Stormchaser: Second Book of Twig

by Paul Stewart

  All round him, the drunken revelry continued at full-throttle. There was raucous laughter and loud swearing; tales were told, songs were sung, violent arguments broke out as the flat-head and hammer-head goblins became increasingly volatile. At the stroke of midnight, a lumpen she-troll started up a snake dance and, within minutes, the whole tavern was squirming with a long line of individuals, winding its way round and round the room.

  ‘Oy, cheer up, mate,’ Twig heard. ‘It might never happen.’

  He turned and found himself face to face with a grinning mobgnome standing beside him. ‘It already has,’ he sighed.

  Puzzled, the mobgnome shrugged and returned to the dance. Twig turned back. He placed his elbows on the bar, rested his head in his hands with his fingers clamped firmly over his ears and closed his eyes.

  ‘Why did you have to leave me here?’ he whispered. ‘Why?’

  Of course, he knew what his father would reply. ‘I’m only thinking of your well-being’ or ‘One day, you’ll thank me for this’ or, worst of all, ‘It’s all for your own good.’

  Twig felt his sadness and regret shifting, by degrees, to anger. It was not good for him; not good at all. Life on the Stormchaser was good. Being with his father, after so long a separation, was good. Sailing the skies in pursuit of wealth and riches was good. But being placed in the charge of Mother Horsefeather in her seething, seedy tavern while the Stormchaser and its crew set off on so wonderful a voyage was unutterably bad.

  Torturing himself all the more, Twig thought of everything he was missing. He imagined how it must feel to be sucked along in the wake of a Great Storm. He tried to envisage the single lightning bolt as it froze in mid-air and turned to solid stormphrax. And he asked himself what it must be like inside the notorious Twilight Woods. For, although the Stormchaser had often passed above them, none of the Sky Pirates had ever risked venturing down.

  Would they be like the Deepwoods of his childhood? he wondered. Endless, luxuriant forest. Teeming with life. Filled with all manner of trees, from humming lullabees to the flesh-eating bloodoaks, and home to countless tribes and villagers and creatures of every kind …

  Or were they indeed as mysteriously treacherous as the legends described? A place of endless degeneration. A place of confusion and delusion. A place of madness. That was how the storytellers spoke of the Twilight Woods, as they passed their tales on, word of mouth, down the generations.

  Twig sighed. Now he would never know. What should have been the greatest adventure of his life had been snatched cruelly away by his own father. Even if it had been done for his own safety, because he was, as Cloud Wolf had put it, ‘important to him’; even if that was the case, the fact remained that to Twig, it felt like a punishment.

  ‘And It’s just not fair!’ he complained.

  ‘What is not fair?’ came a voice at his elbow. Twig started. If it was the ridiculous grinning mobgnome trying to get him to dance again, he would give him what for! He swung round angrily.

  ‘Spleethe!’ he said.

  ‘Master Twig,’ said Spleethe, his narrow lips curling to reveal a set of stained and crooked teeth. ‘I thought it was you. Just the person I was looking for though it saddens me, of course, to see you so down in the mouth,’ he added.

  Twig frowned. ‘You were looking for me?’ he said.

  ‘Indeed I was,’ Spleethe purred as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and Twig swallowed queasily at the sight of the quartermaster’s hand, with its missing fingers and mess of puckered skin. ‘You see, I couldn’t help noticing that you were present during the discussions between the good captain and the bird-woman.’

  ‘What if I was?’ said Twig suspiciously.

  ‘It’s just that, well … although, naturally, the captain has filled me in on all the details of our little venture …’

  Twig was surprised. ‘He has?’

  ‘Of course he has,’ Spleethe said. ‘Chasing the Great Storm to the Twilight Woods. The quest for the sacred stormphrax … I know it all. It’s just that … One’s memory, you understand … That is …’

  Spleethe was fishing. The Leaguesmaster had demanded even more of him than he’d expected taking the Stormchaser, killing Cloud Wolf, delivering the stormphrax. His task would be difficult and he had kicked himself for leaving the Bloodoak tavern so hastily before. After all, if he was to be successful, he needed to know everything about the meeting including the part which took place after his departure.

  ‘Silly of me, I know,’ he continued slyly, ‘but I cannot for the life of me remember how Cloud Wolf said the meeting was concluded.’

  Twig’s reaction took the quartermaster by surprise.

  ‘Concluded?’ he said angrily. ‘I’ll tell you how it was concluded. I was told to remain here, in Undertown, with Mother Horsefeather, while the rest of you go sailing off to the Twilight Woods.’

  Spleethe’s brow furrowed. ‘Remain here?’ he repeated softly. Tell me more, Master Twig,‘ he said. Open up your heart.’

  Struggling to fight back the tears, Twig shook his head.

  ‘But Master Twig,’ Spleethe persisted, his voice whiny and wheedling, ‘a problem shared is a problem halved. And of course, if there’s anything that I can do, anything at all…’

  ‘It’s the captain,’ Twig blurted out. ‘He says he’s worried about my safety, but … but … I don’t believe him. I can’t believe him. He’s ashamed of me, that’s what it is!’ he sobbed. ‘Ashamed to have such a gangly, blundering oaf for a son.’

  Slyvo Spleethe’s eyebrows shot upwards with surprise. Cloud Wolf, the lad’s father? Now that was interesting – very interesting indeed – and his head spun with ways in which he could use this latest piece of information to his advantage. Composing himself, he laid his hand on Twig’s shoulder.

  ‘The captain has a good heart,’ he said softly. ‘And I am sure he has your best interests in mind. Yet…’

  Twig sniffed, and listened.

  ‘Yet there is a fine line between being protective and being over-protective,’ he said. ‘Why, the trip to the Twilight Woods would be the making of you.’

  Twig scowled. ‘Not now it won’t,’ he muttered. He shook Spleethe’s bony hand off his shoulder, and turned away. ‘Why don’t you just go?’ he said.

  For an instant, a smile flickered at the edge of Spleethe’s mouth; then it was gone. ‘Master Twig,’ he said. ‘I do not intend to return to the Stormchaser alone. I believe and here I must speak frankly I believe that Cloud Wolf has erred in his judgement. Of course you must accompany us on our Twilight Woods adventure. This is my plan,’ he said, and brought his face close to Twig’s. His breath was stale and sour.‘We will smuggle you aboard. You can stow away below deck in Mugbutt’s berth no-one will ever suspect you of hiding there.’

  Twig continued to listen in silence. It all sounded too good to be true. Yet he knew well enough that Cloud Wolf would find him eventually. There would be trouble when he did!

  ‘It’ll all be fine, you’ll see,’ Spleethe’s nasal wheedling continued. ‘When the time is right I myself shall reveal your presence to Cloud Wolf. I’ll talk him round. I’ll make him see sense. You just leave it all to me.’

  Twig nodded. Spleethe squeezed Twig’s elbow with his hard bony fingers. ‘Come on, then, let’s go,’ he said. ‘Before I change my mind.’

  *

  All was not well on board the Stormchaser. The crew stood nervously by while their captain paced up and down the quarterdeck, purple with rage.

  The Professor of Light freshly kitted out with a pirate longcoat and parawings had informed the captain that the Great Storm could strike ‘at any minute’. That was several hours ago. Yet the sky ship had still not set sail.

  Cloud Wolf ceased his pacing, seized the side rail and bellowed into the night, ‘SPLEETHE, YOU MISERABLE EXCUSE

  FOR A MANGY SKYCUR, WHERE ARE YOU?’

  ‘At your service, cap’n,’ came a familiar voice.

  Cloud Wolf spun round to see t
he quartermaster emerging from the aft-hatch. He stared in disbelief. ‘Spleethe!’ he spluttered. ‘You’re here!’

  ‘I thought you called me,’ he said, innocently.

  ‘I’ve been calling you for three hours or more!’ Cloud Wolf raged. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘With Mugbutt,’ Spleethe replied. ‘A wound to his foot has become infected. Septic and swollen it is. The poor creature was quite delirious.’

  The captain breathed in sharply It seemed he had found his quartermaster only to lose his finest fighter. Mugbutt was fearless in any battle and had got them out of more scrapes than Cloud Wolf cared to remember.

  ‘How is Mugbutt now?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve left him sleeping’ said Spleethe. ‘Sky willing, he will be back to his old self when he wakes.’

  Cloud Wolf nodded. Setting sail for the treacherous Twilight Woods without Mugbutt was a risk. And yet, with the Great Storm imminent, it was a risk he had to take.

  He raised his head. ‘Gather round,’ he called. ‘I have something important to tell you all.’

  The sky pirates listened, open-mouthed, as Cloud Wolf outlined the plans. ‘Stormchasing,’ Tern Barkwater whispered reverently.

  ‘The Twilight Woods,’ Spiker shuddered.

  Cloud Wolf continued. ‘And our quest will be, as it ever was, to retrieve stormphrax for the treasury of Sanctaphrax.’

  ‘Stormphrax!’ Slyvo Spleethe feigning surprise exclaimed with the rest.

  ‘Yes, stormphrax,’ said Cloud Wolf. ‘That is why the Professor of Light is travelling with us. He understands its properties. He will ensure we travel safely with our precious cargo.’

  Spleethe frowned. So that was who the newcomer was. If only he’d known before.

  ‘Right then, you scurvy skycurs,’ Cloud Wolf announced. ‘To your posts. We set sail at once.’ While the sky pirates scurried this way and that, Cloud Wolf strode to the helm. ‘Release the tolley-ropes,’ he cried.

  ‘Aye-aye,’ Spiker called back. ‘Tolley-ropes, released.’

  ‘Unhook the grappling-irons!’

  ‘Grappling-irons, unhooked.’

  ‘And weigh anchor.’

  As the heavy anchor was winched up, the Stormchaser leapt from its moorings and up into the sky.

  ‘Come on, my lovely,’ Cloud Wolf whispered to his sky ship as it bucked and lurched, responding to the lightest touch of the weight and sail levers. ‘My, but you’re frisky once more. Just like you were when you were first built. Forgive me for all the times I used you as a common tugship. I had no choice. But now, my wonderful chaser of storms, your time has come.’

  As the dawn broke and keeping both Tern Barkwater and Stope Boltjaw happy the Stormchaser sailed majestically out of Undertown, unchecked. Wispy wings of pink and orange fanned out across the morning side of the sky. A moment later, the sun appeared above the horizon on the starboard side. It rose slowly, bright red and tremulous.

  Cloud Wolf sighed impatiently. The weather looked unpromisingly good. What had happened to the Great Storm that the windtouchers and cloudwatchers had predicted; that the Professor of Light himself had confirmed?

  Just then, Spiker let out a yell from his look-out. ‘Storm to port!’ he cried.

  The captain spun round and peered into the distance. At first, he could make out nothing unusual in the featureless darkness of the receding night. But then there was a flash. And another. Short, dazzling bursts of light in the shape of a circle a circle which, when the lightning faded, still remained. Black on indigo. Growing larger with every passing second.

  The lightning flashed again, and Cloud Wolf saw that it was not a circle, but rather, a ball an immense fizzing, crackling ball of electrical energy, darkness and light combined, which was rolling headlong across the sky towards them.

  ‘It’s the Great Storm,’ he roared, above the howl of the rising wind. ‘Unfurl the mainsail, batten down the hatches and rope yourselves securely. We’re going stormchasing!’

  •C H A P T E R N I N E•

  STORMCHASING

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time, stowing away on the sky ship. Now Twig was not so sure. As the Stormchaser pitched and tossed, he retched emptily. Sweat beaded his ice-cold forehead; tears streamed down his burning cheeks.

  Mugbutt sniggered unpleasantly. ‘Feeling queasy?’ he sneered. ‘Too rough for you, is it?’

  Twig shook his head. It wasn’t the flight that was making him ill, but having to breathe the warm, fetid air he was sharing with the goblin. No flat-heads were known for their cleanliness, and Mugbutt was a particularly filthy specimen. He never washed, his bed of straw was wet and fouled, and remnants from the meat he had gleaned from the dinner table lay all around in various stages of decomposition.

  Covering his nose with his scarf, Twig breathed in deeply Slowly, the nausea subsided, and with it the awful clamouring in his ears. He breathed in again.

  Outside, he could hear the familiar noises of Undertown as the Stormchaser sped through the busy boom-docks, over the early-morning markets and past the foundries and forges. Bargains, banter, hog-squeal and hammer-blow; a cackle of laughter, a chorus of song, a muffled explosion the intricate cacophony of life in Undertown which, even this early in the day, was already in full swing.

  Soon, the sounds faded away and were gone, and Twig knew they must have left the bustling town and were heading out across the Mire. Now he could hear the Stormchaser itself. The creaking, the groaning; the hissing of air as it rushed past the hull. From below him, came the squeaking and scratching of the ratbirds that lived in the bowels of the sky ship; from above if he strained the murmur of voices.

  ‘Oh, how I wish I could be up there with them’ Twig whispered.

  ‘And face the captain’s wrath?’ Mugbutt growled. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Twig sighed. He knew the flat-head was right. Cloud Wolf would surely skin him alive when he discovered that he had been disobeyed. Yet remaining hidden below deck was torture. He missed the feel of the wind in his hair, of soaring through the air, with the places of the Edge spread out below like an intricate map, and above the yawning expanse of endless open sky.

  All through the childhood he’d spent in the Deepwoods, Twig had longed to rise up over the forest canopy and explore the sky above. It was as if, even then, his body had known that this was where he belonged. And perhaps it had. After all, Cloud Wolf, himself, had said on more than one occasion that sky-piracy was ‘in the blood’ and with such a father …

  Twig could hear him now, bellowing commands, and he smiled as he imagined the crew hurrying to obey him. For Cloud Wolf kept a tight ship. He was harsh, but just, and it was to his credit that, with him as its captain, the Stormchaser had suffered fewer casualties than any other sky pirate ship.

  It was, however, the harshness of his justice which now kept Twig cowering in the flat-head’s berth, too nervous to appear until Slyvo Spleethe had spoken up for him. He had no option but to wait.

  ‘Storm to starboard, and advancing,’ came Spiker’s shrill cry. ‘Three minutes to contact, and closing.’

  ‘Belay that skysail,’ roared Cloud Wolf. ‘And check all winding-cleats.’

  As the sky ship pitched abruptly to the left, Twig clutched hold of the main stanchion and clung on tightly. He knew the turbulence was a mere foretaste of what was to come. Normally at this point, with a storm so close, the Stormchaser would descend, drop anchor and remain there until it had passed. But not today.

  Today, the sky ship would greet the storm up in the sky. It would tack closer and closer, until it was drawn into the hurricane-force slip-stream and be whisked away. Ever faster the Stormchaser would fly, inching its way round to the head of the storm. Then, when Cloud Wolf judged the moment to be right, it would spin round and pierce the outer shell of the maelstrom.

  This was the most dangerous moment of all. If the Stormchaser flew too slowly, it would break up in the violent air. If it flew too fast, then there was always the risk
that they would pass straight through the storm, emerge on the other side and watch helplessly as the Great Storm continued without them. In either event, their quest for stormphrax would be over.

  No, Twig had heard that there was only one way to penetrate the inner calm of a Great Storm safely, and that was to hold the sky ship at a thirty-five degree angle against the windspin at least, that was the theory. Yet, as the sky ship bucked and turned and Twig held on for grim death, the Stormchaser struck him as absurdly small and fragile for so daunting a task, no matter what angle they chose.

  ‘One minute to contact, and counting,’ Spiker shouted above the oncoming roar.

  ‘Secure that spinnaker!’ Cloud Wolf screamed. ‘And Spiker, get down from the caternest, NOW!’

  Twig had never heard such urgency in Cloud Wolf’s voice before. What must it look like, he wondered, this Great Storm which filled his father the esteemed Quintinius Verginix with so much terror and awe? He had to see for himself.

  Hand over hand, he pulled himself along a crossbeam towards the hull. Although there were no portholes down this deep in the sky ship, the cracks between the curving planks of lufwood were, in places, wide enough to see through. Wedge-shaped chinks of light sliced through the gloom. Reaching the hull at last, Twig knelt down and peered into the cracks.

  Below him, he saw the featureless wasteland of the Mire stretching out in every direction. The white mud rippled in the wind, as if the entire wasteland had been transformed into a vast ocean. And there, to complete the illusion, was a ship.

  ‘Except It’s not sailing,’ Twig muttered as he squinted at the distant shipwreck. ‘And probably never will again.’

  As the Stormchaser sped onwards, Twig realized that the ship had not been abandoned. There was someone there: a tall, thin figure, brandishing his fist at the sky. As colourless as his surroundings, he was well camouflaged. Twig wouldn’t have noticed him at all had it not been for the bright lightning of the approaching storm glinting on the dagger clenched in his fist.