Freeglader (37 page)

been out on patrol. They'd started off far to the northwest of the Free Glades, and had gradually made their way eastwards, skirting round the outer fringes and making occasional forays deeper into the forest. Up until now, they'd discovered nothing untoward. In fact, if anything, the forest had seemed quieter than usual, and on that first night spent in his swaying hammock, Rook had slept better than he had done for years.

The following morning, however, the deep sonorous calls of giant fromps from distant ironwood stands had woken them, and the troop had set off to investigate the cause of the disturbance. As they rode, leaping through the upper branches, their lance pennants fluttering, they had passed Deepwood creatures fleeing through the forest below.

Now, Rook could see why. Beneath him, Chinquix gave a low growl of alarm. Other riders joined Rook, high up above the leafy canopy: the gnokgoblins Grist, Worp and Trabbis, Ligger the slaughterer, and Captain Welt himself.

‘Earth and Sky!’ the captain exclaimed. ‘What is
that
?’

Rook shook his head. Countless trees had been felled, leaving a bald swathe of scorched earth through the forest. Beyond it was a second track, even broader than the first, and thick with chips of wood – all that remained of the magnificent lufwoods, leadwoods and lullabees that had until so very recently been standing there.

‘The trees have been decimated,’ cried Grist, pulling on the reins and steadying his prowlgrin.

‘Razed to the ground,’ added Worp.

‘Flattened and incinerated,’ gasped Ligger.

‘And scythed,’ added Ligger. ‘Look at these saplings. They've been sliced right through.’

Grist turned to Captain Welt. ‘Goblins?’ he asked.

But the captain shook his head. ‘No goblin work party I've ever seen could clear the forest like this,’ he said. ‘It takes weeks to fell an ironwood stand, yet look…’

The lancers looked where Welt was pointing. The stumps of the mighty pines stuck up from the devastated forest floor like the gap-toothed smile of a gabtroll. All round them lay the charred remains of twenty or so huge fromps, still clutching branches in their great curved claws.

‘And we heard the fromps calling just this morning,’ the captain said grimly.

‘So, who or what did this?’ asked Ligger, his red face anxious and drawn.

‘It beats me,’ said Welt.

‘Well, whatever it was,’ said Rook, pointing down the tracks to smoke on the horizon, ‘it's heading straight for the Free Glades!’

As evening fell over New Undertown and the sky turned from gold to deepest copper, the lamps of the Lufwood Tower were lit, one by one, until the whole magnificent building was ablaze with flickering light. High in the tower, on the open platform just below the roof, the Council of Eight had gathered. Garlands of flowers hung from the pillars, the posts and the
balustrades, their fragrance as intoxicating as the goblets of sweet winesap on the table before them. Above, the bell in the cupola tolled nine and Cowlquape Pentephraxis raised his goblet.

‘Fellow members of the Council of Eight,’ said the High Academe, looking round at the gathered assembly. ‘Or should I say, friends. I would like to propose a toast.’

Parsimmon, the Master of Lake Landing, and Fenbrus Lodd, the High Librarian, exchanged knowing glances. The Professors of Light and Darkness picked up their goblets with a smile, while stony-faced Varis Lodd took hers in both hands. Hebb Lub-drub, Mayor of New Undertown, looked embarrassed and clicked his fingers for his empty goblet to be refilled, while Cancaresse, Keeper of the Gardens of Thought, fluttered her huge ears as she raised her tiny thimble of winesap.

‘Hebb informs me that the harvest has been gathered in,’ Cowlquape proceeded, ‘that the grain-stores, the
beet-houses, the fruit-lofts and milch-barns are all full to bursting…’

Everyone raised their goblets to the low-belly goblin, who smiled delightedly.

‘While Parsimmon, here, reports the largest graduation of apprentices from the Lake Landing Academy in living memory!’

‘Hear, hear!’ said the Professors of Light and Darkness together, bowing to the gnokgoblin master.

‘And Cancaresse reassures me that the Undertowners have settled into their new lives here in the Free Glades with great success.’ Cowlquape smiled at the tiny waif, who nodded in agreement. ‘But perhaps our greatest achievement here,’ the High Academe continued, spilling a drop of his winesap as he raised his goblet high above his head, ‘is the completion of the magnificent new library under the guiding hand of Fenbrus Lodd. To the Great Library!’

‘To the Great Library!’ chorused the Council of Eight as one, and drained their goblets.

But wait
… Cancaresse's soft voice sounded in every-one's head.
One of our number does not share our happiness
… The waif turned to Varis Lodd, her ears fluttering like paper. ‘You are troubled?’ she asked quietly.

Varis nodded. ‘There are disturbing reports coming in from the forest fringes all round the Free Glades,’ she said, putting her goblet down on the table.

‘Reports?’ said Cowlquape with concern. ‘From whom?’

‘From my librarian knights, from the sky pirates
and
from the ghosts…’

‘
Pah!
' interrupted Fenbrus Lodd. ‘The ghosts, indeed. That's just that son of mine out looking for trouble…’

‘No, father.’ Varis's voice was stern. ‘I believe there's more to it than that. I believe that the Free Glades are in great danger…’

Just then, there came a clattering sound followed by a loud whinny, and a powerful skewbald prowlgrin appeared on a buttress below and launched itself up onto the platform balustrade, scattering the garlands of glade-lily and pasture-violets. A Freeglade lancer slipped from the saddle and thudded to the floor, where he knelt in front of the Most High Academe, his head bowed and his breath short and panting.

‘Rook!’ said Cowlquape. ‘Rook Barkwater, is that you?’

‘I … I bring … urgent news …’ Rook gasped, gulping in lungfuls of air, ‘from Captain Welt … of the Lancers … He sent me on ahead … Chinquix was the fastest…’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Varis. ‘What news, Rook?’

‘The Free Glades … are in … great … danger,’ he panted.

‘Danger?’ said Cowlquape. ‘From what?’

‘From that!’ said Rook, leaping to his feet and gesturing towards the distant horizon.

Cowlquape and the council crossed to the balustrade and peered out at the reddish glow in the distance.

‘From the sunset?’ said Cowlquape. ‘I don't understand…’

‘Sunset!’ Rook interrupted, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘Believe me, Most High Academe, sir, that is no sunset!’

• CHAPTER NINETEEN •
INFERNO

‘R
ook Barkwater reporting back!’ the young lancer cried out as he tugged at the reins of his powerful skewbald prowlgrin.

Captain Welt acknowledged him with a nod of the head and a barely perceptible smile. Behind him, the massed ranks of the Freeglade Lancers – five thousand strong in all – stretched out across the meadowlands of the southern fringe. They wore green and white chequerboard collars, white tunics emblazoned with the red banderbear badges and, with their long, glittering ironwood lances raised, resembled nothing so much as a gigantic bristle-hog basking in the evening light.

‘Captain,’ Rook began, and patted Chinquix, who was panting and snorting, his great pink tongue lolling out of the corner of his mouth as he sucked in huge gulps of air. ‘The Council of Eight send their compliments to the Freeglade Lancers and their illustrious leader…’

‘Yes, yes, Rook, lad,’ interrupted Captain Welt. ‘You and Chinquix here have made excellent time getting
back from the Lufwood Tower. Don't waste it now with empty greetings. What exactly did the council
say
?’

Rook took a deep breath. ‘The librarian knights are taking to the air,’ he told him, ‘and the ghosts and sky pirates are organizing the defences of New Undertown, but…’

‘But?’ said Welt, his low brow creased and his dark eyes boring into Rook's.

‘But they need time to evacuate the villages of the woodtrolls and slaughterers to the cloddertrog caves in the northern cliffs…’

‘Then we shall buy them that time!’ said Welt, glancing round, ‘if necessary, with the blood of the Freeglade Lancers!’

Behind him, the lancers roared their approval and thrust their ironwood lances high in the air. Rook smiled.

‘You've done well, Rook, lad,’ said Welt, wheeling Orlnix, his orange prowlgrin, round on the spot. ‘Now find your troop and fall in. We've got a long and bloody night ahead of us!’

He spurred his mount and trotted out along the edge of the meadowlands in front of the lancers. All eyes turned to the treeline in the distance. Above the jagged silhouettes of the copper-elms and gladebirch trees, the sky was an angry crimson, as columns of smoke rose up from the depths of the forest all along the southern fringes of the Free Glades.

Rook found Ligger the slaughterer, and Worp, Trabbis and Grist the gnokgoblins, sitting grim-faced astride their prowlgrins in the centre of the line. There was no
time for greetings. An ominous rumble, like rolling thunder or the growl in the throat of a monstrous beast, was rising up from the forest in front of them, growing louder and louder as the light faded.

‘By Sky,’ Ligger murmured, his lance trembling in his that?’

Beside him, Grist shook his head. Worp and Trabbis exchanged troubled glances. The next moment a loud splintering crash rang out across the meadowlands as a dozen or so towering copper-elms on the fringes of the glade abruptly toppled to the ground. An instant later, from a couple of places further to the right, more trees creaked and splintered and crashed to the forest floor.

The line of trees in front of the massed ranks of lancers now looked suddenly ragged. The ominous rumbling became a deafening roar as, out of the gaps in the treeline, in a flash of flame and screech of metal, came first one, then two, then four huge metallic monsters, heaving themselves out into the meadowlands.

The first was like a giant battering-ram, with a long, curved metal spike protruding from its front. The next had long whiplash chains that spun round and round,
encircling everything before it and tearing it from the ground, while the third had sweeping scythes that slashed through the air – now high, now at ground-level – cutting down everything that stood in its way. Each infernal machine was propelled by a mighty lufwood-burning furnace, and as the energy of the buoyant wood was converted into power by screeching chain-belts and pulleys, so thick, black, spark-filled smoke billowed from the furnace chimney above.