Edge Chronicles 6: Vox

by Paul Stewart

  More worrying was the thick mist. He couldn't see where he was going, nor how far he still had to swim. And so he continued blindly, his arms thrusting forwards and sweeping back, his legs kicking, using the direction of the current to guide himself across as best he could. If he kept on like this, he told himself - slow but steady - he was bound to reach the other side before too long.

  Towards the centre, however, the river began to grow more choppy. It splashed in his face - warm and cloying. And though he was immersed in water, he began to sweat uncomfortably inside his flight-suit as he battled against the increasing tug of the current. The odour of the mist, coiling off the surface of the river, became pungent, sickly; and when the twisting eddies lapped against his panting mouth, its greasy feel and rotting taste sent shivers of disgust rippling through his body. His arms faltered, his legs grew heavy - yet he urged himself on.

  ‘Not far now, he encouraged himself breathlessly. Til soon be back on dry land and…’

  At that moment, his fingers brushed against something soft and slimy His hand shrank back involuntarily. He looked up. There was something there, bobbing, half-submerged; something with matted patches of white and black fur. Rook shuddered with disgust. It was a dead piebald rat, washed out from the sewers; bloated and stinking. The stench of its rotting body made him heave as it floated past, and for a moment he sank down beneath the water.

  Splashing and spluttering, Rook broke the surface and gulped at the air.

  ‘Idiot, he muttered angrily. His squeamishness had made him careless. He could have been swept downriver.

  Just then, and for the briefest of instants, the swirling mist thinned. Looking ahead, Rook caught a glimpse of the other side of the river. His heart sank. It still looked so, so far away - but turning back was not an option. He had to continue.

  Rook struck off once more. The mist closed in around him. He struggled bravely on, keeping at right angles to the current as before, but unable to regain the smooth rhythm of arms and legs he'd got into earlier. Evil-looking clumps of matted weeds floated past him like rafts of broken limbs; unseen objects - some hard, some soft - brushed against him, both above the water and below. Were they mire-leeches squirming like maggots in the cloudy water below him? Was that a waterghoul lurking on the silty riverbed?

  Rook tried to push such idle thoughts away, but at that moment - from high above his head - there came the chattering of a passing flock of snowbirds. They seemed to be mocking him.

  He'll never make it, he thought he heard them trilling to one another. He's going to drown¡ He's going to drown¡

  For a second time, the sun burned through the mist - not for long, but just enough for Rook to see that the far bank, though still horribly distant, was indeed closer than it had been before. He could make out tall workshops and warehouses, dock-workers with wherry-hooks and hard hats, and a swarthy goblin scurrying along the raised jetty, a long hooked pike clasped in his hand.

  Again the mist grew thick. Rook trod water, fighting the persistent current whilst he got his breath back. Then he struck out again for the far bank. His legs seemed to be getting heavier and heavier, as though lead weights had been attached to his boots. Every stroke was an effort. Every kick used up a fraction more of his rapidly dwindling strength.

  ‘Easy does it, he told himself as he drove on through the treacly water. ‘Slow and steady. One stroke after the other. Forward … back … forward … back…’

  The next time the air cleared, it did not thicken up again. Instead the great snakelike coils of dense swirling mist were dwindling to wispy twists. Rook could now see the riverbank clearly. It was fringed with piers and jetties along which he could see figures shuffling to and fro. Although it was a relief to see that he had barely fifty strides to go, he was now seriously worried that someone might spot him.

  With his head low in the water, Rook continued towards the bank. He moved slowly, carefully; pushing the water back with his arms without making so much as the tiniest splash. His legs, heavier than ever, dragged behind him. Not looking up for fear of catching the eye of some dockhand or goblin guard, he swam on as blindly as when the mist had still held him in its grip.

  All at once, he felt his boots trail along the squelchy riverbed. The next moment, as he reached down, his searching fingers touched soft mud. Digging in, he pulled himself slowly into the shallows until he was lying half-in half-out of the water. If anyone noticed him, they should think he was simply something that had washed up on the shore. Slowly, cautiously, avoiding any sudden eye-alerting movement, he lifted his head and looked up.

  He had been lucky. Very lucky. He was lying in the shadow of a raised platform which jutted out high above his head. It was supported on thick wooden pillars, the closest of which stood half-a-dozen strides or so to his right. He could hear heavy footsteps clomping across the boards above him and, peering closely, saw the broken images of goblins and trogs flashing past the gaps between them.

  He'd done it¡ he thought gratefully as he pulled himself up onto dry land. He'd made it across the Edgewater River. Now he had to find his way back into the sewers. He tried to get to his feet - but found to his horror that he couldn't move his legs.

  In a sudden panic, Rook rolled over and looked down. ‘Aaeei…’ Terrified of giving himself away, he stifled the cry with his hands. Shaking with terror, he stared at his legs. Each had been swallowed up by a great bony fish, which clung tightly up to his knees, like a pair of angler's waders.

  Their bodies were gaunt, like canvas stretched over a skeleton, their eyes cold and grey, their sucker mouths -pink and frothing - gripped round the tops of Rook's shins. Oozefish, he breathed.

  Rook knew all about oozefish. Petris Fillit's treatise on the subject was a classic of its type. It was housed on a

  floating-lectern in the Great Library, where disobedient under-librarians were forced to learn its two hundred and thirty-two pages off by heart as a punishment. Oh, yes, Rook knew all about oozefish. He knew how they attached themselves to prey too large to swallow whole; sinking it, drowning it, guarding it, and waiting for it to rot enough for their suckers to begin feeding. He knew that they lived both in the Edgewater River and in the Mire, sliding through mud and water with equal ease. He knew their mating rituals, their gill structure - and of the third lid their eyes possessed. But most relevant of all, he knew how to remove one, should it become attached.

  Trying hard to stop his hand from trembling - and thanking the bad-tempered old professor who'd punished him for talking in class, Rook seized his sword, reached down towards his left leg and - taking care not to injure himself - plunged the tip of the blade into the fish's secondary gill, hidden behind its bulging blow hole. There was a soft squelching sound as the sucker instantly released its ferocious grip. The oozefish wriggled down off his leg, flapped wildly for a moment on the mud, then disappeared headfirst into it.

  Encouraged, Rook tightened his grip and leaned forwards a second time - but something the first one had done must have alerted the other oozefish to danger, for before he could strike, the creature had already disgorged itself. With a writhing flip, it squirmed down into the soft white mud after its companion. Rook watched its bony tail retreat and the mud plop and fall still.

  Still shaking, he climbed to his feet. Though wobbly, his legs seemed none the worse for being swallowed by disgusting oozefish. He took his bearings.

  If, as he thought, it was the slave-workshops above his head, then the boom-docks - the obvious way into the sewers - were too far upstream. And he couldn't risk being seen heading up the riverbank. No, his best bet was to go into Undertown itself and find a drain large enough for him to squeeze down. Once he hit one of the main underground tunnels, he'd be back in the Great Library in no time.

  He headed up the mudflats, keeping to the shadows, running from one wooden pillar to the next; pausing to catch his breath, before running on to the next. Gradually, the platform drew lower. The sound of pounding boots grew louder and w
as joined by raised voices; shouting, cursing and barking commands. Rook chewed into his lower lip nervously. The goblin guards were already out, overseeing the change from the night-shift to the day-shift of the work-slaves. It must be seven hours or thereabouts. Soon the whole place would be thronging.

  Just then, a snarl and a howl echoed through the air. Rook froze. Not only were they armed, but the goblin guards had white-collar woodwolves with them.

  Head down, he darted out from beneath the platform, over to a rear-floodwall and up an old rusty ladder bolted to its vertical side. The metal creaked and threatened to pull free of its moorings as he climbed. Rook felt vulnerable. Exposed. If anyone saw him …

  No-one will see me¡ he told himself sharply. Just get a move on¡

  At the top of the ladder, he peeked over the top of the wall. Then, having checked that the coast was clear, he jumped up and made a dash for the nearest buildings -a jumble of rundown warehouses, workhouses and tall slatted lofthouses once used for drying sailcloth and seasoning wood. Between them was a network of dark, narrow alleys, like an intricate maze. Rook took a deep breath and entered.

  He turned left. Then right. Then right again. He tried desperately to picture the layout of the place. But it was no use. Despite all the Undertown patrols he'd carried out, he simply could not get his bearings down here on the ground.

  As he ran on, the high windowless sides of the buildings seemed to press in about him. It was so hot and close. Sweat poured down his face. It occurred to him that if anything should appear at the ends of the alley, then he'd be trapped. If only he knew the arrangement of streets and alleys of Undertown just half as well as he knew the tunnels and pipes of the sewers below …

  Just then he heard something that told him exactly where he was: the squeaking of an unoiled crank being turned and the low babble of gossip. He paused and listened. The squeaking continued, followed by a clonk and a splash. Rook smiled. There was no doubt about it; although he couldn't see it, he must be within spitting distance of the Eastern Well. Many was the time he had flown past, noting both the gathering of goblin matrons who would cluster together, deep in conversation, as they filled their jugs and urns from the well-bucket - and the fact that the handle needed oiling¡

  He crept forwards and, guided by his ears rather than his eyes, squeezed himself into a long, narrow opening between the backs of two wood and stone buildings. The sound of the hushed voices grew louder as he slipped sideways along the gap, which grew narrower and narrower the further he went. At the end at last, he stopped and peered out cautiously from the shadows.

  In front of him, just as he'd expected, was the Eastern Well - a tall, ornate structure which was sole source of water for an entire district - and the ancient goblin matrons clustered around it. He peeked out a little further, looking right, left and round the cobbled square. There was a main drain with a barred gate entrance which lay down the street on the opposite side, Rook remembered - but how could he get to it? Should he work out some circuitous route, keeping to the narrow alleys? Or should he simply make a dash for it across the square? After all, the goblin matrons wouldn't do anything to stop him - and it would give them something new to talk about.

  He was about to risk it when he noticed one of the matrons look up and murmur to her neighbour; and then the two of them glance round. They'd heard something. The next moment, Rook heard it too - the rising sound of heavy boots marching towards him.

  It was a contingent of goblin guards¡

  Darting back into the narrow gap, Rook crouched down - his knees grazing the stone wall as he did so - and held his breath. Heart in his mouth, he watched as the first pair of armed guards stomped past the end of the passageway. Their breast armour, helmets and heavy weapons glinted in the early-morning brightness. Next, flanked by a second pair of goblins, Rook saw a ragged slave, head down and back bent, as he shuffled past. He was followed by others - twelve in all, Rook counted -each one yoked by the neck to the one behind. A final pair of goblins brought up the rear. Rook trembled and shrank back as far as he could into the shadows. To his horror, he had noted that they were not alone. Each one had a white-collar woodwolf beside him, straining at the leash.

  Praying he would not be noticed, Rook watched first one goblin go past, struggling to control the vicious beast he was holding; then the other. At last, they were both gone from sight. Rook sighed with relief.

  That had been close, he realized. Too close …

  ‘What's that, Tugger?’ the goblin's voice floated back. ‘Did you smell something, boy?

  ‘And you, too, Ragger?’ came a second voice. ‘What's up? Is there something there?’

  Rook's heart missed a beat. The wolves had caught his scent. They knew he was there.

  Turning on his heels, Rook bolted back down the narrow alley, away from the terrible danger. As he scrabbled and stumbled, he shot a look back over his shoulder to see the goblins - their bodies black against the light at the end of the alley - bend down and fiddle with the wolves’ collars. They were unclipping the woodwolves from their leashes.

  Rook ran for all he was worth.

  ‘He's getting away, Slog, called one of the goblins.

  ‘Oh, no he's not,’ came the reply. ‘Ragger, you go that way. Tugger, you go round there, boy. That's it¡ Head him off at the end of the alley!’

  Heart pounding, Rook sped desperately along the narrow alleyway. He had to reach the other end before the wolves did. Twenty strides to go by his reckoning. Not far - but then woodwolves were renowned for their fleetness of foot. He could hear them yelping from his left and his right as they ran down alleys parallel to his own. His head filled with terrible memories from his childhood that he couldn't push away; memories of slavers, and woodwolves, and the last time he had seen his parents alive … The yelping grew more excited. Any second now, the terrible creatures would reach the end of the alley and cut him off …

  ‘Come on, come on,’ he urged himself.

  As he neared the end, the passageway became comparatively wide. Rook sprinted the last ten strides, out onto a narrow street and down the alleyway opposite. Behind him, the two wolves met up and resumed the chase. Their excited baying twisted in the air, a discordant duet.

  Rook needed to find a means of escape as quickly as possible; a drain that would lead him down into the sewers. A drain-cover¡ He had to find a drain-cover. And quick¡

  Sweat drenched his body and soaked his hair, which lay flat and wet against his head. The new day was proving to be the hottest and most humid so far. But he couldn't stop. Drawing on reserves of strength he hardly knew he had, Rook turned sharp left at a junction and scurried down a dark alley which was full of early-morning merchants and punters, and lined with small workshops. The smell of hot metal and singed wood assaulted his nostrils as he barged his way through, past joiners and turners, past buzzing lathes and screeching circular saws.

  Oi¡ Watch it!’ voices shouted out angrily. ‘Watch where you're going!’

  But Rook took no notice. Librarian knight though he was, he couldn't afford to be polite or thoughtful. Not just now. His one priority was to escape.

  Suddenly this was made easier for him as the trogs and trolls began scattering before him, leaving a path for him to run down. At first he thought they must be clearing a way for him. The next moment, he realized what it was they were shouting as they dived for cover. His heart missed a beat.

  ‘Woodwolves!’ ‘Woodwolves!’

  Rook glanced back over his shoulder. He was hoping against hope that he was outrunning the terrible creatures. But as he saw the flashing eyes and slavering mouth of the first great woodwolf behind him, those hopes were dashed. It was gaining on him. Any second now, it would be snapping at his heels. He raced on -only to discover that the second woodwolf must have circled round to cut him off after all, because now it appeared in front of him at the far end of the alley. As their eyes met, it bared its teeth and snarled menacingly.

  Without a second thou
ght, Rook darted into the workshop to his left. A wizened woodtroll with a rubbery nose and a pronounced squint looked up from his lathe indignantly.

  ‘What in bloodoak's name do you think you're doing?’ he bellowed as Rook barged past him, sending spindles, table-legs and tools flying. ‘I … aaargh¡ Woodwolves!’

  ‘Sorry!’ Rook called out. Shoving the door aside, he tore through into the back room of the workshop and dived outside, through the far window.

  He landed, rolled over and jumped smartly to his feet. The woodwolves were in the room behind him, baying for his blood. Rook reached up, slammed the shutters to and bolted them into place.

  There was a loud splintering crash and a howl of pain as the first, then the second of the woodwolves lunged at the wooden shutters. The hinges creaked and the panels buckled and bowed - but the shutters remained in place.

  ‘Thank Sky and Earth for that,’ Rook murmured as he took to his heels once more.

  The woodwolves howled with rage and Rook heard them pounding back through the woodtroll's workshop to the alley. They weren't about to give up.

  And neither am I, thought Rook determinedly.

  He darted down an arched opening between two rather grand buildings opposite which - if his memory served him correctly - were Wheelwright's Mansion and the former Leagues’ Meeting House. He was right where he wanted to be, at the edge of central Undertown. The place was fairly riddled with drains, both large and small. At the end of the covered passage, he emerged into a second square, far grander than the one housing the Eastern Well. To his left was the Central Fountain -its once glorious cascade of water now reduced to a low, stumpy-looking column. And to his right…