The Last of the Sky Pirates

by Paul Stewart

  Rook shifted the rope-handles, bringing in the nether-sail and letting out the loft-sail while, at the same time, shifting his balance in the stirrups and slowly raising the pinner-rope. He chewed his lower lip nervously. The Stormhornet dipped forwards and dived down through a break in the canopy of leaves. As it entered the protected shadowy half-light below, the wind immediately dropped and the delicate craft trembled and dropped. Rook’s fingers darted round the ropes and levers. The skycraft righted itself and swooped on.

  Varis flashed a quick signal – Outstanding flying, Rook! – and smiled.

  Rook found himself grinning broadly then flushed as blood rushed to his cheeks. He felt suddenly so proud that the great Varis Lodd should compliment him on his skill. He patted the Stormhornet’s prow. ‘Well done,’ he whispered.

  The light began to fail as they journeyed on. Time and again, Rook had to swerve to avoid the trees and their great spreading branches which suddenly loomed up out of the gloom before him. Just ahead, he noticed an oily yellow light glowing between the trees.

  Follow me, both of you, Varis signalled over her shoulder.

  She flew steeply upwards and landed silently on the broad branch of a huge, ancient ironwood tree. Rook and Knuckle came down beside her. Varis signalled to the other two and pointed towards the source of the light ahead.

  Rook unhooked his telescope and raised it to one eye. Peering through the overhanging branches, he studied the glade before him. Vast, sick, scarred, the clearing was like a great festering scab on the surface of the forest. It stank of sulphur, of pitch, of molten metal. It echoed to the percussive sounds of hammers clanking and wood being chopped; to the roar of the furnaces, to the whipcrack and barked commands of the goblin taskmasters, and the synchronized crunch of spades and pickaxes digging deep down into the ore-pits.

  Beneath it all, like a dark mournful choir, was the sonorous groaning of the labouring goblins. Rook trembled. What those poor, miserable creatures must be suffering to produce so terrible a sound …

  Just then, cutting across the cacophony of heavy toil and deep despair, there came a long creak, followed by a dull thud. Rook swung his telescope round. A cloud of dust, billowing up at the edge of the great clearing, settled to reveal the latest felled tree lying on the ground where it had crashed down. Already, a team of goblins were scampering over its immense trunk, stripping it bare.

  The beautiful forest! Rook signed.

  Hemuel Spume, Varis signalled back, and drew a finger in a cutting motion across her throat.

  Rook nodded.

  Apart from the ash-heaps and earth-mounds which erupted from the bare earth like boils, there were also mountains of stripped logs, each one serving one of the foundries. Teams of stooped, bony goblins – their hooded robes tattered and their skin ingrained with years of grime – were removing the logs, one after the other, and dragging them with ropes and hooks towards the foundries, and inside. Work-team after work-team, log after log – yet the tall, unsteady heaps never diminished in size, for no sooner was one tree-trunk removed, than it was replaced by another, newly felled, as the cancerous glade ate further and further into the surrounding forest.

  Where are the banderbears? Rook signed, shoulders shrugging.

  Knuckle tapped him on the shoulder and pointed.

  A banderbear! Heart beating excitedly, Rook shifted his telescope round and homed in on the banderbear emerging from the bottom of the tall, bulbous foundry to his left. The sight shocked him to the marrow in his bones.

  The poor creature, with its jutting ribs and sunken cheeks, looked half-starved. Its mossy fur was singed and lustreless; all over its hunched, cringing body, bare patches of red-raw skin showed through. Shackled at its ankles and wrists, the banderbear was being escorted by two goblins, each one armed with a long, heavy stick – which they used often and with obvious relish. The banderbear took the blows, neither reacting nor resisting. And as Rook watched it slowly shuffling on towards the slave-hut, he realized that the creature’s spirit had been crushed.

  Five more banderbears appeared, one from each of the foundries. If anything, their condition was even worse than the first. None of them seemed able to move any faster, despite the vicious blows and angry oaths that rained down on them. One was limping badly. Another had an angry weeping burn on its shoulder. All of them were shivering violently, freezing cold now after their hours spent in the blistering heat.

  Rook turned to Varis. Her eyes were blazing; her jaw clenched and unclenched. She gripped her crossbow in both hands. Rook – his pity turned to anger – felt for the dagger and sword at his belt, then looked back at the glade.

  As he watched, the banderbears were led into the slave-hut and chained to the central pillars within. Despite the roof, the open-sided building offered no shelter from the biting wind, and the six shackled banderbears huddled together for warmth at the centre of the mattress of filthy straw, mute and trembling, their eyes lifeless and dull.

  Rook scanned the glade through the telescope. It seemed almost empty. With the banderbears no longer stoking the furnaces, the foundries had fallen idle, and the last of the ore-workers, tree-fellers and log-pullers were disappearing inside their long-huts. The goblin guards followed them, laughing and joking.

  Soon the only remaining individual to be seen was a lone guard, asleep at his post at the top of a look-out turret. An eerie silence descended over the Foundry Glade. Varis turned to Knuckle and Rook, her face suddenly serious.

  Remember, she signalled. We fly in, we fly out. No sound.

  Rook and Knuckle nodded.

  Come, Varis motioned, raising her sails and flying up from the branch. We’re going in!

  As the Stormhornet rose up from the ironwood bough, the fluttering in Rook’s stomach disappeared. Keeping close to Varis and Knuckle, he steered the skycraft through the last fringes of foliage, and into the desolation beyond. A calm, icy fury wrapped itself around him as he flew silently into the evil glade.

  Varis and Rook swooped down over rows of long-huts and covered wagons, and hovered beside the bander-bear slave-hut. At the same time Knuckle darted up towards the top of the look-out turret where the goblin guard was snoring noisily, winding the end of his lasso round his hand as he went. Rook watched as the slaughterer swooped in close and tossed the lasso. The spinning loop disappeared from view behind the parapet. Rook held his breath.

  The next instant the lasso reappeared, a large bunch of keys held in its tightened knot. The sleeping guard had not stirred.

  Well done, Rook signalled, awestruck by the slaughterer’s skill.

  Rook, Varis motioned urgently. Here. She threw one end of her tether-rope to him.

  Rook caught it and secured it round the neck of the stormhornet figurehead, binding the two skycraft together.

  Varis swung her feet round and dropped down from the skycraft to the ground.

  The Windhawk bucked and lurched, tugging on its tether-rope. The Stormhornet reared up in protest. Rook shifted in the stirrups and gripped the straining pinner-rope grimly as he struggled to keep both skycraft balanced and ready for their getaway.

  ‘Steady,’ he whispered softly. ‘Easy does it.’

  Knuckle swooped down close to the ground, tossing the bunch of keys to Varis as he flew past, before soaring back into the sky to keep a look-out for goblin guards. Inside the slave-hut, Varis set to work.

  There was a click, followed by the clatter of falling chains. Then a second click …

  Above Rook’s head, Knuckle was slowly circling, keeping his eyes peeled.

  With a final click and clatter, the last shackle tumbled to the ground.

  ‘Go,’ Rook heard Varis urge the banderbears. ‘You’re free!’

  The poor creatures seemed dazed at first, but slowly – agonizingly slowly it seemed to Rook, who was battling to keep Varis’s skycraft steady – first one, then another banderbear, climbed gingerly to its feet. Slowly, cautiously, they emerged into the glade, followed by Varis.
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br />   ‘Make for the tree-line,’ Varis urged the shuffling giants desperately.

  At the same moment a muffled sound came from the line of covered wagons. Rook spun round, his heart racing. Something was wrong.

  All at once, the tilderskin tarpaulins flew back to reveal row after row of armed goblin guards.

  ‘It’s a trap!’ Knuckle bellowed down. ‘Get out of there!’

  As one, the long-haired goblins drew their jagged-tooth rapiers and, with a bloodcurdling battle-cry, sprang forward.

  The banderbears threw back their heads, bared their fangs and howled. Rearing up on their huge hindquarters they lunged forwards, blind with rage, their great, sabre-like claws slashing through the air, desperate to get to the safety and freedom of the forest.

  ‘Leave the banderbears!’ shouted a voice. ‘It’s Lodd that we’re after!’

  Rook turned back to see a thin, wizened individual with long, coiling side-whiskers, a pinched face and darting eyes standing alone on one of the wagons. It was Hemuel Spume himself! He banged his heavy staff noisily on the boards. ‘Get me Varis Lodd!’ he screeched.

  Varis let fly a bolt from her crossbow. It thudded into the side of the wagon, inches from Spume’s head. The Foundry Master squealed and leaped for cover. Varis raced over to where Rook held her skycraft ready. The goblins advanced, brandishing swords and a heavily weighted net. The tether-rope leaped from Rook’s hand just as Varis clasped the Windhawk’s prow, and the sky-craft lurched to the side, throwing her to the ground.

  Rook groaned. From behind him there came a loud howl of derision from the gleeful goblins.

  ‘We’ve got her now!’ one of them shouted.

  ‘The great Varis Lodd!’ taunted another.

  ‘That’ll teach her to—Unnkh!’

  Rook looked round quickly. One of the goblin guards was lying on the ground, a bolt sticking out of his chest. Two more were crouched down beside him. Above them, crossbow raised, was Knuckle, coming in for another attack.

  ‘Unnkh!’ A second goblin crashed to the ground, blood pouring from the bolt in his back.

  ‘Rook,’ came Varis’s voice, as she struggled awkwardly to her feet. ‘Rook, help me.’

  Rook reached forwards and grabbed the Windhawk’s tether-rope, wrapping it back round his hand. The weight of the second skycraft almost pulled his arm out of its socket. Wincing with pain, he held on grimly. ‘Get on board!’ he shouted at Varis. ‘Quick!’

  The guards screeched with rage and surged forwards.

  ‘Imbeciles!’ Hemuel Spume’s furious voice echoed.

  Knuckle swooped down a third time. The crossbow bolt hissed.

  Rook let go of the tether-rope as Varis grabbed hold of the Windhawk. It juddered and listed dangerously to one side as she pulled herself up and swung her leg over the seat. The next moment she realigned the sails and the skycraft soared up into the air. Rook’s heart sang as he flew up beside her, scattering goblins on every side. ‘We made it!’ he cried out.

  ‘Thanks to you, Rook,’ Varis called back. ‘You saved my life.’

  Knuckle swooped in towards them. ‘Let’s get out of here!’ he shouted.

  ‘But what about the banderbears?’ Rook shouted back. ‘Did they escape?’

  ‘See for yourself!’ Knuckle pointed down to his left.

  There, at the edge of the clearing, the banderbears were disappearing into the forest. The goblin guards hung nervously back from the huge beasts, while Spume shouted curses and waved his stick furiously at the skycraft.

  ‘Shoot them down!’ he screamed.

  ‘Scatter!’ barked Varis, as a flurry of crossbow bolts hurtled past them.

  Rook broke away. He curved down low over the huts and away from the goblins, following the retreating banderbears towards the cover of the tree-line.

  The last banderbear turned. It was the one Rook had seen emerging first from the foundries – a massive female, with odd black markings circling one eye and crossing her snout.

  Their eyes met.

  ‘Watch out!’ shouted Varis, somewhere above him.

  Rook glanced back to see a goblin crouched down on one knee beside one of the empty wagons. He had a long-bow in his hands, trained on the motionless banderbear’s heart.

  With a twang and a hiss the arrow shot through the air. Rook swerved in front of the banderbear.

  There was a soft thud as the arrow embedded itself in Rook’s shoulder. The pain shot down his arm. He cried out.

  ‘Hold on!’ screamed Varis, swooping down towards him.

  The goblin was reaching into his quiver for a second arrow when the bolt from Knuckle’s crossbow struck him between the eyes. He slumped to the ground. Varis reached over and made a grab for Rook’s dangling tether-rope. Shoulders braced, she dragged the wounded young apprentice towards the safety of the tree-line.

  ‘Wuh-wuh!’ the banderbear cried after them, and lumbered into the forest.

  ‘It’s going to be all right,’ Varis called breathlessly across to Rook. Grunting with effort, she fastened the end of the tether-rope to the Windhawk figurehead, then realigned the sails. As they dodged in and out of the tall trees, several crossbow bolts fell short behind them. ‘Hold on, Rook!’ she cried. ‘Hold on!’

  ‘Hold on,’ Rook murmured. ‘Hold on …’ He leaned forwards and wrapped his arms around the Stormhornet’s elegant neck. All round him, the sea of silver-green treetops flashed past in a blur. His eyes closed.

  Knuckle flew in close beside them. ‘He looks in a bad way,’ he shouted into the wind.

  ‘The arrow,’ Varis shouted back. ‘It will have been poisoned, if I know long-haired goblins. We’ve got to get him to Lake Landing as quickly as possible. If we don’t, he’ll die.’

  faint, milky light poured through the grille of the sleeping-cabin door, dimly illuminating the small room and falling across the carved, golden wood of the bed-shelf, where a bony figure with a bandaged shoulder lay sleeping fitfully. Tossing and turning beneath the tilderwool blanket, the hollow-cheeked young librarian knight was drenched in sweat. His legs kicked the blanket back. His eyelids flickered.

  Wolves. There were woodwolves all round him, their yellow eyes flashing like bright coals. Howling. Growling. And voices – angry voices, frightened voices – shouting, raging …

  ‘No, no,’ he whimpered, his arms flailing wildly.

  Now he was on his own in the silence of the vast, shadowy forest, overwhelmed with grief. A four-year-old once again, he began sobbing – loudly, uncontrollably, tears welling up in his eyes … He was lost and alone – and so, so terribly cold.

  It was the old nightmare.

  Suddenly, something loomed towards him out of the shadows. Something huge. Something menacing, with glinting teeth and blazing eyes … ‘There, there,’ came a voice.

  Rook’s eyes fluttered and opened. His shoulder throbbed.

  Tweezel was standing above him, a lantern raised in one hand and a cold, damp mist-leaf in the other, which he pressed to Rook’s glistening brow. The great spindlebug’s glass body seemed to fill the entire cabin.

  ‘Keep fighting, brave master,’ he said, his reedy voice hushed with sympathy. ‘The fever will soon break.’

  He reached across, plumped up Rook’s pillow and pulled the blanket back over him. Rook closed his eyes.

  When he opened them again, the spindlebug had gone – though the lantern, low and sputtering now, still glimmered from the desk opposite. Rook looked round the small, shadowy cabin with its lufwood panelling and simple carved furniture. From the moment Parsimmon had first shown him to it on his arrival at Lake Landing-now already more than a year since – Rook had felt safe and secure inside the cocoon-like timber cabin.

  He stared up at the ceiling, his gaze following the narrow planks of wood into the corners and down the walls. The soft amber light of the flickering lantern was mirrored in the varnished wood. Rook’s eyelids grew heavy. The straight lines between the panels twisted and blurred. The dull ache in hi
s shoulder throbbed, sapping his strength and spreading through his body like a slow-burning forest fire.

  His eyes closed. His breathing became low and regular as Rook fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. When he woke again, the fever had returned.

  One moment he was burning up, his bed-clothes drenched and his skin blistering hot. The next, as if plunged into icy water, he was bitterly cold, huddled up in a tight ball in the middle of the bed-shelf, teeth chattering and body violently shivering.

  Noises from outside permeated his dreams. The night cries of the nocturnal Deepwoods creatures, the hushed yet excited chatter of the apprentices hurrying past his door; sometimes the wind howling or rain pounding on the roof, sometimes the turbulent lake slapping and sloshing beneath him – and just once, the distant yodelling cry of a solitary banderbear.

  Rook lost all sense of time. Was it night? Was it morning? How long had he lain there, now moaning softly, now thrashing fretfully about, as he fought the goblin poison that coursed through his veins?

  ‘It’s all right,’ he heard. ‘Don’t try to speak.’

  He slowly opened his eyes. The room swam.

  ‘We’ve come to say goodbye,’ came a soothing voice.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Rook repeated, his own voice a low rasping growl.

  Before him, two round faces emerged from the shimmering golden shadows. His neck lolled from side to side as he tried to hold their gaze. The effort was too great.

  His eyes fluttered shut. A hand clasped his own. It was cool and soft. With one last effort he opened his eyes once again, and there, looking down at him, was Magda. Behind her, Stob.

  Rook tried to speak. ‘Magda …’ he whispered, his cracked lips barely moving. His eyes closed.

  ‘Rook,’ she whispered back, her own eyes filling with tears, ‘Stob and I depart on our treatise-voyages to morrow …’ She broke down. ‘Oh, Stob!’ she cried. ‘Do you think he can even hear us?’

  ‘He’s a fighter,’ came Stob’s gruff voice. ‘He won’t give in – and Tweezel’s doing all he can. Come, let’s leave him to rest.’