The Curse of the Gloamglozer: First Book of Quint

  As its ranting continued, the gloamglozer had edged towards Quint. With its final defiant words, it lashed out. The dagger Quint was holding was knocked from his hand and sent scudding across the floor where it disappeared into the smoke and flames. Quint's heart hammered in his chest. The gloamglozer smacked its lips.

  ‘The fear of the vulnerable is so much sweeter than the strong,’ it purred. ‘But the sweetest taste of all,’ it went on, its voice growing rougher, more menacing, ‘is surely at the moment of death.’

  Quint quaked in his boots. His legs had turned to jelly.

  ‘And that moment,’ the gloamglozer roared, ‘is now!’ It swooped in close to the youth, driving him back into the advancing wall of fire. Quint darted to the left. Immediately, the gloamglozer was there before him, blocking his escape. It bared its teeth grimly.

  ‘Back you go,’ it chided. ‘Into the fire.’

  Quint groaned with horror. He could feel the flames lapping at his back, burning his neck, singeing his hair. In a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable, he raised the collar and wrapped the cape protectively around him. It rustled, paper dry, as the flames licked at its hem.

  His hand brushed against something hard in one of the pockets. His fingers investigated. It was a small leather pouch tied up with a drawstring.

  Of course! He was wearing Bungus's cape, not his own. Bungus had wrapped it round Maris, who had dropped it in the narrow tunnel and he, Quint, had put it on. This meant that the pouch must belong to Bungus!

  ‘Oh, Bungus,’ he murmured fearfully, as he remembered the old librarian's twisted body lying dead in the stonecomb. When the blood-red glister had attacked, he must have reached for the pouch himself, only to find that it was not there. ‘I'm so sorry,’ he whispered.

  The gloamglozer's tongue flicked out into the air. ‘It is time, Quint!’ it announced, its yellow eyes flickering malevolently. ‘Time for you to die in the fire!’

  Quint returned the creature's evil gaze. His hand fumbled desperately with the pouch. With a jerk, his fingers prised it open and he felt the grains flow into his palm like soft sand. His hand closed into a fist round them.

  ‘Time to die!’ smiled the gloamglozer.

  ‘Die!’ echoed Quint, pulling his hand from the cloak pocket and flinging the precious chine into the creature's leering face.

  The gloamglozer threw back its head and screamed out in agonizing pain as the tiny crystals landed on its hands, its face. It bucked, it twisted, it writhed. The gold Seal of Office slipped from its scaly neck and fell to the floor.

  ‘My eyes! My eyes!’ it cried, and clutched its head in its hands.

  Quint stepped forwards and raised his other, empty fist menacingly. ‘I have more chine,’ he shouted at the moaning creature. ‘Lots of it. Buckets and buckets full, all over Sanctaphrax! And I'll use it, I swear!’ He shook his fist at the gloamglozer. ‘You aren't safe here – you never will be. I'll hunt you through the streets! You'll see!’

  The gloamglozer hovered above him, its eyes bloodshot and its face half-molten. It gnashed its teeth. ‘You miserable excuse for an apprentice!’ it snarled. ‘You pathetic little creature! You dare to threaten me with your foul firesand! It burns! Oh, how it burns…’

  ‘I'm warning you!’ Quint shouted. ‘Go. Go now!’

  ‘Oh, I shall go,’ the gloamglozer sneered. ‘But mark my words and mark them well, Quint. Though you have banished me today, I shall catch up with you one day.’

  Above its head, the expanse of billowing black and purple clouds of the Great Storm swirled across the sky. Lightning flashed; thunder crashed.

  ‘I curse you, Quint, the apprentice!’ the gloamglozer raged. ‘You, and all your kind! You think you're safe with your chine to protect you, but I can smell your fear. I curse you all! And I shall find you and deal with you – as I shall find and deal with all those other weaklings out there in the world.’

  It flapped up higher and raised its vicious taloned hands. ‘For I am the gloamglozer, and you shall live with my curse every day of your life. The curse you cannot hide from. The curse of knowing that you, Quint the apprentice, have set me loose on the world!’

  The gloamglozer howled with scornful laughter.

  ‘Heed my curse, Quint!’ it screeched as it flapped off into the night sky. ‘Heed the curse of the gloamglozer!’

  Quint stared into the gloom long after the gloamglozer had disappeared. ‘Gone,’ he murmured at last, and opened his empty fist. ‘The gloamglozer has gone.’

  The next moment, his relief turned to terror. He might have driven the gloamglozer away with the chine, but no Riverrise crystals could help him combat the fire. If he was not to be swallowed up in the terrible flames, he must somehow escape.

  His eyes streamed with the smoke as he battled his way across the parapet to the outer balustrade. Rocks and burning chunks of wood from the blazing tower dropped all round him. The wind howled. The thunder roared.

  Suddenly Quint saw it. The rope. It was still there, attached to the sculpted urn and, even more wonderfully, untouched by the fire.

  ‘Thank Sky!’ Quint murmured as he dashed forwards.

  He seized the rope, and was just about to ease himself over the top of the balustrade when there was an almighty crash behind him.

  The East Turret had finally surrendered to the fire and come crashing down, bringing the roof of the palace with it. Before he had a chance even to wonder what to do next, Quint found himself hurtling down through the air in a torrent of blazing wood and shattered masonry.

  He closed his eyes. Countless pictures flashed before him. His mother. His brothers.

  Wind Jackal and the Galerider.

  Maris.

  The Palace of Shadows. The Fountain House. Maris.

  The blood-red glister.

  The gloamglozer.

  Maris…

  Then nothing.

  Three days later, Bagswill, the former treasury-guard, was sitting in the austere reception-room of Seftus Leprix, the Sub-Dean of the School of Mist, gazing out through the open window.

  ‘Some sapwine, Bagswill,’ said Leprix, ‘to toast our great success in finally saying goodbye to the Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax.’ He removed the jug from the tray and poured the green liquid into the first of the two waiting glasses.

  ‘Yeah, who'd have thought it?’ said Bagswill. ‘He survives the sabotaged sky cage, he survives the poisoned cordial, and then finally dies as a result of a great fire – something we had nothing to do with.’

  Leprix nodded. ‘I was beginning to think he had a charmed life,’ he said, as he turned his attention to the second glass. ‘Particularly when I heard that Tweezel had rescued him from the flames.’

  ‘He's taking it bad, is Tweezel,’ said Bagswill. ‘He was in tears when he told me his master had died of his injuries. He blames himself – for not acting sooner, for not having had better medicines at his disposal…’

  ‘Thank Sky he didn't,’ said Leprix, laughing unpleasantly. He placed the half-empty jug down. ‘With Linius Pallitax finally out of the way, and the dean's most unfortunate accident, I – as most senior mistsifter – am now entitled to become Most High Academe. For, as the Great Tome of Skylore so clearly states, if a Most High Academe dies in office, then his successor has to come from the academic school where he originated.’ Leprix grinned nastily. ‘And there's nothing those accursed Professors of Light and Darkness can do about it!‘

  ‘And me?’ said Bagswill excitedly. ‘What about me?’

  ‘You, Bagswill, will be my Head Guard.’ He smiled. ‘With your very own torture-chamber.’

  The two of them raised their glasses.

  ‘I would like to propose a toast to the bearer of our wonderful news,’ Leprix announced. ‘To Tweezel!’

  ‘To Tweezel!’ Bagswill echoed and the pair of them downed their glasses in one.

  ‘My word,’ said Leprix, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, ‘that's good stuff. Another, Bagswill?
’

  ‘If I may,’ said Bagswill.

  ‘Of course you may, old friend,’ said Leprix warmly. ‘We are celebrating a great victory.’ He poured two more glasses – which disappeared as quickly as the first two.

  ‘Quite remarkable,’ said Leprix. ‘Jervis,’ he called. ‘Jervis!’ He shook his head irritably. ‘Jervis!’

  The door opened and a stooped, middle-aged individual entered the room and cowered by the wall. His eyes darted round the room anxiously. Everything seemed to be the way the master liked it – the windows were open, the curtains drawn, the pictures were all straight on the wall. His gaze fell on a silver object which lay on the sofa…

  ‘Jervis, you will come when I call you,’ said Leprix.

  Jervis frowned. It looked almost like … like a nose. ‘JERVIS!’ Leprix roared.

  Jervis looked down, and began bowing his head over and over. ‘Yes, sir,’ he mumbled. ‘Sorry, sir. You called me and I await your instruction, sir.’

  ‘Indeed I did, Jervis,’ said Leprix angrily. ‘I …’ Then, as he remembered the reason for summoning the servant, his voice softened. ‘I wondered which wine-maker supplied us with this excellent sapwine-cordial,’ he said. ‘Whoever it was from, you must order some more.’

  ‘It … it … it didn't come from a wine-maker, if it pleases you,’ Jervis muttered softly. ‘Leastways,’ he added nervously at the sight of Leprix's dark eyebrows drawing together ominously, ‘not one that I know, though I could probably find out…’

  ‘What are you blethering about?’ Leprix demanded angrily. ‘Where is the sapwine from?’

  ‘From … from Tinsel … Twizzle …’ Jervis said nervously. ‘You know, that spindlebug from the Palace of Shadows…’

  Leprix gasped. ‘Tweezel,’ he breathed.

  ‘That's the one,’ said Jervis. ‘He gave me the sapwine and made me promise it got to you. He said that, since his master would no longer be needing it, you should have it back – and he thanked you both kindly for your thought and concern.’ He nodded appreciatively. ‘Seemed like a really nice creature, he did – despite his weird appearance which, I for one must admit, is most alarming…’

  ‘You gave us the spindlebug's sapwine?’ said Leprix. His voice was low and trembling.

  Bagswill grabbed his arm. ‘You mean we've been drinking our own…’

  They turned and looked at one another.

  ‘… cordial,’ said Leprix.

  ‘… hover-worm venom,’ said Bagswill. He stared at Leprix helplessly. ‘Your face!’ he cried. ‘It's beginning to swell up.’

  ‘So is your body!’ said Leprix. ‘The poison is taking effect.’ He turned on Jervis. ‘See what you've done!’ he roared. ‘You imbe … blmfff.’ Cut off in mid-sentence, the sub-dean clutched desperately at his swollen face.

  Jervis cowered in fear while, in front of him, the two creatures grew larger and larger as they inflated from within. Their clothes split. Their bellies swelled. They were turning into grotesque carnival bladder-balloons, unable to speak, their limbs stubby and their eyes nearly popping out of their skulls. Then, as Jervis continued to stare, the two massive, swollen bodies floated up from the floor.

  Jervis had seen enough. With a horrified squeak, he raced from the room and slammed the door shut behind him. He would have to find himself a new master, that much was clear. Refectory gossip had it that there were openings in the Faculty of Raintasters.

  On the floor above the sub-dean's rooms, the sound of the slamming door echoed round the state apartment of the Professor of Mistsifting. Seated at a desk in his great bed-chamber, Linius Pallitax looked up questioningly – before drifting back to his reveries.

  In the room across the corridor, Quint stirred.

  ‘Quint!’ Maris cried. She leapt from the chair in which she had spent so many hours over the previous three days and nights, waiting, hoping, praying… ‘Quint, can you hear me?’

  The youth's eyes snapped open. He stared ahead of him wildly. ‘Fire!’ he screamed. ‘Gloamglozer! Falling … falling…’

  ‘Hush, now, Quint,’ said Maris. ‘You're safe now. It's all right.’

  Quint blinked and focused in on the kindly face looking down at him. It was smiling, and there were tears streaming down the flushed cheeks. ‘Maris,’ he whispered.

  ‘Oh, Quint,’ she sobbed. ‘Three days you've been unconscious. I thought we'd lost you for ever…’

  Quint looked round him. He was lying in a bed with soft pillows and clean sheets. ‘Where am I?’ he said.

  ‘This used to be my nursery,’ said Maris. ‘With the Palace of Shadows destroyed, Father and I had to return to the School of Mist. Our former apartments have once again become our home…’

  ‘Your father is alive?’ Quint gasped. ‘But I thought…’ He fell still. So, the gloamglozer had lied to him.

  ‘Yes,’ said Maris. ‘He is alive. Of course, his experiences have left him scarred, both physically and mentally. But with patience and understanding, he will improve. In the meantime,’ she went on hurriedly, ‘the Professors of Light and Darkness will continue to govern Sanctaphrax with him …’ She smiled sadly. ‘For him, I should say. Until he is back to his old self …’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘And they can be trusted, can they?’ said Quint.

  Maris nodded. ‘The Professors of Light and Darkness are my father's oldest friends and allies,’ she said. ‘What's more,’ she went on, ‘you have not escaped their attention.’

  ‘I ?’ said Quint. ‘What do you mean, Maris?’

  ‘The Professor of Light has been particularly complimentary about you,’ she said.

  ‘He has? But…’

  ‘He wants to sponsor you to go through the Knights' Academy,’ she said. ‘You would be his protégé.’

  ‘His protégé,’ Quint whispered. He sat up in the bed. ‘But my father, Wind Jackal … I always imagined that, like him, I would be a sky-pirate captain.’

  ‘As a Knight Academic, you might one day have the opportunity to go stormchasing,’ said Maris.

  Quint's eyes gleamed. ‘Like Garlinius Gernix,’ he whispered, ‘Garlinius Gernix and all those other valiant knights who set sail after a Great Storm in search of stormphrax.’

  ‘And you could be one of them,’ said Maris. She smiled uncertainly and hung her head. ‘That is, if you stayed here in Sanctaphrax for just a little bit longer, Quint.‘

  ‘I'm not sure,’ Quint began. ‘It's certainly tempting, but …’ His eyes opened wide. ‘What was that?’

  ‘What?‘

  ‘At the window!’ he gasped, continuing to stare out. Maris turned, and … ‘There!’ Quint yelled. ‘There's another one! What are they?’

  ‘They looked like huge weather-balloons,’ said Maris.

  ‘But they were making a noise,’ said Quint. ‘They were groaning.’

  Maris rushed to the window. By the time she arrived there, however, the massive inflated objects had both been whisked away on the wind.

  Maris and Quint weren't the only ones to see the vastly inflated sub-dean and former guard rising up into the sky. From their vantage point at the top of the Loftus Observatory, the Professors of Light and Darkness had witnessed it all.

  ‘Look there!’ the Professor of Light had cried out. ‘Emerging from that window in the School of Mist. A luminous object. And another…’

  ‘Upon my soul!’ gasped the Professor of Darkness. ‘What can they be? Fog-clusters?’

  ‘Or charged hover-mist?’

  ‘Or cloud-spirits?’

  ‘Or some curious form of ball-lightning?’

  Before either of them could decide, the two mysterious shimmering spheres – each getting larger by the second – soared up into the night sky. They shone like two new stars for a moment, before growing smaller and smaller, and finally being extinguished completely.

  ‘Remarkable,’ said the Professor of Light.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ said the Professor of Darkness.

  ‘We mus
t record every detail at once,’ the Professor of Light said.

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed the Professor of Darkness. ‘And we must compare our findings with existing records to discover what we have just witnessed.’

  Despite all their work, the professors never did learn what it was they had seen that night, although they – and the others who had also witnessed the curious starry spectacle – came up with many wild theories. Subsequently, more wild theories arose as to the curious disappearance of the sub-dean of the mistsifters, Seftus Leprix, and a renegade guard by the name of Bagswill. Countless conspiracies were mooted, and various bits of gossip became gospel. But in all the intricate guesswork and speculation, no-one connected the two events.

  Alone among the citizens of Sanctaphrax, only Tweezel and Jervis knew that the brief appearance of the two new stars and the disappearance of the sub-dean and the guard were linked. And they weren't telling anyone. Ever.

  Back at the window of the old nursery in the School of Mist, Quint and Maris gazed out together at the dark night-sky. The stars twinkled above them, as bright as polished black-diamonds.

  ‘It's so beautiful,’ Maris breathed.

  ‘It's more beautiful still when you escape the sky-glow of the city lights,’ said Quint. ‘Oh, Maris, I cannot begin to explain to you how wonderful it is to go skysailing across the Deepwoods on a night such as this. Or to drift across the top of a swirling sea of snow-white fog. Or to follow in the slip-stream of passing rainbow-clouds.’ His eyes glazed over. ‘To feel the sun in your face and the wind in your hair …’ He paused and turned to Maris. ‘And yet,’ he said, ‘I have never been stormchasing. If Sanctaphrax is prepared to teach me how to, then perhaps I should take up the Professor of Light's offer.’

  ‘You mean, you'll stay?’ said Maris.

  Quint nodded. ‘For now,’ he said. ‘But not for ever. This place is not for me, Maris. One day I shall leave Sanctaphrax with its plots and intrigues, and never come back.’

  ‘Quint,’ said Maris, taking hold of his arm. ‘When you do leave, take me with you.’

  Quint smiled, but said nothing. He turned and stared back outside into the wide beyond. Far out there were the sacred Twilight Woods and, beyond them, the dark Deepwoods which stretched out for ever. A warm glow spread through his body. He longed to explore the great wide world out there, a world full of wonders…