The Last of the Sky Pirates

by Paul Stewart

Back at the tally-hut, there was a soft click as the claw-stile opened once more. An angular figure in dark robes slipped through. As he lowered his hood, the moon glinted on high cheekbones and closely cropped hair.

  hey had been walking for hours over the slippery boarded walkway. All around them traders, merchants and itinerant labourers just like themselves trudged on, backs bent under heavy burdens, eyes staring fixedly down. Few spoke, and when they did, it was in whispers. It was dangerous to attract attention on the Great Mire Road.

  Rook glanced up. Ahead, the timber walkway snaked off into the distance like some gigantic hover worm. To their left and right, the Mire mud glistened in the fading light.

  ‘Keep your eyes down!’ Stob’s whisper was urgent and threatening.

  ‘Remember,’ said Magda softly, placing a hand on Rook’s shoulder. ‘To look directly into a shryke guard’s eyes is punishable by death.’

  Rook shuddered. Just then, ahead of them, he heard the clicking sound of clawed feet on the wooden boards and the brittle crack of a bone-flail. Shryke guards were approaching.

  Rook’s heart missed a beat.

  ‘Steady,’ Stob hissed. ‘We mustn’t draw attention to ourselves. Just keep moving. And you’ – he jabbed Rook nastily in the back – ‘keep your eyes to yourself!’

  ‘It’s all right,’ whispered Magda. ‘Here, take my hand, Rook.’

  Rook grasped Magda’s hand gratefully, fighting the urge to turn tail and flee.

  The clawed feet clicked nearer. Ahead, the slow-moving crowd seemed to melt away into the shadows cast by the blazing beacons that were strung out high above them at hundred-stride intervals along the way. Rook couldn’t help himself. He glanced up.

  There ahead of him, staring back with cruel, yellow unblinking eyes, was a tall mottled shryke guard, resplendent in burnished metal breast-plate and great curved beaked helmet. A razor-sharp talon moved to her side, where the vicious-looking bone-flail was strapped. With a rustle of feathers, the guard drew the flail. Rook was transfixed with fright. He looked down instantly and squeezed Magda’s hand with all his might. He heard Magda gasp.

  ‘How dare you!’ The screech pierced the air like a dart.

  Rook closed his eyes and hunched his shoulders, waiting for the blow he felt must surely come.

  ‘Mercy, mercy,’ a goblin’s frightened voice cried out pitifully. ‘I didn’t mean to … I beg you. I—’

  The bone-flail cracked to life in the evening air, followed by the sound of a skull shattering. Rook opened one eye. In front of him, in the harsh glare of an overhead beacon, a small goblin lay at the shryke’s feet. A pool of blood spilled out across the surrounding boards.

  ‘Goblin scum!’ the shryke squawked, and behind her two other guards clacked their beaks with amusement.

  The shryke swung the flail over her shoulder, and the three of them strode on. Magda pulled Rook to one side as they passed. He felt faint. Rook had witnessed, and experienced, violence before – the viciousness of an angry professor, the brutality of the fights that had occasionally broken out amongst the apprentices and under-librarians …

  But this. This was different. It was a cold violence, callous and passionless – and all the more shocking for that.

  ‘That was close,’ said Stob quietly, behind them. ‘Come on, now. Keep moving, or we’ll never make it to the toll-tower. There’s a rest platform there,’ he added.

  Rook glanced down at the body on the road and, with a jolt, recognized the pack on the hapless goblin’s back.

  The goblin had been a knife-grinder, just like himself. Hands were now grasping the body, dragging it into the shadows. Rook heard a distant muffled thud as something landed far below in the soft Mire mud. All that was left of the goblin was a small blood-red stain in the wood, which marked what had happened. It occurred to Rook that, along the length of the Great Mire Road, he had seen many such stains.

  Rook turned to Magda. ‘This is a terrible place,’ he said weakly.

  ‘Courage, Rook,’ said Magda kindly. ‘We can stop for the night at the rest platform. There’ll be someone there to meet us, I’m sure.’

  Rook stopped. ‘Couldn’t we just stay here? Night’s closing in, the road seems to be getting more and more slippery – and I’m so hungry’

  ‘We keep on to the toll-tower,’ said Stob firmly. ‘Then we stop for something to eat. Rook!’ he snapped. ‘Do keep up.’

  Rook was motionless, rigid. His eyes and mouth were open wide, his face drained of all colour. He had seen something hanging from a great beacon-pole, just up ahead.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Magda. ‘Rook, what is it?’

  Rook pointed. Magda looked round – and gasped. Her hand shot up to her mouth.

  ‘Earth and Sky,’ Stob groaned as he, too, saw what Rook had seen. ‘That is … dis-gus-ting,’ he murmured.

  Rook shuddered. ‘Why do they do it? What could possibly justify that?’

  He stared up at the hanging-cage. It was a mesh of interlocking bars, shaped like a sphere and suspended from a gantry fixed to the top of the tall, fluted ironwood beacon-pole. There was a dead body inside it, its limbs contorted, its head bathed in shadows. A growing flock of white ravens was flapping round, landing on the bars and pecking fiercely through the gaps.

  All at once the corpse slumped forwards. The largest white raven of all gave a loud kraaak, beat the other birds away and stabbed at the head, once, twice.

  Rook screwed his eyes shut, but too late to avoid seeing the unfortunate creature’s dead eyes being plucked out of its skull. One. Two. The sudden jerkiness of the movement … A strand of something glistened in the yellow lamplight. Rook abruptly bent over double as if he’d been struck a blow to the belly and retched emptily as he staggered over the bloodstained boards.

  ‘Come on, now,’ Magda said gently. ‘Pull yourself together.’ Then, supporting him with her arm, she handed Rook her water-container. ‘Drink some of this,’ she said. ‘That’s it. Now, breathe deeply. In, out. In, out …’

  Slowly, Rook’s legs stopped shaking, his heart quietened, and the choking feelings of nausea began to subside. ‘You were right, Rook,’ he heard Magda saying in a quavering voice. ‘This is indeed a terrible place.’ They rejoined the slow-moving file of travellers on the Mire road, and continued in silence.

  With the toll-tower no more than a hundred strides away now and the wind coming from the west, the acrid smoke from the tilder-fat beacon at its top blew back along the Mire road into their faces. It made Rook’s eyes water. It made his heart pound. After all, if no-one appeared soon to help them through this stage of their journey, they would have to deal with the shryke toll-guards on their own – and having just seen what they were capable of …

  ‘I am a knife-sharpener, if it pleases you,’ he practised breathlessly. ‘A knife-sharpener from the Goblin Glades – I mean, Nations. The Goblin Nations. That’s it. I’m a knife-sharpener from the Goblin Nations.’

  In the event, the imposing shryke at the desk took their money, stamped their papers and waved them on without even raising her crested head. Rook kept his eyes firmly on his feet, which were now aching from the hours of walking. Presenting their papers was clearly a mere formality, he realized, important only when it was not done – for if the shryke guards ever found a trader or merchant without the most up-to-date stamps during one of their random inspections, the punishment was both swift and severe.

  Rook didn’t want to think about it. He followed the other two out onto a wide landing of lufwood planks, crammed with numerous stalls. Run by mobgnomes and gabtrolls they were, slaughterers, woodtrolls and gnokgoblins – each one vying with his or her neighbour for the passing trade.

  There were lucky charms for sale: talismans, amulets and birth-stones. There were crossbows and long-bows, daggers and clubs. There were purses, baskets and bags. There were potions and poultices, tinctures and salves. There were street plans for newcomers to Undertown and charts of the endless forest (often hop
elessly in accurate, though none who purchased them would ever find their way back to complain) for those who hoped to travel in the Deepwoods.

  And there were food stalls. Lots of them, each one laden with delicacies from all parts of the Edge. There were gnokgoblin meatloaves on offer, woodtroll tilder sausages, and sweetbreads cooked to a traditional cloddertrog recipe. There were pies and pastries, puddings and tarts; honey-soaked milkcakes and slices of candied oaksap. In short, there was something for everyone, whatever their taste, and the air was filled with an intoxicating mixture of aromas – sweet, rich, juicy, creamy, tangy – all mingling together in the brazier-warmed air.

  Yet Rook was no longer hungry. His appetite had been lost to the memory of that dead prisoner in the cage, with his torn flesh and his stolen eyes.

  ‘You must try to eat,’ said Magda.

  Rook shook his head mutely.

  ‘Then I’ll get something for you,’ she said. ‘For later.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Rook wearily. It was sleep he needed, not food.

  ‘There are hammock shelters and sleeping pallets close by,’ came a soft, yet penetrating voice by his side. ‘If you require, I can take you there.’

  Rook looked down to find a short, wiry waif standing by his side. With his pale, almost luminous skin and his huge batlike ears, he looked like a greywaif, or possibly a night-waif …

  ‘A night-waif,’ the character confirmed. ‘Greywaifs are generally larger and’ – he gestured towards his mouth – ‘they have those rubbery barbels hanging down from round here …’ He frowned. ‘But you’re right, Rook. And I apologize. My name is Partifule.’

  Rook scowled. He’d always found the mind-reading ability of waifs – whatever their variety – deeply disturbing. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable – and how could you ever trust a creature that made you feel like that?

  Partifule sighed. ‘That is our curse,’ he said. ‘In waif country, reading the minds of others is essential for our survival; a gift to enable us to see through the darkness. Here, however, it is a curse – spoiling every friendship and turning so many of us into spies who sell their services to the highest bidder.’

  And you? Rook wondered with a shudder. How much have you been paid to spy on us?

  Partifule sighed a second time. ‘I give my services for free,’ he said. ‘And I am no spy. Perhaps this will help you to trust me.’ He pulled his cape apart and there, nestling in the folds of the shirt beneath, was a red bloodoak tooth hanging from a delicate silver chain. ‘I have been assigned the task of guarding you all while you sleep this first night. You must be fully rested for what lies ahead.’ And he added, in response to Rook’s unspoken question, ‘The Twilight Woods.’

  Rook smiled. For the first time that day he felt himself relax. Stob and Magda returned from the stalls, food wrapped in small, neat bundles. Magda handed one to Rook, who put it in his pocket.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Stob demanded, his voice cold and imperious.

  ‘Partifule, at your service,’ came the reply and, for a second time, he revealed the bloodoak tooth.

  ‘He’s going to show us where we can bed down for the night,’ Rook explained, ‘and keep watch while we sleep.’

  ‘Is he now?’ said Stob. ‘And slit our throats while we’re snoring, eh?’

  ‘Stob,’ said Magda, sounding angry and embarrassed. ‘He’s wearing the tooth.’ She turned to the night-waif. ‘Greetings, Partifule,’ she said as she shook the creature’s damp, bony hand. ‘And apologies for our companion’s rudeness.’

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ Stob muttered.

  ‘Indeed,’ Partifule agreed. ‘And, of course, Stob, you must feel free to spend the night on watch with me,’ he said. ‘I’d welcome the company’

  Stob made no verbal reply, but from the amused expression that played around the nightwaif’s face, Rook knew that he had thought something back.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Partifule. ‘Stick together. It’s just over here.’

  They picked their way through the crowds gathered round the stalls, and across the landing to its outer edge. There, Partifule showed them the long, covered stall, with hammocks strung from its beams. To the right were row upon row of pallets, each one padded with a thick mattress of straw.

  ‘Hammock shelter or sleeping pallet?’ Magda asked Rook.

  ‘Oh, a sleeping pallet, definitely,’ said Rook. He gazed up into the speckled inky blackness above him. ‘I’ve wanted to sleep out under the starry canopy of the sky for so long—’

  ‘Well, now’s your chance,’ Partifule broke in. ‘In fact, you should all be settling down for the night. It’s almost midnight and you’ve got a long day ahead of you.’

  None of the three young librarian knights elect needed any persuasion. It had been a long, draining day. Before Partifule had even taken up his look-out position at the end of his pallet, Stob, Magda and Rook were settling down to sleep.

  Rook was just dozing off when, above the coughs and snores of the sleepers all around him, he heard a voice.

  ‘Wa-ter,’ it rasped. ‘Waooooh-ter.’

  Rook got up slowly and picked his way through the pallets to the very edge of the landing. There, in front of him, were two hanging-cages next to each other. His blood turned cold in his veins. The first contained a bleached skeleton, with one bony hand reaching out of the cage pleadingly and the skull resting against the bars, its jaws set in a permanent grimace. The second cage appeared to be empty.

  ‘Wa-ter.’

  There was the voice again, but weaker now. Rook cautiously approached the cages. The skeleton couldn’t have spoken, which meant …He peered up into the shadows within the second cage, and gasped. It wasn’t empty after all.

  ‘Wa-ter,’ the voice repeated.

  Rook hurriedly unclipped the leather water-bottle from his belt and held it up – but although he stretched as high as possible, he couldn’t reach the cage. ‘Here,’ he called. ‘Here’s some water.’

  ‘Water?’ said the voice.

  ‘Yes, here below you,’ said Rook. For a moment nothing happened. Then a great ham of a hand shot out from the bottom of the cage and grabbed the water-bottle. ‘You’re welcome,’ said Rook, as he watched the hand and the water-bottle disappear back inside the cage.

  There came the sound of slurping and swallowing – followed by a loud burp. The empty water-container dropped out of the cage and fell at Rook’s feet. He bent down to retrieve it.

  ‘Forgive me,’ came the voice from above his head, weak still, but less rasping. ‘But my need was indeed great.’ The hand descended for a second time. ‘And if you had a little something to eat, too …’

  Rook searched his pockets, and found the bundle Magda had given him. He’d forgotten even to open it. He passed the warm package up to the waiting hand. The sound of hungry chomping and chewing filled the air.

  ‘Mmm … mmmfff … Delicious – though perhaps it could do with a little extra salt.’ He peered down at Rook and winked. ‘You saved my life, young fellow.’ He nodded towards the skeleton in the next cage. ‘I did not wish to end up like my neighbour.’

  Rook noticed the harsh edge to the voice. This was someone who was used to giving orders. He peered more closely inside the shadowy cage. Behind the bars, bathed in dark shadows and flickering lamplight, was a hulking great figure, so immense that he was forced to crouch in the cage. Dressed in a frock coat, breeches and a tattered tricorn hat, he had dark curly hair, bushy eyebrows and a thick, black beard with what looked – Rook realized with a gasp – like ratbird skulls plaited into it. Bulging eyes glared out from the tangled bird’s-nest of hair like two snowbird eggs.

  Rook felt a surge of excitement. ‘Are … are you a sky pirate?’ he asked hesitantly.

  A throaty laugh went up. ‘Aye, lad. Long ago. A sky pirate captain, no less.’ He paused. ‘Not that that means anything these days – not since the Edge was stricken with stone-sickness.’

  ‘A sky pirate captain,’ Rook
whispered in awe, and felt tingles of excitement running up and down his spine. What must it be like, he wondered, to have sailed in a sky pirate ship, with the sun in your face and the wind in your hair? He had often read, late into the night at the lecterns of the underground library, of the Great Voyages of Exploration into the darkest Deepwoods and the fearful dangers encountered there; of the series of Noble Flights out into Open Sky itself – and, of course, all about the fierce and terrible battles the sky pirates had fought with the wicked leaguesmen in their determination to keep the skies open for free trade.

  Ships with names like Galerider, Stormchaser, Windcutter, Edgedancer and the Great Sky Whale, sailed by legendary sky pirate captains. Ice Fox, Wind Jackal, Cloud Wolf. And, perhaps the most famous of them all, the great Captain Twig himself.

  Rook stared more closely at the caged captain. Could this be the fabled Twig? Had the popular young captain he’d read so much about become the huge hairy hulk before him?

  ‘Are you Captain—’ he began.

  ‘Vulpoon,’ the sky pirate captain answered, his voice low, hushed. ‘Deadbolt Vulpoon. But keep it to yourself.’

  Rook frowned. Vulpoon. There was something familiar about it.

  A little smile played around the captain’s eyes. ‘I see you recognize my name,’ he said, unable to keep the pride from his voice. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Those flea-ridden featherballs that captured me had no idea the size of the fish they had landed. If they had, I wouldn’t be talking to you now.’ The sky pirate captain laughed. ‘If they knew it was Deadbolt Vulpoon in this stinking cage, they’d cart me off to the Wig-Wig Arena in the Eastern Roost faster than a three-master in a sky-storm.’ He played with one of the skulls in his thick beard. ‘Instead, they’ve left me to waste away like a common Mire raider.’

  ‘Can I help?’ asked Rook.

  ‘Thank you, lad, for the thought,’ said the pirate, ‘but unless you have the cage key of a shryke-sister, I’m done for like an oozefish on a mudflat.’ He stroked his beard. ‘There is one thing …’