The Last of the Sky Pirates (42 page)

Suddenly, there was a voice, speaking to him inside his head. ‘Thank you, thank you, friend, for releasing me when I lacked the courage to jump …’ The voice fell still.

Rook flinched. How long had the poor creature waited on the stairs for someone to come and end his suffering? He slammed the door shut with a helpless fury, the clang echoing loudly through the tower.

‘Ouch,’
came a voice from the shadows, somewhere to his left. ‘Oh, my poor head. I knew I shouldn’t have had all that woodgrog. Is that you, Slab?’

Rook drew his knife and silently followed the direction of the voice. There, just ahead, slumped in the corner of a landing, head in hands, was a sleepy flat-head goblin in the black robes of a Guardian of Night, a crossbow and an empty jar by his side.

In an instant Rook grabbed the crossbow, kicked the jar away and thrust his knife at the goblin’s throat.

‘Y-y-you’re not Slab,’ he stammered. Rook could see the whites of his eyes as the goblin’s frightened face
looked up into his. Wh-who are you?’

‘Never mind who I am,’ Rook whispered, stepping back and levelling the crossbow at the white gloamglozer emblem on the goblin’s chest. ‘Who are
you
?
’

‘I’m Gobrat. I’m just a poor guard. A warder. Please don’t hurt me.’ He paused, a frown crossing his broad features. ‘You’re one of them librarian knights, ain’t you? Oh, please have mercy, sir. I’ve never hurt no-one, honest I haven’t.’

‘And yet you wear the black robes of the Guardians of Night,’ said Rook, a cold anger in his quiet voice.

‘They took me in, sir, when I was starving in Undertown. I had nothing. They fed me and clothed me – but I’m just a poor goblin from the Edgewater slums at heart. Please don’t kill me, sir.’

‘A warder, you say,’ said Rook.

‘Yes, sir. I’m not proud of it, sir – but I does what I can for the poor wretches locked up here …’

Rook raised the crossbow to silence the flat-head. ‘Take me to the cell of Cowlquape Pentephraxis and I’ll spare your miserable life,’ he said.

The goblin groaned. ‘It’ll be more than my life’s worth if the High Master finds out I’ve led you to Cowlquape.’

‘It’ll be more than your life’s worth if you don’t,’ said Rook, pulling back on the crossbow trigger.

‘All right! All right!’ The goblin got to his feet shakily. ‘Follow me, sir, and be careful where you’re pointing that there crossbow.’

Rook followed the flat-head through the endless maze of walkways and staircases, down into the depths of the
Tower of Night. As they continued, there was a loud crashing sound from high up above the atrium, and the stairs rattled as the tower shook.
I
suppose that’s your lot up there/said Gobrat, ‘causing all that commotion.

It won’t do any good, you know. You never learn! Skycrafts is no match for tower weapons.’

‘Just keep walking,’ said Rook, jabbing the crossbow into his back. ‘How much further?’

‘Not far,’ said Gobrat, with a mirthless laugh. ‘We’re almost at the lower depths now, young sir.’

With the flat-head in front, they made their way down a sloping flight of stairs. Gobrat stopped at a heavily bolted door. ‘Cowlquape Pentephraxis,’ said Rook, reading off the name. ‘This is it!’

Gobrat scowled. ‘There. Now take my advice and get out of here smartish. The guards will be swarming all round once they’ve dealt with your comrades, and now I’ve helped you, my life isn’t worth an oakapple pip!’ The goblin pulled off his robe and threw it to the ground. ‘I suppose it’s back to the Edgewater slums for old Gobrat – if the rubble ghouls don’t get me.’

Rook waved the flat-head away. ‘You’ve been of valuable service to the librarian knights,’ he said. ‘Fare you well, Gobrat.’

With the flat-head gone, Rook returned his attention to the cell door. Having checked that the stairs inside were clear, he slid the bolts across and pushed the door open.

‘Is that you, Xanth?’ came a cracked, frail voice.

‘No, Professor,’ said Rook. ‘I’m a librarian knight. I’ve come to rescue you.’

He descended the stairs, down to the primitive, wooden ledge. Here in the depths of the tower, the stench was indescribable. The former Most High Academe of New Sanctaphrax looked up at him. His body was bent and painfully thin. His grey hair, long and unkempt, his robes threadbare. Worst of all were his eyes. Filled with the memories of horrors too terrible to forget, they stared ahead, lifeless, dull, unblinking …

‘Professor, we
must
leave now,’ said Rook. ‘Time is running out.’

‘Leave …’ Cowlquape murmured. ‘Time …’

Rook leaned forwards and, taking the professor gently but firmly by the arm, hoisted him up onto his feet. Then, taking his weight – which wasn’t much – he guided him up the stairs.

‘Wait! Wait!’ Cowlquape called urgently, and broke away. He returned to the ledge, grabbed a roll of papers and barkscrolls and thrust them under his arm. He looked at Rook, a little smile playing round his mouth. ‘Now I am ready to leave,’ he said.

Up at Midnight’s Spike the battle raged on. The crew of the
Skyraider
was down to five now. Rummel, the huge, black banderbear, had fallen first, fatally wounded by Slab’s crossbow bolt. Meeru was next to fall, skewered by one of the great harpoons and torn away from the sky ship. Mindless with grief, his brother Loom had thrown himself off the stern after his beloved twin.

But Twig hadn’t time to mourn the loss of the three brave banderbear volunteers, for Molleen had yodelled to him to come at once to the flight-rock cage. Calling Wumeru over, and telling her to hold the helm steady, Twig hurried down to the old banderbear’s side.

‘Wuh-wuh!’
Look!
Molleen pointed at a livid scar in the glowing flight-rock. ‘Wegga-lura-meeragul. Wuh!’
The rock is wounded. I thought the weapons of the Dark Ones had not hurt it – but look, Captain!

Twig looked. Where the Guardians’ rock had struck, a deep crater had formed. It was growing like an ulcer, eating away at the flight-rock.

‘Contamination!’ Twig gasped. ‘We haven’t much time. Do what you can, Molleen, but be prepared to abandon ship.’ He hurried back to the helm.

Despite her best attempts to keep it buoyant – dousing the flight-lamps, drenching the rock with chilled sand and, with Wumeru now by her side, desperately operating the cooling-fans – the rock continued to disintegrate. The crater in its surface became wider, deeper, and a growing trickle of dusty particles showered down through the air.

‘Give me as much time as you can!’ Twig shouted across to Molleen. ‘We can’t abandon Rook now,’ he added, mopping the beads of sweat from his forehead. His hands darted over the bone-handled levers in a furious blur as he carried out ever-finer adjustments to the sails and weights in an effort to keep the leaning, lurching sky ship from rolling right over.

But he was fighting a losing battle. With every passing
minute the flight-rock became less and less buoyant. If the
Skyraider
was to remain airborne, it would have to be made lighter.

‘Weeg!’ Twig bellowed. ‘To the hull-rigging with you! I want you to cut the weights.’

‘Wuh-wuh,’ he shouted back.
Cut the weights, Captain? But we’ll become unstable
.

‘It’s a chance we’ll have to take,’ Twig shouted back. ‘Start with the klute-hull-weights, then the peri-hull-weights. And if that’s not enough, move on to the prow-and stern-weights … Sky willing, it’ll give us the lift we need.’ He frowned.
‘Now
, Weeg!’

Grunting unhappily, the lanky banderbear hurried off to carry out the commands. Twig fingered the various bone and wood amulets around his neck. Far below him, on the platform beneath Midnight’s Spike, stood a figure in black robes, fluttering in the mist, with a curious muzzle-like mask covering most of his face.

‘Wuh! Wuh!’ Molleen cried out.
The flight-rock! It’s broken in two!

‘Hold it steady!’ Twig told her. ‘Just a little bit longer—’

At that moment a lufwood-flare soared up from the other side of the tower and blazed in the sky far above their heads, a brightly glowing streak of purple.

Twig gritted his teeth. ‘Thank Sky!’ he whispered. ‘It’s the signal! Rook is waiting for us!’

Just then Weeg must have severed the first hull-weight, for the sky ship gave a sudden jolt and rose up several strides into the air. A salvo of harpoons sailed harmlessly beneath its hull.

‘Hold tight, Cowlquape, old friend,’ said Twig grimly. ‘We’re coming to get you.’

Down on the platform at the base of Midnight’s Spike, Orbix Xaxis stared up at the bright purple light suspiciously ‘It must be some sort of signal,’ he said. He looked across at the
Skyraider;
his eyes narrowed. ‘While you, up there, were keeping us busy …’ he said slowly, thoughtfully, ‘there was something else afoot. I smell a rat …’ He paused. ‘The dungeons!’

‘I’ll check them at once,’ said the sallow, shaven-headed youth by his side, dashing off as fast as he could down the broken flight of stairs.

‘You, Banjax,’ the Most High Guardian shouted at one of the guard masters close by. ‘Take two dozen Guardians and scour the dungeons for intruders. No-one must get in or out!’

‘At once, High Guardian,’ Banjax replied, and the air resounded with the tramp of the Guardians’ heavy boots on the wooden stairs.

The Most High Guardian looked back up at the
Skyraider
. The sky ship had pulled away from Midnight’s Spike at last, and seemed to be heading round in a great circle. ‘So you think you’ve tricked the Most High Guardian of Night, do you?’ he hissed.

Twig gripped the main-sail lever grimly. With the flight-rock irreparably weakened, he was dependent on the great, tattered sail for lift. Slowly, carefully, battling against treacherous draughts of misty air, he brought the
Skyraider
round to the east side of the tower and began the long, perilous descent.

Wumeru cried out. ‘Wuh-wuh. Roo-wuh-ook!’

Peering down, Twig saw Rook standing on a jutting gantry, a third of the way down, together with … Twig gasped. Could that be him? Could that stooped, grey-haired figure truly be his apprentice, Cowlquape? He looked so frail, so fragile – so old.