by Paul Stewart
‘Grimlock?’ said Rook.
‘A giant of a brogtroll,’ said Twig. ‘Not the sharpest arrow in the quiver, perhaps, but strong as a team of hammelhorns.’ He smiled to himself. ‘Anyway … Where was I? Ah, yes. Pausing only to bid farewell to the Most High Academe and wish him luck, we set forth, with the wind in our sails and hope in our hearts.’ He turned to Rook, his eyes twinkling brightly. ‘I can still remember how warm upon my back the sun was, as we soared off over the Mire and on towards the Deepwoods.’ He smiled broadly. ‘And how high my spirits flew … Riverrise! I was returning to Riverrise!’
Rook smiled with him, caught up in the enthusiasm of the old sky pirate captain.
‘Of course,’ Twig continued, his expression becoming serious, ‘I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. The voyage would be long and difficult. But I also knew that I needed to trust both my instincts and my senses.
Woodfish would be calling to me. I had to keep my mind focused so that I could follow his call.’
Twig’s eyes had a faraway look in them as he went on. ‘We sailed for several months,’ he said, ‘soon leaving woodtroll villages and goblin settlements far behind. Each morning I scanned the horizon and cleared my mind. All about us, the great Deepwoods stretched as far as the eye could see; dark, forbidding and endless. But we kept going, ever onwards, into the deepest, darkest places where the forest was so dense that no light penetrated. The air above it boiled with black, turbulent clouds and festering storms which buffeted and battered the Skyraider until it was as ragged and frayed as our nerves.’
Twig fell still. He put his head in his hands.
‘What happened?’ asked Rook. ‘Did you hear the waif’s call? Did you find Riverrise?’
Twig looked up, his eyes glistening. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I heard nothing but the taunting howl of the storms as they ripped through our sails – and the mocking silence of the Deepwoods during the lulls between.’ He shivered. ‘And worse …’
‘Worse?’ said Rook.
‘The scream of Wingnut Sleet as a storm swept him from the quarterdeck, the last gasps of poor old Jervis, crushed by a falling section of rigging, and the incoherent babble of Teasel as he lost his mind and jumped from the mast into the blackness below. Stile, the old cook, died soon afterwards – of a broken heart, or so my crew said. And yet still we continued, because I couldn’t give up, Rook. I couldn’t. None of us could. You must understand.’
Rook patted the old sky pirate’s tattered sleeve. ‘I understand,’ he whispered.
‘Do you?’ said Twig. ‘Do you? Sixteen years we sailed, Rook. Sixteen long, lonely, frightening years, growing ragged, weary … defeated. And it was all my fault. I couldn’t find my way back to Riverrise.’ He looked up, his eyes shot with pain. ‘I failed them, Rook. My crew … My friends …’
‘You did your best,’ said Rook.
‘But my best just wasn’t good enough,’ said Twig bitterly. He shook his head. ‘At last there were just four of us left. Bogwitt, Tarp Hammelherd, Grimlock – and myself. Flying the sky ship without a stone pilot had been difficult enough before, but now, with so few hands on board, it was all but impossible. To continue our search for Riverrise I needed to take on extra crew. So I turned back and set a course for a place I’d heard talked of in the woodtroll villages and rundown goblin hamlets we had passed through on our travels – a place that was said to be a beacon of hope in the darkness of the Deepwoods, offering a welcome to the weary and a haven to the lost—’
‘The Free Glades!’ Rook exclaimed. ‘You visited the Free Glades!’
‘That we did,’ said Twig. ‘New Undertown was no more than a collection of lufwood cabins back then, and the woodtroll villages were only just being established. But we did indeed find a welcome, at the Lake Landing Academy, from a young librarian by the name of Parsimmon—’
‘Parsimmon,’ Rook broke in excitedly. ‘He’s still there. Except he’s the High Master now. He taught me.’
‘Then you had a wise teacher, young Rook,’ said Twig. ‘I remember that evening well. We limped into the Free Glades and moored up at the Landing Tower. Caused a bit of a commotion, we did.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘I suppose we must have looked quite a sight to those young librarians, Parsimmon amongst them, who greeted us. Our clothes were no better than rags, and the poor old Skyraider’s hull was pitted and scarred, its sails in tatters. But they gathered round us and gawped, open-mouthed, until Parsimmon stepped forward and introduced himself.
‘He said we looked as if we could do with a good meal and rest, and that we must dine with them in their refectory; and that he wouldn’t take no for an answer! It was over supper – tilder stew and oakapple cider, as I recall – that we heard the terrible news, and realized why they were so surprised to see us.’
‘What news?’ asked Rook.
‘Why news of stone-sickness, of course,’ said Twig. ‘Parsimmon told me all about it. Both league ships and sky pirate ships were dropping out of the sky like stones, he said. Not a single flight from Old Sanctaphrax had reached the Free Glades for more than a year.
‘The sickness had, it seemed, spread out from the stricken New Sanctaphrax rock. It was highly con tagious, travelling from sky ship to sky ship like wild-fire. As the flight-rock of one sky ship crumbled, so the crew had to find work on another – infecting the flight-rock of the new ship as they did so. “The First Age of Flight was at an end” – those were his very words, and as I heard them I realized the awful truth.
‘Though we had come to the Free Glades in desperate need of more crew-members, I could not risk taking anyone on board who might be contaminated. We had only escaped until then because we’d been out in the furthest parts of the Deepwoods for so long. I leaped up from the table, hurried back to the Skyraider, and departed at once.
‘I called the crew together as soon as we’d left the Free Glades safely behind, and explained our situation. Tarp clapped me on the back, Bogwitt shook my hand and Grimlock almost broke my ribs with a great banderbear-hug. They all agreed they would stay with me in my search, even though, with just the four of us, it would be backbreaking work. Dear brave fellows, they were,’ he said wistfully. ‘Long gone now, of course.’
Twig looked into the distance for a long time, saying nothing. At last Rook asked, ‘What happened?’
Twig’s face grew sad. ‘It was a stupid thing really. But deadly. You see, we needed provisions. So, not daring to venture into villages or settlements for fear of con tamination, we scavenged in the Deepwoods themselves – for tilder and woodhog meat, fruits and roots we could dry or pickle, and twenty barrels of water which Grimlock, being so strong, managed to collect in a single afternoon.’
He shook his head miserably. ‘It was the water which was to seal our fate, for poor, stupid Grimlock – Sky rest him – ignored that most important Deepwoods law of all. Never drink from a still pool. Grimlock had filled every single barrel with the same tainted water … But it was my fault, not his!’ he said, his eyes blazing. ‘I was the captain. I should have checked; I should have known …
‘Before long, all of us had gone down with blackwater fever. I staved it off a while longer than the rest, but soon I too was held in its terrible grip. I vomited till my stomach was empty. I lost consciousness. How many days and nights I lay there on the deck, while the Skyraider drifted on across the Deepwoods unchecked, I will never know. Tossing and turning as the fever raged on, burning up one moment, shivering with bitter cold the next.’
Rook nodded sympathetically. He knew only too well how terrible a raging fever could be.
‘It was daybreak when I finally came round. I sat up, my head spinning groggily, my stomach grumbling. A cold, damp mist swirled through the air. It clung to my clothes, my hair, my skin, and had covered every surface of the Skyraider with a fine coating of slippery wetness. I struggled to my feet, looked around.
‘There were no trees beneath us now, only rock; a vast, greasy-grey expanse, broken up into broad
, flat slabs with deep cracks between them. I knew at once where I was, and my heart filled with dread. The Edgelands; an eerie wasteland of mists and nightmares.
‘It was in the Edgelands, many years before, that I had come face to face with a horror I can scarcely bring myself to share with you. For me, you see, Rook, the Edgelands hold a particular terror, for it was there that I met the gloamglozer – and lived to tell the tale.’
Rook gasped. ‘The gloamglozer! But how? When …?’
‘One day I’ll tell you the whole story,’ said Twig. ‘But suffice to say, I survived, and vowed never to return to that accursed place. Yet, as fate would have it, it was to the Edgelands that the poor, battered old Skyraider had carried me. I looked around.’ Twig’s eyes grew sad. ‘The Skyraider seemed deserted. My crew! Where were they? I hadn’t seen or heard any of them since wakening. I called out, but there was no reply. I left the helm and dashed to the fore-deck. And … and there they were. All three of them …
‘Oh, Rook,’ he groaned. ‘They were dead. Bogwitt. Tarp Hammelherd. Even poor Grimlock, great, powerful brogtroll that he was, had proved no match for black – water fever …’ His voice faltered. ‘Th-their bodies were sprawled out on the cold, wet deck, rigid in their death throes – arms reaching out, faces twisted with fear and horror. Each one of them had died a terrible death …’ He swallowed hard. ‘I performed the funeral rituals as best I could. It was the least I could do for a fine, loyal crew who had served me and the Skyraider so well …’
He fell still, and Rook watched as the tall, rugged sky pirate captain wiped a tear from his eyes. A lump formed in his own throat.
‘You see, Rook, I had finally failed. There was nothing for it …’ Twig took a deep breath. ‘Sailing back to the Deepwoods was not an option. I could never have sailed the Skyraider single-handed,’ he said. ‘And so I tethered her to a great rocky outcrop that jutted out from the cliff-face, like some crouching demon, black against the sunrise, and left.’
‘You mean, the Skyraider is still there!’ gasped Rook.
‘Aye, lad,’ said Twig. ‘If she hasn’t rotted away or succumbed to stone-sickness in the meantime, then she is still there. A fine drizzle was falling the morning I bade her farewell. Despite what she’d been through, she looked magnificent, floating above that barren wasteland, a cruel reminder of all that had been lost.’ He paused. ‘The last sky ship …’ Again Twig fell silent until – with a small sigh – he continued. ‘Three days it took me to cross the treacherous Edgelands, and another two weeks before I chanced across a band of itinerant cloddertrogs who gave me food, drink and shelter. And I have wandered the Deepwoods ever since.
‘Although there is now only me, and I am old and weary, I have never truly given up hope. I look for Riverrise on the horizon every morning when I wake, and I think of the friends I left there every evening when I lay myself down to sleep.
‘I see their faces, Rook. Goom. Maugin. Woodfish. They are not angry with me. Sometimes I wish they were. The look of hope and trust in their eyes as they gaze upon me is a thousand times worse. I let them down, Rook,’ he said. His voice broke. ‘They believed in me … My poor, lost friends …’ He held his head in his hands. ‘I’m haunted by memories of all those I have known. The living and the dead, clustered together. Faces I’ll never see again. My father. Tuntum. The old Professors of Light and Darkness. Hubble. Spooler. Spiker …’ He shook his head. ‘And the Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax, the way he looked on that morning so long ago when my quest began, as he waved us goodbye …’
Rook nodded. The captain’s tale had come full circle.
‘The excitement, touched with apprehension, in his smile. The pride in his stature. The hope in his eyes. He had once been my apprentice, and now he was the new Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax! How proud I was of him …’ He shook his head. ‘Poor, dear Cowlquape—’
‘Cowlquape?’ said Rook, startled. ‘But I know that name.’
‘Yes, Cowlquape Pentephraxis,’ said Twig bitterly. ‘Murdered long ago by that tyrant, Vox Verlix. I learned the news at Lake Landing.’
With a shock, Xanth’s words came back to Rook. I am as much a prisoner of the Tower of Night as my friend Cowlquape, to whom I must now return. Despite the fever raging at the time, he was sure that was what Xanth had said. It was Cowlquape who first filled my head with stories of the Deepwoods, and his adventures with Twig the sky pirate…
Rook leaped to his feet. Twig’s friend and Xanth’s prisoner were one and the same.
‘So young,’ Twig was saying, ‘and I left him to rebuild Sanctaphrax on his own, to go on this failed quest. If only I had got to Riverrise, I could have returned to help him and perhaps he’d still be alive today’
‘But he is!’ shouted Rook, unable to keep quiet a moment longer. A couple of banderbears glanced round curiously in mid yodel. Rook seized Twig by the arms. ‘He’s alive!’ he exclaimed. ‘Cowlquape is alive!’
The colour drained from Twig’s face. His jaw dropped. ‘Alive?’ he gasped.
wig stared at Rook in astonishment. ‘But how do you. know he’s still alive?’ he demanded. ‘Parsimmon said … Let me see … Yes, even after all this time, I can remember what he told me. When I asked after Cowlquape the High Academe, he shook his head and said, “Vox Verlix is the Most High Academe now. Cowlquape’s name has been stricken from the records. Murder, plain and simple, so it was – though you’ll find few in New Sanctaphrax who dare say as much.” Those were his very words—’
‘But he is alive,’ said Rook. ‘A prisoner in the Tower of Night. A friend …’ He paused, a sudden twinge of pain in his chest. ‘At least, I thought he was my friend,’ he murmured. ‘He told me that he had seen Cowlquape in the Tower of Night – and that he was very much alive. He even said that Cowlquape spoke to him of you, Twig, and the adventures you’d shared.’
‘He did?’ said Twig. He was on his feet now, clutching both Rook’s hands and staring hard into his eyes. Around them, the banderbears were falling silent in the light of the new dawn, as Twig’s excited voice echoed round the valley. ‘What is this Tower of Night you speak of?’
Rook shook his head. ‘You’ve been out here for a long time, Captain Twig,’ said Rook. ‘Many things have changed since you left. Parsimmon told you of Vox Verlix becoming Most High Academe, but that was only the start.’
‘Tell me,’ said Twig. ‘Tell me everything you know!’
Banderbears were crowding about them now, great mountains of fur topped by twitching ears.
‘When Vox Verlix became Most High Academe, he ordered the construction of a tall tower on New Sanctaphrax, even as the rock began to crumble with sickness. From what I’ve heard, and read in the library, he claimed stone-sickness was a sign that the academics had grown soft and complacent and that he, Vox, would do something about it.’
‘That Vox!’ snarled Twig. ‘He was a bad lot when I first knew him as a young apprentice in Old Sanctaphrax.’
‘It gets worse,’ said Rook. ‘You see, Vox founded a sect of Knights Academic, whom he called the Guardians of Night. They enslaved Undertowners and forced them to work, not only on his accursed tower, but on his other great schemes as well. The Great Mire Road. And the Sanctaphrax Forest that props up the sick rock—’
Twig’s eyes blazed. ‘Slavery?’ he said angrily. ‘In Undertown?’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Rook. ‘It was a terrible betrayal of the principles which Undertown was founded upon, and there were many who resisted. But the Guardians of Night were brutal. They ensured that the schemes were completed. Those Knights Academic who disagreed with Vox’s plans split away and joined with the earth-scholars to found the Librarians Academic.’ He paused. ‘We live in hiding in the sewers of Undertown …’
‘Librarians living in sewers.’ Twig shook his head sadly. ‘That it should have come to this. Vox Verlix the bully, master of New Sanctaphrax!’
‘Not quite,’ said Rook. ‘There’s a twist in the tale.’
> ‘Go on,’ said Twig.
‘Well, Vox didn’t realize what a monster he’d created when he established the Guardians of Night. Soon a leader emerged from their ranks, one Orbix Xaxis, who declared himself the Most High Guardian and took over the Tower of Night. Fearing for his life, Vox fled to an old palace in Undertown. The shrykes seized the opportunity to take full control of the Great Mire Road, and Vox was forced to rely on goblin mercenaries to hold on to what little power he had left in Undertown. These days, if the rumours are true, he spends his entire time alone in his dilapidated palace, too obese to leave his bed-chamber, drinking himself into a stupor each night with bottle after bottle of Oblivion.’
‘Well, I, for one, am not in the least sorry for him,’ said Twig. ‘But tell me, Rook, what more do you know of this Tower of Night in which Cowlquape is held captive?’
Rook sighed. ‘I know this much: they say no-one ever escapes from the Tower of Night. It is a vast, impenetrable fortress, with spiked gates and barred windows, rock-slings and harpoons, and great swivel catapults mounted on every jutting gantry. I’ve only seen it once myself, and that was from a distance, but I’ve heard stories from librarian knights who have seen it close up. Once, the great Varis Lodd even attacked it with a fleet of skycraft – but they proved no match for the tower’s weapons.’
‘Skycraft?’ Twig said. ‘Those little wooden things? I saw them at Lake Landing. No wonder they failed. Why, it’d be like woodmoths attacking a hammelhorn!’