Freeglader (30 page)

‘In't there something useful you could be getting on with, eh, Grist, Worp, Trabbis?’ he asked, turning from one gnokgoblin to the other, ‘rather than joshing the lad here? And as for you, Ligger,’ he added, turning to the slaughterer, ‘I distinctly remember telling you to skin those tilders before the prowlgrins got their teeth into them. We need the pelts!’

‘Yes, Captain. Sorry, Captain, sir,’ said Ligger, and hurried off.

The gnokgoblin captain turned to Rook. ‘Well, son?’ he said. ‘Why
are
you here?’

The gnokgoblins busied themselves, while listening closely.

‘I want to join the Freeglade Lancers,’ Rook replied, trying to ignore the smirks of the gnokgoblins watching and listening from the surrounding branches.

‘Do you now?’ said the captain. ‘Can you ride?’

‘I … I have ridden a prowlgrin before, sir,’ said Rook. ‘I'm sure, with a little practice…’

‘Practice!’ the captain snorted. ‘I'm sure with a little practice,
I
could fly a skycraft, but that wouldn't make me a librarian knight. What makes you think you could make it as a Freeglade Lancer?’

‘It's just that … well …’ Rook began, his face falling. ‘I lost my skycraft – crashed over Screetown – and I can't seem to carve a new one, and I've been stuck in the library in the meantime. And … and then I saw you out on patrol the other evening. And I talked to Felix about it, and
he
said…’

‘Felix?’ said Captain Welt, his good ear twitching. ‘Felix
Lodd
?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Rook.

‘Felix Lodd of the Ghosts of Undertown?’

Rook nodded. ‘Felix said I could do a lot worse than join the Freeglade Lancers, especially after what you did at the Battle of Lufwood Mount.’

‘Did he now?’ said the captain, nodding sagely. Behind him, Rook could hear the eavesdropping gnokgoblins murmuring to one another. They were all clearly impressed.

‘Well, why didn't you say so before?’ said Captain Welt. ‘Any friend of Felix Lodd is welcome to join us, and Sky knows we could do with new riders. We lost a lot of good lancers at the lufwood mount.’ He shook his head for a moment, then reached forward and slapped Rook on the back. ‘String your hammock up over there,’ he said. ‘Grist and Worp'll sort you out – and report to me
tomorrow morning at eight hours. Understood, Lancer?’

‘Understood, sir,’ said Rook happily.

Rook slept well. The cool night air suited him so much better than the stuffy atmosphere inside a sleeping cabin; it always had. He was woken at sunrise by Ligger the slaughterer, who had prepared a breakfast of smoked rashers of tilder and pine-hen eggs for himself, Rook, and the three gnokgoblins, Grist, Worp and Trabbis. The five of them were soon hunkered down on the broad branch, tucking in.

‘So, Worp tells me you're an Undertowner,’ Grist was saying, as he chewed the salty fried meat.

‘I was brought up in the Great Library in the sewers of old Undertown,’ Rook nodded. ‘But I was born out here in the Deepwoods, so I'm told.’

‘Told?’ said Worp. ‘Don't you know?’

‘Let the lad enjoy his breakfast in peace,’ Ligger interrupted, and gave Rook a nudge. ‘Don't mind them. Gnokgoblins are nosy – you can tell that just by looking at them!’

The three gnokgoblins laughed so hard, Rook thought they might fall off the branch if they weren't careful.

‘It's all right,’ he reassured Ligger. ‘I don't mind. I'm an orphan. My parents were killed by slavers when I was little, and the librarians took me in and raised me.’

‘Undertowner, librarian, gnokgoblin or slaughterer – it's all the same,’ said Worp, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘We're all Freegladers now.’ The others all nodded. ‘Though for a moment back there, I didn't think
we'd make it,’ he said quietly.

‘You were at the Battle of Lufwood Mount?’ asked Rook, putting down his plate.

‘We all were,’ said Ligger.

‘We lost some good lancers that day,’ said Grist, shaking his head grimly.

‘Them shrykes had the frenzy upon them,’ said Worp and shuddered. ‘The hunger…’

‘If the roost-mother hadn't been killed, we'd have lost a whole load more,’ said Trabbis.

‘You're not wrong there,’ said Worp and the others nodded earnestly.

‘I saw it happen,’ Ligger said, ‘just as Vanquix and me made it through to the Undertowners' lines. Never saw the like of it in all my days. This young lad stepped up – shaved head, big flash-looking sword. Sliced her head off in one blow, he did! Right in front of us. The whole shryke flock just went crazy – turned and started attacking each other.’ He shuddered at the memory of it. ‘So where were you?’ Worp asked Rook. ‘Head in the clouds?’

‘Well, sort of,’ said Rook, smiling. ‘But not in the way you mean … I'd been struck by a sepia storm, way out in the Edgelands. I was half dead. My banderbear friends took me away from the mount before the actual battle began. They made their own way to the Free Glades, taking it in turns to carry me. I remember very little about it…’

‘A friend of banderbears, eh?’ said Ligger, obviously impressed.

‘Fine, noble creatures,’ the gnokgoblins were all agreeing, when all at once a tilder horn sounded, the rasping cry echoing round the glade.

‘Eight hours already,’ said Ligger. ‘Time to muster.’

The gnokgoblins hurriedly finished the rest of their breakfast and drained their mugs. Ligger grabbed Rook by the arm.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You've got an appointment with Captain Welt.’

The next two weeks were among the most challenging of Rook's life. Despite his training as a librarian knight, nothing could have prepared him for what followed. Instead of the elegant arts of ropecraft, sail-setting and flight practice, Rook learned the bone-crunching techniques of branch-riding and ironwood jousting.

Gripping on to a slender lower branch with his legs, and dodging the incoming ironwood pine-cones, he had to remain in position as the branch was bounced up and down by ropes, tugged and jerked by bellowing lancers. Time and again he was unseated, and fell down onto the soft pine needles below, only to climb back onto the branch
and resume the seemingly neverending practice.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, every day there were the endless tilts at the quintain, with the heavy ironwood lance clasped under one arm while the other was strapped to his side. Suspended from a branch in a narrow rope-swing and pushed, Rook swung to and fro, hitting the target and being hit in equal measure by the quintain's pivoting padded arm. At night – despite the others sniggering at the bookish former librarian in their midst – he read from Fenbrus Lodd's treatise, soaking up every word and learning all about the prowlgrins he had yet to ride.

In the third week, he was introduced to the creatures
at last and instructed how to clean and groom them, how to file their claws and oil their leathery feet. He patted them on the sides of their great heads and tickled them with his fingertips, just the way the treatise had taught him to. He learned about tack; the harnesses, saddles and reins, and the heavy bits that were held between their great, gaping mouths which enabled them to be controlled.

Ligger and the gnokgoblins all had prowlgrins of their own, on whom they lavished great care and attention. They were tame – sleek grey, brown, orange and black creatures who had formed strong bonds with their riders. But there were also others – some young and unbroken; others ownerless since the loss of their Freeglader riders. These, Rook and the other new recruits looked after. It was at the end of that third week that Captain Welt himself came up to Rook at the close of yet another gruelling day.

‘I've had my eye on you, Rook Barkwater,’ he said. ‘You're a quick learner and no mistake. I think the time's come for you to choose a prowlgrin of your own. Ligger,’ he said, turning to the slaughterer. ‘Take him with you to the central-corral. Tomorrow, he'll ride beside you on patrol.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Rook, breaking into a broad smile. It was the moment he'd been waiting for.

He and Ligger set off at once, cutting through the Ironwood Glade, towards the great central roost, chatting excitedly as they went. As they got closer, the air grew musty and Rook could hear the sounds of whinnying and snorting as the roosting creatures sensed
their approach. They were greeted by the roost-marshal, Rembit Tag, a small, muscular gnokgoblin with thick, black hair.

‘We've been sent by Captain Welt,’ Ligger announced. ‘Rook here needs a prowlgrin mount.’

‘Does he now,’ Rembit said, eyeing Rook up and down, gauging his size and weight. He selected a saddle for him and handed it over. Then, turning, he nodded towards the herd. ‘I'd go for one of the large greys,’ he said. ‘Not too much spirit, but dependable.’

Rook looked. They were a mixed flock. There were the large brown, grey and black prowlgrins, with thick, muscular hind-legs and tiny front paws. Then the slightly smaller, but more skittish, orange prowlgrins – sleek and fast, but harder to handle. Rook stepped forwards, and walked amongst them, patting them, stroking and tickling them. The prowlgrins purred and nuzzled against him. Rembit was impressed.

‘They like you,’ he said. ‘You seem to have a natural way with them.’

Rook nodded.
The prowlgrin has forty-three places receptive to stroking, patting and tickling: the eyebrow, the middle digit of the toe
… Fenbrus's treatise intoned in his head.

There was one prowlgrin he'd noticed, perched on a branch some way off from the others. Unlike them, with their yellow eyes and plain coats, this one had eyes of bright, piercing blue and a skewbald pattern of dark brown patches on snow-white fur.

The white, spotted prowlgrin – exceptionally intelligent,
but temperamental. Rewards careful handling, but easily ruined by a heavy hand
…

‘What about that one?’ he said.

‘Ooh, no,’ said the marshal. ‘You don't want that one. It was ridden by Graze Flintwick, a flat-head. Cut down in the Battle of Lufwood Mount, he was. Won't let anyone else near it. I only keep it out of respect for old Flintwick…’

But Rook was intrigued. There was something about the way the prowlgrin with the beautiful markings skittered about, its gaze flickering anxiously, that caught his eye. Passing through the more docile prowlgrins which nuzzled against him as he went, he approached the skewbald creature slowly. Ligger and the marshal went with him.

‘What's his name?’ said Rook.

‘Chinquix,’ Rembit replied. ‘But believe me, he can't be ridden. In fact, I'm amazed he's allowed you to get this close.’

Rook nodded and, with his head lowered, but eyes holding the gaze of the nervous beast, moved towards it. ‘Chinquix,’ he said softly. ‘It's all right, lad.’

Approach a nervous prowlgrin from the side, maintaining eye contact at all times, and blowing softly
…

The prowlgrin reared up and let out a yelp of distress.

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Rook whispered. ‘Steady now. Steady…’

Keep hands at one‘s side, and head lowered…

‘I really can't advise this,’ Rembit began, but Ligger took his arm and stilled him.

…
Introduce oneself to the prowlgrin by means of smell
…