The Farrow Ridges

Of late, I’ve been feeling my age, though I don’t like to admit it. So much has happened in the short week since the meeting at my hive house.

The Roost Marshal has been elected as leader of the Farrow Lake Militia, and their numbers are growing daily. Forden and Alcestia have been recruiting in the Western Woods and the militia can now boast a prowlgrin cavalry of thirty strong. The white trogs and the webfoots show great understanding of one another, and together with Phineal Glyfphith and his extraordinary phraxmarine, they have been charged with defending the Farrow Lake itself.

The Roost Marshal and the rest of the militia have established posts to the east and expect to encounter the army of mire-pearlers any day now.

I must admit to feeling rather old and useless in the midst of all this activity, and I was ruminating on such matters yesterday evening when Captain Gart Ironshank found me on the veranda of my hive house. I was gazing out across the beautiful, tranquil waters of the lake somewhat forlornly when his phraxcraft came in to land beside my jetty.

‘Greetings, old friend,’ Ironshank said, with his usual good humour. ‘I’ve just come from a meeting with the Roost Marshal – a meeting which I think you’ll find interesting, Hedgethorn.’

‘Why in Sky and Earth’s name should an old crock like me be interested?’ I grumbled. ‘Prowlgrin riding’s beyond, I’m too old to go tramping into the woods with the militia, and Fennith and his webfoot friends don’t think much of my swimming…’

‘Feeling sorry for yourself, old friend?’ said Ironshank, pulling up a chair and sitting down beside me. ‘Well, none of us can afford that luxury. There’s a battle coming and all of us have a part to play.’

‘That’s easy for you to say,’ I replied. ‘You have your phraxlighter to ferry supplies to the militia, not to mention patrolling the Eastern Woods. But what can I contribute?’

‘More than you think, Hedgethorn,’ the captain replied, with a smile, ‘and the Roost Marshal agrees with me. He has a mission for you.’

‘A mission?’ Now he had my full attention.

Ironshank sat back and put his arms behind his head. He looked at me levelly. ‘You are one of the first to settle at the Farrow Lake. You’re liked and respected. When you speak, people listen. It is a gift, Hedgethorn, and the Roost Marshal wants you to put it to use in the cause of freedom.

‘Fine words,’ I said, staring back over the lake towards the mighty Five Falls cascading from the ridge in the distance, ‘but what exactly does he want me to do?’

‘Go to Great Glade, at the head a small delegation of Farrow Lakers and seek an audience with the Great Glade Council. They must be made aware of the threat we face and be persuaded to intervene.’

‘It won’t be easy,’ I said, but already I could feel my pulse quickening and the aches and pains vanishing from my limbs. ‘The mire-pearlers will have allies in Great Glade who’ll want to silence us…’

‘If anyone can do it,’ said Captain Ironshank, clapping me on the shoulder, ‘it’s Hedgethorn Lammergyre!’

So, here I stand, an old grey goblin in his best topcoat and tilderfelt funnel hat, on the deck of the Varis Lodd, a sky tavern bound for Great Glade by way of the Midwood Decks. What an adventure! At my side is a brogtroll named Luggins, an Eastern Wooder with great strength and a good heart, and a yellow-eared waif by the name of Threnodesse, who lives in a cave in the ridges to the south. Luggins will handle the heavy lifting and act as a bodyguard, while Threnodesse will be my secretary, as well as a valuable pair of eyes and ears.

Gart Ironshank dropped us off just in time to board this magnificent vessel, and now we are steaming over the great Deepwoods, leaving our beloved Farrow Lake far behind. What awaits us in the great city, I can only guess at…

Time is extremely short. Gart Ironshank brought us news that the mire-pearlers from Great Glade have disembarked from the sky tavern, the Xanth Filatine, somewhere to the east of the Farrow Ridges. The sky tavern pilot told him that there were at least eighty of them, armed with triple-shot phraxmuskets, phraxgrenades and a phraxcannon mounted on a sumpwood limber. At least half of them have brought prowlgrin mounts with them, and have probably already begun scouting patrols in the woods to the east.

It is clear that this is no small band of buccaneering adventurers, but an organized invasion force. Their leader, according to Gart Ironshank, is a disaffected commander of the Great Glade phrax-marine called Felvis Yellowmane, a long haired goblin cashiered for corruption.

Hedgethorn Lammergyre called a meeting at his hive house this evening with representatives of the small, but growing, community that fringes our lake. Alcestia brought clan elders of the hammerhead goblins of the Western Woods, while her father, the Roost Marshal, managed to persuade the shy and secretive white trogs of the Water Caverns to send several of their leaders. I attended, together with several caverneers, local trappers and a fall fisherman of my acquaintance, as a representative of the new settlers. And Captain Gart Ironshank spoke for the traders who have established a phraxship deck on the farrow ridge to the south of us. Hedgethorn, as our oldest and most established Farrow Lake resident, led the proceedings, and the newly-arrived webfoot goblins were a vocal presence.

It was a sombre gathering, as we all knew that storm clouds were approaching, and this was going to be an altogether bloodier affair than any of us had anticipated. Not only was the pearl of the Great Blueshell Clam at stake, but also the freedom of all the residents of the Farrow Lake and its surrounding woods. Once these mire-pearlers had robbed the clam, they would be sure to look for other opportunities to exploit the abundant riches of the Farrow Ridges with impunity.

‘If we do nothing, we shall all fall under the tyranny of Commander Felvis Yellowmane and his Great Glade cronies,’ Captain Ironshank declared, thumping his fist down on the long table at which we were all seated.

‘What we need,’ said Hedgethorn thoughtfully, ‘is a militia.’

The Roost Marshal got to his feet, his eyes bright. ‘The Farrow Lake Militia!’ he announced.

The webfoots, hammerheads, settlers and white trogs all nodded their heads in agreement.

‘We have infantry,’ the old soldier said, indicating the settlers and hammerhead goblins. ‘We have marines and engineers.’ He nodded towards the trogs and webfoots. ‘That just leaves the cavalry.’ The Roost Marshal turned to his daughter, Alcestia, and to me.

‘We won’t let you down, will we, Forden?’ said Alcestia. ‘We’ll start recruiting at dawn tomorrow.’

I swallowed nervously. It seemed I had been recruited to the Farrow Lake Militia…

I, Fennith, son of Phofeth, webfoot of the Mirror of the Sky clan, have journeyed far from my home in the Four Lakes. I have seen much in my travels; ironwood pines on fire in the tree ridges of the stormwoods, the mighty sumpwood stands of Midwood, and the convocation of the banderbears in the valley of mist. But no sight has gladdened my heart more than the sight of the Farrow Lake.

Not since Keris seeded South Lake of the Free Glades, long ago in the second age of flight, has a great clam established itself in a new lake, and we webfoots feared that this miracle might never occur again. But now, in the third age, the Farrow Lake has given a great blueshell clam a home.

When Phineal Glyfphith returned in his phraxmarine to tell us the wonderful news, the clans of the four lakes feasted for days in celebration. Then, by drawing lakeshells, a party of clam-tenders was chosen to leave our homes in the Four Lakes and journey here to the Farrow Lake.

With your help, we shall build our clan-huts and jetties on the lake shore and begin our task of tending to the great clam. There is much to be done – lake-kelp and siltweed to be cleared, thistlefish and lake eels to be coralled, and filter beds to be established, to keep the waters of the Farrow Lake pure.

But be warned. The great blueshell clam is not safe. Glyfphith has received word from our clan-brothers in Great Glade that a band of mire-pearlers is on its way to the Farrow Ridges, intent on taking the clam’s pearl. But when they arrive, they will find us standing in their way, and there will surely be a great fight…

[Account given to Hedgethorn Lammergyre by Fennith, clam-tender.]

The week Alcestia and I spent with the nomadic hammerheads of the Western Woods was one of the most fascinating I’ve ever spent. When we saddled our prowlgrins and headed back towards Farrow Lake, I had numerous interviews, copious notes and a number of artefacts stowed in my forage sack that gave me a unique insight into these remarkable goblins and their fast-vanishing way of life.

As if to emphasize this point, we watched a mighty sky tavern pass overhead, its bows crowded with settlers bound for the fast-growing camps to the west. Soon these will grow into settlements, then townships, and eventually, perhaps, a fourth great city to rival Hive, Great Glade and Riverrise.

It made me grateful for the peace and quiet of the Farrow Lake, and my little corner of it – and long may it remain so. Mind you, I have to admit to doubts on this score when I arrived at last at the lake shore, having picked up Kulltuft – the no-longer nameless one – and bid Alcestia goodbye at her hanging cabin. There, by the waters of Farrow Lake, and a flatstone’s skim from my pit house, was an encampment of leathery snailskin tents.

Its occupants, I rapidly discovered, were webfoot goblins from the Four Lakes, and they babbled to me excitedly as their strange crests glowed in all manner of colours. They had come because word had reached the Four Lakes that a giant blue-shell clam had been discovered right here in Farrow Lake, and they had arrived to tend to its needs.

It seems I am to have new neighbours. Tomorrow I shall visit Hedgethorn to give him the news…