by Paul Stewart
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.
Rook looked at the terrible machines, one after the other, his stomach sinking. From beside him, he could hear Ligger whisper the same three words over and over.
Sky protect us. Sky protect us. Sky protect us…
With a deafening crash, two more of the hulking glade-eaters burst through the tree-line, one hurling massive rocks from a three-armed catapult; the other firing blazing logs.
‘Stand firm, Freeglade Lancers!’ Captain Welt commanded.
The rows of lancers did as they were told, holding their skittish prowlgrins steady while struggling hard to stop their lances from shaking as the blazing logs and massive rocks landed in their midst. As the machines crashed forwards, they scorched a path across the meadowlands every bit as pulverized as the tracks through the Deepwoods. And trailing behind – shields up, weapons at the ready and keeping to the smoking tracks – marched phalanx after phalanx of the goblin army; hammerheads, flat-heads, huge tusked goblins and small greys, lop-eared, long-haired and tufted, all tramping in the twake of the glade-eaters.
Rook wrapped the reins around one hand and gripped his lance tightly. He bent down and whispered to Chinquix. ‘Easy now, lad.’ His voice quavered. ‘Wait for the command.’
Just then, Captain Welt's bellowed cry pierced the air.
‘CHARGE!!’
The full moon's reflection in the glassy surface of the Great Lake barely rippled as, with the faint sigh of wind on spidersilk, nine hundred skycraft rose into the air from the great wooden platform of Lake Landing. Silent as moonmoths, their sails billowing, the craft climbed high above the black silhouette of the Academy Tower and hovered for a moment. Then, as silently as they had risen, the swarm of skycraft separated into three and streaked off across the sky – one to the east, one to the west and one to the south.
Xanth Filatine set his nether-sail and swooped down in a wide arc round the three hundred skycraft of Varis Lodd's squadron. He signalled as he went.
Keep in formation, Grey Flight … Close up on the right, Green Flight … Steady, Centre Flight, follow the flight-leader's course!
The flights – each a hundred skycraft strong – fell into graceful arrowhead formations and followed Varis Lodd as she set a course for the southern fringes. Xanth checked his hanging-weights and swooped down to join the leader of the Grey Flight, who looked up with a smile.
Looking good, Flight Marshal! Magda signalled.
So are you, Grey Leader, Xanth signalled back. Just keep close when we get to the meadowlands.
Magda nodded, and Xanth peeled away to circle the squadron again. As he marshalled the stragglers back into formation, the moon appeared from behind the swiftly moving banks of cloud and shone down brightly, glinting on the carved and varnished heads of the individual skycraft. To the north, Xanth could see the Professor of Light's squadron, now just distant specks, flying low over the farmlands towards New Undertown. To the east, the Professor of Darkness's squadron skirted over the tall, tree-covered bluffs beyond the woodtroll villages.
Xanth checked his equipment for the hundredth time as the squadron flew high above the waif glen and the glistening lakes, and over the spiky treetops of the ironwood pines. His crossbow was in the holster strapped to his leg. It was oiled and loaded. The bolts hung from his flight-harness, sixty in each quiver, thorn-tipped and razor-sharp. His stove glowed from the saddle hook to his right, and the pinesap darts were strapped to his back along with a gladebirch catapult and a sack of rock-hard ironwood pellets for good measure.
That should do for the time being, he thought, but just in case … He slipped his hand inside his tunic and felt the handle of a sharp straight dagger. He had no intention of being taken alive.
It was quiet up so high in the air, away from the hubbub of Lake Landing. Only the single thrummed note of the wind whistling through the taut string of his crossbow broke the silence – now loud, now soft – as the wind rose and fell.
Some way beyond the Ironwood Glade, at Varis Lodd's signal, the entire squadron bore round and headed west. Below them now, Xanth spotted the fringes of the Free Glades picked out in the moonlight as farmland gave way to meadowland. He saw at once that all was not well. The forest had been sliced through in broad swathes, the great glowing scars extending out across the meadowlands like slime-mole trails. Along these tracks, at least twenty in number, the torches of the innumerable goblin hordes pouring into the Free Glades glittered like marsh gems.
But that was not all.
As Varis signalled for the squadron to hover and Xanth dropped down in the air to gather in the strays, he could see, at the head of each glowing trail, a huge furnace, its fiery mouth belching heat and sparks, its chimney spewing forth thick smoke.
Squadron! Varis signalled. Prepare for attack in flight formation, on my command …
Xanth tensed in his saddle as he steered the Ratbird round and joined the hovering Grey Flight, already busy setting their sails with feverish intensity. Good luck, Magda! he signalled across to the Woodmoth.
Good luck, Xanth! See you on the other side! Magda gestured back with a sweep of her arm.
Just then, far below, came the sound of a tilder horn sounding a charge, and a great spiky formation of Freeglade Lancers hurtled over the meadowlands towards the glowing furnaces. Varis sped across the sky in front of the squadron, her clenched fist held straight ahead in the unmistakable signal.
ATTACK!!
Up ahead of them, Lob could see the tall chimney of the glade-eater spewing out the acrid, black smoke that caught in their throats and made their eyes stream. The furnace glowed purple-blue as the goblin crew fed it with huge lufwood logs under the steady crack of a flat-head overseer's whip. Beside him, Lummel stumbled an
d almost lost his long-handled scythe as he tried to regain his balance on the churned up, splinter-strewn ground.
‘Careful, brother.’ Lob held out his hand to help him. ‘That's a good scythe, that is. You don't want to go throwing it away!’
From the rear, a flat-head goblin let out a throaty roar. ‘Close up in the ranks, you symbite pond-slime!’ And the air rang out with the sound of a bullwhip cracking and anguished whimpers of pain.
The web-footed goblins behind them – some three thousand strong – were suffering cruelly at the hands of their flat-head captains. Most were armed only with nets and fishing-spears, and were being horribly tormented by the burning sparks that blew back from the huge glade-eater they were forced to follow. They tried to fall back, to protect themselves, but the flat-heads were having none of it.
‘Keep up close to the glade-eater!’ they roared, cracking their whips. ‘You can bathe your scabby scales at the lakeside in New Undertown by sunrise!’
As Lob and Lummel stumbled forwards, the wind changed and blew the furnace smoke out of their faces, and for almost the first time since their hellish march had begun, they could see clearly. Ahead of them, New Undertown gleamed in the moonlight. There were tall buildings with crystal windows and spiky turrets, broad avenues lined with lights, stretches of water, fountains and statues, gardens and parks, the like of which none of the low-belly or symbite goblins dragooned into marching on the place had ever seen or even dreamed of before.
‘Hive-huts, look,’ whispered Lob.
‘And webfoot wicker-huts,’ Lummel whispered back.
‘And look at that dome there. I ain't never seen nothing so tall and grand and beautiful…’
‘… And deserted,’ Lummel interrupted.
Lob looked round and frowned. It was true. Despite the smells of woodale and perfume still lingering in the air; despite the lamplight, the open windows, the chatter of pet lemkins and distant lowing of hammelhorns, there was no sign of any New Undertowners. The taverns were empty. The streets were deserted. It was as though the whole place had been abandoned.
‘Where's everyone gone?’ whispered Lob.
Lummel shrugged. ‘I don't know,’ he whispered back. ‘Perhaps they heard we were coming and ran away?’
Ahead of them the glade-eater gave a screeching roar as the Furnace Master thrust full power onto the drive-chains, and the monstrous machine trundled forwards onto the cobbles of New Undertown.
‘To the Lufwood Tower!’ roared the flat-heads on either side of Lob and Lummel. ‘New Undertown is ours!’
They surged forwards, waving their bullwhips in the air, forgetting the low-bellies and web-feet in their eagerness to follow the glade-eater. Suddenly, as Lob and Lummel looked on open-mouthed, the cobblestones beneath the huge machine gave way and the glade-eater disappeared into the ground with an almighty crash!
For a moment there was a stunned silence as everyone stood rooted to the spot, a cloud of dust billowing over them and turning them white as it settled. The flat-head goblins in front looked like statues, Lob thought; big, ugly, startled statues. He started to laugh.
Suddenly something whistled past his nose with the sound of an angry woodwasp. It was followed by another, and another. At first Lob thought they had disturbed a nest or a hive, until he saw the statues crumple in front of him, crossbow bolts embedded in their chests like red badges.
He looked up and, with a lurch of his stomach that threatened to burst his belly-sling, he saw that the rooftops of New Undertown had sprouted white-clad figures in muglumpskin armour, swinging ropes and bristling with crossbows. Suddenly he became aware of Lummel bellowing in his ear.
‘Lob! Lob! Snap out of it and run!’
Without another thought, he dropped his long-handled scythe, turned on his heels and ran as fast as his legs could carry him back to the comparative safety of the treeline. Behind them came a deafening explosion as the furnace of the glade-eater exploded. Burning lufwood logs shot up from the sunken pit and blazed a trail across the sky.
Catching up with Lummel, Lob slumped to his knees on the forest floor. ‘What now?’ he wheezed, panting for breath.
His brother shrugged as he looked round. ‘Maybe we can go home,’ he said.
‘Not so fast,’ came a low growl and the low-bellies looked up to see a phalanx of hammerhead goblins glaring down at them from the forest shadows. Their captain stepped forward, his brow rings jingling, his lips set in a contemptuous curl. ‘The battle,’ he snarled, ‘is only just beginning.’
At the sound of the tilder horn, Chinquix leaped forwards – his muscular rear-quarters propelling him up half a dozen strides into the air and down again. All round, flashes of orange and brown bounding across the meadowlands told Rook that his friends were following. In front, the huge shape of a glade-eater raced up to meet them, its forward platform bristling with spears.
With another huge bound, Chinquix leaped past the rumbling machine as the air filled with the hum of serrated spears. Rook stood high in the saddle and gripped his ironwood lance tightly as they came down in the midst of the following goblins. A jolt ran down from his elbow to his shoulder as the lance struck
something solid – and then Chinquix was back in the air with another huge leap.
Rook looked down and noticed that the lance was dark with blood. Behind him, there were gaping holes in the ranks of the goblins – but with the scattered corpses of prowlgrins, too. He twitched on Chinquix's reins and the powerful creature bounded forward as another glade-eater reared up in front of them. Rook gripped his lance with all his might and felt Chinquix's powerful legs tense once more as they prepared to spring.
The glade-eater roared, the air black with smoke, as Rook and Chinquix sailed up to meet it. He felt his lance buckle as it struck the metal side of the furnace, then shatter. Chinquix's reins snapped out of his grasp and the stirrups were ripped from his feet as Rook felt his prowlgrin fall away beneath him. With a deafening clang, Rook hit the burning hot metal of the furnace and rebounded from it with a soft hiss, before falling back to land in the soft meadowland grass with a bone-jarring thud.
Struggling for breath, he leaped to his feet and drew his sword. The glade-eater trundled past belching flames and sparks, and Rook found himself confronted by a war band of powerful long-haired goblins in ornate tooled armour, wielding huge double-bladed axes.
With a savage roar, a massive black-haired goblin, his beard glinting with rings and his blue eyes flashing, swung a copper-coloured axe at Rook's head. Although his helmet crest deflected the blow, Rook was knocked back down to the ground. The goblin towered above him, hate blazing in his eyes.
‘Death to the Freeglader scum!’ he screamed, raising his axe. ‘Unnnkhh!’
The blue eyes glazed over suddenly as an ironwood pellet embedded itself in the goblin's forehead with an audible skull-splitting crack.
Rook tore off his shattered helmet as, overhead, skycraft flashed past, their riders raining down a deadly shower of bolts, flaming darts and ironwood pellets.
The long-hairs scattered, swinging their mighty axes above their heads with howls of rage.
Rook climbed to his feet. The Freeglade Lancers' charge had cut a swathe through the goblin army, but at a terrible cost. All around, desperately wounded prowlgrins thrashed about amid heaps of goblin dead. What was more, the charge had failed to halt the glade-eaters, which trundled on ever deeper into the heart of the Free Glades. And, as Rook looked, fresh goblin war bands swarmed out of the Deepwoods and along the scorched tracks.
Suddenly, a flash of white in the corner of his eye, made Rook spin round. And there beside him stood Chinquix, his nostrils quivering and the veins in his temples throbbing with exertion.
‘Chinquix! There you are!’ Rook cried, leaping into the saddle as the long-hairs regrouped and came on again. Rook raised his sword and urged Chinquix forward, a defiant cry on his lips.
‘FREEGLADER!!’
Xanth pulled on the flight rope
and climbed high above the meadowlands of the southern fringes. The squadron was regrouping flight by flight, the holes in their formation a testament to the desperate fight they'd been in. He looked back over his shoulder and shook his head ruefully. The charge of the Freeglade Lancers had been truly magnificent – more so, even, than the Battle of Lufwood Mount.
But at what cost?
All along the southernmost borders of the Free Glades, orange, black and brown corpses lay amidst heaps of bodies, marking the course of the lancers' charge. It had cut through the advancing columns of the goblin army, but had failed to stop the advance of the monstrous glade-eaters. Even now as he looked, Xanth could see the fiery furnaces glowing as they cut a swathe through the Timber Yards to the east.
The librarian knights had done what they could to help the lancers, flying down low over the goblin army time after time until their quivers were empty and their missiles spent. And they'd paid dearly for their persistence. Green Flight was down to two dozen craft, Centre Flight had lost fifty and Grey Flight…
Xanth let out his loft-sail and urged Ratbird forward. The remnants of the Freeglade Lancers had fallen back towards New Undertown, their sacrifice buying time for the woodtrolls and slaughterers to find safety in the caves of the northern cliffs. Now the librarian knights had to look after their own.
Xanth gathered speed and caught up with the tattered scattering of skycraft that, at first, he had taken to be stragglers, but now saw – as he approached – were actually all that was left of Grey Flight.
Your Flight Leader? he signalled to a librarian knight who was struggling with a torn nether-sail. Where is she?
The librarian gestured ahead. There, at the head of no more than twelve skycraft, Xanth saw the unmistakable prow of the Woodmoth, a figure slumped low in its saddle.
‘Magda!’ he called out. ‘Magda! Are you hurt?’
Magda looked up with dull, glazed eyes, her face black with soot – except for white tear-streaks. I'm fine, Flight Marshal, she signalled. But look what they've done to my Flight.