by Paul Stewart
Goom felled the great tree with massive blows of Tuntum's axe; splinters of ash-grey lufwood peppered the air. At last the tree fell with what, to Cowlquape at
least, seemed like a sad, creaking sigh, followed by a tremendous crash.
While Goom stripped the branches, till all that was left was the trunk itself, Twig and the others - under Maugin's close supervision - set about feverishly lashing together a launching ramp from the stoutest branches.
‘We must align the ramp with the east star, for there lies Sanctaphrax,’ said Maugin. ‘And angle it carefully. The flight's path must not be too high, or you'll never return to earth.’
‘But how can you possibly judge the distance?’ asked Cowlquape, shaking his head.
‘I can't,’ said Maugin bluntly. ‘But I was a Stone Pilot before you were born. Flight is my trade. It's all I know. I must use all my experience - though even then it only comes down to making a good guess.’ She turned away. ‘Twig, you will have to keep your wits about you. We'll rope you to the very tip of the trunk with slip-knots that you can pull to release yourself when Undertown appears beneath you.’
‘I understand,’ said Twig.
As the sky darkened, they set the log against the ramp, angled to Maugin's satisfaction, and bundles of the leafy branches were arranged around the base in a tight cluster. Twig buttoned up his longcoat and tightened the straps of his parawings. Then, at Maugin's insistence, he was smeared all over with a thick covering of the cooling Riverrise mud from the water's edge.
‘The mud will protect you from the intense heat from the flames,’ she explained. ‘And take this,’ she added, handing him a small bottle. ‘It contains the restorative water of Riverrise - though, Sky willing, you will not have to use it.’
Finally, Twig was lashed to the underside of the great tree trunk. Maugin secured the final slip-knot.
‘Farewell, Captain Twig,’ she whispered.
Twig twisted his head round and watched as Maugin climbed down the launching ramp and jumped to the ground. He looked along the length of the tree-trunk behind him, straight and streamlined for flight; and at the bundle of leaves bound to its base that, even now, Woodfish was waiting to ignite with the flaming torch in his hand.
‘Wait for my signal,’ called Maugin. ‘Light those leafy branches first, exactly at the places I point out.’
‘Stop!’ shouted Cowlquape. He was running from the water's edge, his clothes covered in mud, hastily daubed. ‘I can't let you go alone, Twig,’ he cried. ‘I can't!’
He shinned up the sloping lufwood tree and clung tightly to the trunk.
‘We don't have time for this!’ said Twig impatiently.
‘Then move over, Twig,’ said Cowlquape. ‘Maugin, tie me into place. You said yourself that two stand a better chance than one.’
‘You would really do this for Sanctaphrax?’ said Twig. ‘Even though it could mean death?’
‘Not for Sanctaphrax,’ said Cowlquape. ‘For you, Twig.’ He smiled. ‘And perhaps also for Kobold the Wise.’
Twig turned to Maugin. ‘Do as he says,’ he told her.
Finally they were ready. Twig smiled down at his loyal crew-members standing on the ground below him.
‘Wuh-wuh, T-wuh-g!’ Goom called.
‘My dreams will go with you,’ said Woodfish. He bent down to the branches Maugin pointed to, one after another, and touched them with the burning torch. The oily leaves exploded into flame.
‘I will be back!’ Twig shouted above the roar of the blaze.
White hot inside the blazing branches, the base of the trunk caught fire. It hissed. It steamed. It juddered and shook, and then …
Tearing away from its tethers, the great burning tree-trunk blasted away from the scaffold and soared up into the sky - leaving a fan of orange sparks in its wake. The top of the tree, with its two tethered passengers, soon disappeared into the darkness, until only the blazing base could still be seen - a dot of light that grew smaller and fainter as it sped off on its perilous journey.
‘Sky protect you, Twig!’ Maugin whispered.
When the blazing tree launched itself into the air the upward force was so strong that it stole Twig's breath away and left him gasping for air. Face to one side, eyes clenched shut, he gripped the ropes that bound him to the trunk, and prayed they'd hold.
And still they were accelerating. The pressure was intolerable. His stomach sunk down to his toes. The blood rushed from his brain. His mouth was tugged down at the corners. At unimaginable speed, the tree hurtled over the Deepwoods with its living cargo. Any forest-dweller noticing it would have wished upon a shooting star in vain.
Feeling sick and light-headed Twig saw the moonlit canopy of burnished silver blurring past beneath him.
He gritted his teeth. His temples throbbed, his neck ached, his stomach churned with fear.
‘Don't black out!’ he told himself grimly, and prayed again that the knots would hold.
The caterbird's words of encouragement on board the Edgedancer came back to him. Crystal clear, as though his great wise protector had never left him after all, they whispered inside his head. This too will pass, they said. This too will pass.
Twig closed his eyes. Everything passes. Joy. Pain. The moment of triumph; the sigh of despair. Nothing lasts for ever - not even this …
Reluctantly, Twig opened his eyes. Travelling almost horizontally now, they seemed to be at the top of the flaming comet's great arc. The endless expanse of trees flashed past, far below him. Speed. Pressure. Unbearable heat. He heard Cowlquape groaning beside him.
The flames had consumed more than half of the great tree-trunk. Huge chunks of blackened cinder broke off and fell away and, as the flames came closer, the heat grew more and more intense. Neither Twig nor Cowlquape could stand it much longer. Their hearts thumped. Their hands trembled. Their bodies were bathed in sweat.
‘Don't give up now,’ Twig whispered. His head spun with weakness. ‘Keep going …’
The great buoyant tree had passed its highest point, that much was certain. Grunting with effort, Twig peered ahead - and his heart gave a leap. Far in front of them, gleaming brightly beneath the silver moon, was the barren wasteland of the Mire. Twig had never been so happy to see the terrible, bleached landscape before. A moment later, they were above it - further off in the distance, the lights of Sanctaphrax glimmered.
Down, they were flying now. Lower and lower. The intense heat was staggering. Cowlquape's boots blistered. The hairs on Twig's hammelhornskin waistcoat shrivelled and fell limp.
Keep going, Twig urged himself again. Just a little longer …
Low in the sky, the great towers of Sanctaphrax gleamed in the moonlight. Beneath it, the squalid mess of Undertown sprawled down to and along the banks of the now waterless Edgewater River. It had dried up completely, Twig realized with a jolt. And now that the water from Riverrise had ceased to flow…
Cowlquape screamed.
The flames were roaring all round them and, despite the thick, protective layer of Riverrise mud, the pair of them were being baked alive. Twig turned to meet Cowlquape's panic-stricken gaze.
‘Hold on,’ he rasped. The boom-docks came into view. The farthest outskirts of Undertown passed below them. ‘Now, Cowlquape!’ Twig cried. ‘Pull the ropes!’
The apprentice's eyes rolled back in their sockets and his head slumped forwards.
‘COWLQUAPE!’
Beneath him, the great floating rock of Sanctaphrax passed by. Twig's head spun. What should he do? If he released himself, Cowlquape would hurtle on, over the Edge and into open sky. Yet if he tried to rescue him, Sanctaphrax itself might perish.
There was no choice.
Twig drew his knife and sliced through Cowlquape's binding ropes. They frayed and snapped, and the young apprentice was plucked from the stump of blazing wood by the wind. The parawings flew open and Cowlquape floated away.
Without missing a beat, Twig slipped the knot binding himself to the stubby
remains of the once great tree, and flew up into the air after him. His parawings opened, and the silken folds billowed out behind him. Twig looked round nervously, half-expecting to see Cowlquape plummeting down to the ground. But no. There he was, gliding below him.
‘Cowlquape!’ he shouted and, by bringing his knees up and thrusting forwards, he tilted the angle of the parawings and swooped down towards him.
Cowlquape's face was as white as a sheet, but he was alive. And not only alive, but also - thank Sky -conscious once more.
‘How do I steer these things?’ he wailed.
‘Don't even try,’ Twig called back. ‘You're doing fine. Just don't make any sudden movements!’
As they glided down, the last signs of ramshackle habitation fell away behind them. The land beneath became rocky and inhospitable. It sped up to meet them.
‘There's no turning back now,’ Twig cried. ‘Prepare yourself for landing. Crumple and roll, Cowlquape!’ he bellowed. ‘Crumple and roll.’
The next moment Twig landed, followed immediately by Cowlquape. As they felt the ground beneath their feet, they let their legs relax and rolled over onto their sides. The baked mud cracked and fell away.
Twig was first up. He crouched down over the motionless body of his friend, unstoppered the little bottle Maugin had given him, and touched the Riverrise water to his lips.
Cowlquape opened his eyes at once and looked up.
‘How are you?’ Twig whispered.
‘Apart from being burned and battered half to death, you mean?’ said Cowlquape, sitting up.
Twig smiled. ‘Can you walk?’ he said.
‘I… I think so,’ said Cowlquape. ‘Where are we?’
Twig looked round at the silvery stacks of rocks, each one larger than the one beneath. ‘In the Stone Gardens,’ he groaned.
Wisps of mist coiled up from the earth where the cold air touched the warm ground. A wind was getting up. Cowlquape shivered.
‘The Stone Gardens,’ he complained. ‘But that's miles from Sanctaphrax!’
Just then, the air all round them filled with a flurry of wings. One by one, sleek white birds landed and loped towards them, forming an unbroken circle around the hapless pair. They scratched at the ground, they flapped their ragged wings, they stretched their necks forwards, opened their savage beaks and cawed menacingly. The smell of rotting meat filled the air.
‘The ravens!’ Twig muttered, drawing his sword. ‘The white ravens!’
Cowlquape grasped his knife, and he and Twig stood back to back, weapons raised, in grim anticipation. Two against so many were impossible odds. Had they come so far only to fail here, almost within sight of Sanctaphrax?
‘Listen to me,’ he called out to them. ‘You must listen to me.’
But the white ravens were in no mood to listen. They stabbed the air with their beaks and cawed all the louder. It could only be a matter of time before the bravest - or hungriest - of them broke ranks and attacked.
• CHAPTER TWENTY •
THE MOTHER STORM
The bright moon shone down impassively on the bleak scene in the Stone Gardens. Two individuals, the blades of their weapons glinting in the moonlight, stood together. In a circle around them, the flock of voracious white ravens scratched at the ground with their scythe-like talons.
‘What do we do, Twig?’ said Cowlquape.
‘I … We …’ Twig fell still. For the first time since he had set out on his quest to find his missing crew, he was at a loss to know what to do. Each one of the crew had been accounted for now, yet the quest was not over - or rather, it had changed. And if Sanctaphrax was not to be destroyed by the approaching Mother Storm, then Twig had to act - and act now.
All at once, the largest of the white ravens stepped forwards. It cocked its head to one side.
‘Shooting star?’ it croaked.
Twig's jaw dropped. Not only could the great bird speak, but it seemed to recognize him. ‘Y … yes,’ he said, nodding uncertainly.
‘Friend of Professor of Darkness?’
‘You know the Professor of Darkness?’ Twig gasped.
‘Kraan know,’ the white raven acknowledged.
‘Then you must help us …’ Twig began, only to be drowned out by the raucous cawing of the restless flock.
Kraan turned and screeched at them to be silent, then looked back at Twig. ‘Help you?’ it said.
‘I want you to deliver a message to the professor,’ said Twig. ‘An important message.’
‘Important,’ Kraan repeated.
‘The Mother Storm will strike Sanctaphrax at midnight,’ Twig said very slowly and clearly. ‘The floating city must be evacuated at once. Tell him Twig is on his way.’ He looked into Kraan's glassy yellow eyes, trying to guess what the bird might be thinking. ‘Can you do that?’
Before the white raven could answer, the Stone Gardens were abruptly plunged into darkness. Everyone looked up. Curious dark clouds had swarmed in across the moon, where they squirmed and writhed; it was like looking into a barrel of woodmaggots.
The ravens croaked in unison - a raucous chorus of dismay.
At that moment, a bolt of jagged blue lightning hissed down through the sky and struck the ground nearby. Where it landed, the earth cracked and, as the smoke and dust cleared, the glinting surface of a newly emerging rock appeared from beneath the surface.
‘This weather heralds the arrival of the Mother Storm,’ said Twig grimly.
The white raven looked at him askance. ‘You know what Professor of Darkness does not know,’ he said suspiciously. ‘How?’
‘Because the secret was revealed to me,’ said Twig, and pointed beyond the Edge. ‘Out there, in open sky -where no professor has ever dared venture. Kraan, you must believe me. If you do not leave now, it will be too late. Too late for you, for me, for Sanctaphrax - life on the Edge will end.’
‘Waaark!’ cried the great bird. It beat its wings and rose up into the air. ‘Waaark!’ it shrieked again, and the circle of white ravens opened to let Twig and Cowlquape pass: they were not to be harmed. ‘WAAARK!’
‘Find the Professor of Darkness,’ Twig called. ‘Give him my message,’ Kraan wheeled round and flapped noisily off in the direction of Sanctaphrax. ‘And Sky speed be with you,’ Twig whispered.
The Stone Gardens receded behind them as Twig and Cowlquape hurried along the path that would take them to Undertown. All around them, the sky hissed and fizzed threateningly. Tendrils of flashing electric-blue light fanned out across the darkness. The Mother Storm was coming closer and the air was charged with her imminent arrival. Half an hour or more had already passed.
‘Faster,’ said Twig urgently, as he broke into a jog. ‘Midnight is approaching. We must hurry.’
‘I … I'm coming,’ Cowlquape panted wearily.
Ahead of them, the spires and towers of Sanctaphrax glinted in the sparking air. And, as the wind grew stronger still, the entire floating city bobbed at the end of the taut Anchor Chain like a bladder-balloon on a string.
Finally - and much later than Twig would have wished - the outskirts of Undertown came into view. Low wood-framed workshops with corrugated iron-wood roofs, a small tannery, a hull-rigging manufacturer's.
‘Nearly there,’ said Twig breathlessly.
Behind him, the sky had turned purple, while the electric-blue flashes grew more intense. They fizzed all round the magnificent buildings of Sanctaphrax and down the mighty chain which anchored it to the ground.
This way,’ said Twig, veering abruptly down a narrow alley lined with stalls of basketware and clay pots, still open for business despite the lateness of the hour. Cowlquape struggled after him, his legs rubbery and weak.
They turned left again. Then right. The whole of Undertown was buzzing, thronging. Goblins and trolls stood in anxious clusters looking up at the sky, pointing, murmuring with disquiet. Something sinister was happening. Something that seemed worse than all the other recent storms put together.
Bar
ging their way through the crowds, Twig and Cowlquape kept on. Right. Right again. Then left. And there it was - in the centre of an open paved area ahead of them - the mooring-platform for the great floating rock itself.
The place was already full of academics. They looked bewildered, frightened and, in their robes of office, out of place amidst the grime and chaos of Undertown. Twig glanced up at the floating rock, where overladen baskets were bringing still more of the citizens of Sanctaphrax down to earth. Kraan, the white raven, had obviously delivered his message and the professor had acted.
The air glistened and sparked, and a deafening clatter of thunder set the ground trembling. The gale-force wind howled down the narrow streets and round the square.
Head down, Twig strode directly towards the platform unimpeded; the gnokgoblins of the Anchor Chain guard had clearly abandoned their posts. He looked at the chain and sighed. No sword could ever sever its mighty links. He climbed up onto the plinth and crouched down to see how the end of the chain had been secured.
The mooring-block was an intricate contraption. An iron plate, with two raised arches in the middle, had been bolted through the platform and into the rock beneath. The end of the Anchor Chain was wound round a cogged-axle, with the final link fixed into place between the two arches by a massive levered cotter-pin. If Sanctaphrax was to be released, the cotter-pin would have to be removed. But how?
‘A hammer, Cowlquape!’ Twig shouted. ‘I need a heavy hammer. For Sky's sake, find me one now.’
Cowlquape darted off into the crowd.
A cheer went up, and Twig looked round to see a stooped figure in black robes climbing from a basket which had just touched down near the dry fountain at the far side of the square.
It was the Professor of Darkness. Twig sighed with relief. If the Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax had left the floating city, then the evacuation must be almost complete.
