‘Old Glory, phraxbarge out of the Midwood Decks, seeking permission to dock,’ the slaughterer bellowed into the ship-hailer.
Nate looked down to see a stocky flathead guard in grey uniform standing at the end of a jutting gantry. Beside him stood a hefty hammerhead, the red and green ribbons on his coat and the crest on his spiked helmet singling him out as an officer. All around them on the platforms and boardwalks were a score more guards, each of them wearing the same grey uniforms and spiked helmets. Some were standing, their legs apart and braced; others were down on one knee. All of them held heavy phraxmuskets which they had trained on the incoming vessel.
‘Take aim!’ the flathead ordered, and Nate watched uneasily as the other guards readied themselves for the command to fire on the phraxbarge.
‘Shank!’ hissed the captain.
The slaughterer swallowed, put the ship-hailer to his lips again and leaned down over the side of the prow. ‘This … this is the Old Glory,’ he repeated. ‘With a cargo of sumpwood bound for the Hive timber yards. We seek permission to land.’
The officer raised a telescope to his eye and studied the vessel for a few seconds, from bowsprit to rudder, before leaning across and speaking to the guard. The brawny flathead cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed.
‘Where did you set steam from?’
‘The Midwood Decks,’ the slaughterer replied, his voice, like his body, trembling with fear.
Nate saw the corporal lean across to the guard a second time. He held his breath.
‘Permission granted!’ the voice boomed back.
At the helm, the woodtroll captain grunted with relief. ‘Thank Sky for that,’ he muttered as he pushed the thrust lever forward and steadied the tiller.
Glancing back over his shoulder to the stern, he signalled to the Professor to get ready.
‘Here we go,’ whispered the Professor. ‘Follow me, and do exactly as I do,’ he told the others. ‘And remember, keep your heads down and don’t speak to anyone. Understand?’
They all nodded as the Professor unhooked the rope tied across the gantry and climbed onto the rungs – jutting pegs that ran the length of the phraxbarge’s rudder. In the wheelhouse, the captain returned his attention to the flight levers. Above his head, the great phraxchamber began to wheeze and chug as he closed off the vents to the propulsion duct one by one, cutting the incoming air supply and slowing the phraxbarge for its final descent. Slowly, it sank down towards the docking platform, heavy icicles from the phraxchamber clattering down through the air as it did so.
The next instant, the phraxbarge juddered to a standstill. The sound of loud voices echoed back from the fore deck as the crew jumped onto the docking platform and secured the tolley ropes to the bollards while a handful of dockworkers – and as many guards again – scrambled aboard.
At the stern, the Professor was halfway down the rudder and within jumping distance of the platform. Behind him, Weelum followed clumsily, even the simple rungs proving difficult for the great hulking banderbear. Above him, Squall muttered reassurances, while Slip, Nate and Eudoxia prepared to follow him off the gantry and onto the huge rudder.
‘Hold up,’ hissed the Professor, stopping and raising a hand.
The thud of footsteps sounded on the platform, and a guard, phraxmusket in hand, appeared directly below them.
‘Wuh!’ grunted Weelum, letting go of the rudder rungs and jumping past the Professor.
Looking up, the flathead guard’s eyes opened wide with astonishment before, an instant later, the full weight of the banderbear came crashing down on him.
Just then, there came a colossal rumbling noise from the fore deck and the phraxbarge trembled and lurched. Both the Professor and Squall tumbled from the rudder rungs and landed in the banderbear’s outstretched arms. The air erupted with the sound of panic-filled shouts and cries, and the heavy pounding of feet. But all these came, not from the stern of the phraxbarge, but from up near the prow.
‘Good old Captain Barkscruff,’ smiled the Professor as he got to his feet, and Nate, Eudoxia and Slip climbed down to join him.
Weelum straightened up, with the old sky pirate still cupped in his left arm.
‘You can put me down now, Weelum,’ Squall protested. ‘I’m too old and creaky to be a cub!’
Weelum placed the sky pirate gently back on the boards of the platform. At his feet, the figure of the guard gave a low groan, but beneath his battered helmet his eyes remained shut.
‘Good-looking weapon,’ grinned Squall, eyeing the guard’s phraxmusket. ‘We’ll make a swap, shall we?’ Placing his old battered musket beside the unconscious guard, he shouldered the shiny, newly forged phraxmusket.
‘Come on!’ urged the Professor. ‘Let’s get out of here before we’re spotted.’
Nate and the others followed close behind as the Professor, hood pulled down low over his face and without looking back, made for the nearest staircase down from the docking platform. As they headed down the first of fourteen flights that zigzagged all the way to the ground below, Nate glanced back at the phraxbarge.
The sumpwood log cargo that had been so firmly secured to the fore deck had mysteriously broken free, and the logs were now hovering in mid-air just above it. The woodtroll captain was standing with one hand on his hip and the other gesticulating wildly, hurling insults and instructions at the deckhands, who were clambering over the spilled cargo, long boathooks in their hands. They were stabbing down into the bark with them and tugging hard, in a desperate effort to prevent the logs from floating away. Above them, the dock cranes had swung round, and deckhands and dockworkers were doing their best to attach the dangling ropes to the logs – while the guards, distracted, roared with laughter.
Nate turned away and continued down the stairs, gripping the side banister and taking them two at a time. At the bottom, he saw Eudoxia and Slip looking up at him, questioning expressions on their faces. Nate smiled.
‘Bit of a problem with the cargo, apparently,’ he said, stepping down to the ground. ‘The ropes holding it in place must have snapped.’
The Professor nodded. ‘Captain Barkscruff was as good as his word.’ He chuckled. ‘You can always trust a woodtroll.’
Sticking close together, the group made their way downhill, through the forest of posts and girders that supported the docking gantries overhead, and emerged from the shadows on the lower dockside. Above them, the cloud cover had thickened once more, and the sky was dark and threatening. Hurrying across a deserted square, then darting down a shadow-filled alley, the Professor led the others on towards the Hive river.
Just then, from the far end of the narrow alley, there came the echoing thud thud of marching feet. Shouting and jeering voices rose up above anguished cries. At the Professor’s signal, the group darted back out of sight, pressing themselves against the doorways and timber walls of the ramshackle buildings.
They peered out cautiously to see a long line of guards marching past the end of the alley. Dressed in the same drab uniform of the Hive Militia – grey buttoned-back topcoats and peaked funnel hats – they were escorting a line of chained prisoners. With the light behind them, casting everyone into silhouette, it was difficult to see who exactly had been arrested. It was Eudoxia who recognized them first by the cut of their clothes.
‘Great Gladers,’ she gasped, turning to Nate. ‘They’re all Great Gladers. Like you and me.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Like my father …’
As the last of them passed by, the Professor emerged and beckoned the others on. They hurried to the end of the eerily quiet alleyway. It opened up onto a broader, though equally quiet, road that ran parallel to the thunderous river. On the far side of the road was the magnificent bridge they had seen from the air, its intricate framework of honey-coloured wood seeming almost to glow in the overcast gloom.
‘Here we are, the Sumpwood Bridge,’ said the Professor. ‘The greatest structural achievement since the days of the great architect Vox Verlix of Old Unde
rtown.’
‘And those buildings?’ said Nate, looking at the long galleries that ran the length of the bridge, with their spires and towers, so elegant and well crafted compared with the simpler rough-hewn constructions back in the Midwood Decks.
‘They,’ said the Professor, ‘house the Sumpwood Bridge Academy. I have friends here.’
Checking that the way was clear, they scurried across the road and onto the bridge. Stepping onto the timber decking – if decking could adequately describe the fantastically intricate inlaid wooden mosaic – Nate felt himself bathed in warmth. It emanated from the carved buildings, with their beading and curlicues and gleaming varnished panelling, that surrounded him on every side. Next to him, Eudoxia let out a gasp and Slip’s eyes opened wide with wonder.
‘Well, I never,’ croaked the old sky pirate, holding up his hand to test the golden light which, like the warmth, enveloped them.
At his side, Weelum gave an appreciative growl.
‘This way,’ said the Professor, checking the coast was clear.
The bridge, like the rest of Hive, was remarkably quiet. The Professor stopped outside a narrow building with a low sloping roof dotted with rows of triangular jutting windows and tall spiral towers at each end. Its door, like everything else on the Sumpwood Bridge, was finely decorated, and there was a small copper plaque, green with age, screwed into the wall on the left.
At the top, and underlined, was the word Archivists. Beneath it were three names. Klug Junkers, Togtuft Hegg and Magnus Spool. The third name had been roughly scored through, and recently, judging by how brightly the scratches in the copper glinted through the verdigris.
‘This is it,’ said the Professor. He raised a fist and knocked at the door.
From inside, there came the sounds of frantic activity. Scraping chairs, rustling papers and the clatter and grind of metal, along with hushed, urgent voices. From the far end of the bridge, they heard another noise. It was the pounding of marching feet, and it was coming their way.
‘Hurry up,’ the Professor muttered under his breath, knocking again.
‘I’ll be right there,’ came a voice, followed by more scraping and scuffling. ‘Just coming …’
There was a rasping sound as a small panel, decorated with the carved head of a fromp, slid back and a wary eye peered out.
‘Who are you?’
‘It’s me,’ said the Professor. ‘Ambris. Ifflix Hentadile’s brother.’
The eye blinked twice, then the panel slammed shut. Nate looked round anxiously as the sound of the marching feet came closer. The next moment, there was the soft grating of metal as a bolt was pulled across, and the door creaked open. A tall mottled goblin in shabby academic robes stood in the doorway, his face taut with concern. He looked round at the small group clustered in the doorway.
‘Ifflix’s brother?’ he said. ‘And you seem to have brought some friends with you … You’d best come in.’
One by one, the six travellers stepped inside and lowered the hoods of their oilskin capes. The Professor stepped forward, a hand outstretched in greeting, only to be stopped by the academic, who had a finger raised to his mouth.
There was silence in the narrow but high-ceilinged chamber, its walls lined with shelves that were crammed with papers, charts, hanging barkscrolls and complicated architectural drawings. Sumpwood furniture floated in clusters above their heads, and everywhere was bathed in a soft warm golden light.
Outside, the footsteps grew louder and, as they passed the door, the whole building seemed to ripple with the pounding of the marching feet. As they died away, the academic visibly relaxed. He took the Professor’s hand and shook it.
‘Forgive me, Ambris,’ he said, ‘but these are dark times in the city of Hive, and no place for Great Gladers.’
The Professor nodded solemnly. ‘We have much to talk over, archivist Junkers.’
‘Please, call me Klug,’ said the mottled goblin. ‘Our cities might be at daggers drawn, but we are all friends here …’
‘Well said, Klug,’ came a voice from above, and looking up, Nate saw a second academic sitting at a floating lectern high in the rafters. Tugging on its anchor chain, he descended towards the floor. ‘I’m Togtuft Hegg. Welcome to our humble cloister, and please make yourselves comfortable,’ said the long-hair goblin.
As the Professor introduced the others one by one to the archivists, Klug and Togtuft pulled down sumpwood armchairs for them to sit on – all, that is, except for Weelum, who settled himself comfortably on the floor beside Squall’s chair.
‘There is someone I think you should meet, Ambris,’ said Togtuft, turning to the Professor as his colleague Klug handed round a tray of tiny sapwine glasses.
‘There is?’ said the Professor, intrigued. ‘And who might that be?’
‘Cirrus Gladehawk,’ came a deep voice from the shadows in the corner of the study. ‘The last person to see your brother alive.’
• CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN •
‘This way,’ said Cirrus Gladehawk, turning up the collar of his grubby topcoat and pulling down his crushed funnel hat of black quarmskin until its battered brim cast his face in shadow.
He was a tall upright fourthling with heavy-set features and clear blue eyes that sparkled from beneath a low brow, giving him an alert vigilant look. Though naturally tall, now, in his shabby and nondescript clothes, he walked with a stooped back and a shambling gait that made him appear shorter and slighter than he actually was.
Beside him, dressed in his oilskin cape with its heavy hood, the Professor fell into step as the two of them made their way across the magnificent Sumpwood Bridge.
‘If we run into the Bloody Blades,’ Cirrus cautioned, ‘turn and walk the other way.’
‘Bloody Blades?’ the Professor said.
‘Elite troops of the Hemtuft Battleaxe Legion,’ Cirrus told him. ‘Long-hairs, the lot of them. Brutal killers that the Clan Council uses to spread terror throughout the city. “Keeping order”, the High Clan Chief, Kulltuft Warhammer, calls it.’
At the end of the bridge, they turned left onto a pitted track which ran along the banks of the torrential Hive river, spume from its swirling waters rising in great squalls of drizzle. On the opposite bank lay the slums of the lower West Ridge, with their squat workshops, smithies and ramshackle forges, each one belching thick black smoke from tall crooked furnace chimneys. On this side of the river, low sheds and thatched huts soon gave way to the smallholdings and farmland of the lower East Ridge, lush vineyards stretching out into the distance.
Heading along the steepening track, Cirrus and the Professor climbed towards the gorge, the thunderous waterfall that bisected the city of Hive. They were about halfway up the ridge and had reached the densely populated terraces of hive towers, longhouses and clusterhuts on the right when they heard the sound of marching feet coming in their direction.
Cirrus reached out and pulled the Professor off the path and back behind a mist-drenched outcrop of black rock. At their back, the great white curtain of the gorge waterfall thundered down in a deafening roar. Crouching in the shadow of the rock, they waited, Cirrus Gladehawk’s hand closing on the handle of his phraxpistol.
On the track, a regiment of tall long-hair goblin guards marched past. They wore burnished copperwood helmets, black topcoats with silver braiding and buttons, and polished phraxmuskets with large powerful chambers in their stocks. From their white double-buttoned waistcoats, clusters of leadwood bullets hung, and at their sides, each had holstered a short-handled axe. Their bare feet slapped down on the wet path percussively as they marched by in ranks of five abreast, taking up the entire width of the path.
Cirrus and the Professor waited for the regiment to pass and, with the coast clear, were about to step back onto the track when there came the sound of agonized screams, just detectable above the roar of the waterfall. The Professor looked up.
At the top of the gorge, where the river burst through the deep channel between the two ri
dges and began its churning, frothing descent, was what looked like an overhanging crane, like the ones employed in the docks to unload cargo. From its jutting crossbeam, three barrels hung from ropes, each one containing a screaming prisoner who had been tethered inside. As the Professor watched, the crane swung over the waterfall and released the barrels.
One after the other, they disappeared into the foaming torrent of water and flashed past the outcrop of rock the Professor and Cirrus were standing beside. Moments later, the barrels resurfaced, bobbing about in the seething waters of the Hive river below.
‘Take aim!’ The command sounded from the track below Cirrus and the Professor. ‘Fire!’
The sound of fifty phraxmuskets firing cut through the roar of the waterfall. Below in the river, the barrels and their hapless occupants exploded in a mass of splintered wood and bloodstained water.
‘It’s called barrelling,’ said Cirrus bitterly. ‘One of the High Clan Chief’s little innovations. It’s his way of dealing with any in Hive who cause him displeasure, and strikes terror into the rest.’ He smiled bleakly as they resumed their walk up the wet, slippery track. ‘As well as providing the Bloody Blades with target practice.’
‘I had no idea things had got this bad,’ said the Professor, shaking his head.
As they drew level with the top of the waterfall, he looked across at the flat jutting rock on which the wooden crane stood. Two scruffy trogs and a malnourished-looking fourthling in the grey uniforms of the Hive Militia were coiling up ropes and packing chains and manacles into sacks. They ignored the Professor and Cirrus as the two of them hurried past and continued through the high-sided, shadow-filled gorge.
All at once, emerging on the other side, the low sun struck their faces. Cirrus tugged at his funnel hat, pulling the jutting peak down low over his eyes. The Professor raised a shielding hand. In front of them, above the glistening lake of Back Ridge, a rainbow spanned the sky. As the roaring of the waterfall slowly diminished behind them, Cirrus turned to the Professor.
Edge Chronicles 10: The Immortals Page 27