by Paul Stewart
Vilnix spun round, pincers in one hand, tapping them in the other. ‘Oakelf, eh?’ he said.
Forficule sniffed. ‘I am a nightwaif,’ he confessed.
Vilnix Pompolnius nodded. ‘That’s better,’ he said, and added in his thoughts alone from now on, I want the truth and nothing but the truth. He brandished the pincers, and imagined them smashing hard against the metal bowl above the chair. Do you understand me?
‘Yes,’ said Forficule simply.
‘Now, who sent you?’
‘I came of my own accord,’ said Forficule.
Without saying a word, Vilnix strode up to him, and struck the bowl sharply. Forficule howled with pain.
‘No, no,’ he whimpered.
‘Then tell me who?’ barked Vilnix.
‘Mother Horsefeather,’ said Forficule. ‘She thought you ought to know the professor being an academic of Sanctaphrax, and all. He … he was in her tavern the Bloodoak when he had a … a seizure. Keeled over, he did. We did everything we could to revive him.’
‘But, nevertheless, you failed,’ Vilnix said.
‘Sadly, yes,’ said Forficule.
Vilnix narrowed his eyes. ‘And where is the good professor’s body now?’ he asked.
‘I … errm … that is, with it being so hot and all, Mother Horsefeather thought he should be buried as soon as possible.’
‘You have interred a professor of Sanctaphrax in the ground?’ Vilnix gasped. ‘Do you not know that it is the right of every academic of our great floating city to have his body ceremonially laid out in the Stone Gardens, where the white ravens will pick his bones? How else is his spirit to rise up to open sky?’
‘I … we…’
‘But then, of course, the situation will not arise’ said Vilnix thrusting his head forwards into Forficule’s face until his shining skull-cap grazed the tip of the night-waif’s nose. ‘Because he isn’t dead. Is he?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Forficule. ‘He is.’
Vilnix straightened up abruptly, raised the pincers and slammed them against the metal bowl. ‘Lies! Lies! Lies! Lies!’ he screamed in time to the deafening hammer blows. ‘And more and more and more lies!’
After seven blows, he let his arm fall limp. ‘Now will you tell me the truth,’ he said.
Forficule didn’t answer. Although he had seen the angry lips move, he hadn’t heard a single word above the pounding, crackling, screeching cacophony of noise inside his head. It was several minutes before he could make out any sounds again, and even then, the echoing din continued in the background.
‘THIS IS YOUR FINAL CHANCE!’ Vilnix was bellowing.
Forficule lowered his gaze. He shivered miserably. There was a saying among the fragile nightwaifs. Better dead than deaf.
‘All right’ he whimpered. ‘I’ll tell you everything I know.’
And that was what he did. He told Vilnix every detail of the meeting which had taken place in the back room of the Bloodoak tavern. Of the entrance of the Professor of Light, and how the sky pirate captain had fallen to his knees. Of the plan the three of them had hatched up. Of the Professor of Light’s decision to accompany the sky pirates on their quest to the Twilight woods.
‘The treacherous cur’ Vilnix spat. ‘And this captain?’ he said. ‘Has he a name?’
‘Cloud Wolf’ said Forficule promptly. ‘Though the Professor of Light addressed him by a different name.’
‘Which was?’
‘Quintinius Verginix’ came the reply.
Vilnix nodded. ‘Now, there’s a name to conjure with’ he said thoughtfully.
The nightwaifs thorough, if belated, confession had proved very interesting to Vilnix Pompolnius. Not only did it confirm what he suspected about the Professor of Light, but he now also knew that Xintax had lied to him the night before. No-one could forget the name of Cloud Wolf the sky pirate captain was infamous. The Leaguesmaster himself must be planning something underhand.
Vilnix chuckled to himself. There were many other ambitious leaguesmen who would be only too happy to strike a deal with the Most High Academe.
He turned back to Forficule. ‘And this youth you mentioned’ he said. ‘This Twig. What is he to the assembled gathering?’
Forficule swallowed. Although he hadn’t known Twig long, he had liked what he heard in the boy’s head. His thoughts were decent and honest, loyal and true. He would hate to think that something he said might mean that the boy came to harm.
Vilnix dangled the heavy pincers in front of his face. Forficule nodded, as much as the leather strap would allow, and continued. ‘He is a crew-member on board the Stormchaser,’ he said.
‘And?’ said Vilnix Pompolnius, sensing he was on to something.
‘He was born and raised in the Deepwoods,’ he said.
‘And?’
Forficule shuddered. If he made it clear that Twig was not relevant to the plan, perhaps the youth would be left in peace. ‘He is not to accompany the pirates on this particular trip,’ he said. ‘He is to stay with Mother Horsef…’
Vilnix cut him short. ‘There is something you’re not telling me,’ he said, and raised the pincers threateningly.
Forficule looked down. Tears welled up in his eyes. He was not a bad creature but neither was he brave. The pincers hovered in the torchlight next to the metal bowl. Better dead than deaf.
‘He … he is …’ he faltered. ‘That is … Cloud Wolf is his father.’
Vilnix breathed in sharply. ‘A son’ he hissed. ‘Quintinius Verginix has a son. And he has left him behind’ he smirked. ‘How very careless.’ He turned to Minulis. ‘We must introduce ourselves to the lad forthwith’ he said. ‘We shall invite him back here to Sanctaphrax, to await the return of his valiant father.’
He turned back to Forficule. ‘What a splendid little bargaining chip you have given us’ he said, as he returned the heavy pincers to the shelf. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful we are.’
Forficule felt wretched. His attempt to protect Twig had failed, and now the youth was in mortal danger. And yet Sky forgive him! he couldn’t help but be relieved that the Most High Academe seemed so pleased with the information.
‘Am I free to go, then?’ he asked.
Vilnix looked round at him, and smiled. Forficule stared back, hoping. With his head still echoing from the deafening noise of metal crashing on metal, he was unable to hear the dark thoughts lurking behind the Most High Academe’s smiling face.
‘Free to go?’ Vilnix Pompolnius said at last. His eyes twinkled. ‘Oh, yes. Quite free.’
Forficule gasped for joy.
Vilnix nodded to Minulis. ‘Unbind him and throw him out’ he said. Then, as the hair-shirt itched and the spikes and nails dug into the Most High Academe’s head and feet, he added, ‘But first, cut off his ears.’
•C H A P T E R E L E V E N•
THE EYE OF THE STORM
Twig lay some way from Mugbutt’s filthy straw-covered quarters. He was still pretending to be unconscious. Each time the Stormchaser pitched and tossed he would roll over a little further, hoping that the flat-head would assume it was the movement of the boat shifting him across the floor. Slowly painfully slowly he was manoeuvring himself towards the staircase. One chance at escape, that was all he would get.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! he told himself. Not only had he disobeyed his father, but he’d left him at the mercy of treacherous mutineers just as Cloud Wolf had feared might happen.
The sky ship lurched sharply to the left and Twig rolled over twice. The stairs were getting closer.
It was so obvious that Spleethe was up to no good, Twig continued angrily to himself. He never liked you. You should’ve realized why he was being so friendly! ‘Oh, Sky above,’ he murmured. ‘What have I done?’
The sky ship listed to starboard and Twig had to brace himself against the floor to stop himself being propelled back to Mugbutt’s berth. Through the crack in his eyelids he watched the flat-head snuffling through the soiled straw for an
y bits of meat he might have missed.
Disgusting creature, he thought, and trembled. And a formidable fighter …
At that moment, the Stormchaser reared up like a prowlgrin charger, tilted abruptly to port and dropped in the sky. With his heart in his mouth, Twig rolled the last few yards towards the bottom of the stairs. There he hesitated and looked back. The sky ship reared up a second time and there was a loud crash as Mugbutt lost his balance and tumbled to the floor.
Now! Twig said to himself. Get out while you can.
He leapt to his feet, gripped the wooden rails fiercely and climbed the steep set of stairs as quickly as his trembling legs would allow.
‘OY!’ Mugbutt bellowed, when he realized what was happening. ‘Where are you going?’
Twig didn’t wait to reply. ‘Come on!’ he urged himself desperately. He was halfway up the stairs, yet the hatch at the top looked no nearer. ‘Come on!’
Already, Mugbutt had climbed to his feet, vaulted over the bars which enclosed his berth and was racing headlong towards him. Six more steps he had to go, and Mugbutt was there at the bottom. Five … four … Twig could feel the entire staircase tremble as the heavy flat-head hurried up behind him. Three … two …
‘Nearly there’ Twig muttered. ‘One more step and …’ All at once, he felt the horny hand of the flat-head goblin grasping at his ankle. ‘No!’ he screamed and kicked back with both legs.
Shoving the hinged hatch open with shaking hands, Twig launched himself up and pulled himself through the narrow opening. He knelt down beside the hole. Mugbutt’s spatula fingers appeared at the rim. Twig leaned forwards, seized the hatch door and slammed it down with all his strength.
There was an agonizing cry. The fingers disappeared from view and from below the hatch came the muffled sound of Mugbutt tumbling back down the staircase. Twig had done it! He’d escaped yet already, he could hear the flat-head pounding back up the stairs.
With his heart thumping, Twig slid the heavy bolts across the hatchway and, to make doubly sure, heaved a huge barrel of pickled tripweed across the floor until it came to rest on the hatch door. Then, leaping to his feet, he headed for the next flight of stairs the flight which would take him up on to the deck itself. As he began climbing, the sound of furious hammering and cursing exploded behind him.
Let the hatch hold, Twig prayed. Please!
Up on deck and completely unaware of the drama that had been unfolding below them, the captain and crew of the Stormchaser were struggling to keep the sky ship airborne as the mighty ball of cloud crackled and flashed across the sky.
‘Double bind the tolley-ropes’ Cloud Wolf bellowed as the Great Storm hurtled on towards the Twilight Woods. It was essential that he maintain the Stormchaser’s position at its very centre. ‘Draw in the studsail. Untangle those jib lines!’
The atmosphere was, in every sense, electric. Tiny filaments of hissing blue light fuzzed the outline of the sky ship. They fizzed. They sparked. They danced on every surface, from bowsprit to rudder-wheel, masthead to hull. They danced on the sails, the ropes, the decks. And they danced on the sky pirates themselves on their beards, their clothes, their fingers and toes; setting their entire bodies tingling.
Tern Barkwater was turning a handspike. ‘Can’t say as I like this over-much,’ he grumbled as the sparking blue light played all round his hands.
Stope Boltjaw looked up from the skysail he was busy repairing. ‘It’s ah playing ha-fl/i-voc with my ah jaw,’ he gasped.
Tern grinned.
‘It’s not ah fu-ah-nny!’ he complained.
‘But it is!’ Tern Barkwater chuckled as his shipmate’s lower jaw continued to open and close with a will of its own.
Years earlier, Stope Boltjaw had lost his lower jaw during a fierce battle between his sky pirate ship and two league ships. A notoriously ruthless leaguesman by the name of Ulbus Pentephraxis had crept up on him with his hunting axe, and struck him a savage blow which had caught him sideways on, just below his ear.
When he recovered, Stope had fashioned a replacement from a piece of ironwood. So long as he remembered to keep the bolts well oiled, the false jaw served him well enough – at least, it had done up until now. From the moment the Stormchaser penetrated the Great Storm, the curious electrical force had caused it to gape wide and slam shut, time and again – and there was nothing Stope Boltjaw could do to stop it.
‘How ah much longer ah is this going on?’ he groaned.
‘Till we get to the Twilight Woods, I reckon’ said Tern Barkwater.
‘Which will be in approximately … nine minutes,’ Spiker called down from the rigging.
‘Nine minutes,’ Slyvo Spleethe repeated gleefully under his breath. The quartermaster, who had been sent to check that the mooring-cleats were holding up, but was now leaning against the poop-deck handrail gazing idly into the hypnotic swirl of the clouds all round them, glanced round.
‘Keep it up, Quintinius Verginix,’ he sneered. ‘Complete your journey to the Twilight Woods. Recover the stormphrax. Then I shall make my move. And woe betide anyone who…’ He gasped. ‘What in Sky’s name?’
The sight of Twig, standing in the doorway of the little cabin above the staircase, filled Spleethe with an uncontrolled rage. If Cloud Wolf should also see him, then all would be lost. Without a moment’s thought, Spleethe dashed off towards him.
Twig looked about him in a state of bewildered excitement. His narrow escape from the flat-head goblin had left him breathless and edgy. Now, as he took in his surroundings, his heart clamoured more urgently than ever.
The air was purple; it smelled of sulphur, of burnt milk. All around the sky ship, the enveloping clouds boiled and writhed and crackled with blinding lightning. His body tingled as tentacles of blue light wrapped themselves around him, causing every hair to stand on end.
This was stormchasing!
The crew were feverishly busy, with Hubble, the ferocious albino banderbear, tethered to the helm, and Cloud Wolf fully occupied with the sail and weight levers as he struggled to maintain both speed and lift. What a time to have to reveal that he had stowed away on board; what a moment to have to break the news of the impending mutiny.
‘Yet I have no choice’ Twig muttered grimly. Already, he could hear the wooden hatchway splintering below him. It was only a matter of time before Mugbutt emerged on board. Twig knew that if he didn’t speak up now then his father would surely end up dead. He shuddered miserably. ‘And it’ll all be my fault!’
Bracing himself for the short yet perilous journey from stair-head to helm, Twig was about to set off when a heavy hand slammed down on his shoulders and yanked him back. An ice-cold blade pressed hard at the base of his neck.
‘One move, one sound, Master Twig, and I’ll slit your throat,’ Spleethe hissed. ‘Understood?’
‘Yes,’ Twig whispered.
The next instant, he heard a click behind him and found himself being shoved roughly into a store-cupboard filled with buckets and mops, lengths of rope and spare sailcloth. He tumbled backwards and landed heavily in the corner. The door slammed shut.
‘Five minutes and counting!’ the oakelf’s strident voice announced.
Twig climbed shakily to his feet and pressed his ear against the locked door. He could just make out two voices speaking in conspiratorial whispers above the continuing roar and rattle. One was Spleethe’s. The other was Mugbutt’s.
‘I’m not to blame,’ the flathead was whining. ‘He’d escaped before I had a chance to stop him.’
‘You should have kept him tied up,’ came Spleethe’s irritated reply. ‘Curse that Twig!’ he said. ‘Someone’s bound to find him before the stormphrax has been retrieved …’
‘I could finish him off now,’ Mugbutt suggested coldly.
‘No’ said Spleethe. ‘We need him alive, not dead.’ He growled with mounting rage. ‘The meddlesome little whelpersnapper has forced my hand and that’s a fact. But all is not lost, Mugbutt. Come on. Let’s see if w
e can’t turn the situation to our advantage after all.’
As the pair of them departed, Twig felt his heart hammering harder than ever. There he was inside a Great Storm, hurtling on towards the Twilight Woods in search of stormphrax. Finally he was doing what, for so long, he had only dreamed about. And yet, because of him, the dream had become a waking nightmare.
Above him, Spleethe and Mugbutt had made it to the helm. He could hear Spleethe’s voice though not what he said. Twig swallowed nervously and hammered on the door.
‘Let me out!’ he cried. ‘Tern! Spiker! Boltjaw! Oh, why won’t you hear me? Let me…’
At that moment Cloud Wolf shouted out. ‘What?’ he bellowed. ‘But this is mutiny!’
Twig shuddered, and hung his head. ‘Oh, Father,’ he whimpered. ‘If we ever get out of this alive will you ever forgive me?’
Confronted by the captain’s rage, Spleethe remained icily calm. Apart from his eyes, which glinted beadily behind the steel rims of his glasses, his face betrayed not a hint of emotion.
‘Not mutiny’ he said, as he drew his sword from its sheath. ‘Merely a redistribution of power.’
Hubble growled ominously.
‘This is leaguesman’s chatter,’ Cloud Wolf snorted. ‘Has it really come so far, Spleethe?’
Just then, the Stormchaser lurched to the left, and abruptly lost speed. The rear of the storm raced up to meet them. Cloud Wolf lowered the stern weight and raised both the fore and aft sails. The sky ship leapt forwards again.
He turned back to Spleethe. ‘Do you seriously imagine for a moment that you could sail the Stormchaser? Eh?’
Spleethe hesitated for a moment.
‘You are a fool, Spleethe!’ Cloud Wolf continued. ‘What use have the leagues for stormphrax? Tell me that! It is phraxdust they need, and no-one knows the secret of how to make it safely’
‘On the contrary,’ Spleethe replied. ‘The League of Free Merchants is prepared to pay highly for a cargo of stormphrax. Very highly indeed. And since you are so reluctant to deliver it to them, then I shall. I think you’ll find the others are behind me when they realize how much is at stake.’
