The Farrow Ridges

We set off as the dawn broke over the jagged tree-fringed peaks of the farrow ridges, towards the spot where my friend, Hedgethorn Lammergyre, had rescued Captain Ironshank. My plan was simple.

Hedgethorn and Alcestia were to enter the caverns by the traditional route taken by caverneers - the tunnel from the first of the Five Falls. They were to proceed to the Underlake and create as much noise and spectacle as possible, to draw the white trogs from the stalactite forest.

Meanwhile, Captain Ironshank would manoeuvre his phraxlighter as close as possible to the pot-hole whose shaft, I’d surmised, led directly into the stalactite cluster that dripped from the mighty cavern roof. Here, the strange trog comb was to be found - interconnecting caves within the great stalactites themselves - in which the white trogs lived. If Alcestia was right, and I had no reason to disbelieve her, this is where her father would be held prisoner, tethered in one of the comb caves and left untended while the trogs fished in the lake below. I was to be lowered down the pot-hole and wait for Hedgethorn and Alcestia’s diversion, before making my rescue attempt.

Half an hour later, Captain Ironshank set the phraxlighter to hover, and began to winch me down into the blackness of the pot-hole below. I descended into the gloom, an old phraxpistol and a bayonet from the Hive Militia stuffed into my belt. In the inside pocket of my topcoat, wrapped in flaxbush gauze, was the red jewel Ironshank had stolen from the white trogs.

After what seemed an eternity in the blackness, I emerged into the vast cavern, close by the great cluster of stalactites. Reaching out, I pulled myself across to the nearest stalactite, the size of several ironwoods at its top. Peering down, I could see a maze of cave openings along the stalactite’s length, connected with openings in the other stalactites by walkways of fishgut rope and snailshell treads. Climbing down the great stalctite, I reached just such a walkway and, slipping off my tether rope and taking care to attach it to one of the snailshell treads, I entered the trog comb.

I searched the sparsely-furnished niches and rock alcoves of ten stalactites, expecting at any moment to be discovered by a hulking white trog, but found all to be empty. Just as Alcestia had said, the trogs used the trog comb to sleep in, and little else, spending the rest of their waking lives fishing their beloved Underlake, or sitting in clusters by its shore adorning themselves with fish skeletons and crab claws. Sure enough, glancing down from a walkway leading to the central stalactite of the forest, I saw the whole village on the milk-white waters of the lake in their distinctive long canoes, busy lowering and hauling up nets heavy with outlandish-looking lakefish.

Stepping into the central stalactite, I saw the old caverneer at once, slumped in the corner of the high-ceilinged, circular cave that took up most of the stalactite’s interior. His ankle was held by a bone shackle made from the jaws of a stonepike, a thick length of fishgut rope leading from it to a bone ring embedded in the cave floor.

‘Roost marshal?’ I whispered. ‘Are you all right?’

With a low groan, the caverneer looked up and I could see that he’d been badly beaten.

‘The jewel…’ he wheezed through swollen, bloodied lips. ‘The tip of the great stalactite… They think I stole it, Forden…’

Just then, from outside, coming from the far shore of the Underlake came the sound of whooping shouts and calls.

‘Come, friend,’ I whispered, drawing my bayonet and slicing through the fishgut rope. ‘We haven’t much time…’

My neighbour’s plan was simple enough, but required a phraxlighter if it was to work. That, of course, we had. There was a phraxlighter - one of the small ferryvessels of the sky tavern, Felix Lodd - lying up on High Farrow. Unfortunately, because of the stupidity of its pilot, Gart Ironshank, it was not flightworthy. I was confident, however, that with his expertise, as well as the muscle that Forden and I could provide, we would be able to have the Zephyr up and flying without too much trouble.

I have to say, I was still feeling rather angry with Gart. The fourthling’s theft of the precious red jewel had been inexcusable, no matter what debts he had run up at the gaming tables, though to his credit he seemed as keen as we were to put matters right before the white trogs took it upon themselves to wreak revenge on the caverneer.

‘Pass me that scully-wrench,’ he said.

I selected a likely looking tool from the pile before me and handed it across.

‘That’s a heft-spanner,’ he said, grimacing. He was standing on top of the phraxchamber, endeavouring to hold four buoyancy rods in place while he lowered an upper cooling plate into position. ‘A scully-wrench is long and thin and has a pivot socket at the end…’

‘Is this is?’

He seized the tool without saying a word and I watched, fascinated, as his hands danced over the internal workings of the intricate phraxchamber with the dexterity of an expert. The whole contraption, which less than an hour earlier, had been lying in pieces, was slowly but surely being re-assembled. I was impressed, and asked Gart where this expertise came from.

‘I used to be a flight engineer,’ he admitted, his voice muffled, because of the cotterpins pressed between his lips. ‘Back in Great Glade. Good career. Good prospects,’ he added. ‘Before I fell victim to the wiles of Lady Luck. I made a fortune at the splinters table, then lost it all again - and more.’ He sighed. ‘It got so bad, I had no option but to flee those I owed money to.’

‘It’s a mug’s game, gambling,’ Forden chirped up from the front of the phraxlighter.

My neighbour, assisted by Alcestia, the caverneer’s daughter, had spent most of the afternoon attaching new boards to the shattered sections of the hull, discussing and refining his plan between them as they worked. Thankfully, the recent storms had left me with plenty of spare timber, and, excellent carpenter that he is, it hadn’t taken my neighbour long to repair all the damage to the hull with the excellent copperwood. Now he was busy planing the new sections down.

‘My father’s business was completely ruined, thanks to his own fateful love of rumblestakes,’ Forden was saying. With a sigh, he pulled the plane away from the wood and ran his fingertips over the bow. ‘That should see us right,’ he announced. ‘How’s the phraxchamber coming along?’

‘Almost done,’ said Gart. ‘Luckily, neither the explosion chamber nor the phraxlamp were damaged.’ He cranked a final bolt into place, grunting as he tightened it, and straightened up. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s see whether she’ll fly.’

The four of us climbed aboard. The Zephyr was typical of her kind, with the helm at the front, where Gart stood at the controls, and a broad upholstered bench at the stern, where Forden, Alcestia and I sat. I gripped the bone talisman around my neck for good luck.

There was a hum and a splutter as Gart Ironshank started the engine up. It didn’t sound healthy. Forden and I exchanged troubled glances. With a snort of annoyance, Gart seized the scully-wrench. I thought he was about to do some fine tuning. Instead, he turned and struck the side of the pharxchamber hard. This was more like my own style of mechanical repairs; it also did the trick. With a loud roar, a jet of white light exploded from the propulsion duct, a plume of steam billowed from the funnel, and the Zephyr rose majestically into the air.

I let out a cheer and kissed the bone amulet. It had never let me down. ‘Well done, Gart!’ I cried.

Gart Ironshank turned towards Forden, his face ashen grey. ‘That was the easy part,’ he said grimly. ‘Now the hard work begins.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s going to be touch and go, believe me. Sky willing, we can pull off this plan of yours…’

The sun had set by the time the caverneer’s daughter and I got to the hivehut of my friend, Hedgethorn Lammergyre.

‘Forden Drew! How good to see you,’ the old grey goblin greeted me as we approached, ‘and who is your beautiful companion?’

Hedgethorn and a fourthling I didn’t recognize were sitting on willowwicker chairs on the jetty at the Farrow Lake’s edge. I introduced the caverneer’s daughter, who’s name I’d only just learnt myself on our walk down from Midridge. ‘This is Alcestia, the daughter of a friend of mine…’

‘It’s my father, he needs help,’ Alcestia interrupted me, and proceeded to tell Hedgethorn and his companion the story of what had happened in the water caverns.

The fourthling got to his feet and strode across to the jetty’s edge.

‘Allow me to introduce Captain Gart Ironshank,’ said Hedgethorn, indicating the fourthling, who was staring up at the Five Falls, deep in thought.

‘Will you help us?’ I asked Hedgethorn.

‘The white trogs are primitive, but slow to anger as a rule, and generally peaceable. There has been no history of bad feeling between them and the caverneers that I know of, so something must have provoked them,’ Hedgethorn reasoned aloud. ‘But what?’

Captain Ironshank turned to face us, the colour draining from his face. ‘I think I might have the answer,’ he said falteringly. He reached into the pocket of his topcoat. ‘When you rescued me, Hedgethorn,’ the captain continued, ‘I was on an expedition of my own…’ He withdrew his hand from his topcoat and opened it. There, nestling in his palm was a bright red jewel.

‘The tip of the great stalactite,’ said Hedgethorn, ’sacred to the white trogs, my dear Gart. Whatever possessed you?’

Captain Ironshank hung his head. ‘I have debts, Hedgethorn, run up at the gaming tables of the sky tavern, Felix Lodd, and no way of paying them.’ He stared at us. ‘This was my only chance. I stole into the caverns last night, took the jewel from the central pillar of the stalactite forest and made my escape - only to crash my phraxlighter and stumble down a hole…’

‘Which is where I found you,’ said Hedgethorn.

Alcestia, her dark eyes blazing, drew both her phraxpistols and would have shot the captain on the spot if I hadn’t stepped in front of her.

‘This is no way to settle the matter,’ said Hedgethorn. ‘Gart, you have to put things right.’

‘I shall return the jewel,’ Captain Ironshank agreed. ‘Explain my mistake and throw myself on the mercy of the white trogs in return for your father’s freedom.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘but I think I might have a better plan…’