Edge Chronicles 6: Vox Page 8

  Rook was next. The tufted goblin reached out towards him - but he kicked the great hairy hand away. ‘I can do it on my own,’ he muttered. Yet as he pulled himself to his feet and the blood drained from his head, he swooned dizzily and stumbled over one of the unconscious waifs.

  ‘If you weren't so valuable, Fd slit your throat right here!’ snapped the mobgnome, wincing with pain and ticking off a name on his barkscroll ledger. ‘Krote, get him out of there!’

  The tufted goblin grasped the front of the young librarian knight's jacket and tugged. Rook lurched forwards, banging his head on the top of the doorway as he was pulled from the tumbril and set down on the ground. His legs were wobbly. His head throbbed.

  This way,’ came a gruff voice as two flathead goblins seized him by the arms and frogmarched him away.

  The cobbles blurred below Rook's feet as he was propelled to the centre of the square. All round him, the noise grew louder. There were shouts of anger and cries of despair, and the raucous screech of the klaxons blasting out intermittently. Suddenly the guards came to a halt.

  ‘Here we are,’ said the one to his left, his voice seeming, to Rook, to grow loud and soft as he spoke. ‘A librarian knight.’

  ‘Slightly damaged by the look of him,’ added the other.

  ‘Leave him with me,’ came a third voice.

  Struggling to focus, Rook stared ahead at the figure before him. It was a hammerhead goblin. His scarred face seemed to be expanding and shrinking; his eyes spiralling, the number of rings in his ears constantly changing. Abruptly, the flathead guards let him go and withdrew. Rook swayed back and forwards. He felt giddy, bilious. Everything was swimming before his eyes.

  The hammerhead seized him by the arm and pulled him upright.

  One of Krote's catch, no doubt, a voice was saying.

  ‘I don't know what he does to them, said another.

  Rook looked up groggily. Someone was looming towards him, an arm raised. Rook trembled. Was that a dagger in his hand - a dagger still dripping blood? Was his throat about to be cut?

  He tried to cry out but no sound emerged.

  The dagger came down. Except it wasn't a dagger at all but a brush, dripping with crimson paint. It daubed at the front of Rook's flight-jacket, once, twice; leaving two vertical red stripes.

  ‘Number eleven!’ shouted yet another voice and Rook felt himself being bundled on.

  Everything swirled and whirled about him as he was dragged forward. He became aware of a new noise - a creaking, jangling sound - and looked up to see a strange contraption hovering above him; in focus one moment, blurred the next. He tried hard to concentrate.

  Glimmering in the dazzling heat, a series of great curved hooks hung at regular intervals along a length of chain which was attached to a wide circle of wooden uprights three strides high. A team of flatheads sat on a raised bench at the centre, turning sets of pedals with their feet. As the pedals went round, so too did the chain - taking the hooks with it.

  All at once, a huge pair of hands grasped both of his arms at once, and Rook found himself being hoiked high up into the air. From behind him, close to his ear, there carne the sound of tearing leather as a hook sliced through the back of his jacket. The sharp point grazed the back of his head. The next instant, the hands let him go and Rook found himself suspended from the hook, his feet dangling above the ground as the chain dragged him round.

  All about him, the atmosphere was frenetic; a chaotic hubbub of screeched insults and dark curses; of jabbing elbows, sly dead-legs and the occasional thrown punch. Figures scurried this way and that, fighting to get a good position close to the wooden poles from which the chain hung.

  Hands, claws, talons snatched, prodded and poked at Rook as he swung by. Just ahead of him, as the chain jerked momentarily to a halt, a crowd surged round a figure struggling on a hook. Rook could make out voices raised above the hubbub.

  ‘Number nine. Lugtroll for sale. Strong in the shoulder and short in the tooth. Ideal for pulling any chariot, cart or cab. Fifteen gold pieces …’

  Til take him!’ cried a voice.

  ‘Sold!’ A klaxon sounded. ‘To you, sir …’

  The chain jerked on, swinging Rook with it like a badly laundered shirt on a washing line.

  Another voice shouted out, ‘Number ten. Who'll buy this flathead goblin? In his prime, he is; ideal for the toughest of construction work …’ There was a flurry of activity and a chorus of excited shrieking, then, ‘Sold!’ The klaxon blast echoed round the square. ‘Sold to the goblin with the eye-patch!’

  Rook trembled. It was just a matter of time before he, too, was sold. His own slave-dealer - the flathead who had hung him up on the hook - was doing his best.

  ‘Number eleven. Young, fit, strong. An academic. A librarian knight, no less¡ Top quality, Fm sure you'll agree!’

  Saltflies were buzzing round Rook's head. They landed on his ears, his lips; they crawled round his eyes, lapping at the drops of sweat. Suspended from the hook, his leather flight-jacket tight beneath the arms, Rook was unable to bat them away. He wriggled and screwed up his face but the flies continued to torment him, seemingly aware that he could do nothing about it. He closed his eyes wearily.

  ‘How about this one?’ a screeching voice enquired, and Rook felt himself being sharply poked and prodded.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don't think so, mistress,’ came the shrill reply. ‘Won't get much sport out of it. Looks half dead already’

  Rook's eyelids fluttered. He saw two tall shrykes - one an elegant matron with purple plumage and a bone flail; the other, at the end of a leash, a drab shryke-mate. As she turned away, the matron thrust her beak in the air and sniffed.

  ‘Come, Mardle,’ said the shryke, tugging on the leash.

  ‘Far too over-priced anyway.’

  Rook shuddered, relieved that the fierce yellow-eyed creature with the sharp talons had moved away. But his relief was short-lived. As the bird-creatures moved on, they were replaced by a sinister figure in a black cloak with the white emblem of a screaming gloamglozer emblazoned upon it - a Guardian of Night.

  ‘How much?’ said a thin rasping voice.

  ‘To you, sir, seventy-five, a voice shouted back. It was the flathead slave-dealer who had hung him up on the hook.

  ‘Thirty, said the Guardian. ‘He's damaged, and my master, the High Guardian of Night, likes his librarians fresh as a rule …’

  ‘Sixty,’ said the voice firmly. ‘And that's my final offer.’

  ‘Well…’ mused the Guardian, his face buried in the shadows of his hood.

  Rook felt an icy sweat break out on his forehead. Sold to the Guardians of Night. No, it could not be happening. Not this¡ Anything but this …

  Suddenly his head lolled forward. It was all too much. His throbbing temples. The suffocating heat. The breathtaking tightness in his arms and chest … And all the while, the prodding and poking and pinching continued - though further away now. Further and further. As if it was happening to someone else, while he - Rook -was in his hammock, all wrapped up in a nice warm blanket…

  ‘Seventy!’ a voice called. ‘Sold!’

  Rook opened his eyes and looked round blearily

  Beside the slave-dealer stood a stooped figure in an embroidered hooded cape; it had broad ears, doleful eyes and bony fingers which it held out before it like a wood-mantis. It reached forward and took Rook's hands in its own, one after the other. It scratched at the calluses on his palms, it picked at the nails, it scrutinized the fingers from every angle and fingered the leather cuffs of his flight-suit thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, he'll do,’ the figure said. ‘Have him delivered.’ The flathead nodded. There was a soft jingle as the gold coins were passed over and the flathead raised his klaxon.

  ‘Number eleven!’ he roared. ‘Sold to Hestera Spike-sap.’ The klaxon bellowed loudly by Rook's ear.

  The next instant, Rook was lifted from the hook and placed down on the ground. Hi
s legs threatened to crumple. Yet as he breathed in the air - unrestricted at last by the choking jacket - his head began to clear. Behind him, his place on the hook had been taken by a quivering nightwaif; his ears fluttering nervously, his waistcoat daubed with the number 14. As the chain pulled him away, the slave-dealer flathead went with him.

  For a moment, Rook considered making a dash for it. But only for a moment. Before he could move so much as a muscle, he was seized by both arms and dragged away by the two hefty hammerheads who had answered the klaxon-call. They bundled him roughly through the crowd and delivered him to the chaingang-master - a leathery-skinned hammerhead with a clipboard and a whip - standing at the head of a line of slaves.

  ‘Number eleven, he noted, glancing at Rook's front and making a note of it. ‘Full chain¡ Put him at the end.’

  Rook was dragged along the row of dejected individuals - creatures from every corner of the Edge, now all yoked together with wooden collars and chains; fifteen in all.

  As the wooden yoke clicked shut around his neck, he knew that that was it. He was no longer an individual. Someone had bought him and Rook Barkwater was no more. He was a mere number now. A bonded slave …

  At the front of the line, the chaingang-master cracked his whip. ‘Forward!’ he roared.

  The chained slaves set off, stumbling at first before getting into a slow, shuffling rhythm. On either side, armed guards marched beside them, barking commands and cracking their whips. Rook shuffled with the other slaves; his legs dragging, his head held rigid by the wooden yoke. Behind him, the sounds of the market receded; far in front, the great Sanctaphrax rock, with the jagged Tower of Night at its top, loomed in the sky.

  Rook groaned. Once again - like a boulder-salmon battling against a formidable current - he was being taken back the way he'd come. Worse than that, he now had no doubt as to where he was bound.

  The Sanctaphrax Forest. It had to be.

  His whole body was overwhelmed with fearful heaviness at the thought of what lay ahead. Like so many before him, he would be worked to death by the goblins in the Sanctaphrax Forest - for the scaffolding which supported the crumbling rock was as greedy for slaves to labour upon it as it was for the neverending supplies of wood that shored it up. Every pillar, every rafter and every cross-beam was stained with the blood of those who had perished there.

  Rook fumbled desperately with the catch of the yoke, hoping to tease it open - but in vain. There was no escape. Ever since his decision to climb down into the sabotaged drain, his fate had been sealed. Already he could see the sluggish Edgewater River - and a large flat-bottomed boat moored to a wooden jetty. A ferry-goblin with a long pole was seated on the bank, chewing on a straw as he waited idly for his doomed passengers.

  It was hot and airless on the ground. Rook looked up into the cool, open sky, where once he had flown his beloved Stormhornet high above the streets of Undertown and looked down on tiny specks chained together far below. He had never, even in his darkest dreams, realized what it was to be one of those specks. He'd been too high up, exhilarated by the thrill of flight and the rush of the cool wind in his face, to imagine what it must be like down there …

  And now I have become one of those specks, Rook noted glumly.

  Lost in his own misery, he failed to notice that they had left the main road which led down to the river. It was only when the chaingang-master bellowed ‘Haiti’ that he realized they had ended up in one of the more affluent districts of Undertown. The buildings were tall, elegant and, though now past their best, still evoked the grandeur of their opulent past.

  ‘This is the place, barked the chaingang-master. ‘Unyoke number eleven.’

  Rook frowned. Number eleven? But that was him. Who had bought him?

  The other slaves groaned miserably. A few jangled their chains.

  ‘Be still!’ bellowed the chaingang-master and cracked his whip threateningly.

  The slaves fell silent.

  The flatheads unlocked the yoke around Rook's neck and dragged him towards a small side door set into the wall at the foot of the towering building. Rook looked up; he recognized it at once.

  The facade, though cracked and scarred, was ornately decorated, every jutting ledge, every curlicued plinth and every sunken alcove occupied by a statue. Scores of them; hundreds - continuing up as far as Rook could see.

  The Palace of Statues. It looked different from down here on the ground; more imposing, more sinister - but unmistakable nonetheless.

  ‘Move!’ grunted one of the flatheads, and shoved him hard in the back.

  Rook stumbled forwards, tripped over something lying in his path and ended up sprawling on the cobbles.

  The first of the flatheads reached the small arched doorway, raised his fist and hammered loudly. The second seized Rook by the hole in the back of his jacket, pulled him roughly to his feet and marched him to the door - but not before Rook had seen what had tripped him.

  It was the remains of a statue of an ancient leagues-man, shattered from its fall from the crowded upper ledges. Its sightless, unblinking eyes met Rook's and he felt a familiar pang of pain deep in his chest.

  You're just like me, he thought. I, too, have fallen to earth.

  Even now, he could hear the grinding of bolts being slid across from inside the door. At the bottom. At the top. There was a soft click and the door cracked open …

  • CHAPTER SIX •

  HESTEM SPIKESAP

  The rusty hinges creaked mournfully as the door before Rook slowly opened. He peered into the darkness of the widening gap. Why had he been brought here to the ancient Palace of Statues?

  All at once, a long, bony arm reached out from the shadows and a sinewy hand - all knobbly knuckles and jagged yellow claws - gripped him round the wrist, and tugged. Rook swallowed hard as he was dragged forwards.

  Behind him he could hear whips cracking, guards bellowing, and the yoked slaves howling with dismay … Then - as the door slammed shut with a loud bang-nothing.

  Rook's breathing caught in his throat. A heavy silence closed in about him. It seemed to throb in his ears, oppressive and unnatural, with not a single sound from outside penetrating the stillness within; while after the glare of the daylight, his eyes struggled to adjust to the gloomy half-light of the vast, cavernous hall before him. Compared with the unbearably hot, humid air outside in the street, the air in the hall was wonderfully cool. Rook felt the grip tighten on his wrist.

  Before him, standing alone in the vast, gloomy space, was a thin, stooped and - judging by the deep wrinkles creasing his high forehead and the white tips to the whiskers on his ears - old goblin. Not that Rook was about to underestimate him. The goblin might look a bit doddery, but he was obviously powerful - like leather, he had been toughened and strengthened by the passing years.

  ‘Number eleven, is it?’ the goblin muttered, peering at the daubed numbers on Rook's front. ‘Number eleven¡ Well, Speegspeel had better get number eleven to the kitchen straight away. Speegspeel doesn't want any trouble, oh, no¡ Speegspeel does as he's told.’

  The goblin motioned for Rook to follow him, and set off across the cool, marble floor of the entrance hall.

  Rook kept close behind him. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim, shadowy half-light of the hall which seeped in through the slats of the shuttered windows above, he saw statues - hundreds of statues, in various poses and numerous styles, lurking in every shadow. There were crowds of them all round the sides of the hall, on fluted pedestals and scalloped plinths, with countless others set into alcoves in the walls; there were statues along the balconies, statues lining the grand sweeping staircase and still more disappearing up into the shadowy heights far above his head.

  Each one - like those balanced so precariously on the outside of the building - had once been a former leaguesman. Their wealth and status had been captured in stone. Close by was one - short and portly - who was clutching a length of carved rope, symbolic of the material which had made his fortune; an
other held a stone telescope to his eye; a third had a sculpted hammelhorn standing at his feet. All of them were dressed in marble finery with jewels picked out in the stone, fur-like collars, lacy ruffs and long sweeping cloaks carved from the gleaming white rock. And as he stared closer, so their unblinking eyes appeared to narrow; their mouths, to sneer.

  Oh, they watch old Speegspeel, the goblin grumbled softly, pushing Rook in front of him. ‘They watch, just waiting for the chance to topple over when he least expects it. But old Speegspeel's too clever. They won't get Speegspeel.’

  He shoved Rook viciously in the back. Rook stumbled forwards, his footsteps echoing on the cold marble. He gazed up at the grey cloaked shapes of the statues around them and realized with a jolt that they were not cloaked at all, but rather festooned in thick, dusty cobwebs. They webbed every finger, veiled every face and hung down from every outstretched arm like lengths of tattered muslin.

  As they approached the other side of the vast hall, Speegspeel motioned towards a small panelled door, set beneath a modest archway ahead. Two cobweb-shrouded statues stood guard on either side. Speegspeel stepped forward, fumbled with the door handle and, with difficulty, pushed the heavy wooden door open.

  ‘Go on, number eleven, The old goblin chuckled. ‘It doesn't do to keep Hestera Spikesap waiting. Speegspeel knows¡ Oh, yes, he does!’

  Rook stumbled inside and found himself at the top of a steep staircase.

  ‘That's the way,’ came Speegspeel's voice. ‘Down those stairs, number eleven. Hestera's expecting you.’

  The door closed and Rook heard the soft shuffle of the old goblin's footsteps receding. He peered down. The stairs disappeared far below him into a noxious, dark orange glow. Gripping the banisters tightly and trying to stop his legs from shaking, he started down the flight of stairs.