by Paul Stewart
‘Look!’ Rook exclaimed, pointing at the flat, muddy horizon.
‘What?’ said Magda, who was already scooping handfuls of mud aside and squeezing out of the hole on all fours. ‘I can't see anything.’
‘Exactly!’ said Rook, following her. ‘The Great Mire Road! It's gone!’
Xanth scrambled after them. All around, other mud-dunes were coming to life as the Undertowners emerged from their shelters into the blinding light of the white mud and early morning sky.
‘You're right,’ gasped Xanth, following Rook's gaze.
Where the Mire Road had towered over them the night before, now there was only a low ridge of mud, punctured here and there by splintered beams and pylons, like the ribs of a giant oozefish. Wreaths of acrid smoke began to coil up into the sky as braziers and cooking-fires were lit, and the air filled with the sounds of scraping and scratching as everyone struggled to rid themselves and their belongings of the clinging mud.
Xanth and Magda seized a couple of pieces of broken wood and began shovelling at the drifted mud-dune surrounding the hammelhorn cart. But it was hard going, with the wet mud constantly sliding back into the areas they had cleared.
‘Come on, Rook,’ Xanth panted. ‘We could do with a hand here.’
But Rook did not hear him. He was staring at the remains of the once impressive feat of engineering, lost in his thoughts. So, this was the end of the Great Mire Road; a road he, Rook, had travelled as an apprentice librarian…
The image of Vox Verlix's fat face hovered before him – Vox Verlix, the greatest architect and builder the Edge had ever seen. The Great Mire Road had been his masterpiece, the greatest of all his mighty projects. But, like the Tower of Night and the Sanctaphrax Forest, it too had been wrested from him by others, leaving the former Most High Academe angry and bitter. And so, like a petulant child breaking its toys, he had brought down the power of the dark maelstrom on Undertown and destroyed his precious creations – and destroyed himself in the process.
Rook shook his head and turned away. Vox Verlix, Undertown, the Great Mire Road – they were all in the past. There was no turning back. Now, the homeless Undertowners and librarians had to look to the future, Rook realized, a future that lay far away across this desolate wasteland…
‘Head in the clouds as usual!’
The sound of the voice snapped Rook out of his reverie. In front of him stood Varis Lodd, Captain of the Librarian Knights, resplendent in her green flight-suit. Rook bowed his head in salute.
‘Captain,’ he greeted her.
Varis laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I wish you could come with us, Rook,’ she said kindly. ‘But our loss is the library's gain. Keep the barkscrolls safe until our return, Rook, and you'll have completed a task every bit as important as ours.’
Rook nodded and tried to return her smile.
‘Now, where's that friend of yours?’ Varis looked past Rook and, as her gaze fell on Xanth, Rook noticed her jaw tighten and her eyes glaze over.
Xanth looked up and must have seen her expression too, for he stopped shovelling mud and stared down dejectedly at his boots.
‘Xanth!’ Magda laughed, still shovelling furiously. ‘Don't give up! You're as bad as Rook …’ She stopped when she saw Varis and straightened, bowing her head. ‘Captain,’ she said.
‘The flight awaits, Magda,’ said Varis, pointedly ignoring Xanth. ‘Say goodbye to … your friends, and report for duty.’
Magda nodded solemnly. She turned and hugged Rook, then Xanth. ‘Take care of each other,’ she said urgently. ‘Promise me.’
They promised. Xanth's face was ashen white; his voice, barely more than a whisper.
‘It'll be all right, Xanth,’ said Magda. ‘Rook and I will speak up for you in the Free Glades, won't we, Rook?’
Rook nodded earnestly.
‘Now, come and see me off,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful.
‘I'll stay here,’ said Xanth. ‘You go, Rook. I'll finish digging the cart out.’
Magda gave him another hug, then turned to Rook. ‘Here goes,’ she said, and strode off after the Captain of the Librarian Knights.
Rook followed them through the gathering crowds, the buzzing hum of excitement in the air growing louder as they neared the tethering-posts. Heavy stakes had been driven down into the mud and the skycraft lashed securely to them. Now they were being untied, and the great flocks of skycraft were bobbing about in the early-morning air. Two squadrons were already prepared, with scores of young librarian knights seated astride their skycraft and waiting for the signal to depart.
Rook watched Magda climb onto her Woodmoth, unfurl the loft and nether-sails, realign the balance-weights and unhitch the flight-ropes. At the sight of her, he felt a heavy weight pressing down on his chest, turning to a dull ache. He swallowed hard, but the pain remained. Beyond the excited crowd he spotted Varis Lodd and the Professors of Light and Darkness, the three of them already hovering in the air, one at the head of each squadron.
As the last librarian knight climbed aboard his skycraft, Varis Lodd flew up higher, bringing the Windhawk round. She raised an arm and gave a signal.
Free Glades Flight, depart, she motioned in the signalled language of the librarian knights.
At her command, and as silently as snowbirds, some three hundred or so skycraft soared up into the sky as one. They hovered expertly overhead, securing and setting their sails, and adjusting the flight-weights that hung beneath each craft like jewelled tails.
Twilight Woods Flight, depart. The Professor of Darkness silently gave the command, and the three hundred hovering craft were joined by three hundred more.
Eastern Roost Flight, depart. It was the Professor of Light's turn to give the signal; a right arm crossed to the left shoulder, three fingers outstretched. The air seemed to tremble as the squadron of librarian knights under his command – including Magda herself – rose up from the ground.
Like a vast and silent array of exquisite insects, nine hundred skycraft filled the sky above Rook's head.
‘Oh, Stormhornet,’ he murmured, his heart breaking. ‘How I miss you.’
A sudden gust of wind seemed to galvanize the sky-craft as, one by one, their sails filled like blossoming flowers and they moved off.
Rook followed their path, his mouth dry, his chest aching, as the skycraft caught the stronger currents high in the sky and began to gather speed. All around him cheers went up as the Undertowners and librarians saluted the librarian knights.
But as the skycraft grew ever more distant, the cheers fell away and the mood of the crowd changed. They were on their own now, out here in the vast muddy wilderness. Rook sighed. He felt the same.
Of course, he knew that the skycraft would be no use in the swirling, howling winds of the Edgelands that awaited them. He knew it made sense for the librarian knights to go on ahead to scout for danger and bring help from the Free Glades. He knew they all planned to meet up again at the Ironwood Stands. He knew all of this – but still, he couldn't shake off the feeling of having been abandoned.
In the distance, high above the Twilight Woods, the vast flock split up into three; one section swooping off to the north, one to the south, and the third continuing due west in the direction of the Deepwoods. Soon they were lost from view and, with a low murmur, the crowd began to disperse.
Rook turned and made his way back to Xanth as, all through the encampment, the Undertowners began to prepare for the long march ahead. From his left he heard commands being issued and he spotted Deadbolt Vulpoon striding through the encampment, barking into a raised megaphone.
‘Mud-shoes and mire-poles for everyone!’ he instructed. ‘And eye-shields. Those without should improvise. There's plenty of timber to be had from the old Mire Road.’
There was a feverish scramble for scraps of wood and, all over the encampment, trogs and trolls, goblins, ghosts and librarians – all aided by the sky pirates – began lashing lengths of wood to the soles of their boots, cuttin
g down sticks to the right length and fashioning eye-shields that would, they hoped, protect them from the dreaded mire-blindness.
‘Batten down all crates and boxes!’ Deadbolt's amplified voice continued. ‘Charge your brazier-cages with lufwood, and fix runners to the bottoms of every cart and carriage!’
Again, there was a scramble for wood, and the air was soon echoing with the sounds of chopping and sawing and hammering as every vehicle had its wheels removed and stowed, to be replaced with long, curved runners which, Earth and Sky willing, would glide effortlessly over the treacherous mud.
‘Those with prowlgrins, put them in harness!’ Deadbolt's voiced boomed as he continued marching through the bustling encampment. ‘Those without will have to strap themselves in. Always pull! Never push!’ He caught sight of a herd of hammelhorns standing forlornly in a shallow pool. ‘And hammelhorns may not, I repeat, not be used for pulling the sledges. They'll only sink. They must be tethered together and led.’ He paused and stood looking round, his hands on his hips. ‘And get a move on!' he roared. ‘We depart at midday!’
Rook found Xanth sitting on the remains of the hammelhorn cart, which had been completely stripped of wood for mud-shoes. He was surrounded by four huge mountains of shaggy, mud-caked fur, and smiling broadly.
‘I can't understand a word they're saying,’ he laughed as Rook ran up.
‘Wumeru!’ Rook shouted out in delight.
The banderbear turned. ‘Wurrah-lurra! Uralowa leera-wuh!’ she roared, her words accompanied by arm movements, curiously delicate for one so large. Greetings, Rook, he who took the poison-stick. It is good you are back with us.
‘Wuh-wuh!’ Rook replied, his hand lightly touching his chest. It was good to hear his banderbear name again. ‘Wurra-weeg, weleera lowah.’ Greetings, friend. Together we shall face the journey ahead.
‘Wurra-weeg, wurra-wuh!’ the other banderbears joined in, clustering around Rook in an excited group. There was Wuralo, who he'd rescued from the Foundry Glade; Weeg, with his great, angry scar across one shoulder, and old Molleen, her single tusk glinting in the low sunlight as she tossed her head animatedly about.
‘What are they saying? What are they saying?’ said Xanth excitedly, joining the throng.
‘They're saying,’ laughed Rook, ‘that they've been searching the camp and have been trying to ask you if you'd heard of me – but you didn't seem to understand a word they said. Molleen here thinks you seem rather stupid, but that it isn't your fault – it's because your hair's so short!’
Xanth burst into laughter, and the banderbears yodelled in unison.
‘Tell her,’ said Xanth, ‘that I'll grow my hair just for her.’
As the sun rose higher in the milky sky, the chaos of the Mire encampment gradually took on a semblance of order. Every cart was laden, every backpack stuffed full; at Fenbrus Lodd's command, the prowlgrins had been harnessed up to the sledges carrying the precious library crates.
An hour earlier, following Deadbolt Vulpoon's orders, the Undertowners had started to rope themselves together in groups of twelve. Now, they were all taking up the positions allocated to them by the sky pirates in a huge column, with the family groups and the Great Library at the centre, the sky pirates themselves at the head and the Ghosts of Screetown bringing up the rear. Roped together, Rook, Xanth and the banderbears were just behind the last of the huge library sledges, its jostling, slavering team of fifty prowlgrins raring to go.
Felix called to them from towards the back of the column. ‘Good luck, Rook! Make sure those great shaggy friends of yours don't step on any prowlgrin tails!’ His laughter boomed out across the Mire.
Rook smiled. He wished he could be as brave and cheerful as Felix.
Just then, Deadbolt Vulpoon strode past, his sword held high and the megaphone clamped to his mouth. Rook raised his scarf to shield his eyes from the dazzling whiteness ahead, his stomach turning somersaults. High above his head, a great flock of white ravens circled noisily, the furious cawing echoing off across the endless Mire, and reminding Rook just how far they had to go.
‘ADVANCE!!’ Deadbolt Vulpoon's voice boomed as he strode out ahead.
The column began to shuffle forward – front first, then further and further back down the lines, until every single individual in the vast multitude was in motion. Rook fell into step, Xanth and the banderbears marching beside him. Up ahead, families of gnokgoblins and lugtrolls marched, their makeshift mud-shoes slapping on the mud, keeping them from sinking.
Yet the going was tough for all that.
Soon, many were struggling – from frail old'uns, their aged limbs protesting, to young'uns, thin and under-nourished, yet too big to be carried. Behind them came the library sledges, with Fenbrus Lodd and Cowlquape Pentephraxis walking alongside them, the High Librarian anxiously checking and rechecking the ropes, the runners, the prowlgrin harnesses…
‘Nothing must be lost,’ he was muttering. ‘Not a tome, not a treatise, not a barkscroll.’
They all tramped on resolutely through the afternoon and into the evening. Dark clouds gathered overhead once more, and Rook pulled his collar up against the rising wind.
From up ahead, Deadbolt's voice boomed. ‘Keep marching! There can be no stopping, you mudlubbers! Close up the gaps!’
It was almost completely dark when the rain first started – big, fat drops that spattered down on the mud-flats. Within seconds, it had become torrential, bucketing down on the Undertowners for the third time in as many nights.
‘We keep on!’ Deadbolt's voice called out above the hiss and thunder of the howling wind and battering rain.
His words were passed back down through the lines of the drenched multitude, growing more despondent with every repetition.
‘We keep on?’ muttered a gnokgoblin matron desperately, glancing back at her family, roped behind her, barely able to keep going.
A cloddertrog to her left, bathed in purple light from the brazier-cage he was carrying, nodded grimly. ‘We keep on,’ he said.
Rook himself was struggling. He was hungry, and the icy rain had chilled him to the bones. On either side of him, the banderbears panted noisily, while behind him – pulling on the tether-rope that bound them together – Xanth slipped and slid on his unfamiliar mud-shoes.
A curious numbness seemed to grip both Rook's body and his mind. He was no longer thinking of where he was going. The future no longer existed; nor did the past. There was only this, here, now. One step after the other, trudging across the endless reaches of the Mire.
One step. Then another, and another…
The night passed in a stupor of mud, sweat and shivers, and a cold grey light began to dawn. Despite Deadbolt's best efforts, the pace had slowed to a painful crawl, with small pockets of stragglers beginning to fall behind. If this continued, he knew the column would soon cease to be a column at all, and become instead a disorganized rabble, impossible to lead.
At last there came the command everyone had been waiting for.
‘HALT!’ bellowed Deadbolt. ‘We rest for one hour! No more! Any longer and we'll all be muglump bait – that is, if the mud-flows don't get us first.’
With a collective sigh, the column stopped marching, and the long lines of Undertowners broke up into small groups, huddled together against the biting wind. Sitting between Molleen and Wumeru, Rook and Xanth escaped the worst of it – but were still both chilled to the bone.
‘I never thought I'd say this,’ said Xanth, smiling weakly, ‘but I almost miss Undertown. How can anybody call this desolate waste home?’
Rook didn't answer. He was gazing past Xanth at the treeline in the distance.
‘The Twilight Woods,’ he murmured.
From the cold, icy mud of the Mire, the twinkling light of the Twilight Woods was hypnotic. Warm, inviting glades sparkled, fabulous clearings shimmered; nooks and crannies, sheltered from the bitter winds, beckoned seductively.
Xanth put his arm on Rook's shoulder. ‘Don't even thi
nk about it,’ he said sternly. ‘That path leads to death… A living death.’
Rook looked away and shook his head. ‘I know, I know,’ he said. The Twilight Woods! That beautiful, seductive, terrible place that robbed you of your mind but not your life, condemning you to live on for ever as your body decayed. ‘It's just that … it looks so…’
‘Inviting,’ Xanth said grimly. ‘I know that.’ He shivered as a blast of icy wind hit him. The next instant he was up on his feet and waving wildly. ‘Molleen! No!’ he cried out. ‘Molleen! Come back!’
Rook leaped up. The old banderbear had torn free of her tether and was stumbling across the mudflats, her eyes fixed on the Twilight Woods ahead.
‘Weeg-worraleeg! Weera wuh-wuh!’ Rook shouted desperately. Come back, old friend, that is death calling you!
Wumeru, Wuralo and Weeg's anguished yodels rang out. Come back, old friend! Come back!
But the old banderbear ignored them. And she wasn't alone. Up and down the column, individuals were cutting the ropes that bound them to their groups and dashing towards the alluring glades of the Twilight Woods.
Deadbolt's voice boomed from the front of the line. ‘Column fall in, and advance if you want to see another dawn! Advance, I say! And keep your eyes looking up front, you mangy curs!’
Ahead of them, the library sledges lumbered forwards. Rook, Xanth and the banderbears broke ranks as one, and made after Molleen, only to be jerked back by the rope that secured them to their sledge. Rook tore at the rope feverishly.
‘Molleen, wait!’ he shouted. ‘We're coming to get you!
‘Fall back in line!’ roared a voice in Rook's ear. Deadbolt Vulpoon, his face like thunder, loomed over him. ‘Fall back in line or I'll run you through!’ He brandished a serrated-edge sabre menacingly. ‘And don't think I won't!’
Rook stopped, tears stinging his eyes. ‘But Molleen,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘She's our friend, we must…’