Freeglader (42 page)

As the last glade-eater plunged into the waters of the North Lake and exploded, a huge column of water burst forth into the air like a mighty geyser. Higher and higher it climbed before falling abruptly away. And there, where it had been just moments before, floating head-down on the surface of the water, was the body of the former Foundry Master, Hemuel Spume, his boiled skin looking pinker in death than ever it had in life.

The waters stilled, and the haunting sound of chanting voices echoed out across the surface of the lake from Lullabee Island at its centre.

‘Ooh-maah, oomalaah. Ooh-maah, oomalaah. Ooh-maah, oomalaah…’

iii The Battle of the Barley Fields

Lob hitched up his belly-sling and pushed back his straw bonnet. ‘It's a sad business all round, and no mistake, brother,’ he said.

‘It is that, brother,’ said Lummel, shaking his head. ‘It is that.’

They were standing at the back of a great phalanx of low-belly spear carriers. Around them, the grey goblin archers, pink-eyed sling throwers and barb-spitters of the lop-eared clan clustered in an untidy rabble. Amongst them, standing out like ironwood pines, were huge tusked goblins, their massive clubs resting on their shoulders. Unlike the elite long-haired and hammerhead goblins, this was the untrained bulk of the goblin armies.

‘Them poor symbites didn't stand a chance,’ said Lob.

‘And it'll be our turn next, brother,’ said Lummel. ‘To pay for the clan chiefs' glory with
our
blood.’

Next to them, a pink-eyed barb-spitter nodded, and a massive tusked goblin gave a low growl of approval. Lummel glanced at them sideways.

‘Friends of the harvest?’ he asked in a low whisper.

Ahead of them, spread out along the top of the ridge, their weapons, helmets and breast-plates glinting in the bright yellow sunlight, stood phalanx after bristling phalanx of the elite of the goblin army, many rows deep. There were flat-heads to the left, with curved scimitars and studded cudgels, and long-hairs to the right, vicious double-edged battleaxes resting over their shoulders.
At the centre – a head taller than all the rest and dominating the skyline with their heavy armour, their crescent-moon shields and fearsome serrated swords – were the hammer-heads.

In front of them stood the clan chiefs beneath the ornate canopy, held aloft by five huge, tusked goblins. Mother Nectarsweet of the symbites was sobbing uncontrollably – causing Meegmewl the Grey of the lop-eared clan and Rootrott Underbiter of the tusked clan to scowl at her with contempt. Hemtuft Battleaxe picked at his shryke feathercloak distractedly, while Lytugg of the hammerhead clan stepped forward and addressed her warriors.

‘The so-called invincible glade-eaters are no more,’ she bellowed, and a wicked smile spread out across her thin lips. ‘Now we shall fight the goblin way!’

Out of the ruins of New Undertown came the Freegladers.

On the right were the Freeglade Lancers, still proud and upright on their prowlgrins despite their tattered tunics and blood-stained armour. Rook and Chinquix were at their head, with Grist – the only one of his original comrades to survive – beside him. The lancers were down to eighty now and their prowlgrins looked thin and exhausted.

On the left, the sky pirates marched behind the braziers of their captains, with Deadbolt Vulpoon at their head. They'd polished their breast-plates, compass brass and telescopes, which now gleamed and glittered in the sunlight, and looked impressive despite their ragged greatcoats.

At the centre, led by Felix and his father, Fenbrus Lodd, came the Ghosts of New Undertown and a motley selection of ageing librarians from the Great Library, armed with clubs, scythes, sling-shots and catapults. The ghosts had fought hard but they knew that, numbering less than two hundred, their task against the thousands of goblins facing them was hopeless.

Behind them, leading their skycraft on the ends of tether-ropes and ready to take to the air at a moment's notice, came the librarian knights. Between the Professors of Light and Darkness walked Xanth, his dark eyes betraying both fear and pride. Of the nine hundred librarian knights, fewer than three hundred remained. Their ranks now included the callow apprentices from Lake Landing, led by Stob Lummus – a worried,
haunted-looking Magda Burlix at his side.

Behind them all, the ruins of New Undertown smouldered, and beyond that, the white cliffs of the cloddertrog caves glimmered in the afternoon haze. There, holed up and waiting for news, was the defenceless population of the Free Glades, huddled together. All that was standing between them and the bloodthirsty goblin hordes was this rag-tag army.

Tramping through the fields of blue barley – the Waif Glen on one side and the dark fringe of the Deepwoods on the other – the Freegladers approached the huge goblin army, which rippled with anticipation. Felix stepped out and raised his hand.

‘We shall stand and fight, here in the barley fields!’ his voice rang out. ‘And die if we must as Freegladers!’

‘Freegladers! Freegladers! Freegladers!’ came the response.

Ahead of them, the ranks of the flat-heads, long-hairs and hammerheads lurched forwards as if in answer to their challenge.

‘Earth and Sky be with us all,’ Fenbrus murmured by his son's side.

As the goblins bore down upon them, every Freeglader felt his heart race and his stomach churn. The ground itself trembled beneath the marching feet of the massed ranks of the goblins, and as they drew closer, the sun dazzlingly bright behind them, they started chanting – a single word, over and over…

‘Blood! Blood! Blood! Blood! Blood…’

A hundred strides apart … Ninety … Eighty … The Freegladers could smell the foul odour of their enemies' unwashed bodies.

Seventy … sixty … fifty strides. They could see the tattoos emblazoned on their skins, and hear the sinister jangle of their barbaric battle-rings above the continuing
thud-thud-thud
…

Closer and closer. The goblins' chants had turned now into a frenzied, guttural howl mixed with a different noise…

Felix gasped. The noise wasn't coming from the ranks of the goblins. It was coming from the fringes of the forest to the east – a loud, yodelling cry that sliced through the still afternoon air.

The goblins seemed oblivious to it. Lost in their blood-lust, they thundered on, closing the gap…

Thirty strides … Twenty…

Now, he could see the reds of their bloodshot eyes. This was it. The Freegladers' last stand…

Fifteen … Ten…

All at once, the yodelling reached fever-pitch and out of the dark-green edges of the Deepwood forest came a great, seething brown mass which tore into the flat-heads on the goblin army's left-hand flank. Mighty goblin
warriors were picked up and flung screaming through the air, as the ferocious beasts – all whirring claws and flashing tusks – tore through the goblin ranks like a blade through butterwood.

Rook leaned forward in his saddle as Chinquix snorted and skittered about uneasily. ‘Banderbears,’ he breathed. ‘A convocation of banderbears!’

In front of the Freegladers, the elite of the goblin army was disintegrating. A flat-head swung his studded cudgel, only to have it knocked from his hands like a young'un's rattle – and his head crushed a moment later by a banderbear's tusked bite. A pair of long-hairs, their battleaxes swinging above their heads, were felled as one, as a huge, dark-brown banderbear struck out with one mighty claw.

First one, then two, then three hammerhead goblins were skewered on their own serrated swords, then tossed to the ground and trampled by roaring bander-bears, their fur red with blood.

Those not slaughtered threw down their weapons and fled back towards the mass of lop-ear and tusked goblins to the rear, who were looking on in dumbstruck amazement. The banderbears – now as red with goblin blood as the emblem on Rook's tunic – threw back their great heads and bellowed in triumph.

‘WUH-WUH!!’

Chinquix gave out a shrill snort of alarm as, out of the mass of celebrating banderbears, three huge, blood-spattered figures approached. Despite their gory disguises, Rook recognized them instantly.

‘Weeg! Wuralo! Wumeru!’

‘Wuh-weela-wuh, Uralowa,’ they yodelled in unison.
We have returned, he who took the poison-stick.

Rook was about to leap from his saddle and embrace them when Grist clasped his arm.

‘Rook!’ he hissed urgently. ‘Look!’

Rook followed his comrade's gaze. There, on the crest of the hill, coming through the blue barley towards them was the rest of the goblin army, their burnished metal weapons and armour glinting ominously in the evening sunlight.

Rook's heart sank. There were quite simply too many of the goblins to deal with. Countless thousands of them, appearing row after row after row at the crest of the hill and sweeping forward towards them. Not even
the banderbears would be sufficient to repel this massive army.

There were tusked goblins, including snag-toothed and saw-toothed individuals, and ferocious underbiters. Tramping down the hills, they looked an impregnable force with their tooled leather armour rattling with battle-rings, their heavy visors and war-fists, and heavier war-clubs, reputedly embedded with the teeth of their opponents.