The Last of the Sky Pirates (35 page)

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 body 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
.