Edge Chronicles 6: Vox Page 7

  ‘Sky and Earth be thanked, Rook murmured.

  At last he had stumbled across a drain. He dashed towards it and crouched down. Set into the huge flagstones it was one of the older variety, circular and latticed. He plunged his fingers down into the gaps in the cast-iron grille and tugged.

  From the far corner of the square he heard the yelping arrival of the first woodwolf. The second one wouldn't be far behind.

  Teeth clenched and legs locked, he grunted out loud with effort. There was the soft grinding sound of grit on metal, and the drain-cover came free. Rook pushed it aside and hurriedly lowered himself down into the darkness below.

  The wolves, sensing that their quarry was about to escape, sprinted towards him. Rook felt round feverishly with his right foot for the first rung of the iron ladder he knew should be there somewhere, bolted to the inside of the narrow pipe - and found it. He shifted himself round, reached up and slid the drain-cover back into place, just in the nick of time.

  The tunnel was plunged into darkness. Above his head, he heard the woodwolves scratching desperately at the metal grille and howling with frustration.

  ‘Too slow, he taunted softly.

  As if the woodwolves themselves knew this to be true, they abruptly stopped their yammer and trotted away. Rook grinned with relief. Then, with a last look up at the pinpricks of light piercing the metal cover above his head, he began the descent. Rung by rung, he climbed down the vertical pipe which would bring him out into one of the great transverse tunnels, deep under the ground. With a bit of luck, he should arrive back at the Great Storm Chamber Library before …

  ‘Aaaghl’ he cried out, as his left foot slipped into thin air. The next rung was missing …

  It all happened so quickly. His right foot slipped, his hands were torn from their grip, and the next thing he knew, he was tumbling backwards.

  ‘Unkhl’ he grunted as he landed with a sudden, heavy thud and the air was forcibly expelled from his lungs.

  Where am I? he wondered. Then a horrible thought occurred to him. It couldn't be … It mustn't be …

  Cautiously he opened his eyes to see - but the pitch blackness around him was giving nothing away. He felt round gingerly with his hands. He felt walls, round and rigid, and from the feel of it, made from woodwillow withies, woven together like … like a huge basket…

  Rook groaned. He knew exactly where he was.

  He was inside one of the traps set by the goblin guards to capture those who tried to escape from Undertown. Misery holes, they were called. Like huge mudlobster-pots, they were set inside the sewer entry pipes beneath deliberately sabotaged ladders. He was a librarian knight: he should have known, been on his guard. Instead, he had blindly climbed down the ladder thinking he was safe.

  Misery holes. He shook his head. The traps were well-named, Rook thought bitterly, and he, Rook Barkwater, had become their latest victim. It was little wonder, he realized, that the woodwolves had seemed so unconcerned when he'd escaped them. He'd been such a fool. They hadn't been chasing him at all, they were corralling him to the booby-trapped drain. They'd tricked him, and he had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. But he wasn't finished yet.

  He climbed to his feet and shook the plaited bars of the cage as hard as he could and tried to wrench them apart; he kicked and hammered at them; he drew his knife and tried sawing at the wood - but all to no avail. The misery hole was not about to release its quarry so easily.

  There must be some way out,’ Rook groaned.

  There isn't,’ came a little voice from the far side of the cage. ‘I've already tried.’

  Rook started with surprise. ‘Who's there?’ he hissed.

  ‘M-my name's Gilda,’ said the little voice tearfully. ‘And I'm very frightened. I've been here ages and …’ -she shuddered - ‘soon… soon, they'll be coming for us.’

  • CHAPTER FIVE •

  Number Eleven

  Rook felt the hairs at the back of his neck tingle. There was such fear and despair in the small, childlike voice.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked softly. ‘I've got some dried dellberries. And a hunk of black bread …’

  ‘Water, said Gilda. ‘Have you any water, sir? I'm so thirsty.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Rook eagerly. He fumbled at his belt and removed his water-bottle. ‘Here,’ he said, reaching out towards the sound of the voice.

  He felt a hand brushing his fingers as it seized the bottle, then heard the sound of slurping and swallowing. Rook smiled, glad that he'd been able to do something -however small - to help the poor creature.

  ‘Thank you, sir, said Gilda a moment later. ‘Thank you kindly.’

  Rook reached out a second time. He felt the water-bottle graze his fingertips; then, just as he was about to close his hand around it, it slipped from his grasp and clattered on the bottom of the cage.

  Oh, mercy me, Fm sorry, sir, Gilda cried out. ‘Indeed I am!’

  ‘It's all right, Gilda, Rook assured her. ‘Don't fret.’

  He crouched down and, reaching into the pockets of his flight-suit - both right and left - pulled out a small rough stone from each. As he put them together on the palm of his hand, the whole cage was abruptly bathed in a warm yellow glow. Gilda gasped.

  ‘Mercy me!’ she exclaimed. ‘Magic rocks!’

  Rook smiled. ‘They're sky-crystals, he said. ‘Given to me by the Professor of Light himself in the Great Library’

  ‘So you're a librarian?’ said Gilda, her voice trembling with awe. Rook looked at her eager little face, eyes wide and astonished. The shadowy glow from the crystals shone on her pointed ears, her stubby waxen plaits, her broad nose …

  ‘Why, you're a gnokgoblin, Rook said.

  ‘Indeed I am, sir, said Gilda, ‘a poor gnokgoblin from the Eastern Alleys. I was on an errand for my grandmother, I was, sir, when those there goblins set their wolves on me. Just for fun, sir … Just for fun…’ The little gnokgoblin buried her head in her hands and sobbed.

  Rook placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently.

  Gilda looked up, her face wet with tears. ‘My grandmother's a poor seamstress, sir, always has been. But these days, she's getting frail - and her eyesight is failing. She relies on me for everything, so she does. Oh, mercy me, sir, if I don't return from my deliveries … ‘It's going to be all right, Gilda,’ said Rook. Another sob convulsed the little gnokgoblin and she grasped Rook's hand in hers/Oh those wolves, sir!’ she shuddered. ‘Howling, slavering, snarling … They chased me, sir. And … and I thought I was being so clever hiding beneath the drain-cover …’ She breathed in noisily. ‘And now thisV she wailed, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘There, there,’ said Rook. ‘I know the feeling, believe me.’

  ‘Oh, sir,’ she sobbed, throwing herself forwards and wrapping her skinny arms around his neck. The basket swayed, and from far off in the system of tunnels, Rook heard the sound of squabbling ratbirds. ‘But it'll be all right now, won't it, sir?’ she said. ‘You being a real living and breathing librarian knight with magic rocks and all.’ Gilda's grip tightened.

  ‘Of course it will,’ said Rook uncertainly, patting her awkwardly on the back.

  He glanced up at the inward-pointing spikes of the cage above his head; so easy to fall into, yet impossible to escape. They were well and truly trapped in the misery hole.

  Gilda's sobs slowly subsided, and her grip loosened. She wiped her eyes on the back of her hand and sat back. ‘What's it like there?’ she asked in her small voice.

  ‘What's what like where?’ said Rook.

  ‘The Free Glades, said Gilda. ‘You're a librarian knight, so you must have been there. What are they like? Are they as beautiful as they say? Granny says that everyone is free there, and safe. And no-one goes hungry, and no-one is ever beaten - that it's the most wonderful place in the world!’

  ‘It is,’ said Rook dreamily. ‘Like a shining beacon in the middle of the dark Deepwoods - the most beautiful place in all the E
dge. Glades with towering pinetrees and crystal lakes, and the night sky studded with a million dazzling stars.’

  Gilda looked up at him shyly. ‘Do you think that one day I might see it for myself?’ she asked.

  Rook leaned forwards, took both of her hands in his own and squeezed them warmly. ‘I'm sure of it,’ he said.

  Gilda smiled happily, and nodded. ‘Me, too,’ she said earnestly. ‘Now you're here, everything's going to be all right.’

  Just then, from above their heads, there came a loud sound. Grinding. Metal on stone. Gilda gasped.

  ‘It's them,’ she whispered.

  Rook nodded. He pulled himself up onto his haunches, quickly returned the sky-crystals to their separate pockets, and looked up. Far above, as the drain-cover was slid aside, a thin sliver of light grew and grew - like the moon going through all its phases, from new to full, in a matter of seconds. The grinding noise set Rook's teeth on edge. The next instant, a great head was thrust down into the hole.

  ‘What have we got here, then?’ he muttered gruffly. The light streamed over his shoulders and down into the eyes of the prisoners below. ‘Two, by the looks of things.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘A good catch!’

  ‘Haul ‘em in, then,’ came a second voice, high-pitched and imperious, ‘and let's take a closer look!’

  Rook turned to Gilda. ‘You'll be all right,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

  Gilda nodded, her eyes wide and trusting. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she whispered.

  Just then, the cage jerked and dropped down a couple of strides. Gilda gasped. Rook clung onto her arm with one hand and the plaited bars of the cage with his other. From above there came a stream of violent curses and the crack of a whip. The cage stopped falling.

  ‘Pull, Krote, you great, useless lump,’ demanded the high-pitched voice impatiently. ‘By Sky, I'll have you boiled down to glue¡ PULL!’

  The voice echoed angrily down the tunnels - where it was answered by a chorus of ratbirds and piebald rats, chattering and squealing in alarm. The cage jolted and slowly began to rise. Gilda whimpered and gripped the side of the cage firmly. Rook looked out through the bars - at the sides of the rusting sewer-pipe sliding past and, a little higher up, at the booby-trapped ladder. Finally, with a bump, the cage came to a halt directly beneath the drain-opening.

  A thin leather-covered pole was thrust into the cage, past the inward-pointing spikes, stopping inches from the top of Rook's head. With a click, it opened up, revealing itself to be a heavy umbrella-like object. With much heaving and grunting, the opened umbrella was pulled back out of the cage, springing open the inward-pointing spikes, like the petals of a vicious flower.

  A huge hand reached in, grabbed Rook by the scruff of his flight-suit and lifted him bodily into the air - Gilda clinging to his knees. Rook found himself staring into the bloodshot eyes of a hulking great tufted goblin with hairy ears, a jutting jaw and pitted skin that showed the ravages of a hard life and many a savage battle. Dressed in heavy armour, he was still holding the drain-cover under his arm, making it look as light as a the lid of a barrel of woodale.

  Behind him, Rook caught a glimpse of a tumbril, the covered wagon fashioned, like the cage, from wood-willow. Two weary prowlgrins were in harness and he could see the driver - a bony mobgnome, by the look of him, a pencil in one hand, reins in the other.

  ‘What have we got, then?’ chirped the mobgnome. He licked the point of his stubby pencil and raised his hand ready.

  The tufted goblin looked the two of them up and down as they dangled from his fist. ‘A big'un and a little'un,’ he grunted, his voice deep and guttural.

  ‘If you could be a little more specific, Krote,’ said the mobgnome, his voice laden with sarcasm.

  Krote's heavy brow furrowed. ‘Gnokgoblin, he called back to the driver, who noted the details on a small scroll of bark.

  ‘Male or female?’ said the mobgnome.

  ‘It's a girl, said Krote. ‘And the second …’ He frowned, and turned his blunt, brutish face towards Rook, who grimaced at the smell - and feel - of the goblin's moist, malodorous breath. Ts not sure, Mindip,’ he said, as a stupid grin spread across his face, ‘but I reckon we might've caught usselves a ‘brarian knight.’

  The mobgnome jumped down from the tumbril and hurried over. ‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘A librarian knight, you say? Here, let me see.’

  Krote turned to his partner and dropped Rook and Gilda, who landed in a heap at the mobgnome's feet.

  ‘ Tire, take it easy, Krote, you great lummox¡ Gotta be careful with the merchandise. If he is a librarian, he'll be valuable, see?’ Mindip crouched to inspect Rook as he lay, winded, on the greasy cobbles.

  As the mobgnome's sneering face came close, Rook saw his chance. He leapt to his feet and drew his sword…

  But the mobgnome simply laughed. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘He is a librarian knight. No doubt about it¡ You handle him, Krote, there's a good fellow. I'll take care of the girl.’

  Behind him, Rook heard the tufted goblin's low growl. Mindip flourished his evil-looking whip and lunged to Rook's left. There was a sharp crack¡ and Gilda cried out with pain as the end of the mobgnome's whip wound itself around her neck.

  ‘Sir … help…’ Gilda gasped, as the mobgnome tugged hard on the whip, tightening the grip round her neck and pulling her towards him.

  Glancing round, Rook saw the tufted goblin raise his great arms. He readied himself.

  ‘Sir … urrrrrgh …’ Gilda gurgled.

  It was no use. Rook knew he had to do something. Looking back hurriedly, he saw the helpless young gnokgoblin being dragged towards the tumbril by Mindip. At the same moment, Krote lunged. Rook leapt desperately out of his reach and swung his sword. It sliced through the leather whip, freeing Gilda, and caught the mobgnome, Mindip, a glancing blow on the backswing.

  Blood spattered down onto the stone flags.

  Krote paused to stare down at Mindip and, for a terrible moment, it was as though everything stood still. The next, the furious goblin raised his great head and roared as the mobgnome crumpled to the floor, gripping his belly.

  ‘Mindip!’ he bellowed. ‘You hurt Mindip!’

  His tufted ears trembled. The whites of his eyes turned red.

  ‘Run, Gilda!’ Rook cried, gripping his sword as firmly as he could.

  Arms raised, the tufted goblin lunged again. He swung the heavy drain-cover through the air in a wide, whistling arc. Rook gasped as he saw the great lump of iron coming towards him. He was frozen to the spot…

  Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Gilda's green dress fluttering as she made a dash for it…

  CLONK¡

  The drain-cover hammered into the side of Rook's head, the sword slipping from his grip and clattering on the cobbles.

  There was a flash of intense brightness, a rush of cold - then darkness.

  Rook woke up with a jolt. Where was he? he wondered. The jolting continued.

  He was in motion, that much was certain, bumping and clattering over cobblestones; every movement jarring his body and making his head pound. He was in some kind of a cart. All round him he could hear the sound of soft moaning.

  Slowly he opened his eyes. The light poured in. He was inside a tumbril, its wicker roof casting criss-cross shadows over its cargo.

  ‘Mind the pot-holes, you stupid oaf!’ came a shrill voice from up at the front. ‘Every jolt is agony. I'm bleeding all over my new cloak - and it's all your fault, you useless sack of guts!’

  ‘Sorry, Mindip. He was just a bit quick for me. But I got him in the end, didn't I?’ came a gruff reply.

  Rook pulled himself onto his elbows, his head throbbing so badly he wanted to cry out, and looked round. He found himself face to face with an old slaughterer lying beside him, his red hair streaked with grey. He shifted round. Apart from the slaughterer, there were others, their faces seeming to blur and smudge as Rook struggled to make sense of it all. There were a couple of waifs, their ear
s fluttering like woodmoths, a lumpen cloddertrog, snoring loudly, and a strange-looking individual with scaly skin, tiny flute-like ears and a rubbery crest that ran across the centre of his head and halfway down his back.

  ‘E's woken up,’ muttered a voice from the back of the tumbril.

  ‘Yeah, poor beggar. Come round just in time to see his new home, innit? The Sanctaphrax Forest…

  ‘If the shrykes don't get to him first!’

  Rook shuddered uneasily. Above his head, a solitary white raven circled in the sky, cawing raucously. Its wings looked to Rook like paddles, slicing through the dense, treacly air. It was hot; so stiflingly hot. He could barely breathe. And every time he moved his eyes, the pounding in his head grew more intense.

  He raised his hand and touched round his left temple gently. The bone was tender and, when he inspected his fingers, he found them dark with congealed blood.

  Outside the clattering tumbril, the streets were getting more and more busy. Peering giddily through the slatted sides, Rook could see merchants, traders and groups of armed guards. Some were standing in clusters. Most were streaming along the road in the same direction he was travelling. From up ahead, there came the hustle and bustle of a great crowd; the sounds of clattering, clanging, dull moans and raised voices, and every now and then a sharp klaxon blast that made Rook wince with pain.

  ‘Left¡ Left1/ shouted the mobgnome. ‘It's that way!’ He pointed.

  The tufted goblin pulled on the reins, and the tumbril was driven through a low, narrow archway into a broad square, heaving with activity and louder than ever. Rook's head spun all the more. There was movement and colour, and loud noise that seemed to set the very air trembling. The tumbril abruptly lurched to a halt. The goblin turned round.

  ‘Wake up, you idle bunch of sewer-rats!’ he bellowed. ‘We've arrived.’

  The mobgnome climbed down, clutching his belly, hobbled painfully round to the back of the covered wagon and unlocked the door. The tufted goblin appeared beside him - a heavy cudgel in one hand - and reached inside. Rook looked on helplessly as his neighbour, the old slaughterer, was dragged out by the ankles.