He stared at his reflection and hardly recognised himself. Stormy, sky-rider! He looked the part, but on the inside, he was jelly. Stormy, you are an imposter! he told the mirror. You’ve only been flying for a few weeks. You are going to fall off. You’ll make an idiot of yourself. You know nothing . . . Just as well you have the best flying horse in the world! So don’t let her down! We mustn’t come last, that’s all. Not last!
He made his way down to the terrace.
‘Hey, nice gear!’ Bella said. ‘Suits you!’
‘We thought you weren’t coming,’ Lizzie said, looking disappointed.
‘Who does he think he is?’ someone else called.
‘Look, it’s skivvy boy!’ Tom shouted.
All around he heard mutters of,
‘How dare he?’
‘Never thought he’d show,’ and ‘Loser!’
As Stormy made his way through the crowd he had the strange feeling that Seraphina was expecting him; as if a secret thread bound them together and, as he drew near, he could feel it reeling him in. Nerves began to give way to excitement. Dear Seraphina. Wonderful spitfyre.
Ralf and Purbeck came running past.
‘Sparkit’s had extra, extra vitamins this morning!’ Ralf said under his breath. ‘Watch him, Stormy!’
Purbeck was carrying spare goggles and reins, buckets and thorks. He made a funny face at Stormy as he jogged by, and grinned. ‘Good luck!’ he whispered, as if he really meant it.
Stormy stood a little taller and straighter. He swung his goggles round nonchalantly. Sky-rider!
The crowd was noisy, jeering and laughing, and someone was taking bets, but no one was putting their money on Stormy. Hah! he thought. You haven’t seen Seraphina in action. You just wait until you see her!
The Director and Araminta were seated on two chairs near the first cave. How different the Director appeared now to Stormy; no longer benevolent and wise now that Stormy knew him to be a tyrant. The Director wanted a world without molemen, a world that suited him and over which he could rule. When the race was over Stormy would come back and confront him with what he knew . . . somehow.
Maud was there too, as always, a thin, almost hidden figure shifting around in their wake. Dear Maud, what a good friend she was.
The West-side spitfyres, Sparkit, Bluey, Polaris and Daygo were outside their stables already. The two East-side spitfyres, Condor and Easterly, were bunched together near to cave thirteen, nervous at being on the wrong side of Dragon Mountain.
The winged horses seemed much bigger and more alive out of their caves. They had expanded, inflating like newly hatched butterflies from their pupae. They pranced on the tips of their hooves, as if the ground was too hot to stand on, jostling each other and snorting out multicoloured sparks. Several students were nervously holding up thorks as if that could protect them. Stormy watched Bentley prodding a thork at a bad-tempered Bluey and couldn’t help thinking that spitfyres, like people, might not like thorks waved in their faces.
It was a clear day with a hint of warmth in the sunshine. The spitfyres’ coats, all different shades, shone iridescent blues or greens shimmering into gold and silver. As they flexed their muscles and tensed their necks, rippling their skin, the sun glinted on them, a huge kaleidoscope of shifting colours. Smoke spiralled and coiled, hanging in the still air like pale ghostly snakes.
Sparkit stood more than twice the height of Hector and his wingspan was thirty-five paces. His head was square and solid and tapered to his ears, which Stormy had always thought might mean a small brain, like Hector. His eyes were dark and malicious and this morning he was livelier than ever, tossing his mane and pawing the ground – it was the yellow powder at work!
‘Here’s the kitchen boy!’ Hector cried, barring Stormy’s way. There was no pretence now at being even slightly friendly. ‘Stormy the boy wonder! I’ve been expecting your withdrawal from the race every day. What went wrong?’
Stormy stopped and stared at Hector coldly. Hector stared back.
‘Well, better get a move on and bring out your spitfyre, skivvy. We’ve heard so much about her!’ He thrust his big chin at him and grinned. ‘Need a trolley in case she can’t walk?’
Stormy walked past him, smiling. He was amused that Hector was so confident his spitfyre was a wreck that he hadn’t even looked in cave thirteen for himself. He was in for a surprise.
‘I don’t know why you bother,’ Hector went on. ‘If you take part you might get hurt. You could still scratch from the race, you know.’
Stormy went past him without speaking.
He felt as if he were going home – not that he’d ever gone ‘home’, but it was a sensation he’d often dreamed about. Home was somewhere safe, where you were wanted and loved. Cave thirteen had become that for him.
He ran into the stable.
‘Seraphina!’
He threw his arms around her neck. She huffed and sighed, tossing and bobbing her head in greeting, blowing out a shower of ash and silvery sparks. Her eyes were shining, smiling.
‘Seraphina. We’re going to race! We’re going to fly!’ He leaned against her and stroked her neck. ‘You’re the best, the very best spitfyre in the whole Academy, and you’ll fly like a bird, speed like a comet, shoot like a star.’ She’d been in the circus. She’d done the Spin. She was brilliant. He loved this spitfyre. A tingle ran up his spine and shot right down to his fingertips. He took down the reins and bridle. He shivered happily. ‘We’re going to be magnificent!’
She nudged her nose into his chest. A noise, a sort of rolling, clicking sound, gurgled up from inside her like a mechanical cat purring, then burst out into a happy whinny. She could hardly keep still while he fitted her bridle. She jiggled till her hooves clicked against the rock, making sparks, and so many sparks flew from her nostrils too that the dingy cave was quite lit up.
Outside the crowd was cheering and hallooing.
Stormy wished he had something to mark the occasion, something special . . . He’d noticed a small store of dingy jewels at the back of the cave before. Seraphina was the only one with dragon’s treasure and he wondered if Al had left it there for a reason. Quickly he searched through it.
‘There!’ He fitted an enormous armlet with red stones set in it around her foreleg. ‘I bet this is worth a few pence.’ He stood back and admired her. ‘Beautiful thing!’
Purbeck was calling for him; someone was asking if all the entrants were there, and he started to move outside. Whatever happened, he could never give up Seraphina now. If he lost he’d run away with her. No one was going to take Seraphina away from him, ever.
Then somehow they were outside and the sunlight was blinding; the sound of roaring and shouting filled his ears.
‘Here he is!’ Purbeck cried.
‘What a fool Stormy is, I mean, really . . .’ Petra began.
There was a hush as they all turned to stare. Their surprise silenced all of them except Hector.
‘Look at that! You little orphan nobody! You cheat, Stormy!’ Hector marched towards him, pushing past the other students roughly. ‘That’s not Al’s spitfyre!’
‘Yes it is. She’s mine,’ Stormy said, holding Seraphina’s reins tightly. ‘My spitfyre.’
Hector turned to Ralf. ‘Wipe that grin off your face!’ he spat at him. ‘This is not what you told me!’
Ralf rolled his eyes. ‘Why, Hector, it’s amazing!’ he said, in mock surprise. ‘She didn’t look like that before!’
‘Liar. You’ll pay. You’ll both pay for this,’ he said to Ralf and Purbeck, who was also grinning like a mad thing. So they had deceived Hector! Stormy was thrilled.
Hector turned back to Stormy. ‘Well, servery boy? This is it. The last one back is given as a prize to the winner. That’ll be me. Right? That’ll be me, getting your flying horse. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘And if I win I’ll turn her into cat meat,’ Bentley said, fixing his dark eyes on Stormy. ‘Whatever, Stormy, she’s a goner.
’
‘Don’t be so mean!’ Petra called. ‘What’s her name, Stormy?’
‘Secret,’ Stormy said quickly.
‘He means he doesn’t know,’ Hector said, ‘and never will, now.’ He laughed. ‘You can’t win,’ he added. ‘No chance. I know you still think you might win, just like you think the big D likes you, just like you imagine Araminta likes you. They don’t. No one likes you. It’s all part of their little game.’ He chuckled silently, pushing his face up close to Stormy’s face. ‘Give up now, before you get hurt. You’ll still lose your spitfyre, but –’
Stormy shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m in the race.’
He turned away and bumped straight into Purbeck, who had sidled up to him. ‘They’ll cheat,’ Purbeck said quietly. ‘They’ll do anything to stop you from winning. Take care.’
‘Thanks. I know,’ Stormy said, stroking Seraphina’s neck. ‘We know. Thanks for everything!’
Mr Jacobs was shouting orders. The sky-riders and spitfyres got themselves into a line along the terrace.
‘I’d forgotten all about that spitfyre of Al’s,’ Mr Jacobs said to Stormy. ‘I’m surprised to see her so fit. Can you really fly her?’ he added quietly.
Stormy nodded.
‘Well, all right . . .’ He tapped his pocket where he always kept his NSD tranquiliser, as if reminding himself and Stormy that it was there. ‘The others might get rough . . .’
‘We’re fine.’
‘But really, Stormy, if I were you I’d retire now. I don’t want to see you hurt.’
Stormy smiled his thanks. He shook his head. ‘No.’
Mr Jacobs patted his back and went off, calling to the riders to mount and get ready.
The spitfyres were springy and nervy now to the point of bursting into flames. The tension was awful. Sparkit was making deep, anxious calls in his throat and tossing his head, dragging the reins through Hector’s hands, fretful and eager to go. The others were jostling and flapping their wings, neighing, snorting.
Stormy settled as calmly as he could onto Seraphina’s back. She was simmering like the copper kettle on the fire, an animal engine, raring to go. He took up the reins and smoothed her neck. Beneath his fingers he felt her respond and begin to gather herself in readiness. She lifted up her head and sniffed the air; her eyes darted all over, watching. Stormy felt his heartbeat quicken.
Mr Jacobs blew a whistle sharply.
‘Ready wings!’
Seven pairs of spitfyre wings unfurled with loud snapping sounds, like giant wet sheets on a washing line. A mini tornado whooshed around the terrace as their wings billowed backwards and thrust forwards. The girls shrieked and grabbed hold of their gusting hair and skirts.
Stormy looked along the row of riders, each one dressed in dark clothes, their eyes hidden behind helmet and goggles, crouched forward, and ready to go. They didn’t look like students now but warriors and fighters. The power and force that emanated from them was energising.
He felt Maud watching him and was glad. She had done her hair up with white ribbons. Even from this distance he could see she was smiling, and each cheek was dimpled . . .
Suddenly he knew who she reminded him of! It hit him like a blow to the chest. Of course! How stupid he was!
But then there was no time to think about it; another whistle pierced the air. The Director was putting them on their marks . . .
‘. . . Get ready, set . . .’
Stormy’s thoughts were in a whirl. Maud. Maud was . . .
The Director’s voice cut through his thoughts: ‘The Silver Sword is at . . . Moleman Mount and . . . Go!’
He had to concentrate, not think about her.
But if he was right . . .
He had to focus. He mustn’t let anyone down; so much relied on him. Moleman Mount. He’d been right about that!
Seraphina was off.
The air was filled with the clatter and thunder of galloping hooves and the rush and sigh of the spitfyres’ wings.
They raced to the edge of the terrace. In the light of day, the air beyond looked emptier and more like nothing than it ever had in the night. Fear was a sudden cold fist squeezing his stomach, but then the magic of flying took him over and all he felt was a great happiness as they soared off the terrace and into the cold, still air.
The first few seconds were crucial. Stormy had to remember exactly where Moleman Mount was. He visualised the map; he’d thought it out so carefully, and he mustn’t spoil it now. Swiftly he urged Seraphina to fly north.
Seraphina was already going that way; stretching out her neck she was heading purposefully down the valley, beating her beautiful wings steadily and powerfully.
He whispered to her that she was the best creature in the world, and that they were going to win the race. He could feel her silent reply in the slight flicker of her ears and thrust of her wings. She understood.
Imagine Hector taking away his dear Seraphina . . . Never. He would never let anyone –
‘Get out of the way!’ a voice roared.
Suddenly there were orange wings right beside him as another spitfyre flew by, almost on top of him. The air seemed to be full of floundering hooves, wings, the massive hot body of a spitfyre.
He ducked and spun round.
‘Watch out!’ the voice behind him shouted again. ‘Out of the way, you idiot!’
35
Cheat
The gleaming emerald body of Daygo was right above him. Easterly, the orange spitfyre, was on his left. They were too close; they were crowding him.
Stormy yelped and ducked and Seraphina veered out of the way, dropping like a stone, falling so suddenly that Stormy felt his stomach still hanging above him as he fell.
Daygo and Easterly crashed above him with a terrible smacking sound. There was a horrible squeal and tangle of orange wings with green ones and legs, hooves, a flash of open mouths, teeth and fire. They’d planned to squeeze Seraphina and make her fall, but instead, they collided with each other.
The two spitfyres tore apart, spun, and began to drop. Cindy, Easterly’s rider, let out a piercing scream as her spitfyre spun out of control, its wings broken. The spitfyres’ wings were like broken umbrellas, spokes pointing this way and that, and all a mess. It was awful. Cindy was crying, desperately pulling on the reins as the spitfyre twirled down. Stormy quickly glanced back and saw them land awkwardly back on the terrace. Cindy was safe but out of the race.
‘Idiot!’ Lizzie cried.
Stormy spun round, surprised at her sharp tone, but he could see she was trying to rein back a stunned Daygo. She was desperate. ‘That was your fault!’ she shouted.
‘It wasn’t!’ Stormy yelled back.
‘You shouldn’t be here! You know nothing!’ she cried. ‘Go back! Get out of the way!’
Stormy stared ahead fixedly and ignored her. Purbeck had warned they’d cheat. The stakes were high and they’d stop at nothing to make sure he didn’t win. He’d avoided that crash and now they were six.
He patted Seraphina’s neck. Well done, well done.
Sparkit was way out in front with Bluey, Polaris and Condor. Stormy and Lizzie began to chase after them. Stormy tried to recall and visualise the pattern of strong air currents that charged through the valley and urged Seraphina to fly with them.
On they went, faster and faster.
He knew Seraphina understood everything he was thinking; as if his thoughts echoed inside her, as if as he breathed, so did she. The heat from her body crept into his, they were merged into one being; his hands, holding lightly on the reins, were sensitive to each tiny movement she made.
If I die right now it won’t matter, he thought, closing his eyes for a moment to relish the feeling. This is the best. It can’t get better than this.
Soon they were level with the others and it was Daygo at the back of the pack.
‘Watch your wings!’ Bentley shouted at him, and Stormy was shaken from his dreams.
‘He’s a blo
oming amateur!’ Tom shouted. He was riding Condor, a big creamy white. ‘He’s hired help, remember? Kitchen boy!’
‘Stay right back!’ Lizzie cried, fighting for space. ‘Don’t get in Daygo’s way again, Stormy!’
They flew on.
Stormy stared ahead and gritted his teeth in a frozen smile. He was in the race, he was a sky-rider and they couldn’t get rid of him.
Beyond the sigh and flap of the wings, another noise was beginning to materialise. Stormy strained his ears to hear it. A strange low, keening whistle was floating through the air. It didn’t come from one direction but seemed to be all around them. The sound rose and fell and every time Stormy thought it was fading away, it came back from another direction, stronger and more enticing. He couldn’t focus on anything else. It was a fascinating sound and he yearned to get closer to it. The others gave no sign that they could hear it, and he began to feel that it must be directed at him. He strained to hear more of it, wanting to go to it.
The sound reminded him of something promising – a game, or a whistled tune he’d heard when he was very young. Was it Ralf’s tune on his mouth organ? Or was it something to do with Al? Was Al trying to call to him? Yes, that was it. He was sure that was it. Poor Al. Where was Al?
‘Stop, Seraphina! I must help Al!’ He tried to rein her in, but she flew on, ignoring him. He twisted round on her back, searching the empty skies for a clue to the whistling sound. ‘Al! Al!’ he shouted. ‘Where are you?’ He scanned the cliffs, but there was no one there.
The noise got louder and stronger. His happiness began to dissolve; he was all anxiety as the whistling filled his head and drummed inside his skull.
‘Stop, Seraphina!’
He looked for somewhere to land. ‘I hate flying, Seraphina. Let me down. I want to land!’
Suddenly he caught sight of Petra staring at him. Lizzie too. They both looked away quickly, but not before he’d seen how thrilled they both looked. And smug.
The Spin Page 23