Freeglader (18 page)

A group of lugtrolls – young and old, and all weary after their long journey from old Undertown – compared
what was on offer, before pausing in front of a gabtroll's barrow. One of them – a young male in a ragged cloak – leaned over a steaming vat and breathed in deeply.

‘'Tis oakmead, sir,’ said the gabtroll softly. ‘Spiced and honeyed, with just a hint of nibblick.’ She picked up a tankard and a ladle and poured a little of the warm liquid out. ‘Would you care to try some?’ she said.

The lugtroll took the tankard and sipped. It was delicious. ‘How much?’ he asked cautiously.

‘How much?’ the gabtroll replied, her eyeballs bouncing about on their stalks in amusement. ‘This is the Free Glades. All for one, and one for all.’ She swept her arms round in a wide arc. ‘
Everything's
free. All that you poor, dear old Undertowners can eat and drink.’

The lugtrolls looked at one another, smiles breaking out on their faces. Back in the filth and misery of old Undertown, they'd had to scratch a living hauling firewood for the leagues' forges. The work was hard and the days were long, and the only payment was a meagre
supper of grey gruel and black bread. Yet here in New Undertown, the air was sweet and everywhere they looked they were greeted by happy, smiling faces.

‘Thank you, mistress gabtroll,’ the young lugtroll proclaimed gratefully. ‘Thank you a thousandfold.’

‘So it's oakmead all round, is it?’ the gabtroll said, her tongue slurping noisily over her eyeballs as she ladled out the drinks. ‘To your very good health!’ she announced. ‘And welcome! Welcome, one and all.’

In every part of the throbbing town, as was happening throughout the Free Glades, from the southern meadow-lands to the northern fringes, from the eastern woodtroll villages to the western shores of the Great Lake, the newcomers were being greeted and feted like long-lost friends and relations.

‘Toasted pine-nuts,’ cried a mobgnome from a kiosk close to the waterside as she spooned the salted delicacies into barkpaper cones. ‘Candied woodsaps, jellied dellberries…’

‘Tilder sausages and black bread,’ shouted a slaughterer nearby. ‘As much as you can eat.’

As the sun sank and the moon rose, the streets grew fuller and fuller. Groups of colourfully dressed cloddertrogs streamed in from the cliffside caves in the south-east to greet their ragged, weary compatriots newly arrived from the over-crowded, rundown boom-docks of old Undertown, and it wasn't long before they were all carousing noisily, drunk on traditional tripweed beer.

Columns of woodtrolls and slaughterers trooped
northwards together to New Undertown to join in the festivities, joined on their way by gaggles of gyle goblins, sweeping in from the east. And they all came together, old Undertowners, New Undertowners, grinning and bowing, slapping one another on the backs and shaking each other's hands. They talked and they sang and they shared what they had, from tales of their pasts to plates of tilder sausages. And the cry went up in every single corner of the town, a thousand times or more.

‘Welcome to the Free Glades! Welcome, indeed!’

Down on a small wooden jetty jutting into North Lake, two flat-head goblins were sitting close to one another, idly flicking bits of gravel into the water and watching the ripples spread and interlock.

‘I never thought I'd ever see you again, Gorl,’ said one, her eyes filling up with tears.

‘Nor I you, Reda,’ came the reply, as he squeezed her hand tightly.

‘When they took you away …’ she sobbed. ‘When they chained you up and marched you off to the Sanctaphrax Forest, there was nothing left for me in old Undertown. So I came here and made a new life for myself. But I never forgot you. I always…’

‘I understand,’ said Gorl, ‘but that was
old
Undertown. It's all in the past. The important thing is that we're together again.’ He looked round. Far to his left, the Ironwood Glade stood out against the starry sky. Behind, the glow of the lights, the smells of the food and drink, the sounds of music and dancing and laughter
continued, all reminding him of where they now were. He smiled and pulled her close. ‘And we're Freegladers, now.’

Reda remained still, smiling to herself as she felt his strong arms wrapping themselves around her.

Back at the Lufwood Tower, a small procession was making its way through the cheering crowds to the foot of the grand sweeping staircase that led up to the first-floor platform, which was bedecked with garlands of flowers and forest fruits. There, waiting patiently, stood the Free Glade Council, all three of them.

Parsimmon, High Master of Lake Landing, a short gnokgoblin in shabby robes, peered over a large bunch of woodlilies, a huge smile on his wizened face. Next to him, on a high stool of carved lufwood,
Cancaresse of Waif Glen stood on tiptoe, her huge translucent ears quivering expectantly. Next to them, Hebb Lub-drub, the mayor of New Undertown – a low-belly goblin – looked huge, his embroidered belly-sling festooned with a gleaming chain of office.

As the procession drew closer, the prowlgrins' feathered collars fluttered and the ceremonial bells attached to their harnesses jangled loudly as the carriage they were drawing jerked to a halt at the foot of the stairs. The door opened and the stooped figure of Cowlquape Pentephraxis climbed out, followed by Fenbrus Lodd and his daughter, Varis. With each new appearance, the crowd cheered. Last to emerge from the carriage were the Professors of Light and Darkness, their gowns – one black and one white – flapping in the rising breeze.

As the five of them climbed the steps, one after the other, towards the garlanded platform, so the gathered crowd clapped their hands and stamped their feet and roared with approval. At the top, Cancaresse held out a tiny hand to Cowlquape in greeting. Her soft melodious voice sounded in the minds of everyone watching.

‘Welcome, friends. The Council of Three has become the Council of Eight. It is time for all of us to rejoice – as Freegladers!’

‘Freegladers!’ roared a red-faced cloddertrog to a nightwaif, throwing his beefy arm around the weedy creature's narrow shoulders. ‘There's no such thing as
old
Undertowners and
new
Undertowners, any more. We're all Freegladers now!’

‘Indeed,’ chirped the nightwaif. ‘Freegladers, one and all – and,’ he added, his huge, batlike ears fluttering and swivelling to the left, ‘if I'm not very much mistaken, the New Bloodoak Tavern has just broken open a fresh batch of woodale barrels to celebrate!’

‘It has?’ said the cloddertrog, hoisting his new friend up onto his shoulders. ‘Then let us go and share a tankard or two, you and I.’

They had indeed broken open a fresh batch of woodale at the New Bloodoak Tavern. They'd needed to. Mother Bluegizzard, the old shryke matron who ran the place, had been so busy that she had been forced to assist her serving-goblins as they rushed round topping up tankards and keeping the drinking-troughs full. With the ale flowing so freely, the atmosphere was rowdier than normal, with laughter and singing and clapping and the
clatter-clomp-crash
of dancing on the tables echoing from every window.

‘More woodale, gentle sirs?’ Mother Bluegizzard asked – a laden tray balanced on the crook of her arm and her spectacular blue throat feathers fluffed up with exertion – as she squeezed her way through the swaying crowd to the table where a group of new arrivals was sitting.

‘A friendly shryke with foaming woodale?’ said Felix Lodd, swapping his empty tankard for a full one. ‘The Free Glades is truly a wondrous place!’

‘Wondrous indeed!’ said Deadbolt Vulpoon, following suit. ‘Thank you, gracious madam. This old sky pirate will be forever in your debt!’

At the other side of the table, Wumeru, Wuralo and Weeg were given fresh beakers of frothing dellberry and woodsap juice. Although there was nothing in their refreshments to affect their mood, the three of them had already got so caught up in the atmosphere of the place that whenever a song went up, they yodelled along with the rest, swaying from side to side, their great hairy arms raised above their heads.

Mother Bluegizzard looked at them all benevolently. They were an interesting bunch, these old Under-towners; the confident young ghost with his twinkling eyes and shock of blond hair, and the grizzled old sky pirate, with his charming manners. And those bander-bears! They'd alarmed her when they'd first lumbered
in, but they were so gentle and good-natured, the old bird-creature had quite taken to them. And then there was the quiet young librarian with the startling blue eyes, who was smiling at her now as she offered him the tray. He seemed a little lost, and didn't say much, and the banderbears fussed over him as if he was their cub.

The librarian took a tankard of woodale from the tray, and Mother Bluegizzard turned away to check on her other customers.

In the corner, Bikkle, her scraggy shryke-mate, was collecting the tankards and sweeping up. He was a drab little creature, but he was
her
drab little creature and she loved him.

‘Two more tankards over here,’ a voice whispered in Mother Bluegizzard's head. She looked across the crowded room and saw the tavern waif flapping his huge ears at her. She winked back at him and approached the two drinkers he was pointing to with his long, spidery fingers.

‘Mother Bluegizzard, you're a marvel!’ laughed Zett Blackeye, a small tufted-eared goblin, as she took his empty tankard and replaced it with a full one.

His hefty sidekick, Grome, a cloddertrog in a battered leather cap, grunted his approval as she handed him his
drink. ‘No one ever goes thirsty at the New Bloodoak, eh, Mother?’ he boomed.

‘Our trough's getting low!’ came a chorus of voices behind Mother Bluegizzard, and she turned to see her regulars, Meggutt, Beggutt and Deg – comrades from General Tytugg's army, who had deserted together and made the perilous journey to the Free Glades – beckoning to her.

‘If you fine sirs will excuse me,’ she clucked to Zett and Grome, and bustled over to where the three goblins squatted at their drinking trough. ‘Same again, lads?’

The three goblins nodded eagerly and Mother Bluegizzard rolled a fresh barrel across the floor and leaned it against the rim of the trough.