by Paul Stewart
Cade shook his head slowly. ‘Thorne’s right,’ he said at last. ‘The world isn’t ready for my father’s discoveries. I don’t want everything to change.’ He smiled. ‘I like Farrow Lake just the way it is.’
‘Just the way it is,’ echoed Tak-Tak from the top of the stairs. ‘Just the way it is.’
· CHAPTER TEN ·
CADE AND TUG were outside, hard at work beneath the late afternoon sun. They were gathering in the harvest from the walled vegetable garden that the pair of them had constructed in the meadow behind the cabin.
Boxes filled with sweet red erlberries and crates of tagnuts already stood in rows at the side of the field, and Cade had turned his attention to the glimmer-onions. They stood in rows, their glossy dark-green leaves just beginning to turn brown at the tips, showing that the bulbs beneath the ground were ready to eat.
The pair of them were making their way slowly along the row, with Cade using a hoe to break up the earth around the individual glimmer-onions. Then, each time he heard Cade’s signal, Tug would bend forward, grasp great clumps of leaves in one huge hand and, using his prodigious strength, ease half a dozen or so of the great bulbous glimmer-onions from the ground.
And every time he did so, he grunted, ‘Tug.’
Having shaken off the remnants of earth, Tug laid the onions out neatly on a pallet, ready for Cade to choose later which to dry, which to pickle, and which to tie together in bunches that he would hang from ceiling-hooks in his storeroom.
Cade paused, leaned on his hoe and looked around the vegetable garden. He and Tug had been working since sunrise, and it was hot work. What was more, there was a lot more still to harvest. Blue-cabbage. Delberries and sand-apples. Half a dozen types of gladebeet . . . Not for the first time, Cade was struck by how fertile the soil around the Farrow Lake was.
‘We’ll call it a day when we reach the end of this row,’ he said. Pulling his water flask from his back pocket, Cade took a long swig. Then another. Then he handed it to Tug, who drained the flask’s contents.
The sun was low in the sky now, and his and Tug’s shadows had grown long. Cade’s gaze strayed down to the lake where, earlier, Rumblix had been gambolling around Phineal, hoping for scraps from the fish that the webfoot was gutting. Now Rumblix was on his own, perched on a rock at the end of the jetty, fast asleep. The conical snailskin tent by the lakeshore looked deserted.
Pegged to the ground in front of the tent, next to coils of rope, were two enormous globes made of a translucent material that was stretched over a frame of buoyant lufwood. Inside, Cade could make out dark shapes fluttering against the papery sides. He was intrigued – but the webfoot wasn’t there to ask about it.
‘Where’s Phineal?’ he asked.
Tug raised an arm and pointed across the meadowlands. ‘The woods,’ he grunted.
By the time the remaining glimmer-onions in the row had been loosened, pulled and laid out on the pallet, the sun was down on the horizon, an orange ball seemingly half in the air and half in the water, bisected by the jagged treeline. A wedge of splintered golden ripples crossed the choppy surface of the lake towards him.
‘Tug take to store,’ said Tug. He hefted the heavy pallet up onto his broad shoulders and set off for Cade’s cabin.
Cade picked up two of the boxes of erlberries, one beneath each arm, and was about to follow him when he heard a scream. High-pitched. Terror-filled. Cade’s blood ran cold.
It was coming from the woods.
‘Phineal!’ Cade called out. ‘Phineal, is that you?’
The screaming grew louder, more desperate.
Cade dropped the boxes, seized a scythe and dashed towards the treeline. Tug ran with him, his muscular legs crashing through the long grass. The pair of them burst into the forest at the same moment – and stopped in their tracks.
A little way off, in a clearing, was what appeared to be a log covered in gnarled brown bark and clumps of green moss. Except it was hovering two strides above the forest floor. And moving. As Cade watched, it writhed and squirmed, shifting position in the air.
‘A logworm,’ Cade breathed.
Powerful jets of air were spurting out from two rows of knot-like ducts along its underside, keeping the massive creature airborne as it sucked in air through the gaping mouth that formed one end of its log-like body. The sound was like a phraxchamber letting off steam. Loud. Shrill. Hissing. Pine-needles and fallen leaves caught up in the downdraught rustled and crackled as they swirled.
The logworm’s eyes, a ring of bright green orbs that encircled the mouth, glittered as it focused on its prey. Phineal. He was dangling from the branch of a lufwood tree. In his hand was a long-handled moth net, which he was swiping ineffectually at the creature in an attempt to keep it at bay. His crest was flashing orange, purple, orange, purple – the colours of panic and danger – as the logworm arched its great body and prepared to strike.
To distract the logworm, Cade rushed forward, hollering and screaming. And it worked. Following the sound, it swung round to confront him.
‘Uh-oh,’ Cade muttered as the logworm advanced towards him.
The air filled with the stench of putrid meat, rank and metallic, as the creature exhaled. The next moment, Cade felt a rush of air seize hold of him as the logworm breathed in.
The force was incredible. It was like being trapped inside a whirlwind that was drawing him closer, ever closer, to the dark hole that led deep down into the creature’s stomach.
The scythe was torn from his grasp and disappeared into the logworm’s gaping maw. For a moment, the ring of eyes bulged as the whirlwind abruptly ceased. Then, with a convulsion and a blast of air, the creature spat the scythe out.
Cade ducked as it shot past him and rebounded off the trunk of a copperwood with a clang.
The logworm inhaled, knocking Cade off his feet and dragging him closer. Scrabbling and kicking out, Cade rolled over onto his front. He grasped at branches, roots, rocks; anything. He dug the toes of his boots into the earth. But nothing slowed him down, and all the while the sound of hissing and sucking grew louder.
‘Tug! Tug!’ he cried out.
Cade could hear his friend. He was somewhere behind him, grunting with effort. But what was he doing? Why wasn’t he helping him?
‘Tug!’ he screamed.
Suddenly, from behind him, a great hand appeared, grasped Cade’s shoulder and anchored him to the spot. Then a huge boulder flew over his head and slammed into the logworm’s open mouth with a fleshy thud. It wedged itself in its throat, choking it and cutting off the hissing jets that kept the logworm up in the air.
The creature hit the ground hard, writhing and thrashing as it tried to dislodge the great rock. But in vain. With a final wheezing splutter, it fell still.
Cade felt himself being lifted up, then placed gently down on the ground. He turned. Tug was towering over him, his head cocked to one side and brow furrowed. He was staring at Cade quizzically through those dark deep-set eyes of his.
‘Cade good?’ he asked.
Cade nodded. ‘Cade good,’ he said.
Tug’s face relaxed. The corners of his mouth twitched into what passed for a smile. Then, as if unable to stop himself, he opened his arms wide and wrapped them round Cade in a great hug, lifting him off the ground as he did so. And for a moment they remained like that, the two friends locked together in a warm embrace, both of them overjoyed that the other one was alive and unharmed.
‘Not . . . too . . . tight . . .’ Cade gasped at last.
Tug hurriedly let him go. ‘Sorry,’ he said, his deep voice filled with sorrow.
‘It’s all right,’ said Cade, and laughed. ‘No bones broken.’ His face grew serious. ‘And thank you, Tug.’ He turned and kicked at the side of the dead logworm. ‘You saved my life.’
‘And mine,’ came a small voice from the far side of the lufwood tree.
‘Phineal!’ Cade exclaimed. ‘Are you all right?’
The webfoot was lying on th
e ground at the foot of the lufwood tree. His face was pale – as was his crest, which flickered a dull muddy green.
‘I’m not sure,’ Phineal said. ‘Something hit me.’
Cade looked down. His scythe was embedded in the webfoot’s leg. It looked like a nasty wound, and Cade didn’t want to risk making it worse by pulling it out.
‘I’ll get Celestia,’ he announced, jumping to his feet. ‘She’ll know what to do. In the meantime, Tug’ll look after you – won’t you, Tug?’
‘Tug look after.’ Tug nodded vigorously.
Cade turned to go.
‘Wait!’ Phineal cried out. ‘There’s something I need you to do for me before the sun goes down.’
Cade paused and turned back. ‘Do?’ he said.
· CHAPTER ELEVEN ·
CADE WORKED QUICKLY. Reaching Phineal’s camp, he unpegged the two papery globes and let the buoyant wood take them. They floated up high into the air on the end of their long tether ropes – just as the webfoot had instructed. Sky only knew what they were, and Cade didn’t waste time finding out.
‘We’re going for a ride, you and me,’ Cade said as he saddled up Rumblix.
Rumblix tossed his head and whinnied excitedly.
Cade jumped up onto his back, flicked the reins – and they were off, speeding towards the tree-cabin in the Western Woods. The sun had set by the time they arrived, and the forest was draped in shadow. Cade brought Rumblix to a halt beneath the hanging cabin and, without dismounting, shouted up.
‘Celestia! Celestia!’
A second-storey window opened, and a large bald head with a ruff of white hair over the ears appeared. Spidery fingers fiddled with wire-framed glasses.
‘Who’s there?’ came a small querulous voice.
‘It’s me, Blatch, sir,’ said Cade. ‘I’m looking for Celestia. It’s an emergency . . .’
A second window flew open, this one on the first storey. It was Celestia herself.
‘Where’s the fire, city boy?’ she called down.
‘It isn’t a fire,’ said Cade. ‘It’s Phineal.’ ‘Phineal?’ interrupted Blatch. ‘Who’s Phineal?’
Celestia turned to him. ‘A friend of Cade’s,’ she said. ‘A webfoot.’
‘A webfoot?’ Blatch Helmstoft sounded astounded. ‘At the Farrow Ridges? But why?’
‘That’s what I wanted to know,’ said Celestia, ‘but—’
‘I’m sorry, but we really don’t have time for this,’ Cade broke in. ‘Phineal’s injured his leg. Badly. And he needs help.’
Blatch nodded. ‘Go, child,’ he called down.
But Celestia had already disappeared from the window. Moments later, she reappeared up on the roof, a small rucksack on her back. Quickly securing the saddle, she jumped onto Calix’s back and flicked the reins. The prowlgrin leaped up onto the branch that supported the cabin, ran along its length, then headed off into the trees in the direction of the lake.
And Cade went with her.
Despite the gathering darkness, the prowlgrins were sure-footed, never once faltering as they sped through the trees. Back on the shore of the lake, they galloped over the sand and gravel side by side. As they approached Cade’s cabin, Cade’s eyes grew wide.
‘What are those?’ said Celestia.
Cade stared at the two globes high above their heads. They were glowing with a golden light now as they bobbed gently on the end of their tether ropes, bright against the darkening sky.
‘Phineal made them,’ he told her. ‘He didn’t say why . . .’
Cade caught sight of Tug, his great body silhouetted against the line of trees behind him. He was waving furiously. Steering the prowlgrins away from the circle of light, Cade and Celestia sped towards him, dismounting the moment they arrived at his side.
‘Phineal not good,’ said Tug, his voice gruff.
He turned and ploughed his way back through the undergrowth. Cade and Celestia followed in his wake.
It was Cade who saw Phineal first. He was lying at the foot of the lufwood tree where he’d left him. But Tug was right. The webfoot looked awful. He’d lost a lot of blood; his sallow face was pale and his brow was beaded with sweat.
‘I’ve brought Celestia,’ Cade told him gently. ‘She’ll take care of you.’
Phineal stared back at him, his eyes glittery and wet, and Cade was unsure whether the webfoot had understood, or even heard, what he’d said. Cade leaned forward and placed the flat of his hand to Phineal’s forehead – and winced.
‘He’s cold and clammy, Celestia,’ he said, then frowned when she made no reply. ‘Celestia?’
He turned to see that she was staring at the corpse of the logworm.
‘Celestia,’ he said again.
She turned towards him. There were tears in her eyes.
‘You had a narrow escape,’ she breathed. ‘A logworm this size.’ She shook her head. ‘I once saw what one did to an entire hammerhead encampment. Devoured them all. Every last one . . .’
‘You should have seen Tug,’ said Cade, glancing across at his big friend. ‘He was so brave. If it hadn’t been for him, we wouldn’t have stood a chance.’
‘Good old Tug,’ smiled Celestia, dashing away her tears and leaning over Phineal to examine the scythe embedded in his leg. ‘This’ll need stitches,’ she pronounced, pulling her backpack from her shoulders. She reached inside and pulled out a needle and thread, together with a small pot, which she uncorked. ‘Fenbane’s good for numbing the skin,’ she said as she scooped out a dollop of the oily orange ointment and smeared it all around the wound. ‘Lift his leg,’ she told Cade.
Cade took hold of Phineal’s foot, carefully raised the leg, then held it in place. Celestia gently eased the blade of the scythe out of Phineal’s leg, then began stitching. Cade watched her every movement, impressed – as he was always impressed – by how quickly and efficiently she worked. Celestia’s mother had taught her all about the healing arts, and clearly had taught her well.
‘And this,’ she said, finishing the stitches and reaching into the backpack for a second time, ‘should prevent infection.’ She held up a frosted glass vial, then removed the stopper. ‘Stick your tongue out,’ she told Phineal.
Phineal shook his head.
Celestia smiled. ‘It tastes nice,’ she coaxed. ‘Come on, now.’
Reluctantly, Phineal stuck out his tongue. Celestia tipped up the vial and let two . . . three . . . four drops splash down onto it.
‘That’ll do you,’ she said.
The effect was instant. Phineal’s eyes brightened. His face gained colour and he sat up.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
Celestia smiled. ‘We Farrow Lakers look after each other,’ she said. ‘Now, try to keep your weight off that leg while it heals.’
Tug lifted the webfoot and carried him back to his tent, followed by Cade and Celestia. As they emerged from the trees, Cade saw that the moon had risen. Full and a silver-yellow colour, it hung low in the sky, a huge shining disc that cast shards of light across the choppy water of the lake and bathed the meadows in a cold, metallic light. Above the conical tent, the two globes glowed equally brightly.
‘The moth lanterns,’ said Phineal approvingly. ‘You did well, Cade.’
‘But what are they for?’ Cade asked as they reached the webfoot’s camp and Tug put him down.
‘They’re beacons,’ said Phineal. ‘I was gathering the last of the moonmoths in the lufwood tree when I disturbed that logworm . . .’
‘Beacons?’ said Celestia.
Phineal’s crest glowed a luminous orange. ‘To guide the others,’ he whispered. ‘Look.’
Cade looked up, open-mouthed.
Coming towards them, filling the sky, were skycraft’s of all different shapes and sizes. Huge, diaphanous sails billowed out from tall slender masts, themselves attached to elegant wooden frames, from which trailing ropes and glittering flight weights were suspended.
There was no thrum of phraxchambers, no hiss o
f steam trailing these skycraft’s graceful progress. Only the faint creak of ropes and gentle clink of flight weights broke the silence as their pilots moved nimbly around their decks.
These beautiful vessels, with their delicate construction and intricately carved prows, didn’t belong to this, the Third Age of Flight, Cade realized. As he and his classmates at the Academy School had learned, after stone-sickness had caused the flight rocks of the ancient skygalleons to crumble, bringing an end to the First Age of Flight; and before phraxchambers had ushered in the Third Age of Flight, there had been the Second Age of Flight – the age of skycraft carved from buoyant sumpwood, then varnished to make them even lighter and stronger. So far as Cade knew, none had taken to the skies for hundreds of years. Yet here, like some ethereal vision from the past, was a fleet of just such skycraft.
At the head of the small fleet was a particularly intricately designed vessel. The sumpwood prow was carved into the head of a rotsucker, with two side sails resembling outstretched wings, and a long curved rudder sweeping out behind it like a tail. The rider, wearing a snailskin flightsuit and dark goggles, was skilfully bringing the skycraft down out of the sky, clearly drawn to the meadowlands at the edge of the lake by the glowing light of the moth lanterns.
Behind the lead vessel, to its left and right, were two more skycraft. One had a prow carved into the shape of a stormhornet; the other, a woodwasp. Their pilots were crouched low on their small decks, perfectly balanced as they lowered their flight weights. And behind them, further apart in the V-formation, were two more vessels. A pilot sat astride one, his skycraft carved from a single lufwood log into the shape of a pearlbug, with wooden feelers jutting out from its angular head. The other pilot’s skycraft was just as ornate. With its diamond-shaped scales and curved abdomen spikes, it looked to Cade like some kind of scorpionfly.
The incoming craft were close now, twelve of them, fanning out as they flew low over the lake. The moonlight danced on the tops of the masts and shimmering spidersilk sails, which fluttered like sheets of spun silver and gold, while the carved hulls were uplit by the golden light of the glowing moth lanterns.