The Last of the Sky Pirates: First Book of Rook

  Just then the trees began to thin beneath him, and Rook spotted his banderbear friend striding purposefully ahead. She was walking in an unwavering straight line, as if hypnotized. And as Rook caught up, he could hear her murmuring under her breath. The same sound, over and over – a word he didn’t recognize.

  ‘Worrah, worrah …’

  ‘Not too close, now,’ Rook whispered, patting the Stormhornet’s prow and raising the loft-sail. ‘We don’t want her to spot us. Not yet. Not until we know where she’s heading.’

  The Stormhornet slowed to little more than a hover, and Rook steered it gently to his right, where the forest was thicker and he could follow Wumeru without her seeing him. As he darted on from tree to tree – keeping to the shadows and taking care not to lose sight of her, even for a moment – Rook’s hopes began to rise.

  ‘The Valley of a Thousand Echoes,’ he murmured. ‘Is it too much to hope …? Could it be …? Could it actually be the place where the banderbears assemble? The Great Convocation?’ He ran his fingers down the long, curved neck of the Stormhornet. ‘Is that where Wumeru is heading?’

  For several hours he flew on, keeping Wumeru constantly in sight. The other banderbear’s yodel must certainly have been important; Rook had never seen his friend so determined. Usually she would amble slowly through the forest, leaving no trace of her passing. Tonight, as she blundered tirelessly on, she left a trail of trampled undergrowth and broken branches in her wake.

  Suddenly the air was splintered with the sound of banderbears – seven or possibly eight of them, far ahead, yodelling in unison. ‘Worrah, worrah, worrah, worrah …whoo!’

  It was the same sound that Wumeru herself had been chanting under her breath, and as the chorus of voices faded away, their calls were answered by others. Dozens of them. From every direction.

  ‘Worrah, worrah … whoo.’

  And from his right, louder than all the others, came Wumeru’s answering cry. ‘Worrah-whoo!’

  Rook’s hopes soared. Surely it must be the con vocation. What other reason could there be for so many of these solitary creatures to be gathering together in the forest?

  ‘Worrah-whoo!’ Wumeru called a second time, and Rook looked across to see that she had stopped some way up ahead on the crest of a rocky outcrop. Motionless save for her twitching ears, against the slate-grey sky the banderbear looked like a great boulder with a pair of cheepwits fluttering at its top.

  Rook flew closer. ‘Wumeru,’ he called out. ‘Wumeru, it’s me.’

  He landed the Stormhornet on the flat slab of rock just behind her and jumped down. The banderbear turned to face him.

  ‘Wuh-wuh,’ said Rook, holding his open hand to his chest. I woke alone. You abandoned me. He sighed and touched his ear, then pointed down to the ground. ‘Wurrah-wuh.’ Your parting words were silent, I followed you here.

  ‘Wuh!’ grunted Wumeru, and sliced her claws down through the air like a great sword. Her eyes blazed. Her lips curled back, revealing her gleaming tusks and glinting fangs.

  Nothing had prepared Rook for this. It was as if he were suddenly a stranger to her.

  ‘But—’ he began, his hands open in a gesture of supplication.

  The banderbear let out a low, menacing growl that rose from the back of her throat. Could this strange, fearsome creature truly be gentle Wumeru, his friend? Never before had he heard her sound so full of rage. She lunged forwards and swiped at the air, her fangs bared.

  ‘Wuh-wuh!’ No further! It is forbidden for you to follow my path!

  Rook took a step backwards, his hands still raised defensively. ‘I’m sorry, Wumeru,’ he said. ‘I meant no harm.’

  The banderbear grunted, turned and disappeared back into the trees. Rook watched her leave, a painful lump forming in his throat.

  ‘What now?’ he whispered, as he climbed back on to the Stormhornet and took to the air. As if in response, the yodelling voices echoed back.

  ‘Worrah, worrah, worrah … whoo!’

  Rook trembled. The banderbears were closer than ever. How could he resist their call? Yet dare he go on? If Wumeru discovered that he had followed her, there was no knowing what she would do. Then again, he could not leave. Not now. Not having come so far …

  The yodelling grew louder. The ululating chanting rose and fell in waves.

  Rook’s mind was made up. Ever since he’d first picked up Varis Lodd’s treatise in the library, he’d dreamed of this. He was a librarian knight, and this was the moment to prove it. He brought the Stormhornet down low, and landed on the sturdy branch of an iron-wood tree. He tied up the tether-rope tightly and scrambled down.

  Keeping to the shadows, he passed the rocky outcrop where Wumeru had been standing and went on through the trees, following her trail of flattened undergrowth. Then, stepping cautiously ahead, he found himself on a high, jutting ledge which looked out over a bowl-shaped valley. At the very edge grew a tree – its roots clinging to the great fissured blocks of rock, its long, thick trunk curving out at an angle above the yawning chasm below.

  Rook ran to the tree, climbed up and inched himself along its curved trunk out above the valley. All around him the low sound of chanting grew louder and louder …

  ‘Sky above and Earth below!’ he gasped as the scene abruptly opened up beneath him. ‘There must be hundreds of them! Thousands!’

  Rook shook his head in disbelief. Everywhere he looked there were banderbears gently swaying in the moonlit valley each one calling out the same mesmeric chant: low, guttural, building at the back of the throat, only to soften into a long, tuneless moan. Some were alone, some in pairs, some in groups which grew bigger and smaller as the great lumbering creatures endlessly came together and drifted apart. Little by little, the chanting became synchronized, until the entire gathering was calling as one. The tree beneath him seemed to vibrate with the resonant booming.

  ‘This is it,’ Rook breathed. ‘The Great Convocation of the Banderbears. I’ve found it.’

  Gripping on tightly to the sloping tree-trunk with his legs, Rook rummaged in his backpack for the treatise-log and stub of leadwood. He had to capture every detail of the wondrous scene for his treatise.

  Large groups constantly breaking up and reforming, he hurriedly scribbled down. As if in some huge dance that every banderbear seems instinctively to understand … And the chanting – incredible, booming, resonant …

  From below him, the chanting grew in intensity. The tree trembled. And there was something else …

  Hard to catch at first, but, yes, there it was again. Mingling with the overall chant, yet somehow distinct from it, single banderbear calls were rising and falling against the background throb. Rook could just make out snippets.

  I, from the lone ridges of the twin peaks … I, from the high reaches of the mist-canyons … I from the sombre shadows of the ironwood groves … from the lullabee forests … from the deepest, darkest nightwoods …

  Rook listened, transfixed, as the individual voices came and went.

  The snow-passes of the lofty Edgelands … The fur-damp swampwood glades … The turbulent thornwoods …

  It was as if he were listening to a map; a map of the Deepwoods in banderbear song. They were singing of their homes and, as their chants intermingled, they became one great shared description of all the places the banderbears knew. Below him was a living library, as rich as the concealed library of Old Undertown itself, kept alive in the memories of the banderbears and shared amongst them at this Great Convocation. Head swimming with the beauty of it all, Rook swooned …

  The treatise-log slipped from his grasp. He lunged forwards desperately as it tumbled down, missed it, and lost his balance in the process. Suddenly, to his horror, he found himself falling from the tree – legs pedalling and arms flailing, as he hurtled towards the ground below.

  The next instant he struck the hard, packed earth with a loud thud. Everything went black.

  Rook’s head spun. He felt a warm wind blowing across his b
ody and sensed a bright light shining in his face.

  Where am I? he wondered.

  His head throbbed. Everything was blurred and shifting. His breath came in short, sharp gasps and, as his head began to clear, he let out a cry of surprise.

  All around him was a towering circle of banderbears, glaring down at him furiously. Their huge tusks glinted, and there was fire in their eyes – yet not one of them made a sound. The Valley of a Thousand Echoes was in absolute silence.

  Rook swallowed hard.

  All at once a mountainous male banderbear with jet-black fur and thick, curling tusks, leaned down. Rook saw the great paws swoop down towards him and felt the cold, hard claws clutch his body. The creature’s fur smelled musty, its breath sour.

  ‘Aaargh!’ he cried out, his stomach turning somersaults, as he was lifted into the air.

  ‘Wuh!’ the banderbear roared. How dare you! And Rook felt the great creature’s indignation and rage trembling through its entire body as it gripped him tightly and cried out, ‘Wuh-wurrah!’

  He had never seen a banderbear so angry, so … so vengeful. Stiff with terror, Rook was rigid in the creature’s grip, as the other banderbears took up the same, blood-chilling cry, until the whole valley echoed with their roaring.

  ‘Wuh-wug-wurrugh?’ the great black banderbear boomed out above the tumult. Who dares to steal the echoes of our valley and trespass on our sacred convocation?

  ‘Wuh,’ Rook replied, his voice low and trembling. ‘Wuh-woor.’ Wriggling to free his hand from the banderbear’s crushing hold, he touched his heart lightly. I come as a friend. I mean no harm.

  The banderbear hesitated. His startled eyes inspected Rook’s face as if to say, Who is this creature that knows the secret language of banderbears?

  Rook sensed the creature’s confusion. ‘Wurrah-wegga-weeg,’ he said, his voice thin and warbling. I am a friend of banderbears. She with chipped tusk who walks in moonlight and I have walked the same path.

  The banderbear’s dark brow knitted and he looked round at the crowd of banderbears, scouring the sea of angry faces for Wumeru. When he caught sight of her, his eyes narrowed. ‘Wuh?’ he growled menacingly. Is this true?

  Wumeru stepped forwards, head bowed and fluttering ears drooping. ‘Wuh-wurroo. Wuh,’ she said, without looking up. My friend of the forest trail has brought only shame upon our companionship. She turned away.

  ‘Wumeru!’ cried Rook desperately. ‘Wumeru, please! I—’

  The black banderbear raised him up high in the air once more. His grip tightened, his eyes grew cold. With Rook held aloft, he bellowed out loudly.

  You, who have listened to words meant only for bander-bears’ ears, have committed the greatest sacrilege of all. Thief of our songs. Stealer of our chant. You must die!

  Just then a solitary cry abruptly rose up above the gathering frenzy. ‘WUH!’ STOP!

  The great black banderbear instantly froze. He looked round. Rook – dizzy and befuddled – could just make out a banderbear pushing through the crowd towards them.

  ‘Wuh?’ Who speaks? the black banderbear demanded.

  The female stopped before him. ‘Wuh-wuh. Wurra-woogh-weerlah,’ she grunted, touching first her shoulder, then her chest. I, Wuralo, who suffered much in the Foundry Glade. I know this one. He saved my life.

  With a start, Rook looked at the banderbear. She was heavier now than when he’d last seen her, and her coat was thick and glossy. But from her markings – the curious black line which circled one eye and crossed her snout – Rook knew that this was indeed the banderbear he had saved from the goblin’s arrow.

  The black banderbear hesitated. The female turned to him and pressed her large, furry face up close to his.

  ‘Wura-wuh-wurl!’ My heart cries for mercy. Spare him. ‘Wuh-wuh. Weera-weeg.’ I thought he fell to the poison-sticks. But he lives.

  ‘Wurra-woor-wuh,’ Rook explained quietly. I was indeed struck, yet my heart beat on. I carry the scar. He opened the front of his shirt and pulled it back.

  The black banderbear traced a claw delicately over the knot of healed skin. ‘Wuh-wuh. Wurrh!’ he cried. It is true. You bear the mark of the poison-sticks. He placed Rook down on the ground. You risked your life for one of us?

  ‘Wuh-wurrel-lurragoom,’ Rook explained. I have loved banderbears from my first breath and will defend them to my last. I gladly risked my life in the Foundry Glade!

  The gathering of banderbears grunted softly and muttered beneath their breath.

  ‘Wuh-wulla,’ said Rook. Believe me, I am a true friend of the banderbears!

  All at once, rising up above the general babble, a voice rang out. ‘Wuh-wuh!’

  Out of the corner of his eye Rook noticed a third banderbear approaching. She was old and stooped, her fur, silvery grey.

  ‘Wurra-looma-weera-wuh,’ she said, her voice cracked and frail. I sense he speaks the truth. He is a friend of banderbears.

  The crowd, intrigued, turned and watched her walk up to the young intruder. A low murmur spread out through the ranks of attendant banderbears. The old, grey female leaned forwards and wrapped her great arms around him.

  Rook smelled the warm, mossy scent of her fur, and felt her heart beating close to his. The sensation was extra ordinary. He felt safe, protected, and found himself wishing that this comforting hug would never end.

  At last, she released him and stared into his face, her dark eyes crinkling with affection. ‘Wuh-wulla, wegeeral,’ she whispered. Friends until the last shadow of that final night.

  The surrounding banderbears grunted their approval. The black banderbear raised his great head. ‘Wura-galuh-weer!’ he proclaimed. Gala, oldest of the old and wisest of the wise, has spoken. This is good enough for me. ‘Wuh-wurra-lowagh.’ We welcome you. You shall be Uralowa – he who took the poison-stick.

  The crowd of banderbears roared all the louder. Rook quivered with happiness. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Wuh!’

  The black banderbear nodded earnestly. ‘Wurrah-woor. Wuh-wuh.’ You are special. No others have witnessed our Great Convocation – save for one …

  Just then Rook sensed a movement behind him. He glanced back over his shoulder to see the great crowd of banderbears parting. A long, narrow passageway opened up between them and, as Rook peered down it, he saw a figure emerge from the other end and walk slowly towards him.

  ‘What the—?’ Rook whispered.

  He stared at the figure, with his stooped shoulders and long, white matted hair and beard. His jerkin, trousers and boots were made from wild-leather, and stitched together with strips of thong. His threadbare hammelhornskin waistcoat flapped in the rising breeze. As he approached, Rook looked into the newcomer’s face.

  The skin was leathery and lined, every crease and every scar hinting at an episode in the stranger’s past. But the eyes! Rook had never seen such eyes before. Marsh-gem green and crystal clear, they twinkled brightly in the moonlight, like the eyes of someone much younger.

  He stopped in front of Rook. I believe this is yours,’ he said.

  Rook looked down to see his treatise-log clutched in the stranger’s calloused hands. He reached out and took it gratefully. ‘Th-thank you,’ he said. ‘But … who am I thanking?’

  ‘My name is Twig,’ came the reply. ‘I used to be a sky pirate captain, a defender of Old Sanctaphrax. Now, like you, I am a friend of banderbears …’ He smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling brighter than ever. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of me?’

  t was a glorious morning, Rook. I’ll never forget it. A morning which, after the ferocious storm which had raged throughout the previous night, many of us thought we’d never live to see.’ Twig’s eyes became dreamy; he shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘I can scarcely believe that fifty years has gone by since then.’

  Rook looked at Twig thoughtfully. Fifty years. That would make the sky pirate captain nearly seventy years old. So much had changed in the Edge in that time.

  ‘The old days – oh, the st
ories I could tell you of the old days,’ Twig was saying. ‘But that is for another time. With the passing through of the great Mother Storm, the waters of the Edge were rejuvenated and the glistening air that morning pulsated with hope for a bright new future.’

  Rook nodded. From the texts and scrolls in the Great Storm Chamber Library he had learned about the birth of the new rock and the subsequent founding of New Sanctaphrax. And how Vox Verlix had taken over from the first High Academe – an obscure youth, not up to the task – and built the foundations of what was later to become the Tower of Night. Now, speaking to this strange, ragged old sky pirate captain, the dry accounts he’d read came vividly to life.

  ‘My work there finally done,’ Twig continued, ‘I boarded the Skyraider and prepared to depart, for it was time for me to set a course for the Deepwoods, to collect those faithful members of my crew who were still at Riverrise, awaiting my return.’

  ‘Riverrise,’ Rook breathed.

  ‘Aye, lad,’ said Twig. ‘That was where I’d left them. There was Maugin – the best stone pilot that ever tended a flight-rock. And Woodfish, a waterwaif with powers of hearing that were truly remarkable, even by waif standards. And Goom.’ He smiled and looked round. ‘Dear Goom, the bravest banderbear a captain could wish for. I promised them faithfully that I would return for them – and, on that fine morning so long ago, that was just what I intended to do.’

  Rook and Twig were sitting side by side on the log of a fallen tree at the edge of the valley clearing. Before them, the Great Convocation was in full sway, with the vast crowd of banderbears mingling and chanting and sharing their knowledge of the Deepwoods, one with the other, as the first blush of dawn tinged the edges of the sky.

  ‘I had a good crew to aid me in my quest,’ Twig went on. ‘I can see their faces almost as clearly as I can see yours now. There was Bogwitt, the flat-head goblin – just the type to have fighting by your side in a battle. And Tarp Hammelherd, the slaughterer I had rescued from the drinking dens of Undertown. And my quartermaster, Wingnut Sleet – his face hideously scarred by a lightning bolt.’ He sighed. ‘And the others. Teasel the mobgnome – good with ropes, I recall. Stile, the cook, with his twisted spine and awkward walk. Old Jervis, the gnokgoblin – not much use, but a cheery soul. And, of course, Grimlock. Who could forget Grimlock!’