by Paul Stewart
‘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?’
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The three goblins nodded eagerly and Mother Bluegizzard rolled a fresh barrel across the floor and leaned it against the rim of the trough.
‘Ready?’ she asked.
Three heads nodded and she pierced the wooden barrel with a razor-sharp talon, releasing a foaming stream of ale into the trough. The three heads went down and the air filled with the sound of heavy slurping.
‘You're welcome,’ said Mother Bluegizzard cheerfully, wiping her claw on her apron. ‘Now, how about another tot of woodgrog, Captain?’ she chuckled, turning to a tall, gaunt figure with a thick matted beard.
He was another one of her regulars. The Mire Pirate, they called him, but as he never spoke, no one knew his real name. He'd turned up in New Undertown more than a dozen years earlier and had soon found his way to the Bloodoak, where he had been a regular ever since. Certainly he looked like a sky pirate and from his
bleached skin, it was clear he'd spent much time in the Mire, hence his nickname. And yet, to Mother Bluegizzard, it was his eyes that were the most mysterious thing about him.
Misty and unblinking, those pale, staring eyes somehow managed to give the impression that they had seen sights that no one should ever witness – though, since she'd never heard him utter a single word, it was impossible to tell for sure.
Over in the other corner, the festivities were livening up.
‘A toast!’ cried Deadbolt Vulpoon, rising a little unsteadily to his feet. ‘To us!’ he proclaimed, raising his tankard. ‘Free-gladersh!’
‘Freegladers!’ cried Felix.
‘Fr-uh-gl-uh-wuh!’ yodelled the banderbears.
Deadbolt turned to them as he fell back into his seat, his eyes twinkling mischievously. ‘Wuh-wuh-wuh,’ he grunted. ‘I can't unnerstan' a wor' you say!’
Wuralo and Weeg chortled to themselves. Wumeru nodded and gave an airy wave of her left arm. ‘Weelawuh, wurra-yoola-wuh,’ she murmured.
‘Wha' she say? Wha' she say?’ said Deadbolt, turning to Rook.
Rook smiled, his eyes softly glowing. ‘She said, “The woodale has loosened old Tanglebeard's tongue. Soon he will be yodelling!”’
The sky pirate roared with laughter. ‘Why not,’ he said. ‘It don't seem too hard.’ Throwing back his head, he bellowed out loud, ‘Wuh-uh-uh-wuh-ooooo!’
Felix turned to him, his hands clamped over his ears. ‘What on earth was that?’ he said.
‘Wasn't it obvious?’ said Deadbolt, pointing into his empty tankard. ‘I'm thirsty!’
Felix laughed. ‘Woodale all round! And more squashed fruit for our hairy friends here!’ he added, winking over at Fevercule, the tavern waif.
Deadbolt got to his feet and pulled each banderbear in turn to theirs. ‘Now, here's a language we can all share!’ he laughed, and began dancing an unsteady jig.
Rumbling with deep laughter, the banderbears joined in.
Felix turned to Rook, his eyes twinkling, and frowned. ‘Rook?’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’
His friend was pale and the rings beneath his eyes were darker than ever.
‘It's just that I get so tired,’ Rook said, sitting back in his chair. ‘And yet I can hardly sleep. Thoughts and half-remembered images race through my mind in a jumble. I can remember some things as if they happened yesterday, but others are a complete blank…’
‘Do you remember this?’ asked Felix, pulling a sword out from beneath his cloak.
‘My sword …’ said Rook slowly, frowning as a lost thought hovered at the edge of his memory. ‘But it's … it's the one you gave me,’ he said, ‘all that time ago. Back in the underground library. I remember losing it in old Undertown…’
‘And yet I found it in the Deepwoods,’ said Felix, ‘in the possession of one Xanth Filatine – the same Xanth Filatine who led you astray in the Edgelands. Claims he found it.’ He snorted. ‘A likely story! He and his Guardian of Night friends probably looted it, and he's too ashamed to admit it.’ He shook his head. ‘He's a bad lot, that one, and no mistake,’ he said. ‘Didn't I tell you to watch out for him?’
‘Xanth Filatine,’ Rook repeated. ‘I remember him from our time together at Lake Landing … He was unmasked as an agent of the Guardians of Night … But after that … nothing.’ He looked up at Felix. ‘Where is he now?’
‘Don't worry about him,’ said Felix gruffly. ‘He's being taken care of.’
‘I don't understand,’ said Rook.
‘He's being held in the Gardens of Light beneath the Ironwood Glade,’ said Felix. ‘And that's where he's going to stay until his Reckoning. And from what I hear, there are plenty who intend to speak out against him when the time comes, myself included…’
‘Rook Barkwater!’ exclaimed a voice. ‘As I live and breathe. Rook Barkwater!’
Felix and Rook turned to see a stout individual standing behind them, his hands on his hips and a huge grin on his face.
‘Don't tell me you don't know who I am!’ he said, sounding hurt. ‘It's me, Stob. Stob Lummus.’
‘Stob Lummus,’ Rook repeated thoughtfully.
‘They told me at Lake Landing that I'd find you here,’ he said, ‘and here you are!’ He leaned forwards and pumped Rook's arm up and down. ‘It's so good to see you.’
‘It's good to see you, too,’ said Rook, struggling to make sense of the jumble of memories clattering about in his head. ‘Lake Landing … We were apprentices together, weren't we? You, me, Magda, and Xanth…’
The smile faded from Stob's face. ‘They told me of your trouble, Rook,’ he said. ‘A sepia storm. Is it true that that traitor, Xanth Filatine, led you into it on purpose?’
‘I … I …’ said Rook. ‘My memory, it's…’
‘I understand, old friend,’ said Stob, patting him on the back. ‘A good dose of pure Free Glade air and you'll soon be on the mend…’
‘Hammelhorn,’ Rook blurted out. ‘You carved your skycraft in the shape of a hammelhorn.’
‘That's right,’ said Stob, nodding enthusiastically. ‘Mine was a hammelhorn, Magda's was a woodmoth and yours was a stormhornet.’ He frowned. ‘And Xanth's was a…’
‘A ratbird,’ said Rook.
Felix snorted. ‘That figures,’ he said darkly.
They were joined by the banderbears, who now supported a sleeping Deadbolt Vulpoon between them. Stob shook their paws, one after the other. ‘Welcome to the Free Glades. Welcome, indeed!’ he said to each in turn, pausing when he came to Deadbolt. He looked questioningly at Rook.
‘Don't mind him,’ laughed Felix, getting up. ‘He's been warmly welcomed enough for one evening. Come, we'll find cosy hammocks waiting for us in the Hive Huts.’
Just then, the entrance doors flew in. Everyone inside the tavern fell still, the chaotic hubbub of loud voices and raucous song instantly replaced by the sonorous chanting of low voices.
‘Ooh-maah, oomalaah. Ooh-maah, oomalaah. Ooh-maah, oomalaah…’
All eyes fell on the line of oakelves – seven in all – as they marched in, and wound their way round the crowded room. Their turquoise hooded robes were stained by the juice of lullabee trees and rustled slightly as they walked.
‘The Oakelf Brotherhood of Lullabee Island,’ Fevercule's whisper sounded in Mother Bluegizzard's head.
The one at the front swung an incense-burner on chains to and fro, to and fro, filling the air with sweet aromatic smoke, while at the back the last oakelf in the line rang a heavy bell, over and over, like the tolling of a death-knell.
‘Ooh-maah, oomalaah. Ooh-maah…’
‘To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?’ clucked Mother Bluegizzard, trying to disguise the peevishness in her voice. These oakelves certainly knew how to spoil a party.
The procession brushed past her and made for the corner of the room. The Mire Pirate's unblinking eyes followed it. All at once, the oakelf leading the small procession stopped in front of Rook Barkwater and lowered his hood. His face was as brown and gnarled as the trees the creatures had taken their names from. The cha
nting softened to a low, ululating drone. Above it, the oakelf spoke.
‘We come in search of the one who was touched by the sepia storm,’ he said, his voice frail and cracked.
He reached out with the censer and swung it, sending wreaths of smoke coiling round Rook's head. The young librarian knight's pale blue eyes gleamed more brightly than ever.
‘Come with us,’ said the oakelf, as the chanting grew louder once more. ‘To Lullabee Island.’
• CHAPTER TEN •
LULLABEE ISLAND
‘L ullabee Island?’ said Rook, taking the oakelf's outstretched hand and finding himself looking into eyes so black that it was like staring into the depths of open sky itself. Twinkling there were lights, as bright as the stars, as full as the moon; yet as he looked more closely, he realized that it was his own eyes – eerily glowing – which were reflecting back at him.
‘You are tired, yet cannot sleep?’ asked the oakelf.
‘Yes,’ said Rook.
‘Your head is full of thoughts and memories,’ the oakelf continued, ‘and yet you can find no peace?’
‘Yes,’ said Rook, his eyes glowing more brightly than ever.
‘Then come with us to Lullabee Island. My name is Grailsooth, and these …’ He waved a hand to indicate the others, and Rook was aware of the disconcerting gaze of six more pairs of dark eyes. ‘These are my fellow brothers from the lullabee grove there. We have dreamed of you, Rook Barkwater, and have come to offer you what help we can.’
The silence in the tavern was broken by the clatter of a beaker of woodgrog as it slipped from the old Mire Pirate's hand and clattered to the floor.
‘I'll come with you,’ Rook said, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
He stood up and the oakelves turned to go. Felix jumped to his feet, followed by the banderbears on either side of him, low growls in their throats.
Deadbolt slid to the floor and began to snore softly.