Edge Chronicles 6: Vox Read online

  For Jack, Katy, Anna, Joseph and William

  INTRODUCTION

  Far far away, jutting out into the emptiness beyond, like the figurehead of a mighty stone ship, is the Edge. A river - the Edgewater - pours down from the overhanging rock. Though broad, the river is slow and sluggish. It has been many long decades since storms brought any significant rainfall in from Open Sky -though now, with the sky overcast and the air hot and heavy with moisture, it feels as though perhaps, at last, all that is about to change.

  At the furthest point of the Edge, draped in the dark, swirling cloud, are the Stone Gardens. Once they were the source of the floating rocks which gave birth to sky-flight and formed the great Sanctaphrax rocks themselves. Now the gardens are dead, for stone-sickness struck the Edge, grounding the sky ships, attacking the new Sanctaphrax rock and leaving the Stone Gardens a barren wasteland of broken stacks and rubble. Even the white ravens that once guarded them have gone.

  Up in the Tower of Night, perched high on the crumbling Sanctaphrax rock, the Guardians - led by the merciless Orbix Xaxis - still believe that the lightning of a Great Storm will heal the ailing rock. They made preparations for its arrival and have waited impatiently for that day for many a long year.

  Meanwhile, down in the library chambers of the underground sewers, their enemies - the librarian academics - disagree that lightning will heal the rock. Under the guidance of the High Librarian, Fenbrus Lodd, they study, learn, conjecture and experiment on pieces of the stricken rock, trying to find an alternative cure - while taking care to defend themselves against any who would seize the library and its secrets for themselves.

  And there are many, quite apart from Orbix Xaxis, who would like to do just that. The brutal hammerhead goblin, General Tytugg, for instance, who so often dreams of having the same stranglehold over those who live beneath Undertown as those who live above, and who would fulfil these dreams were it not so perilous to attack. And Mother Muleclaw, shryke Mother of the Eastern Roost; she, too, would like to see an end to the library - to break, once and for all, the link between the librarians and the shrykes’ sworn enemies in the Free Glades.

  Ever vigilant, librarian knights patrol the skies at dusk and dawn - like young Rook Barkwater, fresh from the Free Glades, but already as seasoned a flier as any of his comrades who patrol in ones and twos each day. They keep to the shadows, skimming over the faded glory of Undertown in their sumpwood skycraft, darting round the jumble of debris and gaping crevices of Screetown, and flitting between the great wooden struts and pillars of the so-called Sanctaphrax Forest, that vast never-ending scaffold construction which keeps the stricken Sanctaphrax rock from ever touching the ground.

  At the end of their forays, they return to the library with reports of the world above: strange disturbing reports of fireballs in the sky, and sightings of huge, mutant creatures in Screetown - whilst with every passing day, the weather seems to be getting more humid and oppressive.

  Vox Verlix - nominal Leaguesmaster and Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax - knows all about the weather. Once he was the most promising cloudwatcher apprentice of his generation. Bully and genius, it was he who wrested power from Cowlquape Pentephraxis, the Most High Academe of New Sanctaphrax, taking the great chain of high office for himself; he who seized control of the mighty merchant leagues; he who oversaw the construction of the Tower of Night, the Great Mire Road, and the Sanctaphrax Forest.

  These days, however, despite his grand titles and grander projects, Vox Verlix has little power. Time and again, he has been double-crossed. Orbix Xaxis seized the Tower of Night for himself, Mother Muleclaw took control of the Great Mire Road, while together with his army of goblins, General Tytugg - although content to keep a powerless puppet in place to hold the threat of a shryke attack at bay - rules Undertown with a rod of iron. Vox Verlix, it is generally believed, is little more than a prisoner in the crumbling Palace of Statues; drunken, powerless and obese.

  He is, it is true, befuddled by his housekeeper's endless supply of oblivion for most of the time. Yet there are moments of lucidity; moments when - though Vox finds it hard to recall a single thing from the previous day - his memories of former glories are as fresh in his mind as they ever were.

  And during those reveries of the past, he makes plans for the future. Intricate plans. Vengeful plans. For, alone and powerless as he is, Vox still cherishes dreams of vengeance on those he blames for his current plight. On the shrykes who strut and squawk on the Mire Road, on the goblins who march through the Undertown streets and on the sinister Guardians of Night, ever watchful from their great tower.

  These are strange times. With the weather so hot, so humid, so charged with menace, it is like being trapped within a bubbling cauldron which is threatening at any moment to boil over. Slaves wilt in the suffocating heat. Guards squabble among themselves. In Screetown and the Sanctaphrax Forest, the creatures that live there are jittery and unpredictable.

  Something is about to happen. Of that, there is no doubt. But what?

  Rumours abound. Suspicions deepen. There are many questions but few answers. What are Orbix Xaxis and his Guardians of Night looking for as they gather each night and scan the skies? What is General Tytugg scheming in his Hive Towers fortress? Why has Mother Muleclaw gathered her shryke-sisters to her makeshift court at the end of the Great Mire Road? And what of the librarians, deep in their sewers, always mindful of those who live above them? What danger is it that they sense?

  Only one individual is overlooked, forgotten and alone in his crumbling palace, seemingly oblivious to the world outside and lost in his own bitter dreams. Only one individual, who doesn't seem to care as Undertown simmers in the unbearable heat. Only one.

  Vox Verlix.

  The Deepwoods, the Stone Gardens, the Edgewater River. Undertown and Sanctaphrax. Names on a map.

  Yet behind each name lie a thousand tales - tales that have been recorded in ancient scrolls, tales that have been passed down the generations by word of mouth -tales which even now are being told.

  What follows is but one of those tales.

  • CHAPTER ONE •

  DAWN PATROL

  It was cold in the great chamber; bitter cold. Above, through the frost-edged panes of the glass dome overhead, the stars glittered like phraxdust in the black sky. Below, at the large ring-shaped ironwood table, a hulking figure was hunched over a sheaf of sky charts, a carved tankard in front of him, and an upturned telescope by the foot of his chair. Loud snores echoed through the chamber as the figure's head slumped slowly forwards, a red gobbet of spittle bubbling on his lips.

  The sky charts rustled like dead leaves as they were caught by an icy draught whistling through the chamber. The academic shivered in his sleep and the light clink of a phraxdust medallion tapping the heavy chain of office round his neck mingled with his snores.

  He slumped further forward, cheeks wobbling and neck creasing into plump, grublike layers of fat. The dangling phraxdust medallion knocked against the rim of the all but empty tankard. The snores were deep and rumbling now and, as the sleeper's jowly face hovered over the table, the medallion hung down inside the tankard.

  All at once, with a volcanic snore, the sagging figure fell completely forwards. He slammed his forehead on the edge of the table with a thud - and sat bolt upright. In front of him, there was a hiss, a crackle, a whiff of toasted wood-almonds - and the tankard abruptly exploded.

  The academic was thrown back from his chair. He landed heavily on the other side of the chamber, twisting a leg and knocking his head sharply against the tiled floor.

  From high above, like a faulty echo, there came an answering sound of breaking glass and an ear-splitting crash, as s
omething hard and heavy burst through the dome and landed in the middle of the ironwood table, splitting it in two.

  The academic coughed throatily as he heaved himself painfully to his feet. The air was thick with dust and smoke. His head throbbed, his ears were ringing, and wherever he looked, the after-image of the explosion flashed before him; now pink, now green. He coughed again and again, great convulsions racking his body.

  At last the coughing subsided, and he fumbled for a spidersilk kerchief and wiped his streaming eyes. Above his head, he saw that several of the glass panels had shattered in the blast. At his feet, the jagged fragments glinted in the moonlight. He frowned as his gaze fell on the object nestling amongst the shards of glass and splinters of wood. It was a stone head dislodged from one of the statues on the roof, the thick frost coating its surface already melting and dripping down onto the floor.

  Who is it this time? the academic wondered. Which venerable figure of rank has taken a tumble tonight?

  He crouched down, seized the slippery head with both hands, rolled it over - and gasped with sudden foreboding. It was his own face staring back at him.

  Although it was close to midnight, with the full moon dull and greasy yellow behind the thickening mist, the air - even high up at the top of the Tower of Night - was still clammy and warm. The Most High Guardian, Orbix Xaxis, emerged onto the main upper gantry, looked round uneasily, and began at once to fiddle urgently with the metal muzzle that covered his mouth and nose. With the vents closed by spidersilk gauze, Orbix's face sweated beneath the mask and his voice took on a muffled and rasping tone - but at least it protected him from the vile contagion of the night. The High Guardian clicked the muzzle-guard securely into place. When the great purifying storm finally arrived, he thought with quiet satisfaction, the air would be fit to breathe again, but until that glorious day …

  ‘The chosen ones await your bidding, master, came a gruff voice behind him.

  Orbix turned. The cage-master, Mollus Leddix, stood before him. Behind him, flanked by hulking flathead Guardians, were two young librarians, their faces white and drawn. One, a shock of ginger hair matted by a gash in his eyebrow, tried to stand up straight, but the muscles in his jaw betrayed his fear. His companion, smaller and slightly hunched, stared with pale blue eyes at his feet. Their arms were tied behind their backs.

  Orbix thrust his muzzle into the smaller one's face, and took a long, deep sniff. A tear squeezed out from the librarian's eyelashes and slid down his cheek.

  ‘Very good,’ said Orbix at last. ‘Sweet. Tender … Caught them in the sewers, did you?’

  ‘One of them, master,’ Leddix nodded. ‘The other was shot down over Undertown.’

  Orbix Xaxis tutted. ‘You librarians,’ he said softly. ‘Will you never learn that it is we, the Guardians of Night, who are the masters?’ He nodded to the flatheads. ‘Put them in the cage,’ he growled. ‘And remove their gags. I want to hear them sing.’

  The flatheads tore the knotted rope from the prisoners’ mouths and bundled them to the end of the jutting gantry, where a heavy cage hung down from an overhead pulley. One of the Guardians opened the barred door. Another shoved the prisoners inside. The ginger-haired librarian stood stock-still, his head held high. Beside him, his companion followed his example.

  Orbix snorted. They were all the same, these young librarians. Trying so hard to be brave, to hide their fear -he had yet to meet a single one prepared to plead for his life. A cold fury gripped him. They would be singing soon enough.

  ‘Lower the cage, he barked.

  Leddix gave a signal, and a Guardian stepped forward, released the locking-bolt on the crank-wheel, and began turning. With a lurch, the cage began its long descent. Orbix Xaxis raised his arms and lifted his head. The moonlight glinted on his mask and tinted glasses.

  ‘Thus perish all those who pollute the Great Sky with blasphemous flight!’ his rasping voice rang out. ‘For we, the Guardians, shall purify the Sky, ready for that Great Night. Hail, the Great Storm!’

  The gantry filled with voices raised in salute. ‘Hail, the Great Storm¡ Hail, the Great Storm!’

  Far below them now, the cage continued down. Past the dark angular Tower of Night it went; past the surface of the crumbling Sanctaphrax rock and the vast network of scaffolding erected to support it, and on down into Screetown.

  Inside the cage, the two librarians struggled to keep their balance as they stared out.

  Try not to look down, said the ginger-haired one. ‘I … I can't, said his companion. ‘I saw something down there in the darkness … Waiting…’

  Created when massive chunks of stone had broken off from the crumbling Sanctaphrax rock, fallen and crushed the area of Undertown directly beneath, Screetown was a rubble-strewn wilderness. Every building had been demolished, every street destroyed, while the weight of the immense boulders crashing down was so great that the shock waves had opened up gaping canyons in the ground.

  It was into the deepest of these canyons that the librarians were being lowered. All at once, the cage jerked to a standstill. The two young librarians fell against the bars of the cage as, far above their heads, the voice of the High Guardian rang out. ‘Come, Demons of the Deep!’ he cried. ‘And rid the Sky of its polluters!’ He turned to Leddix. ‘Release them, he hissed.

  Leddix reached across and pulled on the stout wooden lever by his shoulder. There was a hiss as rope slid through the pulley-wheel, and a muffled clank. Far below, the bottom of the cage swung open and the librarians toppled down onto the steep, scree-covered slope beneath them with an anguished cry.

  ‘Now, their song begins. Orbix rasped from behind the mask. He stepped forward and peered down into the canyon.

  Far beneath him, he could just make out the two young librarians, sliding and stumbling as they struggled to stop themselves slipping further down into the canyon. And there, emerging from the cracks and crevices all round them - in a shadowy flurry of flapping wings and scurrying claws - were the huge dark shapes of the creatures awaiting them.

  The pale, young librarians let out loud, piercing screams. Like the contracting iris of a monstrous eye, the black shapes closed in around them - and blotted them out. From the canyon depths came a low chorus of howls and snarls, and the sound of tearing flesh. The screaming stopped.

  Orbix turned away. ‘Such a sweet song, he mused, ‘I never tire of it.’

  ‘Master, gasped Leddix, pointing up at the sky and falling to his knees. ‘Look!’

  Orbix spun round, to see a bright ball of flame hurtling from one side of the sky to the other in a blaze of blood-red light. Over his head it flew, wailing eerily; past the Stone Gardens and off into Open Sky beyond. Unblinking, Orbix watched it shrink to the size of a marsh-gem, a pinprick - and then disappear.

  He held his breath.

  The next instant, there was a distant explosion and a flash of light. The misty clouds seemed to grow denser, dimming the yellow light of the moon. Orbix gripped the wooden lever to steady himself. The air grew heavier than ever.

  Tt is a sign, he breathed. ‘Look how the clouds grow thick, how the very air around us grows hotter. The sky is preparing for the arrival of that wondrous night.’

  ‘Hail, the Great Storm!’ barked Leddix, falling to his knees. The guards took up the cry once more. ‘Hail, the Great Storm¡ Hail, the Great Storm!’

  Several storeys below, in his study, Xanth Filatine -assistant to the High Guardian of Night - looked up from a barkscroll and shuddered. There must have been another Purification Ceremony - probably the two librarians he'd interrogated that afternoon. And after he'd specifically told Leddix he couldn't have them¡ Xanth slammed a fist down on his desk. The evil skyslug had gone over his head to the High Guardian -and everybody knew how much Orbix Xaxis enjoyed his little rituals.

  Xanth strode across to the window and looked out. ‘Hail to the Great Storm,’ he muttered bitterly.

  *

  As he looked down from the saddle of the Stormh
ornet, Rook Barkwater frowned. Something was going on at the Mire Gates. Usually at this time in the morning, there would be half a dozen shrykes at most on guard. Today there were hundreds of them.

  Deftly lowering the loftsail and tugging the nether-sail rope hard to his right, he swooped in as close as he dared. He was counting on the thick stifling mist to help conceal him. Keeping low, he skirted the boom-docks. Then, taking both rope-handles in one hand, he raised his telescope to his eye with the other.

  ‘Sky above!’ he exclaimed.

  Long columns of the bird-creatures were stretched back along the Great Mire Road as far as the eye could see. More ominously, from the way they were kitted out - with their shiny breastplates, plumed battle-helmets and multitude of terrible weapons - this was no mere gathering of the clans. The shrykes seemed to be mobilizing for war.

  Rook knew he had to get back to the Great Library and make a report. Then it would be up to the High Librarian, Fenbrus Lodd, to decide what to do for the best. Tugging sharply on the loftsail rope, Rook brought the Stormhornet round and, staying low in the sky, headed back over Undertown.

  These were, indeed, strange times. There were alleged goblin atrocities in Undertown, rumours of a thwarted slave uprising in the Sanctaphrax Forest and unconfirmed sightings of monstrous creatures emerging from the diseased rock itself. And then there was this strange weather. Like all librarian knights, Rook Barkwater had been briefed to take close note of the weather whilst on patrol.

  But what was there to say? he wondered. That it was a little bit hotter than the morning before? A little bit more humid, more sultry, more oppressive? That the dense cover of cloud looked a little bit lower in the sky; the sun behind it, a little dimmer? Certainly he could confirm all these things. But that was all. As for why it was happening, that was anyone's guess. All Rook knew was that sunrise had become a drab affair, with the displays of dazzling colour and intricate cloud formations now seemingly things of the past.