Felix's eyebrows drew together darkly. ‘You reckon the hammerheads you disturbed were snooping then?’ he said.
‘No doubt about it,’ said Deadbolt darkly. ‘And they didn't want to be seen either. Scouting out our defences, if you ask me.’
Felix frowned. ‘How many did you say there were?
’ ‘At least two hundred,’ said Deadbolt grimly. ‘And we found evidence of many more. Camp fires, clearings and old hive-huts, freshly used' – he wrinkled his nose – ‘by the smell of them. I reckon we've got half the Goblin Nations out there, just waiting for the chance to attack.’
Felix leaped to his feet, his eyes blazing. ‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ he said, the excitement plain in his voice. ‘We must warn the Freeglade Council at once and prepare for war!’
‘Good luck with that!’ said Deadbolt with a snort. ‘You know what these Freegladers are like. So long as there's crops in the fields and timber in the yards, they're happy. Even the librarians are more concerned with that library of theirs than anything else.’
‘Then it's up to us!’ said Felix with a triumphant smile.
He looked round the table, his gaze fixing momentarily on each of his ghosts. ‘You're going to have to put those plans of yours on hold, lads,’ he said. ‘Blad, the Silver Pastures will have to wait. Skut and Skillet, it's goblin fighting not fromp trapping for you. And Brove, forget the gardening and hang onto your bone-armour. You're going to need it!’
‘Aye, Felix,’ he said.
‘And as for me,’ he said, his eyes blazing brightly. ‘It looks as if the librarians will just have to get along without me for the time being.’ He raised the tankard which Mother Bluegizzard had just refilled. ‘Forget the Ghosts of Screetown,’ he said. ‘Here's to the Ghosts of New Undertown!’
All clear to the west, the young skycraft pilot signalled, before swooping down low and fast, skimming over the long, pale green grass of the Silver Pastures and soaring back, high into the air.
Steady, Xanth! his companion signalled back, adjusting her sail with a deft flick of her tolley-rope and rising up beside him. ‘Still trying to impress the tilderherders, I see!’ Magda shouted across to Xanth with a smile.
‘Just enjoying the Ratbird again!’ Xanth shouted back, patting the carved prow of his skycraft. ‘It handles even better than I remember,’ he added, laughing out loud as, with a skilful twitch of the loft and nether-sail ropes, the spidersilk sails billowed and the little craft soared up high above his flight partner.
‘We're not here to enjoy ourselves! We're on patrol!’ Magda called after him, stroking the carved prow of the Woodmoth. It was true, it was exhilarating to be back in the air. After the shryke fireball had torn through her spidersilk sail and sent her spiralling out of control to slam into the forest floor, she had feared Woodmoth would never fly again. But she'd picked herself up and, pulling the stricken skycraft behind her, had trudged for days through the Deepwoods. It had taken weeks to recover from that terrible journey, not to mention to repair the Woodmoth. And now, here they were once more, soaring through the clear Free Glades air.
High above, Xanth tugged on the hanging-weights and swooped back down through the sky, panicking a herd of tilder grazing below him, and sending them galloping off across the grasslands. In the distance, several slaughterers on skycraft waved in salute and gave their characteristic whooping calls. There was nothing a seasoned tilderherder appreciated more than skilful flying. Xanth waved back and swooped round in a slow arc to rejoin his companion.
Come on, Magda signalled, trying not to smile. Let's head back. We need to make our report.
Xanth nodded and followed her as she set a full sail. Below them, the vast grasslands of the Silver Pastures shimmered in the morning light and great herds of bellowing hammelhorns grazed beside skittish runs of leaping tilder.
Beyond the Silver Pastures, the rolling green canopy of the Deepwoods stretched out seemingly for ever. Far, far away were the tiny specks that marked the beginning of the Goblin Nations, and on the distant horizon the inky smudge of the Foundry Glades glowered like a bad dream. Here in the bright sunshine, all was peace and tranquillity. Xanth caught Magda up and signalled across to her.
Race you back to Lake Landing!
Magda made no reply, but from the way the Woodmoth abruptly darted off through the air in the direction of the Free Glades, it was clear that she had not only seen his challenge but had also taken him up on it. Like two snowbirds in a windstorm, the skycraft streaked across the sky.
Past the look-out tower they went, leaving the Silver Pastures behind them; over the spiky treetops of the forest ridges and down towards the Free Glades. Far below them, the great northern cliffs dotted with cloddertrog caves came into view. A moment later, New Undertown appeared, with the three lakes spread out before them, their still, deep waters reflecting the midday sky like burnished mirrors. And as they flew on, they were joined by other librarian skycraft as patrols flew in from every direction towards Lake Landing.
The Great Lake came closer and Magda eased off, letting the loft-sail go slack. It's OK! she signalled. You win! If Varis sees us racing, we'll be for it!
Xanth brought the Ratbird round and gently steered it in. The pair of them landed amongst many others on the thronging platforms of Lake Landing.
‘Timid lemkin,’ whispered Xanth in Magda's ear as they secured their skycraft.
‘Show off!’ she responded and stuck out her tongue.
The dozens of skycraft, tethered to jutting mooring-bars, bobbed around in the warm breeze that was getting up, while the gantries and flying-walkways were filled both with those librarian knights who had just landed and those who were about to take off. Magda and Xanth headed off along the jetty to where a cluster of young librarian knights had assembled and were deep in loud, animated conversation with each other. As they joined them, so too did Varis Lodd, striding up from the direction of the refectory tower, her green flight-suit gleaming in the bright sunlight.
‘Librarian knights!’ she said, her voice sharp-edged and commanding. ‘Stop gabbling like a bunch of woodgeese and make your reports!’
The librarian knights snapped to attention, eyes facing forwards and divided into twos. All raised their hands and signalled their reports with crisp precision.
Movements to the south. Suspected flat-head party.
Varis nodded, her eyes narrowing.
Forest fires near the Foundry Glades. Spreading this way.
Varis nodded again, her face stony and expressionless.
Fired upon over the southern fringes. Grey goblins' barbed arrowheads. No casualties.
Varis moved along the line, nodding curtly as each librarian pair reported in turn. There had been goblin sightings, recently deserted clearings and glowing campfires all round the borders of the Free Glades.
‘And you two?’ Varis's voice, stern and strident, cut through the silence.
Magda and Xanth, who'd been nudging each other and trying to make one another giggle, looked up guiltily. Magda raised her left hand and signalled the wide arc of the Silver Pastures, while Xanth circled his thumb and forefinger and bowed his head.
‘All quiet in the Silver Pastures, eh?’ Varis gave a thin smile. ‘At last, some good news. Though with all that fancy flying and racing, I'm not surprised you two didn't notice anything. Thank goodness for the slaughterer herders. At least their reports are reliable!’
Magda and Xanth both reddened as all eyes turned to them.
‘Librarian knights, dismissed!’ Varis barked, and the ranks broke up and headed for the refectory tower.
‘Xanth!’ Varis's hand was on the librarian knight's shoulder. As she drew him to one side her voice became low and confidential. ‘Talking of herders' reports,’ she said, ‘a certain slaughterer tells me that your flying this morning was the finest he'd ever seen.’
Xanth's face reddened once again, but this time he was smiling.
‘If things are as bad as I suspect, y
our flying skills will soon come in useful.’
‘They will?’ said Xanth.
‘Yes,’ said Varis, smiling in turn. ‘As my flight marshal.’
‘Steady, boy,’ Rook whispered as he felt Chinquix quiver beneath him.
The branch the prowlgrin was perched on seemed impossibly slender, but Rook had learned to trust his mount's judgement completely. In all their exhilarating treetop gallops through the Deepwoods, the powerful skewbald prowlgrin had never put a foot wrong. And in contrast to its bigger brown and orange cousins, Chinquix was fast and quick-witted. Rook had only to touch the reins or squeeze his legs with the slightest pressure for the prowlgrin to respond instantly.
But there was more to their bond than simply mount and rider. Whenever Rook appeared in the roost, Chinquix's blue eyes would light up and his thin, whiplash tail would thrash the air excitedly. Then Rook would tickle Chinquix just above his nostrils and the prowlgrin would close his eyes and let out a low rumbling growl of contentment.
‘What is it, boy?’ whispered Rook, leaning forward in the saddle. Chinquix's nostrils were quivering as he sniffed the air. ‘What can you smell?’
Rook scanned the horizon. To his right, the undulating ocean of leaves continued into the distance; before him, a similar view was interrupted in several places by ironwood stands, the stately pines reaching up high above the rest – while to his left…
He gasped. His jaw dropped and his eyes widened, unable to believe what they could see.
‘What in Sky's name?’ Rook murmured.
For two long days, the troop of Freeglade Lancers had
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.
C
owlquape 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!’