The Last of the Sky Pirates (28 page)

‘The Free Glades,’ he whispered, as he steered the little craft over each of the three glistening lakes in turn, past the towering Ironwood Glade and back down towards New Undertown.

He skimmed over the Lufwood Tower, the building that had so impressed him when he first arrived in the glades: how long ago that now seemed! Over the hive-huts and the tufted goblins’ long-houses he flew, and round the gyle-goblin colony where small groups of the bulbous-nosed goblins were wending their way home from the surrounding fields – back to their Grossmother and a supper of sweet gyle honey.

The moon rose higher. Tacking expertly against the gathering wind, Rook swooped down over the Tarry-vine Tavern, meeting-place for creatures from the farthest corners of the Deepwoods. How he’d loved sitting in its dark corners, listening to the tales of the old times, before stone-sickness, when the great sky ships had sailed the skies.

And now, here he was, in his own skycraft, with the moonlight in
his
eyes and the wind in
his
hair. He smiled, re-jigged the sails, stood up in the stirrups and flew up high over the tavern and beyond.

There were the timber yards, and the woodtroll villages beyond. ‘Farewell, Oakley,’ he whispered, remembering the kindly, tufty-haired old woodtroll. ‘And thank you.’

There, beneath the huge Ironwood Glade, was the entrance to the Gardens of Light. How many times, labouring over his varnish stove, had he dreamed of this very night. But now the time had come, he knew he would miss the beautiful shimmering gardens – and his ancient spindlebug tutor. ‘Farewell, Tweezel!’ Rook whispered.

And there, shrouded in a fine red mist, the slaughterers camp. The huge fires were blazing beneath the sleeping hammocks, already swaying with waking slaughterers, making ready for a hard night’s work. Rook could almost taste the spicy tilder sausages he’d eaten so many times. ‘Farewell, Brisket!’ he whispered. ‘Enjoy your breakfast, kind master.’

He coaxed his craft into a long, slow turn, and headed back towards Lake Landing. In the distance, the Silver Pastures glistened in the moonlight. They’d never looked more beautiful, thought Rook. ‘Farewell, Knuckle – my friend,’ he said softly.

As he approached the Central Lake, Rook spotted Magda and Stob circling the landing, waiting for him to join them for their final descent. They, too, had been saying their last goodbyes. A lump came to Rook’s throat.

There was heavy, arrogant Stob on his solid
Hammelhorn
. Quick to anger, slow to forgive – but now, Rook realized, for all his faults, like an older brother to him. And Magda, serious, sensitive Magda, on her
Woodmoth
, fluttering delicately on the wind. She was like a sister, sharing his triumphs and disasters alike, and always ready with a word of encouragement or a sympathetic look.

The three of them twisted down through the air in perfect harmony, furling their sails gracefully as they came lower, and landing in front of their flight instructor and the High Master soundlessly.

‘Well done, all of you,’ Varis Lodd said quietly. ‘That was magnificent.’

Glowing with pleasure at her words of praise, Rook smiled. He remembered how haughty and aloof he had initially thought Varis Lodd to be. Yet how wrong he’d been. On that first morning, as she had turned and walked away, he’d run after her, keen to announce himself.

‘I’m Rook Barkwater,’ he had told her.

And she had turned, placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled warmly. ‘I know,’ she’d said. ‘I’d know those deep blue eyes anywhere. But look at you! What a fine young apprentice you’ve turned into. Go and get your skycraft, Rook Barkwater, and then we shall have lunch together at my table.’

Ever since that moment Rook had felt close to her, as if the bond between them – established all those years ago when Varis had discovered him in the Deepwoods – had never been broken. Sometimes she reminded him of Felix, humorous and playful. At other times she could be as earnest and exacting as Alquix Venvax. Throughout it all, however, she had always been there for Rook; teaching him well and spurring him on to ever greater feats of achievement. And now here he was, standing before her, having completed the final flight of his studies.

‘You are all now ready,’ she said, bowing her head formally. ‘It is time for you to embark on your treatise-voyages, friends of Earth and Sky’

Parsimmon bowed his head in turn. ‘Good luck in all your travels, and may you return safely to us in the Free Glades, my dear, precious librarian knights.’

Rook’s heart was thumping fit to burst. He felt like
shouting out, with relief, with joy and anticipation, but instead he followed Stob and Magda’s lead, bowing low and saying quietly, ‘By Earth and Sky, we shall not fail you.’

Just then the heavy creaking sound of rough wheels on the lufwood decking interrupted the quiet ceremony, as a hammelhorn cart drew up, accompanied by two Free Glade guards on prowlgrins. Rook looked round.

A young apprentice lay groaning softly in the back of the cart, a dark stain spreading across the knife-grinder robes he wore. Parsimmon hurried over.

‘We found him on the Northern Fringes,’ the first guard, a gnokgoblin, reported, saluting the High Master. ‘He says he was one of a group of apprentices from Undertown ambushed by shrykes. Says they knew they were coming.’

‘Is this true?’ said Parsimmon, kneeling down beside the stricken apprentice.

‘Yes, master,’ the apprentice whispered, his face pinched and white from the pain. ‘They picked us out in the Eastern Roost, surrounded us on the upper gangways, and hacked us down, one by one …’

Parsimmon patted his hand. ‘There, there, the journey is a terrible one indeed, but you have made it. That’s the important thing. We will look after you now. You are very precious to us.’ He motioned to the guards. ‘Take him to the tower, and fetch Tweezel – we don’t want to lose this brave young apprentice.’

The guards hurried off. Varis walked stiffly over to Parsimmon. ‘I don’t like it,’ she said tersely. ‘That is the
third group that has been ambushed. We can’t afford these losses, High Master. The Guardians of Night are growing stronger. I sense their hand in this.’

Parsimmon nodded sagely. ‘You may be right, my dear Varis, but that is a matter for the Free Glades Council and our masters back in Old Undertown. Tonight, let us salute our brave young friends here, and talk no more about it.’ He turned to Magda, Stob and Rook.
‘Go
now,’ he said. ‘Supper awaits you in the upper refectory.’

As he turned to follow the others, Rook caught sight of Xanth, half-hidden in shadow, his face ashen, his lips thin and bloodless. Their eyes met. ‘Xanth,’ Rook called out.

Xanth looked away shiftily.

‘Xanth!’ he called, louder.

‘Come and join us.’

‘Leave him,’ said Magda. ‘He knows where to find us if he wants to. He must be feeling pretty miserable at the moment – wishing his leg would mend, wishing he was us.’

Rook nodded. But though he knew Magda’s words made sense, he didn’t believe them. It wasn’t sadness or regret, or even envy, that he had seen in Xanth’s eyes. It was guilt.

fter a wild storm that raged through the night and late into the morning, the weather had finally cleared around noon. In its wake came fluffy white clouds which scudded across the gleaming sky seemingly buffing it up as they passed, while down in the Deepwoods, it looked to Rook as if every leaf of every tree glinting in the shafts of silvery sunlight had been freshly waxed and polished.