by Paul Stewart
He looked up. Forficule was staring at him intently. Be careful what you say or even think, that was what his father had told him. Twig stared back at the quivering-eared nightwaif and shivered with anxiety.
‘The rudder-wheel, eh?’ he heard Mother Horse-feather saying. The pleasantries were clearly over. ‘It sounds important.’
‘It is,’ Cloud Wolf agreed.
‘And therefore costly?’
Cloud Wolf nodded.
‘Well, I’m sure we can come to some agreement,’ she said brightly. ‘So long as the quality of the ironwood lives up to my expectations.’
Twig felt the blood drain from his face as the enormity of what he had done suddenly struck home. Because of him, the Stormchaser would never fly again. His heart pounded loudly. And when Forficule leaned across and whispered to Mother Horsefeather behind his hand, it pounded louder still.
The bird-woman’s eyes gleamed. ‘So, Wolfie,’ she said, ‘will it live up to my expectations, do you think?’ She leaned forwards and thrust her beak into his face. ‘Or is there something you’d like to tell me?’ she demanded, her voice suddenly clipped and hard.
‘Tell you? I…’ he began, scratching behind his eye-patch. ‘That is …’ He glanced round at his son. Twig had never seen him look so weary, so old before.
‘Well?’ Mother Horsefeather demanded.
‘We did have rather an unfortunate set-back,’ Cloud Wolf agreed. ‘But nothing that can’t be put right on our next voyage …’
‘You seem to forget,’ she interrupted brusquely, ‘that you owe me ten thousand already. And that’s before interest. Plus, of course, the cost of a new rudder-wheel …’ She paused dramatically, and began preening her neck feathers carelessly. ‘I’m not sure there should be a next voyage.’
Twig shrivelled up inside.
‘Unless,’ she went on slyly, ‘it is on my terms.’
Cloud Wolf did not flinch. ‘And those terms would be?’ he said calmly.
Mother Horsefeather pulled herself to her scaly feet and turned around. She clasped her hands behind her. Cloud Wolf and Twig stared at her back expectantly. A half-smile played over Forficule’s lips.
‘We go back a long way, Cloud Wolf; you and I,’ she said. ‘Despite your current, unfortunate financial problems, you are still the finest sky pirate captain there is after all, it was hardly your fault that the Stormchaser became riddled with woodbugs.’ She stepped forwards. ‘Therefore it is to you that I come with what will surely prove to be your greatest challenge. If you are successful, your debts will be cancelled at a stroke.’
Cloud Wolf eyed her mistrustfully. ‘And what’s in it for you?’
‘Oh, Wolfie, Wolfie,’ she said, and cackled with laughter. ‘You know me so well.’ Her beady eyes glinted. ‘A great deal, that’s all I am prepared to say for now.’
‘But…’
‘Save your questions until I have explained,’ Mother Horsefeather interrupted sharply. She breathed in. ‘I have been approached,’ she said, ‘by the P …’
Forficule coughed loudly.
‘… by … a Sanctaphrax academic,’ Mother Horsefeather continued. ‘He wishes to get his hands on some stormphrax lots of it and he will pay handsomely for the privilege.’
Cloud Wolf snorted. ‘If he needs stormphrax, then why doesn’t he simply raid the treasury’ he said. ‘From what I’ve heard, everyone else does these days.’
Mother Horsefeather stared at him impassively. ‘It is to replenish the depleted stocks in the treasury that the stormphrax is needed,’ she said. ‘Too much has been taken for phraxdust already’ she continued, glancing down at the silver medallion around her own neck. ‘Not that anyone has actually been successful but if nothing is done, then the floating rock will break its moorings and Sanctaphrax will drift off. Into open sky. For ever.’
‘Pah’ Cloud Wolf spat. ‘Sanctaphrax. What good has that place ever done me?’
Mother Horsefeather clucked with irritation. ‘Sanctaphrax is an integral part of all our lives’ she snapped. ‘Its scholars are the weather-diviners, the map-makers, the sifters of mists and phantasms that come in from beyond the Edge. It is they who read the patterns which bring order from chaos. Without them, Undertown itself could not exist. You, of all people, Wolfie, should understand this.’
‘I know only that Sanctaphrax stole the years of my prime and then cast me out’ Cloud Wolf said.
Mother Horsefeather’s eyes sparkled. ‘You felt cheated you still do,’ she said. ‘And rightly so.’ She paused. ‘That is why I offer you now the possibility to avenge yourself on the usurpers.’
Cloud Wolf stared back at her, as it finally occurred to him what the devious bird-woman was after. ‘You mean you want me to sail to the Twilight Woods in search of fresh stormphrax,’ he said.
‘I mean,’ said Mother Horsefeather, ‘that I am giving you a second chance. You will be able to utilize all that training you were given in the Knights’ Academy; you will show that Cloud Wolf is more than a mere cut-throat and outlaw. At long last,‘ she said as she puffed out her breast feathers, ’the magnificent Stormchaser will be used for the purpose it was originally built. Not lugging ironwood around like some glorified tug-ship. But stormchasing!’
Twig’s heart thrilled at the sound of the word. Stooorm-cha-sing! he whispered, savouring every syllable. He smiled excitedly. Stooooooorrm-cha-sing.
The next moment, any dreams he might have had were shattered. ‘Out of the question’ Cloud Wolf snapped.
‘Oh, but Wolfie’ Mother Horsefeather wheedled, ‘think of the acclaim that will be heaped upon your head when you arrive back triumphant, with enough stormphrax to weigh down the floating rock of Sanctaphrax for a thousand years. Think of the glory think of the power,’ she added softly.
Twig willed his father to agree. Cloud Wolf shook his head.
‘For, of course, with the treasury weighted down once again’ Mother Horsefeather went on, ‘the accursed link between the raintasters and the leaguesmen will at last be broken.’ Her eyes glinted. ‘New alliances will have to be forged a new hierarchy established. Think how high in the pecking-order you could find yourself. You and me, Wolfie. Just you and me, up there at the top.’
But still Cloud Wolf remained unmoved. ‘Many long years have gone by since I left the Academy’ he said. ‘And the Stormchaser is not the sky ship she once was …’
‘Wolfie! Wolfie!’ Mother Horsefeather chided him. ‘Such false modesty! Quintinius Verginix was the most outstanding knight the Academy had ever seen, and the skills you learned there have been honed to razor sharpness as Cloud Wolf, the finest sky pirate captain ever.’ Twig heard his father snort. ‘And as for the Stormchaser’ she went on, ‘we will have it repaired, realigned, refurbished the works. She will fly as she has never flown before.’
For a moment, Twig thought this would sway it. Surely his father would be unable to resist such an offer. Cloud Wolf smiled and played with his waxed side-whiskers.
‘No’ he said. He scraped the chair noisily backwards and stood up from the table. ‘And now if you’ll excuse me…’
Mother Horsefeather began scratching at the floor in a sudden fury. ‘Excuse you?’ she screeched. ‘No I will not excuse you.’ Her voice grew more and more shrill. ‘You have no choice! I have something you need and you have something I need. You will do what I say!’
Cloud Wolf merely chuckled to himself as he made for the door. In an uncontrollable rage, Mother Horsefeather flapped and thrashed about. The table tipped over. The chairs went flying. Twig, dodging back out of her way, caught sight of Forficule. He was staring intently at the door, ears quivering and a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.
‘You’re finished!’ Mother Horsefeather was screaming. ‘Finished! Do you understand? I’ll see you never so much as set foot on a sky ship again. I’ll…’
There was a muffled knock. Mother Horsefeather froze. The door opened. ‘You!’ she exclaimed.
‘My lor
d’ Cloud Wolf gasped, and fell to his knees.
Twig stared at the newcomer in confusion. He was old very old with long white hair and a stout staff to aid his unsteady gait. With his broken sandals, his fingerless gloves and his patched and threadbare gown, he looked as wretched as any alley-vagrant. Yet there was his father kneeling down before him.
Twig turned to Forficule for an explanation, but the nightwaif had moved away. It was up on the table, urgently whispering into Mother Horsefeather’s ear behind its pale and bony hand. Twig would have given anything to know what was being said but, strain as he might, he could hear nothing but a conspiratorial hssp-psss-psss.
Twig groaned, returned his attention to his father and groaned again. If he had been disappointed by Cloud Wolf’s reaction to Mother Horsefeather’s proposal, then he was mortified to find his father still kneeling.
Will you stand up and fight? he wondered bitterly. Or do you intend to remain on your knees for ever?
•C H A P T E R S I X•
SCREED TOE-TAKER
The journey across the Mire was proving to be as harsh as anything Mini had ever experienced. And if the leader of the gnokgoblin family was finding the going tough, then the others were all but at the end of their strength. Mini’s concern was growing more acute with every passing minute.
Screed had given strict instructions that they should all keep together, yet the further they went on across the endless muddy wasteland, the more separated they were becoming.
Mini squelched back and forth along the long straggling line as fast as the gluey mud would allow. From the young’uns up at the front to old Torp, who was bringing up the rear, and back again, she went offering words of encouragement as she passed.
‘Not far, now,’ she assured them. ‘Nearly there.’ The rank, stagnant stench of the Mire grew stronger. ‘Forget where we are now and keep your thoughts on the wonderful place for which we’re bound a place of plenty, a place of opportunity, a place where goblins are respected and the streets are paved with gold.’
The gnokgoblins smiled back at her weakly, but none made any attempt to reply. They didn’t have the energy. Even the young’uns, who had started out so enthusiastically - gambolling ahead like lambs were now dragging their feet painfully slowly. Mim knew it would not be long before the first of her party gave up completely.
‘Hey!’ she cried out to the gaunt figure up ahead. ‘Slow down a bit.’
Screed turned. ‘Now what?’ he snapped irritably.
Mim strode towards him. The burning sun beat down ferociously. Screed waited for her to catch up, hands on hips, leering. ‘We need a rest,’ she panted.
Screed looked her up and down, then squinted up at the sky. ‘We keep on till sundown,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll rest for the night. It’s too dangerous travelling by darkness what with the sinking-mud and poisonous blow-holes …’
‘Not to mention the muglumps, oozefish and white ravens,’ Mim interrupted tartly. ‘Not that We’ve encountered any so far.’
Screed pulled himself up to his full height, and stared down his nose at her scornfully. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, his voice loaded with sarcasm, ‘I was under the impression that you employed me as a guide to avoid these dangers.
If I’d only known you wanted to see them for yourselves …’
Mini looked down sheepishly. ‘I’m sorry’ she said. ‘It’s just … Well, some of us are finding it difficult to keep up with the pace you’re setting.’
Screed glanced back along the line of goblins. ‘You paid for a two-day crossing’ he said sharply. ‘Any longer than that and it’ll cost you.’
‘But we haven’t got any more money’ Mim cried out.
Screed’s yellow teeth gleamed against the bleached paleness of his lips. ‘Like I say’ he said, turning and walking away. ‘It’ll cost you.’
Darkness had fallen by the time Screed Toe-taker called it a day. He stopped on an outcrop of rocks and placed the lantern down. ‘We’ll stop here’ he called back through cupped hands.
One by one, the goblins started to arrive.
‘Keep that infant still!’ Screed shouted at a young female with a squawling babe-in-arms. ‘It’ll attract every muglump for miles around.’ He lifted the lantern and peered back the way they’d come. ‘And where are the others?’ he snapped. ‘Just my luck if they’ve already gone and got themselves lost.’
‘No, look! Over there!’ one of the young’uns cried, and pointed back towards a curious, squat figure which was shuffling towards them out of the low, swirling mist. As it grew closer, the one figure became three. It was Mim, trudging purposefully on with a youngster on her back and an arm around old Torp.
Screed smiled. ‘All present and correct’ he said.
Buoyed up by the gleeful cheers of the others, Mim staggered across that last stretch of sucking quicksilver mud and up onto the rocky outcrop. Old Torp released himself from her supporting arm and sat down. ‘Well done, old-timer’ she whispered breathlessly. ‘You made it’ She pulled the sleeping youngster from her back, laid him gently down on the ground and covered him with a blanket. Then, groaning with the effort, she pulled herself upright and looked round.
‘Well, it’s certainly not the most comfortable place I’ve ever spent the night,’ she said. ‘But it’s dry. And that’s the main thing. So, thank you, Screed, for bringing us to this place.’
‘My pleasure,’ he said, ignoring the sullen faces of the others it was, after all, an expression he had seen a thousand times before. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘you must all get some sleep.’
The gnokgoblins didn’t need telling twice. Within seconds, all of them were rolled up in their blankets, like a row of woolly cocoons all, that is, except for Mim. ‘And yourself?’ she asked Screed.
‘Me?’ he said loftily, as he perched himself on the top of the tallest rock. ‘Oh, don’t you worry about me. I have little need of sleep.’ He gazed round the flat landscape, glinting and glistening like burnished silver beneath the moon. ‘Besides, someone has to keep watch.’
Mim was reassured. Despite what she’d said earlier, she hadn’t liked the sound of the muglumps, oozefish or white ravens one tiny little bit. She wished Screed a good night, snuggled up between two of the young’uns and, by the time dark clouds rolled over the moon a couple of minutes later, she was, like all the others, fast asleep.
Screed listened to the rasping chorus of snoring and smirked to himself. ‘Sleep well, little dwarves,’ he whispered, ‘or goblins or whatever you are.’
He brought the lantern nearer as the clouds rolled in, and pulled a knife from his belt which he began sliding gently back and forwards over the smooth rock. Occasionally he would spit on the metal, and inspect the blade in the yellow light. Then off he went again, slowly, methodically whish, whish, whish until every point along the blade was sharp enough to split a hair in two. Woe betide the creature that thought it could get the better of him. Screed stood up, lantern in one hand, knife in the other. Woe betide any who fell into his clutches.
Abruptly, the clouds rolled back, and the bright moon shone down on the grisly scene, turning everything to black and white.
White blankets. Black blood.
White bony body, lurching on into the mud. Black shadow, stretching back across the rocks.
White ravens, already scavenging. Black deeds. Monstrous deeds.
With his leather bag full of bloody booty clasped in his bony hand, Screed Toe-taker picked his way across the Mire. Far away in front of him, the moon glinted on the wreck of a sky ship which lay half-buried in the mud like a giant skeleton. Unblinking, Screed kept his eyes fixed on the glinting ribs of the broken hull. Closer and closer he came. Not once did he falter. Not once did he look back.
‘At last’ Screed muttered as he made it to the wreck. He glanced round for any tell-tale sign of intrusion and, when he was satisfied there was no-one and nothing there, he scuttled into the shadowy recesses of the lopsided shipwreck.
If some
intruder had taken the opportunity to investigate the place during its owner’s absence, he, she or it would have been left shaking with disbelief at the horrors the ship concealed. The dank air, for a start, was thick with the pungent stench of death. And then there were the walls studded their length and breadth with mummified toes, nailed to the wood.
There were big toes, small toes, hairy toes, scaly toes, toes with razor-sharp talons, toes with claws, toes with webbing all of them shrivelled and black. And these were just a fraction of the total number the select few for at the far end of the hull in a massive wedge-shaped drift, were thousands upon thousands more.
Screed sloshed his way along the sky ship. He didn’t register the gory trophies lining the walls, neither did he notice the awful stench; to Screed Toe-taker, the wreck of the Windcutter simply smelled of home.
He hung the lantern on a hook above a huge chest of ironwood and glass, opened the lid, crouched down and set to work. One by one he pulled the severed toes from his bag and, like an insane manicurist, scraped beneath the nails with a small file. Tiny particles of dust some glistening white, some tinged with sepia dropped down into the chest with the rest. And when he was satisfied that every speck had been removed, he tossed the toes on to the great heap with the others.
Finally done, Screed stared down with dreamy contentment into the chest. It was more than three-quarters full of the toe-nail scrapings. ‘Oh, my beea-oootiful looty-booty,’ he whispered. ‘One day you will fill the chest, right up to the top. One day soon, Sky willing. And on that wondrous day, then maybe just maybe shall my quest be at an end.’
Screed stood up, slammed the lid shut, and stepped outside. The long night was over. To his left, the tell-tale purple clouds of a gathering storm were rolling in from the retreating darkness. To his right and far away in the distance, was a sky ship, silhouetted against the rising sun.
