Edge Chronicles 6: Vox

by Paul Stewart

  The gnokgoblin smiled as the two Guardians disappeared from sight. Business in Undertown, indeed¡ Approaching the edge of the landing, he gave a long, low whistle.

  Below, Magda gasped as the basket dropped down, concerned at the alarming way it twisted and lurched. Although she had countless flights to her name, there was a world of difference between being airborne in her beloved Woodmoth - the skycraft she had created with her own bare hands and which obeyed her every flight-command - and being suspended in this creaking basket from a disturbingly rusty-looking length of chain.

  The lower they dropped, the closer the diseased Sanctaphrax rock came. At one point, Magda could have reached out and touched the crumbling rock - and would have, were it not for her fear of setting the unstable basket rocking. The porous rock was riven with cracks and fissures and huge boulder-shaped chunks threatened to break away at any moment. A small, grey creature with long twitching ears caught her eye as it scampered over the pitted surface in a flurry of dust and was gone.

  ‘We'll soon be level with the Sanctaphrax Forest,’ said Xanth. The winding-pedals creaked softly as they turned.

  Magda nodded. A moment later, the dark and damaged rock gave way to the vast wooden cross-beams and pillars constructed to support it.

  ‘The Sanctaphrax Forest, she whispered, her voice trembling with awe.

  No wonder they called it a forest, Magda thought. Half the Deepwoods must have been cut down to build it. As she stared at the great vertical pylons thrusting up from the ground like mighty tree-trunks, and the chaotic jumble of branch-like struts and supports, transoms, rafters and beams, it seemed that forest was exactly the right word for the place.

  A dark forest. An endless forest. A living forest…

  It was almost as if the very spirit of the Deepwoods themselves had been transported here along with the trees that had been felled.

  The so-called forest, she knew, served a dual purpose. Originally, it had been constructed to prevent the stricken rock from crushing Undertown below. The endeavour had not been entirely successful - as the ruins of Screetown bore terrible witness; yet, thanks to the vision of Vox Verlix and the endless backbreaking toil of the slave-workers, damage had been kept to a minimum. The other purpose was altogether more contentious. As everyone knew, the Guardians - in stark contrast to the librarians - believed that the rock must be kept from touching the ground if the coming lightning bolt was to heal it. It had been the cause of their terrible rift and the reason why the Guardians still hated the librarians.

  Magda turned to Xanth. ‘So you believe in the sacred lightning bolt, do you?’ she said. ‘Curing stone-sickness.’

  Xanth hesitated and looked up. The basket turned around again. ‘As a Guardian, I do, he said, ‘though my studies at Lake Landing with the librarians left me less certain … He shrugged and resumed the long descent. ‘Maybe none of them are right, he said a moment later. ‘Maybe there really is no cure for stone-sickness, in the sky or in the Deepwoods.’

  Magda shook her head. ‘As a librarian knight, I have to believe there is a cure out there in the Deepwoods somewhere. But what I don't understand is why the Guardians hate us so much for believing that. After all, we all want the same thing, don't we?’

  Xanth looked away. ‘I used to believe that, Magda. But the minds of the Guardians have been poisoned by sky-watching and envy. It is not only the stone that is sick. I only wish I had realized that sooner, he added softly.

  The basket lurched to one side, then righted itself. Magda swallowed nervously and gripped the sides of the basket till her knuckles went white. As the basket slowly turned, she found herself staring into the shadowy depths of the great wooden structure and heard a curious whiffling noise, like air passing through a narrow opening. She turned to see a bat-like creature with hooks on its wings and a long rubbery snout soaring through the criss-cross shadows and coming in to land on a tatty nest, one of many lined up along the broad crossbeam. It was a dwarf-rotsucker.

  The breathy whistling sounds grew louder, and Magda realized that the creature was not alone. Dozens of others, their leathery wings wrapped tightly round them, filled the shadows behind it. An acrid smell of droppings made her nostrils quiver. This was clearly a regular roosting spot for the whole flock; a place they came to every morning, to rest up in the dark shadows and wait for nightfall - the creature she had watched must have been a straggler …

  With a lurch, the basket dropped further and the dwarf-rotsuckers disappeared. A new sound filled the air. The sound of hard toil. There was sawing and chopping, and the shifting rhythm of numerous pounding hammers - and underlying it all, a constant low moaning: the sound of despair.

  ‘Right, now try again, bellowed a deep, throaty voice. ‘And this time, put your backs into it!’ A whip cracked and the moaning grew louder. ‘Lift it higher¡ Higher¡ ‘

  ‘Slave gang, Xanth muttered grimly. ‘The work on the forest never stops.’

  The slave-master's furious voice echoed up through the air. ‘Imbecile!’ he bellowed and the whip cracked louder than ever. ‘Do that again, and I'll snap your scrawny neck!’

  Magda shuddered.

  Xanth continued turning the winding-pedals steadily, and as the basket dropped Magda found herself face to face with the slave gang itself. She gasped and clapped her hands to her mouth.

  Magda knew, of course, that the life of a slave was harsh, particularly those assigned to work on the Sanctaphrax Forest. Nothing, though, could have prepared her for the sight of the group of pitiful unfortunates before her.

  There were a dozen or so of them in all, from every part of the Edge. Beneath the grimy skin and matted hair, she could make out mobgnomes, gyle-goblins; a cloddertrog, a lugtroll, a pair of flatheads … Here, however, as slave-labour in the Sanctaphrax Forest, their backgrounds counted for nothing.

  Wearing nothing but filthy loin-cloths, the hapless slaves were balanced precariously on rickety scaffolding and flimsy boards, their arms raised, struggling under the weight of the massive ironwood crossbeam they were attempting to push into place. Magda watched them, tears welling in her eyes. Their straining muscles were like knots of rope; their protruding bones, like sticks - for if there was one thing that the slaves had in common, it was this. They were all being starved to death.

  There's nothing you can do, said Xanth softly.

  Magda's face crumpled. ‘I know, she said. ‘That's the worst thing of all.’

  The moaning rose and fell in waves as the slaves tried, again and again, to raise the heavy crossbeam high enough.

  ‘Higher¡ Higher!’ bellowed a voice, and a great hammerhead goblin with a horned brass helmet and heavy leather armour stepped out of the shadows. He cracked his whip. ‘Half a stride more!’ he roared, urging the slaves forward.

  Just then there was a muffled cry and Magda saw one of the gyle-goblins stumble and fall to his knees. Moaning loudly, the other slaves wobbled precariously, desperately trying not to let go of the ironwood beam. The hammerhead slave-master strode forward furiously, seized the quivering gyle-goblin by the scruff of his neck and raised him high up into the air.

  ‘I warned you!’ he hissed. ‘You're more trouble than you're worth.’ He twisted the terrified gyle-goblin round and gripped him tightly in the crook of his elbow. He turned to the others. ‘You're going to have to work even harder now!’ he bellowed.

  He seized the

  goblin's head and wrenched it sharply to the right. There was a dull crack.

  Magda let out a cry of horror.

  The hammerhead spun round and glared at her. ‘Guardians, eh?’ he sneered.

  Magda looked down, grateful for the hooded gown which concealed her tear-stained face.

  ‘Greetings,’ Xanth called back, easing up on the winding-pedals for a moment. ‘It is good to know that the welfare of the sacred Sanctaphrax rock is in such competent hands. The High Guardian himself shall hear of your excellent work.’

  The slave-master tossed the limp body
of the dead gyle-goblin off the platform and placed his hands on his hips.

  ‘So long as old muzzle-face keeps paying, then we'll look after his precious rock, he snarled. A crooked smile, all broken teeth and dark intent, flashed across his face. ‘Perhaps you'd like to lend a hand…’

  Xanth said nothing. He turned the winding-pedals with renewed vigour.

  Magda could not speak. The condition of the slaves, condemned to labour until they dropped, had shocked her to the core; while the casual brutality of the slave-master played over and over in her mind. Although the moaning of the slaves soon faded away as the basket dropped lower, their memory would linger on so long as she lived.

  ‘Magda, said Xanth, turning to the young librarian. She didn't stir, lost in her own thoughts. ‘Magda¡ We've arrived.’ The basket touched down on the ground with a soft thud and Xanth secured the brake-lever before any more chain could unwind. He jumped down from the winding-stool and climbed out of the basket. ‘Magda, he said a third time, grasping her shoulders tightly with both hands. ‘We've almost made it. The worst is over.’

  ‘For us, maybe, said Magda bleakly.

  With Xanth's help, she climbed out of the basket and looked about her distractedly.

  ‘Looking for something?’ came a gruff voice.

  Magda started back with surprise. Xanth spun round to see a cloddertrog guard standing before him, his thick heavy arms folded in front of him.

  ‘The rock demons screech’ he said.

  The guard eyed him dismissively, a sneer playing over his mouth. ‘I recognize that face,’ he said with an evil leer. He unfolded his arms and drew a heavy club from his belt. Vicious studs glinted in the heavy sunlight.

  ‘Step aside this instant!’ Xanth commanded, his voice breaking with outrage. ‘I am Xanth Filatine, following orders given to me by the High Guardian himself. If he were to find out…’

  Just then there was a stirring from the shadows behind him and a wiry individual with lank hair and weasely features stepped from the shadow. ‘The High Guardian will find out soon enough,’ came a thin voice.

  ‘Leddix,’ said Xanth, the colour draining from his cheeks.

  ‘Surprised to see me, eh, Xanth?’ the cage-master asked. ‘Did you not realize that I have been having you watched?’ He chuckled softly. ‘I've been waiting for this moment for a long time, my treacherous friend. A very long time …’

  ‘You're … you're making a big mistake, Leddix,’ said Xanth. ‘I'm warning you.’

  ‘You warning me?’ Leddix said, his face creasing with amusement. ‘Oh, but you're a slippery one, Xanth Filatine. Sucking up to the High Guardian; poisoning his mind against me with your traitorous lies.’ His expression hardened. ‘But now I've got you, like a fat oozefish wriggling at the end of a line …’

  ‘How dare you!’ said Xanth with all the cold fury he could muster.

  Leddix clicked his fingers and the cloddertrog guard leapt forward, his club raised and swinging.

  ‘Watch out!’ Magda cried.

  But too late. The heavy studded club struck Xanth hard on the back of his head with a sickening crunch. The last thing Xanth saw was Leddix's goading smile, cruel in victory. Thin lips. Brown teeth. Dead eyes …

  Then nothing.

  • CHAPTER FOURTEEN •

  AMBEKFUCE

  Nobody but a waif could understand how difficult it was, thought Amberfuce bitterly. His barbels quivered as he drew a circle in the thick dust that coated the crowded medicine stand beside his buoyant chair.

  Needs dusting¡

  His icy thought cut through the muddle in his nurse's huge head.

  ‘Ooh, came a screech from the room next door, accompanied by the sound of a glass stopper being dropped. ‘How many times must I tell you, Ambey, dear?’ Flambusia called out. ‘Nursie doesn't like you barging into her head!’

  ‘Sorry, Flambusia,’ whispered the waif in a pathetic voice.

  Not even Flambusia - big, beautiful Flambusia, who nursed him, soothing his aches and easing his pains -not even she understood how difficult it was being a waif. All those thoughts in all those heads; whispering, moaning, shouting, without a moment's respite …

  Eighty years ago, in the dark marshy waiflands, far off in the furthest reaches of the known Edgelands, it had been so different. Amberfuce's eyes glazed over and a smile set his barbels quivering. He remembered the delicious silence that had surrounded him as a waifling; so empty, so comforting - and broken only by the occasional whispering of another ghostwaif out there somewhere in the endless distance.

  Amberfuce sighed.

  Like so many before him, he'd been drawn to Undertown, lured by the promise of a better life and riches beyond imagining. Most found only misery and despair. But not Amberfuce.

  The waif's smile widened and his eyes twinkled.

  He had found employment. There was always employment to be found for a clever waif who was good at keeping quiet and listening. Amberfuce had kept his huge ears open and had soon secured himself a lucrative position in the School of Light and Darkness, snooping on the gossiping academics for his master, an ambitious High Professor.

  Long dead now, Amberfuce thought darkly.

  The professor had been the first of many masters, all interested and ready to pay for what he overheard in the gabbling, gossiping, endlessly noisy old Sanctaphrax. So many thoughts¡ So much noise¡

  Amberfuce leaned across to scratch at a dry, flaky patch of skin itching at the back of his knee.

  He'd soon learned though; learned how to blot out the incessant babble and listen selectively. It had been hard. Many waifs were driven insane after a few years in Undertown. But not Amberfuce. He was made of sterner stuff - and besides, he had his medicine.

  A cough racked his frail body as he surveyed the rows of dusty bottles, nestling on the medicine stand. The large jars contained his tinctures; potent concoctions which soothed his poor, tired ears. The tall slender vessels were filled with salves and balms. And then there were the embrocations, greasy and black - how he enjoyed Flambusia's rough hands applying them …

  Amberfuce chuckled throatily - and collapsed into a fit of coughing which, this time, showed no sign of abating.

  Oh, dearie-dearie me!’ said Flambusia, bustling into the chamber, her heavy stack-heels clacking on the marble tiles. ‘Can I never get a moment's peace and quiet?’

  She hurried across the floor to the quivering waif, unstoppering a squat blue pot as she went. A pungent whiff of eye-watering sagemint and woodcamphor filled the air.

  ‘Now, shirt up for Nursie,’ Flambusia said calmly, ‘and let's rub a little vapour embrocation into that chest of yours.’

  She opened his gown and tugged at his undershirt with one hand then, dipping the other into the jar, she loomed in above the waif. As her plump, deliciously rough fingers worked the embrocation into his pallid, mottled skin, Amberfuce could feel his lungs being soothed. The coughing eased. He sat back in his chair, eyes closed.

  He could make out Flambusia's thoughts in the background; fussy, cluttered and … what was that?

  He stopped himself probing - he knew how she hated that - and tried to think of something else.

  Professors¡ What a noisy squabbling rabble they were, the whole lot of them, with their petty grievances and niggling dislikes … But then he had met Vox Verlix, a junior professor in the College of Cloud; tall and opinionated, a braggart and a bully, never happier than when throwing his weight about. Young and callow though Vox was, Amberfuce had sensed something about him - something beyond the naked ambition, the base desires …

  The waif smiled. It was Vox's mind - his brilliant, unfathomable mind - that had fascinated him. He had known at once that he could really work with this professor and that is exactly what he had set about doing.

  ‘That should do you for now,’ Flambusia announced, pulling the waif's undershirt back down and straightening his gown. ‘Now don't you go getting yourself all excited again,’ she chided him. ‘Y
ou know it's not good for you.’

  ‘Tea,’ Amberfuce murmured, his eyes fluttering open for a moment. ‘I'd like some nice herb tea.’

  ‘Presently, said Flambusia, turning away. ‘Nursie's a bit busy at the moment. You get some rest, Ambey, dear.’

  Amberfuce nodded resignedly, and closed his eyes again.

  Ah yes, those early days as Vox's assistant… They'd certainly been eventful. There had been the Mother Storm, and the loss of old Sanctaphrax, and the birth of the new rock. What times they'd been¡ Amberfuce rocked backwards and forwards in the buoyant chair.

  Vox had ingratiated himself with the young fool of a High Academe, Cowlquape Pentephraxis. He'd pretended to believe in all that academics-and-Undertowners-being-the-same nonsense. And all the while, he, Amberfuce, had been listening and reporting back to Vox so that when the opportunity arose, the pair of them had been ready and waiting.

  Stone-sickness had taken hold of the Edge, the new Sanctaphrax rock had begun to crumble and the leagues-men's once mighty fleet had been decimated by the failing flight-rocks. Undertown and New Sanctaphrax had been in turmoil, and Cowlquape in despair. Vox had come up with a brilliant plan - the construction of a vast single tower on the Sanctaphrax rock, to replace the smaller buildings that the various squabbling schools and academies had built. The earth-scholars -their numbers increasing and influence growing - could have the lower levels for their Great Library. From there they could continue to search the Deepwoods for a cure for stone-sickness. The sky-scholars could inhabit the upper levels, establishing laboratories and workrooms and, most importantly, supervising the building of a mighty spike. This, they believed, would harness the power of any passing lightning and heal the stricken rock beneath.