‘This reminds me of when I was a young'un,’ said Rook, still endeavouring to keep talking, despite the cold, suffocating mist that tightened about them. ‘There was this old forgotten cistern in the sewers. I'd lower myself into it, pull the top shut over my head and spend hours there, tucked up and hidden, with only a lantern and a smuggled treatise for company…’ He frowned. ‘Xanth?’ he said, concerned that his friend was letting his mind stray. ‘Are you listening?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Xanth, his voice dull.
Behind them, Ambris Loppix's voice could clearly be heard. ‘They say he hand-picked the captured librarians for that master of his.’
‘I heard that he actually enjoyed listening to their screams. Called it “singing”, he did,’ replied his partner.
‘Do you know how they celebrate Wodgiss Night in a woodtroll village?’ said Rook, trying to drown out the sound of the librarians' conversation. ‘It's in my barkscroll, Customs and Practices Encountered in Deepwoods Villages.’ Rook patted his knapsack, where the barkscroll he'd been entrusted with was safely packed.
Xanth made no response.
‘First of all, there's this huge procession,’ said Rook, ‘with drums and trumpets, and everyone wears these fantastic exotic head-dresses…’
‘And then he became a spy …’ Ambris was saying.
‘And the young'uns all get their faces painted,’ said Rook. ‘Like animals. Some are fromps, some are lemkins, and there is even one done up like a vulpoon, in a feathered suit and a strap-on beak…’
‘Betrayed hundreds of apprentice librarians on their way to the Free Glades, apparently…’
Rook turned and glowered at the librarians – though tethered as he was, there was little he could do to shut them up.
‘Execution's too good for him, that's what I say,’ replied Ambris's partner.
‘They'll know what to do with him in the Free Glades, the stinking traitor…’
‘Don't listen to them, Xanth. They don't know what they're talking about,’ said Rook, still glowering at the librarians.
‘I'm sorry, Rook, I just can't stand it any more,’ Xanth said tremulously. ‘They're right. I'm no good. I'm rotten…’ His voice trailed away.
Rook turned back to his friend. ‘You're not rotten, Xanth. You're … Xanth? What are you doing? Xanth! Xanth!’
His friend had vanished, the rope that bound him hanging limply from the main tether.
‘No, Xanth,’ Rook shouted, struggling to loosen his own binding. The rope fell away behind him as he dashed off after his friend. ‘Xanth. Xanth, wait! Come back!’
Behind him, Rook heard the banderbears yodelling in alarm, and the librarians bellowing at him to come back. But he couldn't abandon his friend. He just couldn't.
Up ahead, he caught a glimpse of a misty figure through the thickening fog – but almost at once, it was gone again. Like a snowbird in an ice-storm, the shaven-headed youth had disappeared.
‘XANTH!’ Rook roared.
But there was no reply save his own muffled echo.
‘XAAAAANTH!!’
As the desperate cry faded away, Rook realized that he could hear nothing. Nothing at all. It was as if the vast multitude of Undertowners, librarians, ghosts and sky pirates had simply vanished along with his friend. Suddenly, he was alone, lost in the swirling mists of the Edgelands, the treacherous Twilight Woods on one side, the Edge on the other – and no one to talk to.
The wind began to pick up again, but it had changed. Now, instead of lifting the fog, it swirled into eddies and ripples. And as Rook stumbled on over the greasy stone, trying his best not to twist his ankles in the cracks and fissures, he began to hear voices.
Lots of voices. Wailing and keening and whispering softly.
‘Sweet dreams, Master Rook,’ they seemed be saying, the innocent words belied by the cold, menacing hiss. ‘Sweet dreams…’
• CHAPTER FIVE •
THE SEPIA STORM
Rook stumbled on, sweaty and scared, trying hard to shut out the whispering voices – but it wasn't easy. No matter how hard he pressed his hands to his ears, how loudly he hummed, how vigorously he tried to engage in conversation with himself, they would not be silenced. They would not be still.
‘Xanth!’ he cried out, his own voice carried off on the warm wind sweeping in from the Twilight Woods. ‘Xanth, where are you?’ He paused, removed his hands from his ears and cocked his head to one side, hoping against hope that this time his friend would reply. The air echoed with a thousand voices; high, low, angry and sad – every voice in the world it seemed but the one he longed to hear.
‘Oh, Xanth,’ he murmured. ‘Not all librarians are like Ambris Loppix. Why did you listen to him?’
‘Once a Guardian, always a Guardian!’ the voices seemed to hiss back at him. ‘He betrayed others. Now he's betrayed you.’
‘It's not true!’ Rook shouted back at the swirling, sparkling air. ‘Xanth's changed. He's one of us now!’
‘One of us, one of us,’ taunted the chorus of voices, and Rook glimpsed a black shape out of the corner of his eye. He spun round, to be confronted by a tall figure in a black gown and a metal muzzle.
‘Orbix? Orbix Xaxis?’ Rook gasped, his conversation with Xanth flooding back to him. ‘No, it can't be, I must be…’
‘Dreaming?’ a cold, cruel voice hissed through the muzzle. The white gloamglozer emblazoned on the black gown fluttered in front of him.
‘You're not real,’ said Rook, backing away, his feet slipping on the greasy rock.
‘Aren't we, young librarian knight?’ hissed the voice. ‘Are you quite certain of that?’ The gowned figure cackled with laughter, and waved a bony claw-like hand.
As if in response, spectres and phantasms loomed out of the shadows, each one with a gloamglozer of its own emblazoned across its chest. They doubled in number, and doubled again, and again and again, until all around him, everywhere he looked, they were all Rook could see. It was as if he'd wandered into a mighty army of Guardians of Night.
‘We are real enough,’ the voices sounded about him, mocking, jeering. ‘As real as your blackest thoughts!’
‘As real as your darkest fears!’
‘As your deepest nightmares!’
The countless images of the gloamglozers smiled as one, their great fangs glinting savagely, their eyes flashing. The muzzled figure raised his clawed hand and beckoned slowly.
Rook felt a terrible, numbing fear welling up deep inside him. It spread out from his chest, along his arms and into his fingertips; it coursed down his legs, making his knees tremble, and sinking to his toes. He tried hard to fight it, but it was no good. Like a lemkin, held by the murderous stare of a predatory halitoad, he was paralysed. There was nothing he could do. Even his face seemed frozen as the fear travelled up his spine, over his scalp…
‘No, no, no,’ Rook muttered, unable even to blink. ‘Remember what Fenbrus said. This is one of those waking dreams. But that's all it is. A dream, that's all…’
‘That's all! That's all! That's all!’ jeered a thousand cackling voices.
Rook could bear it no longer. He threw back his head and screamed like a wounded animal.
‘Xanth! Xanth! Xanth!’
His cries drowned out the jeering voices and, for an instant, the black figures seemed to shrink back into the swirling mists. At the same moment, the fear that held him released its grip and, without a second's thought, Rook was up and running across the slippery pavement as fast as his legs could carry him.
‘I've got to get out of here! I've got to get out of here!’ he shouted, as he ran blindly through the swirling mist.
‘Out of here! Out of here!’ cackled voices behind him, driving him on.
This way and that Rook ran, slipping and stumbling, terrified of falling yet too frightened to stop, until – imperceptibly at first – the thick grey mist seemed to thin out and take on a golden tinge.
All at once, Rook came to an abrupt halt. Ahead of him,
the jagged skyline of the Twilight Woods crackled with electric blue filaments as, high in the air above, boiling black clouds swirled in a gathering whirlwind. The glow from between the trees brightened and faded as a warm, slightly sickly mist blew in from the woods and into his face.
Was he awake or asleep? Was it dreams or illusions that surrounded him? Could he even be sure that it was the Twilight Woods he could see before him now, and not simply something else his feverish imagination had conjured up. Certainly, it looked like the Twilight Woods, and with the seductive whispers and wheedling cries floating in on the rising wind, it sounded like it too. What was more, it had never seemed more inviting.
Rook took a step forward, and then stopped. ‘That way lies death,’ he reminded himself. ‘Living death.’
He was about to turn and go back into the swirling mists of the Edgelands Pavement when, high above the gold-drenched trees, the sky tore itself apart with a deafening crack, and the air blazed dazzlingly bright. Rook looked up to see a huge, zigzag lightning bolt break off from the base of the dark, spinning cloud and hurtle down into the woods below.
He gasped as a blast of scalding air hit him full in the face. The air filled with the scent of toasted wood-almonds. Eyes wide open, mouth agape, Rook watched the blinding lightning turn to crystal as it pierced the glow of the woods, solidifying in an instant to a zigzag crystal spear which continued down behind the trees to the earth below. He shivered, awestruck by the incredible sight. A Great Storm, born of the dark maelstrom and drawn to the Twilight Woods like a moth to a flame, had discharged its colossal electric charge in the form of a mighty lightning bolt, deep at its centre.
‘Stormphrax,’ Rook breathed.
There was a distant echoing thud as the point of the frozen lightning bolt plunged deep into the twilit ground. The rock beneath Rook's feet trembled and he fell to the ground. It was as if the Twilight Woods – itself astonished by the lightning strike – had taken a sudden
intake of breath, sucking back the mist it had previously been blowing out across the Edgelands. And, as the mist disappeared into the Twilight Woods, Rook found himself being sucked after it and had to claw at the rocky pavement to prevent himself toppling head over heels into the deadly glades in front of him.
The next moment, and as abruptly as it had begun, everything suddenly fell still. Rook released his grip on the rock surface and climbed gingerly to his feet. As he looked round he saw that, for the first time since he'd set foot in the Edgelands, the thick, swirling mist had gone and he could see the pavement of rock stretching away into the distance on either side and in front.
There was no sign of the Undertowners…
But wait! Rook's heart missed a beat. Yes! There, in the distance, by a great rocky crag, was a figure, waving frantically.
‘Rook!’ Xanth's voice echoed across the flat, rocky expanse. ‘Rook! Look out!’
‘Xanth!’ Rook shouted joyfully, and began running towards the far-off figure.
‘Look out!’ came Xanth's voice again. ‘Behind you!’
Rook glanced back over his shoulder, from where there came a rumbling, rolling sound that was growing louder by the second. The next instant, a great, boiling blanket of sepia dust – rushing and roaring like a torrent of floodwater – burst out of the Twilight Woods and spread across the rockland.
It was heading straight for him. Even as he went to turn away, Rook knew that there was no point trying to flee. He could never outrun the oncoming storm. Having breathed in, the Twilight Woods was now expelling the full force of the lightning that had just struck it, in one mighty roar. Transfixed, Rook stared at the sepia-coloured storm surging across the rock towards him; closer, ever closer…
‘Aaaiiii!' Rook cried out as it scythed his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground and jarring his elbow painfully as he landed.
The turbulence tightened its grip around him, roaring and whistling and tugging at his clothes. He found himself being blown over and over, unable to stop, as – like a great, glowing tidal wave – the storm swept him across the rocky pavement towards the Edge itself.
All round him as he rolled, the dust sparkled brightly, like a maelstrom of tiny stars. It filled his eyes, his ears, it seeped in through the pores of his skin and, every time he inhaled, he breathed the glittering fragments and particles deep down into his lungs.
‘Must … stop … myself …’ he groaned, flinging his arms and legs out, trying in vain to stop the storm sweeping him on any further. But it was no good. The rock was too slippery, and the storm too strong.
All the while, the Edge was coming closer, flashing before his eyes as he continued to roll, a gaping nothingness where the rocky pavement simply stopped and the Edgelands fell away into the bottomless void beyond.
Bruised and battered, Rook was losing the battle. He was dizzy, he was dazed. Ahead of him, as he was driven on inexorably towards the Edge, he thought he glimpsed the gloamglozer – and not some fancy emblem stitched to the front of a robe either. This was the real thing. Huge. Imposing…
Yes, there it was again, looming out of the glittering dust-storm ahead, its great horned head raised in evil triumph. It was as if the terrible creature had come to gloat; to stand at the very Edge itself and watch him, Rook Barkwater, tumbling helplessly into the empty nothingness.
Rook knew then that he was done for.
‘Rook! Rook!’
Rook trembled. It even knew his name.
‘ROOK!’
Beneath him now, the last few strides of rocky pavement were rolling past. In front, the void yawned. Rook clamped his eyes shut and hugged his arms to his chest. There was nothing, nothing, that he could do to save himself.
With a lurch, and a gasp, he felt the rock suddenly disappear from beneath him.
Falling. He was falling. This was it. He'd tumbled over the Edge and…
‘Unkhh!’
With a heavy jolt, his fall was broken. Something tightened round his middle, pinning his arms to his side and leaving him gasping for breath. Bewildered, Rook looked down, to see a rope! He was dangling from a rope above the endless emptiness beneath, with the torrent of dust-filled air cascading over the Edge to his left like a mighty waterfall.
The next moment, he felt himself being yanked upwards, backwards through the air. His back slammed hard against the rock. Hands seized him by the shoulders, rolled him round and dragged him up over the lip of rock and onto solid ground. Then they released him.
Wriggling round awkwardly, Rook managed to loosen the rope and slip free. He climbed shakily to his feet, his stomach churning, his ears ringing. Looking up, he found himself standing in the shelter of a great angular crag of rock, carved and weathered by the Edgeland winds into a monstrous hunched form.
‘The gloamglozer,’ Rook whispered.
The brightly glowing sepia storm was swirling round it on both sides as it poured out over the Edge. Xanth, he saw, was standing beside him, bent double and panting noisily. Straightening up slowly, he put his hands on his hips and took a long, deep breath.
‘Thank Sky the mist cleared when it did,’ he said at length, ‘or I'd never have spotted you.’ His face clouded over. ‘Oh, Rook, I'm so sorry I ran off …’
Rook silenced him with a wave of his hand. ‘Just thank Sky you were top of the class at ropecraft,’ he said. ‘And that this rock was here to shelter behind …’ His voice faded away. He was feeling increasingly light-headed, and his arms and legs were beginning to ache. ‘It's strange,’ he said softly, ‘but I think I know this place.’
The pair of them looked out. Even as they had been speaking, the great waves of dust-laden storm-ripples were losing their power, the sepia storm exhausted. And as the roaring softened, the torrent shrank to a trickle and the sparkling light grew dim.
‘Come on,’ said Xanth quickly. ‘There's still a chance we can catch up with the others…’
He stopped and stared at Rook, who had dropped to his knees and was peering c
autiously down over the cliff-edge.
The wind had abruptly changed direction, and was driving in from beyond the Edge once more, icy cold and heavy with moisture. From below, there came eerie sounds of chains clanking and something tap-tap-tapping against the rock-face, while behind, the northerly winds howled through the cracks and crevices of the huge, monstrous-shaped rock.
Despite the dull pain behind his eyes that made it so difficult for him to focus, Rook was more certain than ever that he knew where he was. He leaned over a little further and…
Yes, there they were; the great mooring-rings driven into the rock that he remembered seeing once before. Most were empty, some bore ropes or chains, while from others, there hung the shattered remains of sky pirate ships that had been destroyed where they were moored, swaying in the storm winds like great, bleached skeletons.
‘I do know this place, Xanth,’ he called back hoarsely. ‘Wilderness Lair, it's called. The mighty sky pirate fleets used to take refuge here, clinging to the cliff-face like rock-limpets.’
Xanth made no reply.
‘It's the place where the Skyraider was moored,’ Rook went on. He was finding it difficult to catch his breath. ‘You remember the Skyraider?’ he added, turning to see whether Xanth was paying attention.
His friend was staring at him, his eyes wide.
‘Captain Twig's sky pirate ship,’ Rook said slowly, softly. ‘The one that launched the attack on the Tower of …’ His voice faded away completely. ‘Xanth?’ he said. ‘Xanth, what is it?’
‘It … it's …’ Xanth faltered. He looked Rook up and down. ‘You're …’
Rook gasped. He could see for himself now. Climbing shakily to his feet, he raised a hand to his face. Then the other. Both were glowing. As were his arms, and his chest, his body, his legs…
‘Xanth,’ he breathed, as the glowing grew more intense, ‘what's happening to me?’ His head was spinning. His legs turned to jelly. ‘Xanth…’