Freeglader (16 page)

Below, the frenzied battle-flock seethed. They had tasted blood at last – but not nearly enough. Suddenly, clambering down the massive trunk of an ironwood tree like a gaudy feathered beetle, Mother Muleclaw appeared. Her prowlgrin dead, her armour battered and her gaudy silks singed, she halted above the heads of her flock, with her talons embedded in the rough bark.

‘Kut-kut-kaaaaii!’ she shrieked, and all eyes turned to her.

She waved a claw towards the forest where a trail, marked by discarded bundles of belongings, led away. Her yellow eyes flashed. Above them, the skycraft soared up and away over the trees.

‘Kaaaar!’ Mother Muleclaw screamed. ‘
KAAAAAARR!’

‘It's gone quiet,’ Gilda whispered to her companions. ‘What do you think's happening now?’

Turntail, an elderly mobgnome, squeezed her hand warmly. ‘The lull before the storm,’ he said, his voice soft and wheezy. ‘By Sky, if I were only fifty years younger, I'd show those disgusting bird-creatures a thing or two. I'd crack their skulls and split their gaudy gizzards open, so I would. I'd … I'd …’ He collapsed in a fit of hacking coughs.

‘Quiet, back there!’ came an urgent voice.

The mobgnome pulled away and tried to stifle the cough with his hands. Gilda patted him on the back. Rogg, a grizzled, one-armed flat-head who was sitting with them, pulled a bottle from his belt, unstoppered and wiped it, and handed it across.

‘Sup that,’ he said gruffly.

Turntail held it to his lips, slurped, swallowed – and gasped for breath, his eyes streaming. ‘What … is … it. ?’ he rasped.

‘Firejuice,’ said Rogg. ‘Like it?’

‘It's … it's …’ the mobgnome began. ‘The most disgusting drink ever to have passed my lips.’

Rogg snorted. ‘Stopped you coughing though, dinnit?’

Behind them, a high-pitched voice spoke up. ‘I wouldn't mind a drop of firejuice myself,’ he said. The others turned to see a wizened old lugtroll, pale and trembling, wrapped up in a tattered scrap of blanket. He smiled toothlessly. ‘Warm these palsied bones of mine a tad,’ he said.

Rogg passed the bottle back. ‘Just a drop, mind,’ he said. ‘Don't want you keeling over.’

Gilda nodded. Although the journey from the Ironwood Stands to the lufwood mount had been little more than a few hundred strides, it had severely tested several in their small party. Gilda had had to support Turntail the whole way, while Rogg had ended up carrying the lugtroll under one arm, and a portly gabtroll and her babe-daughter under the other.

Still, at least Gilda hadn't had to carry the sword any longer. Wrapped in its oil-skin cloth, it had been an awkward bundle – though she'd kept it safe all the same, carrying it all the way from Undertown and into the Deepwoods. It was the least she could do for the brave young librarian who had lost it when he'd rescued her from slavers in old Undertown. She'd feared he was dead, but she'd kept the sword with her all the same, just in case … And then she'd spotted him! She could hardly believe it.

Oh, he'd changed all right. He was sick, she could see that clearly. He was carried right past her in the arms of a huge banderbear. His eyes were closed and he was moaning softly, but it was definitely him;
her
brave young librarian.

The banderbear had disappeared inside a nest with him, and Gilda had been too frightened to follow. The creature had looked so big and fierce, and the poor librarian so ill. She decided it would be best not to disturb him, so she'd propped the precious bundle by the entrance where they'd be sure to find it. She'd planned to go back to make sure – but then news of the shryke attack had broken and everyone was suddenly
running around in a terrible panic, gathering up everything they could carry…

That was just this morning. Gilda looked around at her companions. Together, like all the other Undertowners – old and young, rich and poor – they had struggled gamely on, heading westwards, away from the ironwood pines and on through the dense Deepwood forest.

Twice, they had come to places where the trees had been felled by teams of ghosts and sky pirates – two vast concentric circles which ringed the lufwood-covered crag – and had had to pick their way over the jumble of fallen branches and logs. Finally, they had arrived at the top of the mount; tired, weak and frightened.

They'd made camp there, along with the thousands of other Undertowners. Below them, the lufwood-covered mount had soon echoed with the sound of sawing and chopping as the ghosts and sky pirates erected makeshift barricades to protect them. Then, as the afternoon light had begun to fail, the librarian knights had taken off and flown back towards the Ironwood Stands.

Gilda had marvelled at the sight. How proud and brave they'd looked! Then, along with the others, and hardly daring to breathe, she had listened for the tell-tale sounds of battle.

When the first furious shryke scream had echoed through the trees, everyone had fallen silent, and as the mighty battle had raged at the Ironwood Stands, they had all listened carefully to every crack, every cry, every distant screech, scream and wail. The more suspicious
among them had stroked their amulets and whispered prayers and incantations that the brave librarian knights would prevail and that the Undertowners, in their concealed fastness, might survive.

Now it was quiet again, with the stillness more terrifying even than the noisy battle. As the sun set, the librarian knights arrived back, and as the moon rose, the sky glowed red in the distance where the Ironwood Stands blazed. The librarians, ghosts and sky pirates took to the barricades in the darkness below the lufwood mount.

Slowly, whispered rumours of the slaughter of the shryke roost-sisters filtered up to the Undertowners, and low murmurs filled the night air. A battle had been won, so it seemed, yet the roost-mother lived on. The battle-flock still had a leader and, having regrouped, was heading towards them.

Gilda pulled her cloak around her and shivered. It was going to be a long night.

Xanth was glad he was standing next to Henkel. With the whole shryke army on its way, he felt better knowing that the hefty, battle-scarred cloddertrog was at his side, mighty poleaxe in hand. Xanth looked down at the sword in his own hand. It was certainly magnificent, with a polished pommel, an ornate handle and a blade so sharp it could split a hair lengthways.

He looked up at the cloddertrog, his eyes gleaming. ‘It's fantastic, isn't it?’ he said.

‘Certainly is,’ said Henkel. ‘Some kind of ceremonial sword by the look of it. Though I daresay that won't stop it slicing a shryke or two in twain.’ He laughed throatily. ‘Try it out, lad.’

Xanth parried and lunged and swung the sword round in wide sweeps, before jabbing at the air in a succession of short sharp movements. It was so well-shaped and perfectly balanced that it seemed almost to move by itself, slicing through the air like an agile ratbird in flight.

‘Excellent, excellent,’ said Henkel. ‘It could have been made for you. And I'll tell you this, lad, if…’

The cloddertrog stopped and his eyes narrowed. Around him, the sky pirates stopped talking and scanned the treeline. They were behind the second ring of barricades, constructed from the trees cut down in front of them.

‘Open ground,’ Deadbolt had growled. ‘It'll stop them coming at us from the treetops.’

Ahead of Xanth, across the cleared forest, he could see
the first ring of barricades. These were being defended by Felix and the ghosts. He could just make out the helmeted figure of the leader of the ghosts as he signalled to his companions to prepare for the onslaught they all knew was coming.

Xanth heard Henkel's gruff voice. ‘Hold your ground, lad,’ he told him.

Xanth gripped the handle of his sword and prayed that he might be brave. The night air was still, the only sound, the odd cough or muttered curse from the ranks of sky pirates lining the log barricade. All eyes were focused on the ghosts at the first barricade across the clearing.

Then Xanth heard it. A blood-curdling scream that sent shivers coursing down his spine. It was followed by another and another from the dark shadows of the treeline.

‘Here they come,’ muttered Henkel. ‘Sky protect us.’

Suddenly, a huge wave of screaming bird-creatures, crested with a glittering
array of pikes, war hammers and bone-flails, broke through the trees and smashed into the first barricade. Xanth gasped. Everywhere, the ranks of ghosts splintered into individual fights as first in one place, then another, shrykes broke through their defences. The whiplash cracks of ropes cutting through the air and wrapping themselves round feathered necks sounded all down the line as the ghosts fought desperately to hold back the tide.

But it was hopeless, Xanth could see that, and his stomach gave a sickening lurch. There were just too many of the shrieking, frenzied shrykes.

Every instinct told him to turn and run away, now, before the evil flood of feathers and fury swept
him
away. Henkel must have seen the look on his face, for he turned to Xanth and laid a huge hand on his shoulder.

‘Steady, lad. This is the hardest part, waiting for the storm of battle to break. Trust in that sword and stay close.’

Xanth nodded and tightened his grip on the handle of the sword. Sharp and bright as it looked, could it really stop one of those evil shrieking bird-creatures? He was about to find out.

‘Fall back, Ghosts!’

Felix's shouted command sounded above the din of battle, and suddenly the air filled with whipcracks as ropes shot over Xanth's and the sky pirates' heads and wrapped themselves round tree branches behind them. In an instant, hundreds of white-armoured ghosts launched themselves out of the midst of the thrashing,
flailing shrykes and flew through the night air, landing behind the second barricade.

Xanth gasped. He'd never seen anything so spectacular.

‘Very pretty,’ Henkel growled. ‘Now the real fighting begins!’

At the first barricade, the battle-flock screeched with frustration as the shrykes saw their enemy escape from their clutches. They swarmed over the log wall and surged forward across the cleared ground.

Xanth could see the eyes of the approaching bird-creatures
flashing, bright yellow, their sharp beaks and talons glinting in the moonlight.

‘
Fire!
' came Deadbolt Vulpoon's booming command, and a deadly volley of crossbow bolts spat from the ranks all around Xanth.

The first wave of shrykes screamed and fell beneath the clawed feet of those following, but the huge battle-flock hardly checked its pace.

‘
Fire!
' came the command again. ‘
Fire!
’

Each volley of missiles cut swathes through the feathered ranks – but still the shrykes continued towards them.

‘Here they come!’ bellowed Henkel as the wave of shrykes threw themselves on the barricades. Xanth gagged as the stale odour of rancid entrails and shryke waste tainted the air. All round him, the terrible feathered creatures burst over the barricade and fell upon the sky pirates, their eyes blazing, their beaks gaping. Beside him, Henkel swung his poleaxe in a low, horizontal sweep, decapitating three screaming shryke guards. Xanth thrust his sword out in front of him and felt a jolt run through his arm as first one shryke, then another, ran onto the point and skewered themselves through their hearts.