Silo and the Rebel Raiders

by Veronica Peyton

  “Now, that,” said Orlando, “is big. I wonder what the Ancients used it for.”

  “It’s marked on the chart as a restaurant,” said Ruby.

  Silo was staggered. “A restaurant? That size?”

  “That’s what it said—St. Paul’s Café and Grill. I see what you mean, though. They must have been a right bunch of pigs.”

  Silo stared up at its mighty bulk, and as he did so the rain stopped and a rainbow shimmered overhead, its colors jewel-bright against the leaden skies. And then he remembered Daisy’s words: the beautiful white palace rising out of the waves.

  “Daisy had a seeing! She said I was going to have a surprise here!”

  “I expect she meant about the ship sinking,” said Maximillian.

  They stared at him in horror. Orlando’s voice trembled slightly as he said, “Have you had a seeing too?”

  Maximillian shook his head. “No. But we’re going to hit that stone lady.”

  Silo looked down and saw a head rising out of the water immediately beneath their bows. It wore a crown and a look of dignified contempt.

  “Look out!” he yelled to Black Tom. “There’s a statue dead ahead!”

  Too late—the Sea Pig checked, then shuddered all along her length, and there was a horrible rending, scraping noise from somewhere deep in her bilges.

  “ ’Tis the dead rising up against the living!” cried Old Elijah.

  “No, it’s Queen Anne,” said Ruby. “She’s marked on the chart.”

  “Well, to hell with the wretched woman!” growled Black Tom. “She’s holed us beneath the waterline!”

  He cursed and swung the wheel, and the stricken Sea Pig made one last valiant effort. She turned to port with infinite slowness, creeping along the length of the great building, but as she did so she settled lower and lower in the water. Then she listed sideways and lodged against the towering columns of St. Paul’s Café and Grill, her shattered timbers coming to their final rest on some unseen obstruction beneath the waves. The Sea Pig would sail no more.

  A cheer of triumph went up from the fleet, one that echoed from ship to ship the length of Ludgate Hill. Already the Unbeatable was almost upon them, coasting up the street at an impressive rate. She was traveling at such a speed that for one glorious moment Silo thought her momentum would send her crashing straight into St. Paul’s, but at the last moment she went about with a great commotion of flapping canvas, turning broadside on to the great building.

  “Take her alongside!” cried the admiral. “Prepare to board!”

  But then she ran aground, stopping with a suddenness that sent her crew sprawling on the decks. The collectors picked themselves up and glared across the narrow strip of water that separated the two ships. A crisis was at hand, and aboard the Sea Pig all eyes turned to Black Tom. As they watched he drained a bottle of dark liquid, then seized a harpoon and brandished it high above his head. He seemed a little unsteady on his feet but otherwise cut an impressive figure, with his flashing eyes and teeth, his beard billowing in the breeze. Defiantly he hurled his empty bottle at the Unbeatable.

  “Children, abandon ship!” he roared. “And as for the rest of you, we fight to the last man—death to the Bucket Heads!” He turned to face the foe, and as he did so Silo felt a sudden wave of affection for him. He had misjudged Black Tom. His medals might not be his own, but no one could question his bravery.

  Ruby was tugging at his arm. “We need to get Maximillian out of here—fast! Drusilla! Man the ship’s boat!”

  “No go.” Drusilla was peering over the side at a little flotilla of matchwood and oars. “It got squashed against the pillars.”

  “We’ll have to swim, then.”

  “Is that a good idea?” said Orlando. “It’s just that there may be weird things under the water—currents and stuff.”

  The children who stood around him were not deceived by his words. They knew it was not the currents that worried him but the weird things—maybe the undead things: slimy skeletal things that had stalked the flooded streets for centuries past, awaiting their chance to wreak vengeance on the living. And the children, like Orlando, were in no hurry to find out if these existed only in their imaginations or in some form infinitely more horrible.

  “Up the mast!” said Silo. “We can climb onto that balcony there.”

  They looked up at the Café and Grill. It reared above them like a cliff face, but the Sea Pig’s yardarms were conveniently level with its balcony.

  “Good thinking,” said Ruby. “You two!” She turned to the Bolton brothers. “Get going, and take Maximillian with you.”

  “I want to stay with…,” said Maximillian, but he was already halfway up the mast. Basil Bolton had slung him over his shoulder and was swarming up the rigging at lightning speed.

  The other children were following, but Silo hung back. This was all his fault, he realized. It was he and he alone who had set this whole catastrophe in motion: he and his gift of the seeing. It was his vision of the vanished Island that had brought them here. He had hoped to avert a disaster but he had failed, and failed miserably, and now it seemed it was not just the Islanders who were doomed but his friends as well, for he had placed them all in deadly danger: Orlando, Maximillian, Ruby, the children they had led from the Unicorn Tower, and Black Tom and his luckless crew. It was a crushing realization; for one terrible moment Silo saw himself as the Marshlanders had seen him—as an accursed and unnatural child, born under a dark star, forever fated to bring misery and ill fortune to all who crossed his path. His friends were in danger because of him, and somehow he must make amends.

  His voice shook a little as he addressed Orlando. “We should stay and fight.”

  He turned to him—or rather to where he had stood a moment past, for Orlando had vanished. Looking up, Silo saw the seat of his breeches rapidly diminishing as he scuttled up the rigging. Orlando had many fine qualities, but noble self-sacrifice was not among them.

  —

  Silo acted quickly before his resolve could fail him. He ran over to where Black Tom stood. The faithful Growler accompanied him, springing into his master’s arms with a mighty bound.

  “I want to fight!” cried Silo.

  “Little Zyco the Psycho—you’re just like your dad! But a battle’s no place for a boy. Go and join your friends.” Tom nodded up aloft, to the children scrambling along the yardarm to the safety of the balcony. “That’s an order! Besides, I’ve a mission for you, and one I’d not trust to many.”

  “What?”

  “Look after Growler for me, would you?”

  Growler was nestled in his arms, his tail beating furiously, and Black Tom stroked the little dog with an unexpected tenderness.

  “Get him to someplace safe. And there’s something you should know before we part, Silo: something important. If anything should happen to me…”

  Silo, moved in spite of himself, awaited his final words.

  “…he’s very partial to lamb bones. Farewell, little friend. And you too, Silo.”

  And he thrust Growler into Silo’s arms and turned to his crew. “To arms! Prepare to repel boarders!” he roared.

  And this was a real danger. Aboard the Unbeatable Mrs. Morgan was glowering across the narrow strip of water that separated the two ships and uttering shrill cries of rage.

  “We must board the enemy! Have this gap bridged immediately!”

  The admiral turned to his crew. “You heard what the lady said! See to it!”

  And then the collectors were seething about the ship, gathering together anything that could be used to form a gangplank. Silo had seen enough. Growler was struggling in his arms, and with some difficulty he stuffed him down the front of his jacket, ran for the mast, and began to climb the rope ladder that led up to the yardarm. He made slow work of it, for it swayed beneath his feet and Growler, sensing his master’s danger, squirmed and whimpered against his chest. Cursing under his breath, he heaved himself ever upward until, after what seemed like a
n eternity, a familiar pair of boots appeared in his line of vision.

  “Orlando? What are you doing here?”

  “I thought you might need a hand.”

  Orlando was seated astride the yardarm, reaching down to haul him up. And just as he did so something thudded into the mast beside them, missing them by inches and sending out a shower of splinters. A grappling hook had embedded itself deep into the timbers: a hook with a length of stout rope attached. Silo traced it back to its source and his heart lurched within him, for they had company up aloft—unwelcome company. Rankly stood high in the rigging of the Unbeatable with a coil of rope in his hands, and as they watched he passed it around the mast and cast it down onto the deck. It unwound in a long, lazy spiral, finally striking a group of collectors loitering far below. They stared up with bovine suspicion, only to be rewarded by the sight of Elgarth yelling at them. He was perched in the rigging alongside Rankly and seemed to be in excellent spirits.

  “You lot!” he cried. “Don’t just stand there! Pull on the rope!”

  “God, he’s such a scumbag!” said Orlando. “What’s he up to now?”

  Silo wasn’t sure, but experience suggested it would be something unpleasant. He watched intently as the collectors gathered up the rope, then engaged in an animated discussion. And then he understood.

  “They’re going to try to pull the two ships together.”

  “Fat chance!” said Orlando. “They’re aground.”

  “Yeah, but if they pull hard enough, the masts will be drawn closer together, and then maybe they can climb across the yardarms and board the Sea Pig.”

  Orlando snorted derisively. “It’s going to take a hell of a lot of them…”

  By now the collectors were calling for reinforcements. Dozens upon dozens of them were massing at the foot of the mast, uttering excited cries and flexing their biceps.

  “…but it might be worth us getting a move on.”

  Silo thought likewise. “You go first,” he said. “And hurry!”

  And they tried to. The Bolton brothers, with the advantage of their nautical past, had gone striding along the yardarm with the easy confidence of tightrope walkers, but Orlando and Silo preferred to shuffle along on their bottoms, inching their way across and trying—albeit unsuccessfully—to ignore the hideous drop beneath their feet. Silo kept his eyes fixed firmly on the balcony, and on the row of anxious children who awaited them there. Foremost among them was Ruby. There was a gap of some feet between the tip of the yardarm and the balcony, and she was waiting there to receive them, leaning boldly out into space with Drusilla holding firmly onto the seat of her breeches.

  “Give me your hand, Orlando,” she cried. “Now put your foot there—no, not there, you idiot! Bleeding hell! Well held, Drusilla! Your turn, Silo—easy does it. You’d better pass me that dog.”

  But there was no need. Growler burst from Silo’s jacket in a shower of buttons and sprang into her waiting arms. Silo breathed a sigh of relief, for he was within a whisker of safety.

  The children were urging him on with cries of encouragement. “Come on, Silo! Nearly there!”

  Ruby stretched out a hand, but just as Silo reached across to grasp it a great cry broke from the Unbeatable: “Heave!”

  And suddenly the yardarm lurched beneath him. He clung on for dear life, casting a terrified glance over his shoulder, and what he saw there made his blood run cold. The rope that ran between the two ships was stretched taut, one end attached firmly to the grappling hook and the other wrapped around the Unbeatable’s mast and then stretching down, down, down—Silo’s head swam as he contemplated the drop—to the deck below. A long line of collectors were hauling on the rope that bound the two ships together—and to good effect. The yardarm was moving, sloping back and away from the blessed safety of the balcony; slowly but inexorably the two masts were being drawn together.

  “Heave! Heave! Heave!”

  The ships’ timbers creaked and groaned under the strain, and the collectors redoubled their efforts.

  “Heave! Heave! Heave!”

  Silo heard cries of consternation from below as the decks of the Sea Pig and the Unbeatable began to tilt toward each other—and tilt, and tilt, and tilt, sending their startled crews sprawling.

  “Heave! Heave! Heave!”

  And he himself was sliding backward—slowly at first but then with increasing speed—sliding back down the sloping yardarm that he had just so painfully traversed. He slammed back into the mast, his heart racing, and grabbed a steadying hold on the rigging.

  “Heave! Heave! HEAVE!”

  And then there was a great screeching and a splintering as the two topmasts finally met, leaving the two ships locked together at a crazy angle, like a great inverted V.

  The gap between the Sea Pig and the Unbeatable had been bridged—up aloft, at least—and now collectors were swarming into the rigging, eager to board the enemy. And at their head was Rankly, inching his way across the interlocked spars with an ax tucked into his belt.

  Elgarth was urging him on. “Go get him, Rankly!”

  Swiftly Silo contemplated his options, but they were none of them good. Below him Black Tom was rallying the crew of the Sea Pig, but they looked desperately few against the hordes pitted against them. The galley had evidently been ransacked for weapons: Silo saw, mixed in among the clubs they wielded, skewers, a toasting fork, and a humble frying pan. By comparison the Unbeatable positively bristled with weaponry, her rails thick with collectors brandishing swords and clubs. They had almost completed their work on the gangplank, and it could only be a matter of minutes before they boarded the Sea Pig in overwhelming numbers. And Rankly would be at the forefront, for even as Silo stood irresolute he was stepping across onto the Sea Pig’s yardarm. Cursing, Silo took to the rope ladder that ran up to the masthead. He fixed his eyes on the fluttering sky-blue pennant of the Raiders that flew high above and willed himself upward, for it seemed he was fated to make a desperate last stand in the crow’s nest. It was not, however, the secure haven he had hoped; like everything on the Sea Pig it had seen better days, and when he reached it he found it to be a ramshackle construction with worm-eaten timbers. And then the precarious rope rungs quivered beneath his hands, for Rankly was hot in pursuit, and the ladder was dancing under his weight. Silo made a desperate effort and heaved himself over the rim of the crow’s nest. He landed on something small and bullet-headed, something that squeaked.

  “Maximillian! Why aren’t you on the balcony?”

  “I wanted to help you, Silo.”

  Maximillian looked very small and scared. His loyalty was touching, but in the circumstances Silo would have preferred the company of Drusilla and her club. He crouched down beside Maximillian, desperately pondering his next move, and as he did so Elgarth’s voice rang out, a voice full of happy anticipation.

  “Go on, Rankly! You’re nearly there!”

  And then the flimsy floor beneath them shuddered under a savage blow, and Silo grabbed Maximillian just in time to stop him from falling through the huge hole that had appeared at their feet. Rankly had arrived. He had used such violence that his ax had embedded itself deep in the timbers of the crow’s nest, and as he struggled to free it he smiled up at Silo, but it was a smile that boded nothing but ill. Silo’s heart froze within him—for all, it seemed, was lost.

  But then, with a delightful and unexpected suddenness, Maximillian did something extremely helpful. He leaned over the hole and vomited a stream of buff-colored puke. Silo had seen this scene enacted many times in the course of their brief acquaintance, but this was one of Maximillian’s most impressive efforts, ejected with a propulsive force surprising for so small a child. The hapless Rankly took it full in the face. He uttered a muffled cry of horror and revulsion, swiping blindly at the steaming mask that obscured his features. And as he did so he lost his grip on the rigging. His hands were clawing at empty air, and then he was falling. Silo, incredulous with amazement, was watching the soles of Ran
kly’s boots rapidly receding—watching as he bounced first off one spar, and then another and another, howling as he went, to finally crash down onto the deck of the Sea Pig way below, causing astonishment among Black Tom and his beleaguered crew. But Silo’s joy was short-lived, for even as the thud of Rankly’s landing was yet ringing in his ears, Elgarth’s voice was calling from far closer to hand.

  “I’ll get you for that, Zyco!”

  Silo peered over the rim of the crow’s nest and saw his enemy at close quarters, for Elgarth had climbed high into the rigging of the Unbeatable, the better to view Silo’s bloody demise. And now he was yelling down at the collectors.

  “You lot! Get up there and sort him out!”

  But by now they were swarming up the rigging in their scores and needed no encouragement from Elgarth: already a line of men were following in Rankly’s footsteps, edging their way across the tangle of spars that bridged the two ships. And then Ruby’s voice rang out, and her words were music to Silo’s ears.

  “Not so fast, you festering turds! Ammo at the ready! Take aim! Fire!”

  A volley of rocks came hurtling from the balcony. The children had armed themselves with lumps of stone and rubble, and now they hurled them into the fray, Ruby with her customary accuracy and the others with more variable results. Silo and Maximillian cowered in the wreckage of the crow’s nest as rocks whistled all around them. There was a melodic chime as one of Ruby’s shots struck the leading collector square between the eyes, knocking off his helmet and sending him staggering back. His troubles were not at an end, for Drusilla was whirling her club around and around her head until finally, with a fearsome grunt, she unleashed it with mighty force. It hurtled through the air to strike him full in the chest, knocking him clean off the yardarm to plunge down into the chaos below. His followers faltered, and as they did so Elgarth rained curses down upon them.