by Paul Stewart
‘Not approaching, as such,’ said Jervis, responsive for once. ‘But we're on-track, sure enough. Look-out spotted a market burn-out at sundown, so he did. Signs indicated the great market had flocked north-north-west. That's where we're heading.’
The left hand had healed just as well as the right, Jervis was pleased to see. He ran a horny finger over the soft, pale skin. The sky ship listed abruptly to port and a beam of moonlight streamed in through the porthole. It passed over Cowlquape's outstretched hands.
‘S'posed to be lucky, that is,’ said Jervis. ‘The moon crossing your palm with silver. Back where I come from they say it means you'll live a long and prosp …’ He stopped, and Cowlquape thought he could see sorrow in the ancient goblin's expression. Abruptly he rose and left, fear obvious in his eyes, as if he had been about to say something unwise.
Cowlquape stared at the closed door nervously. Why had Jervis seemed so fearful? What had he been too afraid to say?
The soft oil lamplight bathed the cabin in shadowy orange. Cowlquape climbed to his feet, crossed to the porthole and flung it open again. Warm, luscious air -heavy with pinesap and lullabee mist - flooded inside. Cowlquape breathed in deeply and poked his head out through the circular window.
Below him, the canopy of trees stretched out as before like a vast sparkling sea in the bright moonlight. Cowlquape didn't know how far they had travelled nor how far there was still to go. He knew only that, if Jervis's pronouncements proved correct, he would soon be down there in the suffocating darkness beneath its leafy surface - in a place he'd never imagined he would ever visit. A shiver of fear and excitement ran through him. The dream was still fresh in his mind.
‘I can't wait to leave this great rolling sky ship,’ he muttered to himself, ‘and get my feet back on solid ground. It's…’ He fell still, and squinted into the distance.
Before him, gleaming in the moonlight far ahead like a great bleached canker in the luxuriant green of the forest canopy, was a ragged patch of land where everything was dead. Cowlquape trembled. He had never before witnessed such barren desolation.
As the Skyraider drew closer, Thunderbolt Vulpoon bellowed out his orders to ‘fly in low’. Sails were lowered, hull-weights realigned, and the sky ship slowed to a woodslug's pace.
Cowlquape poked his head out of the porthole and looked down uneasily. The line separating the living forest and the lifeless clearing was crossed. ‘Sky above!’ he exclaimed.
Every single tree beneath him was dead. Some had been burned, some had been hollowed - others looked as if they had simply died, and stood now with their skeleton leaves clinging to their branches. Vast tracts had been scorched back to bare earth. Nothing lived there; nothing grew.
With the Skyraider flying down so close to the scarred, bleached forest, the area seemed unimaginably immense. All round, as far as the eye could see, the terrible desolation continued.
‘So the Great Shryke Slave Market has done all this,’ Cowlquape whispered tremulously.
When the sky ship was passing over the remains of a forest settlement, the captain commanded that they go in especially close, for it was in the decimated villages such as this - in the stonefall and woodburn - that clues to the market's next resting place were to be found.
Cowlquape trembled with horror. Every tree had been felled, every well destroyed, every building had been razed to the ground. As for those who once inhabited the place - the gnokgoblins, mobgnomes, woodtrolls, or whatever - they were now all gone, captured by the bird-creatures and sold on as slaves. Now, only piles of rubble and heaps of charred wood indicated that a thriving village had once been here: that and the network of paths which radiated out from its former centre.
It was there - at the central-most point and sticking up out of the scorched ground like some giant black insect -that a gibbet of burnt timber stood, a bleached white skeleton strapped to its black crossbeam. A bone finger
pointed towards the moon, low on the horizon.
All at once a cry went up. ‘East-north-east!’
‘East-north-east!’ Cowlquape heard the captain repeat, and the Skyraider abruptly swung round to port and soared back up into the sky.
Beneath him, as the sky ship gathered speed, the dead area of forest receded and was finally left far behind. Cowlquape shuddered miserably. Having seen for himself the awful devastation it caused, the Great Shryke Slave Market was the last place in the Edge he now wanted to visit.
‘I think I'd sooner stay on board the Skyraider,’ he muttered. Just then, the sky ship hit a patch of squally air and dipped sharply, rocking from side to side as it did so. Cowlquape groaned. His stomach gurgled ominously. ‘Then again …’ he murmured queasily.
BANG! BANG!
The two heavy thuds on the door sounded as though someone was trying to batter it down. Cowlquape jumped and, remembering the look in Jervis's eyes, drew his dagger.
‘Wh… who i… is it?’ he asked.
The door was flung wide open. The great ragged brogtroll was standing in the corridor.
‘Oh, it's you,’ said Cowlquape.
‘Grimlock it be,’ came the reply as, stooping low, he shuffled into the cabin. He was carrying a tray, with an earthenware jug and two goblets on it, dwarfed by his massive hands. He looked round the cabin. ‘Where's the other one?’
‘Just stretching his legs,’ said Cowlquape, concealing the knife behind his back, but not returning it to its sheath. ‘He'll be back in a minute.’
Grimlock nodded. ‘Is good,’ he said. ‘The master said this be for the pair of you.’ He held the tray out. ‘Finest woodgrog gold can buy. Help you get a good night's sleep, he says.’
‘Th … thank you,’ said Cowlquape, eyeing the murky brew suspiciously. It was the first time Thunderbolt Vulpoon had concerned himself with the quality of their sleep. ‘If you just put it on that shelf over there I'll tell Twig directly he returns. As I say, he shouldn't be …’
At that moment Twig himself appeared in the doorway. ‘Cowlquape,’ he said breathlessly ‘We've got to talk…’
‘Twig!’ Cowlquape interrupted. ‘Just the person I was hoping to see. Grimlock here,’ he said, flapping his hands towards the figure standing in the shadows, ‘has just brought us a jug of the captain's finest woodgrog.’ Twig nodded towards the brogtroll and smiled. ‘It's to help us get a good night's sleep,’ added Cowlquape meaningfully.
‘I'm sure it is,’ said Twig brightly.
‘Shall Grimlock pour some?’ the lumbering creature asked hopefully.
‘No,’ said Twig. ‘No, I think I shall save it for when I'm about to turn in. But thank you for offering, Grimlock.’ He crossed the cabin and sniffed at the jug. ‘Mmm, I'll look forward to that,’ he said, and looked up at the brogtroll. ‘The captain is too kind.’
Grimlock shook his head glumly. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘the master's not kind. Not him. He starves Grimlock, he does. Won't let him eat the cargo - not even the little-'uns.’
Twig looked at the great mountain of muscle in front of him. ‘You don't look starved,’ he said. ‘Could do with a new set of clothes maybe …’
‘Grimlock's always cold,’ the brogtroll complained. ‘The master sells the cargo's clothes.’
Cowlquape's jaw dropped. He turned to Twig, who nodded and frowned; he should remain silent.
‘Grimlock never gets them,’ the brogtroll continued. ‘Grimlock likes pretty clothes, he does. Nice pretty clothes to keep Grimlock warm. Grimlock likes your clothes.’
He reached out a meaty paw to brush Twig's hammel-hornskin waistcoat. It bristled defensively.
‘Ouch!’ Grimlock wailed, and clutched his finger where the spiky hair of the waistcoat had drawn blood. ‘Not pretty!’ he exclaimed.
‘No,’ said Twig, smoothing down the ruffled fur. ‘This wouldn't suit you at all. In fact, I'd have thought a nice embroidered coat and a hat with a feather would be much more suitable.’
‘Yes, yes!’ said the brogtroll excitedly.
> ‘Grimlock!’ roared the captain's voice from above. ‘The cargo's getting restless again. Go and sort it out!’
‘Grimlock's starving,’ said the brogtroll. ‘Grimlock's cold. Grimlock would like a hat with a feather. Pretty’
‘You'd better go,’ said Twig. ‘Thank the captain for the woodgrog.’
The brogtroll shuffled out. The door shut. Cowlquape turned immediately to Twig. ‘Clothes!’ he exclaimed. ‘He talked about the cargo's clothes. And how many hammelhorns do you know that wear clothes?’
Without answering, Twig picked up the heavy earthenware jug and emptied its contents into the two goblets. Then he tipped them both out of the porthole. ‘Full of powdered sleeping-willow bark,’ he muttered. ‘Cowlquape, we are in great danger …’ He placed the empty jug back on the shelf. ‘I overheard a conversation between Teasel, that mobgnome, and Stile,’ he continued. ‘That dead grove we recently passed over had a black gibbet with a skeleton strapped to its crossbeam. It meant one thing and one thing only. Our next stop will be the Great Shryke Slave Market itself.’
‘B … but that's good, isn't it?’ said Cowlquape uncertainly.
Twig sighed. ‘It should have been,’ he said. ‘Oh, Cowlquape, I feel so bad about bringing you into all this.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Cowlquape anxiously. ‘What else did you overhear?’
‘I've been stupid. Stupid and blind,’ Twig said. ‘All I could think about was finding my lost crew, and now…’ He gripped his young apprentice by the shoulder. ‘You were right all along, Cowlquape,’ he said. ‘The cargo we're carrying is not hammelhorns. It is slaves.’
Cowlquape took a sharp intake of breath. ‘I knew it,’ he said.
Twig sighed. ‘Just our luck to have stumbled across the most villainous of sky pirate captains ever to have taken to the air. Five dozen or more wretches he's got chained up in the lower hold of the ship,’ he said. ‘Mobgnomes, flat-head goblins, cloddertrogs … All bound for the market where they will be sold on to the highest bidder.’
‘And us?’ said Cowlquape. ‘Why didn't the captain simply have us thrown into the hold and clapped in irons with the rest?’
Twig looked away. ‘We're too valuable for that,’ he said quietly. ‘He doesn't want us damaged - the moment he saw us he must have made up his mind. He's a crafty one, I'll give him that.’ He turned back to Cowlquape. ‘We are to be sold to the roost-mother herself.’
‘The roost-mother?’ said Cowlquape.
‘The leader of the bird-creatures which rule the market,’ Twig replied. ‘She goes by the name of Mother Muleclaw. Apparently she is offering to pay highly - very highly - for specimens such as us. It's not every day that a Sanctaphrax academic is sold in the slave market!’
‘That was why he was so interested in our well-being,’ said Cowlquape. He stared down gloomily at the pale new skin on the palms of his hands. ‘And why he was so keen that my wounds should heal.’
Twig nodded. ‘And why the food has been so excellent,’ he said, and shuddered. ‘He's been fattening us up!’
• CHAPTER THIRTEEN •
MUTINY
Twig stared out of the porthole as the Skyraider lurched and swayed onwards, tacking against the wind in the east-north-easterly direction the gruesome sign had pointed them in. A breeze got up. The moon sank low in the sky, sparkling on the forest canopy as the wind rippled its leafy surface. There was no sight of the slave market.
All round him, he could hear the sounds of the sky ship in flight. The whispering of the sails. The rhythmical tapping of the tolley-ropes. The creaking boards. The whistling rigging. The squeak and scurry of the rat-birds, deep down in the bowels of the ship. And something else … A deep, sonorous sound …
‘Listen,’ he said, turning away from the porthole.
Cowlquape looked up from his hammock. ‘What?’
‘That noise.’
‘What noise?’
Twig motioned Cowlquape to be silent. He crouched down on the floor and placed his ear against the dark varnished wood. His face clouded with sorrow. ‘That noise,’ he said.
Cowlquape rolled off the hammock and joined Twig on the floor. As his ear touched the wooden boards, the sounds became clearer. Groaning. Howling. Hopeless wailing.
‘The cargo?’ Cowlquape whispered.
‘The cargo,’ said Twig. ‘The mobgnomes, the flat-head goblins, the cloddertrogs … the sound of misery and despair - the sound of slavery. Thank Sky we are forewarned and know what the captain is planning …’
His words were shattered by a bare-knuckled rapping at the door.
‘Quick,’ said Twig. ‘Into your hammock. Pretend to be asleep.’
A moment later, Twig and Cowlquape were curled up in their hammocks, eyes shut and mouths open, snoring softly. The rapping at the door came a second time.
‘We're asleep, you idiots,’ Cowlquape muttered under his breath. ‘Just come in.’
‘Sshhh!’ Twig hissed.
The door-handle squeaked as it was slowly turned. The door creaked open. Twig rolled over with a grunt and continued snoring, though he sneaked a peek into the cabin from the corner of one eye.
Two heads peered round the cabin door. One was Teasel's. The other belonged to an individual Twig had not seen before: a burly cloddertrog. The pair of them were frozen to the spot, anxiously watching to see if Twig was about to wake up. He obliged them with a snoozy murmur, and settled back down.
A cloddertrog, he thought unhappily.
‘I think they must have drunk it,’ said Teasel, crossing the room. He sniffed at the goblets, and peered into the jug. ‘Yeah, all gone,’ He looked at the two hammocks. ‘Sleeping like babies, so they are,’ he giggled. ‘Right, then, Korb. You tie up the little'un. I'll see to this one.’
The pair of them pulled lengths of rope from their shoulders and advanced to the two hammocks. Cowlquape trembled as the foul-smelling cloddertrog came close. He quaked as the great looming creature tossed the end of the rope over his feet. He was about to be tied up inside the hammock. Rigid with fear, he felt the rope bite as it was pulled tight around his ankles.
‘Easy there,’ said the mobgnome. ‘The captain said no marks. And you know what happens if you cross the captain …’
The cloddertrog scratched his head. ‘I don't want him wriggling free when he wakes up though.’
‘Don't worry,’ the mobgnome assured him, as he went to secure his own rope around Twig's neck. ‘He'll be out till … Aaaaarghl’ he wailed as a sharp elbow slammed into the base of his nose with a sickening crunch. Blood gushed in a torrent. The mobgnome clutched his hands to his face and staggered backwards.
Twig sat up, swung round and leapt forwards, sword drawn. ‘Drop your knife first,’ he shouted at the clod-dertrog. Then your cutlass.’
The cloddertrog stumbled back in surprise. The mob-gnome was still on his knees, clutching his nose. Cowlquape loosened the rope around his legs, climbed off his hammock and stood by Twig's side.
‘Knife, Cowlquape,’ said Twig, nodding to the hammerhead's dagger. Shakily, Cowlquape drew it from his belt. ‘And you,’ Twig told the cloddertrog. ‘Just use your thumb and forefinger.’
‘Thumb and forefinger it is,’ he said.
Twig watched. The blade of the knife appeared from its sheath. ‘Now, drop it!’ he said.
The cloddertrog glanced down at his hand.
‘Drop it!’ shouted Twig.
‘All right, all right,’ said the cloddertrog. His knuckles whitened. ‘I just…’ As he spoke, he flicked his wrist and the knife spun through the air.
Twig recoiled. Too late! ‘Aaarghl’ he screamed as the spinning knife sank its razor-sharp point into his side. His sword clattered to the floor.
As Twig toppled backwards the cloddertrog drew his evil-looking cutlass and lunged forwards.
Twig!’ shouted Cowlquape, leaping on the cloddertrog's back.
The heavy cutlass splintered the wooden wall, inches above Twig's head.
>
‘Geddoff me!’ roared the cloddertrog, tearing the lad from his shoulders and tossing him aside.
Cowlquape went flying back across the cabin and crashed into the still kneeling Teasel. The mobgnome was knocked senseless.
The cloddertrog sneered. ‘I don't care what the captain says,’ he said. ‘You're going to get what's coming to you!’ He raised the fearsome cutlass high above his head and …
BOOF!
Cowlquape brought the heavy earthenware jug down with all his strength on the cloddertrog's skull. The cloddertrog keeled forwards, landed heavily ^ on the floor and lay still.
‘Now that's what I call a sleeping draught,’ said Cowlquape with a shaky smile.
‘Thank you, lad,’ said Twig, as he struggled to his feet. Although his hammelhornskin waistcoat had prevented the knife penetrating too far, the wound was throbbing. He hobbled across to his sword, picked it up and turned to Cowlquape.
‘Come, Cowlquape. We have an appointment with Captain Vulpoon.’
Taking care not to make a sound, Twig and Cowlquape made their way through the sky ship. They passed storerooms and stock-cupboards, the galley, the sleeping berths. At each door and corridor they came to they paused, looked round furtively and listened for any sound. Apart from a low snoring from the crew's quarters - where Jervis and Stile were sleeping - there was nothing.
They were about to make their way up to the helm itself when Cowlquape noticed a narrow, black and gold lacquered staircase set back in an alcove. He looked at Twig questioningly
Twig nodded and stepped forwards. He began climbing the narrow stairs. ‘Well, well, well!’ he exclaimed a moment later as he stepped into the room above. ‘We've struck lucky’
Cowlquape joined him. He looked round the ornate chamber with its gold trappings, luxurious carpet and inlaid woodwork, its huge mirrors and crystal chandeliers - its vast, sumptuous four-poster bed.
‘We must be in Vulpoon's quarters,’ he said. It's … magnificent!’
