Skarper hurried on his way south, and the road rose up in long, low stairs again, climbing away from the river. As it rose, the trees around it thinned, and soon he could see ahead of him the high battlements of the outer wall, and the guard towers clustering around Southerly Gate. The towers were topless and battered-looking, and parts of the wall on either side had been smashed down, for here the armies of the lands of man had fought their way right into Clovenstone on a long-ago day so terrible that it was still remembered in goblin lore: Bad Wednesday, the day the Lych Lord was defeated. As he neared the gate he began to pass heaps of bones lying scattered on the road or gleaming white among the roadside weeds. There were loads of old skeletons lying around all over Clovenstone, and Skarper would hardly have spared them a glance usually, but many of these were still encased in rusting armour, and around them lay corroded swords and the crumbling heads of axes, spears and pikes. In all the years since the Lych Lord fell no goblin had ventured this far from the Inner Wall to rob the dead who lay here.

The gateway was huge; big enough for giants to pass through three abreast. Splinters of the shattered gate still hung from rusted hinges. Weeds grew up thickly in the shadow of the arch, and a path had been trampled through them; trampled quite recently, judging by the smell of crushed leaves and stems. Skarper sniffed suspiciously, detected man-scent, and guessed that this was where that numbskull Henwyn had crept into Clovenstone earlier that day. For a moment he wondered how the young hero was faring, away in the woods between here and Westerly Gate, and whether anything had eaten him yet. The oddest feeling came to him; a pang of regret that he had not talked a little longer with Henwyn, or walked a little further with him. He hoped that the softling had not been eaten. He shook himself, feeling unsettled, for he had never actually cared about anyone but himself before, and he could not find a name for this strange new emotion. Perhaps one of the words he’d learned in Dictionary would describe it. “Kindness”? “Compassion”? “Gazebo”?

None of them sounded quite right, so he shook the feelings out of his head with a determined flap of his ears and crept along the trampled path to stand on the very threshold of Clovenstone, under the curve of the great arch. He looked south across the plain of Dor Koth to where cloud shadows walked upon the hills of Oeth Moor, and for a moment he was gripped by an odd excitement as he realized that he was free; there was nothing to stop him stepping out through the gate if he wanted and setting off in search of an adventure, just as Henwyn had. Then he flicked his ears again and told himself not to be so foolish. South of those hills lay man-country, and anyway, the last thing he wanted was more adventures.

He turned away from the hills and stepped back into Clovenstone, and instantly a net came down on him, weighted with stones all round its edges so that it knocked him to the ground and pinned him there. Booted footsteps clapped and clattered, coming down a long stone stairway from the battlements above the gate. Excited voices called, “I got him!”

“It’s a goblin, I’m sure it is!”

“Let’s have a look at him!”

Skarper thrashed and struggled on the old flagstones, getting himself hopelessly tangled in the net. Through the ropes he saw three softlings peering down at him. First Henwyn, now this lot: he had never realized that Clovenstone was quite so busy.

“Yes,” said one of the softlings, nodding until his long white beard bobbed, “it is quite definitely a goblin!”

“I had not expected to meet any so soon, so far from the Inner Wall,” said a second, a tall, pale fellow whose ears stuck out like handles. He had little round panes of glass perched on his nose in a horn frame, and these made his large, nervous eyes look even larger and more nervous.

“We must beware!” the third said. He was shorter than the others, and his skin was peaty brown. He wore a dark brown robe embroidered with suns and moons, and he carried a sword. “Where there is one, there may be more. Make sure he can’t escape, Fentongoose! Maybe he’s been sent out from one of the old towers to see who we are, and how many. If we let him go we could have a whole gang of them down on us by nightfall.”

“Then we shall not let him go,” said white-beard. “Not yet. Not until we have explained ourselves.” He stooped over Skarper, peering in at him through the knots of the net. “If our quest is to succeed then I must win the friendship of the goblin tribes. What is your name?”

There was a pause, while Skarper worked out that the man was talking to him. “Skarper,” he admitted.

“And what is your tribe?”

“King Knobbler’s Blackspike Boys, but. . .”

“Very good,” said the white-bearded man, smiling and rubbing his hands together. “I am Fentongoose, and these are my companions, Carnglaze and Prawl. We are the Sable Conclave. Alone among men we have kept alive the memory of the Lych Lord and his powers. Now Magic is stirring again in the world. We have seen the portents, and we have come here, to the source and centre of it. To Clovenstone!” He pointed towards the Great Keep. The clouds had cleared now, and it soared above the summit of Meneth Eskern with the afternoon sun shining on its impossible walls.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” asked Fentongoose, and without waiting for an answer he went on, “King Kennack’s armies never found their way inside, for all the entrances were sealed up with lychglass before they got there. But a way will be opened for those of us who have been loyal to the memory of the Lych Lord all these years. Behold: I bear his token, to prove that I am heir to Clovenstone.”

Out from the collar of his tunic he pulled a little stone amulet which hung around his scrawny neck on a cord. It was an old and tarnished thing, carved in the likeness of a grim, handsome face with wings sprouting from its temples.

“Look, goblin!” said the sorcerer. “Gaze upon the face of the Lych Lord!”

“He didn’t really have those wings on his head,” explained Prawl, tugging his spectacles off and buffing them on a corner of his cloak. “They’re symbolic.”

“Of course they are,” agreed Carnglaze. “He’d never have been able to get his hat on if they’d been actual wings.”

“They symbolize his great learning, and the way his will could fly forth from Clovenstone to work upon men and creatures far away,” said Prawl.

“Indeed,” said Fentongoose. He popped the trinket back inside his clothes. “Anyway, the point is that the Sable Conclave are your new masters. That’s what I wish to explain to your King Knobbler when you introduce us.”

“Introduce you?”

“Yes. You will lead us back to Blackspike Tower. There you will announce our arrival to King Knobbler, and ask him to grant us safe passage into the Keep. In return we shall make him our chief general when we become the new lords of Clovenstone.”

“But. . .” said Skarper, and then put a paw over his mouth to stop himself blurting out what he been about to blurt: that he was an outcast who had been thrown out of Blackspike – catapulted out of it, in fact – and that if he went back there with these softlings, Knobbler would tear him to pieces as soon as he’d finished tearing them to pieces.

“But what?” asked Fentongoose sternly.

“Nothing!” said Skarper. “I’m a particular favourite of King Knobbler, and I’ll be happy to show you the way to Blackspike and introduce you and all.” He knew that if he told them the truth about himself he’d be no use to them, and if he was no use to them they’d have no reason not to kill him. He would just have to go along with them. Somewhere between here and the Blackspike, he would find a way to escape from them.