by Paul Stewart
Weighed down by the various things they had gathered, the hammerheads began filing into the hive tower, brushing past the tilder hide that served as a door – and leaving Cade, Celestia and the prowlgrins standing alone outside. Evening was falling, with the shadows lengthening across the glade. Above their heads, wisps of smoke emerged from the triangular openings at the top of the hive tower.
‘It’s incredible,’ said Celestia. ‘I’ve seen evidence of hammerhead camps before. Cut saplings strewn about; circles of blackened stones from the campfires they set.’ She shook her head. ‘But to see an actual hive tower being built . . .’
Just then, Cade became aware of movement at the edge of the clearing, and turned to see the returning hammerhead warriors step out of the shadowy depths of the forest. Hanging upside down on a pole carried between them was a heavy-set creature, the size of a large bull hammelhorn and almost as shaggy. A single arrow had pierced its chest.
‘It’s a giant quarm,’ said Celestia. ‘I’ve never eaten quarm meat before.’ She frowned. ‘No idea what it’ll taste like.’
‘Looks like we’re about to find out,’ said Cade as the hammerheads placed the creature on the ground and began to skin it expertly with razor-sharp knives.
Rumblix, Burrlix and Calix bounded over to the hammerhead warriors, their tongues lolling eagerly from their mouths as they watched the goblins butcher the quarm. Meanwhile, Chert and Teeg had crossed the glade and greeted Celestia and Cade.
‘Thank you for your patience,’ Chert was saying. ‘The hive tower is now prepared.’ He led Cade and Celestia towards the entrance and pulled the tilder-hide curtain aside.
Although Cade had watched everything that had taken place, he still found it difficult to take in the scene before him as he stepped inside. His own modest little cabin had taken weeks to complete. In contrast, the hive tower had been constructed in minutes. It was, however, magnificent.
Dozens of tilder hides had been spread out upon the floor, at the centre of which a great fire blazed. A score of small pots nestled among its burning logs. Some of them were filled with water which was already coming to the boil, others contained hammelhorn grease that hissed and spat in readiness for the meat of the giant quarm being butchered outside, while others bubbled and plopped as a gruel of ground gladebarley and woodthyme slowly heated.
The flames from the fire flickered on the inside of the woven matting walls, on the burnished pots, and in the eyes of each and every hammerhead goblin who, stopping whatever they were doing, turned to look at Cade and Celestia as they entered.
‘Sit,’ said Chert, gesturing towards two hides laid out close to the fire.
They took their places, and Chert sat down next to them. The other hammerheads returned to their chores: cooking the meat as it was carried into the tower, sharpening their weapons, mending their backpacks . . .
‘Soon, the clan shall eat,’ Chert told them. ‘But first Teeg must gain his mark.’
Cade and Celestia turned to see the young hammerhead kneeling on a tilder hide on the other side of the fire, the firelight gleaming on his sweat-covered brow. Sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him was an older hammerhead, his brow creased with concentration. He held a needle-thin splinter of ironwood in his hand, which, as Cade and Celestia watched, he dipped into one of the two bowls which lay by his side. It contained a thick black liquid. When the pointed end of the splinter was covered, he reached up and punctured Teeg’s skin with it, at the top of his right arm. Again and again, he repeated the action – until at last, sitting back, he observed his handiwork through narrowed eyes.
‘The mark is done,’ he announced.
Setting the splinter aside, he plunged his fingers into the second bowl, then smeared hammelhorn grease over Teeg’s arm.
Teeg peered down, his eyes glinting with excitement, then climbed to his feet. He walked round the side of the fire and proudly showed Cade and Celestia his new tattoo – a circle of sharp-looking triangles, intersected by a wavy line. Cade recognized it at once as a representation of the bloodoak and tarry-vine.
‘Every mark has its meaning,’ Chert said as he observed the fascination in Cade and Celestia’s eyes. He looked down at his own arms and touched a row of five ironwood pines, most with ten branches, one with only two. ‘These trees are the number of years Chert has lived. These stars, the place of Chert’s birth. These clouds, the ancestors . . .’ He pulled open the front of his jerkin and tapped the inked spearheads and arrows that decorated his chest. ‘These are battles,’ he explained. ‘The Shadow Clan has fought many.’
Cade nodded, the blood draining from his face. These Deepwoods hammerheads were warriors. Fierce and warlike. And the evidence was written on their bodies.
Chert reached up and indicated the tattoo of the bloodoak symbol on his son’s arm. On either side of it were two stick figures. ‘These marks are Cade and Celestia,’ he said. ‘Teeg came face to face with the tree of blood. And survived.’ He tilted his angular head to one side, returning his gaze to Cade and Celestia. ‘Teeg will not forget.’ He turned to his son. ‘Teeg?’
The young hammerhead goblin bowed his head, then looked at the two of them. He clenched his fist and pressed it to his chest.
‘Teeg will not forget,’ he said.
Then he turned and went over to the fire, returning moments later with a wooden platter heaped high with pieces of sizzling meat, which he served to Celestia. After that, he served Cade, then Chert. And the fourth time he returned, he sat down with a platter for himself.
Cade bit into a piece of roasted quarm and began to chew. The flavour was pungent and bitter, with an intense cloying texture that reminded Cade of brindled curds.
‘The meat of the mighty tree-hugger is good?’ asked Teeg, looking at Cade, then Celestia, and back again. Cade chewed and chewed, then with some difficulty swallowed. Beside him, Celestia smiled valiantly as she did the same.
‘Delicious,’ she lied.
‘Meat tough,’ nodded Teeg solemnly. ‘Good for jaw muscles.’
Cade took another piece out of politeness, then passed his platter to a group of young’uns on the tilder hide beside him, and was relieved when they tucked into the meat hungrily.
‘Celestia’s father goes into the caverns of the great waters,’ said Chert, leaning forward and staring intently at Celestia. ‘Chert has seen.’ He nodded gravely. ‘The white trogs will be angry . . .’
Cade and Celestia exchanged glances. The white trogs. The fearsome tribe rumoured to live deep underground. Gart Ironside had mentioned them, and so had Celestia’s father.
‘White trogs,’ said Celestia, putting back a piece of quarm and pushing away the platter. ‘Have you seen them?’
Chert shook his head slowly, his brow-rings glinting in the firelight as he did so.
The low chatter of voices had suddenly stilled.
‘No,’ Chert said. ‘The clans of the hammerhead nations – the High Valley, the Low Valley, the Western Peaks . . .’ He paused. ‘No clans venture into the caverns.’
‘Why not?’ asked Celestia, and Cade could hear a tremor in her voice.
Chert reached out a hand and beckoned to an old hammerhead who sat listening on the other side of the fire. The hammerhead climbed to his feet and approached them. He was stooped with age, but still muscular and powerful-looking. His face and arms were covered in tattoos. As he reached them, the old hammerhead pulled open his leather tunic to reveal an image of a creature, fanged and clawed, devouring a stick-like figure. At its feet were several more figures, twisted and dismembered.
‘Brack was just a young’un,’ the old hammerhead said, ‘when the white trogs caught Brack’s family in the caverns.’ His wide-spaced eyes widened as he tapped the tattoo with a wizened finger. ‘Brack ran. Brack did not look back.’
· CHAPTER THIRTY ·
CELESTIA WAS THE first to wake the following morning, a cold wind plucking at her clothes and ruffling her hair. She opened her eyes . . .
Cade started to wakefulness. He looked about him, bleary-eyed, unable at first to make sense of his surroundings. The pair of them were lying on their blankets on the soft grass in the centre of the deserted forest glade. Around them lay willoak saplings strewn haphazardly beside the dark-singed circle where the fire had been.
‘They’ve gone,’ Celestia was saying. ‘The Shadow Clan. Upped and moved on . . .’ She shook her head in wonder. ‘Like shadows.’
Apart from the saplings and the scorched circle, everything had gone from the clearing. The woven matting walls. The animal hides. The pots and pans . . .
Cade climbed to his feet. He yawned, stretched. Rubbed his eyes. And it was then that his gaze fell on something glinting in the grass at his feet.
It was a bronze ring.
It had been attached to a leather thong and placed close to where his head had been. There was a second ring beside Celestia’s backpack, which she’d used as a pillow. Celestia picked up the ring and put it round her neck, and Cade did the same with his.
She smiled. ‘We’re honorary hammerheads now,’ she said.
Just then there was a yelping bark, followed by a snort, as the three prowlgrins came bounding across the clearing towards them.
‘Rumblix!’ said Cade as the pup leaped up into his arms. ‘Whoa! You seem to be getting heavier by the day!’
‘Looks like our “branch-leapers” had a feast of their own last night,’ Celestia observed, patting Burrlix and Calix and adjusting their bridles and saddles. ‘Fresh quarm offal, I’d say.’
Cade shuddered as he remembered the bitter taste of the quarm meat. Gathering up his phraxmusket, canteen and bedroll, Cade climbed into Burrlix’s saddle. They leaped up to the treetops and set off across the forest canopy until the glittering waters of the Farrow Lake came into view.
‘Breakfast at my house?’ Cade called to Celestia.
‘I’ll race you,’ she called back, and twitched Calix’s reins.
With the riders on their backs, the prowlgrins sped through the forest, soaring effortlessly from branch to branch, then galloped along the lakeside so fast that Cade had to hold on for all he was worth, with Rumblix bounding along at his side.
As they rounded a bend where a spur of rock jutted out into the lake, Cade saw the roof of his cabin far ahead, glinting in the early morning sunshine. Exhilarated by the speed he was going, he pressed his heels into Burrlix’s flanks – and the prowlgrin galloped even faster.
‘Not bad, city boy!’ Celestia called across as she drew alongside him. Then she flicked the reins and sped past. ‘But not quite good enough!’ her voice floated back.
Moments later, the pair of them arrived at the jetty, Celestia first, but Cade close behind. He reached down and patted Burrlix, who was snorting and huffing, and wondered if he’d ever be able to ride as well as this beautiful green-eyed girl.
Steam was rising up from the prowlgrins’ wet fur; white plumes of breath billowed out from their gaping mouths. Celestia slipped down from the saddle and let go of Calix’s bridle, and the prowlgrin trotted down to the water’s edge and began lapping up the cool lake water. Rumblix joined him. And when Cade had dismounted, so did Burrlix. Then all three of them plunged deep into the lake. Calix and Burrlix took in water through their mouths and expelled it from the nostrils at the tops of their heads. Rumblix copied them eagerly, sending two jets of water shooting high up into the air and making Cade and Celestia laugh.
Leaving the three prowlgrins to play, Celestia and Cade headed up the jetty towards the cabin. They climbed the stairs, and Cade was just pushing open the cabin door when a sound from below the wooden veranda stopped him in his tracks.
It was a soft groan. Celestia looked around.
‘Did you hear that?’ said Cade.
The noise came again, low, breathy, filled with pain. Celestia cocked her head to one side, and when it happened a third time, she stared at the boards beneath her feet.
‘It’s coming from below the cabin,’ she said, grabbing the tallow lamp from the table.
The pair of them hurried down the steps, Cade pulling his phraxmusket from his shoulders as he went. Stooping down, they peered into the shadows underneath the veranda.
‘There’s something there,’ Celestia whispered.
Cade squinted. She was right. Black against the gloom was something large and slumped over on its side. Cade’s heart gave a lurch as he realized that he knew what it was. He gripped the phraxmusket tightly, his finger on the trigger.
‘It’s injured, whatever it is,’ said Celestia. She pulled a couple of fire-flints from her pocket, lit the lamp and held it up.
The creature was curled up, its long arms wrapped around its chest. The large misshapen head, with its crooked jaw and thick skull ridge, was twisted round at an awkward angle, and when the light fell upon it, the tiny deep-set eyes opened and stared back at Cade and Celestia, pain-filled and pleading.
‘Oh, you poor, poor thing,’ Celestia whispered softly, reaching out and stroking the side of the creature’s great lumpen face. ‘Whatever’s happened to you?’
She raised the lamp and leaned forward.
‘Earth and sky!’ she exclaimed.
The creature’s right leg was swollen and discoloured. Down near the ankle, there was a thin, suppurating wound, inflamed and raw-looking. Celestia crouched down lower, holding the lamp above her head and inspected the wound more closely. The light glinted on a twist of wire that was poking out from the side of the leg, and when she placed the lamp down on the ground, a short length of wood, and a piece of ragged-ended rope could be seen, half embedded in the infected wound.
‘A snare,’ said Celestia, straightening up as far as the low ceiling of the overhead veranda allowed. She shook her head. ‘Judging by the infection, this happened some time ago.’
Cade swallowed. ‘Six weeks,’ he breathed.
Celestia turned to him. ‘You know about this?’ she said.
‘It . . . it’s my snare,’ he said.
‘Your snare?’ Celestia sounded shocked.
‘I set it when I first arrived here,’ he explained, his voice low and emotionless. ‘I . . . I was hoping to catch something to eat. A weezit maybe. Or one of those plump lakefowl. I heard the trap being sprung, but when I got there, it had gone. The tether rope had been torn apart . . .’ He frowned, rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. ‘Now it all makes sense . . . Something ransacked my camp soon afterwards. And then, on the night I fell ill, I saw a hideous creature standing on the edge of the forest. I thought – hoped – it was just the fever making me see things . . .’ He looked up into Celestia’s piercing green eyes. ‘But now I realize that it was real and just needed help.’ He hesitated. ‘I had no idea.’
For a moment, Celestia simply stared back at him. Then her expression softened. ‘You weren’t to know,’ she said. ‘But setting snares isn’t my way. I believe in seeing what I hunt and ensuring it doesn’t suffer.’
Cade’s face reddened and he put down the phraxmusket. ‘Can you help it, Celestia?’ he asked.
‘The infection’s serious,’ she said, turning back to the creature. ‘But I’ll do my best.’ She took off her backpack and opened it. ‘I’m going to need a bowl and a pair of pliers,’ she said.
Cade ran up the steps and into the cabin. He grabbed a bowl from the shelf, then disappeared into the storeroom to look for the pair of pliers. Moments later, he was back beneath the veranda, the bowl in one hand and the pliers – which, like all the other tools, had been given to him by Gart Ironside – in the other. He held them up.
‘These are what I used to make the snare in the first place,’ he said.
‘Good, good,’ said Celestia briskly. She took the bowl from him and put into it a spoonful of salve, some chopped herbs and crushed berries, and several drops of a green liquid from a vial, then stirred the mixture vigorously. ‘I’m making a poultice,’ she explained.
Pungent smells
filled the air: hyleberry, lakebane, deadwort, woodcamphor . . .
When she was happy that the ingredients were well enough mixed, she began applying the poultice. Cade watched as she dipped her hand in the bowl and scooped out a dollop of the pale green salve. She let it drop down onto the inflamed leg. The creature squirmed and let out a weak cry. But moments later, as the numbing tinctures and herbs started to work, it fell still. Celestia waited a moment longer, then reached out and began smoothing the poultice over the infected area of the leg.
Cade was impressed.
‘Easy now,’ she said softly. ‘This should take the pain away . . .’
A thick coating of the poultice slowly built up over the lower leg as Celestia kept rubbing more in. Gently. Evenly. The creature seemed to relax, its breathing coming ever deeper and easier.
‘That’s the way,’ she kept saying. ‘That’s the way.’ Then she turned to Cade. ‘I’ll keep going,’ she said. ‘You cut the snare wire.’
Cade nodded. He gripped the pliers, realizing that his hand was shaking. He moved forward on his knees and took hold of the twist of wire that stuck out from the swollen flesh. The creature jerked violently, but Celestia kept stroking and whispering, and it fell still once more. Cade inserted the ends of the pliers between the wire and the skin, which was burning hot against the back of his fingers. He squeezed the handles of the pliers.
There was a click.
‘That’s the way,’ said Celestia. She took the last of the poultice from the bowl and rubbed it in with the rest, still whispering softly, mesmerically.