Stormchaser: Second Book of Twig

by Paul Stewart

  Was it the storm he was cursing? Twig wondered. Or was it the sight of the Stormchaser itself, passing over-head, that had filled the curious bleached individual with such anger?

  The next instant, both he and the shipwreck were gone. Lightning-dazzle briefly lit up the flat-head’s disgusting quarters. The air crackled and hissed. Twig struggled to his feet and peered through a chink higher up the hull, wincing as the onrush of air stung his eyes. He wiped his tears away on his sleeve and squinted back through the gap in the wood.

  ‘Sky above!’ he cried out.

  Directly in front of the sky ship, and obliterating everything else from view, was a rolling, tumbling, heaving wall of furious purple and black. The noise of the blast was deafening like a never-ending explosion. Louder still, was the creak and groan of the Stormchaser itself.

  As Twig maintained his gaze, so more lightning was discharged. It streaked across the curving surface of the Great Storm like a network of electric rivers, and imploded in circles of pink and green.

  The din grew louder than ever; the lightning, brighter still. And all the while, the Stormchaser shook and rattled as the seconds to impact ticked unstoppably past. Twig wrapped both arms around the beam to his left, and tensed his legs.

  Five … four … three …

  Wheeeiiiiiiiiii whistled the wind, its high-pitched whine rising to an ear-splitting scream.

  Two …

  The sky ship had never travelled so fast before. Twig clung on for dear life as it hurtled onwards.

  One… And…

  WHOOOMPH!!

  Like a falling leaf in an autumn gale, the Stormchaser was abruptly seized and whisked off by the spinning wind. It listed hard to port with a fearful lurch. Twig was torn from the beam and hurled back across the straw-strewn floor.

  ‘Aaaii!’ he cried out as he flew through the air. He landed heavily, with a thud; his head jerked sharply back and struck the side of Mugbutt’s berth with a loud crack.

  Everything went black.

  Mugbutt looked down and smirked. That’s it, Master Twig‘ he said, ’you stay here by my side where I can keep an eye on you.’

  *

  Above deck, it was all the captain and his crew could do to keep the Stormchaser airborne. While Hubble held the wheel in his powerful grasp, Cloud Wolf’s fingers played over the keyboard of levers.

  Twenty years it was since he had studied in the Knights’ Academy; twenty years since he had learned about the finer points of stormchasing and twenty years is a long time in which to forget. As Cloud Wolf raised this weight a fraction and lowered that sail a tad, it was instinct rather than memory that guided him.

  ‘Stormchasing!’ he murmured reverently.

  On and on, they were drawn, whistling across the sky in the slip-stream of the Great Storm. Slowly, slowly and little by little, Cloud Wolf used the dry, turbulent currents to inch his way along the outer edge of the storm and on towards the front.

  ‘Whoa, there, my beauty,’ he whispered to the Stormchaser. ‘Easy now.’ Tentatively, he lowered the prow-weight a fraction of a degree at a time. The sky ship bowed forwards.

  ‘Raise the mainsail!’ he ordered. Tern Barkwater and Stope Boltjaw stared at one another in confusion. What madness was this to raise the mainsail in such a wind? Surely they had misheard, ‘RAISE THAT ACCURSED MAINSAIL, BEFORE i HAVE YOU SKY-FIRED!’ the captain raged.

  Tem and Stope Boltjaw leapt to it. And as the sail flapped and billowed, Cloud Wolf offered up a little prayer that he would be virtuous for ever more if the sailcloth would just hold.

  ‘Now, let’s see’ he muttered through clenched teeth as he returned his attention to the weight-levers. ‘Up with the peri-hull-weights, and down with the port hull-weights, small…’ The Stormchaser trembled. ‘Medium …’ It leaned to the left. ‘And large…’

  As the third weight was lowered, the Stormchaser still held in place by the raised mainsail at the front of the driving storm began slowly to turn. Cloud Wolf stared down at his compass. Bit by bit the sky ship was shifting round to the thirty-five degree angle required to penetrate safely to the centre of the storm.

  Forty-five degrees, he read off. Forty. Thirty-seven … Thirty-six…

  ‘LOWER THE MAINSAIL!’ he bellowed.

  This time neither Tern Barkwater nor Stope Boltjaw needed telling twice. They unhitched the rope. The sail fell. The sky ship slowed, and was instantly swallowed up by the dense billowing clouds of purple and black. They were entering the Great Storm.

  The air was blinding, choking. It crackled and fizzed. It smelled of ammonia, of sulphur, of rotten eggs.

  All around them, the wind thrashed and battered. It pummelled the hulls and threatened, at any moment, to snap the creaking mast in two.

  ‘Just a little further, my lovely one,’ Cloud Wolf urged the Stormchaser gently. ‘You can do it. You can bring us safely to the centre of the Great Storm.’

  Even as he spoke, however, the sky ship shuddered as if to say, no, no it could not. Cloud Wolf threw an anxious glance at the compass. It was back at forty-five degrees. The wind was hitting them full on. The juddering grew more violent. Much more, and the sky ship would be shaken to pieces.

  With trembling hands, Cloud Wolf raised the three starboard hull-weights as high as they would go. The Stormchaser swung back. The fearful judders subsided.

  ‘Thank Sky,’ Cloud Wolf said, as he seized the opportunity to wipe the sweat from his brow. He turned to Hubble by his side. ‘Hold tight,’ he instructed. ‘Any second now and … YES!’ he yelled for at that moment, the compass point swung round to thirty-five degrees and the Stormchaser plunged through the violent, violet storm and into the eerie stillness within.

  ‘RAISE THE MAINSAIL!’ he bellowed, his voice echoing as if he was standing in a huge cavern. If they were not to fly out the far side of the storm, the sky ship’s momentum would have to be brought under control. The sail should if he had remembered his studies accurately act like a brake, ‘RAISE ALL THE SAILS!’

  At first nothing seemed to happen to the sky ship as it continued to hurtle on towards the back of the storm. The flashing fingers of lightning which fanned out before them, came closer and closer. Tem Barkwater, Stope Boltjaw, Spiker and the others leaped to the ropes even the Professor of Light joined in. Together, they hoisted the sails up, one after the other after the other. And as the sail-sheets rose, so the Stormchaser finally slowed down.

  Before they came to a complete standstill, Cloud Wolf lifted the port hull-weights, lowered the starboard hull-weights and when they had turned right about pulled the prow-weight back to its original position.

  Now facing the way the Great Storm itself was travelling, the Stormchaser sailed on within it. All around him, Cloud Wolf could hear the excited cheering of his crew. But he knew better than to celebrate too soon. Pin-point accuracy was essential if the Stormchaser was to maintain its position one weight too low, one sail too high, and the sky ship would hurtle to one side of the storm and be spat into open sky.

  ‘Hold a steady course, Hubble,’ the captain said. ‘And Spiker,’ he called, ‘how long before we cross into the Twilight Woods?’

  ‘Bout twelve minutes,’ the oakelf called back.

  Cloud Wolf nodded grimly. ‘I want you all each and every one to keep a watchful eye for the lightning bolt,’ he commanded. ‘If we are to retrieve the stormphrax, we must see exactly and I mean exactly where it lands.’

  Back below deck, Twig slithered this way and that over the hard, wooden floor as the Stormchaser continued to pitch and toss. Every jolt, every jerk, every judder which was felt above deck, was magnified a hundredfold by the time it reached the bowels of the sky ship where he lay. Yet all the while Twig had not stirred. It was only at that moment when the Stormchaser finally pierced the wild outer edges of the turbulent storm that his eyelids had fluttered.

  He became aware of voices behind him. Hushed and plotting voices: familiar voices. Taking care to remain as still as possible, Tw
ig listened.

  ‘… and I don’t think the captain will put up much of a fight when he discovers what will happen to his captive son if he does,’ Slyvo Spleethe was whispering. ‘So, for the time being, Mugbutt, I want you to keep him down here.’

  ‘Down here,’ the flat-head whispered back.

  ‘Until I come for him,’ said Spleethe. He paused. ‘I’ll have to choose my moment very carefully’

  ‘Very carefully,’ Mugbutt repeated.

  ‘After all, stormchasing is a hazardous business,’ Spleethe continued. ‘I shall wait until Cloud Wolf has retrieved the stormphrax before disposing of him.’ He laughed unpleasantly. ‘Let him do all the hard work, and then reap the rewards.’

  ‘The rewards,’ said Mugbutt.

  ‘And what rewards they are to be!’ Spleethe said. ‘Captain of a sky pirate ship and Leaguesmaster! You stick with me, Mugbutt,’ he added breathlessly, ‘and you shall have wealth and power beyond your wildest dreams.’

  ‘Wildest dreams,’ the flat-head chuckled.

  ‘And now I must leave you,’ said Spleethe. ‘I don’t want the captain to become suspicious. And remember, Mugbutt. Keep Twig well guarded. I’m depending on you.’

  As the sound of the receding footsteps faded away, Twig trembled with horror. What a fool he had been to listen to so shiftless a rogue. The quartermaster was intent on mutiny and if he had understood him correctly was planning to use Twig against his father to ensure that his wicked plans bore fruit.

  Somehow, before that happened, he would have to warn Cloud Wolf even if it did mean having to confront his father’s wrath.

  He opened one eye slightly, and peered out at the ferocious flat-head goblin. The question was, how?

  •C H A P T E R T E N•

  CONFESSION

  Asound, unfamiliar to the Inner Sanctum, echoed round the gold-embossed ceiling of the chamber. It was the sound of humming. Although utterly tuneless, it bounced along with unmistakable joy and optimism.

  The servants and there were many who tended to the Inner Sanctum and its important occupant were under strict instructions to maintain complete silence at all times. And music of any kind humming, singing, whistling was particularly frowned upon. Only the week before, old Jervis a loyal servant for more than forty seasons had been caught crooning a lullaby under his breath. (He had recently become a great-grandfather.) For this moment of mindless contentment he was dismissed on the spot.

  It was not, however, a servant humming now. The sound came from the thin lips and pudgy nose of the Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax. For Vilnix Pompolnius was feeling exceedingly pleased with himself.

  ‘Hmm, hmm, hmmm. Pom pom pom pom’ he continued as he busied about. ‘Pom pom pom …’ He paused and chuckled as the details of the previous evening came back to him. He had been dining with Simenon Xintax, and a most illuminating meal it had proved to be.

  As a rule, the Leaguesmaster was far from his favourite dinner guest. He was, as far as Vilnix Pompolnius was concerned, an ill-mannered oaf he slurped his soup, he chewed with his mouth open, and he belched loudly after every course. Yet it served Vilnix well to keep him sweet. If it wasn’t for the support he received from the leagues, his own grip on power would soon evaporate.

  As always, Xintax had eaten and drunk too much. Not that Vilnix objected. In fact he positively encouraged the Leaguesmaster’s gluttony, piling seconds and thirds onto his plate and keeping his glass constantly topped up with Xintax’s favourite woodbrew. After all, as his grandmother had so often said, a full stomach and a loose tongue oft go hand in hand. The Leaguesmaster’s tongue had started to loosen during dessert. By the time the cheese and crackers were served, he was practically babbling.

  ‘Mother Horsefeather, she’s the one, she… bwurrrp … ’Scuse me!’ He paused to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. ‘She’s only gone and organized a trip to the Twilight Woods, hasn’t she? Her, the Professor of Light, and a sky pirate captain can’t remember his name just now … Anyway, they’re all in it together. They’re … bwulchh … Whoops.’ He giggled. ‘They’re planning on returning with a whole cargo of stormphrax,’ he explained and pressed his finger to his lips conspiratorially ‘It’s meant to be a secret,’ he said.

  ‘Then how have you come by this information?’ Vilnix Pompolnius demanded.

  Xintax tapped his nose knowingly with his finger. ‘A cry in the spew,’ he slurred and giggled again. ‘I mean, a spy in the crew. Spleethe. Told us everything, he did.’ Then he had leaned forwards, seized Vilnix chummily by the sleeve and grinned leerily up at his face. ‘We’re going to be rich beyond belief.’

  ‘Pom pom pom pom,’ Vilnix hummed, as the words came back to him. Rich beyond belief! At least, he thought, one of us is.

  At that moment, there was a respectful knock at the door and the tousled head of his personal manservant, Minulis, appeared. ‘If you please, your Most High Academe,’ he said, ‘the prisoner has been prepared and awaits your attention.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Vilnix nodded, and smiled unpleasantly. ‘I shall be there, directly’

  As Minulis closed the door behind him, Vilnix rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘First Xintax spilling the beans, now this Forficule character dropping into our lap my my, Vilnix, aren’t we the lucky Most High Academe!’

  He strode across the room to the mirror the new mirror and looked at himself. Unlike its predecessor, this mirror had not been hung. Instead, it leaned up against the wall at an angle. It was safer it was also more flattering. His reflection smiled back at him.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he chided. ‘That will never do. Whatever should the nightwaif think if I entered the Hall of Knowledge in so effervescent a mood? Prepare yourself, Vilnix,’ he said dramatically, and let his dressing-gown fall to the floor. ‘Make yourself ready’

  And doing what he always did before an important encounter, the Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax dressed himself up in the specially fashioned garments of high office clothes which would help focus his mind, heighten his senses and darken his mood.

  First, he pulled on the hair-shirt over his bare, scaly skin. Then, wincing as the protruding nails dug into the soles of his feet, he stepped into his sandals and bound them tightly. Next, he rubbed a stinging unguent over his freshly shaven head, and lowered the steel skull-cap onto his head until the internal spikes pressed into his scalp. Last of all, he took his shabby roughspin gown, swung it over his shoulders and raised the hood.

  With each item of clothing he put on, the Most High Academe’s good humour gradually drained away. By the time the rough material of the hood grazed the back of his red-raw neck, his mood was as dark as the Sanctaphrax treasury itself and he, himself, capable of any cruelty.

  He returned his gaze to the mirror and glared approvingly at his reflection. Seldom, if ever, had Vilnix Pompolnius looked so gaunt, so imposing. He arched one eyebrow.

  ‘So, Forficule, my little messenger bird,’ he said. ‘I am ready for you now. How I am looking forward to hearing you sing!’

  The Hall of Knowledge as the interrogation chamber was euphemistically known was situated at the top of a tower in the west-wing of the vast palace. The only access was through a concealed door in the upper corridor, and up a circular stone staircase.

  With every step he climbed, the nails in his sandals dug sharply into his feet. By the time he reached the top, Vilnix Pompolnius was cursing under his breath. He threw the door open and strode inside. ‘Where is the horrible little pipsqueal, then?’ he demanded.

  Minulis trotted over, closed the door and ushered the Most High Academe across the room. Despite its airy position, the windowless chamber was as dark and dank as any dungeon. The only light came from the two flaming torches fixed to the wall, and a golden glow which gleamed on the array of polished pokers, pincers, and pliers laid out ready.

  Forficule himself was seated in an upright chair, so large it seemed almost to be swallowing him up. His ankles were bound, his wrists had been tied to the armrests,
and his neck secured to a head-support by a leather strap: he could not move. As Vilnix Pompolnius approached him, Forficule glanced up. An icy shiver ran the length of his body.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ said Vilnix. ‘So good of you to drop by’ He sneered. ‘I trust you’re sitting comfortably’

  As he moved closer, Forficule shuddered. Behind the harmless words were thoughts no person should ever have.

  ‘I understand you are a nightwaif,’ Vilnix continued.

  ‘No, no’ said Forficule, and laughed nervously. ‘Many have made the same mistake. I am an oakelf,’ he said. ‘The runt of the litter.’

  Vilnix Pompolnius sighed as the spikes of the steel skull-cap bit into his scalp. ‘You will have noticed the interesting design of the chair,’ he continued, running his fingers over the concave bowl of burnished silver which was fixed over Forficule’s head. ‘It amplifies sound,’ he said, and flicked it lightly.

  The metal chimed and Forficule, whose head had been secured at the point where the sound waves collided, winced with pain.

  ‘I would advise you not to lie to me,’ said Vilnix, and flicked the metal bowl a second time.

  ‘I … I don’t understand. Why have you brought me here?’ Forficule trembled as the ringing in his ears slowly subsided. ‘I came to Sanctaphrax from Undertown, in all good faith, to inform you about the tragic death of the Professor of Light…’

  ‘Forficule, Forficule,’ Vilnix purred. ‘This is not good.’

  He turned away and selected a pair of pincers. Forficule quivered with horror as he overheard precisely what the Most High Academe was thinking of doing with them. Worse and worse the imagined tortures became, until Forficule could stand it no more.

  ‘Stop it!’ he pleaded, his ears fluttering with distress.