"Earth below and Sky above," groaned Bron.
He had heard terrible stories of Great Glade. When he was young, he had suffered many nightmares as a result of the horrific tales he had heard about the place. Compared to the actual sight of the sprawling city, however, his nightmares were almost laughably insignificant.
The sky was red and throbbing, fouled by the pollution from the industrial districts. The air was rank-smelling and tickled the back of Bron's throat. Set against this glowing scarlet curtain was the skyline of the city, formed of vast factories and forges that belched black smoke into the heavens. Through the smog in the upper atmosphere, Bron could see the glares of propulsion ducts, the glisterships to which they belonged visible only as sinister silhouettes.
Bron turned his head, and stared at a massive collection of opulent, palatial structures. These elegant towers, he knew, were the government offices of the Free Glades; the magnificent mansions of Ambristown and New Lake, sealed in the protective, purified bubble that kept the air clean for Great Glade's most affluent slave traders and city officials; and, farthest away, the palace of Xelius Pulnix, spanning across the entire district of Cloud Quarter.
The knowledge that such heartless, diabolical individuals were so well off would have been unbearable in itself, but the horror of it all was multiplied a hundredfold to see these palaces and castles set against the appalling filth and squalor of Northern Outer City.
As Bron, Durix, Celestia, and Raziel ventured into this outermost district, carefully disguised as Great Glade merchants, they saw nothing but abject poverty and hopelessness. Most of the wooden shacks and workshops were riddled with holes and gaps in the planks; several of them were barely standing, and there was more than one building with a collapsed roof or wall. Yet every single one of them seemed to be inhabited by at least five or six grubby Great Gladers: mobgnomes, cloddertrogs, woodtrolls and treetrolls, slaughterers, fettle-leggers, and goblins of every description.
Particular scenes seemed to jump out at Bron as he wandered through the shantytowns and squalid slums. Visible through a splintered, half-rotted wall of one of the shacks, a pair of woodtrolls draped in rags looked at each other desperately as their five young'uns pleaded desperately for food. A grubby slaughterer dressed in the gear of a knife-grinder, his face streaked with tears of frustration, scrabbled hopelessly at the remains of his stall, which seemed to have just collapsed. Three skeletal, sunken-faced gray trogs were gathered around a pile of rotten lufwood, apparently trying to eat bits of the ruined material.
"Here in Great Glade, life for a free citizen is easily as hard as life for a factory-slave," said Raziel. "At least the slaves are given regular rations. Out here, the citizens have practically nothing."
"I wish that we could give all of them money," muttered Bron miserably, as Celestia cried silently next to him.
"So do I, Bron," said Raziel. "So do I. But we must stick to the plan."
"But to whom must we make the offer?" whispered Durix. "Seems as though anyone would do."
"No," said Raziel quickly. "Remember, we are going to be approaching a complete stranger, and it would be easy to take advantage of us. What's to stop him or her from slitting our throats while we're sleeping and take all of our gladers?"
"But how can we possibly know who'll be trustworthy?" asked Celestia, looking apprehensive.
"I see you've grasped the difficulty of the situation," said Raziel. "There's no way to know for sure, but there might be clues. For example, it would be wise to seek out someone who is too starved or too weak to pose a physical threat, but of course, not so badly that he or she cannot lead us to our destination. Also, it makes sense to look for a resident whose shack is partially collapsed. Harder for that individual to conceal any weapons, you understand."
"But even if we do all that, it doesn't necessarily mean we can trust our chosen guide," pointed out Bron.
"No, it doesn't," agreed Raziel. "We will have to be alert and vigilant at all times."
It did not take very long for the four of them to find someone who matched Raziel's criteria. A grimy, gaunt mobgnome was lying on the floor of a shack which was missing two of its walls, its sagging roof propped up with an enormous stack of what seemed to be Vartolius Xax propaganda posters.
"I think we may have found our guide," whispered Raziel. "Let's see if he'll accept our terms.
In an attempt to be polite, Raziel did not walk through one of the vast gaps in the side of the structure, but instead strolled around to the other wall and rapped gently on the front door. "Oh, just come in if you need something," snapped the mobgnome impatiently. "Mind you, not that I have much to give anyone. Haven't even got much for meself. If you've come to beg, you're in the wrong place."
"We haven't come to beg," said Raziel, opening the door, which promptly fell off its hinges. "Oh no! I'm sorry."
"No matter," snorted the mobgnome. "That dratted thing isn't even attached to the frame. I only keep it around 'cause I'm planning to sleep under it when me last blanket crumbles away. From the looks of things, that ain't so far off." he added, gesturing to a filthy, threadbare piece of cloth which, from the looks of it, would barely cover the little mobgnome when draped over him. "But no matter. If you aren't here to beg, what do you want?"
"Do you know how to get to the Ledges from here?" asked Raziel.
"The Ledges? Course I do. I know the northern districts like the back of me hand," the mobgnome looked puzzled and a tad suspicious. "What of it?"
"We're prepared to offer you thirty gladers if you show us the way to the Ledges," said Raziel. "Ten right now, and another twenty when we reach our destination."
The mobgnome sat bolt upright, his eyes wide. "Thirty gladers? I've never had thirty gladers in me entire life! Come to think of it, I ain't never had ten!"
"So, you accept?" said Raziel.
"Course I do!" said the mobgnome enthusiastically, springing to his feet and holding out his palm. "Now let's see those first ten!"
"Here you are," Raziel peeled off the correct amount of notes, and handed them to the mobgnome, who seized them and gazed at the money in his hand as though it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life.
"I'll get you to the Ledges," said the mobgnome confidently. "You'll be there by tomorrow evening or me name ain't Mincrock! We'll rest up tonight, and then we'll set off at the crack of dawn. Now, who wants the blanket?"
"No, no, we can't use your blanket. You use it," said Raziel. "We would never impose ourselves on you like that."
"You sure?" asked Mincrock. "Any of you three want it?"
Bron, Durix, and Celestia all shook their heads.
"As you wish," shrugged the mobgnome. "Anyway, we should turn in early if we're going to head off first thing tomorrow."
It was hard drifting off to sleep. The air was so warm that Bron wouldn't have needed a blanket anyway, but his surroundings were too distracting. He spent many hours lying on the floor of the shack, staring up at the creaking roof, praying that it wasn't going to crash down on top of them. Eventually, he managed to doze off for a few hours, but it felt as though he had only been asleep for a few seconds before he was sitting up groggily, staring at the purple tinge of the sunrise that was only just visible through the smog of the city.
Suddenly, Bron noticed something that made him leap to his feet and shake his companions awake. "Durix! Celestia! Captain Tollinix!" he shouted. "Mincrock's gone!"
The others sat up, wide awake, looking around the crumbling hovel. "That little sneak ran off with ten of our gladers!" Durix shouted, sounding horrified and angry in equal measure.
"We probably shouldn't be surprised," sighed Raziel miserably. "The effort of getting us to the Ledges must not have been worth the extra twenty gladers to him."
"But now we'll have less money to offer any other guide we try to employ!" said Celestia, sounding worried.
"Don't worry about it," said Raziel. "Twenty gladers is still a fortune to most in Northern Outer City. We'll just have to be more careful next—"
"Hang on!" exclaimed Bron, pointing through the empty door frame. "There he is! He's coming back!"
They all breathed a sigh of relief. Their guide hadn't ran out on them after all.
"Good morning!" said Mincrock brightly, holding a greasy bag in his hand.
"Where were you?" demanded Durix. "We thought you had run away with our money!"
"Ran away with your money! Oh, I'd never do that, kind sir, don't you worry," said Mincrock. "I merely thought I'd spend that money on a real breakfast for us all."
"What? You've got food?" said Bron excitedly. His stomach growled with anticipation. After living on nothing but disgusting pickled tripweed for weeks, he was about to get a proper meal.
Smiling brightly, Mincrock placed the bag on the floor, and everyone gathered around it, peering inside. Inside the bag were five juicy ground hammelhorn steak sandwiches and a large pile of deep-fried woodpotato strips. Everyone took one of the sandwiches, grabbed a pile of the deep-fried strips, and began to eat greedily. They were so ravenous that the meal was over before they really had a chance to enjoy it. However, Bron felt well-fed for the first time in ages, and his spirits lifted considerably.
"Well, I suppose it's time to head off," said Raziel, getting to her feet.
"Oh yes, of course, madam!" said Mincrock. "Just follow me. I'll get you where you're going in no time, so I will."
They set off through the alleys of run-down buildings once again. Mincrock kept up a brisk pace, and everyone else practically had to jog to keep up with the little mobgnome. At first, the route they were following was reasonably straight, and the distant outline of the Ledges was directly in front of them. As they progressed, however, Bron noticed that the route Mincrock was following began to twist and meander. Originally, Bron had thought little of this; after all, Great Glade was an enormously complex city, and there were bound to be unexpected detours. Later, however, Bron was under the distinct impression that there were faster routes than the one that Mincrock was taking. They were taking far more turns and doubling back far more often than would be expected.
"Errr…Mincrock?" he inquired, as the mobgnome suddenly started, turned around, and gestured back the way they had come. "Are you sure you know the way?"
"We'll get there shortly, young master, no worries," came the reply.
Bron wasn't entirely assured. It seemed as though Mincrock was constantly making mistakes or second-guessing the proper route. Durix and Raziel were looking impatient too, and Celestia seemed disconcerted.
Suddenly, Mincrock called back, "We're nearly there."
Something was definitely wrong. The distant form of the Ledges seemed little closer than when they had started. How could they be nearly there?
Mincrock turned a corner between two large buildings, which stood in stark contrast to the sea of squalid huts surrounding them. As Bron followed him, the others trailing along in his wake, he suddenly noticed that they were heading for a dead end. What was going on?
"All right. This is it," said Mincrock. "We're here."
"Excuse me?" said Raziel incredulously. "This isn't the Ledges. We're nowhere near our destination."
Mincrock gave a wheezy chuckle. "Oh, we're not in the Ledges, madam. But we are at your destination."
At that moment, doors on either side of the alley banged open, and two muscular cloddertrogs leapt out at Bron and his companions. With a yell, Bron wheeled around and started to run, pulling Durix and Celestia with him, Raziel running alongside him. But as they approached the mouth of the alley, a third cloddertrog appeared around the corner, blocking their path. The cloddertrog lunged at them, seizing Bron and Celestia by the scruffs of their necks, as the first pair grabbed Durix and Raziel.
"Why?" yelled Bron in desperation, struggling to free himself and Celestia from the cloddertrog's grip. "Why are you doing this, Mincrock?"
"Thirty gladers may be a pretty sum," cackled the little mobgnome, his eyes gleaming. "But fifty gladers per healthy slave sold to the factories is a real profit! Two hundred in all, I think."
"S'right," grunted the cloddertrog holding Bron and Celestia. "Leastways, that's how it normally is."
"N-normally?" said Mincrock, sounding suddenly apprehensive. "Whaddaya mean, normally?"
"Way I see it, there ain't no witnesses to the fact that you caught 'em," said the cloddertrog. "We can just claim 'em as our own, and we'll get all the gladers!"
"What? No!" protested the mobgnome. "You can't do that! I'll tell 'em it was me!"
"Really?" the cloddertrog roared with scornful laughter. "'Fraid it'll be your word against ours…but now you mention it…Grag, if you wouldn't mind?"
"My pleasure," said the cloddertrog holding Durix. He shoved Durix away from him, and the cloddertrog holding onto Raziel seized Durix in his other arm. The first cloddertrog then reached into his belt.
"Hey," said Mincrock, sounding frightened now. "What are you going to…"
In a flash, the cloddertrog withdrew a vicious, studded club, and swung it through the air, bringing it down on Mincrock's head. With a sickening crunch, the mobgnome crumpled to the ground, lifeless, blood seeping from his shattered skull. Celestia screamed. Her captor shook her violently, and she fell silent, tears running down her cheek.
"Well, now we've sorted out that problem," he said, turning around and frogmarching Bron and Celestia away, his two companions following closely behind him, "It's time to collect those two hundred gladers waiting for us at the New Undertown Slave Markets!"