Edge Chronicles 6: Vox

by Paul Stewart

  A thousand goblin eyes turned to the old librarian. For a moment there was utter silence. Then Alquix's thin, reedy laugh rang out.

  ‘They are safe!’ he cackled. ‘The library has been saved¡ Long live the Great Library …’

  Just then, there was a blur of movement from one of the jutting gantries overhead and a flash of yellow and blue whistled down through the air. Then another. And two arrows buried themselves in the old librarian's heart.

  Dumbstruck, the goblins stared at their standard in disbelief as Alquix's head slumped and blood poured down his chest.

  ‘Shryke arrows, the standard-bearer roared, brandishing a fist at the upper gantry opposite. ‘And they came from up th …’

  Before he could finish his words, a brightly tufted arrow embedded itself in his neck. He fell to his knees, blood gurgling from the gaping wound …

  ‘What treachery is this?’ General Tytugg's voice echoed round the great chamber. ‘Take out the shryke scum on the gantries!’

  As if responding to the general's commands themselves, shrykes suddenly appeared on every upper gantry, helmets and breastplates gleaming. They screeched loudly, raised their bows and the air hissed with the sound of flying arrows. At the far end of the Blackwood Bridge, Slad the hammerhead fell to his knees and pulled the crossbow round from his back.

  ‘Cover me, he hissed to his comrade.

  Dunkrigg raised his shield. Slad primed the crossbow and looked through the sight. The plump gaudy chest of a brightly-coloured shryke appeared behind the cross of the viewfinder. Slad smiled and squeezed the trigger.

  The bolt found its mark. The shryke's chest exploded in a flurry of feathers and blood. The bird-creature toppled off the gantry, hurtled down through the air and landed with a sickening crunch on the Blackwood Bridge.

  ‘First blood!’ Slad cried. He raised his crossbow a

  second time, taking care to remain behind Dunkrigg's

  shield as a volley of shryke-arrows flew in from all sides.

  He ratcheted the bow-string back. He took aim. He

  pressed his finger gently against the trigger, and …

  All at once, the great doors at the west end of the bridge flew open. Slad gasped. In front of the phalanx of hammerheads, pouring in through the west doors, were shrykes. Hundreds of them. Each one armed to the teeth and massing into flailing, screeching battle-flock formations.

  From behind the shield wall, Slad braced himself and drew his sword; a magnificent two-handed hookblade.

  ‘By Sky, old Cleave-in-Twain, you shall drink shryke blood tonight!’ he said.

  Around him, the other hammerheads in the phalanx drew their serrated blades and muttered battle oaths of their own. In front, the battle-flocks surged forwards like a cresting wave about to break on the solid bank of shields. The shrykes were armed with bows and arrows, pikes, whips and flails - but Slad knew it was their glinting beaks and gleaming talons he had most to fear from.

  The shryke wave hit the shield wall and recoiled with a deafening howl, splatters of vivid shryke blood showering the front ranks. Here and there, ahead of Slad, hammerheads sank to their knees with low groans and the same look of shock and slow astonishment as they discovered that the blood pouring down over their breastplates was their own; their necks talon-slashed.

  ‘Come, Dunkrigg, growled Slad, advancing to plug the gap. ‘Here they come again!’

  Another battle-flock broke against the hammerhead phalanx - and tore it apart.

  Slad found himself staring into a pair of yellow eyes as, either side of him, his comrades’ severed heads shot high up into their air and their bodies crumpled to the floor, staining the Blackwood boards red. Dunkrigg lunged forwards, his shield deflecting the razor-sharp talon that was inches from Slad's throat.

  With a roar of rage, Slad swung Cleave-in-Twain at the huge shryke battle-sister looming over him. The brightly plumed shryke swerved left and Cleave-in-Twain beheaded her flail-swinging companion behind.

  From over his shoulder, Slad heard Dunkrigg groan and he turned to see his comrade's breastplate punctured and spurting blood. The shryke battle-sister's beak dripped with his blood as she rounded on Slad.

  ‘NO!’ he howled, blind with fury. He swung Cleave-in-Twain so hard and so fast that he sliced the bird-creature in two before her deadly beak could strike again.

  He glanced down at Dunkrigg, his friend. He was already dead. Now Slad wanted revenge.

  ‘WHOOOAAAAAW’ he roared, striding forward.

  With a piercing shriek, Sister Slashtalon leaped up and lashed out with her heel-talons. An expression of utter bewilderment spread across her flathead opponent's lumpen features as he looked down to see his breastplate sliced in two, blood pouring from it. Sister Slashtalon stepped forwards and savagely shoved him with her pike. The goblin keeled over the balustrade of the Blackwood Bridge and into the rapidly rising water.

  ‘More¡ More!’ she growled, a loop of drool hanging from the edge of her beak. The hunger was coming upon her.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of steel as a long-haired goblin swung a great ball-and-chain at her head. Sister Slashtalon drew back and spat, venomously

  The green bile splattered into the long-haired goblin's face with a soft hiss. ‘My eyes!’ he screamed. ‘My eyes!’

  Slashtalon brought her beak sharply down, splitting the goblin open from sternum to stomach. With a jerk of her head, she plucked out the still-beating heart and swallowed it whole. Yes¡ Sister Slashtalon shuddered, her feathers standing on end; the hunger was upon her¡

  A huge hulk of a hammerhead goblin stormed towards her. His entire body was covered in blood; the blood of others. Sister Slashtalon reared up, talons bared, and stood her ground.

  Slad's eyes were rolling; froth bubbled at the corners of his mouth. He stared at the vicious, blood-spattered bird-creature through a raging haze of crimson.

  ‘WHOOOAAAAAl’ he roared, hurling himself at the shryke, Cleave-in-Twain clasped in his bloodied hand.

  Slashtalon leaped forwards, all four sets of talo slashing at once.

  They met in mid-air at the very centre of the Blackwood Bridge with a horrifying crash.

  At the east doors, the remnants of the hammerhead guard had clustered round Tytugg. At the west doors, the ragged remains of the battle-flocks squawked and flapped around Muleclaw's banner. On the bridge itself, the mounds of dead covered the boards and, in places, rose above the balustrades. Below, the central sewer was fast flooding; the Lufwood Bridge was already submerged and goblins and shrykes alike clung to the lower gantries as the waters rose.

  Slad's roar and Slashtalon's shriek intermingled as, for a moment, they stared into each other's eyes. Cleave-in-Twain was embedded in Slashtalon's gizzard as deeply as her talons had sliced into Slad's throat. Slowly, gently, the hammerhead and the shryke-sister sank to their knees where they remained, motionless, in their deadly embrace.

  An eerie silence fell across the Blackwood Bridge.

  High above the bloodbath, dark creatures appeared at the cracks in the vaulted roof and crawled through into the chamber. There, black against the white stone, they clung on upside down and sniffed the rich air, their eyes glowing. Calling to one another, they were joined by more, and more; pouring in through every crack and spreading out across the ceiling.

  Suddenly, as if to some unheard command, the entire flock of rock demons launched itself from the ceiling as one and spiralled down through the air on leathery wings.

  Across the bridge, goblin stared at shryke, and shryke at goblin. They all looked up as, like a black curtain falling on a red stage, the rock demons landed.

  • CHAPTER EIGHTEEN •

  THE GHOSTS OF SCREETOWN

  Past rows of statues Rook ran, hurtling down the palace stairs two at a time. From outside came the distant crash of stone against stone as the deluge stripped the outer walls of their statues. He thudded down onto the final landing, skidded round - and stopped dead in his tracks.
Hestera Spikesap was hurrying across the marble hallway below, heading for the staircase.

  Rook took a step back and knocked into a statue which rocked on its base, then toppled forward, taking three of its companions with it.

  ‘Hestera¡ Look out!’ he shouted as the statues hurtled down towards the marble floor.

  The old goblin didn't look up. Nor, as the statues shattered on the floor in front of her, did she miss her stride. She reached the stairs and began climbing. Rook noticed that she'd lost her bonnet. Her balding, scabby scalp glistened and her clothes were wet.

  ’I'm coming,’ she crooned, as if soothing an infant. Tm coming, my sweetness…’

  She brushed past Rook, her small red eyes looking right through him, and continued up the staircase. In her arms, she cradled a large red bottle, with a label marked Oblivion: Special Vintage.

  Without looking back, Rook raced down the last flight of stairs to the marble hallway, almost losing his footing on the wet, slippery floor. Water was bubbling up from the kitchen door and spreading across the hall. Sodden recipes, pots, pans and potion bottles bobbed on its surface. Rook looked down as a green bottle marked Retching Cordial floated past.

  He splashed across to the great woodoak door and seized its handle. From behind it came the sound of hissing which, as he pulled, grew to a mighty rushing roar.

  A torrent of water rushed into the hallway from the street outside, knocking Rook back across the floor and drenching him to the skin. Above him, the statues on the staircase were toppling in twos and threes, splashing into the swirling water. Rook staggered to his feet and fought his way back to the door and out into the street.

  The rain was like nothing he had ever seen before. It was torrential, a deluge; falling so hard and so fast that it resembled myriad silver wires, strung out taut between the ground and the boiling clouds overhead. And, as the tempestuous wind thrashed and spun, so the raindrops merged to form rippling, shifting sheets of water which slapped at the sides of the buildings and slammed down into the rising floodwater below.

  ‘Sky guide and watch over me, Rook muttered grimly as he waded through the ankle-deep water.

  The rain forced him to lower his head protectively as it hammered down on his skull and shoulders, and ran down the back of his neck. Raising an arm against the battering downpour, he tried to take his bearings. Undertown had been transformed, its streets and alleys now deep canals of swirling, muddy water. In the distance he could just make out the towers of the Mire Gates peeking up above the muted skyline.

  Had the library fleet made it? he wondered.

  As he battled through the flooded streets, he became aware of other shapes, blurred and indistinct through the shimmering curtain of rain. They were ahead and behind him, in the alleys and lanes on either side; all moving along in a growing procession in the same direction as himself.

  ‘Undertowners,’ Rook murmured.

  Just above his head, a whirring noise made him look up. A white shape, a blur of movement, shot from one sloping roof to another on the other side of the street. A piercing whistle cut through the roar of the rain and was answered by three more from further up the street.

  Rook waded on, finding a brief respite from the lashing rain behind the massive forms of a party of cloddertrogs.

  The Mire Gates - we'll be safe there, Duldug, one called to his neighbour. The Ghosts of Screetown'll guide us, don't you worry.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Rook cried out, unable to conceal his excitement.

  The cloddertrogs ignored him, pressing on through the downpour, and Rook was jostled from behind as other Undertowners brushed past him impatiently. He was in the middle of a vast crowd now and had to struggle to stay on his feet as it surged forwards. Just to one side of him, a gnokgoblin, a young'un in her arms, stumbled and let out a cry as she lost her balance.

  Before Rook could do anything, a white figure swept down from a rooftop opposite. It landed with a splash, and grabbed mother and child. Rook could make out a bleached muglump-leather jacket, patched and mended, a white ratskin hat and a grappling-hook clutched in a white, bony hand.

  ‘Run along now and take care, the figure said, setting the gnokgoblin safely down.

  ‘Bless you, Sir,’ murmured the gnokgoblin. ‘Bless you.’

  Rook stared open-mouthed at the figure before him. ‘You're … you're one of them …’ he spluttered, fighting against the force of the crowd. ‘A ghost of Undertown.’

  For an instant, the figure turned towards him and Rook saw the weather-beaten face of a mobgnome with piercing blue eyes looking into his own.

  ‘Just keep moving, lad, the mobgnome smiled, sending the grappling-hook arcing through the air with one graceful sweep of his arm. As the hook clanged onto a rooftop, the ghost pulled the rope taut and swung up through the air as if fired from a catapult, riding its springing recoil.

  ‘Wait!’ Rook called. ‘I have a friend, Felix. Perhaps you…

  The ghost disappeared over the rooftops.

  ‘… know him.’

  Ahead, the street opened up into a square and, through the flapping sheets of torrential rain, Rook could see the Mire Gates looming up before him. The huge crowd was streaming into the square from all corners of Undertown. Groups of cloddertrogs, families of gnokgoblins, artisans and merchants; former slaves - all guided by the whistles of the ghostly white figures who stood out against the black silhouettes of the rooftops all around.

  A cloddertrog matron, swathed in a black raincloak, paused for a moment to check that her brood of young'uns was keeping up. A fearful-looking lugtroll - a gash down one cheek and nursing a swollen arm - hurried past her, muttering under his breath, ‘Curse you, Tytugg. Curse all hammerheads!’ Behind him came a stooped rheumy-eyed gnokgoblin who was being guided by her granddaughter, a youngster with stubby waxen plaits, a broad nose, and clutching a wrapped sword to her chest.

  At the square, the Undertowners jostled against the Mire Gates, causing them to sway back and forth - and from behind them came the trilling and squawking of shryke-mates and fledglings.

  As Rook eased himself through the seething crowds, he craned his neck to get a better view. He had to get to the jetty that lay just on the other side of the Mire Gates - for there, where the Edgewater River met the mudflats of the Mire, he hoped against hope that he would find the library fleet, safe and waiting for him.

  From overhead came whirring sounds followed by sharp thuds as grappling-hooks struck the wood of the Mire Gates. In an instant, high up at the top of the gates, the white Ghosts of Screetown appeared. They stood there for a moment, swaying slightly before dropping down, as one, on the other side.

  For a moment, the cheers of the Undertowners mingled with the piercing shrieks and cries of shryke-mates and fledglings. Then the huge gates slowly swung back.

  Rook was carried forward as the crowd burst through the gates and spread out across the vast wooden platform beyond. He looked up and gasped at the sight of the Mire Road snaking out into the endless white mudflats before him.

  Here on the other side of the gates, the rain was merely a light drizzle and the Undertowners broke up into excited groups; some dancing little jigs of celebration, some hugging each other, while others simply slumped to their knees and gave thanks. To his right, Rook could see a walkway winding down from the platform to the Edgewater Jetty.

  He glanced back, and his heart lurched in his chest as he saw the Undertown skyline crumbling beneath the swirling black cloud of the dark maelstrom and its impenetrable sheet of rain. In the far distance, despite the deluge, the Tower of Night blazed like a mighty torch, the flames fed by great forks of lightning which crackled about it. It was a scene out of a nightmare; a nightmare that he, Rook, had unwittingly brought about.

  For a moment, he forgot about the library fleet and sank to his knees. He had fed Vox's baby, the terrible fireball, with his own hands. Worse than that; it was he - he, Rook Barkwater, who had done everything to prevent it - who had trigge
red the dark maelstrom. His fists pounded the boards of the Mire Road with a mixture of fury, misery and despair. Above him, a white raven swooped low and hovered, letting out a raucous cry.

  ‘Waaaark!’ it screeched. ‘Rook. Greetings!’

  Rook looked up as the white raven landed beside him.

  ‘Gaarn,’ he said, managing a weak smile. He wiped his eyes. ‘Is Felix with you?’

  ‘Never far behind!’ came a familiar voice and Felix -tall, powerful, clad in white muglump leather - strode across the platform, flanked on either side by Ghosts of Screetown.

  ‘Oh, Felix!’ Rook cried, and leaped to his feet. ‘So much has happened since we last met!’

  ‘So it has, Rook, my friend,’ laughed Felix, clamping an arm round Rook's shoulder. ‘Undertown is finished. Our future - yours and mine, and all these brave souls’ - lies out there.’ He gestured with a sweep of his arm. ‘In the Free Glades!’

  A cheer went round the crowd that had gathered about them.

  ‘But you don't understand,’ Rook said miserably. ‘This is all my fault. I could have prevented this terrible storm, but I failed. Not only that, but… He bit his lip as tears welled up again.

  Felix patted Rook's shoulder, a look of concern clouding his features. ‘I can't pretend I understand you, Rook, but I can see this has hit you hard. It can't have been easy down there in the sewers when this storm struck. Did any other librarians make it out alive?’

  Rook started back. The librarians¡ He spun round and started running towards the walkway that led to the Edgewater Jetty. ‘They made it out of the sewers in a fleet of library barges, and onto the Edgewater,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘I said I'd meet them here at the Mire Gates, if…’ - he stopped and slowly turned round - ‘… we survived.’

  Felix turned to the white raven which now nestled in its familiar position on his shoulder. ‘Gaarn,’ he said. ‘Go, seek and return!’