by Paul Stewart
With no walls, no chains, no bars, the cell was nothing like he had ever seen. A narrow set of steps led from the door down to a single ledge, which jutted out from the wall into a cavernous atrium beyond. Apart from the door which, when shut, formed a smooth, unbroken part of the inward-sloping wall, the only way out was to step off the ledge and tumble down through the fetid air to certain death below. Looking out into the atrium, Rook could make out countless other ledges, each connected by their own steps to individual cell doors.
Appalled, his gaze fell upon the individual at the corner of the ledge before him. Curled up in a foetal ball, he lay on a stinking mattress of straw, bony arms hugged round bonier legs; his robes in tatters, his breath uneven, rasping. Long, matted hair hung down over his face. In places it had fallen out in clumps, leaving angry scab-encrusted patches all over his scalp. His beard was thick and soiled; his skin was covered in grime and red, weeping sores – the result of scratching and scratching with his filthy, jagged nails to relieve the intolerable itching of the tick-lice which burrowed beneath the surface to lay their eggs.
‘Finius? Finius Flabtrix,’ said Rook softly, moving closer. ‘Professor Finius Flabtrix?’
The breathing quickened. The eyelids flickered and opened for an instant but, though the eyes stared in his direction, Rook knew that they had not seen him. They closed again.
‘Not my fault,’ the old professor murmured, his voice hoarse and faltering. ‘Not my fault. Not my fault …’
‘It’s all right, I won’t hurt you,’ Rook whispered, tears welling up in his eyes.
The professor ignored him, lost in his own private torment. Rook turned and made his way carefully back up the stairs and out through the cell door. There was no time to lose; the Skyraider couldn’t keep the Guardians occupied for ever. He must find Cowlquape and get out of this terrible place.
He hurried down another walkway, and saw a row of cell doors embedded in the inner wall. Quickly, by the glow from the sky-crystals, he checked the names scratched into each door: JUG-JUG ROMPERSTAMP, Rook read. ELDRICK SWILL. RAIN HAWK III. SILVIX ARMENIUS. GROLL … If the names were anything to go by, then the prisoners came from every walk of Edge life. Merchants and academics. Slaughterers, goblins and trolls. A former sky pirate …
At some, Rook simply read off the name and continued without stopping. At others, he paused to look through the spy-hole – though each time he did so, he wished that he had not. The abject creatures inside were too terrible to witness. Jabbering. Twitching. Deranged. Some rocked slowly back and forwards, some ranted and raved, some paced round and round mumbling beneath their breath, while others – the worst of them; those who had given up all hope – simply lay on the ledge, waiting for death to come and embrace them.
A fiery anger spread through Rook’s body. Curse the Guardians of Night! he thought bitterly. ‘The dungeons are an abomination! An affront to every living creature in the Edge – to life itself! Why, if I was ever uncertain whether the war between the librarian knights and the Guardians of Night was a just one, then here is the proof,’ he told himself. ‘This is truly a battle between good and evil!’
‘Well said,’ came a voice close by.
Rook jumped. ‘Who’s that?’ he whispered.
‘Over here,’ said the voice.
Rook approached a cell door. He looked down. CODSAP was scratched into its heavy, dark wood.
‘Open the door,’ came the voice. ‘Give it a good shove. A really good shove! Go on!’
Rook unbolted the door, and gave it a hard push. There was a thud, and a muffled cry. Rook’s heart missed a beat. What had happened? What had he done? He thrust his head inside the doorway just in time to see a green, scaly creature tumbling back off the stairs and down into the yawning void of the great atrium.
‘No!’ Rook bellowed, his howl of anguish spinning round and round the rank air. ‘I’m sorry! I …’
Suddenly, there was a voice, speaking to him inside his head. ‘Thank you, thank you, friend, for releasing me when I lacked the courage to jump …’ The voice fell still.
Rook flinched. How long had the poor creature waited on the stairs for someone to come and end his suffering? He slammed the door shut with a helpless fury, the clang echoing loudly through the tower.
‘Ouch,’ came a voice from the shadows, somewhere to his left. ‘Oh, my poor head. I knew I shouldn’t have had all that woodgrog. Is that you, Slab?’
Rook drew his knife and silently followed the direction of the voice. There, just ahead, slumped in the corner of a landing, head in hands, was a sleepy flat-head goblin in the black robes of a Guardian of Night, a crossbow and an empty jar by his side.
In an instant Rook grabbed the crossbow, kicked the jar away and thrust his knife at the goblin’s throat.
‘Y-y-you’re not Slab,’ he stammered. Rook could see the whites of his eyes as the goblin’s frightened face looked up into his. Wh-who are you?’
‘Never mind who I am,’ Rook whispered, stepping back and levelling the crossbow at the white gloamglozer emblem on the goblin’s chest. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Gobrat. I’m just a poor guard. A warder. Please don’t hurt me.’ He paused, a frown crossing his broad features. ‘You’re one of them librarian knights, ain’t you? Oh, please have mercy, sir. I’ve never hurt no-one, honest I haven’t.’
‘And yet you wear the black robes of the Guardians of Night,’ said Rook, a cold anger in his quiet voice.
‘They took me in, sir, when I was starving in Undertown. I had nothing. They fed me and clothed me – but I’m just a poor goblin from the Edgewater slums at heart. Please don’t kill me, sir.’
‘A warder, you say,’ said Rook.
‘Yes, sir. I’m not proud of it, sir – but I does what I can for the poor wretches locked up here …’
Rook raised the crossbow to silence the flat-head. ‘Take me to the cell of Cowlquape Pentephraxis and I’ll spare your miserable life,’ he said.
The goblin groaned. ‘It’ll be more than my life’s worth if the High Master finds out I’ve led you to Cowlquape.’
‘It’ll be more than your life’s worth if you don’t,’ said Rook, pulling back on the crossbow trigger.
‘All right! All right!’ The goblin got to his feet shakily. ‘Follow me, sir, and be careful where you’re pointing that there crossbow.’
Rook followed the flat-head through the endless maze of walkways and staircases, down into the depths of the Tower of Night. As they continued, there was a loud crashing sound from high up above the atrium, and the stairs rattled as the tower shook. I suppose that’s your lot up there/said Gobrat, ‘causing all that commotion.
It won’t do any good, you know. You never learn! Skycrafts is no match for tower weapons.’
‘Just keep walking,’ said Rook, jabbing the crossbow into his back. ‘How much further?’
‘Not far,’ said Gobrat, with a mirthless laugh. ‘We’re almost at the lower depths now, young sir.’
With the flat-head in front, they made their way down a sloping flight of stairs. Gobrat stopped at a heavily bolted door. ‘Cowlquape Pentephraxis,’ said Rook, reading off the name. ‘This is it!’
Gobrat scowled. ‘There. Now take my advice and get out of here smartish. The guards will be swarming all round once they’ve dealt with your comrades, and now I’ve helped you, my life isn’t worth an oakapple pip!’ The goblin pulled off his robe and threw it to the ground. ‘I suppose it’s back to the Edgewater slums for old Gobrat – if the rubble ghouls don’t get me.’
Rook waved the flat-head away. ‘You’ve been of valuable service to the librarian knights,’ he said. ‘Fare you well, Gobrat.’
With the flat-head gone, Rook returned his attention to the cell door. Having checked that the stairs inside were clear, he slid the bolts across and pushed the door open.
‘Is that you, Xanth?’ came a cracked, frail voice.
‘No, Professor,’ said Rook. ‘I’m a librarian knight.
I’ve come to rescue you.’
He descended the stairs, down to the primitive, wooden ledge. Here in the depths of the tower, the stench was indescribable. The former Most High Academe of New Sanctaphrax looked up at him. His body was bent and painfully thin. His grey hair, long and unkempt, his robes threadbare. Worst of all were his eyes. Filled with the memories of horrors too terrible to forget, they stared ahead, lifeless, dull, unblinking …
‘Professor, we must leave now,’ said Rook. ‘Time is running out.’
‘Leave …’ Cowlquape murmured. ‘Time …’
Rook leaned forwards and, taking the professor gently but firmly by the arm, hoisted him up onto his feet. Then, taking his weight – which wasn’t much – he guided him up the stairs.
‘Wait! Wait!’ Cowlquape called urgently, and broke away. He returned to the ledge, grabbed a roll of papers and barkscrolls and thrust them under his arm. He looked at Rook, a little smile playing round his mouth. ‘Now I am ready to leave,’ he said.
Up at Midnight’s Spike the battle raged on. The crew of the Skyraider was down to five now. Rummel, the huge, black banderbear, had fallen first, fatally wounded by Slab’s crossbow bolt. Meeru was next to fall, skewered by one of the great harpoons and torn away from the sky ship. Mindless with grief, his brother Loom had thrown himself off the stern after his beloved twin.
But Twig hadn’t time to mourn the loss of the three brave banderbear volunteers, for Molleen had yodelled to him to come at once to the flight-rock cage. Calling Wumeru over, and telling her to hold the helm steady, Twig hurried down to the old banderbear’s side.
‘Wuh-wuh!’ Look! Molleen pointed at a livid scar in the glowing flight-rock. ‘Wegga-lura-meeragul. Wuh!’ The rock is wounded. I thought the weapons of the Dark Ones had not hurt it – but look, Captain!
Twig looked. Where the Guardians’ rock had struck, a deep crater had formed. It was growing like an ulcer, eating away at the flight-rock.
‘Contamination!’ Twig gasped. ‘We haven’t much time. Do what you can, Molleen, but be prepared to abandon ship.’ He hurried back to the helm.
Despite her best attempts to keep it buoyant – dousing the flight-lamps, drenching the rock with chilled sand and, with Wumeru now by her side, desperately operating the cooling-fans – the rock continued to disintegrate. The crater in its surface became wider, deeper, and a growing trickle of dusty particles showered down through the air.
‘Give me as much time as you can!’ Twig shouted across to Molleen. ‘We can’t abandon Rook now,’ he added, mopping the beads of sweat from his forehead. His hands darted over the bone-handled levers in a furious blur as he carried out ever-finer adjustments to the sails and weights in an effort to keep the leaning, lurching sky ship from rolling right over.
But he was fighting a losing battle. With every passing minute the flight-rock became less and less buoyant. If the Skyraider was to remain airborne, it would have to be made lighter.
‘Weeg!’ Twig bellowed. ‘To the hull-rigging with you! I want you to cut the weights.’
‘Wuh-wuh,’ he shouted back. Cut the weights, Captain? But we’ll become unstable.
‘It’s a chance we’ll have to take,’ Twig shouted back. ‘Start with the klute-hull-weights, then the peri-hull-weights. And if that’s not enough, move on to the prow-and stern-weights … Sky willing, it’ll give us the lift we need.’ He frowned. ‘Now, Weeg!’
Grunting unhappily, the lanky banderbear hurried off to carry out the commands. Twig fingered the various bone and wood amulets around his neck. Far below him, on the platform beneath Midnight’s Spike, stood a figure in black robes, fluttering in the mist, with a curious muzzle-like mask covering most of his face.
‘Wuh! Wuh!’ Molleen cried out. The flight-rock! It’s broken in two!
‘Hold it steady!’ Twig told her. ‘Just a little bit longer—’
At that moment a lufwood-flare soared up from the other side of the tower and blazed in the sky far above their heads, a brightly glowing streak of purple.
Twig gritted his teeth. ‘Thank Sky!’ he whispered. ‘It’s the signal! Rook is waiting for us!’
Just then Weeg must have severed the first hull-weight, for the sky ship gave a sudden jolt and rose up several strides into the air. A salvo of harpoons sailed harmlessly beneath its hull.
‘Hold tight, Cowlquape, old friend,’ said Twig grimly. ‘We’re coming to get you.’
Down on the platform at the base of Midnight’s Spike, Orbix Xaxis stared up at the bright purple light suspiciously ‘It must be some sort of signal,’ he said. He looked across at the Skyraider; his eyes narrowed. ‘While you, up there, were keeping us busy …’ he said slowly, thoughtfully, ‘there was something else afoot. I smell a rat …’ He paused. ‘The dungeons!’
‘I’ll check them at once,’ said the sallow, shaven-headed youth by his side, dashing off as fast as he could down the broken flight of stairs.
‘You, Banjax,’ the Most High Guardian shouted at one of the guard masters close by. ‘Take two dozen Guardians and scour the dungeons for intruders. No-one must get in or out!’
‘At once, High Guardian,’ Banjax replied, and the air resounded with the tramp of the Guardians’ heavy boots on the wooden stairs.
The Most High Guardian looked back up at the Skyraider. The sky ship had pulled away from Midnight’s Spike at last, and seemed to be heading round in a great circle. ‘So you think you’ve tricked the Most High Guardian of Night, do you?’ he hissed.
Twig gripped the main-sail lever grimly. With the flight-rock irreparably weakened, he was dependent on the great, tattered sail for lift. Slowly, carefully, battling against treacherous draughts of misty air, he brought the Skyraider round to the east side of the tower and began the long, perilous descent.
Wumeru cried out. ‘Wuh-wuh. Roo-wuh-ook!’
Peering down, Twig saw Rook standing on a jutting gantry, a third of the way down, together with … Twig gasped. Could that be him? Could that stooped, grey-haired figure truly be his apprentice, Cowlquape? He looked so frail, so fragile – so old.
‘Prepare to board!’ he bellowed down.
Rook looked up and waved wildly. The sky ship sank lower. The gantry came closer.
‘Wumeru!’ Twig shouted. ‘Wuh-weela-wurr.’ Help Cowlquape aboard.
‘Professor,’ said Rook urgently, ‘you’ll have to jump.’
‘Jump?’ the ancient professor croaked. ‘I think my jumping days are over.’
‘Try,’ said Rook. ‘You must try’
He looked up. The Skyraider was just above them now. As it came down lower, he stepped behind Cowlquape and seized him by the shoulders.
The sky ship drew level, but did not slow down …
‘No, no, I can’t …’ Cowlquape trembled, the years of being perched on the high prison ledge suddenly returning to him with full force as he looked down.
‘Now!’ shouted Twig.
Rook pushed Cowlquape off the gantry. At the same time Wumeru leaned forwards, arms outstretched. She caught the old professor in her great arms and lowered him gently onto the deck. ‘Wuh-wuh,’ she said softly. You re safe now.
Overjoyed, Twig locked the flight-levers and hurtled down to the foredeck to greet his old friend. He rushed up, arms open, and embraced him warmly.
‘Cowlquape, Cowlquape,’ he cried, his voice straining with emotion. ‘I can’t tell you what it means to see you again.’
‘Nor I, you, Twig,’ said Cowlquape. ‘Nor I, you.’
At that moment the sky ship gave a sudden lurch. ‘Hold on, old friend,’ said Twig, pulling away. ‘We’re not quite safe yet. But fear not. I won’t let you down.’
Back at the helm, Twig unlocked the levers and tried his best to right the stricken sky ship. ‘Just a little bit longer,’ he groaned, as it trembled and creaked.
‘Wuh-wuh!’ screamed Molleen. The flight-rock’s breaking up.
Twig locked the helm and levers a second time, raced to the balustrade and b
ellowed down. ‘The prow-weight, Weeg!’ he roared. ‘Then the stern-weight!’
‘Wuh-wurra!’ the banderbear shouted back. He’d already cut both of them free.
‘The neben-hull-weights, then,’ Twig shouted. ‘Sever the neben-hull-weights – small, medium and large!’
Weeg made no reply, but the next moment the Skyraider leaped upwards abruptly, back past the gantry and – under Twig’s expert guidance – soared round the tower and off into the cloudy sky.
As the sky ship sailed past, Orbix Xaxis – Most High Guardian of Night – raised his powerful, exquisitely tooled crossbow. He aimed it at the sky ship’s helm, and fired.
Down on the gantry Rook untethered the Stormhornet and leaped into the saddle. Then, standing tall in the stirrups, he jerked the pinner-rope to his right, and rose up into the air – only to pull up sharply a moment later as the tether-rope went taut.
‘Ooof!’ he gasped as he was thrown forward in his seat.
Rather than soaring away from the gantry, the Stormhornet remained stuck, bobbing about in the air like a kite. Rook looked round. He had been careless. In his hurry, instead of reeling in the tether-rope and stowing it neatly, he had left it hanging loose. Now it was snagged on the gantry’s jutting balustrade.
With trembling hands, Rook seized the rope. He tugged it and shook it for all he was worth – but the tether-rope was stuck fast. It would not budge. There was nothing for it but to land again, dismount and pull it free—
‘Halt!’
The bellowed command cut through the air like a knife. Rook’s heart missed a beat. He yanked desperately at the rope. It moved – but only a fraction, and wedged itself tighter than ever. A figure emerged from the doorway at the end of the gantry, crossbow in hand. He raised it to his eye. ‘Halt, or I’ll shoot!’
Rook stared at the wiry individual in the black uniform. Though his hair, shaved back to a shadowy stubble, was shorter than Rook had ever seen it before, the youth was unmistakable. ‘Xanth,’ he gasped.