The Curse of the Gloamglozer: First Book of Quint

  ‘No!’ Maris howled. ‘Oh, Bungus! Bungus! I'm so sorry. I'm to blame for this…’

  Quint wrapped his arm around Maris's shoulder and squeezed her tightly. ‘It's my fault, too,’ he said. ‘Bungus gave his life protecting both of us.‘ He leant forwards and closed Bungus's eyes. ‘His last act was to imprison the glister in its terrible lair. Although he didn't kill it, he'd be so proud to know that he sealed it up for ever.’

  ‘I know,’ Maris sniffed. ‘Oh, he was so loyal. And so brave …’ She turned to Quint, her face racked with remorse. ‘But we set the gloamglozer free! What are we going to do, Quint?’

  ‘We must tell the professor,’ said Quint. ‘He'll know what to do.’

  Maris shook her head woefully. Her father was too weak even to walk. When she'd left him, he'd been fast asleep in his bed. He'd seemed so frail, so exhausted. Would he really know what to do? For the first time in her life, Maris was having doubts about her father, the Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax. What could he do against the gloamglozer? Yet she mustn't let Quint know her fears; she had to be strong.

  ‘Yes, Quint,’ she said bravely. ‘He‘ll know what to do.‘

  · CHAPTER EIGHTEEN ·

  THE CURSE OF THE

  GLOAMGLOZER

  The late afternoon sun was low in the sky. It shone lazily on the floating city of Sanctaphrax, turning its grand stately buildings to gold and casting long dark shadows down its alleyways and avenues. The air was perfectly still, yet in all the great schools and colleges across the city, the sky-scholars – be they mistsifters or raintasters, cloudwatchers or windtouchers – were all drawing the same conclusion from the readings they were taking. This was the lull before the storm. Every dial and every gauge of every measuring instrument in the city confirmed it.

  High up at the top of the Loftus Observatory, the Professor of Light looked up from his stationary anemometer. ‘We didn't complete that Inauguration Ceremony a moment too soon,’ he said. ‘The Great Storm will be passing over Sanctaphrax in less than an hour.’

  His colleague, the Professor of Darkness, nodded solemnly. ‘Sky willing, Garlinius Gernix will manage to chase the storm and return to Sanctaphrax with the precious stormphrax she bears.’

  ‘Sky willing,’ the Professor of Light repeated. He turned and looked out through the windows. Being at the highest point in Sanctaphrax, the professor had a view of the entire floating city – of the School of Light and Darkness, of the Great Hall, of the Central Viaduct and the East and West Landings … ‘Sanctaphrax,’ he breathed, his voice quavering with awe. ‘The finest city in all creation.’

  The Professor of Darkness joined him at the window.

  ‘It is truly magnificent,’ he agreed, then added softly, ‘yet a city must be well ruled.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the Professor of Light, and the pair of them found themselves staring down towards the Palace of Shadows.

  With the ancient building crouched in the shadows behind the ostentatious College of Cloud, even from their vantage point, high up in the observatory tower, only the top of the highest palace turret was visible.

  ‘I'm worried about our old friend Linius,’ said the Professor of Darkness. ‘He has been looking so dreadful recently.’

  ‘Worse and worse every time I see him,’ said the Professor of Light, and shook his head. ‘Sanctaphrax deserves better from its Most High Academe.’

  The bed-chamber of Linius Pallitax, Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax, was swaddled in darkness. Night came early to the rooms within the Palace of Shadows.

  Linius himself was curled up in a ball beneath the bed-covers, fast asleep. His face looked at peace; his breath came in soft, rasping sighs. He hadn't noticed when, at lunch-time, Welma had entered the room to check on him. Nor had he stirred when Tweezel – still anxious about his master's state of mind – had returned to the room at sundown to close the shutters and light the bedside candles. Even now, as the door handle shifted and the door creaked open for a third time, his heavy, dreamless sleep continued.

  The newcomer crossed the floor silently and leant down over the sleeping professor. ‘Wake up,’ he whispered and, when there was no response, he reached forwards and shook Linius gently by the shoulder. ‘Professor,’ he said. ‘I'm back.’

  Linius's eyelids flickered for a moment, then snapped open. ‘Quint,’ he said, his voice drowsy from the sleeping-draught Bungus had given him. ‘You're safe.’

  ‘I came as quickly as I could,’ said Quint.

  ‘And thank Sky for that, Quint,’ said Linius. He looked round the room and his brow furrowed with concern. ‘But … but where's Maris? And Bungus? Didn't he find you?’

  Quint's nostrils quivered. His tongue darted round his lips. ‘Maris and Bungus?’ he said. ‘Oh, yes, they found me all right.’

  Linius sat up. ‘Maris went too? So where are they?’ he said, his voice shrill and anxious. ‘Are they all right? Tell me, Quint, please.’

  ‘I don't know how to say this,’ said Quint, staring at the floor. ‘Maris woke me. Bungus ministered to my wounds. We left the laboratory, and then …’ He paused and, in the flickering candlelight, Linius saw the expression on his face. ‘Then something terrible happened,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me,’ Linius gasped.

  Quint turned away. His tongue flicked out and tasted the air. ‘There was nothing anyone could do…’ He stopped. ‘It happened so quickly.’

  ‘What?’ Linius demanded, his heart thumping furiously. He pulled himself up and climbed out of bed. ‘You must tell me.’ He stepped towards the youth, his limbs aching, his gait unsteady. ‘Quint, please,’ he implored. ‘This is all my fault, I know it is. Why did Maris go too? Why wasn't I strong enough to stay awake and stop her? What sort of father am I…?’ He slumped back onto the bed, his face twisted up with misery. ‘Don't tell me the blood-red glister got her.’

  Quint turned and smiled. ‘It appeared out of nowhere,’ he said softly.

  ‘No!’ Linius exclaimed. ‘Oh, Maris! Maris!’ He stepped closer to Quint, stumbling weakly as he moved. ‘What happened to her? Tell me!’

  ‘The creature grasped her,’ came the reply.

  Linius shuddered fearfully.

  ‘By the throat.’

  Linius hugged himself tightly. His head was swimming, his heart thumping louder and faster than ever.

  ‘Her face turned red. Her eyes bulged…’

  ‘No! No!’ Linius cried out in dismay.

  Once again, Quint's tongue flicked out and licked at the air. Looking up, Linius met his apprentice's gaze. There was a barely disguised look of contempt on Quint's face. Linius recoiled as a terrible thought occurred to him. ‘Quint,’ he said. ‘Is it really you?’

  Quint frowned. ‘How could you doubt it?’ he said. ‘Of course it is.’ He smiled slyly and opened his cape. ‘Look,’ he said as the Great Seal of High Office around his neck came into view.

  ‘My seal!’ said Linius, relieved. It must be Quint. He scratched his head. ‘And Maris?’ he whispered.

  ‘That's what I'm trying to tell you,’ said Quint. He shook his head. ‘Maris was in a bad way. I feared that it was all over for her. But I did not give up. I … I fought back and managed to beat the creature – the blood-red glister – off her. I drove it away.’

  Linius sighed with relief. ‘But then it returned,’ Quint said. ‘Bigger and uglier than ever before.’ His voice grew louder. ‘And with a rage blazing so violently inside it that there was nothing I could do to prevent it attacking her a second time!’

  ‘No!’ Linius howled. ‘Tell me it can't be true.’

  ‘If only I could, Professor,’ said Quint. He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft, trembling. ‘She fell to the ground. The creature was on her in an instant. I was powerless to do a thing…’

  ‘And what of Bungus?’

  ‘Bungus?’ said Quint, and spat on the floor. ‘Don't talk to me about that … that barkslug!’

  Linius trembled with fear. ??
?Why?’

  ‘Because the cowardly creature took to his heels and ran,‘ said Quint. ‘That's why. I've never seen anyone move so fast.’

  Legs shaking, Linius gripped the bed-post for support. There were tears in his eyes when he spoke. ‘Please, Quint. Tell me what happened to my daughter,’ he whispered, scarcely daring to hear what his apprentice had to say.

  Quint lowered his head. ‘She never stood a chance,’ he said.

  Linius gasped. ‘You mean…?’

  ‘Yet even in those final moments, she remembered you, Professor,’ said Quint softly.

  ‘She d … did?’ Linius said, his voice breaking with emotion.

  ‘Oh, Father, if only you were here with me now! Those were her words, Professor.’ And as Linius shivered with horror, Quint continued. ‘But you never had any time for your only daughter …’ He paused. ‘It was heartrending, Professor, believe me, tragic…’

  ‘Stop, Quint,’ Linius pleaded. He turned away and closed his eyes. ‘I've heard enough.‘

  ‘But she would have wanted you to know her final words,’ said Quint. He stepped forwards. His tongue glistened in the candlelight as it flicked out into the air. ‘Even now, I can hear her voice …He abandoned me! He is ashamed of me! …’

  Linius clamped his hands over his ears. ‘Enough!’ he moaned.

  Quint continued. ‘Father! she screamed. FATHER!’

  ‘No more, I beg of you,’ Linius cried out. ‘For pity's sake…’

  ‘But there's more,’ Quint interrupted, his eyes blazing. ‘Her final words, as the life drained out of her.’

  The professor froze. ‘F … final words?’ he said. ‘What did she say?’

  Quint looked back, a smile playing over his lips. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’

  ‘Y … yes,’ said Linius uncertainly. ‘Tell me.’

  Quint stepped forwards again. The smile vanished. ‘Father, I curse you!’ he roared.

  Linius gasped, and staggered backwards across the floor, arms flailing as he struggled to keep his balance. ‘No,’ he whimpered. ‘No…’

  He banged heavily into his bedside table. The candelabra toppled this way, that way, before keeling over and falling silently onto the bed. Two of the candles were extinguished at once. The third sputtered – but did not go out.

  Linius buried his head in his hands. ‘It's all my fault,’ he sobbed. His body trembled. ‘My darling Maris!’

  Behind him, a thin spiral of

  dark smoke snaked its way up from his smouldering pillow.

  ‘I curse you!’ Quint screeched. ‘I curse you!’ And he threw back his head and cackled with evil, raucous laughter.

  Linius's jaw dropped. He looked up. ‘Quint?’ he gasped. ‘You're not Quint at all. You're … you're …’

  Before him, his apprentice's familiar features changed. His eyes turned yellow and sank back in their sockets, his back hunched, his neck disappeared beneath a thick growth of matted hair and from his brow two knobbly curving horns emerged.

  ‘Don't you recognize me, Professor?’ the creature said. ‘I am your creation! You weep over your darling Maris,’ it went on scornfully, ‘and yet you have no tears for me, but only hate instead …’ The gloamglozer raised a scaly hand. ‘You did this,’ it hissed menacingly. It touched a talon to its scarred and scabby face. ‘And this … Just as I discovered my true form, Linius, you scarred me for ever. You burned me, your own creation!’ it screeched. ‘Now it is your turn to burn!’

  As the gloamglozer's voice echoed round the high ceiling of the chamber, there was a sudden crackle and hiss and the smouldering pillow burst into flames. Linius spun round, to see pink and purple ribbons of fire spreading out rapidly in all directions: to the heavy blankets and quilted counterpane, to the velvet bed curtains – until the entire four-poster bed was ablaze and thick, choking smoke was filling the room.

  ‘Burn, Linius! Burn!’ the gloamglozer shouted, as it flew up into the air.

  Linius seized a rug from the floor and tried desperately to beat out the fire. But his futile efforts served only to fan the flames, spreading them across the blistering floor and up the tapestries on the walls. The smoke filled his eyes, his mouth, his lungs.

  ‘C … can't breathe,’ he groaned. He fell to his knees.

  ‘You gave me life,‘ the gloamglozer shrieked. ‘Then you left me to die. Now it is my turn to return the compliment.‘ For a second time, the chamber echoed with the terrible cackling laughter. ‘Die, Linius, you pathetic failure!’ the gloamglozer roared. ‘DIE!’

  Although exhausted after their long climb back through the stonecomb to Sanctaphrax, neither Maris nor Quint considered resting – not even for a moment. They emerged from the Great Library and hurried immediately towards the Palace of Shadows. Unlike the atmosphere in the stuffy underground tunnels, the night-air outside was cool and refreshing, and as they ran, they gulped down lungful after invigorating lungful.

  Maris screwed up her nose. ‘What's that?’ she said.

  ‘What's what?’ Quint panted. ‘That smell,’ said Maris, slowing down.

  Quint stopped beside her and sniffed the air. ‘Smoke,’ he said. ‘Something must be burning.’

  ‘Yes, look,’ said Maris, and pointed up ahead to where the mist in the sky was stained a deep yellow. ‘Something is burning. Something big.’

  Maris was gripped by a sense of foreboding. From behind them came the sound of running footsteps. Three sub-acolytes with their gowns hitched up around their waists hurtled towards them.

  ‘What's happening?’ Maris shouted out.

  ‘Fire!’ one of them shouted back breathlessly. ‘The Palace of Shadows is on fire!’

  Maris gasped. The palace? On fire?

  ‘Father!’ she wailed, and broke into a run. Rounding the corner of the Central Avenue, she saw broad flickering sheets of yellow flame before her, lapping at the night sky behind the College of Cloud. Quint caught up with her.

  ‘This can be no accident,’ he muttered grimly.

  All round them, academics and apprentices, servants and guards were streaming towards the blazing building. Maris and Quint joined the growing throng. The closer they got, however, the slower the crowds became. By the time they reached the narrow alleys and arch-ways between the buildings which surrounded the ancient palace, everyone was all but at a standstill, and Maris and Quint had to barge their way through the gawping onlookers.

  The small fountain-square below the marble staircase was full of countless Sanctaphrax citizens, standing shoulder to shoulder and staring open-mouthed at the terrible conflagration before them.

  The heat was tremendous. It blasted fiercely like a foundry furnace, roaring, scorching, turning the upturned faces crimson and drenching them in glistening sweat.

  None of those who stood there watching the blaze had ever seen the Palace of Shadows illuminated so brightly before. Centuries had passed since it had disappeared behind the newer, taller buildings which had cast it in perpetual shade. Tonight, for the first time since then, it had earned its former name: the Palace of Lights. Every feature of the magnificent building stood out in stark relief against the blazing incandescence – every ridged pillar and turned colonnade, every turret, every statue, every wrought-iron balcony and ornately carved lintel.

  Sadly, it would also be the last time the palace would shine out like a great beacon. Even now the west wall and turret were beginning to crumble as the ancient wooden beams inside were consumed by the roaring flames.

  ‘My home,’ Maris whispered hoarsely. ‘Welma … Digit …’ She looked up at her father's bed-chamber, where great jagged flames were pouring from the window. ‘Father,’ she murmured.

  Rigid with terror, Quint heard nothing. All he was aware of were the anguished screams inside his head – the screams of his mother and brothers as they had fallen victim to the voracious flames all those years ago.

  Maris turned to those standing closest to her. ‘Does anyone know what has happened to Linius Pallitax???
? she asked urgently. ‘Has anyone seen my father, the Most High Academe?’

  Without taking their eyes off the fiery spectacle before them, several onlookers replied. ‘No,’ they said. ‘Neither hide nor hair.’ ‘Neither sight nor sound.’ No-one had the faintest idea where Linius Pallitax, the Most High Academe, could be.

  ‘What now?’ Maris wailed. ‘Oh, Quint, I…’

  Just then, there was a piercing shriek behind them. It cut Maris short and roused Quint from his terrible reveries.

  ‘THERE HE IS!’

  The pair of them looked round to see a gnokgoblin in basket-puller garb jumping up and down and pointing up towards the far corner of the High Parapet, just below the now blazing East Turret. As one, the crowd crooked their necks back as they followed the line of his outstretched arm.

  And there, far above their heads, silhouetted against

  the flames and surrounded by swirling smoke, was the unmistakable figure of the Most High Academe. A cry of recognition went up.

  ‘It is him!’ ‘There he is!’ ‘YES!’

  Teetering dangerously close to the edge of the parapet, Linius was clearly in trouble. He was waving down at them, frantically, desperately. Then, as they watched, his foot slipped and for a moment it seemed that he was about to hurtle down to certain death on the paving-slabs below. The crowd breathed in as one and the square echoed with the loud, horrified gasp – followed by a groan of relief as he managed, just, to hold on.

  ‘That was a close one,’ someone muttered close by.

  ‘He was lucky indeed that time,’ said another, ‘but I fear his luck is about to run out.’

  Maris turned on them. ‘Then someone must rescue him before it does,’ she said.

  The two who had spoken shrugged and turned away – but others took up where they had left off.

  ‘He's had it, so he has.’