Stormchaser: Second Book of Twig

by Paul Stewart

  The goblin rummaged inside her bag. ‘Fifty, per person’ she said. ‘That’s what you said. Which makes …’ She counted out the coins. ‘Five hundred in all’.

  Screed shook his head. ‘The price has gone up’ he said, his voice nasal, mocking. ‘A hundred each. That’s what it’s going to cost you now.’

  ‘But that’s all our savings’ she gasped. ‘What are we ever supposed to live on when we do make it to Undertown?’

  Screed shrugged. ‘That’s your problem’ he said. ‘I’m not forcing you to come with me. If you can cross the Mire with its sinking-mud and poisonous blow-holes not to mention the muglumps, oozefish and white ravens that would rip you apart as soon as look at you … Well, it’s your choice.’

  Mim stared glumly at the rest of her family group, huddled together on the bank. The choice was simple, she realized. Either they arrived in Undertown with nothing, or they didn’t arrive at all.

  ‘A thousand it is,’ she sighed, handing over the money. ‘But your price is very high, so it is.’

  Screed Toe-taker snatched the money and dropped it into his pocket. He turned away, muttering under his breath. ‘My price is higher than you could ever imagine, dear lady’ And he set off into the bleached and sticky landscape.

  The family of goblins collected up their sacks of belongings.

  ‘Come on then,’ Screed called back impatiently. ‘Look lively. Keep together. Walk where I walk. And don’t look back.’

  iv

  In the Tower of Light and Darkness

  The Professor of Light was angry. ‘Accursed chains, accursed drilling, accursed Vilnix Pompolnius,’ he growled between clenched teeth. ‘Must we now destroy Sanctaphrax in order to save it?’ He heaved himself up, with an armful of books, and began returning them to the shelves.

  It was always the same. Every time a new chain was attached to the floating rock, the vibrations wreaked havoc in his humble study. Priceless apparatus was damaged, invaluable experiments ruined and his entire library of books ended up on the floor.

  With the last book back in place, the professor returned to his desk. He was just about to sit down when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Something most unwelcome. At that moment, however, there was a knock on the door and the Professor of Darkness burst in. ‘We must talk,’ he said.

  The Professor of Light didn’t move. ‘Look,’ he said glumly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There,’ he said, pointing. ‘Light!’

  The Professor of Darkness laughed. ‘You should be pleased,’ he said. ‘Light is, after all, your field of study and expertise.’

  ‘As yours is darkness,’ the Professor of Light snapped. ‘Or rather, the absence of light. But there is a place for everything. And just as the darkness in the heart of your erstwhile protégé, Vilnix Pompolnius, is misplaced, so too is light appearing through cracks in the middle of my wall.’ He turned back and poked at the mortar. ‘See that,’ he said. ‘It’s all crumbling away’

  The Professor of Darkness sighed miserably. ‘My study’s just as bad,’ he said.

  The first thing Vilnix had done when he became Most High Academe, was to take the palatial School of Light and Darkness for himself, while relegating the two professors and their departments to the dilapidated Raintasters’ Tower. The explosion had caused bad structural damage. Each time a chain was attached to the rock, that damage increased. It was merely a matter of time before the tower collapsed completely.

  ‘Well, it can’t go on like this,’ said the Professor of Light. ‘Which is why …’

  ‘Which is why we need to talk,’ the Professor of Darkness butted in.

  ‘Which is why’ the Professor of Light continued, ‘I have already spoken to someone about how one might change the situation.’

  The Professor of Darkness stared at his colleague with a mixture of admiration and resentment. Despite their reduced circumstances, the old rivalry between the two academics remained. ‘You have already spoken to whom?’ he demanded.

  ‘Mother Horsefeather,’ came the reply.

  ‘Mother Horsefeather!’ The Professor of Darkness was astounded. ‘That greedy old bird-woman. She’d sell her own eggs if the price was right. Do you seriously think we can trust her?’

  ‘Oh, yes’ said the Professor of Light. ‘We can trust her to do everything in her power to deceive us. That knowledge will be our strength.’

  v

  In the Backstreets of Undertown

  ‘In here’ said Slitch, stopping abruptly next to a ramshackle hut on his left. He unlocked the door, and disappeared inside. His companion followed him. He pushed the door to and waited while the gnokgoblin located the lamp and lit it. ‘My word’ Slitch shuddered, as he turned round and the pale light filled the room. ‘You slaughterers are red.’

  Tendon shuffled about awkwardly. ‘Have you got any phraxdust, or what?’ he said. ‘If you haven’t…’

  ‘The best phraxdust in Undertown’ Slitch assured him. ‘Potentially’

  ‘Potentially?’

  ‘I have acquired some black-market stormphrax’ he explained. ‘All you have to do is grind it down and, Hob’s your goblin!’

  Tendon stared at him impassively. ‘You must think I’m daft’ he said at length. ‘Stormphrax explodes when you try and grind it. Everyone knows that. His high-and-mighty Acadimwit is the only one with the secret…’

  ‘I, too, now have that secret’ said Slitch. He took a bowl down from a shelf and placed it on a small table. Then he pulled a wad of velvet from his inside pocket, carefully unfolded it and removed a glistening, sparkling shard of stormphrax, which he held up between his middle-finger and thumb the others all being missing and placed it gently down in the bowl.

  Tendon remained dubious. ‘What’s the secret, then?’

  ‘This,’ said Slitch, removing a leather pouch from his belt. He loosened the drawstring for Tendon to see inside.

  ‘But what is it?’ he said.

  ‘Powdered deadwood bark,’ said Slitch conspiratorially ‘The finest money can buy’

  Tendon pulled back nervously. It was the stuff Undertown doctors used to anaesthetize their patients for an operation.

  ‘The numbing qualities of the deadwood counteract the volatility of the stormphrax,’ Slitch explained. ‘The explosion is paralysed, so to speak.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’ said Tendon.

  ‘Oh, for Sky’s sake!’ said Slitch impatiently. ‘Didn’t you tell me you were sick of spending all your hard-earned cash on drinking water? Didn’t you say you’d do anything to get hold of some phraxdust of your own. The deadwood will work, I assure you,’ he said as he sprinkled a liberal quantity into the bowl. ‘There will be no explosion and you, my friend, will have phraxdust to last you for the rest of your life.’

  Tendon fingered the charms around his neck anxiously Despite his misgivings, however, the gnokgoblin’s offer proved too tempting to resist. He paid over the hundred quarters they had agreed upon, picked up the pestle and raised it above his head. With the money safely in his pocket, Slitch scuttled off to the far end of the hut, and crouched down behind a metal stove.

  ‘Strike now!’ he cried. ‘It will work!’

  And Tendon, gripping the handle as tightly as his sweaty hands would allow, brought the pestle sharply down with all his strength.

  The explosion blew the roof of the hut right off. Tendon was hurled back against the far wall where he collapsed, a lifeless heap.

  Slitch crawled out of his hiding place and climbed shakily to his feet. He looked down at the body of the dead slaughterer.

  ‘Or then again’ he sighed, ‘maybe it won’t.’

  vi

  In the Bloodoak Tavern

  Mother Horsefeather sat at a table by the door of the heaving Bloodoak tavern. Perched on a bar-stool beside her was Forficule, the nightwaif she employed. The pair of them were watching the rowdy groups of drinkers plunge their tankards into the communal trough of frothy woo
dale, one after the other. The illicit brewery concealed in the cellar was a nice little earner particularly when the weather was so hot.

  The door opened and three leaguesmen swaggered in. Mother Horsefeather clacked her beak with distaste. ‘A good evening to you,’ she said, avoiding their gaze. She removed three tankards from the shelf behind her and placed them on the table. ‘That’ll be twenty quarters apiece.’

  ‘You can drink as much as you like,’ the first leagues-man a regular to the Bloodoak explained to the others. ‘Is that not right, Mother Horsefeather?’

  Mother Horsefeather scowled. ‘Indeed it is,’ she said. ‘But remember the rules.’ She nodded over to a sign nailed to the wall. No swearing. No fighting. No vomiting on the premises.

  ‘We need no reminding’ said the leaguesman, as he handed her a single gold coin worth twice the asking price. ‘Keep the change, dear lady’ he said, and winked.

  Mother Horsefeather stared down at the till. ‘Thanking you kindly, sire’ she said, and slammed the drawer shut. Only when he had turned away, did she look up. You worm-ridden lump of hammelhorn dung, she thought bitterly.

  ‘Now, now’ said Forficule gently, his huge bat-like ears twitching. Mother Horsefeather swivelled her head round and glared furiously at the nightwaif.

  ‘Heard that, did you?’ she snapped.

  ‘I hear everything’ Forficule replied. ‘As you well know. Every word, every whisper, every thought for my sins.’

  Mother Horsefeather snorted. The feathers around her neck were standing on end, her yellow eyes glinted. ‘Well he is!’ she said sourly, and nodded towards the table of leaguesmen. ‘They all are. With their fine clothes, big tips and fancy manners. Hammelhorn dung, the lot of them!’

  Forficule tutted sympathetically. He understood his employer’s loathing of the leaguesmen. Because of their alliance with Vilnix Pompolnius building chains in return for phraxdust their dominance in the drinking-water market had left them unassailably powerful. If it wasn’t for her black-market dealings with the sky pirates, Mother Horsefeather would have gone under long ago.

  ‘Ah, the sky pirates’ Forficule sighed. ‘Those intrepid sky faring brigands who will kow-tow to no-one. Where would we be without them?’

  ‘Where indeed?’ Mother Horsefeather nodded, her neck feathers finally lying down smooth. ‘Speaking of which, Cloud Wolf and his crew should be back soon. I hope to goodness he’s had as profitable a trip as he led me to believe. Otherwise …’ The conversation she’d had with the Professor of Light abruptly came back to her, and an idea appeared, as if from nowhere. Her eyes twinkled. ‘Unless …’

  Forficule, who had been listening in to her thoughts, chuckled. ‘Heads you win, tails he loses, eh?’

  Before she had a chance to reply, the Bloodoak tavern suddenly rocked with the force of a nearby explosion. Forficule clutched at his ears and squealed with pain.

  ‘Lawks-a-mussy!’ Mother Horsefeather cried out, and the ruff of feathers shot back upwards. ‘That sounded close!’ As the dust settled, Forficule removed his hands, and shook his head from side to side. His massive ears fluttered like two enormous moths.

  ‘Two more poor fools trying to grind their own phraxdust,’ he said sadly. He cocked his head to one side and listened intently. ‘The dead one is Tendon, a slaughterer.’

  ‘I remember him,’ said Mother Horsefeather. ‘Often in here, he is was. Always stank of leather.’

  Forficule nodded. ‘The survivor’s name is Slitch,’ he said, and shuddered. ‘Ooh, a horrible piece of work, he is. He’d tried mixing stormphrax with deadwood dust and got Tendon to do his dirty work for him.’

  Mother Horsefeather frowned. ‘Everyone is so desperate to get hold of phraxdust,’ she said. Her yellow eyes sparkled malevolently. ‘If anyone’s to blame for what happened,’ she added, nodding her beak towards the table of rowdy leaguesmen, ‘it’s them! Oh, what I wouldn’t give to wipe that smug expression off their loathsome faces once and for all!’

  •C H A P T E R F O U R•

  THE CARGO OF IRONWOOD

  It was late afternoon and, having successfully concluded a deal with some woodtrolls for a massive consignment of ironwood, the crew of the Stormchaser were heading back to Undertown. The atmosphere on board the sky pirate ship was buoyant, and Twig the hero of the hour was feeling particularly pleased with himself.

  Although he hadn’t personally known any of the woodtrolls they’d encountered, the fact that he’d been brought up in a woodtroll village meant that Twig was familiar with their ways. He knew when their nos meant yes. He knew when to haggle and, more importantly, when to stop for if a woodtroll is offered too little for his wood, then he will take offence and refuse to sell no matter what. When Twig saw the tell-tale signs in their faces a pursing of the lips and twitching of their rubbery noses he had nodded towards his father. The deal was as good as it possibly could be.

  Afterwards, to celebrate, Cloud Wolf had cracked open a barrel of woodgrog and handed round tots of the fiery liquid to each member of his motley crew. ‘To a job well done,’ he proclaimed.

  ‘A job well done!’ the sky pirates roared back.

  Tem Barkwater, a hairy giant of an individual, slapped Twig on the back and squeezed his shoulder. ‘Without this lad’s knowledge of the Deepwoods folk, we would never have got the wood at such a price,’ he said and raised his glass. ‘To Twig!’

  ‘To Twig!’ the sky pirates chorused.

  Even Slyvo Spleethe the quartermaster, who seldom had a good word to say to anyone, spoke generously. ‘He did indeed do well,’ he conceded.

  Only one person failed to join in the congratulations: Cloud Wolf himself. In fact, when Tern Barkwater had proposed his toast, the captain had turned away abruptly and returned to the helm. Twig understood why. None of the crew knew that he was Cloud Wolf’s son. To avoid any accusations of favouritism, the captain preferred it that way. Accordingly, he treated the lad more harshly than the other crew members and never betrayed any affection he might feel.

  Understanding the reason for Cloud Wolf’s surliness was one thing. Liking it, however, was another. Every slight, every injustice, every harsh word cut Twig to the quick and left him feeling that his father was ashamed of him. Swallowing his pride now, Twig joined Cloud Wolf on the bridge.

  ‘When do you think we’ll be back?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘Nightfall,’ said Cloud Wolf, as he locked the wheel and made minute adjustments to the hanging weights. ‘If the winds remain favourable, that is.’

  Twig watched his father in awe. Sky ships were notoriously difficult to sail, yet to Cloud Wolf it came as second nature. He understood his ship as though it was a part of him. Having heard the caterbird’s story, Twig knew why. ‘I guess you learned all about sky sailing and … and stormchasing in the Knights’ Academy …’

  Cloud Wolf turned and stared at him curiously. ‘What do you know about the Knights’ Academy?’ he demanded.

  ‘N … nothing much,’ Twig faltered. ‘But the caterbird told me …’

  ‘Pfff!’ Cloud Wolf said dismissively ‘That scraggy blabbermouth! It is better to live in the present than dwell on the past,’ he said sharply. And then, clearly eager to change the subject, he added, ‘It’s high time you learned the rudiments of skysailing.’

  Twig’s heart fluttered. He had been with the sky pirates now for more than two years. Like them, he wore one of the heavy pirate longcoats with its numerous hanging accoutrements the telescope, the grappling iron, the compass and scales, the drinking vessel… Like them, his front was protected by an ornately tooled leather breastshield, while on his back was a set of parawings. In all that time, however, Twig’s duties on board had been restricted to the most menial of tasks. He scrubbed. He cleaned. He was the all-purpose gofer. Now, it seemed, that was to change.

  ‘The flight-rock, when cold, gives us natural lift,’ Cloud Wolf explained. ‘Balance, forward thrust and manoeuvring have to be achieved manually. Through these,’ he
said, and pointed to two long rows of bone-handled levers, each set at a different angle.

  Twig nodded keenly.

  ‘These levers here are connected to the hanging weights, he said.’ The stern-weight, prow-weight, starboard hull-weights, small, medium and large; port hull-weights, ditto, mid-hull, peri-hull, neben-hull, and klute-hull-weights…’ he said, rattling off the names. ‘And these levers on the other side are attached to the sails. Foresail, aftsail, topsail’ he said, tapping the levers, each in turn. ‘Mainsails one and two skysail, staysail, studsail, boomsail, spinnaker and jib. Got that? It’s just a matter of keeping everything in balance.’

  Twig nodded uncertainly. Cloud Wolf stood back. ‘Come on then,’ he said gruffly. ‘Take the wheel, and let’s see what you’re made of.’

  At first, it was easy. The adjustments had already been made and Twig merely had to grip the wooden wheel to hold a steady course. But when a sudden gust from the north-east caused the ship to dip, the task suddenly became more complicated.

  ‘Up the medium starboard hull-weight’ the captain instructed. Twig panicked. Which lever was it? The eighth or the ninth from the left? He grasped the ninth and yanked. The Stormchaser tipped to one side. ‘Not that much!’ Cloud Wolf snapped. ‘Up the staysail a tad and down the large port hull-weight… The port hull-weight, you idiot!’ he roared, as the sky ship tipped over still further.

  Twig yelped with terror. He was going to crash the boat. At this rate, his first attempt at skysailing would also be his last. He clung on to the helm grimly brain feverish, hands shaking, heart thumping fit to burst. He mustn’t let his father down. Pulling himself forwards, he seized the ninth lever for a second time. This time he moved it gently, downing the weight only a couple of notches.

  And it worked! The boat righted itself.

  ‘Good,’ the captain said. ‘You’re developing the touch. Now, up the skysail,’ he instructed. ‘Down the prow-weight a fraction, realign the small and medium starboard hull-weights and …’