‘What happened?’ asked Klug.
‘Four goblins from the Flathead Guard grabbed him and shaved his head, then they sent him packing, back up to High Town to tell Kulltuft Warhammer that his days are numbered. There is a new council being formed, representing all of Hive, and it wants to put an end to the fear and bloodshed of the past. It’ll be a new beginning for us all!’
The High Academe held out his hand to the two archivists. ‘Can you find it in your hearts to forgive me,’ he said humbly, ‘and work with me and my apprentices to restore the Sumpwood Bridge Academy?’
Togtuft and Klug exchanged glances, then stepped forward and shook the High Academe’s hand.
‘You can count on us,’ they said solemnly.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Arch-Professor Ignum Spave, relief flooding his gaunt features. ‘I shall not let you down again, I swear!’
He strode back towards the door, seized the handle and pulled it open – only to start back with surprise as he was confronted by two tall fourthlings standing before him. One was a dour-looking individual in a crushed funnel hat and a short topcoat, the other wore a long, grubby coat and a broad-rimmed quarmskin hat.
‘More of your friends, I see,’ Spave observed, turning back to Togtuft and Klug. ‘As I said, changes are afoot in Hive. Huge changes.’
With that, he turned and left, his sumpwood soles tap-tapping on the boards of the Sumpwood Bridge. The Professor and Cirrus Gladehawk stepped inside and pushed the door to.
‘Professor! Captain!’ came a weak voice from the corner of the room as Galston Prade struggled to his feet. He coughed weakly, a cloud of mist clinging to his tousled hair and unkempt side-whiskers. ‘Any … news of my daughter?’ he wheezed, looking searchingly into the faces of the two newcomers.
‘I’m afraid not, Galston,’ said the Professor softly.
‘Ah,’ said the mine owner wearily, the sound of his sigh like air escaping from a deflated trockbladderball. He collapsed back into the chair and buried his head in his hands.
‘But there is other news,’ said Cirrus Gladehawk, his clear blue eyes darting round the expectant faces in the room. ‘Wherever we went, we found stirrings of dissent.’ He shook his head. ‘You mark my words,’ he said, ‘huge changes are coming to Hive …’
‘That’s just what the High Academe was saying,’ said Squall Razortooth.
‘Was he now?’ said the Professor, his dour expression barely lightening even for a moment. ‘Good news, I suppose, though for the time being it does nothing to help us with our problem …’
‘You weren’t able to find any, then?’ said Togtuft.
The Professor shook his head gloomily.
‘It seems there isn’t a phraxcrystal to be had in all of Hive,’ said Cirrus Gladehawk glumly.
‘Every gloaming one has been used to arm phraxmuskets and phraxcannon. And what for?’ added the Professor bitterly. ‘Sky above, what I wouldn’t give to get my hands on just one crystal …’
‘Of course, there are plenty enough to be had in Great Glade,’ Cirrus Gladehawk broke in. ‘But it’ll be months before trade is resumed between Hive and Great Glade, whatever happens with the Clan Council.’
‘So we’re stuck,’ said the Professor.
Cirrus Gladehawk pushed back his crushed funnel hat and surveyed the others seriously. ‘It seems so,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of sumpwood in Hive, so I’m confident we can make repairs to the bow and stern,’ he said. ‘Rebuild the rudder … And Squall here can retool the phraxchamber. But without a phraxcrystal to power her, then the Archemax will never be able to take to the skies again …’
Slip the grey goblin turned and crossed the room unnoticed, and hurried up the stairs at the far end. The Professor went over to Galston Prade and sat down on the buoyant chair beside him. He reached out and placed his hand on the old man’s bony arm.
‘There is nothing worse than being powerless to help those we love,’ he said, and squeezed the mine owner’s wrist reassuringly. ‘I haven’t given up hope. And you mustn’t either, Galston. Just as I believe my brother Ifflix is out there somewhere, I know Nate and your daughter Eudoxia are still alive, and that we will find them …’
Galston Prade’s face hardened, his eyes narrowing and lips growing thin. Beneath his hand, the Professor felt the mine owner’s tendons tense like cables as the old man clenched his fist.
‘Felftis Brack.’ He spoke the name slowly and deliberately, a cold anger in his eyes. ‘He shall pay for the grief he has caused me and my family. When I get word to the High Council in Great Glade, Felftis Brack will be dealt with …’ He clicked a finger and thumb together. ‘Like that!’
The Professor nodded grimly. ‘If anyone deserves what’s coming to him, it’s Felftis Brack …’ He paused, noticing out of the corner of his eye the grey goblin, who was standing at his elbow, a heavy-looking knapsack clutched in his outstretched arms. ‘What’s that, Slip?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t they Nate’s belongings?’
The grey goblin nodded. ‘They are,’ he said. ‘But Slip doesn’t think friend Nate will mind,’ he added. Placing the knapsack down on the floor at his feet, he stooped down, undid the straps and removed a small chest. ‘There’s something you should see, Professor,’ said Slip enthusiastically. ‘It could be the answer to all your problems …’
The Professor had opened the small chest and was peering down at the bits and pieces inside. ‘Epaulettes,’ he said. ‘A scroll, a spoon … A bit of fur?’ He looked up, confused.
‘Not that one,’ said Slip, retrieving Nate’s lightbox and swapping it for the little box of memories. ‘This …’
Just then, there came a loud hammering at the door. The Professor looked up. The others turned, and Klug went to answer it. Before he reached the door, it burst open and a tall, gaunt figure strode inside. Laying the lightbox aside, the Professor climbed to his feet, his hands hovering above the pearl handles of the phraxpistols at his belt. He surveyed the stranger, taking in the old-fashioned flap-eared funnel cap and heavily patched tilderleather breeches he wore.
‘Who, in the name of Earth and Sky, are you?’ he demanded.
‘Forgive my intrusion,’ the stranger began, ‘but where might I find the phraxmine owner, Galston Prade?’
The bowed and shrunken figure of the mine owner looked up at the stranger from his buoyant chair, unease in his startling blue eyes and trails of misty breath seeping out between his thin lips. ‘I am Galston Prade,’ he said, his voice low and tremulous.
The tall figure seemed visibly to relax. He bent down and extended a hand in greeting. ‘My name is Zelphyius Dax,’ he said, ‘and I have news of your daughter …’
• CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN •
Although it was a warm and cloudless morning in Hive, the streets of High Town, far up at the top of West Ridge, were eerily deserted. None of the goblin matrons in their silk skirts and fur-trimmed coats were out walking their pet lemkins and fromps. No money lenders or factory bosses were on the sidewalks, twirling bone-handled canes as they strode importantly along, or riding in sleek prowlgrindrawn carriages. There were no married old’uns strolling or young couples walking arm in arm, no cloddertrog merchants or lugtroll porters, no young’uns out playing dodger or ragtag or stick-and-hoop.
‘Where is everyone?’ muttered High Clan Chief Kulltuft Warhammer impatiently from his throne in the Clan Hall’s magnificent council chamber. ‘Where are they all?’
He looked across at the five-sided table and the empty clan chairs which stood around it. There was the tall-backed leadwood throne where Turgik, clan chief of the hammerheads, normally sat; the ornately carved pinewood chair of Ragg Yellowtooth, the wily leader of the tusked goblin clans, and the broad reinforced sumpwood settle, where Grossmother Meadowdew would rest her massive body. And, of course, the padded rocking chair that had belonged to Leegwelt the Mottled – until his unfortunate accident …
Kulltuft’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve disciplined clan chiefs before,
’ he muttered grimly, ‘and by Sky, I’ll do it again if I have to.’ He sighed, and sat back in his arch-backed throne, which was perched high atop the heap of gurning skulls at the centre of the great octagonal clan hall. His right foot tapped impatiently against the smooth yellow surface of Hemtuft Battleaxe’s skull. ‘It was different in your day,’ he said, addressing the skull as the big toe of his right foot slid round and round one of the eye sockets. ‘Back then, the clans were proud warriors, happy to lay down their lives in battle for their high clan chief.’
Kulltuft brought his left foot up and placed it next to his right, and rubbed both feet back and forward over the ancient yellowed bone. Normally, just having contact with the skull was enough to calm him down, to fill him with a sense of destiny and invigorate him with the power of Hemtuft Battleaxe, as if the greatest clan chief of all was speaking to him directly from the spirit world of Open Sky beyond.
Not today, though. Today, the skull felt cold as marble and remained as silent as death itself.
‘More militia arriving back every day,’ Kulltuft muttered through clenched teeth. He leaned forward and preened the feathers of his cape absentmindedly, then looked up, his eyes blazing with rage. ‘Yet still I must wait for the return of my Bloody Blades!’
The words echoed round the octagonal Clan Hall. Kulltuft looked up, wondering for a moment whether the voice he could hear might belong to someone else. Yet as it faded away, he recognized it for what it was – his own impotent anger rattling round the rafters overhead. He kicked viciously at the skull, sending it arcing through the air from the top of the great pile to the paved floor far below, where – with a sharp crack – it split into two halves.
Outside, the sound of heavy footfalls echoed along the empty streets as a lone figure dressed in an ornate fur-trimmed topcoat and breeches, the metal hook at the end of his left arm glinting in the sun, approached. His face was red and there were beads of sweat on his smooth brow. He glanced up at the magnificent Clan Hall ahead of him, and as he strode towards the door he rubbed his hand round his unfamiliar stubbly jaw, his eyes narrowing coldly as he did so. For a moment he hesitated, gathering himself, then, reaching forward, he seized the door, his eyes blazing, and pulled it open.
‘So, there you are!’ Kulltuft Warhammer said, climbing to his feet as Firemane Clawhand strode into the main hall. ‘What news?’
‘News?’ said Firemane Clawhand.
‘Of my Bloody Blades!’ he said. ‘When can we expect their return?’
Firemane left the shadowy doorway and crossed the stone floor. Bright shafts of sunlight sliced down from the tall windows to the east, sweeping up his body as he approached the high throne, illuminating his filthy bare feet, his tilderleather breeches and tooled high-buttoned jacket – and his head. Kulltuft’s eyes opened wide.
‘Earth below and Sky above!’ he exclaimed.
Firemane Clawhand’s good hand shot upwards. It passed briefly over his badly shaven skull and round the hairless features of his face, the skin scraped and cut.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ said Kulltuft. ‘What’s happened to you?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Firemane Clawhand replied icily. ‘I’ve had a close shave, Kulltuft, at the hands of your beloved Hive Militia.’
Kulltuft’s heavy brows drew together. ‘They did this to you?’
‘Only because they couldn’t lay their hands on you, Kulltuft, hiding away here in High Town,’ Firemane replied sharply.
‘How … how dare you, Firemane!’ the clan chief shouted, his anger getting the better of him. He jumped to his feet and glowered down at his insubordinate underling.
‘Dare?’ said Firemane Clawhand, looking back at Kulltuft levelly. ‘I’ll tell you how I dare. You, the High Clan Chief, Kulltuft Warhammer, said we couldn’t fail. You said that our militia was invincible; that it would march into the Midwood Decks and claim the sumpwood stands for Hive, with your Bloody Blades and their phraxcannon leading the way. Remember?’ He shook his head and laughed humourlessly. ‘Oh, they led the way, all right,’ he sneered, ‘straight into the Great Gladers’ trap. Destroyed by the Freeglade Lancers, along with all your precious phraxcannon.’
Kulltuft Warhammer’s jaw dropped. ‘Destroyed?’ he said. ‘But you told me that we’d suffered a minor setback, that the Bloody Blades were on their way back to Hive to refit and rally the militia for battles to come …’
‘Battles to come!’ Firemane interrupted him, his contempt echoing around the hall. He snorted. ‘I simply told you what you wanted to hear. I learned the truth last night in the Winesap Tavern as those flatheads shaved my face. There won’t be any battles to come, not for the Bloody Blades, or you …’
‘I … I …’ Kulltuft blustered. He strode down the pile of skulls, his heavy staff knocking hollowly against the bone. ‘I’ve done everything I can to—’
‘I’ll tell you what you’ve done,’ said Firemane. ‘You’ve used every phraxcrystal Hive possessed to equip your precious army with phraxmuskets and phraxcannon, and you’ve destroyed the sumpwood trade … What was it you used to say? “We shall deal with Great Glade from a position of strength.” A position of strength! By Sky, you have brought the once great city of Hive to its knees – and I have helped you. Well, not any more.’
Kulltuft strode towards Firemane, feathered cape flapping and skull-mounted staff clacking on the stone floor. His eyes blazed with rage. ‘Silence!’ he roared. ‘I’ve had just about all I—’ His gaze fell on the glint of metal as the shaven long-hair pulled his battleaxe from his belt. ‘What – what are you doing, Firemane?’
‘You’ve destroyed Hive,’ Firemane said, his voice calm once more. ‘You!’ The axe glinted in one hand, the hook at the other. ‘And the Hive Militia took out their anger on me, as you can see, Kulltuft. As you can see …’
Kulltuft Warhammer stared at his chief guard, at the cut and hairless face, at the few glistening tufts of hair on his skull that his attackers had missed.
‘You,’ said Firemane. ‘You did this.’
From outside the Clan Hall came the sound of raised voices and pounding feet. Kulltuft Warhammer stepped back uncertainly, his heels knocking against the broken skull of Hemtuft Battleaxe …
The citizens of Hive knew that change was in the air. They had been gathering down on the Sumpwood Bridge since daybreak, arriving from Low Town and the Peak, from the Caves and the Docks, as word had gone round that Kulltuft Warhammer had called a meeting of the Clan Council. There were returning militia, artisans and stevedores, and the shambling ranks of beggars, pauperized by the council’s policies, all of them wearing garlands of sapvine leaves or sprigs of grapes, to symbolise their support for change.
Rallying together, they had risen up against their leaders who had led them into a disastrous war, and were marching on the council chambers of High Town. In their midst were the three high councillors themselves, intercepted on their way to the Clan Hall, each one trussed up in lengths of straw matting that pinned their arms to their sides and made escape impossible.
Turgik, the young furrow-brow clan leader of the hammerheads, was looking even more worried than normal. Ragg Yellowtooth, clan leader of the tusked goblins, stared around him, his stained teeth glinting in the early sunlight as his gaze fell on the circle of scornful faces. He was trying his best to explain to them that the decisions taken by the Clan Council had not been his; that he’d been forced against his will to support the war – but to no avail. None in the gathering crowds believed a single word the hulking tusked goblin had to say.
‘Where were you when we were dying in the Midwood marshes?’ a cloddertrog in a grey topcoat shouted, pushing his face into Yellowtooth’s own as the tusked goblin staggered forward.
‘Living the life of luxury in your mansion in High Town,’ added a treegoblin in the bloodstained uniform of the Second Low Town Regiment, shaking his fist.
‘While our young’uns starved,’ another voice went up. ‘And our crops rotted
in the fields.’
The crowd surged forward, off the bridge and up the steep winding road of West Ridge.
‘Help me! Where are you, my gyles?’ wailed Grossmother Meadowdew, tears of self-pity gathering in the corners of her eyes and trickling down over the great rolls of fat that hung down her cheeks and jowls. ‘Where are you now your grossmother needs you?’
But the crowd around the vast trussed-up figure being forced to climb the steep hill was having none of it.
‘The gyles have joined us, Meadowdew!’ voices shouted.
‘The Gyle Palace has opened its doors and is already sharing its honey!’
Closing her tiny eyes for a moment, Grossmother Meadowdew could almost imagine that she was back in her golden carriage, when adoring crowds had surrounded her every time she set forth for the Clan Hall. They had loved her then, worshipped her, striving to touch one of her wobbling folds of fat for good luck and raining down praise and adulation upon her head.
‘May gyle honey drop into our poor mouths,’ they had cried out. ‘May the golden blessings of the colony flow down to us all.’
But not any longer. Now, she tottered on her gigantic legs, trussed up and bound, scarcely able to understand the change that had come over the citizens.
‘But … I’m not to blame,’ she whispered breathlessly. ‘I only did as I was told …’
‘You could have stood up for us. The poor of Hive. But you didn’t!’ a harassed-looking crested goblin cried out, her face looming up before the grossmother’s. ‘Riding among us in your golden carriage, while keeping the doors of the Gyle Palace barred to the needy.’
The crested goblin’s face disappeared, to be replaced by another, and then another, their accusing voices full of disappointment and contempt.
‘Sky forgive me,’ Grossmother Meadowdew murmured softly, the tears coursing down her face. ‘I’ve let you all down …’
Edge Chronicles 10: The Immortals Page 39
