Edge Chronicles 6: Vox Read online

  ‘You never gave it a chance, Vox,’ said Cowlquape sadly. ‘You went behind my back and betrayed me to Orbix Xaxis and the Guardians of Night. Did you really think you could trust them?’

  ‘I did what I had to do.’ said Vox. ‘Someone had to assume the role of leader. A proper leader; a leader prepared to lead. It was what you never understood, Cowlquape. All those endless meetings and consultations; trying to keep everyone happy - yet satisfying no-one …’

  ‘Someone like you, eh?’ said Cowlquape softly. ‘A traitor … A usurper …’ He let the words sink in. ‘Is it any wonder that things have come to this?’

  ‘I … I…’ Vox blustered hotly.

  ‘You've destroyed everything, Vox. Everything …’ he said. ‘And the sad thing is, it could all have been so different. If you had trusted me as I trusted you, Vox, we could have built a better world together, you and I. And now look at you!’ He sighed. ‘You had so many wonderful talents, Vox …’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘And you've squandered them all. What a waste your life has been.’

  Vox looked away, muttering under his breath, and reached for a jug of oblivion. ‘You always were a pompous little creature, weren't you?’ he growled. ‘At least I didn't end up imprisoned for years on end.’

  ‘No? Are you sure?’ said Cowlquape evenly. ‘Look around you, Vox. When did you last dare to leave this palace, with its barred windows and booby-trapped corridors? When did you last even venture beyond this chamber? You are as much a prisoner as I ever was.’ He tutted softly. ‘The bully being bullied …’

  ‘They double-crossed me,’ said Vox quietly. ‘All of them. The shrykes, the Guardians, the goblins … But they'll soon be smiling on the other side of their faces.’ His voice rose. Tor it's all coming to an end. That's what I want to tell you. Undertown is done for. Time is running out…’ He stared at Cowlquape. ‘And it's why I need the librarians. You're the only ones I can trust.’

  Cowlquape looked puzzled. ‘Undertown, done for?’ he said. ‘What do you mean, Vox?’

  ‘I mean precisely what I say, Cowlquape,’ said Vox, his voice growing louder still. ‘Undertown is finished. Doomed¡ The whole sorry lot will be washed away, and with it all the back-stabbing traitors and treacherous infidels who have sought to destroy me!’ He raised the jug, took a noisy glug of the bright red liquor and wiped his mouth on the back on his sleeve. ‘A storm is coming!’ he announced. ‘A mighty storm!’

  ‘A storm?’ said Cowlquape.

  ‘Yes, Cowlquape. A storm, the like of which has never been seen before. Can you not feel it in the air; the searing heat, the stifling humidity? Have you not noticed the formations of the clouds?’

  Rook found himself nodding. Every day he had been noting the ominous changes in the weather.

  ‘A storm to end all storms,’ Vox continued, sweeping his massive arms round dramatically as his voice rose to fill the great chamber. ‘No-one shall be spared. And I alone, Vox Verlix, know exactly when it will strike -down to the very second.’

  ‘But how can you possibly know when…?’ Rook began.

  Cowlquape silenced him with a hand on his arm. ‘Vox Verlix was the finest cloudwatcher the College of Cloud ever produced, Rook, my boy.’ he said quietly. ‘If he says a storm is coming …’

  ‘I do¡ I do say a storm is coming.’ said Vox excitedly. He reached forward and seized Cowlquape by the sleeve.

  ‘Look.’ he said, tugging him sharply across to the round white marble table and pointing down at the illuminated image from outside laid out across its surface.

  Cowlquape looked down. Rook, eager to see for himself, stood beside him and scanned the table-top. Vox's podgy fingers spread across the sky.

  ‘You see these clouds.’ he said, taking a swig at the oblivion. ‘Like giant anvils? They're growing all the time, merging, fusing together and gaining power with every passing day. I've consulted my cloud tables.’ he continued, the drink staining his lips red. ‘I've done the calculations. I alone know when the dark maelstrom will strike!’

  Rook glanced at Cowlquape. The true High Academe was deep in thought.

  ‘And when the dark maelstrom does strike.’ Vox went on, ‘there will be lightning and hail, and torrential driving rain will flood the sewers within minutes. If the librarians are to survive, then you must leave your underground chambers and flee. Leave Undertown, Cowlquape, and head for the Free Glades …’

  Behind them, the unconscious goblin groaned softly. Again, Rook looked up at Cowlquape - but the old academic's thoughts were difficult to read.

  ‘You're proposing that the librarians leave Undertown?’ he said at last, his voice calm and even.

  ‘You must, Cowlquape.’ said Vox urgently.

  ‘What, up and go - just like that?’ said Cowlquape, fixing Vox with a level stare. ‘Tell me, Vox.’ he said. ‘Just supposing we could get out of the sewers and somehow make it past General Tytugg's goblin guard, and then by some miracle also manage to get through Muleclaw's shrykes and cross the Mire to reach the Free Glades …’ He paused. ‘Why would you help us?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What's in it for you!’

  ‘For me?’ said Vox, an air of injured innocence playing over his blubbery features. He breathed in wheezily ‘If I were to tell you, he said, ‘how you and all the librarians could get safely through Undertown and down the Great Mire Road, I would ask just one thing in return.’

  Cowlquape shook his head and smiled. ‘And what might that be, Vox?’ he said.

  Vox returned his gaze, his face deadly serious. ‘That

  you take me with you.’

  ‘So this is where you hide when you're not toadying up to the High Master, came a sneering voice.

  Xanth looked up from his desk and sighed. Mollus Leddix, the cage-master, stood in the doorway, his black hood pulled back to reveal his twitchy weasel-like features and small dark eyes. An ugly grin was playing across his face.

  ‘Not that it'll do you much good. Not if the rumours are to be believed,’ he added.

  ‘What rumours, Leddix?’ said Xanth wearily. He mustn't let the executioner get to him.

  ‘Oh, the rumours that the High Guardian doesn't quite trust his favourite since he got back from spying on the librarians in the Free Glades. They say that all that Free Glade air turned his head, made him soft, unreliable …’

  And I wonder who put those ideas into the High Guardian's head, Xanth thought bitterly - but he managed a smile as he looked up at Leddix. ‘Oh, I wouldn't listen to those rumours, Leddix, if I were you,’ he said. ‘I'd be more worried about the rumour going round that a certain executioner was overheard hatching a plot with the Captain of the Nightwatch. Now if the High Guardian was to hear about that…’

  ‘You wouldn't dare,’ snarled Leddix.

  ‘Just try me, said Xanth, rising from his stool.

  Leddix stepped back and laughed a thin, weasely chuckle. ‘No need to be like that, Xanth, he said. ‘Mustn't let little misunderstandings get in the way of our duty. Talking of which…’ He straightened up. ‘A fresh young librarian has been apprehended and the High Master has ordered an interrogation. Right up your street, I would have thought, Xanth, he added, his voice oily and insinuating, ‘given your special knowledge of the librarians and their ways,’

  Xanth nodded, but said nothing. There it was again. The same underlying implication … He was not to be trusted.

  Leddix beckoned for Xanth to follow him to the Interrogation Chambers and, as he did so, the executioner muttered, ‘The High Master will be observing. And remember, Xanth, when you're finished with her, the prisoner is mine!’

  They arrived outside an interrogation chamber deep in the lower recesses of the Tower of Night. A tall heavily-built Guardian - a cloddertrog with swarthy scarred skin and flowercabbage ears - opened the door and Xanth entered the small room. Leddix slunk away down the corridor, chuckling softly as the door swung shut.

  In the corner, slumped against the wall, was a librarian knight, unmistakable i
n green flight-suit and light wood armour. The prisoner looked up, thick plaits falling across her face.

  ‘Xanth?’ came a small voice. ‘Xanth?’

  Xanth froze. The prisoner knew his name.

  ‘Xa-anth?’

  ‘Be silent, prisoner,’ Xanth said in a low growl.

  He needed time to think. The spy-hole on the opposite wall was open and the High Guardian was observing his every move. How Leddix would love it if he made a slip now…

  Arms tied behind her back, the prisoner flicked the golden plaits off her face with a toss of her head. She was bruised and battered, with a black eye and one side of her lower jaw badly swollen. A trickle of dried blood ran from the corner of her mouth. She was a mess, certainly - yet Xanth recognized her at once. After all, having spent the best part of eighteen moons studying beside her at Lake Landing, how could he fail to?

  ‘It is you, Xanth, she said. ‘I knew it was. It's me, Magda. Magda Burlix …’

  Xanth stared at her impassively, his face betraying not a single flicker of emotion.

  ‘Xanth?’ said Magda. ‘Don't you remember me?’

  ‘On your knees!’ shouted Xanth roughly. He was clammy and hot, sweat beading his forehead, his cheeks and the top of his shaven head. He'd liked Magda. She'd been good to him at Lake Landing when he'd broken his leg and …

  No¡ he told himself sharply. He would have to deal with her as he would any prisoner. Orbix Xaxis was watching.

  ‘I said, on your knees!’ he snarled, and kicked her viciously in the side.

  Magda struggled awkwardly to her knees, the tight ropes biting into her wrists. She looked up at Xanth, her eyes as wide as a tilder doe's, willing him to recognize her. But Xanth was having none of it. Refusing to meet her imploring gaze, he pulled a notebook from one pocket, a thin, sharp ironwood pencil from another; opened one, licked the other and started writing.

  ‘Name, he said quietly.

  ‘Xanth, said Magda, her voice breaking with emotion. ‘You know my name.’ Xanth's scalp prickled. He could feel the accusing glare from the spy-hole burning into the back of his head. ‘Name!’ he repeated harshly.

  ‘You know my name, came the tearful reply. She sniffed. ‘It's me, Xanth. Magda Burlix.’

  Xanth scribbled it down.

  ‘Position, he said, a moment later.

  ‘I am a librarian knight, said Magda and, even though he didn't look up, he could tell from her voice that she was glowing with pride as she spoke. ‘And as such, you know I can tell you no more - even unto death.’

  ‘You were apprehended by our patrols on the banks of the Edgewater, said Xanth quietly. ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘I am a librarian knight, Magda repeated. ‘I can tell you no more, even unto … aarrghl’ she cried out as Xanth slapped her hard across the face.

  Her head dropped. Xanth stared down at her, his hand stinging, his head swirling with mixed feelings. Magda was brave and kind. She had been so good to him … But the High Master was watching and he mustn't allow his feelings to show, not even for an instant.

  He breathed in sharply. ‘What - were - you - doing -by - the - Edgewater - River?’ he asked, enunciating every word crisply, coldly.

  Head still lowered, Magda sighed. ‘It can't do any harm, she said. ‘Not now. You're going to kill me anyway, so I'll tell you. I wasn't on librarian business, I was on my own. I was looking for Rook. Rook Barkwater - remember him?’ she asked bitterly. ‘He went missing. In Screetown. The librarians have given up on him. But I couldn't.’ She looked up, her golden plaits trembling. ‘And do you know why? Because Rook is my friend.’ Her eyes narrowed to angry slits. ‘But then you wouldn't understand, would you? Because you don't know what friendship is.’

  She turned and spat on the floor.

  Behind him, Xanth heard a soft click as the cover to the spy-hole closed. With a sigh of relief, he snapped the notebook shut and put the pencil back in his pocket.

  He'd passed the test.

  ‘My plan is simple, said Vox, scanning the Undertown horizon. ‘With the librarians’ help, I intend to lure the goblin army and the shrykes into a trap of my own devising, leaving the way clear for us…’ - he laid a podgy hand on Cowlquape's shoulder - ‘… to leave Undertown by the Mire Road unmolested.’

  ‘And what is to be the bait in this trap of yours, Vox?’ asked Cowlquape, his brow furrowed.

  ‘Why, my dear Most High Academe, who do the shrykes and the goblins hate even more than each other?’

  ‘The librarians!’ said Rook, unable to contain himself.

  ‘Your young friend is correct,’ laughed Vox, his chins wobbling in the candlelight. ‘I intend to inform both the shrykes and the goblins precisely how they might safely penetrate the Great Library itself …’

  An excellent plan, master, a sibilant voice whispered in Rook's head.

  Vox turned, along with Cowlquape and Rook. ‘So good of you to join us, my dear Amberfuce,’ he said. ‘How's that cough of yours? No worse, I trust.’

  The waif emerged from the shadows, followed by the massive figure of Flambusia Flodfox, a huge hand on the handle of the sumpwood chair. She blushed and rearranged Amberfuce's shawl fussily. The waif tutted and waved her away.

  How may I be of service, master? The sibilant voice sounded again in Rook's head, and he shuddered.

  Vox gestured airily towards the prone figure of the goblin, lying beside the marble table. ‘I wish you to wash this wretch's mind clean, Amberfuce, and then place a little message in his pathetic brain … This message …’

  Vox stared into Amberfuce's large dark eyes. The waif's ears twitched as he stared back.

  Understood, master. Very cunning. Very cunning indeed … came the sibilant whisper.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Vox, turning back to the table. ‘Get on with it, then!’

  The waif's eyes closed and his head lolled back. At Rook's feet, the goblin flinched and shook his head. Spasms racked his body; his jaw clenched and unclenched; his eyeballs swivelled round in their sockets independent of each other - and Rook trembled, knowing exactly what the goblin was going through. Little by little, the waif was sifting through his thoughts; discarding ones he had no use for and replacing them with those of his master, Vox.

  ‘It is time, it is time,’ the goblin mumbled, his head lolling from side to side. ‘General Tytugg … I have the secret route into the Great Library … It lies defenceless before us … Attack from the eastern entrance to the sewers and show no mercy … Death to the librarian scum!’

  The waif glanced round at Vox who was standing watching; a self-satisfied smirk played over his blubbery face. ‘Very good, Amberfuce, he said. ‘Now the rest of it,’

  Amberfuce nodded and returned his attention to the goblin, whose head jerked back so hard that his neck cracked.

  ‘Dead, he cried. ‘Vox is dead … I killed him … With my own bare hands … I heard him squeal like a great fat woodhog … A mound of blubbery …’

  ‘Yes, yes, Vox interrupted testily. ‘I think he's got the message, Amberfuce. Now send him back to the Hive Towers.’

  Amberfuce concentrated. The goblin nodded, his eyes staring ahead, unblinking. ‘Must return to General Tytugg, he muttered. ‘At once.’

  The goblin climbed to his feet and, without another word, set off across the cluttered chamber. As the door clicked shut, Vox chuckled to himself unpleasantly.

  ‘That's General Tytugg taken care of, he said. ‘Now for the shrykes. I need someone to go to the court of the Shryke Sisterhood and tell that feathered monster, Mother Muleclaw, that the goblins have the Great Library within their grasp. It is vital that this someone convinces her that she has the goblins and the librarians at her mercy. I was thinking, er … Vox's gaze fell on Rook. ‘A runaway slave, perhaps? With nothing to lose? Prepared to sell his friends and comrades out for a pouchful of shryke gold?’

  Cowlquape turned to Rook. ‘You have been through so much, Rook, lad,’ he said, his eyes glistening with em
otion. ‘Would you do this, Rook?’ he said. ‘Would you pay a visit to Mother Muleclaw? For the librarians? For me…?’

  Rook swallowed hard. The thought of Mother Muleclaw and the court of the Shryke Sisterhood filled him with dread; just as impersonating a treacherous slave sickened him, and yet … He looked into Cowlquape's concerned, kindly eyes.

  ‘I'd be honoured to,’ he said.

  • CHAPTER TEN •

  THE ELEVENTH HOUR

  i

  The Hive Towers

  It was steamy, smoky and scorchingly hot inside the cavernous Hive Towers. The rank air hummed with the odours of unwashed goblins, burning lamp-oil and boiling tripweed, and the smoke from the foul stinkwood logs which burned intensely in the central brazier, their acid-green flames lapping at a tilder turning on the spit above. Drips of fat oozed from the revolving carcass and fell hissing into the fire, and puffs of acrid smoke rose up to join the dense miasmic cloud writhing in the conical towers far above. The goblins themselves were listless and irritable. Tempers were fraying.

  Turn that spit faster, scum!’ roared a goblin under-master, and cracked his whip. The mobgnome slave cowered miserably and struggled to obey

  From the shadows of a far corner came a loud groan, followed by a parched, rasping cry. ‘Woodale¡ More woodale¡ I'm dying of thirst, here.’

  ‘Me, too, said another. ‘It's so blasted hot.’

  ‘Yeah, where's that accursed slave?’ bellowed a third.

  ‘Coming, sirs. I'm coming,’ said a weary voice, and a dumpy mobgnome pulled away from the communal ale-vat, climbed down the rickety ladder propped up against it, and - a slopping jug of woodale clasped in her callused hands - scurried across the hall to top up the goblins’ tankards.

  High above them, on one of the jutting stanchions, a look-out guard was bellowing at his replacement. ‘You're late!’ he roared. ‘Shryke-loving dunggrub!’

  ‘Who are you calling a dunggrub?’ the second guard shouted back, his face red with rage. ‘You stinking woodhog!’