by Paul Stewart
‘Sisters, sisters, said Mother Muleclaw. Her hanging-throne swung from side to side. ‘Calm yourselves. We need clear heads and sharp eyes in these dangerous times…’
Just then there was a loud disturbance below as a party of shryke guards approached the Roosting Tree. The entire circle of sisters spun round indignantly.
‘A thousand apologies, sweet sisters, said one of the guards.
‘But we found this’ said the second, dragging a bedraggled youth by the scruff of the neck. Throwing him down roughly onto the boards at the base of the tree, the guard squawked up to the roost-mother above. ‘Caught him snooping around by the tally-huts at the Mire Gates, your supreme Highness.’
The shrykes squawked and clucked with rage. The youth raised his head nervously and looked up. There was a loud crack as the first of the guards struck him on the shoulder with her bone-flail. ‘How dare you cast your gaze upon the shryke-sisters!’ she screeched. ‘Librarian filth!’
The youth lowered his head. ‘I … I'm sorry, he said. ‘But I must speak with…’
A second crack sounded, as the other guard brought her flail down heavily on his back. ‘You will only speak when spoken to!’ she shrieked.
‘Let the librarian speak, clucked Sister Hookbill. ‘Seed-pecker that I am, I sense we might learn something from him.’
‘He dared to meet our gaze!’ shrieked Sister Talon-scratch. ‘I say we tear out his liver and gorge on it!’
‘Enough!’ commanded Mother Muleclaw as her yellow eyes fell on the cowering figure of the youth. She lowered her hanging-throne. ‘What business does a librarian knight have at the tally-huts?’ she said. ‘Speak, wretch, or my sister here shall feast on your liver!’
Keeping his head down, the youth replied, ‘My name is Rook Barkwater, he said. ‘I am a librarian knight no longer. I spit on their rules and restrictions. Sewer rats, the lot of them¡ I seek the freedom of the Deepwoods and I'm prepared to sell out every last one of them to get it!’
The clucking grew louder. Mother Muleclaw's yellow eyes narrowed. ‘Stand up, she said. ‘Explain yourself.’
Rook did as he was told, taking care to keep his gaze fixed firmly on the floor below him. He didn't want to feel the searing pain of the bone-flail again.
They accused me of forging my treatise and stealing barkscrolls, he said, his voice little more than a murmur. ‘Lies, all of it. And for that, they shall pay dearly.’
The shrykes fell still. Mother Muleclaw leaned forwards, pressed a vicious talon against the underside of his chin and jerked his head upwards. Rook found himself staring into the cold, unblinking eyes of the formidable creature.
‘Pay dearly?’ she said. ‘How, pray?’
‘The librarians are in great danger, if they only knew it, he said with a bitter smile. ‘The goblins have discovered a secret passageway into the Great Library and they intend to attack and take it for themselves.’
‘You see!’ screeched one of the shrykes. ‘I told you Tytugg was up to something!’
Mother Muleclaw silenced her with a flap of her taloned hand. ‘Why should we believe you, librarian scum?’ she growled.
‘Because I hate the librarians, and with the gold you shall pay me for the information I give you, I can buy a passage back to the Deepwoods,’ said Rook, head still bowed. ‘Fifty gold pieces is all I ask. A cheap price for the chance to destroy the goblins and the librarians at a stroke … And I know the shrykes understand the value of a good spy I could be even more useful to you once I reach the Free Glades.’ He paused. ‘For the right price.’
‘Go on, said Mother Muleclaw, leaning forward in her roost throne. Around her, the other sisters had fallen quiet.
‘First the gold, said Rook, looking up and meeting her gaze.
For a moment, Mother Muleclaw said nothing. Then, with a savage jerk of the plaited leash, she yanked her puny shryke-mate up beside her. Rook noticed the leather coffer strapped to his back.
‘Stand still, Burdle, snapped Mother Muleclaw as she pushed a key into the lock of the coffer and turned it. ‘Fifty, you say, she said, and thrust her hand inside. She counted out the coins. There, she squawked and tossed the gold to the floor at Rook's feet. ‘There's thirty. That's plenty. Unless you want to see the colour of your own insides …’
Rook crouched down and began stuffing his pockets with the gold pieces. As the final coin clinked down beside the others, he climbed to his feet.
‘The goblins will attack from the east, he began, ‘and I can show you an entrance from the Great Western Tunnel that will lead you straight to the Great Storm Chamber Library. Attack at the right moment and you will trap the goblins and the librarians.’
Mother Muleclaw clucked excitedly. ‘Tell me when to attack and you shall be escorted along the Mire Road in my own personal carriage!’ she said.
Rook smiled, his gaze as unblinking as that of the shrykes themselves. ‘Attack in two nights’ time, he said. ‘At the eleventh hour!’
• CHAPTER ELEVEN •
XANTH FILATINE
Xanth stood by the window of his study looking out at the new day dawning, his head in turmoil. It was hotter than ever that morning, with the atmosphere so still that, although the window was wide open, not the faintest breath of fresh air penetrated the stifling room.
Mopping his glistening brow, he surveyed the huge, dark, anvil-shaped clouds which lined the horizon with a mounting sense of dread. They were vast and dense, their horizontal upper reaches silhouetted against the heavy blood-red sky. Xanth shuddered. Was this the storm the Guardians had been awaiting for so long? It looked so menacing, so evil…
At least, Xanth thought, if the storm did strike, the air might clear and the temperature drop. It had been so hot the night before that he'd barely slept a wink, tossing and turning beneath sweat-drenched covers, his dreams troubled and disturbing.
Far below him, Screetown was stirring. Further off, the lights of Undertown were going out, one by one, and on the narrow streets between the clutter of rundown buildings he saw Undertowners and goblins - as tiny as woodants - going about their daily business. Further still and he could just make out the signs of activity at the end of the Great Mire Road.
He pulled a telescope from the folds of his gown and focused on the tally-huts, the gateway towers - and the writhing mass of the bird-creatures clustered together in groups on the great platform beneath the towers and the curious tree-like construction which had sprung up a couple of days earlier. What was more, he realized as he switched his attention to the road itself, there were more arriving all the time. Like the clouds, the entire shryke army seemed to be advancing on Undertown.
The Eastern Roost must be almost deserted, he thought. But why? Did they also sense an impending storm?
Just then, a white raven flew past the window, cawing loudly. Xanth lowered the telescope and watched as the creature flapped past the Tower of Night, over Scree-town and on towards the Stone Gardens.
Xanth sighed wistfully, wishing that he, too, could fly away from the dark evil tower. He no longer belonged here. Perhaps he never had …
If he could fly, however, it wouldn't be to the Stone Gardens. No, if Xanth had wings, he would head off in the opposite direction; to the Deepwoods. He smiled to himself. Maybe Leddix was right, after all; maybe the Free Glade air had turned his head …
He'd flown there, of course, in the Free Glades; soaring above the Great Lake on the Ratbird, the skycraft he had built with his own hands. He sighed again. How differently things might have been if that maiden flight hadn't ended up with him crashing into Lake Landing and breaking his leg …
Xanth turned away from the window, crossed the stone floor and sat down on the stool at his desk. He had work to complete. A barkscroll lay before him, half-translated from the ancient tongue of the first academics. He picked up his pencil and read over the last sentence.
Et syth thit lyghtninge bleue slamme to thit steyne stryke-nard, yereby to makke sund.
And his transcription.
And so the blue lightning strikes the stricken stone, thereby making it…
‘Sund’ he murmured. ‘Healthy? Well? …’
His mind - already muzzy with the airless heat and lack of sleep - began to wander. And as he traced his fingers over the pattern of whorls and knots in the surface of the wooden desktop, he remembered Oakley Barkgruff, the kindly woodtroll who had helped him carve his skycraft from the great slab of sumpwood; what a thrill it had been to feel the wood beneath his hands take on the shape of a ratbird …
And the slaughterer, Brisket, scarcely older than himself, who had taught him everything he knew of sail-setting and ropecraft. How he'd loved those intricate rope-knots and the subtle shapes of a billowing sail…
And, most of all, Tweezel, the ancient spindlebug who had shown him how to varnish his craft - and with whom he had spent so many indulgent hours, sipping aromatic teas and listening to the wise old creature's stories. Even now, he could recall that thin, reedy voice telling him of far-off days when the spindlebug had walked the streets of old Sanctaphrax …
Then there was Parsimmon, the Master of the Lake Landing Academy; and Varis Lodd; and his fellow students, Stob Lummus, Rook Barkwater …
And, of course, Magda. Magda Burlix; the librarian knight he had interrogated so cruelly the day before, acting as though he didn't know her, and sealing her fate.
Oh, Magda¡ Magda¡ Magda!’ he cried out, slamming the pencil down on the table and pushing the barkscroll away. He couldn't work. Not now.
The stool scraped loudly on the stone floor as he pushed it back and climbed to his feet. He began pacing the small room, to and fro from bed-pallet to window and back again, rubbing his hands over his shaven scalp and muttering under his breath.
‘I've tried so hard to be a good Guardian. Nobody can say that I haven't. Obedient. Loyal. Ruthless … And then you come along, Magda, stirring up all kinds of stuff I thought I'd forgotten about. Why did you have to get caught? Eh, why you?’ His face hardened. ‘Sky blast you!’
Yet even as he cursed her, Xanth knew it wasn't Magda's fault that he was feeling the way he did. He clutched at his head. How had it ever come to this?
Back at the window, he glanced across at the Palace of Statues. It had been many long years since Orbix Xaxis had first taken him into his confidence, flattering him, tempting him and finally luring him away from Vox Verlix whom he'd been serving as a young apprentice.
Whenever he could, Orbix had taken Xanth aside. There could be an excellent future in the Tower of Night for a quick-witted lad such as yourself,’ he would tell him. ‘You could go down in history, my boy, as the one who healed the stricken rock and returned Sanctaphrax to its former glory’
Though alarmed by the mask and dark glasses which concealed Orbix's face and muffled his voice, Xanth had listened keenly, his heart thumping with excitement.
Then one cold morning, as Vox struggled with the construction of the Sanctaphrax Forest, Orbix had gone further. ‘Vox Verlix is finished, I tell you,’ he'd said softly ‘And those arrogant buffoons, the librarians, will never manage to find a cure for the rock with their poultices and potions. We are the future, His voice had dropped to a gruff whisper. ‘… The Guardians of Night, are the true heirs of the sky-scholars, he'd said. ‘Join us, Xanth. Join us.’
And he had. That night, in the darkest hour just before daybreak, he had stolen away from his quarters and met with Orbix Xaxis's shadowy followers on the upper gantries of the tower. There he had joined the breakaway faction of Guardians, signing his name to the Oath of Allegiance with his own blood. Xanth turned away and crossed the room slowly, the painful memories coming thick and fast.
Before the blood on the parchment was even dry, Orbix had whisked him away and quizzed him relentlessly about every aspect of Vox Verlix's apartments in the tower, the layout of corridors and staircases, the exact timing of his daily routine, the movements of his palace guards - and of Vox himself …
Three days later, Orbix Xaxis had launched his attack, massacring all those loyal to Vox Verlix, who had fled for his life; seizing the Tower of Night for himself and declaring himself its High Guardian.
Xanth sat down heavily on the corner of his bed-pallet, knees clutched tightly to his chest, and began rocking slowly backwards and forwards. Although he hadn't realized it at the time, he'd been used … Used …
From deep down in the bowels of the tower, he heard muffled thuds as doors were slammed, one after the other, and in between, the intermittent wail of desperate voices. The prisoners were being fed. Each time a door was unlocked for their daily ration of gruel and water to be pushed inside, mournful cries escaped the atrium and echoed up into the higher reaches of the tower. Xanth put his head in his hands. Soon the terrible prison stench, wafting out through the opened doors, would also fill the air.
Prisoners¡ Yes, under Orbix Xaxis, there were many prisoners; captured librarians, Undertowners and denounced Guardians accused of plotting against him. Nobody was safe. Xanth had earned his new master's trust by interrogating prisoners. He was, he realized guiltily, good at it; getting them to talk through a mixture of brutality and kindness.
It was how he'd first met Cowlquape, the hapless Most High Academe, betrayed by Vox to Orbix Xaxis, who had imprisoned him. The High Academe was free now, but Xanth couldn't help missing him - after the initial interrogation, he had grown to like and admire the resilient old academic.
Cowlquape it was who had buoyed him up so many times over the years when his spirits were low: with no-one else to talk to, Xanth had often crept down to the dungeons to hear the professor talk of his love for the Deepwoods. He had held Xanth spellbound with his stories of that mysterious place, far from Undertown, with its exotic fauna and flora, and tales of the tribes and forest-folk that dwelt there. And when the opportunity had arisen for Xanth to travel there himself, he'd seized it - though he had been too ashamed to tell Cowlquape that he was travelling there as a spy for the Guardians of Night.
Despite the sultry heat of the small chamber, Xanth shivered with a mixture of sadness and remorse. He had left the sinister tower and travelled to the Free Glades. And there, for the first time in his life, he had tasted happiness, just as Cowlquape had promised he would. But in the end, he had had to return. He'd had no choice. At risk of being unmasked as a spy, he'd had to flee back to the Guardians. It had broken his heart to leave, and on his return it had been too painful to see Cowlquape. Never again did Xanth visit him in his cell. So far as he knew, the old professor did not even know that he had returned.
Now, of course, the tables had been turned. Cowlquape Pentephraxis, former Most High Academe of New Sanctaphrax, was free, while he …
Just then, Xanth heard the soft clinking of chains. He jumped to his feet and hurried to the window. It was one of the terrible cages, empty now, being raised up from the deep ravine below.
Xanth turned away and slammed his fist down onto the desk. If he'd had his doubts about the High Guardian before - with his tortured prisoners, his summary executions and his fanatical hatred of the librarians - now that Orbix had begun feeding the poor, helpless librarians to the terrible rock demons, Xanth knew that his master had gone beyond the bounds of brutal tyrant. The so-called Purification Ceremonies were nothing more than an excuse for the High Guardian's twisted sport. Orbix Xaxis was a madman, a maniac. A monster.
Returning to the window, Xanth paused. By daylight, the approaching clouds looked darker and more imposing than ever. Perhaps this time, after decades of drought, the Edge was about to be struck by a mighty storm - with driving rain, thunder and lightning …
Lightning¡
Despite himself, Xanth felt a shiver of excitement. Sacred lightning. The lightning which every Guardian believed would strike Midnight's Spike and so pass down through the crumbling Sanctaphrax rock, healing it as it went.
What if Orbix was right? Xanth wondered anxiously. What if a storm did break, and the lightning did s
trike, and did heal the Sanctaphrax rock? What then? The power struggle between the warring factions of shrykes and goblins, Guardians and librarians was in the balance at the moment - as it had been for many years.
But if the Guardians of Night were to cure stone-sickness, then all that would change at a stroke. The Guardians would both govern New Sanctaphrax and take control of the sky, as buoyant flight-rocks began once more to grow in the Stone Gardens.
And, if that happened, then who would become the most powerful figure in all the Edge? Why none other than the High Guardian himself, Orbix Xaxis¡ Did he, Xanth, really want that to happen?
Thud¡ Thud¡ Thud¡
The three heavy blows at the door echoed round the small study-chamber and brought Xanth out of his reveries with a start. The door burst open.
‘You're wanted up on the Upper Gantry, now,’ said a surly-looking guard gruffly. ‘Come with me.’
As Xanth stepped into the corridor, the rank odour from the dungeons made him grimace. Poor creatures, he thought. And Magda was one of them; down there in the putrid depths, perched on her jutting prison-ledge. Alone. Frightened …
Oh, Magda, he thought sorrowfully as he followed the armed Guardian up the flights of stairs to the High Guardian's quarters. I should thank you, not curse you, for stirring such memories and doubts and emotions. Ever since returning from the Free Glades, I've tried desperately to keep my feelings under control, but you … you, Magda, have brought them flooding back. I cannot stay in this evil place. I must leave - and somehow take you with me.
Xanth's footsteps echoed round the High Guardian's sumptuous stately chamber as he made his way across the polished leadwood floor. The place was as luxurious as his own study was austere. It was crammed full of priceless items, all plundered from the ruined palaces of Screetown.
There were gilt framed mirrors and intricate tapestries, sparkling with gold and silver thread, on every wall; ornate vases, candelabras and dancing figurines on shelves, plinths and podiums, and in tall, elegant glass-fronted cabinets. Huge turquoise and magenta porcelain urns stood in every corner, a crystal chandelier hung overhead, while at the far end of the room, on either side of the gantry-doors, stood two ferocious banderbears, carved from the same heavy leadwood as the floor - and looking for all the world as though they were rearing out of it.