by Paul Stewart
SLAD. SLASHTALON AND STYX
i
The Goblin Army
‘It's time, Slad, the phalanx is forming!’ The gruff voice -Xwas followed by a booted prod to the legs. The swarthy hammerhead goblin looked up to see his comrade, Dunkrigg, staring down at him. ‘Look sharp!’ he grunted.
Slad sat up. ‘I must have nodded off,’ he muttered. He pulled himself stiffly to his feet and, still groggy from his short nap, reached for the heavy curved shield and distinctive horned helmet of the elite hammerhead guard. He strapped the helmet in place between his wide-set eyes and raised the shield to his shoulder. I'm ready,’ he said.
Dunkrigg nodded.
Around them, packed into the large gloomy square, were goblins of all shapes and sizes - squat, stocky gnok-goblins in simple armour; hefty flatheads carrying heavy clubs; tufteds and long-haired goblins armed with curved bows and bristling quivers of arrows; ridge-browed and lop-eared goblins, and saw-toothed goblins with their distinctive carved stabbing spears. Each one was inked, branded or ringed with the specific marks of his individual tribe: each one was ready for battle.
At their head, the hammerhead guards formed up into the awesome battle phalanx, two hundred wide and three hundred deep, their shields overlapping and forming an impenetrable wall.
In the front rank, Slad stood beside his comrade, Dunkrigg, as usual. They'd been in many battles together in the Deepwoods. Dunkrigg had saved his life at the Great Shryke Slaughter, and Slad had returned the favour during the conquest of the tufted goblins a year later.
They were hammerheads. They lived for battle. Here in Undertown, however, life was far less dramatic. Here it was endless drill and the tedium of long hours in the Hive Towers, with only the occasional skirmish with a runaway slave or an errant factory-master to look forward to. Tonight, however, would be different; tonight their enemy would have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
‘Librarian scum, growled Slad.
In front of him, the phalanx leader looked across to where General Tytugg stood on a raised stone plinth, waiting for an order. The general raised his curved sword.
‘Phalanx!’ he roared. ‘Advance!’
Slad grunted with approval as he fell into step with the others. No more drill, no more patrols, no more unsatisfying skirmishes. Finally the great battle they'd all been promised was about to begin. As the phalanx strode noisily out of the square and down the broad thoroughfare, Slad raised his head proudly. He liked the feel of his muscles, powerful and strong, as he marched. How they tingled, how they clenched; how they longed to be tested out in brutal armed-combat. He liked the weight of his armour, the solid tramping of his boots - and the fact that there were so many of them marching in step that the very ground trembled. Most of all, though, he liked the effect the great army was having on the inhabitants of Undertown.
As they marched past the ramshackle buildings, setting doors rattling and tiles falling, Slad caught sight of innumerable Undertowners woken from their sleep, peeking furtively from behind shuttered windows. Their faces were shot with confusion, with fear, with horror …
Slad chuckled to himself. This was more like it¡ Just like the old days, he felt invincible¡
The phalanx turned left and was soon heading into a second square, smaller than the one the goblins had assembled in, and dominated by a huge arch. An open channel, running round the square and bubbling with water, flowed through the arch and cascaded down into the deep shaft beyond like a waterfall. With the sculpted flames on top of the arch and the rows of bars sealing the front, this was the infamous Great Eastern Entrance to the sewers beneath Undertown. The phalanx came to a halt in front of it.
T don't understand, Slad, Dunkrigg whispered from beneath the cover of Slad's raised shield. ‘It's certain death to enter the sewers through the Great Eastern Entrance. Everybody knows that.’
Slad nodded. It was true. The barred entrance led through to a vertical drop where a torrent of water poured down into a vast black tank - the so-called Drowning Pool. Many goblins had perished there in an attempt to enter the sewers - and the few who had made it to the other side had been summarily dispatched by the librarian guards. Not one of their number had ever got through.
‘So, what are we doing here?’ hissed Dunkrigg.
Slad shook his head. ‘Don't know, ‘Rigg, mate, he said.
Just then General Tytugg strode up from the rear, accompanied by a cowering goblin. They stopped in front of a low trough behind which was a tall curved obelisk, ornately carved and with a dark plaque screwed into the front.
Slad watched, bemused, as the general motioned to the goblin, who walked forward. What was he up to?
Without saying a word, the goblin reached up and pressed the plaque firmly with both hands. There was a soft click, a grinding of stone on stone and the curved obelisk swung round to reveal a long dark shaft beneath it. The general motioned to the phalanx leader, who approached and received his orders before returning to the hammerhead guard.
The leader spoke to the front rank in a low voice tinged with urgency. The secret route into the sewers lies open to us at last, he said. ‘But the librarians are ingenious. The entrance is so narrow that we must enter it in single file. You, the front rank of the guard, have the honour of going first!’
Slad licked his lips and stepped forward, Dunkrigg behind, followed by the rest of the phalanx's front rank. At the entrance to the shaft, the phalanx leader thrust a blazing torch into Slad's hand.
Slad crouched down, shield over his shoulder, and gripped the torch firmly. Then, having kissed the carved bone amulet he wore at his neck for good luck, he stepped into the darkness. Instead of the ladder he was expecting, he found himself on a steep metal chute and, for a moment as he hurtled downwards, the flames of the torch flickered and threatened to go out.
After several long, unnerving seconds, his boots landed with a heavy thud on the floor below, and the flame once again flared brightly. Slad raised the torch in his hand, straightened up and stepped cautiously forwards. He was, he saw, in a vast underground vault with dark tunnels leading off in various directions. Behind him, he heard the roaring of the water cascading down into the drowning-pool. In front, guarding the tunnel, was a large crossbow on a raised metal platform.
It seemed to be unmanned - but you could never be sure … Slad moved cautiously forwards, plunging the flaming torch into every dark corner and shadowy alcove he came to. He didn't like this dark, dripping, subterranean cavern. It was no place for him, a hammerhead guard. It was a place for sewer rats - both piebald and academic …
‘There's no point hiding, he growled. ‘I'll sniff you out wherever you are.’
Just then something moved to his left. He heard it, and saw it out of the corner of his eye. Drawing his sword, he spun round, lunged forwards - and sliced off the head of a scrawny piebald rat. Slad breathed out noisily and grinned with relief.
So far as he could tell, the place was deserted. He kicked the dead rat out of the way - just as Dunkrigg thudded down the chute behind him.
‘It's all clear!’ Slad called out over his shoulder, his voice echoing round the cavernous vault.
Almost at once, a third hammerhead appeared, followed by another, and another, as goblin after goblin slid down into the underground chamber. All round, the chamber soon echoed with coughs and grunts and shuffling of boots as the other goblins entered the vault and took up their positions; gnokgoblins, flatheads, tufteds, saw-tootheds … They hurriedly reformed themselves into their individual battalions and the phalanx rapidly resumed its shape.
Slad grinned. The battle was very close now. His temples throbbed with the blood coursing through his veins; his heart was beating wildly. Yes, it was just like old times. Beside him, he could sense a similar excitement in Dunkrigg who, eyes blazing, was licking his lips and clutching his shield with a white-knuckled grip.
Finally, the last of the goblin army passed through the narrow entrance and into the great vault. G
eneral Tytugg strode to the front, drew his sword and raised it high. He threw back his head as if to shout yet, when it came, his order to move was little more than a whisper.
‘Phalanx, to battle!’ His sinister words hissed round the glistening walls. ‘Death to the librarians!’
ii
The Battle-Flocks
Perched high up on a jutting stanchion, Sister Slashtalon scratched at the feathery tufts beside her beak; with the weather so hot, the parasitic woodfleas were more active than usual. Her eyes, yellow and unblinking, bored down into the back of the armed goblin below her - one of the skeleton guard General Tytugg had left on the Undertown side of the Mire Road gateway.
He must have been gambling on the shrykes not noticing what he and the rest of his goblin army were up to, Sister Slashtalon thought, hissing with delight. He had gambled wrong.
Just then, behind her, she heard a low whistle. It was Sister Feathermane. She had reached her position at the bottom of the left tower. An answering call announced that Sister Beakscreech was also ready.
With a loud shriek, Sister Slashtalon launched herself off the stanchion of the Great Mire Gates and landed in goblin-controlled Undertown. The flathead guard spun round, a look of surprise etched into his brutal features. One hand flew to his sword; the other to his knife. Neither found their mark. Sister Slashtalon saw to that.
In one graceful move, she leapt up into the air and kicked out with her taloned feet. The razor-sharp claws slashed through the goblin's belly, ripping it open. Then, as he stumbled forwards, hands vainly grasping at his spilled guts, she struck him again. His neck snapped and his head was left hanging on by a knot of stringy tendons.
To her left and right, Sisters Feathermane and Beak-screech had dispatched their own guards with the same ruthless efficiency. More goblins were coming, swords drawn and clubs swinging - but it was already too late. Sister Slashtalon had unchained the great Mire Gates and pushed them open. A vast army of the bloodthirsty shrykes came pouring through and overwhelmed the hapless guards.
Mother Muleclaw - resplendent in purple and gold, sitting astride a huge, ornately-decorated prowlgrin -was at the head of the mighty flock. As the goblins were cut down all round her, she pulled on the reins and turned her prowlgrin round.
‘Come, sisters!’ she screeched. ‘Tonight we shall feed on goblins’ hearts and librarians’ livers¡ You all know what you must do. Forwards, sisters¡ Forwards!’
Sister Feathermane gathered her battle-flock around her, as did Sister Beakscreech, and the pair of them set out towards the southern boom-docks. With low whistles and guttural clucks, Sister Slashtalon assembled her own battle-flock. They were to take the northern route to the boom-docks, seeking out and destroying any goblins they encountered on their way, for there must be none left who might later try to cut them off. Having taken a final headcount of her squadron and issued last-minute instructions, Sister Slashtalon set off, while behind her the mighty Mire Gates were secured once more.
A motley collection of fledglings, their feathers still drab and downy, cowered in the shadows and chirruped their encouragement. Beside them, the weedy shryke-mates jangled their thin silver chains and squawked feebly.
Keeping close together, the squadron of shrykes left the Mire Road platform and entered Undertown itself. Once they hit the network of roads, they divided into smaller groups. At the head of each junction they came to, they split up again, inspecting the darkened narrow alleys and twittens in pairs - keeping in touch with each other with their reedy whistles and muted shrieks then reuniting at the far ends. Road by road, alley by alley, they inspected the whole area. Apart from the cowardly Undertowners peering out from the windows of their dilapidated dwellings, the shrykes saw no-one.
This part of Undertown, at least, was clear of any goblins. Sister Slashtalon was prepared to stake her life on it.
Their mission complete, the patrol-squadron headed along a narrow path between tall, wooden buildings which led down towards the Edgewater River. From there, where the West Wall of the city met the river, they made their way to the boom-docks.
Up ahead, Sister Slashtalon could see the other brightly coloured battle-flocks already milling about on the muddy banks beside the jutting pipes; some dry, some gushing water. And coming closer, she could make out Mother Muleclaw herself, still perched atop her battle-prowlgrin. As she got within earshot, Sister Slashtalon realized the roost-mother was already addressing the flock.
‘… treacherous … Do not stray … she was saying, her words whipped away by the rising wind. Sister Slashtalon trotted closer; the words became clearer. Tor the pipes are not to be trusted, Mother Muleclaw was saying. ‘Some lead to dead-ends. Many are booby-trapped…’
Sister Slashtalon nodded. As one of the High Sisterhood, she had been present when that traitorous youth… What was his name? Rook… When he had come amongst them…
She remembered his description of the sewer pipes only too well. He'd explained how, in a system modified by the librarians themselves, the pipes were operated by a series of valves, each one opening or closing a different sluice and directing the water in ever-changing routes. It had kept them safe for years … Not a single shryke had ever breached this simple, yet deadly, defence.
The youth had told them something else, however. Something crucial. Something which, even now, made Sister Slashtalon's eyes glint with anticipation. He had told them how, at ten hours that night, the librarians would all be in the Great Storm Chamber Library, attending some ceremony or other. From that moment until the conclusion of the meeting, the valves would remain untouched. Those already open would stay open; those shut would stay shut. The shrykes would therefore be able to proceed safely through the network of pipes with no fear of being washed away and drowned. All they had to do was find a way through.
Sister Slashtalon raised her head and sniffed the air. The musty odour of fusty librarian emerging from the pipes made her tongue quiver. A smile passed across her face.
At Mother Muleclaw's screeched command, the shryke squadrons and battle-flocks proceeded into the pipes -keeping to the dry or almost dry ones. There was a gentle trickle coming from the pipe Sister Slashtalon led her shryke-sisters into. Although she hated the way the water swilled round the feathers between her claws, she knew that the running water would help lead them to their goal.
On into the pipes she took them, now left, now right, her keen eyesight and unerring sense of smell helping her to navigate the labyrinth of pipes. As she went, she heard water coursing through other pipes close by; fast gushing water that no-one could ever withstand - water that, if the valves were to change, would drown them in an instant and flush them back down to the mudflats of the boom-docks.
As she passed yet another of the valved-junctions -the torrent of water roaring behind it - Sister Slashtalon clucked, grateful that the treacherous youth's information had proved reliable. They were making good progress - as were all the shryke battle-flocks. One by one, they were emerging into a vast sub-chamber situated at the far western end of the Central Tunnel. Some were already beginning to explore the pipes and channels which led from it.
Mother Muleclaw raised her feathered arms and hissed for silence. ‘Wait, sisters, she called. ‘Wait!’
Sister Slashtalon - about to try a tunnel for herself -paused, and fought down the disappointment which rose within her. Wait? When they were so close? It was almost too much to expect of them. Why, she could smell the librarians so clearly. She could almost taste them¡ Their plump, fatty hearts … Their tangy livers …
‘We must not forget ourselves, sisters, for at the eleventh hour, the goblins will strike, Mother Muleclaw continued. ‘And we must let them. We shall let the predators catch their prey; for then, when they are done, the predators shall themselves become prey. Our prey¡ And we shall gorge upon them all!’
iii
The Guardians of Night
Orbix Xaxis, the High Guardian of the Tower of Night, was taking his tim
e all right. The noon deadline had come and gone, and still the Purification Ceremony had not taken place. Now night had fallen, and Styx - a stocky gnokgoblin with tufted hair at his ears and a scar which passed down his cheek and over his jutting chin -was beginning to flag. Almost ten hours he had been waiting at his post, waiting for the signal to be given for the ceremonial cage to be lowered. Ten hours¡ He was beginning to wonder whether it would take place this day at all…
Just then - as far below him an Undertown bell rang out nine hours - Styx noticed a movement at the gantry-doors, and Orbix strode onto the gantry, his black gown flapping behind him. He sat up straight as the master stormed towards him. Behind the muzzle and dark glasses, it was impossible to tell what the High Guardian was thinking but the gnokgoblin didn't want to give the impression that he had been slacking.
‘I asked for you, specially, Styx,’ Orbix announced. ‘I want the cage descent to be as smooth and silent as possible. Make sure everything's set accordingly.’
‘Sir,’ muttered the gnokgoblin, leaning forwards in the raised seat at the top of the cage winching-gear. He reeled in a length of surplus plaited rope and checked the balance-weights.
Behind him, Leddix emerged onto the gantry, followed by two pairs of hefty flathead guards. Styx turned. Between the guards were the prisoners; two of them. One was a girl - pale and drawn, with sunken eyes and quivering lips, her plaits hanging limply onto her shoulders. The other was a youth. Thin. Wiry. Bruised. He was rubbing the side of his shaven skull tentatively. Styx recognized him; he was one of the High Guardian's special advisers. What was his name?
‘Courage, Magda,’ Styx heard him muttering as, flanked by the hulking guards, the two of them approached the cage. ‘Don't give them what they want. You're better than they are, remember that!’