Chapter Sixty-four

The Lower Moors

ut as the herons dived, with Lofft in their midst, another shrill cry from Klair reached the group. Instantly the birds fell back in an impossible array of dives and tumbles, each seemingly in defiance of gravity, and when they gathered again, they did so on the ground.

Peps, stepping off the great heron’s back, looked pale and his knees threatened to fold beneath him, but Rowan was there with a sturdy arm.

“Peps.” Rowan smiled. “You’re a natural! We should get Grig to outfit you with a set of wings of your own!” He turned to the inventor, who had joined the welcoming party. “What do you say, Grig? Why not whip up this brave man a smaller set when you can?”

Rowan winked at the gathering, which included Lumpen and Grig’s assistants, while Peps, looking as if he very much disagreed, concentrated on trying to regain his breath.

Their remarkable arrival, while a surprise for those on the ground, was soon overshadowed by the business at hand. As Rowan folded his wings with care, Grig scrutinized them.

“Master Truax”—the inventor frowned—“these wings need immediate care. After every flight they need to be inspected carefully for rips or tears, and you’ve already ignored my warnings on two occasions. They need to be oiled and repaired. These conditions here, the ash and filth in the air, they gum up the works, and they are particularly hard on the small scales. I am afraid that flight is simply not recommended.”

They stared at the dark walls across the moor, soot and ash raining down upon the stark heads of the gathered army.

“Well, it’s time to do something about that ash and filth, then.” Rowan turned to the group. To the inventor, he added privately, “Don’t worry, Grig. The wings will bear me. There’ll be time enough to examine them when we’re celebrating our victory.”

Ivy surveyed the dreary landscape. Nearby, Grig and his team of assistants had been overseeing the contents of his jingling caravan, which, from what Ivy could see, consisted of more of his complex and inexplicable inventions. Everywhere, deflated weather balloons lay on the frozen earth in lopsided shapes, the leather bladders waiting for air. Ivy knew that soon they would be inflated; the curious tut-tut noise of their paddles would fill the air, their baskets attended to by scurrying trestlemen. Packages, some large, some curiously small, were being organized upon the lifeless earth, crates pried open. Bundles and canvas-covered carts were being distributed to the scarecrows who gathered in orderly contingents. They formed a giant patchwork that stretched out as far as the eye could see, awaiting Lumpen’s word.

In the gloom, the night birds stood guard—the owls, the nightjars, and the loons formed a watchful front. Shoo flapped noisily from Ivy’s scarecrow, Jimson, alighting on her shoulder.

“Has my uncle arrived?” Ivy asked Lumpen hopefully. Cecil had said nothing about the nature of his errand to her, and Ivy worried at both his absence and the nature of his detour.

The well keeper, shaking her head, surveyed the thick walls of the dark city in the distance. The ramparts formed jagged openings like broken teeth, and in their dark recesses, untold Outriders awaited.

“They say these walls are impenetrable.” Lumpen turned to Ivy and the crow.

Ivy turned, too, to the grim sight, and words failed her.

“Well, they should have asked Lumpen Gorse. Water’s always got a way of seeping in.”

“Ah, Lumpen!” Rowan sprinted over. “I would like very much to inspect the troops,” he announced. “I do believe we have a stowaway.”