s legs shake and his palsied hands tremble was the weight of years suddenly pressing down on his tired shoulders.

  ‘Soon be there,’ he thought to himself encouragingly, and he patted the bulge in the pocket of his robes. The precious contents of the ironwood flask must never run dry.

  As he drove himself on, his breath coming in short wheezing gasps, the path gave way to a stairway cut into the rock itself. Dragging himself up, one step after the other, his ancient heart beat weakly inside his chest. Above his head, and coming closer with every step, was the dense covering of cloud that swirled, thick and viscous-looking, above the city.

  It was the cloud, of course, that had kept the land below in perpetual darkness for all those thousands of years. And Golderayce was grateful to it for that. Without it, the Nightwoods – the eternally dark place of his birth – would have been a dazzling bright cacophony of noise, instead of a black silence punctured only by whispered thoughts. Until, that is, the establishment and growth of the great City of Night below. Now, even up in the keep with its walls of cliffstone ten feet thick, there was little respite from the accursed chattering.

  It was his own fault, though. He had been responsible for founding the city all those years ago. But then again, he’d had no choice – not since the first of the immortals had arrived.

  Golderayce and his waif kin had constructed the fortified keep first, to protect access to the sacred spring. Further below, they had built the city itself, to accommodate the outsiders who inevitably followed as news of Riverrise spread. And spread it did – throughout the First, Second and now the Third Age of Flight – and he, Golderayce, had lived through them all, ensuring Riverrise remained in waif hands, whatever it took …

  As the clouds gathered around his head, the tangy odour of the burning darkelm oil was replaced by the moist, almost metallic smell of thick cloud. There was a hint of toasted woodalmonds in the air too – confirmation that, as he already suspected, a huge storm was imminent.

  The darkness seemed to thicken, then curdle, as he entered the cloud cover, and Golderayce’s senses were snuffed out one after the other. This was the part of the long journey to the top of the jutting pinnacle of rock that he disliked the most, when he could neither see ahead nor hear his stumbling footfall. Even the chattering thoughts of the denizens of Riverrise fell still.

  ‘But then this too will pass,’ he thought to himself. ‘Everything does.’ He sighed wearily. Except for me …

  As he continued through the damp woolly cloud – a nagging pain slowing him down even more than usual – the ancient copperwaif found his mind wandering. Just as distant storm clouds were gathering, so were the whispers, carried across the Deepwoods from waif mind to waif mind in a great stream of thought. Whispers of strange disappearances …

  And if the persistent reports coming in from Hive and Great Glade, as well as from settlements all over the Deepwoods, were to be believed, these disappearances were growing in number. It wasn’t only individuals and families who were going missing, but entire villages.

  Golderayce frowned and stooped down awkwardly to rub his twinging ankle. The odd thing was that of all those who had disappeared, none – not a single one – had ever been heard of again, not even by the most talented waif listeners in all the Edge. It was as though they had simply vanished into Open Sky.

  The air grew slowly warmer; the clouds began to thin. And, as it always did, Golderayce’s heart gave a little flutter – a mixture of pleasure and relief – as his one huge eye was once again able to make out his surroundings. What with his general weakened condition, not to mention the increasingly painful ankle, the walk had taken far longer than he’d hoped, and by the time he emerged above the clouds, the sun was already sinking in the sky.

  But it was bright still and, as he knew to his cost, strong enough to blister his sensitive papery skin. He paused, turned off the light at the head of his lampstick, pushed up his parasol and raised it above his head, then – praying to Earth and Sky that he had energy enough to make it to his destination – struggled up those last remaining steps towards the very top of the rocky apex.

  All at once, as he emerged from behind a tall jagged rock, the Garden of Life opened up before him. There were trees and bushes all around, and a circle of pointed pinnacles studding the outside like a mighty crown. Golderayce’s senses were on fire now. His skin tingled with the warmth of the air as he walked down a winding path, each side lined with syrupy fruits and brightly coloured flowers which drenched the hissing air with sweet, succulent perfumes.

  The copperwaif, though, had no interest in the fruits and flowers of Riverrise. All that concerned him were its life-preserving waters. His frail body tottered on, close to exhaustion, towards the turquoise lake, past delicate trees with lacy fronds and tall banks of silvery grass that fluttered in the warm scented breeze. And then he reached the spot that always caused a shiver to run down his tiny misshapen spine whenever he passed it: the grave marker, so out of keeping here in th
e Garden of Life.

  Golderayce paused for a moment next to the tall, cowl-shaped rock, the raised parasol shadowing his face as he stared down.

  Maugin, he read. The Stone Pilot. The edges of the letters carved into the slab of rock were picked out by shadow.

  It was all so long ago, yet as fresh in his mind as the day it had happened. But then what choice had he had? He’d been young and impetuous. Ambitious. The sacred spring at Riverrise belonged to the waifs, not this strange outsider who had refused to leave …

  Yet not a day went by that Golderayce didn’t regret the blowpipe and the dart dipped in blackroot oil that had spelled instant death. How was he to know that, as the hooded figure crumpled to the ground, a dark silhouette on the horizon – growing closer by the second – heralded another arrival?

  With a deep sigh, Golderayce completed those final steps to the lake. At the water’s edge, he knelt down on the rock and leaned forward, cupping his shaking hands and drawing up the crystal-clear liquid to his parched lips.

  As the first drops coursed down his throat, the effect of the life-giving water was instantaneous. The waif’s eyes cleared, his ears fluttered, while the barbels at the corners of his wrinkled mouth trembled and coiled as a smile spread across his ancient face. He had another tiny sip, then another, drinking until his body felt strong and invigorated once more, and his thoughts were razor-sharp.

  Golderayce pulled the ironwood flask from his pocket and plunged it into the water, watching how the tiny bubbles rose to the surface as it filled, before pushing it back inside his robes. He climbed to his feet and glanced across at the iron sluice gates.

  Behind him, warming his back, was the setting sun, red and jelly-like as it slipped down below the distant horizon. In front of him lay the Edgelands to the east. His eyes narrowed. Far away, beyond the clouds and the forest and the sweeping grasslands, was the jutting Edge cliff itself, where those so-called descenders lowered themselves into the abyss below, infecting the pristine darkness with their insidious impudent thoughts.

  The waif shuddered, his fingers tingling and nostrils twitching. Something was approaching, of that he was certain. He could feel it with every reinvigorated fibre of his being. Something vast, something momentous; something from far beyond the Edge, that was getting closer with every passing minute …

  The question is, thought the ancient waif to himself, what?

  • CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE •

  ‘Gather round, my friends. Gather round, all of you, for I have wonderful news to tell.’ The tall figure, with his shining white robes, looked about him, his handsome face smiling benevolently.

  Chopwood, a young’un in his seventh year, joined the others as the band of excited young woodtrolls skipped through the village. Alerted by their cries, woodtrolls of all ages had come rushing out to see what the noise was about. Matrons flung open the windows of their treetop lufwood cabins. Old’uns and young’uns alike emerged from the low arched doors and hurried down ropes and ladders to the village square below. Woodcutters abandoned their half-chopped logs, while hammelhorn and tilder herders left their animal pens and hurried after the rest.

  Soon, they were all gathered around the tall lullabee tree at the centre of the village, where the white-robed stranger stood. As one, the crowd looked up at him expectantly, their breath held.

  The handsome figure in his strange old-fashioned clothing had appeared out of the forest an hour earlier, and the woodtroll village had been buzzing with gossip and rumour ever since. Who was this unexpected visitor and what could he possibly want?

  The stranger raised his hands. He smiled.

  ‘My friends,’ he said. ‘I have travelled far to bring you the good news. I come from a place of astonishing beauty; a place that had been destroyed, but has now been renewed. It is a place that welcomes all who travel there. The poor. The downtrodden. The overlooked.’ He smiled warmly. ‘Good honest folk like yourselves, who break your backs each day just to put food on the table, will be greeted there and treated like the most exulted clan chief in Hive or the wealthiest Great Glade merchant.’

  ‘But where is this place?’ they all asked, the young’uns’ eyes wide with wonder; the old’uns’ leathery brows furrowed with confusion.

  ‘Far, far away,’ the stranger told them, his blue eyes flitting from one to the other of the upturned faces. He paused. ‘Away from the paths …’

  As one, the villagers took a sharp intake of breath. Away from the paths that linked one woodtroll village to the next; the paths that offered them security and protection, that from the moment of their birth every woodtroll was instructed never to leave … ?

  Chopwood could barely believe his ears.

  ‘Trust me,’ the stranger told them, his voice soft and reassuring. ‘For I shall lead you there. I shall be your guide.’

  The woodtrolls gazed up at his shining face.

  ‘Pack your things and I will lead you to a new and better life.’

  It didn’t take long for the villagers to pack up. After all, their belongings were few, and the guide had assured them that there were houses and possessions just waiting for them in this place of plenty, a new beacon of peace and prosperity.

  With his most precious possession clutched in a clammy hand – a small carved hammelhorn that his uncle Barkham had made for him for his first birthday – Chopwood followed his mother, father and three sisters out of their cabin and down the ladder. They joined the other villagers, who were already milling about in the centre of the village. The sun would not rise for another couple of hours, but everyone was far too excited to sleep.

  ‘Are we ready?’ the guide called out.

  ‘We are ready,’ the villagers called back.

  They had formed themselves into a long line, with families on foot at the front, followed by wagons and handcarts, and herds of livestock tethered together at the rear. Blazing torches were clasped in trembling hands. The guide looked back. Then, satisfied with what he saw, he raised his staff high in the air.

  ‘Then follow me!’ he cried.

  The small band of woodtrolls trundled forward. Wheels clattered and boots thudded on the trampled-down mud of the path as they left the cabins behind them.

  It was almost an hour later when they came to a steep curve in the path they had taken. If they kept to it, Chopwood knew that it would lead them eventually to the woodtroll village where his favourite cousin, Splinter, lived. But they didn’t continue that way. As they reached the sharp corner, the guide – his staff raised in his left hand and a blazing torch in the other – continued walking into the forest beyond. Those at the front of the long line of woodtrolls followed him.

  Chopwood swallowed anxiously, his heart thumping inside his chest. The edge of the path came closer. Half the village had already followed the strange figure in the white robes, venturing bravely into the forest. His father and sisters had gone … He glanced round at his mother, who nodded back at him reassuringly.

  If everyone else is doing it, Chopwood thought, then surely it must be all right.

  Squeezing the wooden hammelhorn tightly, the young woodtroll took a deep breath. His left foot stepped onto the dry leaves and needledrop of the forest floor. Moments later, he glanced back anxiously, to see the line of beaten earth disappearing off to his left.

  He had left the path.

  • CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO •

  The outer track of the thousandsticks field was rapidly filling up with teams representing the twelve districts of the great city. The academics of the Cloud Quarter led the procession round the track, followed by phraxship hands from Ambristown, dockers from the Ledges, clerks from New Undertown and heavy-set cloddertrogs from the Free Glades district. Behind them came the cadets from Old Forest, marching in stiff formation, herders from the Silver Pastures, trappers and hunters from the Southern and Northern Outer City districts and factory workers from East Glade.

  Next, it was Nate’s turn to step beneath the flag-furled archway and out onto
the compacted mud of the outer track. Surrounded by his team mates from Copperwood, he marched past the huge crowd that filled the steep wooden stands surrounding the field, his head held high. It seemed to Nate as if the whole of Great Glade had turned out on this bright wintry afternoon to witness the biggest match of the year – the Reckoning.

  His heavy padded helmet, burnished copperwood body armour and leather shoving glove no longer felt like the awkward encumbrances they once had. After six long months of weekly practices and thousandsticks matches, they felt as natural as an old suit of clothes. As for his new thousandstick, it had become an extension of his right arm, with its plaited leather ‘claw’ at one end for scooping and sweeping opponents off their feet, and the heavy round ‘club’ at the other for prodding and pushing.

  Nate ran through the practice drills in his head as the steady thud of boots on baked earth filled the air around him. The Overhead Claw, the Downward Club, the Brace, the Pitch Fork … His fist clenched the ironwood shaft of his thousandstick as he rehearsed them in his mind. In the pit of his stomach, woodmoths had awoken and were busy fluttering their wings.

  Suddenly, from all around, there came a mighty roar as the crowd acknowledged the last of the twelve teams entering the field. Nate turned his head. Behind Copperwood marched the team from New Lake. Unlike the forge hands, furnace tenders and lamplighters who had to find time to practise after their shifts in the factories of the Copperwood district, the New Lakers were professional thousandsticks players for the most part.

  They had been recruited from far and wide and included, Nate knew, ex-miners from the Eastern Woods and brutal-looking hammerheads all the way from Hive. They played and practised every day of the year, and were paid handsomely by the rich phraxmerchants and factory owners of New Lake for their trouble. At their head, resplendent in white body armour and brandishing a blackwood thousandstick, marched the captain of the New Lake team, Branxford Drew.