The Farrow Ridges

As the roost marshal continued to stare behind me, I became aware of curious noises. There was a hissing, humming sound, accompanied by the churn of lakewater and the fizz of a million bubbles rising to the surface.

I spun round. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. ‘What is it?’ I breathed.

Before me, half submerged in the water, was a creature so strange that even I would have been hard pressed to give it a name. It was thin and long, a dozen strides at least, its burning copperwood-coloured body segmented like that of a reed-eel or rockworm. Its head was broad and dome-shaped, with two huge eyes on either side that shone like lanterns, and three mighty scythe-shaped horns at the front, glinting brightly in the early afternoon sun. The bubbles were emerging from the back of the creature, and streamed out in a frothing fan of pale green.

I gulped with terror, and began wading back as fast as I could through the sucking mud of the lakebed to the safety of the shoreline. The roost marshal followed close beside. Behind us, the borella came closer and reared up out of the water threateningly, its keening cry echoing across the surface of the lake. The long creature rocked and rolled about in the water, the stream of bubbles becoming a blast of steam as its tail flicked up into the air.

As the borella came down, crashing into the water, a great wave went up, that came swelling across the lake towards us. It looped and keeled, and came thundering down – just as the roost marshal and I were clambering back onto the bank. We were drenched in an instant, and I turned to see that the copper-coloured creature had been flipped right over and was sprawling on its back. As I stared at it, my gaze fell upon two curious fins upon its belly that looked for all the Edge like spoked wheels…

Which is exactly what they were! For this was no monster from the lake depths, I now realized, but instead a vessel of some sort, the riveted panels and intricate detailing now plain to see.

A hatch opened in the upturned vessel, and a dishevelled individual came splashing and spluttering to the surface. He stood up in the shallows, caught sight of us, then the borella, which dived below the surface. With a small cry, the stranger came scrabbling towards the lakeside, his eyes shot with teror. As he drew close, I offered a hand, which he seized gratefully, and I pulled him up onto the bank beside me.

I looked at the roost marshal, then at the stranger. For a moment no one spoke. I decided to break the silence.

‘Unfortunate accident, you had there, friend,’ I said to the stranger, and smiled. ‘My name’s Hedgethorn Lammergyre. And this is the roost marshal.’

The stranger nodded. He was shorter than me, and sturdily built. The green skin, webbed toes and large yellow teeth that jutted up from his lower jaw marked him out as a tusked webfoot goblin from the Four Lakes, far to the south. He was clearly still shaken.

‘I… I’m Ph… Ph… Phineal Glyfphith…’ he stammered. ‘Un… Unfortunate accident indeed,’ he said, and peered back at the lake. ‘Thank Sky that fearsome beast seems to have gone.’

‘That fearsome beast, as you put it, is in fact a gentle, noble creature that means no harm!’ the roost marshal exclaimed indignantly. ‘Which is more than I can say for that!’ He pointed at the webfoot’s odd craft.

‘That,’ the webfoot said. ‘That’s an underwater vessel. My underwater vessel,’ he said. ‘A phraxmarine. I call her the Spirit of Keris.’

I was astounded. My whole life, I’ve been fascinated by the phrax vessels that sail the skies, from the majestic sky taverns to the modest phraxlighters, like Gart Ironshank’s Zephyr. I was intrigued by the thought that someone had invented a vessel that might also travel underwater, and I was about to ask him about it, when my thoughts were interrupted.

‘An underwater vessel.’ It was the roost marshal. His voice was cold and hard; his face a strange mixture of anger and sadness. From the far side of the lake, the borella’s mournful cry echoed again. The roost marshal pressed his face into Phineal Glyfphith’s. ‘You fool,’ he said. ‘You reckless fool. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?…’

‘Go on, Forden,’ Alcestia laughed. ‘He won’t bite.’

We were on a branch below the hanging cabin, high in the ironwood pine, and Alcestia had just saddled the two white prowlgrins which she intended that we ride on our expedition into the remotest part of the Western Woods. When I say ‘our’ expedition, truth be told, this adventure was all of Alcestia’s devising.

‘Hammerhead goblins!’ she’d exclaimed excitedly. ‘Wild, savage hammerheads, untouched by the modern world. Just think about it, Forden. Their like hasn’t been seen since the First Age of Flight – and this is our chance to study them.’

I had to admit I was intrigued. The hammerheads I knew in Hive were sophisticated city types, great thousandsticks players and redoubtable soldiers, but a far cry from their tattooed, warlike ancestors. And now Alcestia had picked up word of the sighting of a nomadic hammerhead tribe foraging through the low ridges of the Western Woods – spotted by basket-toruists on the sky tavern, Felix Lodd, en route from Riverrise. She was desperate to encounter these extraordinary goblins for herself and, as she outlined her plans to me, I knew I couldn’t let her go alone.

‘Really?’ she’d gasped, her beautiful dark eyes lighting up. ‘You’ll come along! Oh, Forden, that’s so good of you. I’ll saddle up the prowlgrins.’

‘Prowlgrins!’ I said. ‘But I’ve never ridden a prowlgrin in my life…’

‘You’ll soon pick it up,’ Alcestia smiled. ‘There’s nothing to it.’

So, forage sacks packed with two weeks worth of provisions, and bed-rolls slung round our shoulders, Alcestia led me down to the roost branch below the hanging cabin, where she lived with her father, the roost marshal. He had agreed to take care of Kulltuft – my no longer nameless one - in my absence, and everything was set for our expedition.

Everything, that is, except for my instinctive fear of prowlgrins. How could anybody clamber onto their backs and entrust their fate to these branch-hopping balls of fur? I was about to find out.

‘Go on, Forden,’ Alcestia urged. ‘Climb on, put your feet in the stirrups and hold on tight. Lemquinx, here, will do the rest.’

I swallowed hard and mounted the white prowlgrin, while Alcestia watched from her own mount, an amused smile on her face. ‘Ready?’ she asked when she saw that I’d settled in the saddle. ‘Then let’s be off.’

With a whinny of excitement, our prowlgrins launched themselves high into the air on their powerful legs, as I held on for dear life, teeth clenched and eyes clamped shut. Moments later, my prowlgrin landed on a branch and took off again, bounding out across the forest canopy in great loping leaps. The feeling of exhilaration was indescribable!

I opened my eyes to see Alcestia speeding past me on her prowlgrin. She was laughing delightedly.

‘I knew you were a natural, Forden,’ she giggled. ‘Whatever Papa says…’

Two weeks after our last meeting, the roost marshal paid me another visit. We’d parted on good terms and I was pleased to see him. I’d been about to tuck into the lunch I’d prepared for myself – bread, curdcheese, sapapples and smoked woodhoney – and willingly shared it with him. And at the end of the meal, I cracked open a bottle of woodgrog that I’d brewed up and distilled myself in my copperwood-still.

‘To your very good health!’ I announced, and raised my glass.

‘And to yours, Hedgethorn!’ the roost marshall countered, and downed the liquor in one gulp. He frowned. ‘And thank you for lunch. Though…’ He paused, then smiled. ‘I was rather hoping for some of that smoked fish of yours.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘It’s all run out,’ I told him. ‘And I can’t get any more.’

‘No luck fishing?’

‘Not exactly,’ I said, and I told him all about my encounter with the creature that had attacked me out on the Farrow Lake; how I’d discovered its dead infant washed up on the shore, and how the terrible snagglemouth had roared its promise to avenge the young one’s death…

‘Snagglemouth?’ the roost marshal said, his brow furrowed. ‘What kind of creature is that?’

‘A monstrous creature!’ I said. ‘Twenty strides long, with a broad tail and massive front flippers, their edges lined with vicious claws. And its head. Huge and ugly, covered in folds of thick grey warty skin, with nostrils up on the top of its skull and a jaw full of sabre-like teeth jutting out in all directions.’ I shook my head. ‘That’s why I named it a snagglemouth.’

‘You named it a snagglemouth?’ he said, surprised.

‘I name all the unknown creatures I happen across,’ I told him.

He nodded. ‘And yet, from the description you’ve given me, the creature already has a name. It’s called a borella. It’s the name it calls itself.’ It was my turn to be surprised. ‘Yes, it can speak,’ he told me, ‘and if it is indeed a borella, then you are privileged to have come into contact with one of the most intelligent creatures in all the Edge, wiser and more noble even than banderbears. Why, some claim they are more intelligent than all of us.’ He smiled and eyed me askance. ‘They never wage wars, Hedgethorn, unlike…’

‘Stop! Stop!’ I said, raising a hand in protest. ‘There must be some mistake. This creature wanted to tear me limb from limb.’ I climbed to my feet. ‘Let’s go down to the lake and see if we can’t fine it. You’ll soon see that my snagglemouth and your… your…’

‘Borella! Borella!’ came a voice behind me. It sounded like bubbling water. The cantationary bird swooped down from its perch high up in the vaulted ceiling and landed on my shoulder. ‘Borella! Borella!’

‘…That they are completely different,’ I said.

The three of us made our way down to the lakeside. I assumed we were going to sit there and wait for the snagglemouth to appear. Instead, the roost marshal got down on his knees and began slapping the water with the palms of his hands. Then he leaned forward and lowered his head till his mouth was beneath the surface, and he blew, a deep hum in his throat. Bubbles rose. He paused, sat up, then repeated it all again.

He looked so ridiculous, it was as much as I could do not to burst out laughing. I was about to turn and leave him to his madness, when the water at the middle of the lake began to swirl, then boil. A huge head broke the surface and the fearsome creature rose up and eyed me furiously.

I looked at the roost marshal, fully expecting him to confess he’d been wrong all along, and was shocked to see him tear off his boots and jacket, toss them aside, jump down into the lake and wade towards the creature.

The water grew deeper, and the roost marshal slipped down into it and swam with powerful strokes. The snagglemouth – or borella – flicked its tail. The two of them came together. Plume fluttered above them. I watched from the bank as they dived, then surfaced; then dived again. Fascinated, I pulled off my own boots and stepped down into the lake. I strode forwards, the thick mud squidging between my toes.

All at once, the roost marshal was at my side. He pushed the wet hair out of his eyes and stared at me, his face white and stricken.

‘She didn’t want revenge at all,’ he told me. ‘She was trying to warn you.’

‘Warn me?’ I said. ‘Warn me of what?’

The roost marshal was looking past my shoulder. He raised a shaking hand and pointed. His voice was weak and tremulous with dread.

‘That,’ he whispered.

‘I’ll call you Kulltuft,’ I laughed, tousling the thin wisp of hair that sprouted from the nameless one’s misshapen head. It purred in the low growling rasp that said, ‘Call me what you want, but don’t stop scratching behind my ear.’

A nameless one no longer, Kulltuft came bounding after me as I gathered my forage sack and phraxmusket, and left the pit house. He had grown astonishingly in the short time since I’d brought him home. His diet of lakefish and craycritters seemed to agree with him, though he wasn’t averse to supplementing his diet with barkgrubs and woodmoth larvae that he’d scratch out from the tree trunks we passed on our forages through the Western Woods.

That was where we were heading that sunny morning, the mighty Five Falls shimmering in the distance and great billowing ochre clouds rising from the misty serrations of the Farrow Ridges beyond.

‘Climb aboard, Forden,’ came Captain Ironshank’s booming voice as he steered his phraxlighter down from the treetops to hover by the lakeside. ‘And bring your pup with you. I’m headed to the Western Woods myself this fine morning.’

I must admit I was blushing as I accepted the old sky captain’s invitation, for it was no secret that I’d taken to visiting the Western Woods almost daily, and one ironwood pine in particular.

‘His name’s Kulltuft,’ I told the captain, climbing on board, Kulltuft bounding eagerly after me. The no longer nameless one was now twice my size, and showed no signs of stopping growing.

”So you named him after old Kulltuft Warhammer, tyrant of Hive?’ he smiled and ruffled Kulltuft’s hair. ‘Come to think of it, I can see a resemblance!’

Half an hour later we were steaming over the Western Woods, and the ironwood pine in which the roost marshal lived with his beautiful daughter, Alcestia, came into view. No matter how often I saw it, their hanging cabin still took my breath away.

It was a fine timber-built mansion, with carpentry and joinery that wouldn’t disgrace a rich merchant’s villa in Hightown or the Peak back in Hive. Carved colonades, covered gantries and elegant balconies were constructed of varnished sumpwood of the finest quality, while the spacious cabin from which they sprang was suspended from the huge branch of the ironwood pine on curved buttresses of dark ironwood metal.

As we approached, I saw that Alcestia and her father had come out to greet us, and were waving from the docking gantry. She looked more beautiful than ever, and my heart started thumping in my chest, even though I’d seen her just two days before.

‘What brings you to our humble dwelling?’ Alcestia called, her beautiful brown eyes flashing mischievously.

‘I need a few running repairs,’ smiled Captain Ironshank. ‘An ironwood cooling plate and a few cotter pins… Can’t think what Forden’s business here can be.’

He winked at the roost marshal who, after his recent travails in the Water Caverns, looked fully recovered and the very picture of health.

‘Forden’s always welcome here,’ the roost marshal said warmly. ‘Now tie up that old rust bucket, Gart, and come with me to the forge.’

The two of them went off down the gantry stairs to the ironwood forge beneath the cabin, an extraordinary workshop in which the sap of the ironwood pinecones was extracted and turned into ironwood metal.

Kulltuft leaped onto the gantry and rolled over at Alcestia’s feet, mewling piteously until she tickled him behind the ears.

‘Why, you great lunk!’ she chided him gently. ‘You get bigger every time I see you! Has that muddle-headed friend of yours given you a name yet?’

‘Kulltuft,’ I said, joining them on the gantry. Below us, the Western Woods spread out in all directions, the morning sun dappling them in sparkling light.

Alcestia wrinkled her nose, then turned to me, a smile slowly plucking at the corners of her pretty mouth. ‘Why, Forden, how clever of you!’ she exclaimed. ‘Now when I hear that name, it won’t be that old tyrant of Hive that shall spring to mind, but this dear, lovable creature instead!’

Kulltuft purred contentedly at her feet.

‘Now, about this expedition…’ Alcestia began.

‘Expedition?’ I said.

‘Oh, didn’t I mention it the other day?’ said Alcestia lightly – though by the look in those deep brown eyes, I could tell she’d been waiting to spring this on me. ‘It’s just a little expedition I’ve been thinking about,’ she said, turning and pointing to the distant misty Farrow Ridges. ‘Out there…’

It was the night terror that revealed who he was. I was back there on the battlefield fighting for my survival, the brutal-faced flathead lancer was looming before me, his lance braced…

The Freeglade Lancers had advanced in two flanks, cutting us off front and rear, their manoeuvres co-ordinated by the commands of a roost marshal who sat astride a magnificent orange and black prowlgrin.

Of course, he looks older now. His dark hair has thinned and turned to white, and his proud face is lined with the passing years. But there’s no doubt about it. The roost marshal at the Battle of the Midwood Marshes was none other than Alcestia’s father, the caverneer whose life the ancient waterwaif had rescued.

I climbed from my sleeping-cot, my thoughts a bitter jumble. I’d helped in the daring cavern rescue. I’d brought Woodfish, with his life-giving water, to his bedside. My comrades lay dead on a distant battlefield, yet because of me, the roost marshal who’d brought about their demise was alive and well.

As chance would have it, I was due to see him later that morning. We’d arranged to meet at midday for one of our lakeside constitutionals which, I have to admit, I’ve grown to enjoy. I tell him about my life at the Farrow Ridges. He tells me of his exploits in the caverns – the time he was cut off by floodwater in a dank upper chamber; the time he’d almost been eaten alive by voracious sackspiders.

I sat outside, waiting for Gart’s phraxferry to bring the roost marshal from Alcestia’s cabin in the Western Woods. My mood darkened, and as I sharpened my skinning knife, notions of avenging my fallen comrades started to form. By the time the Zephyr appeared above the treeline, my heart was full of murderous intent.

‘Greetings, Hedgethorn,’ the roost marshal called. He jumped down from the hovering vessel and strode towards me, hands outstretched. ‘Good to see you again, my friend.’

I greeted him, yet behind my smile, my vengeful plans were taking shape. We set off at a pace on a route that would take us behind the Five Falls and on towards the far side of the Farrow Lake. I would take him to a secluded spot I knew. No one would hear his cries there; no one would ever find his dead body…

‘Something on your mind?’ His voice broke into my dark thoughts. ‘You seem distracted.’ He looked at me, an eyebrow raised. ‘Hedgethorn?’

‘I know who you are,’ I said simply.

The roost marshal nodded slowly, and a look of sadness filled his eyes. ‘I wondered how long it would take you,’ he said, which disarmed me completely. ‘I recognized you the moment I first clapped eyes upon you.’

‘The Battle of the Midwood Marshes,’ I said gruffly, feeling for the knife at my belt.

‘And what a battle!’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘There were times when it was touch and go for us – and not just because of those so-called Bloody Blades,’ he said. ‘No, I’m talking about the individual footsoldiers. Brave, determined, loyal. Reckless, some might say…’ He placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Footsoldiers like you, Hedgethorn Lammergyre.’

I shook him off, and saw the flicker of pain that tugged at his face.

‘I shall never forget how valiantly you fought,’ he continued, ‘even when the battle looked lost and your fallen comrades lay dead around you. I remember seeing you tend to that fourthling, then drop your musket…’ He swallowed. ‘I remember the look on your face when Gutrag, one of our most ferocious lancers, bore down upon you, and you knew it was all over…’

I nodded weakly, the events of that terrible day unfolding before my eyes with painful clarity.

‘War is a dreadful, dreadful thing,’ the roost marshal was saying, ‘and yet…’ He paused, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. ‘Yet I still believe that the Battle of the Midwood Marshes had to be fought,’ he said. ‘Hive had become an evil place, Hedgethorn, ruled by that tyrant, Kulltuft Warhammer. If he and his wicked cohorts had prevailed, the Edge would have collapsed into slavery, cruelty and dark despair. That was why I went to war – a just war in my opinion – to rid the Edge of such evil, once and for all.’ He fixed me with an earnest gaze. ‘And if I had my time over, I would do the same again.’

I snorted. ‘Easy for you to say,’ I told him, ‘when you got off so lightly.’

The roost marshal stared back at me evenly. Then he raised a hand, undid the top two buttons of his heavy jacket and pulled the collar aside. I saw a great pit of a scar, the size of a woodapple, at the base of his throat.

‘Phraxmusket bullet wound,’ he said. ‘Woodfish wasn’t the first one to drag me from the jaws of death.’ He rebuttoned his jacket. ‘Got hit just after our phraxcarrier landed at the decks. I wrapped bandages round my neck to staunch the flow of blood, but the battle proved heavy going.’ He nodded. ‘But just like you, Hedgethorn, I wouldn’t give in. I could not. I fought on, leading my troops and praying for victory.’ He chuckled humourlessly. ‘The two of us must have ended up side by side on that muddy battlefield, for I passed out moments after you were struck…’

My anger was spent; my plans for revenge in tatters. He was right, of course. Hive had become an evil place… I noticed his hand reach out.

‘You’re a good person, Hedgethorn,’ he said. ‘And I like to think that there is goodness in me, too. Fate decreed that we should be enemies for a while, but…’ He swallowed. ‘I hope that we might remain friends.’

I stared at his outstretched hand, then at his face; the face of an old soldier who’d just happened to be on the other side. An enemy. Then I stepped forward, brushed that hand aside and, wrapping my arms around him in a firm embrace, patted him warmly on the back.

‘Friends,’ I agreed.

The curious thing is, I was never to have the night terror ever again…

[To read a full account of the Battle of the Midwood Marshes, see The Immortals]