by Paul Stewart
‘How dare you!’ thundered the older academic, his knuckles turning white as he squeezed the trigger of the phraxpistol.
Drax dropped to one knee, a small silver blowpipe raised to his lips.
Phut! Phut!
Cade clung to the rail at the back of the flight platform as Drax’s deadly darts skewered first one, then the other academic through the throat. Both of them crumpled soundlessly to the floor.
Drax rose to his feet and turned to Cade.
Cade stared back at him, legs trembling, shocked by the gangleader’s dead-eyed stare. He had just assassinated two professors, yet there was no sign of remorse or inner conflict in his face; no sign of any emotion at all.
‘A . . . a message, you said,’ Cade muttered anxiously. ‘I would never have led you here if I’d known you were going to kill them . . .’
‘That was the message,’ said Drax, smiling.
Just then a high-pitched barking yelp sounded from the ladder below the flight platform and, in a flash of grey, Rumblix came bounding into view and launched himself at Cade. The prowlgrin pup landed in his arms and began licking his face excitedly. He must have escaped through the open porthole and tracked him here, Cade realized with a pang of pride.
‘Clever boy,’ he cooed, stroking Rumblix’s fur.
‘A pedigree grey,’ noted Drax appreciatively, and Cade saw him draw another dart from an inside pocket of his faded topcoat and slot it into the blowpipe.
Cade glanced over his shoulder. The skytavern was low in the sky and slowing all the time, but the treetops still looked heart-stoppingly far below nonetheless. He looked back at Drax, who had a twisted smile on his face. The blowpipe was halfway to his lips.
‘Teggtut told me about the pup,’ Drax said. ‘And now I see it, I think I want it. Trouble is, it seems to be attached to you, so I’m very much afraid, Cade Quarter, that as its new owner, I’m going to have to make it forget you . . .’
Cade spun round, ducking as he did so. Rumblix jumped down from his arms, then scampered to the edge of the flight platform and launched himself out into the air.
Phut!
A dart whistled through the air as Cade jumped after him, Tillman Spoke’s words echoing in his head: ‘Trust a prowlgrin’s leap and you’ll never fall.’
· CHAPTER FOURTEEN ·
JUDGING HIS LEAP perfectly, Rumblix landed in a swaying treetop. Cade followed him down through the air, his arms and legs flailing wildly.
‘Oof!’ he gasped as he slammed into the branch just below the one Rumblix was balanced on.
The wood splintered under Cade’s weight and he was falling again, branches bowing and snapping beneath him in a series of sickening cracks until he came to a jarring stop. His backpack had snagged on something and he hung there for a few moments, his eyes closed and legs dangling, praying that the leather straps of the backpack would not give.
Rumblix was squealing with alarm.
Cade opened his eyes. His gaze met Rumblix’s wide-eyed stare. The prowlgrin had leaped down from his original perch, following the progression of broken branches that marked Cade’s fall, and was now balancing expertly on a thin bough just to Cade’s left.
‘I’m all right, boy,’ said Cade, though one glance up was enough to tell him that he was not.
His backpack was entangled in a large cluster of pine needles that fanned out from the end of a slender branch just above his head. As he looked around, the branch bent and quivered like a fishing pole under the strain of his weight – though it seemed to be holding. Cade hoped his backpack would do the same. Rumblix and he had landed at the top of an immense ironwood pine. He noted the huge fircones dangling from the branches above and below him, and the broad tree trunk they sprouted from, its craterous bark flecked with rivulets of glistening amber resin.
Above him, the mighty Xanth Filatine passed overhead and approached a lone platform that rose up above the forest canopy about three hundred strides away. The wooden scaffolding and ladders leading up to the platform reminded Cade of the docking gantries in Great Glade, though unlike them this platform, with its single cabin and lone water tank, was too small for a skyvessel as large as the Xanth Filatine to dock at.
In the forest to the west of the platform, the trees thinned out and gave way to an immense lake. And at the far side of the sun-flecked water, five magnificent falls cascaded down from the mouths of dark caverns that lined the top of towering ridges. Cade had never seen anything like it.
Slowly the skytavern swung round in the sky. The white-hot jet of air from the propulsion duct abruptly cut, and the great vessel hovered in the air for a moment before dropping down lower still, amid loud hissing and clouds of steam. Then, as Cade watched, ropes were lowered from the decks up near the prow and a figure emerged from the cabin at the top of the platform.
Seizing the end of one of the ropes, the figure attached it to a bulging net, then reached up, grabbed hold of the rope again and tugged it hard. Moving on as the net was hoisted back into the air, he worked quickly, his movements agile, attaching boxes and crates to the other ropes. These were raised up to the skytavern in turn while, at the same time, fromthe stern, a long flexible pipe was lowered by half a dozen deckhands into the water tank. The sound of pumps creaking and water gurgling filled the air briefly as the skytavern’s water supplies were replenished.
And then, as quickly as the loading had started, it was done. The ropes disappeared, the pipe recoiled and the Xanth Filatine rose majestically into the sky. The figure at the top of the platform stood for a moment, a dark silhouette against the sunset glow of the sky, before turning and disappearing back into the cabin.
The jet of air blasted from the propulsion duct of the Xanth Filatine once more as the skytavern soared up into the sky and away. Cade watched it go, relieved to be free of Adereth’s clutches, but all too aware of his present predicament.
The light was fading fast. Soon it would be night, and he was stuck at the top of this ironwood pine, unable to move for fear of . . .
There was a cracking, splintering sound, and through the straps of his backpack Cade felt the branch above him tremble.
‘HELP!’ he screamed.
· CHAPTER FIFTEEN ·
ABOVE CADE, THE slender branch gave out another ominous creak. He wanted to rub his aching shoulders, to relieve the pressure of the straps that were digging into him, but dared not. A wind was getting up, warm and blustery. It made his topcoat flap and brought tears to his eyes that he was too afraid of moving to wipe away. Beside him, perched on a branch that looked almost too thin to support his weight, Rumblix leaned forward and licked his hand.
‘Thank you, boy,’ said Cade. ‘I’d pet you if I could, but . . .’
He looked down for the hundredth time, searching for some branch or other that, if the branch supporting him did break, he might land on. But it didn’t look good. None of the broader branches were directly beneath him and, further down, everything melted into darkness.
The small phraxlighter rose from the platform and started making its way towards the ironwood pine, steam billowing from its short funnel.
Cade’s only chance was the approaching phraxlighter. Earth and Sky willing, it would reach him in time. Above him, the branch creaked again, and Cade fought back his panic by concentrating on the skyvessel.
It was closer now. Apart from being a fraction of the size of the mighty skytavern, the design was quite different – the most obvious difference the fact that, rather than being sited at the top of the vessel, the phraxchamber was mounted below the hull. But there were other features that set the small phraxlighter apart.
Cold sweat trickled down Cade’s face.
The prow was angled and came to a point. At the end of it was the carved head of an open-mouthed hoverworm.
Wind rustled through the branches, causing Cade to sway backwards and forwards. The branch gave another ominous creak . . .
The stern, which also came to a point but was unadorned,
had two rudders fixed to its side. And just in front of it was a raised cabin which must house the flight-wheel, the rudder-levers – and the pilot.
Cade gritted his teeth, willing the phraxlighter on. Just a few strides more . . .
Creak.
He saw the figure at the controls peering out from the cabin.
Creak.
Leather hood. Yellow-tinted goggles. Scarf tightly wound and knotted. The pilot’s face was masked, inscrutable . . .
Creak.
The phraxlighter came round in the sky and Cade breathed in the chilled steam as it passed by him. There was a whiff of toasted almonds about the smell. Through the window of the cabin, Cade could see the pilot’s gloved hands dancing expertly over the hull-weight and rudder-levers as he brought the phraxlighter down lower in the sky. Then, smoothly and skilfully, taking care not to knock the fragile phraxchamber against the branches of the ironwood pine, he steered the small vessel directly beneath Cade and brought it to a hovering, chugging standstill.
Clouds of white steam billowed up around Cade, and a moment later he felt the toes of his boots graze the roof of the cabin. He let his knees buckle for a moment, then straightened. Reaching up, Cade pulled his backpack free from the branch, which sprang back with a whistle and a crack.
Yelping with alarm, Rumblix leaped from the tree and into Cade’s arms. A warm surge of relief flooded through Cade’s body as he cradled the pup and sank back down onto the roof of the cabin. The phraxlighter beneath him juddered as its propulsion duct roared, and the vessel rose from the ironwood pine and into the evening sky.
Cade gripped the side of the cabin roof, and as they gained speed, Rumblix burrowed inside his topcoat, his purrs mixing with the rumbling whirr of the vessel’s phraxchamber. The phraxlighter rapidly crossed the three hundred strides between the ironwood pine and the platform, and began its descent to land. Cade looked down.
The platform was a spindly-looking construction, fashioned from lengths of ironwood pine that had been lashed together to form a high scaffolded tower. There was a flat platform at the top, with tying-posts and balustrades. Jutting out from the far corner were the tall cylindrical water tank and small timber cabin that Cade had spotted from the ironwood pine. Numerous crates and barrels were stacked around the sides of the cabin, together with winch-wheels, grappling irons and hooked cargo poles.
The phraxlighter flew over the cabin’s flat roof and came down on the far side of the platform, where a curved iron docking-cradle jutted out from the timber scaffolding. With a soft clunk the phraxlighter came to rest in the cradle, and the phraxchamber’s hum faded. Cade peered down from the cabin roof as the pilot emerged and tethered the phraxlighter securely to the mooring cleats. Then, straightening up, the pilot stepped off the vessel and onto the platform, pulling off his hood and goggles as he did so.
He was a fourthling, like Cade himself, tall and thickset, with skin the colour and texture of tanned leather; dark brown and with deep creases that crossed his brow and fanned out from the corners of his dark blue eyes. His black hair was oiled and swept back, and he wore a thick moustache, waxed at the ends in the fashion favoured by Great Glade sky mariners. As Cade looked down at him, the pilot reached up and scratched his chin, where thick stubble was growing, then broke into an easy smile. And when he spoke, his voice had a soft cultured quality more in keeping with an academic from the Cloud Quarter than a rough sky pilot from the Ledges.
‘The name’s Gart Ironside,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the Farrow Ridges.’
· CHAPTER SIXTEEN ·
‘BLOODOAKS?’ CADE BREATHED.
After the tension and terrors of the skytavern, it felt good to be sitting here at Gart Ironside’s table on the flat roof of the cabin, next to a blazing brazier. Above, the darkening sky twinkled as constellations of stars flickered into existence.
‘Bloodoaks.’ Gart Ironside frowned. ‘Flesh-eating trees of monstrous size, with mouths at the top of their gnarled trunks, ringed with razor-sharp teeth,’ he explained with relish, reaching across the table and picking up the flagon of sweet sapwine. ‘They wait for the tarry-vine – a lasso-like, parasitic creeper that grows in the branches above – to snare unfortunate victims in the surrounding forest and drag them back, kicking and screaming, to feed them.’
Cade looked at the flagon tilted and hovering above his goblet which, once again, seemed to be all but empty. The sapwine was delicious.
‘Just a little,’ said Cade, then watched contentedly as the pilot filled the goblet to the top. He took a sip and stared out across the moon-silvered treetops.
‘Seen it with my own eyes,’ Gart Ironside said, following Cade’s gaze. ‘And I’ll never forget the sight as long as I live . . .’ He paused for effect, and when he looked across at the pilot, Cade knew that he was waiting for a response.
For eight long years Gart Ironside had manned the lonely sky platform above the Farrow Ridges, just one of scores of watering stations on the convoluted route from Great Glade to Hive. And with barely a visitor to break the monotony. It was hardly surprising, Cade thought, that since rescuing him from the ironwood pine, Gart Ironside had hardly stopped talking for a moment.
Not that Cade had minded in the least. He’d listened with fascination as the pilot had described his former life in Great Glade; how he’d flown phraxvessels in its crowded skies, and built up a fleet of fast sleek skyships to transport phrax crystals from the mines in the Eastern Woods to the commodity markets of Great Glade. Gart had made a fortune, lived in an opulent mansion in New Lake, had the best seats at the thousandsticks matches, a stable of pedigree prowlgrins, and mixed with the richest merchants and most powerful academics in the city – only to lose it all in something he referred to simply as ‘the great swindle’.
At this point, Gart had fallen silent and left Cade and Rumblix alone on the roof. Moments later, he was back, with a tray laden with food. And as night fell, they had enjoyed a supper of blackbread, sour-curds, roast sandfowl and salted tilder, pine nuts and forest fruits, all washed down with the best sapwine Cade had ever tasted.
Gart Ironside reached behind him for a couple of seasoned logs and tossed them into the brazier, which spat and hissed and blazed fiercely.
Cade sat forward, his elbows resting on the table. ‘Would you tell me some more about the bloodoak you saw?’ he asked, and saw Gart smile ruefully as the firelight flickered on his weathered face.
‘It was about three years ago,’ he began. ‘A leaper, like yourself . . . off the Lucius Verginix if memory serves. Anyway, he jumped ship one afternoon, just after the Lucius had taken on water, and ended up in the Western Woods. I saw him through my spyglass. A fourthling he was, in a ragged topcoat with a blanket-roll over one shoulder. I thought of setting out to see what had become of him. But, well, from experience, I know that most leapers jump for a reason – and they don’t necessarily appreciate it when a platform pilot comes snooping around after them. So I left well alone.’ He shuddered. ‘Only wish I hadn’t, given what happened . . .’
Despite the warmth from the brazier, Cade felt cold shivers tingling at the nape of his neck. He shifted round in the chair. Rumblix was snuffling about on the wooden floor, licking up the morsels of food that had been dropped.
‘It was the following morning,’ Gart continued grimly. ‘Just after daybreak. I was down by the lake, pumping water to fill the platform’s tank, when I heard this bloodcurdling scream coming from the far side of the lake. It was the leaper. A loud, agonizing, gut-wrenching scream . . .’
Gart breathed in sharply, his gaze fixed on Cade’s anxious face.
‘I couldn’t ignore it, so I jumped into my phraxlighter and set off as fast as I could. I was halfway across the mudflats when the cries abruptly fell still.’ He paused. ‘Five minutes after that, in a dank forest clearing that reeked of blood and decay, I discovered him. Or rather, what was left of him . . .’
Gart shook his head slowly from side to side. Then, pulling a kerchief from
the pocket of his leather jerkin, he dabbed at his sweaty brow.
‘He’d been swallowed up by a bloodoak. Head first,’ he added. ‘There was nothing I could do. All that remained in sight was his feet, with the tarry-vine that had lassoed him and lowered him down into the bloodoak’s gaping mouth still wrapped around the tops of his boots.’
Cade realized his mouth was open.
Gart Ironside leaned forward, grasped his goblet and took a long deep swig of the sapwine, then wiped his moustache on the back of his hand. ‘Still, it could have been worse,’ he said.
‘Worse?’ exclaimed Cade. ‘How could anything be worse than being eaten alive by a tree?’
‘Hammerheads,’ said Gart, a gleam in his eye. ‘Wild hammerhead goblin tribes – the woods to the west of here are infested with them. Tall as a cloddertrog and twice as mean. Believe me, if they get their hands on a leaper, they’ll make him scream for days.’
Cade took a gulp of sapwine.
‘And then there’s the lake,’ the pilot went on, his voice hushed with dread. ‘Lucky you didn’t land in the lake.’
Gart held Cade’s glance for a moment, his eyes wide. He was enjoying scaring his young guest. The pair of them sat forward closer to the blazing brazier. Cade warmed his hands in the flames, while the chills shot up and down his spine.
‘Unfathomably deep, it is,’ Gart told him, ‘where the most fearsome of creatures dwell. Strange, half-formed things; fish-tailed, snagglemouthed, claws like rapiers.’ He shook his head. ‘And, of course, there are the caverns . . .’
Rumblix was whining by Cade’s side, rubbing his flanks against his leg. Cade looked down, then patted his lap. The prowlgrin pup jumped up and nestled down as Cade stroked him pensively. The wine had gone to his head, which was beginning to swim.