Doombringer

by Paul Stewart

  ‘Watch out!’ Tug bellowed a moment later, and jumped back.

  With a low creak and a dull thud, the lufwood crashed to the ground.

  Cade took the axe and began removing the branches and trimming them, then stripped the thick bark from the trunk. Next, with Tug opposite him, he used his double-handled saw to cut the trunk into manageable logs, and the pair of them began shifting the lengths of timber onto the sled.

  They worked steadily, the whole process taking most of the morning. By noon, the trunk had been split into sections and the sled loaded. Tug stood beside it with two heavy bundles of logs balanced on his broad shoulders. Around them, the woods were quiet, the noonday sun breaking through the forest canopy in bright shards of light.

  Several times throughout the morning, glancing into the darker shadows beneath the trees, Cade had had the nagging feeling that he was being watched. Tug seemed to sense his unease. So did Rumblix.

  Now, as they prepared to set off back to the cabin, Cade caught sight of a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. Rumblix growled, Tug turned stiffly under his heavy load and Cade’s hand reached out for his phraxmusket, which he’d left propped up against the stump of the felled lufwood tree.

  ‘Easy there, young feller,’ said a voice. It was deep and gruff, and coming from the shadows. ‘I ain’t carrying no phraxweapon . . .’

  A moment later, a tall figure stepped out into a shaft of light a little way off. The stranger stood watching Cade, who stared back nervously at him.

  He had a thick beard and long matted hair; his skin was weathered and leathery, the deep lines at his cheeks and his brow black with the woodsmoke from numerous campfires. He was wearing a crushed funnel hat of sleek, oiled quarm fur, from which the skulls of various small animals dangled; and a voluminous cloak that was buttoned up round his thick neck and hung down to his heavy iron-capped boots. The cloak was moss-green, the rough woven fabric covered in patches of tree lichen and sprouting glade grass, camouflaging its wearer perfectly in the shadowy depths of the forest.

  ‘Greetings,’ Cade said, stepping back from hisphrax-musket. ‘I’m Cade. Cade Quarter.’

  For a moment, the figure did not respond. Cade frowned. But then the stranger’s thin, cracked lips parted to reveal a mouthful of broken brown teeth, and he spoke.

  ‘Name’s Merton Hoist.’

  He approached slowly. The odour of his unwashed body mingled with the loamy smell of his cloak to create a pungent, animal-like musk. Cade reached out a hand to greet the newcomer, but there was no response. Merton Hoist’s arms remained concealed beneath the cloak.

  ‘Passing by,’ he said. He nodded towards the logs and branches heaped up on Rumblix’s sled. ‘Heard the chopping.’

  Cade nodded. Merton Hoist’s voice was low and gravelly, and though he seemed to be speaking to Cade, it was Tug he was looking at, his hooded eyes assessing his friend’s height and bulk.

  ‘I . . . I live down by the lake,’ said Cade, as much to fill the awkward silence as anything else.

  Hoist nodded. ‘You made your home here,’ he said, his gaze never moving away from Tug. ‘This place got a name?’

  ‘The Farrow Ridges,’ Cade told him.

  ‘Hmmph,’ Hoist grunted. His eyes flicked to Cade’s for a moment, and Cade flinched under the stranger’s cold-eyed stare. Then his gaze returned to Tug. ‘Is this your servant?’

  ‘No,’ said Cade. ‘Tug’s my friend. We look out for one another, don’t we, Tug?’

  Tug nodded. From the look in his eyes, he was feeling just as uncomfortable as Cade.

  But then Hoist smiled. His eyes twinkled and a hand appeared from beneath the cloak and patted Cade on the shoulder. It was large and gnarled, the knuckles and fingers covered in swirling blue tattoos. Something glinted in the depths of the cloak as the hand withdrew.

  ‘You have work to do,’ Hoist said. ‘And so do I.’ He fixed Cade with a dark-eyed stare. ‘I should be on my way.’ Then, with one last long lingering look at Tug, he turned away. ‘Earth and Sky be with you till our paths cross again,’ his gravelly voice sounded before he slipped noiselessly back into the sun-dappled woods.

  Cade swallowed. He certainly hoped their paths would not cross again.

  When he turned away, Cade realized that he was trembling. Tug looked at him, then, shifting the logs he was carrying onto one shoulder, shuffled over to him.

  ‘Cade all right?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Cade with a shaky smile.

  He grasped Rumblix’s harness. The prowlgrin lurched forward, whinnying with effort. Cade reached out and took hold of one of the sled ropes to help him pull the heavy load. On the other side, Tug did the same. And like that, the three of them pulled the sledload of timber back through the forest and out onto the meadowlands.

  As they emerged into the sunshine, Cade felt a great wave of relief wash over him. It was the forest that had made him so nervous, he told himself. Merton Hoist was an old Deepwooder, a solitary wanderer by the look of him, just passing through.

  But those dark, calculating eyes staring into his . . .

  Cade blanched.

  And then it struck him. The glint beneath the heavy moss-green cloak. Had he imagined it or had it been the handle of a phraxpistol? A handle of . . .

  Cade came to a sudden stumbling halt.

  ‘Mire pearl,’ he whispered.

  · CHAPTER FIFTEEN ·

  ‘TUG? WHERE ARE you, Tug?’ Cade’s voice echoed off across the meadow. ‘Tug?’

  He looked around.

  It was three days later, and work on the extension to the cabin was going well. The ground had been cleared, levelled, and holes had been sunk for the wooden stilts. Having worked late the day before, Cade had slept in, but now he was eager to get back to the job. He arrived to find a stack of newly sawn planks. Another plank lay across two trestles, half cut and with a dusting of sawdust on the ground below it.

  Tug had clearly been hard at it. But now he was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Tug! Tug!’

  Where was his friend?

  Occasionally Tug would go up into the woods to look for the spatchweed that grew among the roots of sallowdrop trees, which he was partial to; sometimes he’d take himself off along the lake.

  ‘TUG!’

  Most often, Tug liked to sit at the end of the jetty. He would dangle his feet in the clear water and watch the little fish darting in and out of the lakeweed.

  But he wasn’t there now. And disappearing like that – it just wasn’t like him . . .

  Cade turned back to his cabin. Rumblix was perched in his usual place, on the balustrade of the veranda. He seemed to be asleep, though as Cade climbed the steps and approached he opened one eye and watched him, a low purr starting up at the back of his throat.

  ‘Where’s old Tug wandered off to, boy?’ said Cade, ruffling the prowlgrin’s fur beneath his chin.

  Rumblix purred all the louder.

  Still stroking the creature absent-mindedly, Cade looked back at the trestles and planks and long-toothed saw . . .

  He sighed. He was probably being foolish, but Tug’s absence was worrying him. It was so out of character. Of course, there was probably nothing wrong, he told himself. Tug was big enough and strong enough to look after himself. But there was nothing he could do about his growing sense of unease.

  ‘Tug!’ he bellowed. ‘Tug, where are you?’

  It was no good, he would just have to go and look for his great lumbering friend.

  He saddled Rumblix, and the two of them trotted along the eastern shore, Cade scanning the treeline for any sign of Tug. A wind was getting up, making the lake choppy and sending sand scudding along the shoreline like writhing serpents. As they neared Thorne’s hive-hut, the breeze grew stronger, a warm southerly that felt parched and electric. The branches of the trees and shrubs he passed tossed and flapped, and there was a loud rushing sound of the wind blowing through the leaves.

  He fo
und the fisher goblin down at the lake. Phineal was with him. The two of them were standing in the lake shallows, their hands resting on the wicker fence of the eel-corral that Thorne had made.

  ‘Have either of you seen Tug?’ Cade called.

  ‘Have either of you seen Tug?’

  At the sound of Cade’s – and Tak-Tak’s – voices, both Phineal and Thorne looked round.

  ‘Cade,’ said Thorne, straightening up. He shook his head. ‘No, he hasn’t passed this way.’ Then added, ‘Phineal brought me a batch of baby eels,’ as though he needed to explain why he was standing up to his waist in water.

  ‘Elvers,’ said Phineal.

  ‘Elvers,’ Tak-Tak mimicked.

  ‘Hush!’ Thorne told him.

  ‘Hush! Hush! Hush!’ Tak-Tak repeated over and over as he scampered off into the trees.

  Thorne turned to Cade. ‘To increase my stock,’ he said. ‘And he’s just been showing me how to set the nursery cages at the bottom. Little hideaways,’ he explained, ‘so they don’t get eaten by the larger eels . . .’ He turned to Phineal. ‘And for which I’m very grateful.’

  Phineal’s crest flashed a pale green. ‘I did see your friend earlier,’ he said. ‘On my way here. I was swimming across the lake and I saw him on the south shore near the Five Falls.’

  Cade brought Rumblix to a halt beside the lake. Tug found the great cascades of water gushing from the caverns and crashing down into the Farrow Lake fascinating. Many was the time he had stood and watched the morning light glistening on them, open-mouthed.

  ‘But that was hours ago,’ Phineal added.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Cade. He turned Rumblix round and was about to set off for the falls when Thorne raised his hand.

  ‘Stop!’ he called. ‘Tie Rumblix up. We’ll take my coracle. It’ll be quicker.’

  The fisher goblin seemed to have picked up on Cade’s growing unease. Phineal’s crest grew darker too as Thorne went up to his hive-hut and returned, carrying his coracle on his back.

  Cade and Thorne climbed into the little vessel and began paddling, with steady rhythmic movements, while Phineal swam speedily out in front.

  ‘Tug’s never been away this long,’ Cade said, breathing heavily.

  The lake was choppy and the going was tough, but they were making good progress out across the water towards the thundering falls.

  ‘I slept late . . . Lost track of time. Everything just looked abandoned . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, Cade, lad,’ Thorne reassured him. ‘Tug’s big and strong. He can take care of himself. Remember the logworm?’

  Cade smiled, but as they paddled on, his nagging anxiety only grew.

  Phineal led them to the south-west shore, beside the fifth of the mighty falls. They beached the coracle and made their way across the soft mud of the shoreline through a thin mist of spray.

  ‘Wait! Look here . . .’ Thorne dropped to one knee and pointed.

  Cade and Phineal hurried over to him.

  ‘Footprints.’ Thorne frowned as he examined the indentations in the blue-grey mud. ‘Boots. Heavy ones by the look of them. Nail-studded and toe-capped.’

  Cade felt a sudden lurch and flutter in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Over there.’ Thorne pointed along the line of footprints.

  They followed them. Beneath a copperwood tree, the ground was churned up. Scratch marks, clods of earth, and the signs of something heavy being dragged into the trees.

  ‘Tug was here,’ said Thorne darkly, pointing to a set of deep footprints, bare-footed and clawed. ‘And there was a struggle with whoever was wearing the boots.’

  Cade swallowed hard. ‘I’ve been so stupid,’ he groaned. ‘I just put it out of my mind, what with the building work on the cabin . . .’

  ‘Put what out of your mind?’ Phineal asked, turning to Cade, his crest glowing dark purple.

  ‘A stranger,’ said Cade, his face reddening. ‘Tug and I ran into him in the lufwood stands behind my cabin three days ago.’

  ‘A stranger?’ said Thorne.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Cade. ‘Merton Hoist, he called himself.’ He realized his heart was beating fast in his chest at the memory of the character in the forest. How uneasy he’d made him feel. How he’d kept looking Tug up and down. ‘You don’t think . . . ?’ he breathed.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Thorne. He wiped the silt from his hands on his breeches. ‘Tell me everything you remember about him.’

  Cade scratched his head. ‘He was tall,’ he began. ‘Heavily built. Wore a moss-green cloak and . . .’

  ‘And what, Cade?’ said Thorne. ‘Think!’

  ‘A phraxpistol,’ said Cade. ‘I thought I glimpsed it beneath the cloak, even though he said he was unarmed. And there was something else . . .’

  ‘Go on,’ said Phineal.

  ‘It had a mire-pearl handle,’ said Cade.

  Thorne shook his head. ‘Fancy pistol like that, sounds to me like you came face to face with a mire-pearler,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that right, Phineal?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Phineal, looking down at his feet. ‘Could be one of the gang my brothers encountered at the Grey Gorges.’

  ‘And . . . and you think he’s taken Tug?’ Cade said. ‘But why?’

  Thorne and Phineal exchanged a glance.

  ‘Mire-pearlers don’t just deal in pearls,’ said Thorne. ‘They steal, they trap, they take slaves. Anything they can lay their hands on.’

  ‘Mire-pearlers destroy everything they touch,’ said Phineal bitterly. ‘We webfoots should know. They ensnare whole tribes and communities at a time. Life is cheap to them, and the natural wonders of the Deepwoods are just riches to be grabbed any way they can. They won’t think twice about enslaving a big, strong nameless one like your friend and working him to death.’

  Seeing the distress in Cade’s face, Thorne reached out and gripped his shoulder.

  ‘Cade! Thorne!’ a voice rang out across the lake.

  The three of them turned to see a phraxlighter approaching from the east, clouds of steam billowing from the funnel.

  Thorne cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Greetings, Gart,’ he bellowed into the gusting wind.

  Gripping the tiller with both hands, Gart Ironside raised a finger in acknowledgement. He steered the phraxlighter over to the shore, and brought it to a steady hover. Then he raised his goggles.

  ‘What brings you three to the south shore?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Tug,’ Cade blurted out. ‘He’s been kidnapped by a mire-pearler!’

  ‘I saw a phraxsloop from my sky-platform not half an hour ago,’ Gart said, his voice breathless. ‘Spotted its steam trail in the distance. I didn’t think anything of it at the time . . .’

  ‘Thanks for telling us, Gart,’ Thorne said. ‘There hasn’t been another phraxvessel in the skies over the ridges for weeks now. It must be him.’

  ‘At least now we know how he’s travelling,’ said Phineal miserably.

  Gart looked at him, an eyebrow raised.

  ‘Phineal here has been fretting about whether or not anyone tracked his webfoot brothers here to the Farrow Lake. And now Tug has disappeared.’ Thorne shook his head. ‘Seems like this stranger might be guilty on both counts.’

  ‘We’ve got to go after him,’ Cade blurted out. ‘We’ve got to rescue Tug.’

  ‘I’d love to help,’ said Gart, ‘but that was a two-funnel sloop I spotted, and with his head start . . .’ He shrugged. ‘We’d never catch up with him.’

  Phineal stepped over to Cade and put an arm round him. ‘A vessel from the Third Age can’t catch him,’ he said quietly. ‘But one from the Second Age just might.’

  · CHAPTER SIXTEEN ·

  WITH HIS CREST flashing orange and yellow, Phineal splashed through the water, seized hold of the side of his skycraft and leaped aboard. Then he turned to Cade, who was still standing on the lakeshore beside Fifth Lake Village.

  ‘Come on,’ he called. ‘What are you waiting for
?’

  Cade was about to run into the water after him when Thorne grabbed him by the arm.

  ‘You sure you want to do this, lad,’ he asked.

  Cade hesitated. ‘Tug’s my friend,’ he said simply.

  ‘I understand,’ said Thorne, nodding. He gripped Cade’s hand with both of his own, looked him in the eye. ‘This is a brave thing you’re doing, lad,’ he said. ‘Sky be with you.’

  ‘Cade!’ It was Phineal. ‘If that mire-pearler is one of the Grey Gorge gang, we can’t afford to let him get away. Once Tug’s been enslaved, even he won’t last long.’

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ Cade shouted back.

  He pulled away from Thorne, then trudged quickly through the shallows to the anchored skycraft. Phineal leaned forward and reached out. Cade grabbed his hand and was pulled aboard. He sat down heavily.

  ‘Strap yourself in,’ said Phineal. ‘We’re going to set full sail.’

  Cade fumbled for the harness, slipped it over his shoulders and clipped it securely to a ring at the back of the seat. Beside him, Phineal lowered the flight weights, fore and aft, then raised the mast sails, gauging the pull as the gossamer-light material billowed. With all ten ropes gripped in his right hand, he called across to Cade.

  ‘All set?’

  ‘All set,’ Cade called back, and hoped that the webfoot hadn’t heard the quaver in his voice.

  Phineal leaned over the side and hefted the anchor stone up from the lake bed, grunting with effort as he did so. The muscles in his arms, shoulders and neck tensed like cable. The stone thumped down into the bottom of the boat and, unleashed, the skycraft leaped forward.

  Cade gripped the shoulder straps of his harness, white-knuckled, as the acceleration shoved him backwards. Every muscle in his body was braced. And, though it seemed impossible, when Phineal released the undersails and the wind filled them too, the skycraft flew even faster, shooting up into the clear blue sky as fast and straight as an arrow.

  Jaws clenched, Cade stared straight ahead. The sailcloth was taut, the masts were bowed. The forest raced past below, a blur of green.