Freeglader (11 page)

Lob and Lummel fell silent. As a rule, their older brothers would have attended such an important assembly, but all six of them had recently been dispatched
to the Foundry Glade as slave-labour, and what with harvest-time fast approaching and all, there had been no one else to send to report back. The last thing either of them wanted to do was get on the wrong side of a hefty great hammerhead at their very first Meeting of the Clans.

‘Sorry, Master.’ Lob touched his bonnet deferentially and nudged his brother to do the same.

The hammerhead ignored them.

Lob and Lummel Grope were low-bellied goblins of the lop-ear clan. In their straw harvest-bonnets and characteristic belly-slings, they stood out amongst the warlike goblins all around them, and both felt more than a little overawed.

They were standing at the centre of a vast crowd that had assembled outside the great open-sided clan-hut of the long-hairs; a crowd packed with goblins of every description, all crushed together so tightly it was difficult even to breathe. Flat-heads and hammerheads, pink-eyed and scaly goblins; long-haired and tufted goblins, snag-toothed, saw-toothed and underbiter goblins; all were represented.

Inside the clan-hut, on a raised stage, sat Hemtuft Battleaxe of the long-hair goblin clan, leader of the Goblin Nations. Preening his shryke-feather cloak, the grey-haired Battleaxe looked down from his carved wooden throne, placed as it was on top of a pile of skulls of deceased clan elders. On the platform before him stood the leaders of the four other clans, their heads bowed in supplication.

Rootrott Underbiter, clan chief of the tusked goblins, was the first to look up, his two massive canines glinting, his yellow eyes impassive. As leader of one of the larger clans, there was a look of sullen insolence on his face, despite his thin, twitching smile.

Next to him stood Lytugg, leader of the hammerhead clan, and granddaughter of the old mercenary, General Tytugg of Undertown. For one so young, she boasted an impressive array of battle scars as befitted the leader of the most warlike of all the goblin nations.

Beside her, sat the old, hunched figure of Meegmewl the Grey, clan chief of the lop-ears, as sharp-witted as he was ancient. Although the least warlike of the major clans, the lop-ears were the most numerous by far, and Meegmewl was not to be underestimated.

Nor, for that matter, was Grossmother Nectarsweet the Second, clan chief of the symbites. She spoke for the gyle, tree, webfooted and gnokgoblins of the nations – the symbites who were responsible for such a rich array of products, everything from gyle-honey and dew-milk, to teasewood rope and lullabee grubs. Her five chins wobbled in a languid ripple as she raised her huge head and met Hemtuft's gaze levelly.

Hemtuft Battleaxe waved a hairy hand. As leader of the long-hairs and most senior of the goblin clans, his word was law. He knew though that, without the support of the other clans, the Goblin Nations would disintegrate and return to the roving, warring tribes they had been before. And that was something no one wanted.

‘I understand, of course I do,’ he said, as the crowd around the clan-hut jostled closer, trying to catch every word. ‘Your lop-ear clan has paid a heavy price in supplying the labour to the Foundry Glades, and yet it is a price we must pay for the spears, the ploughs, the cooking-pots, and everything else that none of us would do without.’

‘Say the word, and my hammerhead war bands could overrun the Foundry Glades like that,’ said Lytugg, with a snap of her bony fingers.

Hemtuft shook his head. ‘Lytugg, Lytugg. How many times must we go over this?’ he said wearily. ‘It is pointless to use force against the Foundry Glades. Hemuel Spume and the Furnace Masters would die before they revealed the secrets of their forges and workshops to us. And then where would we be? In charge of a lot of useless machinery that none of us could operate. No, if we are to succeed, we must pay the price the Foundry Master demands of us…’

The skeletons of the old clan chief's predecessors, hanging from the rafters of the huge thatched roof, clinked like bone wind-chimes in the breeze.

‘But why must
we
pay it alone?’ Meegmewl the Grey croaked, turning his milky eyes to the ceiling.

‘Because there are so many of you,’ retorted Rootrott Underbiter nastily.

‘… And not a single hammerhead or flat-head shall stoke a furnace!’ Lytugg snarled fiercely. ‘We are warriors!’

Around Lob and Lummel, the hammerhead and flat-head goblins cheered and brandished their hefty clubs and spears.

‘But things can't go on like this!’ Grossmother Nectarsweet's big, wobbly voice proclaimed, silencing the cheering.

‘And nor shall they!’ Hemtuft roared, getting to his feet and spreading his arms wide, until, in his feathered cloak, he resembled a large bird of prey. ‘For if we attack the Free Glades and enslave them, then never again will goblins have to be sent to work the foundries.
Slave
gladers will go in their stead!’

Lob and Lummel turned to one another, eyebrows raised. All round them, the crowd exploded with noise, and a chant got up.

‘Slave Glades! Slave Glades! Slave Glades!’

‘There has never been a better time for this, our greatest battle!’ General Lytugg's voice rang out above it all. ‘The shrykes are all but done for! Undertown is no more! With help from our friends in the Foundry Glades, we shall launch an attack on the Free Glades while they are vulnerable and in disarray; an attack the like of which the Edge has never known. No one will withstand the might of the Goblin Nations.’

Lob shrugged. Lummel lowered his eyes. They both knew that it hadn't been Freegladers who had sent their brothers to be worked to death in the Foundry Glades: Hemtuft Battleaxe and the other clan chiefs had seen to that.

‘We shall be victorious!’ bellowed Lytugg, and a mighty roar echoed round the great hall.

Lob and Lummel were feeling increasingly out of place in the midst of all the grimacing faces and frenzied cries. What was wrong with farming? That was what they wanted to know. After all, everyone had to eat. Instead, all their neighbours seemed to have but one thing on their minds the whole time. War!

Flaming torches were lit and waved in the warm evening air as the crowd began to break off and return to their villages.

‘To victory!’ roared Hemtuft Battleaxe after them. ‘And the Slave Glades!’

iii The Hatching Nurseries of the Eastern Roost

‘Look at the little darlings! Always hungry!’ hissed portly Matron Featherhorn to her gaunt companion, the elderly Sister Drab. The pair of them were making their way along the central aisle of the great hatching-hut, inspecting the nursing pens as they went.

As they passed them by, the shryke juveniles in each enclosure scuttled towards the barred gates and craned their necks towards the two elders, screeching loudly for food. Only two days had passed since they had hatched out from their eggs, yet already they were more than half their fully-grown size.

‘They certainly are, my dear,’ Sister Drab replied, nodding approvingly. Her eyes narrowed and glinted coldly. ‘It won't be long now.’

The pair of them reached the end of the hall, where a complicated wood and rope construction of cogs, pulleys and connecting-rods was anchored. The penned shrykes grew louder. Matron Featherhorn jumped up and seized a heavy lever which, with the weight of her swinging body, slowly lowered. There was a hiss overhead as tank-valves opened and a torrent of warm prowlgrin entrails poured down into the feeding pipes.

All round, the hatching-hut exploded with frantic scratching and squawking as the juveniles scurried across the pens – crashing into one another in their greed – clamped their beaks round the feeding pipes and
waited impatiently, their eyes rolling and stubby wings flapping.

Matron Featherhorn turned her attention to the winching-wheel, and there was a loud
clunk
as she seized it tightly, pulled it sharply to the right and released the entrails down the pipes. The juveniles sat back on their haunches – their eyes instantly glazed with contentment – as the meat sluiced down their necks and into their stomachs.

Matron Featherhorn watched their bellies swell. ‘That should do for now,’ she said at last, tugging the wheel back the other way.

The flow of entrails abruptly ceased. The bloated shrykes flopped to the floor on their backs and closed their eyes.

‘That's it, my pretties,’ Sister Drab hissed. ‘Sleep well; grow tall and strong
and fierce.’ She turned to Matron Featherhorn. ‘Soon we shall have a new battle-flock to feast on the entrails of our enemies.’ She shook her head. ‘And a new Sisterhood and roost-mother in fine plumage!’

The old matron fiddled with her mob-cap uncertainly. ‘I only hope you're right, Sister Drab,’ she said. ‘With Mother Muleclaw and the Sisterhood lost in Undertown, we are sorely in need of new flock leaders.’ She clucked unhappily. ‘After all, we're getting too long in the beak to take
that
responsibility on, eh, sister?’

Sister Drab sighed. With her eyes dim and her tawny feathers grizzled with grey and white, she had thought her days of decisions and responsibility were long since past. In her prime, High Sister Drab had been an important figure in the Shryke Sisterhood, second only to the roost-mother herself. Yet, when they had moved to the Eastern Roost, she had been happy to relinquish power, unable as she was to adjust to the new permanent settlement.

Now, everything had changed again. With the battle-flocks, the entire High Sisterhood
and
Mother Muleclaw herself, all massacred in the sewers of Undertown, apart from a shifty gathering of useless shryke males, there was no one left in the Eastern Roost but a small flock of hatchery matrons and a handful of venerable elder sisters like herself. It had been left to them to tend to the mighty clutch of eggs – their future battle-flocks, high sisters and roost-mother.

They had stayed up through the stormy night, assiduously adding and removing layers of straw and
down to the great nests, ensuring that the eggs remained at a constant temperature. They had slaughtered and gutted the prowlgrins and filled the feeding-tanks ready. And when the time had come for the great Hatching itself, they had raised their voices as tradition decreed and screeched their greetings to the newly-born fledglings;

‘From shell to air,

From yolk to feather;

Gorge and grow strong!’

The hatchlings had lost their downy fluff within hours of being born, and were fully fledged by their third meal. There was every type of plumage, from striped and speckled beiges and browns, to the gaudiest of purples, reds, blues and oranges – the feathers pointing to the future mapped out before them all, be it forming warlike battle-flocks or creating a new High Sisterhood. Now, with the new flock growing taller and stronger as they slept, even as she watched, it was indeed – as Matron Featherhorn had just reminded her – left to her to start making decisions once again.

‘Ah, sister,’ Sister Drab replied at length. ‘It is as I always suspected. We shrykes are nomads, wanderers. We were never meant to settle down in one place.’

‘But the Eastern Roost …’ Matron Featherhorn began.

‘The Eastern Roost is unnatural,’ Sister Drab interrupted. ‘A shryke nest should never be settled. She paused. ‘Oh, I concede it worked well enough when we could control the traffic on the Great Mire Road. But now that the road has been destroyed, and Undertown with
it, there is no longer any reason for our great city to exist.’

Matron Featherhorn's beak dropped open.

‘Yes, sister,’ the gaunt shryke elder continued. ‘I know my words come as a shock, but the time has come for us to leave the Eastern Roost. We have become soft here, pampered and indolent. We must pack everything away, saddle up the prowlgrins and return to the treetops. We must go back to our old slaving ways – after all, such a way of life saw us prosper for hundreds of years.’ She flapped an arm towards the future battle-flocks. ‘And with these little darlings, we shall soon prosper once more, sister, and for hundreds of years yet to come.’