Roped together, Rook, Xanth and the banderbears were just behind the last of the huge library sledges, its jostling, slavering team of fifty prowlgrins raring to go.
Felix called to them from towards the back of the column. ‘Good luck, Rook! Make sure those great shaggy friends of yours don't step on any prowlgrin tails!’ His laughter boomed out across the Mire.
Rook smiled. He wished he could be as brave and cheerful as Felix.
Just then, Deadbolt Vulpoon strode past, his sword held high and the megaphone clamped to his mouth. Rook raised his scarf to shield his eyes from the dazzling whiteness ahead, his stomach turning somersaults. High above his head, a great flock of white ravens circled noisily, the furious cawing echoing off across the endless Mire, and reminding Rook just how far they had to go.
‘ADVANCE!!’ Deadbolt Vulpoon's voice boomed as he strode out ahead.
The column began to shuffle forward – front first, then further and further back down the lines, until every single individual in the vast multitude was in motion. Rook fell into step, Xanth and the banderbears marching beside him. Up ahead, families of gnokgoblins and lugtrolls marched, their makeshift mud-shoes slapping on the mud, keeping them from sinking.
Yet the going was tough for all that.
Soon, many were struggling – from frail old'uns, their aged limbs protesting, to young'uns, thin and under-nourished, yet too big to be carried. Behind them camethe library sledges, with Fenbrus Lodd and Cowlquape Pentephraxis walking alongside them, the High Librarian anxiously checking and rechecking the ropes, the runners, the prowlgrin harnesses…
‘Nothing must be lost,’ he was muttering. ‘Not a tome, not a treatise, not a barkscroll.’
They all tramped on resolutely through the afternoon and into the evening. Dark clouds gathered overhead once more, and Rook pulled his collar up against the rising wind.
From up ahead, Deadbolt's voice boomed. ‘Keep marching! There can be no stopping, you mudlubbers! Close up the gaps!’
It was almost completely dark when the rain first started – big, fat drops that spattered down on the mud-flats. Within seconds, it had become torrential, bucketing down on the Undertowners for the third time in as many nights.
‘We keep on!’ Deadbolt's voice called out above the hiss and thunder of the howling wind and battering rain.
His words were passed back down through the lines of the drenched multitude, growing more despondent with every repetition.
‘We keep on?’ muttered a gnokgoblin matron desperately, glancing back at her family, roped behind her, barely able to keep going.
A cloddertrog to her left, bathed in purple light from the brazier-cage he was carrying, nodded grimly. ‘We keep on,’ he said.
Rook himself was struggling. He was hungry, andthe icy rain had chilled him to the bones. On either side of him, the banderbears panted noisily, while behind him – pulling on the tether-rope that bound them together – Xanth slipped and slid on his unfamiliar mud-shoes.
A curious numbness seemed to grip both Rook's body and his mind. He was no longer thinking of where he was going. The future no longer existed; nor did the past. There was only this, here, now. One step after the other, trudging across the endless reaches of the Mire.
One step. Then another, and another…
The night passed in a stupor of mud, sweat and shivers, and a cold grey light began to dawn. Despite Deadbolt's best efforts, the pace had slowed to a painful crawl, with small pockets of stragglers beginning to fall behind. If this continued, he knew the column would soon cease to be a column at all, and become instead a disorganized rabble, impossible to lead.
At last there came the command everyone had been waiting for.
‘HALT!’ bellowed Deadbolt. ‘We rest for one hour! No more! Any longer and we'll all be muglump bait – that is, if the mud-flows don't get us first.’
With a collective sigh, the column
Felix called to them from towards the back of the column. ‘Good luck, Rook! Make sure those great shaggy friends of yours don't step on any prowlgrin tails!’ His laughter boomed out across the Mire.
Rook smiled. He wished he could be as brave and cheerful as Felix.
Just then, Deadbolt Vulpoon strode past, his sword held high and the megaphone clamped to his mouth. Rook raised his scarf to shield his eyes from the dazzling whiteness ahead, his stomach turning somersaults. High above his head, a great flock of white ravens circled noisily, the furious cawing echoing off across the endless Mire, and reminding Rook just how far they had to go.
‘ADVANCE!!’ Deadbolt Vulpoon's voice boomed as he strode out ahead.
The column began to shuffle forward – front first, then further and further back down the lines, until every single individual in the vast multitude was in motion. Rook fell into step, Xanth and the banderbears marching beside him. Up ahead, families of gnokgoblins and lugtrolls marched, their makeshift mud-shoes slapping on the mud, keeping them from sinking.
Yet the going was tough for all that.
Soon, many were struggling – from frail old'uns, their aged limbs protesting, to young'uns, thin and under-nourished, yet too big to be carried. Behind them camethe library sledges, with Fenbrus Lodd and Cowlquape Pentephraxis walking alongside them, the High Librarian anxiously checking and rechecking the ropes, the runners, the prowlgrin harnesses…
‘Nothing must be lost,’ he was muttering. ‘Not a tome, not a treatise, not a barkscroll.’
They all tramped on resolutely through the afternoon and into the evening. Dark clouds gathered overhead once more, and Rook pulled his collar up against the rising wind.
From up ahead, Deadbolt's voice boomed. ‘Keep marching! There can be no stopping, you mudlubbers! Close up the gaps!’
It was almost completely dark when the rain first started – big, fat drops that spattered down on the mud-flats. Within seconds, it had become torrential, bucketing down on the Undertowners for the third time in as many nights.
‘We keep on!’ Deadbolt's voice called out above the hiss and thunder of the howling wind and battering rain.
His words were passed back down through the lines of the drenched multitude, growing more despondent with every repetition.
‘We keep on?’ muttered a gnokgoblin matron desperately, glancing back at her family, roped behind her, barely able to keep going.
A cloddertrog to her left, bathed in purple light from the brazier-cage he was carrying, nodded grimly. ‘We keep on,’ he said.
Rook himself was struggling. He was hungry, andthe icy rain had chilled him to the bones. On either side of him, the banderbears panted noisily, while behind him – pulling on the tether-rope that bound them together – Xanth slipped and slid on his unfamiliar mud-shoes.
A curious numbness seemed to grip both Rook's body and his mind. He was no longer thinking of where he was going. The future no longer existed; nor did the past. There was only this, here, now. One step after the other, trudging across the endless reaches of the Mire.
One step. Then another, and another…
The night passed in a stupor of mud, sweat and shivers, and a cold grey light began to dawn. Despite Deadbolt's best efforts, the pace had slowed to a painful crawl, with small pockets of stragglers beginning to fall behind. If this continued, he knew the column would soon cease to be a column at all, and become instead a disorganized rabble, impossible to lead.
At last there came the command everyone had been waiting for.
‘HALT!’ bellowed Deadbolt. ‘We rest for one hour! No more! Any longer and we'll all be muglump bait – that is, if the mud-flows don't get us first.’
With a collective sigh, the column
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