Clash of the Sky Galleons

by Paul Stewart;Chris Riddell

  A deep, rumbling cacophony of conversation was overlaid with intermittent explosions of noise: bellowing voices, raucous laughter and snatches of rousing songs. There was back-slapping and boot-stamping; there was ladle-sloshing, trough-sluicing and tankard-clunking; and the constant clatter of huge kegs being rolled over the floor, as the serving-goblins replaced the empty ones with full ones.

  And as each fresh barrel was tipped into the foaming drinking troughs, so the nutty aroma of fresh woodale would join the more pungent odours of the hall. Acrid tallow smoke from the dim lanterns, roasting ironwood acorns from the hanging braziers, and the strange, musky smell of wet sky pirate coats slowly drying in the warm air, as their owners sat hunched over the quaff-tables, slumped at the drinking-troughs or jostled each other at the huge ale vats.

  Wizened quartermasters, burly deckmates and harpooneers, swaggering sky pirate captains and their hulking bodyguards - every size, shape and type of sky pirate seemed to be represented in the high-gabled, cavernous drinking hall. Thaw Daggerslash took a deep breath and, with as much swagger as he could muster, made his way through the throng.

  A gangly mobgnome brushed past him, a tray of brimming tankards balanced on her upraised hand.

  ‘You there,’ he said, seizing her by an arm. ‘Is Glaviel Glynte in tonight?’

  The mobgnome spun round, a look of irritation in her eyes - which melted away when she found herself looking into the kind, noble face of the handsome young sky pirate captain.

  ‘The tavern master, sir?’ Flustered, she blushed and lowered her gaze. ‘I … I think … that is to say …’

  ‘Yes?’ Thaw smiled at her.

  ‘You could try the garrets, sir.’

  The mobgnome turned and pointed up, past the rows of kegs lining the second and third storeys, towards the upper balconies, far above their heads. As she did so, the tray balanced on her hand wobbled and threatened to tumble to the floor. Thaw steadied it, his hands brushing against hers. She blushed all the more fiercely.

  ‘Good luck, sir,’ she said, and with that, scurried away.

  Turning on his heels, Thaw Daggerslash headed for the stairs that led up to the balconies, passing through the huddled clusters of sky pirates as he went. Mingling together in the Tarry Vine tavern, there seemed to be members of every tribe and clan in the Edgelands -mobgnomes, cloddertrogs, brogtrolls, slaughterers, waifs and goblins of every type, from lop-ears and hammerheads, to long-haired and tusked.

  In stark contrast, Thaw Daggerslash himself was a fourthling - and proud of it.

  Unlike the tribes and clans of the Deepwoods, who identified closely with their own kind and shared fierce loyalties and cherished customs, fourthlings could not clearly be categorized. They weren’t goblins or trogs, waifs or trolls, but often had shared ancestors who were all of these and more. Kobold the Wise, leader of the Thousand Tribes centuries before the floating city of Sanctaphrax was even dreamed of, had named these outsiders fourthlings - for the blood of the tribes from all four corners of the Edgelands mingled in their veins.

  Ever since then, fourthlings had made their way in the world without the benefits of clanship and tribal protection. Instead, they worked and lived amongst their Edgeland neighbours, becoming slaughterers or woodtroll timberers as the occasion presented. The trogs and the goblin tribes of the Deepwoods refused to have anything to do with fourthlings, but in the great melting pot of Undertown, these same fourthlings prospered.

  They became sky pirates and Sanctaphrax professors, leaguesmen and merchants. Here in the bustling city, tribes lost much of their importance, and power and influence was gained through guile and cunning, not clan loyalty.

  Yes, Thaw Daggerslash was proud indeed to be a fourthling.

  There was a smirk on his lips as he turned the corner of the long flight of stairs and, doubling back on himself, continued past the stacks of giant kegs onto the high balconies. Up there, where the rafters divided the broad ledge-like floor into garret alcoves, the light from the overhead lamps was at its brightest - though, paradoxically, it was also where the darkest shadows were cast.

  Thaw Daggerslash made his way along the upper balustrade, glancing into the individual garrets, where only the most important sky pirate captains - and the occasional high leaguesman - could be glimpsed, sitting at low tables in furtive conversation. He was halfway along the balcony when he heard the unmistakable nasal voice of Glaviel Glynte.

  ‘And I’m telling you,’ the tavern keeper was saying, ‘if you haven’t paid up in three days, then the Mistmizzen goes back to the boom-docks.’ Thaw could hear the sound of him cracking his knuckles, one after the other. ‘What’s more,’ he hissed, ‘I’d rather rip out its flight-rock and sell it on to the Leagues; I’d rather turn its timbers into furnacewood before I ever let you captain her again. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘C … c … crystal clear,’ came the stammered response.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ snapped Glynte. ‘Now, get out!’

  Thaw stood back as the hapless sky pirate captain scurried past him, head down and cheeks burning. It couldn’t be easy for a captain to have his cherished sky ship threatened with destruction like that - but then, Thaw realized, he must have known the risks when he first came to the Tarry Vine tavern in search of a loan. He was probably lured by the thought of adventure and riches, snagged by the tavern’s promise, only to find himself in the clutches of the grasping bloodoak himself, Glaviel Glynte.

  Glynte was well known for backing ambitious captains whom other more cautious tavern keepers had turned down. But if they didn’t deliver on his investment, Glaviel Glynte was notorious for destroying a sky pirate as completely as a bloodoak devours its prey.

  Thaw sighed thoughtfully. Now he was in the same situation as so many ambitious young sky pirates before him, coming cap in hand to this fearsome tavern keeper. That, he told himself, was as far as the similarity went. He would honour his debts, he’d make sure of it - for Thaw Daggerslash had no intention of allowing Glynte to destroy him. Thaw was going to captain a sky ship of his own and make his fortune.

  Perhaps one day, he thought with a smile, he’d be as rich as the tavern keeper - for Glynte was rich. Very, very rich.

  He, like so many other Undertown tavern keepers, had acquired his wealth by investing in sky pirate ships and then taking a hefty cut of the profits. From modest beginnings, he had built up a successful empire and now boasted a share in more than fifty separate vessels - as well as a magnificent palace in the Western Quays.

  There were many who were jealous of his wealth, not least amongst the leaguesmen, but since the Tarry Vine tavern was a safe haven for all sky pirates - particularly when the Leagues were indulging in one of their perennial purges - the sky pirates, in turn, offered him their unqualified protection. In the skies above the Edgelands, league ships and sky pirate ships engaged in a constant struggle, but on the streets of Undertown, an uneasy truce was tolerated by all sides.

  ‘Next!’ Glaviel Glynte’s voice barked out.

  The character before Thaw - a short lugtroll with a squint - started back and suddenly scuttled away, apparently losing his nerve right at the last moment. Now at the front of the line, Thaw stepped forward into the small garret.

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ Glynte told him impatiently without looking up.

  Thaw did as he was bid, stumbling slightly as he moved, for the stool, bathed in shadows, was lower than he’d anticipated. It was also positioned so that the lamp above him shone directly in his eyes. Glynte ignored him. Hunched over a vast leather-bound ledger, a scratchy quill in his right hand, he was busy transferring one column of numbers into the next. Beside him was his assistant, a tousle-feathered, beady-eyed shryke, who sat motionless and stared unblinking into mid air, an overbearing seen-it-all-before attitude about her.

  Thaw could feel his confidence ebbing away as the tavern keeper continued to ignore him. He cleared his throat and leaned forward on the low stool, and was about to say somethin
g when Glaviel Glynte abruptly looked up.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked in a low, silky voice, with just a hint of menace.

  The tavern keeper’s politeness disarmed Thaw momentarily.

  ‘I need … That is, I would like … I mean, if you …’

  Glaviel Glynte laid his pen down and fixed the callow sky pirate with an intense stare. Beside him, the shryke matron turned her own unblinking eyes on him. Thaw swallowed hard.

  ‘Spit it out, son,’ said Glynte. ‘We haven’t got all day, have we, Sister Horsefeather?’

  The bird-creature shook her head from side to side while maintaining her unbroken gaze on Thaw’s face.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Thaw. ‘It’s just … I need a loan. A small loan. Just enough to get me started.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I need to recruit a crew and equip a sky ship …’

  ‘You have a sky ship?’ Glynte’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Not exactly …’ Thaw wavered under the intensity of two sets of piercing eyes. ‘I mean … I could have …’

  Glynte and Horsefeather exchanged knowing looks. The shryke opened her beak.

  ‘The tavern keeper isn’t interested in “not exactly”s and “could have”s!’ she rasped. ‘Do you have a sky ship, or not?’

  Thaw blushed furiously and looked down at his feet.

  ‘No, not yet…’

  ‘Then the tavern keeper can advance you fifty gold pieces - enough for a simple sky barge and one deckhand,’ clucked Horsefeather. ‘And you can leave your fine notions of being a sky pirate captain for when you’re a little older. Take it or leave it.’

  Ignoring the shryke, Thaw turned to Glaviel Glynte, his scalp itching with frustration.

  ‘Fifty gold pieces,’ he said bleakly. ‘But … but I was hoping for at least ten times that amount. I need the loan to get the crew on my side, then …’

  ‘Sky ship first, boy,’ clucked the shryke. ‘Then money for crew. Do you want the barge or not?’

  ‘But…’ began Thaw.

  The tavern keeper slammed the flat of his hand down on the table-top. ‘Next!’ he bellowed.

  ‘So what were we doing out there at the cliff quarries?’ Tem murmured.

  ‘Yes, Quint,’ whispered Maris, ‘why did your father sail to such a terrible place?’

  The three of them were sitting in the far corner of the Tarry Vine at a long, old table, its dark surface pitted and scarred with the carved names of generations of sky pirates. Opposite them were the other crew-members: old Spillins the oakelf, Ratbit the mobgnome and Sagbutt the flat-head, Steg Jambles the harpooneer, and Filbus Queep the quartermaster, engaged in their own hushed conversation.

  Wind Jackal was sitting at the head of the table, his brow furrowed and his eyes glassy, lost in dark thoughts of his own. Of the crew of the Galerider, only the Stone Pilot was absent - but then she never liked coming ashore, preferring instead to go below deck to her cabin, where she would curl up in her hammock in the darkness, and dream.

  ‘Perhaps you should ask my father that question,’ said Quint, looking across at the sky pirate captain.

  All eyes turned to Wind Jackal, who was tracing the long-forgotten names carved on the ancient table with his forefinger.

  ‘I thought he was dead,’ Wind Jackal said slowly. ‘Perished in that terrible fire that killed my beloved family and from which only my son Quintinius escaped …’

  His eyes glistened, but behind the tears there was a frightening intensity to his gaze. Quint reached out and patted his father’s arm.

  ‘Turbot Smeal!’ Wind Jackal almost spat the words out, so laden with hatred they seemed to be.

  Around the table, the crew-members nodded their heads reverently. Everyone knew of the terrible fire that his ambitious and vindictive quartermaster had started in Wind Jackal’s house when the young sky pirate captain had been away.

  It had blazed ferociously, spreading and engulfing half of the buildings in the Western Quays before fire sky ships had finally managed to quench the flames with water scooped from the Edgewater River. By the time the fire was doused, however, it had already taken the lives of his wife, Hermina, five of his six sons and their nanny. When he returned, only Quint - at five years old, his youngest - was there to greet him.

  ‘I swore there and then that I would avenge the death of my loved ones; that I would find Turbot Smeal and bring him to justice …’ Wind Jackal’s eyes blazed. ‘Justice! Pah! What justice was there that scum like him would understand?’

  His voice took on an ice-cold clarity. ‘There in the smoking embers of my home, I planned what to do with him when I caught him. I would hang, draw and quarter him. I would drench him in blood, tie him up in the Stone Gardens and leave it to the white ravens to pluck out his eyes, his tongue, his still-beating heart … I wanted him, drowned, burned, garotted, beheaded, sky-fired Anything! I wanted to see him die!’

  He paused and, clasping the sides of the table, stared round into the circle of faces, one after the other. And, one after the other, those faces looked back down at the table, pained and embarrassed, and unable to respond. Quint’s heart thumped. His face was flushed.

  ‘F … Father,’ he began, and reached again for Wind Jackal’s arm.

  This time the sky pirate captain brushed him aside.

  ‘But it wasn’t to be,’ he said, his voice as cold and sharp as a newly forged sword. ‘And why not? Because that filthy, low-down, no good son of a gutter vulpoon was already dead.’ He snorted. ‘Burned himself to death in the fire, didn’t he?’ A small, unpleasant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘At least, that was what everyone believed. There were even eye-witness reports that said he’d been seen on fire, trying to flee through the blazing streets.’

  The crew, who had been looking away, turned back.

  ‘And I believed them for so long,’ he said. ‘Until one afternoon, twelve years after the fire, almost to the day, a ratbird arrived with a message telling me I’d find the miserable wretch in an obscure slave-market clearing in the middle of the Deepwoods.’

  Maris gasped involuntarily.

  Wind Jackal sighed. ‘The ratbird died in my hands, and the note was unsigned. But I had to find out if it was true …’ He looked across at his son. ‘That’s why I picked you up and took you from the Knights Academy, son. Oh, I know I snatched you from your studies, putting on hold that great day when you might set forth on a stormchasing quest to the Twilight Woods - and for that I am truly sorry. But I needed you with me. This was a family matter …’

  Quint nodded, but Maris could see that he was troubled.

  ‘Of course, things didn’t work out the way I had hoped, and we got distracted by that business with the Stone Pilot.’ Quint and Maris both smiled. ‘But when we got back to Undertown, an old Mire pirate told me of a rumour he’d heard that Smeal had found a new hide-out…’

  ‘The cliff quarry’ Tem breathed.

  ‘Just so,’ said Wind Jackal. ‘And that was why we went down there, Quint and I, to get our revenge once and for all.’ He shook his head. ‘Yet once again we were thwarted. It was a trap. Smeal must know we’re on his trail. He laid an ambush - leading us down into the quarry, then luring those foul wraiths to devour us.’ His eyes took on a steely intensity as, once again, he surveyed the gathering around the table. ‘But thanks to you, my loyal crew, we survived to continue the hunt.’

  Quint swallowed anxiously. Maris cupped his hands in her own beneath the table-top, and squeezed.

  ‘I intend to hunt him until I catch him,’ Wind Jackal said, his voice now a deathly quiet whisper. ‘I shall never give up - and if you value me as your captain, you will follow me in this quest. If not, you are free to go, right now …’

  The crew glanced at one another. None of them had ever seen their beloved captain in such a state before. Spillins smiled half-heartedly. Steg Jambles picked up his half-empty glass of woodale, raised it to his lips -then returned it to the table, untouched.

  ‘We’re w
ith you,’ said Maris, breaking the silence.

  Under the table, Quint squeezed her hand.

  ‘Wind Jackal!’ came a cheery voice from the staircase. ‘How are you?’

  Everyone turned, relieved, to see the young sky pirate Thaw Daggerslash coming down the stairs from the upper balconies. Smiling broadly, he nodded in turn at the assembled crew.

  ‘It’s good to see all of you,’ he said. His gaze lingered on Quint and Maris. ‘You must be the son I’ve heard so much about,’ he said. ‘And you … Who might this beautiful young lass be?’ he asked.

  ‘My name is Maris. Maris Pallitax,’ said Maris a little stiffly. ‘My father used to be …’

  ‘Most High Academe,’ Thaw Daggerslash broke in. ‘Linius Pallitax. I met him once … A wonderful academic and kind-hearted to a lowly sky pirate.’

  Maris melted. ‘He was kind to everyone he met, no matter how grand or humble.’

  ‘Such a tragic loss,’ said Thaw, his face etched with concern. He turned to the captain. ‘But Wind Jackal, my old friend, I couldn’t help noticing a certain tension in the air. If there is anything wrong …’

  Wind Jackal shook his head. ‘Crew business,’ he muttered. ‘Nothing that need concern you.’

  Thaw Daggerslash’s pleasant smile didn’t falter. ‘Of course not, of course not,’ he said amiably. ‘But you know, if you ever need a second-in-command, I’m still available.’

  ‘You’re a talented sailor, Daggerslash,’ said Wind Jackal, ‘and one day, you’ll make a fine captain - if you only have the patience to work your way up. Besides, as I told you before, I have a son …’

  ‘True, true,’ Thaw Daggerslash smiled, giving Quint a pat on the shoulder. ‘And I’m sure he’ll do you proud, Captain Wind Jackal, sir.’

  ‘No hard feelings, then?’ said Wind Jackal, handing the young sky pirate a tankard of woodale.

  ‘No hard feelings!’ said Thaw with a laugh.