Edge Chronicles 10: The Immortals Read online

  ‘I am Galston Prade’s chief clerk, Felftis Brack. What can I do for you?’ he asked, getting to his feet, his snailskin topcoat creaking.

  He noticed with satisfaction how both young miners’ eyes paused momentarily on the elegant double-barrelled phraxpistol at his belt. It was just as well, Felftis thought, to show these Eastern Woods types that he wasn’t to be trifled with.

  ‘My name is Nate Quarter,’ the taller of the two began. ‘Son of Abe Quarter, former sergeant of the Prade phraxmine …’

  ‘So, you’re mine sergeant Quarter’s son?’ said Felftis, taking a closer look at the lad.

  He was young, his clothes were worn and scruffy and, by the evidence of the blades of woodthyme and meadowsage sticking out of his collar, he had been sleeping rough in a ditch somewhere. But the lad did have the same look of defiant confidence his father had had, Felftis noted.

  It was a look he remembered only too well on the face of Abe Quarter, all those years ago, when the young miner had joined the Prade phraxmine. Felftis had been a junior clerk on the way up, but even back then, he had been struck by Abe Quarter’s honesty and integrity. Felftis had followed his career as he rose to be mine sergeant – just as he, Felftis, had risen to the heights of chief clerk. Now, here was his son, with some grey goblin scuttler, standing in front of him in his study with that same look on his face …

  ‘I was sorry to learn of your father’s accident,’ the chief clerk said, an expression of deep sorrow crumpling his pale features. ‘Most unfortunate …’

  ‘I believe Grint Grayle, the new mine sergeant, was responsible,’ said the young phraxminer, his eyes blazing. ‘But I can’t prove it. What I can say with certainty, though – because I’ve seen it with my own eyes – is that the mine sergeant is stealing …’

  Felftis gasped, his face a picture of astonishment. ‘Stealing?’ he said.

  ‘Stealing from the mine,’ said Nate. ‘For every ten chests of stormphrax shipped back to Great Glade, Grint Grayle keeps one for himself.’

  ‘But the chests are sealed,’ said Felftis. ‘Sealed and stamped with Galston Prade’s own personal crest, and kept in the keep until shipment.’

  ‘As mine sergeant, Grint Grayle is in charge of the keep,’ Nate explained. ‘He breaks the seals on the lightchests, steals the best shards for himself and ships the rest back to you.’ He frowned. ‘The Prade mine produces far more than you can be aware of. I thought Galston Prade ought to know …’

  ‘Upon my word!’ the chief clerk exclaimed. ‘But this is outrageous.’ He shook his head, his spike of oiled hair waving like a lufwood tree in a gale. ‘On behalf of my master, Galston Prade, I can’t thank you enough for this information, Nate Quarter,’ said Felftis, his hand outstretched. ‘I could tell the moment I saw you that you had your father’s honesty and integrity.’ He shook hands warmly with Nate and Slip in turn. ‘Rest assured, this matter shall be dealt with.’ He paused. ‘And as for you, Nate Quarter … Do you intend to return to the Prade phraxmine?’

  The young phraxminer shook his head. ‘Those days are behind us now, aren’t they, Slip?’

  The goblin scuttler nodded his head.

  ‘No, Slip and I intend to find honest employment in Copperwood,’ said Nate.

  ‘Excellent, excellent,’ smiled the chief clerk. ‘Well, thank you again.’

  With his arms open wide at his side, he ushered them to the door. Nate and Slip stumbled backwards awkwardly. Striding round them, his large webbed feet slapping on the varnished boards, Felftis Brack seized the door handle.

  ‘And good luck for the future,’ he said. ‘Of course, I need hardly add,’ he continued in a low voice as he pulled the door open, ‘until this matter is resolved, you must speak of it to no one else.’

  The two phraxminers nodded as they stepped out of the study and Felftis closed the door firmly behind them.

  • CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO •

  Outside the chief clerk’s study, Nate and Slip stood for a moment at the top of the broad marble staircase with its ornately carved stanchions and curved mouldings, looking down the long sweep of the stairs. Nate rested his hand on Slip’s shoulder.

  ‘We’ve done what we can,’ he said. ‘Now the rest is up to Galston Prade.’

  ‘That clerk in the strange topcoat believed us, didn’t he, friend Nate?’ said Slip.

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ said Nate. ‘And I’ll tell you what, Slip, I certainly wouldn’t like to be in Grint Grayle’s shoes when Galston Prade gets to hear about what he’s been up to.’

  The grey goblin nodded seriously. ‘Serves him right for mistreating pit prowlgrins, that’s what Slip says.’

  They descended the grand staircase, crossed the large hallway, lined with statues, and went out through the arched doorway into the spacious gardens beyond. The sun was high, coming and going from behind clumps of cloud that passed slowly across the sky like herds of migrating hammelhorns. Nate glanced up.

  ‘If we set off now,’ he said, ‘we should make it to Copperwood before dark. What do you say, Slip?’

  ‘Say, friend Nate?’ he said. ‘Slip says he can’t wait to start a new life in Copperwood.’

  ‘Yes, me too,’ said Nate.

  The pair of them headed down the gravel path towards the prowlgrin roosts, where visitors to the mansion tethered their prowlgrins. As they rounded a dense silverbeech hedge, they stopped and looked up at the roost pillar in front of them. Three prowlgrins were tethered in its branches. Two were deep orange; the third, a skewbald. Each was eating from the metal troughs that were secured by iron brackets to its branch, a splattering of bloody giblets and offal staining the dusty earth below.

  ‘Where’s Tallix?’ asked Slip, staring at the empty branch above their heads.

  ‘There now, isn’t that nice?’ a voice sounded nearby, followed by a deep rumbling purr of satisfaction.

  Nate and Slip turned to see Tallix perched on a low wall a little way off, at the edge of a herb garden that had been laid out in a complicated geometric pattern of squares and circles. The shapes bisected each other, creating spaces in between which were filled with loamy earth and overflowing with aromatic herbs. Woodthyme and meadowsage; sweet lavender and orange nibblick; featherdill, scallions, blackanis and waterchives … Each one offered up a scent that together – warmed by the sun and stirred by the soft breeze – formed an intoxicating perfume that rose up into the air as Nate and Slip approached.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ said a girl, peering round the flanks of the prowlgrin. She had long fair hair the colour of golden gladewheat, tied up at the back with elaborate braids. ‘Is this magnificent creature yours?’ she asked.

  ‘He is,’ said Nate, frowning. ‘We tied him up at the roost pillar …’

  ‘What’s his name?’ she asked with a smile.

  ‘Tallix,’ said Nate, ‘but …’

  ‘A noble name for a noble creature. Isn’t that right, Tallix?’ she said, ruffling the prowlgrin’s beard and tickling him under his chin till his purring growl became louder than ever. ‘I’ve always loved black prowlgrins,’ she said. ‘They’re so loyal … So dependable …’

  Tallix looked up at her through dreamy eyes and purred contentedly.

  ‘He seems to like you,’ said Nate, smiling as the tall, willowy girl emerged from behind Tallix and stood facing him, hands on her hips.

  She was wearing an old topcoat with numerous pockets containing trowels, shears and small digging forks. At her feet, Nate noticed, was a wicker basket overflowing with bunches of freshly cut herbs, gathered for use in the mansion kitchens.

  ‘Oh, it isn’t me,’ she smiled, and tossed a strand of long fair hair out of her eyes. ‘It’s the woodsalvia.’

  She held up her hand and revealed a clump of dark succulent leaves, some of them bruised and secreting a pale juice that smelled a little like bristleweed tea and had stained the girl’s fingers a delicate shade of purple. She rubbed a finger and thumb together slowly.

  ‘Woodsalvia balm,’
she said, and stroked the soft fur below Tallix’s quivering nostrils. ‘It’s perfect for saddle rash, isn’t it, Tallix boy?’

  Nate frowned. ‘Saddle rash?’ he said.

  ‘He’s used to a single saddle,’ she said, nodding. ‘This double saddle is bigger. It’s been chafing …’ With one hand holding up the edge of the heavy lufwood and tilderleather saddle, she used the other to rub the fragrant oil into Tallix’s back. The purring became louder still. Then, satisfied she hadn’t missed anything, she re-tightened the prowlgrin’s saddle straps and patted him warmly on the flanks. ‘He should be fine now,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Nate, impressed.

  He wondered if the elderly gnokgoblin butler approaching from the other side of the gardens knew that his kitchen maid would make an equally skilful prowlgrin groom. As Nate watched, she picked up the basket and slipped it onto her arm, her clear green eyes gleaming in the morning sunlight. Then, after wiping her hands on her topcoat, she reached into the basket.

  ‘Here,’ she said, seizing a bunch of the succulent leafed woodsalvia and thrusting it into Nate’s hands. ‘Take this. Just in case …’

  And with that, she turned on her heels and, her feet crunching on the gravel, walked briskly off towards the kitchens, the basket swinging to and fro on her arm. Nate hesitated for a moment, then, plucking up courage, was just about to call after her to ask her name, when she reached the mansion, pulled the door open – and was gone.

  Nate smiled wistfully. ‘Come on, then,’ he said to Slip. ‘Let’s get to Copperwood.’

  The pair of them climbed up into the double saddle, Slip at the front this time, with Nate looping the reins over the grey goblin’s shoulders. They were about to set off when the gnokgoblin butler shuffled past, clutching a pair of shears and an empty basket.

  ‘If it’s herbs you’re after,’ Nate called to the butler, leaning across in the saddle, ‘your beautiful kitchen maid has already gathered a basketful …’

  The gnokgoblin frowned and scratched his head. ‘Kitchen maid?’ he said. ‘Beautiful?’ He chuckled throatily. ‘Been a long time since old Wandle’s been paid a compliment on her beauty, I reckon,’ he said, his eyes twinkling.

  ‘She was here a moment ago,’ said Nate, puzzled. ‘Green eyes. Long fair hair that shone like—’

  The gnokgoblin butler laughed all the louder. ‘That bain’t the kitchen maid,’ he said.

  ‘No?’ said Nate.’

  ‘No,’ said the gnokgoblin. He wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve. ‘That’s the master’s daughter,’ he said. ‘Eudoxia Prade.’

  • CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE •

  ‘Whoa there, boy,’ said Nate, trying his best to rein in the skittish prowlgrin. ‘Whoa!’

  The warm westerly breeze had swung round to the north, becoming colder and stiffening to a near gale. The fluffy clouds overhead had turned to dark brooding banks. A storm seemed likely, and Tallix – like his wild ancestors – was being gripped by an urge to go galloping off through the streets of Great Glade to greet the howling wind and driving rain.

  ‘Slip doesn’t like it, friend Nate,’ the grey goblin said, his voice trembling as the prowlgrin trampled about, tossing his head and emitting curious whinnying barks of excitement.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ said Nate. His knuckles were white as he gripped the straining reins. ‘Though I think, rather than going back through busy New Undertown, it might be safer to take the northern route to Copperwood …’

  He gave the prowlgrin a little more rein. Tallix immediately lurched forward and cantered off down the road, his thick black fur blown about like gladebarley in the wind.

  ‘Sli-i-i-p sti-i-ll do-oe-oe-sn’t li-i-ike i-i-t,’ Slip said, his voice juddering as he bounced up and down at the front of the saddle.

  ‘Just grip on with your legs,’ Nate told him, wishing he felt as confident as he sounded.

  They skirted round the choppy lake at a pace, the glowering sky above turning it a dark, forbidding grey. Reed herons stood huddled in clusters on the banks, their backs to the wind; windswifts flitted over the surface of the water, feeding on the clouds of woodmidges that had begun to swarm. Turning left up a broad tree-lined avenue that led away from the lake, they headed northeast. Soon, the opulent mansions and luxurious lakeside residences of New Lake were behind them, replaced by rows of double-storey hive houses with tall conical roofs. The traffic on the road increased, not that Tallix was deterred. Bounding along with great arcing leaps, he jumped over every obstacle he came to – once coming down on the back of a wagonload of heavy logs before leaping back into the air again.

  ‘Oi, you wanna learn to ride that thing!’ the cloddertrog wagon driver bellowed after them, shaking his fist.

  Nate’s apologies were lost to the wind as Tallix galloped on. Ahead of them, the mighty trees of the Old Forest district, the last remaining area of original Deepwoods still standing in Great Glade, were silhouetted against the sky; pale green on deepest, darkest grey. With a whinny of delight, Tallix bounded towards them and, holding on grimly, Nate and Slip had no choice but to go with him.

  ‘Trust your prowlgrin.’ Abe Quarter’s words of advice to his son came back to Nate as the trees loomed closer.

  All very well in theory, thought Nate, but Tallix seemed to be charging straight for a vast lufwood tree at the end of the avenue. A family of woodhogs, squealing with indignation, scuttled out of their way. The prowlgrin gathered speed.

  ‘Friend Nate!’ Slip gasped. ‘Friend … whoooah!’

  Beneath them, Tallix gave an excited yelp as, with his powerful back legs kicking off, he soared up high into the air. Nate and Slip felt their stomachs sink to their boots. A moment later, and with a resounding thud, Tallix landed on a broad lower branch, clinging on with his stubby forepaws, gathering his hindquarters, before kicking off again. Up, up, higher and higher the prowlgrin jumped, before crashing through the forest canopy. The great empty expanse of low sky opened up before them.

  Nate gripped on tightly as they bounded on over the treetops. Before him, the grey goblin was rigid. Nate leaned forward. ‘Are you all right, Slip?’ he asked.

  Slip looked round slowly, and Nate was surprised to see a huge grin plastered across the grey goblin’s face.

  ‘All right?’ he said. ‘Slip’s better than all right! Slip’s never had such an exciting ride – now he knows to grip on with his legs.’

  He turned back and resumed his statue-like rigidity. Nate smiled to himself as they galloped on across the treetops of Old Forest, the bustling streets of Great Glade left suddenly behind. All around, the treetops dipped and swayed, their pale leaves opening up to reveal darker depths below. Suddenly, something caught Nate’s eye. It was a bright light, turquoise blue, glowing to his right. The canopy closed up and the light disappeared, only to reappear a moment later, brighter than before.

  Whatever’s that? Nate wondered.

  He tugged at the reins, trying to slow Tallix down so that he could get a better look. Above, there was a flash of lightning and a distant roll of thunder, followed by heavy drops of rain. As it grew heavier, drumming on the leaves around them, the excited prowlgrin’s intense frenzy seemed suddenly to have been spent, and Tallix eased up. They came to a stop at the top of a towering ironwood pine and peered down through a break in the canopy at the curious greeny-blue glow, now just ahead.

  ‘Let’s take a closer look,’ said Nate.

  Tallix headed down through the forest, the wind hissing and howling all round them. As they came lower, Nate and Slip realized that the turquoise light was coming from two immense lullabee trees that – through intricate cultivation and over hundreds of years – had been plaited together, twig by twig and branch by branch, to form a colossal archway. The arch was at the centre of a vast clearing, with barracks, guard rooms and munitions stores both on the ground and fixed high up in the surrounding trees. On the far side of the lullabee arch was the drill field which, as Tallix approached, Nate saw was fill
ing up with battalions of guards.

  ‘Whoa, boy,’ said Nate, and tugged at the reins.

  Tallix came to a halt. They were standing at the end of a stout jutting willoak branch that afforded a perfect view of the activity below, and protection from the falling rain.

  ‘My father told me about this,’ said Nate, nodding knowingly. ‘It happens every day, at three hours.’

  ‘What does?’ asked Slip.

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Nate.

  A regiment of Great Glade guards, six abreast, was marching across the field from left to right, their phraxmuskets resting on their left shoulders and the sprigs of forest foliage at the top of their funnel hats fluttering in the wind and rain. From the opposite direction, a company of Freeglade Lancers – traditional thornwood lances now supplemented by twin phraxpistols at their sides – trotted in from early patrol beneath the arch and joined them. All round the clearing, sliding down long poles from the tree barracks, came cohort after cohort of guards, who gathered in rows before being marched across the drill field to the barked commands of their sergeants.

  Soon a vast phalanx of troops had formed on the ground beneath them, a patchwork of colours as the various groupings of the Great Glade Guard – from the chequerboard-collared Freeglade Lancers and blue-uniformed Cloddertrog Constabulary to the distinctive grey and orange jackets of the Waif Guild and Outer City Scouts – ordered themselves in ranks. A Freeglade Lancer corporal on prowlgrinback stepped forward and raised a hammelhorn bugle to his lips. He blew hard.

  The two-note clarion call heralded the arrival of a mighty cannon, thirty strides long and cast in solid brass. Drawn by a dozen hammelhorns in tandem harness, the cannon emerged through the glowing lullabee arch and rumbled over the hard ground, attendant guards marching along on both sides.