Freeglader: Third Book of Rook

by Paul Stewart

  As they passed them by, the shryke juveniles in each enclosure scuttled towards the barred gates and craned their necks towards the two elders, screeching loudly for food. Only two days had passed since they had hatched out from their eggs, yet already they were more than half their fully-grown size.

  ‘They certainly are, my dear,’ Sister Drab replied, nodding approvingly. Her eyes narrowed and glinted coldly. ‘It won't be long now.’

  The pair of them reached the end of the hall, where a complicated wood and rope construction of cogs, pulleys and connecting-rods was anchored. The penned shrykes grew louder. Matron Featherhorn jumped up and seized a heavy lever which, with the weight of her swinging body, slowly lowered. There was a hiss overhead as tank-valves opened and a torrent of warm prowlgrin entrails poured down into the feeding pipes.

  All round, the hatching-hut exploded with frantic scratching and squawking as the juveniles scurried across the pens – crashing into one another in their greed – clamped their beaks round the feeding pipes and waited impatiently, their eyes rolling and stubby wings flapping.

  Matron Featherhorn turned her attention to the winching-wheel, and there was a loud clunk as she seized it tightly, pulled it sharply to the right and released the entrails down the pipes. The juveniles sat back on their haunches – their eyes instantly glazed with contentment – as the meat sluiced down their necks and into their stomachs.

  Matron Featherhorn watched their bellies swell. ‘That should do for now,’ she said at last, tugging the wheel back the other way.

  The flow of entrails abruptly ceased. The bloated shrykes flopped to the floor on their backs and closed their eyes.

  ‘That's it, my pretties,’ Sister Drab hissed. ‘Sleep well; grow tall and strong and fierce.’ She turned to Matron Featherhorn. ‘Soon we shall have a new battle-flock to feast on the entrails of our enemies.’ She shook her head. ‘And a new Sisterhood and roost-mother in fine plumage!’

  The old matron fiddled with her mob-cap uncertainly. ‘I only hope you're right, Sister Drab,’ she said. ‘With Mother Muleclaw and the Sisterhood lost in Undertown, we are sorely in need of new flock leaders.’ She clucked unhappily. ‘After all, we're getting too long in the beak to take that responsibility on, eh, sister?’

  Sister Drab sighed. With her eyes dim and her tawny feathers grizzled with grey and white, she had thought her days of decisions and responsibility were long since past. In her prime, High Sister Drab had been an important figure in the Shryke Sisterhood, second only to the roost-mother herself. Yet, when they had moved to the Eastern Roost, she had been happy to relinquish power, unable as she was to adjust to the new permanent settlement.

  Now, everything had changed again. With the battle-flocks, the entire High Sisterhood and Mother Muleclaw herself, all massacred in the sewers of Undertown, apart from a shifty gathering of useless shryke males, there was no one left in the Eastern Roost but a small flock of hatchery matrons and a handful of venerable elder sisters like herself. It had been left to them to tend to the mighty clutch of eggs – their future battle-flocks, high sisters and roost-mother.

  They had stayed up through the stormy night, assiduously adding and removing layers of straw and down to the great nests, ensuring that the eggs remained at a constant temperature. They had slaughtered and gutted the prowlgrins and filled the feeding-tanks ready. And when the time had come for the great Hatching itself, they had raised their voices as tradition decreed and screeched their greetings to the newly-born fledglings;

  ‘From shell to air,

  From yolk to feather;

  Gorge and grow strong!’

  The hatchlings had lost their downy fluff within hours of being born, and were fully fledged by their third meal. There was every type of plumage, from striped and speckled beiges and browns, to the gaudiest of purples, reds, blues and oranges – the feathers pointing to the future mapped out before them all, be it forming warlike battle-flocks or creating a new High Sisterhood. Now, with the new flock growing taller and stronger as they slept, even as she watched, it was indeed – as Matron Featherhorn had just reminded her – left to her to start making decisions once again.

  ‘Ah, sister,’ Sister Drab replied at length. ‘It is as I always suspected. We shrykes are nomads, wanderers. We were never meant to settle down in one place.’

  ‘But the Eastern Roost …’ Matron Featherhorn began.

  ‘The Eastern Roost is unnatural,’ Sister Drab interrupted. ‘A shryke nest should never be settled. She paused. ‘Oh, I concede it worked well enough when we could control the traffic on the Great Mire Road. But now that the road has been destroyed, and Undertown with it, there is no longer any reason for our great city to exist.’

  Matron Featherhorn's beak dropped open.

  ‘Yes, sister,’ the gaunt shryke elder continued. ‘I know my words come as a shock, but the time has come for us to leave the Eastern Roost. We have become soft here, pampered and indolent. We must pack everything away, saddle up the prowlgrins and return to the treetops. We must go back to our old slaving ways – after all, such a way of life saw us prosper for hundreds of years.’ She flapped an arm towards the future battle-flocks. ‘And with these little darlings, we shall soon prosper once more, sister, and for hundreds of years yet to come.’

  The grizzled matron shivered, and tightened the shawl around her shoulders. ‘Slaving, you say,’ she said. ‘Slaving's no longer the easy life it once was. Times have changed, venerable sister. The Deepwoods tribes have organized themselves. There are the Goblin Nations, made strong by their alliance with the Foundry Glades. And then, the Free Glades … They stand and fight together, not like the old days when scattered villages were easy prey. Are you suggesting we attack any of these?’

  Sister Drab tutted and shook her head. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘At least, not yet, cautious sister,’ she replied. ‘We are too few in number. But there is another target. A moving target, many of leg and soft of underbelly, fleeing this way from a ruined city…’

  ‘The Undertowners!’ Matron Featherhorn shrieked excitedly.

  ‘The very same,’ came the reply. ‘I have spies out searching for news of their progress, and have high hopes…’

  Just then, there came the sound of furious squawking from outside the hatching-hut. Sister Drab and Matron Featherhorn exchanged glances before scurrying back down the aisle, past the slumbering juveniles, and out onto the jutting balcony outside.

  High above their heads, the air was filled with hundreds of insect-like craft, slowly circling the Eastern Roost. Mother Featherhorn looked up. ‘Librarian patrol,’ she muttered.

  Sister Drab nodded. ‘It seems we are not the only ones to have sent out spies.’ She leaned over the balustrade.

  Far below her, at the foot of the rows of hatching-huts, a gathering of aged sisters, greying matrons and scrawny shryke males were standing round the central platform, pointing up at the sky and chattering nervously. Beside them, at the battlements, the Eastern Roost's defences stood idle.

  ‘Don't just stand there!’ Sister Drab shrieked furiously. ‘Do something!’

  The shrykes sprang instantly into action; priming the air-catapults, aligning the sights, setting the lufwood balls ablaze…

  At least, that is what they were attempting. But the tasks were as unfamiliar as they were testing. This was guard work; work that, in the past, all of those gathered on the platform had either been excused or excluded from. Now, however, the guards were gone, and with no one to defend them, it was up to the so-called ‘roost-minders' to defend themselves, and more importantly, their precious charges in the hatching-huts.

  ‘FIRE!’ Sister Drab screeched – and threw herself to the ground as a purple fireball whistled past her head, singeing her ear-feathers as it went.

  It was not the only fireball to be misfired. Half a dozen of them slipped ignominiously from their firing-bowls and had to be doused with water before they set fire to the walkways and platforms themselves. Others flew fee
bly out in a low arc before flopping down into the forest beyond.

  Yet there were some – not many, but a few – that were perfectly launched.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Sister Drab hissed excitedly as, looking up from the floor, she saw four, five … six of the flaming purple fireballs speeding up into the sky and hurtling into the swirl of distant librarian skycraft.

  There was a loud bang and an explosion of sparks as one, then two more of the skycraft were struck and began spiralling down, down, through the sky. Two of them fluttered off towards the Deepwoods. The third, however, out of control, was heading straight for the Roost.

  Sister Drab climbed to her feet and rubbed her taloned hands together in anticipation. ‘Come on, my lovely,’ she whispered. ‘Come to Sister Drab.’

  Like a wounded snowbird, the skycraft flapped and fluttered down to the ground and landed with a soft clatter on the boards of the central platform. Its rider struggled – but the tangle of tethers and ropes which had prevented the hapless librarian from ejecting over the relative safety of the Deepwoods, continued to bind fast. The shrykes gathered round in a circle, lances prodding and flails swinging.

  ‘Careful!’ shrieked Sister Drab. ‘Don't kill it!’

  Squawking with disappointment, two of the shrykes sliced through the ropes and dragged the librarian from the ground.

  ‘And the rest of you, resume firing!’ Sister Drab screeched.

  Matron Featherhorn turned to her. ‘It seems we might not need to rely on those spies of yours after all,’ she said.

  ‘True, true, sister,’ said Sister Drab, her neck ruff rising menacingly. ‘First we shall pluck this librarian, then we shall skin it slowly, until all of our questions have been answered. For I tell you this, Matron Featherhorn,’ she said, her voice rising to a screech, ‘the Undertowners' whereabouts will be revealed – even if I have to read the prisoner's steaming entrails to find them!’

  • CHAPTER SEVEN •

  THE IRONWOOD STANDS

  Rook noticed the breathing first. It was slow and regular. In and out, it went. In and out. In and out … Then he became aware of soft, moss-scented fur pressed against his cheek and the loamy odour of warm breath in his face. He felt great muscular arms enfolding him, cradling him gently.

  This is a dream, Rook told himself. An old familiar dream – a dream from my childhood.

  He was a young'un, little more than a toddler, and he was being rocked to sleep by a crooning banderbear, safe and secure in her Deepwoods' nest. The air was filled with the sound of a familiar lulling voice that rose and fell as he rocked softly back and forth, back and forth…

  It was a beautiful dream. Rook felt safe and protected. His head ached and his limbs felt dull and heavy, but the nest was warm and the yodelled song was soothing. He didn't want to wake up. He wanted to lie there for ever, his body warm and his head empty, yet even as he had this thought, he knew the dream couldn't last. He'd have to wake up and face…

  What, exactly? With a jolt, Rook realized he didn't know. He struggled to collect his thoughts.

  There was Undertown, and the dark maelstrom pouring down, flooding the streets, washing everything away … The Mire Gates, the Undertowners fleeing, and then …

  And then…

  Nothing. His mind was a blank. The banderbear's soft yodel filled his head, and the gentle rocking continued. Slowly, Rook opened his eyes.

  Moss-stuffed leafy boughs, curved and secured above his head, forming a familiar shelter.

  It was a banderbear nest.

  ‘Can it be real? Or am I still dreaming?’ Rook croaked, his throat feeling as dry as dust.

  ‘Ssh-wuh-ssh,’ came a voice.

  Rook's eyes focused on the kindly face of a bander-bear. ‘Wumeru,’ he whispered, as he recognized his oldest banderbear friend. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Wurra-wooh. Uralowa, wuh-wuh!’ the banderbear whispered, gently stroking his temple with her thumb. This is no dream. You are safe now, friend who took the poison-stick. But you need to rest.

  ‘Meera-weega-wuh,’ Rook replied, his hand movements languid and slow, before stabbing at the air. ‘Wuh! Loora-weer? Wellah-wuh?’ But how did I get here? I can remember nothing!

  Wumeru's ears fluttered as she replied, her voice gentle, her gestures animated. The stubble-headed one says he saved you from an Edgeland storm and brought you back to us, here in the Deepwoods …

  ‘Deepwoods?’ Rook murmured uncertainly, his voice faltering. ‘Stubble-headed one.?’

  Wumeru nodded over her shoulder and Rook became aware of another figure, hanging back in the shadows of the nest. The banderbear grunted and the figure came forward and crouched beside them. It was a youth. He looked concerned. His skin was sallow, his eyes sunken, his hair shaven close to the skull.

  ‘Rook! Are you all right?’ he asked, staring anxiously into Rook's oddly pale – almost glowing – eyes.

  Rook stared back, his mouth open, bewilderment flickering in his eyes.

  ‘Rook, it's me,’ said the youth. ‘Xanth. We've made it to the Deepwoods, old friend.’

  Rook frowned, and racked his brains. ‘Xanth?’ he said at last, a memory flickering at the back of his mind. ‘Xanth Filatine? I … I haven't seen you since we trained together in the Free Glades … You ran away … They … they said you were a spy, Xanth; a traitor…’

  Rook's head began to spin, and with it, the shaven headed youth's face seemed to fade back into the shadows. Wumeru resumed her gentle rocking as Rook's head slumped against her soft fur and he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

  The banderbear waved a huge paw at Xanth, who had hesitated by the nest's entrance. ‘Wuh!’ she grunted, and though Xanth could speak not a word of the curious banderbear language, he was left in no doubt that his presence in the nest was not wanted.

  Then again, his presence was not wanted outside either, he thought bitterly.

  He crawled out of the banderbear nest, which was expertly camouflaged on the forest floor with mosses and ferns, and straightened up. All around him, the massive trunks of the Ironwood Stands rose up, their uppermost branches lost in the clouds blowing in from the Edgelands close by. On their lower branches – each one as wide as the Mire Road and heavy with pine-cones the size of hammelhorns – the Undertowners were setting up camp.

  Xanth had been lucky to find them, he knew that. Carrying Rook on his back, he'd stumbled across the Edgeland Pavement through the thick swirling air. Just when he thought he could go no further, the mists had thinned and he'd glimpsed the tops of the mighty ironwood pines, dark giants looming out of the fog. With one last gigantic effort, he'd forced himself to continue and had dropped down from the hard rock of the pavement onto the soft, springy floor of the Deepwoods themselves.

  When he stumbled into the camp, already forming in the Ironwood Stands, the banderbears had taken Rook away and he'd been left to face the stony faces of the librarians, who whispered behind their hands. Snubbed by them and uncertain what to do for the best, Xanth had turned away and sought out the banderbears. They had allowed him to help them construct their nest, but begrudgingly – and he could tell by their whispered grunts that they, too, blamed him for luring their friend into danger back in the Edgelands.

  And now, evening was falling here on the edge of the mighty Deepwoods. Unwilling to stray far from the banderbear nest, Xanth sat himself down heavily on a rock close by. He leaned forwards, his shoulders hunched, his head held in his hands.

  ‘Sky above and Earth below,’ Xanth groaned miserably, the palms of his hands rubbing over his rough, stubbly scalp. ‘What am I to do?’

  ‘Now, now,’ came a voice, and Xanth felt a bony hand clapping him on the shoulder. ‘What are you doing down here on the ground, eh? You should be up in the trees, getting yourself ready for the long night ahead.’

  Xanth looked up to see Cowlquape Pentephraxis smiling down at him kindly.

  ‘Cheer up, lad,’ said Cowlquape. ‘Things are never quite so bad as they seem.’
<
br />   Xanth winced. He knew the old professor meant well, but the words stung. ‘Aren't they?’ he said glumly.

  Cowlquape's gaunt face creased with concern. ‘The Edgeland mists can cause madness, Xanth,’ he said. ‘You can't be blamed for that. And besides,’ he added, nodding towards the concealed nest, ‘you did a brave thing carrying young Rook to safety.’

  Xanth's eyes welled with tears. ‘Try telling him that,’ he said. ‘There's something wrong. The storm's changed him. He hardly seems to know me. He called me a spy … a traitor…’

  Cowlquape squeezed Xanth's shoulder reassuringly, and sat himself down next to the youth. ‘Give him time,’ he said. ‘He needs to rest.’

  ‘But his eyes …’ Xanth blurted out. ‘They were dazzling, and such a strangely piercing blue … And his skin; his whole body – it was glowing …’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Cowlquape. ‘The treetops are buzzing with talk of it. Caught in a sepia storm, I believe you said?’

  Xanth nodded.

  ‘I myself once saw something similar,’ the High Academe mused.

  ‘You did?’ said Xanth.

  Cowlquape nodded. ‘The ways of the Sky are strange indeed,’ he said. ‘I was a young apprentice in old Sanctaphrax, when I met a young sky pirate captain who'd been caught by a great storm. He was found in the Stone Gardens, glowing every bit as brightly as young Rook there.’

  ‘What happened? Did he recover?’ Xanth asked.

  ‘The glow died away after a few days,’ said Cowlquape reassuringly. ‘His strength returned and, eventually, one stormy night high on a balustrade in old Sanctaphrax, he got his memory back.’ He shook his head. ‘We can only hope that the same is true for Rook.’

  Xanth gasped. ‘You mean he might never properly remember who I am?’ he said anxiously.

  ‘What the Sky inflicts,’ said Cowlquape, spreading his arms wide as he climbed to his feet, to indicate the Deepwoods around them, ‘the Earth can often heal.’ He smiled. ‘Come on, now. You can't spend the night down here on the ground. It's far too dangerous…’