Doombringer Page 2

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ said Cade. ‘I shan’t be a moment.’

  Lighting a second lamp, he ducked through the door next to the fireplace, went down the stairs on the other side and into the storeroom. Cade had been working hard, and the place was satisfyingly well stocked with provisions that he’d gathered over the preceding months – and that he hoped would last him for several months to come.

  Shelves bowed under the weight of boxes of oakapples, crates of woodpears, earthenware pots of jugged woodfowl and barrels of saltroot, pickled blue-cabbage and rock-whelks in brine – as well as a series of pitchers of winesap in various stages of fermentation. Burlap sacks stood in a line along the base of the far wall. Each one was bulging. There were dried herbs, barley-rice, and beck-lentils; tagberries and peppercorns, and flour that Cade had ground himself. Above them, suspended from a row of hooks, were tied-up bunches of nibblick and glimmer-onions, dried pipefish and tanglecarp, and a gleaming flitch of smoked tilder.

  Cade gathered up some herbs, glimmer-onions and beck-lentils, and a pitcher of the winesap that his nose told him was ready to drink. Arms full, he returned upstairs to find Phineal busy gutting and cleaning the lakefish on the table.

  Just then, the echoing boom of the skytavern echoed across the lake. Cade had forgotten all about it. He hurried to the window to see the Xanth Filatine docking at Gart Ironside’s platform-tower, and shivered.

  Phineal followed his gaze. ‘A skytavern,’ he said, and Cade could hear the bitterness in his voice. ‘My home in the Four Lakes changed for ever the day skytaverns started to arrive.’

  · CHAPTER THREE ·

  AS THE JET of white flame shut off at the propulsion duct, the Xanth Filatine came to a standstill. With a slight tremor, the skytavern hovered some twenty or so strides above the trees, the vast hull and phraxchamber dwarfing the towering ironwood pines beneath, and making even the distant Five Falls look small and insignificant. The steam that poured from its funnel, stained purple by the remnants of sunset, billowed like storm clouds.

  Dazzling hull-lamps came on, lighting up the vessel. Crew members were busy on the decks, while passengers were spectating, draped over deck-rails, clustered at viewing-platforms, or with their heads poking out of the rows of portholes. Then the lamps were realigned until they were shining down on the treetops and the wooden sky-platform that rose above them, illuminating a modest cabin, a tethered phraxlighter, a stack of crates and an over-sized water tank, beside which the tall, thick-set figure of the platform-keeper was standing.

  In a rising swirl of glittering steam, the skytavern began to descend. It came lower, slowly, then ground to a halt when the hull-weights grazed the uppermost leaves. Tolley-ropes appeared at jutting lower-deck gantries at the prow, midships and stern, and uncurled as they dropped. Crew members slid down them, secured the ends to the upper branches of the trees then scrambled back on board.

  The platform-keeper, Gart Ironside, was waiting. One hand was pressed against the side of the water tank, the other raised to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the glare of the hull-lamps as he peered up at the skytavern. Nets appeared over the side, bulging with sacks and boxes and, raking his fingers through his thick black hair, Gart strode across to the stack of crates beside the phraxlighter.

  The net swung close. Gart grabbed hold, eased it down onto the wooden boards, then opened it up and removed the contents, stacking the sacks and boxes of provisions next to the wall of the cabin. In return, he took two of his own crates and loaded them into the net. Then he reached up and tugged the rope twice. The net lifted off the platform and was winched up to the skytavern.

  With the words Trade Goods – G. Ironside scrawled on the wooden sides in red leadwood pencil, the crates contained the fruits of Gart’s labour for the past four months. Lemkin pelts. Pinewood resin. Fire crystals . . . Small items of high value that Gart had managed to collect without ever having to leave his phraxlighter and set foot on the ground – items that ensured that the platform-keeper was provided with more than just the basics. After all, it was a harsh and solitary existence he led up on the sky-platform – one that was made more bearable by the occasional crate of winesap or sack of strong, aromatic oakwood tea.

  When the last of the cargo had been exchanged and the nets withdrawn, Gart opened the top of the water tank, then stood back. He looked up expectantly, wincing into the bright light that turned his sallow skin to burnished silver.

  Moments later, a long flexible pipe was lowered towards him from a hatch in the midships. Swaying like the trunk of a giant fromp sniffing out barkbugs, the pipe spiralled down through the air. Gart seized it in both hands and thrust the end down into the water tank. From above, a plume of vapour rose from a short funnel that jutted out from the hull as a steam-pump juddered into action, followed by a tremor that ran the length of the pipe as water was sucked up from the tank and into the reservoirs in the bowels of the skytavern.

  Further along the ship, some of the wealthier passengers of the Xanth Filatine were taking advantage of the stop at this distant outpost of the Deepwoods. There were mine-owners and merchants in heavy leather longcoats, together with their wives, dressed in quilted satin jackets and fur mufflers, and weaving excitedly in and out of them were numerous children, all bundled up in clothes that kept out the evening chill. In groups of eight, they were taking turns to step into the viewing baskets. As their gloved hands gripped the sides of the plaited wicker, they were winched down to the tops of the trees – then plunged deeper still into the forest itself.

  Fingers pointed and arms waved in excitement as the folk from the big cities experienced the Deepwoods for the first time in their lives. Guides in sky-blue topcoats and conical hats consulted their notebooks as they explained to the passengers where they were and what dangers lurked in the surrounding forest, the pages fluttering in the gathering wind.

  Back on the sky-platform, Gart Ironside attended to his work. He had heard the litany many times before – about how bleak and inhospitable the area was; how the woods were rife with savage hammerhead goblin tribes and the caverns behind the Five Falls were infested by terrifying white trogs. Only the most desperate or foolhardy would risk setting foot in such a place . . .

  The sudden slackening of the water pipe announced that the tank had been drained. Gart pulled the pipe free and watched it being hauled back up to the hovering skyship and disappear inside.

  The basket winches were raised, and the groups of sightseeing passengers climbed back on deck, chattering excitedly to one another. The steam-klaxon boomed – once, twice, three times – and the vessel rose slowly into the air, leaving the sky-platform behind. Then, when even the lowest hull-weight was at least twelve strides clear of the highest trees, there was a flash and a loud roaring, a jet of white-hot air exploded from the propulsion duct at the back of the phraxchamber – and the Xanth Filatine sailed off into the dark night.

  Cade stood rooted to the spot, the spyglass raised to his eye. He watched the skytavern until it was no more than a fuzzy ball of light, then returned the spyglass to the top pocket of his jacket. He felt uneasy. With skytaverns constantly crisscrossing the Edgelands, it was difficult these days to hide yourself away, no matter how isolated a place you chose to make your home.

  And the beautiful Farrow Lake certainly was isolated. Its only connection with the world Cade had left behind was the sky-platform before him, one of hundreds of lonely outposts that existed only to supply the passing skytaverns on their flights between the great cities.

  Cade had been a city boy once, growing up in the brash, bustling melting-pot that was Great Glade. But no longer. He’d fled the city in fear for his life, stowing away on the Xanth Filatine to escape his father’s murderers, henchmen of the powerful Professor of Flight, Quove Lentis. Cade had intended to start a new life in the mighty city of Hive, far away from the professor’s clutches, but it hadn’t turned out that way.

  He shuddered as he remembered the sinister figure he�
��d run into on board the skytavern, a gangmaster by the name of Drax Adereth. He could picture him now, the white skin, the spiked hair in needle-like points, the large pale eyes staring from behind tinted goggles; and the breath, tainted with the smell of fish and sour milk.

  The gangmaster had got his claws into Cade and forced him to do his bidding. There had been no choice – not if Cade wanted to keep his fingers from joining the severed ones that Adereth kept in a bowl in his lair in the depths of the skytavern.

  Then, to his horror, Cade had learned that the gangmaster was yet another of the high professor’s cronies. There had seemed to be no escape. Up at the ship’s prow, Cade had seen Adereth casually murder two of Quove Lentis’s enemies, and Cade himself would have been just as casually murdered if he hadn’t leaped from the tavern, not a moment too soon . . .

  Now, here he was, on the shores of the beautiful Farrow Lake, far away from the murderous machinations of the High Professor of Flight. And that, he thought, was the way he wanted it to stay.

  · CHAPTER FOUR ·

  CADE TURNED FROM the window. Phineal was standing at the stove, the lamplight playing on his scaly features as he prodded the four pieces of sizzling fish turning golden brown in the skillet, then stirred the pot of bubbling lentils and glimmer-onions.

  ‘It smells good,’ Cade said.

  Phineal stepped over to the table, the top of his crest almost touching the ceiling. He picked up a knife and began scraping the mess of guts, skin and fish heads left over from the filleting of the two lakefish into a wooden bowl. He held the bowl up to Cade.

  ‘At the four lakes, we feed these to the lake-eels we cultivate in the eel-corrals,’ Phineal said, his crest rippling green then yellow. ‘I don’t suppose . . . ?’

  Cade smiled. ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he said, taking the bowl and walking out onto the veranda.

  Standing at the top of the steps that led down to the jetty, he saw Tug and Rumblix. The pair of them were still both down by the shoreline.

  ‘Over here, you two!’ Cade called.

  They looked up and sniffed the air. Cade held up the bowl, then descended the steps as they came running. Rumblix got there first.

  ‘Here we are, boy,’ said Cade, scooping the innards out onto the stone of the jetty.

  Purring loudly, Rumblix began slurping at the slimy fish guts with his tongue. The purring grew louder as Cade continued to scoop, until only the two large fish heads and tail fins were left in the bowl.

  ‘And for you,’ said Cade, as Tug loped up towards him.

  He handed him the bowl. Tug sniffed at its contents carefully. His small eyes widened.

  ‘Tug like,’ he grunted in that gruff guttural way he had. ‘Good. Taste good.’

  Cade reached out and patted the creature’s massive forearm.

  Tug was certainly primitive, one of the strange and nameless life-forms that inhabited the Nightwoods – and yet, it seemed to Cade, his friend was developing and learning new skills almost daily. Tug’s language had grown richer, his use of tools had become more sophisticated as he helped Cade tend their garden, and his tastes had widened. At first, Tug had grazed only on sweet meadowgrass; then on the woodbeets, glimmer-onions and other vegetables that Cade had introduced him to. And now, for the last month or so, fish. Or their heads at least, which had become his favourite delicacy.

  Head down, Tug shuffled underneath the veranda. He sat down heavily in his bed of meadowgrass and began nibbling on the lakefish tails with unlikely delicacy, before pushing the fish heads into his mouth and crunching down on them with obvious relish.

  Cade left the two of them to their meals and returned to the cabin. The smell of the frying fish was mouth-watering.

  Phineal turned to him. ‘Nearly ready,’ he said.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Cade. ‘I’m famished.’ He picked up the pitcher and filled two wooden goblets to the brim, then carried one across to Phineal.

  Phineal raised the goblet to his nose and sniffed. His crest flashed dark purple. ‘What is it?’ he said.

  ‘Winesap,’ said Cade. ‘I made it myself,’ he added proudly. ‘Picked the sapgrapes from wild vines, pressed them, set the juice to ferment . . .’

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just have water,’ said Phineal.

  ‘Oh,’ said Cade, disappointed.

  ‘We webfoots drink little else,’ Phineal added, sensing that disappointment.

  Setting the pitcher aside, Cade took a jug from the cupboard and filled it with rainwater from the water butt outside. He poured the winesap back into the pitcher and refilled the goblets from the jug. Then he drained the lentils and ladled steaming portions into two bowls. Beside him, Phineal had removed the skillet from the heat, and was sliding two pieces of the golden-brown fish onto each of the two waiting platters. The pair of them carried the food over to the table and sat down opposite one another.

  ‘To fine food and better company,’ said Cade, echoing something his friend, Thorne Lammergyre, would always say when they had supper together.

  Phineal raised his goblet of rainwater and smiled, the scales at the corners of his mouth forming tiny corrugations as he did so. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ he said.

  Cade picked up his fork, speared a chunk of the golden fish and ate it. Opposite him, Phineal’s fork remained untouched. Instead, the webfoot broke off a little piece of fish with his hands, added a small portion of lentils and onions, then, using the tips of his fingers, rolled the whole lot together into a ball, which he flicked into his mouth with his thumb.

  He caught Cade looking at him and smiled. ‘Not bad, eh?’ he said.

  Cade nodded, chewing slowly. He frowned. ‘What is that taste?’ he said. ‘Sort of peppery . . .’

  ‘That’s the lake moss,’ said Phineal. ‘It grows in deep water,’ he explained, resting an elbow on the table. ‘I picked it myself in that beautiful lake of yours. Back home we webfoots chop it up and use it to season our food.’ He paused, his crest flickering pale green. ‘You like it?’

  ‘It’s delicious,’ said Cade, taking another chunk of fish along with a spoonful of the beck-lentils. ‘I’ve never tasted anything quite like it.’

  ‘There are great carpets of lake moss in your lake,’ Phineal said. ‘As well as glistening forests of rock-sage, water fennel, sweet-root kelp – all delicious to eat. Not to mention the lakefish . . .’ The webfoot’s crest glowed orange with excitement. ‘I’ve never seen such a variety. Sticklefronts, sideswimmers, lantern-eyes . . . Just like the four lakes before . . .’ Phineal’s eyes glazed over and his crest dimmed to a dull grey colour.

  Cade leaned forward. ‘Before what?’ he said softly, then remembered the webfoot’s words at the window earlier. ‘Before the skytaverns came?’

  Phineal nodded, small ripples of blue and green pulsing across his crest.

  Cade hesitated, his loaded fork poised close to his mouth.

  Phineal sat back on the stool, his large hands resting on his thighs. ‘Where to begin?’ he said. ‘One skytavern came. Then another, and another. More and more of them, more and more often. They brought traders who sold us things we didn’t need; that we had done without for hundreds of years, but that our young’uns began to crave. Velvet topcoats, crushed funnel hats, floating sumpwood furniture, hive-ware pots and glade-enamel vases . . .’ He reached up and tugged at one of his large triangular ears. ‘The old ways began to be lost. After all, why learn how to weave eel-corrals; why learn the skills of clam-tending, or snailskin-curing, or stilt-hut construction – or any of the other traditions that make us webfoots webfoots? Why learn any of this when you can get everything from a passing skyship in exchange for a lake pearl?’

  The webfoot’s crest was shifting colour, from indigo to purple and back again, flashes of white and yellow splashing against the quill-like membrane.

  ‘That’s all the young webfoots cared about. Harvesting lake-pearls and selling them to the skytavern traders, to build and furnish ever more lavi
sh lakeside mansions. The four lakes – the Silent One, the Shimmerer, the Lake of Cloud, and my own home lake, the Mirror of the Sky; one by one, they began to change. The shores became crowded with new buildings. The eel-corrals silted up and the lake fish grew fewer in number as the vegetation died back.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Finally, even the most short-sighted of us knew this had to stop. So the council of the webfoot tribes decided to ban the skytaverns and to end the trade in lake-pearls, in order to allow the lakes to be tended properly once more. And to recover.’

  ‘And did they?’ asked Cade, putting down his fork. ‘Did the four lakes recover?’

  Phineal stared down at his feet, the enormous toes splayed wide, the web between each one pulled taut, then creasing as they twitched. For a long time, he didn’t speak, and as Cade watched the webfoot’s emotions registering on his crest – dark, brooding purples and blues – he began to realize the answer to his question.

  ‘The skytaverns left and didn’t come back, and the four lakes did begin to recover,’ said Phineal at last. His voice was hushed but hard. ‘But . . . but then they did return – and with mire-pearlers on board. Gangs of armed toughs, recruited from the dregs of the great cities by rich and powerful merchants to do their bidding. They ransacked and pillaged our settlements to get their hands on the pearls we had nurtured and harvested. And not content with that, they attacked the clam beds themselves.’

  Phineal was sitting forward now, his elbows on his knees and his crest flashing. His fists clenched and his expression darkened.