by Paul Stewart
Up so close, Twig saw that the knight’s armour was coated in a fine layer of sepia dust. It moved over the metal breastplate almost like a liquid. Now he could see his reflection in the metal underneath; now his face was gone again.
‘If you only knew how lonely I’ve been, Garlinius,’ the knight cried out. ‘How long I’ve searched.’
Twig was beginning to panic. ‘I must break free,’ he muttered through gritted teeth. ‘I must get away’
He reached up, grabbed the gauntleted hand that gripped his shoulder and pulled with all his might.
‘Garlinius!’ protested the knight pitifully.
Twig brought his knee up hard, and connected with the knight’s breastplate with a loud clang. The knight fell back and landed heavily with an echoing clatter on the crystal-covered ground. A cloud of sepia dust flew up into the air. Twig fell to his knees coughing violently.
‘Garlinius!’
The knight was back on his feet. In his hand he held a long saw-toothed sword, vicious-looking despite the rust that cloaked it.
‘Garlinius,’ he said again, his voice suddenly thin and menacing. His blue eyes looked straight into Twig’s, their clear intensity mesmerizing him for an instant. The knight raised the sword.
Twig stopped breathing.
The knight’s wizened face creased with confusion. ‘Garlinius?’ he called out. ‘Where are you?’
His eyes bore into Twig’s.
‘Come back, Garlinius,’ he implored. ‘We can be friends again. If you only knew how long I’ve searched. Garlinius! Please …’
Twig shuddered with pity. The knight was quite blind. The Twilight Woods had robbed him of his senses, every one; of his wits, of his reason yet left him with his life. He would never rest. He would never find peace. Instead, he was doomed to continue his never-ending search for ever and ever. Nothing in the Deepwoods was as cruel as this place, thought Twig. I must get out! I won’t let the evil Twilight Woods have ray wits, ray sight … I will escape.
The knight, hearing no reply, turned regretfully away. ‘So near,’ he whispered. ‘Always so near, and yet…’
He whistled softly through his rotten teeth and the prowlgrin padded obediently to his side. Wheezing and panting, the knight clambered back into the saddle.
‘I will find you, Garlinius,’ he cried in his frail, cracked voice. ‘A quest is a quest for ever. Wherever Vinchix takes you, Bolnix and I will follow.’
Twig held his breath and remained absolutely still as the knight shook his fist in the air, tugged on the reins and rode off into the depths of the Twilight Woods. The golden light gleamed on the back of his armour as he faded into the confusing patchwork of light and shade. The creaking grew softer, the clip-clop footfalls fading away to nothing.
Finally, Twig let out his breath, and gasped for air. As he did so, he felt a sharp pinch at his shoulder. The sepia knight’s gauntlet still held its grip.
•C H A P T E R F O U R T E E N•
LOUDER CRIES. SOFTER WHISPERS
i
In the Mire
Screed Toe-taker patted his stomach. The oozefish had tasted as vile as ever bitter, bony and oily but they had taken the edge off his hunger. He leaned forwards and dropped the bones into the fire where they crackled and burst into flames; the heads and tails, he tossed to the scavenging white ravens which had been hopping round the wrecked ship expectantly ever since the first wisps of fishy smoke had risen into the air.
‘There you are, my lovelies,’ he rasped.
The birds squabbled noisily over the scraps of food pecking, scratching, drawing blood until, one by one, they each seized a piece that suited them, leaped up into the air and flapped away to eat it in peace.
‘Oozefish,’ Screed snorted, and spat into the fire.
It was years since Screed had first set up home in the bleached wasteland, yet he had never got used to the taste of the food the Mire had to offer. Occasionally, of course, he would pilfer the provisions brought by the hapless goblins, trolls and the like, whom he would lead to their deaths. But their supplies of stale bread and dried meat were scarcely any better. No. What Screed Toe-taker craved was the food he had once eaten every day hammelhorn steaks, tildermeat sausages, baked snowbird … His mouth watered; his stomach groaned. ‘One day, perhaps’ he sighed. ‘One day.’
He picked up a long stick and poked thoughtfully at the embers of the fire. The weather was calm this morning, with little wind and no clouds unlike the previous day, when the sky had churned and rumbled with the passing storm. It had looked like a Great Storm. And he remembered the sky ship he’d seen speeding towards it like a flying arrow.
‘Stormchasing’ Screed muttered, and sneered. ‘If they only knew!’ He cackled with laughter. ‘But then, of course, by now they will know. The poor fools!’ he said, and cackled all the louder.
The sun rose higher in the sky. It beat down fiercely, causing a swirling mist to coil up out of the swampy mud.
‘Come on then,’ Screed said, as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Can’t sit round here all day’
He heaved himself to his feet, kicked wet mud over the smouldering embers and ashes and surveyed the horizon. A broad smile spread across his face as he stared across the hazy Mire to the Twilight Woods beyond.
Who would arrive next, desperate for a guide to lead them across the Mire? he wondered, and sniggered unpleasantly. ‘Looty-booty,’ he whispered, ‘here I come!’
ii
In the Palace of the Most High Academe
Vilnix Pompolnius yelped with pain and sat bolt upright. ‘Imbecile!’ he shouted.
‘A thousand, nay, a million apologies,’ Minulis cried out. ‘I slipped.’
Vilnix inspected the injured finger and licked away a drop of blood. ‘It’s not too serious,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Anyway, a little bit of pain never did anyone any harm.’
‘No, sire,’ Minulis agreed eagerly.
Vilnix settled himself back on the ottoman and closed his eyes. ‘You may continue,’ he said.
‘Yes, sire. Thank you, sire. At once, sire,’ Minulis babbled. ‘And you may be sure, it won’t happen again, sire.’
‘It’d better not,’ Vilnix snarled. ‘There are many who would leap at the opportunity of becoming personal manservant to the Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax should the post suddenly become free. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Crystal clear, if I might make so bold,’ said Minulis ingratiatingly.
With the utmost care, he lifted the bony hand once more and resumed the manicure. The Most High Academe liked his nails filed to needle-points. They enabled him to scratch his back most satisfyingly
‘Minulis’ said Vilnix Pompolnius at length, his eyes still closed. ‘Do you dream?’
‘Only when I sleep, sire,’ he replied.
‘A good answer,’ Vilnix replied. ‘And one that illustrates the difference between you and me.’
Minulis went on with his filing in silence. The Most High Academe did not like to be interrupted.
‘The only times I dream is when I am awake.’ He opened his eyes. ‘I dreamed of all this,’ he said, sweeping his free hand round the sumptuous Inner Sanctum in a wide arc. ‘And lo and behold, my dreams all came true.’
Minulis nodded. ‘The Council of Sanctaphrax is lucky indeed to have so wise and venerable a scholar as its Most High Academe.’
‘Quite so,’ said Vilnix dismissively ‘And yet, since reaching the pinnacle of success, I have missed my dreams.’
Minulis tutted sympathetically.
Abruptly, Vilnix sat up and leaned forwards conspiratorially ‘I’ll let you into a little secret, shall I?’ he whispered. ‘Following my supper with the Leaguesmaster and my little chat with that nightwaif creature, I have started dreaming again. Wonderful dreams,’ he said softly. ‘Dreams more vivid than any I have ever had before.’
iii
In the Backstreets of Undertown
Deaf, destitute and on the street, Forficule ha
d sunk just about as low as it was possible to sink. No use to anyone, least of all Mother Horsefeather who he knew wouldn’t now give him so much as a second glance he sat cross-legged on a threadbare blanket, his head swathed in bloody bandages, watching the good citizens of Undertown scurry past him without a second look.
‘Spare a little change?’ he cried out at intervals, and rattled his tin cup. ‘Help save a poor soul less fortunate than yourselves.’
His words, however, fell on ears as deaf as his own. After eight hours of begging, the cup still contained no more than the brass button that he himself had placed there that morning. By sundown, Forficule was about to leave when somebody did finally pause beside him.
‘Spare a little change,’ he said.
‘A little change?’ the newcomer said softly. ‘Come with me and I’ll make you rich beyond compare.’
Forficule made no reply. He hadn’t heard a single word. Slitch reluctant to repeat his offer any louder crouched before him and rubbed his thumb and middle-finger together. Forficule looked up and concentrated on the gnokgoblin’s lips.
‘Money,’ Slitch mouthed. ‘Wealth. Riches. Come with me.’
If Forficule had been able to hear Slitch’s thoughts or even his voice he would have recognized him at once as the unscrupulous goblin who had caused the death of the unfortunate slaughterer, Tendon. But Forficule could hear neither. Like a baby, he had to take the smiling goblin’s words at face value. He climbed to his feet, tucked the grimy bundle of rags under his arm, and let himself be led away.
Perhaps it was his desperation that left Forficule as blind as he was deaf. Or perhaps he didn’t want to remember what he had seen before. At any rate, he did not remember the familiar scene in the hut, of mortar, pestle and crystal.
‘Stormphrax’ Slitch mouthed, and smiled as he handed the nightwaif the pestle.
Forficule nodded.
‘But hang on a moment,’ Slitch went on. He turned and removed a phial of deep yellow liquid from the shelf. ‘Dampseed oil’ he explained, and removed the cork stopper. ‘If we pour a little into the bowl with the crystal, then …’ He stopped. ‘What are you doing? NO!’ he screamed and lunged at the nightwaif.
But it was too late. With his eyes fixed on the glistening, sparking shard of stormphrax, Forficule had heard nothing of Slitch’s explanation. He gripped the pestle firmly in both hands. ‘Here we go,’ he whispered, and brought it sharply down.
BOOM!
CRASH!
The crystal of stormphrax exploded with terrifying force, taking the hut with it. The roof flew off, the walls flew out and the floor became a massive crater. As the dust settled, two bodies could be seen, locked together in a fatal embrace.
iv
Outside the Bloodoak Tavern
‘What in Sky’s name was that?’ the Professor of Darkness exclaimed.
Mother Horsefeather shook her head. ‘You academics,’ she chided. ‘Heads in the clouds in your castles in the air. You’ve got no idea, have you?’
The pair of them were taking an early evening stroll together. They had urgent business to discuss and, since the Bloodoak tavern had proved to be so open to eavesdropping, had taken their conversation outside.
‘So, tell me,’ he said. ‘What was that noise? It sounded like an explosion.’
‘It was an explosion,’ she said, her ruff of neck feathers bristling. ‘Every time some poor fool tries to turn stormphrax into phraxdust there is an explosion.’
The Professor of Darkness started with surprise. ‘But where do they get this stormphrax?’ he asked.
Mother Horsefeather clacked her beak impatiently. ‘The black-market is flooded with the stuff,’ she said. ‘Word has it the Most High Academe himself is authorizing it in the hope that someone, somewhere, will unlock the elusive secret to safe phraxdust production, though…’
‘But … but this is outrageous!’ the Professor of Darkness spluttered. ‘I had no idea … No wonder the treasury is so depleted.’ He shook his head. ‘I curse the day I first laid eyes on that traitorous usurper, Vilnix Pompolnius.’
‘Yesterday is over’ said Mother Horsefeather curtly. ‘Tomorrow is still to come.’
‘I know, I know’ said the professor, ‘but what can we do? I’ve already told you that both Vilnix and the Leaguesmaster now know that Cloud Wolf has set off in search of stormphrax. Both await his return. Both have the means to confiscate his cargo and if one fails, then the other will surely succeed.’
‘On the contrary’ said Mother Horsefeather, her eyes twinkling. ‘Both will fail, you mark my words. I know Cloud Wolf for the wily old sky cur that he is. While his two enemies are battling it out, he will slip between them and bring the cargo of stormphrax to me, just as we agreed.’ Suddenly, her eyes narrowed. She spun round. ‘Anyway how do you know so much, eh?’ she said. ‘Are you now privy to the Most High Academe’s thoughts?’
‘No, I…’ the professor began. ‘I see your ignorance of Sanctaphrax equals my own of Undertown. Intrigue, whispers, gossip the black-market of our noble floating city is flooded with the stuff!’ he said, and smiled.
‘Forficule,’ said Mother Horsefeather, ‘was it… ?’
‘Forficule told Vilnix everything,’ the professor said.
Mother Horsefeather hawked noisily and spat on the ground. ‘No wonder the little squit was too ashamed to show his face,’ she squawked.
‘Tortured, he was, until he did,’ the professor explained. ‘He had no choice. But no, I didn’t learn of the Most High Academe’s plans from Forficule.’
‘Then who?’ Mother Horsefeather demanded to know.
‘From someone who has sworn allegiance to the position of power, rather than the individual who holds it,’ the professor explained. ‘His name is Minulis,’ he said. ‘He is personal manservant to Vilnix Pompolnius and he senses that changes are coming.’
Mother Horsefeather cackled with delight. ‘Then It’s up to us to ensure that he senses right!’
•C H A P T E R F I F T E E N•
DEAD OR ALIVE
Twig stopped mid-stride and peered up into the golden sky. Had he noticed something moving, something flying overhead? Or was it just another illusion, another cruel trick of the watery light?
‘Father,’ he cried out. ‘Is that you?’
‘You … you … you …’ the woods cried back.
Twig shuddered miserably. There was nobody there - there was never anybody there. The mocking faces that he saw, sneering and jeering at him out of the corners of his eyes, vanished each time he turned to confront them. Nothing remained but wraith-like twists of mist. He was alone. Quite alone.
And yet, as he turned back and continued on his solitary journey, the feeling of being watched persisted. It gnawed at his mind relentlessly.
‘Over here,’ someone or something whispered. ‘Here! Here!’ Or was it just the sound of the rising breeze, warm and oily, lapping at the ancient trees?
Twig felt dizzy, disorientated, unable to trust what his ears or his eyes were telling him. The trees swayed and the branches reached out towards him, their long woody fingers plucking at his clothes, pulling his hair.
‘Leave me alone!’ Twig howled.
‘Alone … alone …’ the woods called back.
‘I won’t stay here for ever!’ he screamed.
‘For ever …’
Twig thrust his hand into the knight’s gauntlet, reached round and pulled his father’s sword from its scabbard. Grasping the hilt helped him to hold on to who he was Twig, son of Cloud Wolf. In the Twilight Woods, he needed all the help he could get to remember even that. Yet the sword brought with it guilty memories, shameful memories.
Cloud Wolf had blamed Slyvo Spleethe for kidnapping him and dragging him reluctantly on board the Stormchaser. Twig knew that wasn’t what happened. He had gone willingly. More than that, it was he who had revealed to the treacherous quartermaster that Cloud Wolf was his father. In so doing, he had betrayed the captain’s greates
t weakness. He might as well have stabbed him in the back.
‘I didn’t mean to,’ he mumbled. ‘Really, I didn’t. Oh, Father, forgive me for my wilful ignorance, for my utter stupidity, for my lack of thought …’
The gleaming eyes and glinting teeth emerged from the shadows and hovered at the edge of his field of vision once more. Twig raised his gauntleted hand and rapped it sharply against his head. It didn’t pay to dwell on lack of thought in the Twilight Woods.
As he lowered his arm, he watched the coating of fine dust slip around on the polished surface of the gauntlet, and fall from the metal fingers like droplets of liquid. It was only by this piece of armour which had been left behind, that he knew his encounter with the sepia knight had been more than a mere figment of his imagination.
‘You are searching for stormphrax,’ Twig told himself as he set off once more. ‘You are searching for the crew of the Stormchaser you are searching for a way out.’
On and on he stumbled. On and on and on. So far as Twig was concerned, time might as well have stopped completely. He didn’t feel hungry. He didn’t feel thirsty. He didn’t feel tired. And yet, as he continued on through the bright and shadowy depths, in the grip of the enchanting torpor, Twig’s apprehension grew.
‘Twilight Woods,’ he snorted. ‘Nightmare Woods, more like it.’
The wind rose higher, rustling the leaves and sending their coating of glistening crystals showering down to the glittering ground below. Twig stared, mesmerized by the scintillating display. And as they fell, he became aware of a sound light and delicate like the soft tinkling of wind-chimes.
As it grew louder, Twig stopped and cocked his head to one side. What could be making such sweet and melodious music? It seemed to be coming from his left.
‘I am Twig,’ he reminded himself as he raised his sword in his gauntleted hand. ‘I must leave this place. I will not become like the sepia knight.’
