by Paul Stewart
He began opening the mirrored doors to the many wardrobes which lined the room, and rifled through the gaudy clothes which packed every inch within. From the third wardrobe, he pulled out a particularly foppish jacket. Long and quilted, it was a deep magenta colour with navy and gold brocade. There were feathers around the collar and at the cuffs. Semi-precious stones, set into the embroidered threads, sparkled enticingly. Twig slipped the jacket on.
‘What do you think?’ he said.
‘Well, it's …’ Cowlquape started. He shook his head. ‘I don't know what we're doing in here.’
Twig laughed. ‘You're right, Cowlquape,’ he said. ‘It's time we left. Come on.’ And with that he strode across the room and back down the stairs. Cowlquape followed close behind.
Up on deck at last, Twig breathed the crisp, cold air deep down into his lungs. A broad grin spread across his face.
‘Ah, Cowlquape,’ he said. ‘Fresh air. A following wind. The sheer exhilaration of soaring across the endless sky.’
Cowlquape laid a hand on Twig's arm and pointed up the wooden staircase to the helm. The captain and the brogtroll, Grimlock, were silhouetted against the grey-ness of the sky. Twig nodded and raised his finger to his lips.
They advanced, keeping to the shadows cast by the low moon on their port bow. Around the skirting-deck, they went. Up the stairs. Slowly. Stealthily. All at once, the whole sky ship was bathed in purple light.
‘Waah!’ Grimlock cried out.
Twig and Cowlquape froze.
‘Fire!’ the brogtroll bellowed. ‘Grimlock see fire!’
‘Be still, you fool!’ the captain cried. ‘It's not fire. It's the signal flare.’
‘Signal flare?’ said Grimlock blankly.
The captain groaned. ‘Oh, Grimlock, Grimlock, there really isn't a lot going on in there, is there?’ he said, waving his lace handkerchief at the brogtroll's head. ‘The signal flare alerts the guards at the slave market that there are slaves on board!’ He rubbed his plump pink hands together. ‘And what a lot of slaves we've got. Mother Muleclaw will be so pleased with me.’
‘Mother Muleclaw,’ Grimlock growled. He remembered her well enough. Beaten him, she had. Beaten poor Grimlock when he'd once strayed from the ship.
‘Aye, the roost-mother herself,’ said Vulpoon. ‘She's the one our two fine young gentlemen are going to.’ He chuckled. ‘I wonder if they'll last any longer than the last lot?’
Twig's eyes rested on the finery of the captain's clothes - the elegant embroidered silk frock coat with its intricate pattern of costly marsh-gems and mire-pearls, the highly-polished knee-length boots, the ruffs at his collar and cuffs, the fluffy purple vulpoon feather in his tricorn hat. He was a dandy. A fop. Twig had never seen a sky pirate captain like him before, and it turned his stomach knowing how this unpleasant individual had come by such wealth. ‘So when is our estimated time of arrival in the slave market?’ he asked, stepping from the shadows.
Vulpoon spun round, his face a picture of horrified shock. ‘You!’ he blurted out. ‘What are you doing here? Where are Teasel and Korb?’
‘Sleeping soundly,’ said Twig, a smile playing over his lips.
‘But this is an outrage!’ the captain roared. His eyes bulged. His face turned crimson in the purple light. ‘You're meant to be …’
‘Asleep?’ said Twig. He drew his sword. ‘Bound and gagged? All trussed up for market?’ He began to circle the captain.
‘I … You … It's …’ Thunderbolt Vulpoon blustered. ‘And that's my jacket you're wearing!’ he shrieked. ‘GRIMLOCK! SEE TO THEM!’
Grimlock blundered forwards.
Twig calmly ran his hand up and down the jacket, his fingers hovering over the jewels. ‘See, Grimlock,’ he said.
Grimlock halted in his tracks. ‘Pretty clothes,’ he said, his eyes lighting up.
‘Grimlock!’ bellowed Vulpoon furiously.
But Grimlock did not hear him. Mesmerized by the dazzling beauty of the wondrous jacket, he drooled.
‘It could be yours, Grimlock,’ Twig said. ‘All yours.’ He slowly slipped an arm out of a sleeve and let the jacket drop down his shoulder. ‘Would you like it, Grimlock?’ he said. ‘Shall I give you the pretty jacket? Shall I?’
Grimlock's eyes widened with confusion. He looked at the captain. He looked at the jacket. His brow furrowed. Twig slipped off the second sleeve and held the jacket in his left hand.
‘Grimlock, obey!’ Vulpoon screamed. ‘Do as you're told!’
A smile spread over Grimlock's clodden features. He took a step forwards. Twig held the jacket out. ‘Take it,’ he said.
Grimlock reached out, snatched the jacket and slipped his arms down inside the sleeves. ‘Pretty jacket!’ he said, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Grimlock pretty!’
Twig pointed his sword at Vulpoon. ‘It would have taken so little to ensure the loyalty of your crew,’ he said. ‘And after all, you have so much.’ He turned away in disgust. ‘Remove his keys and tie him up, Cowlquape.’
‘Please, please,’ the captain pleaded. ‘No, don't do that, I implore you. I didn't mean anything. Really … It was all a misunderstanding … Please!’
Twig grimaced. ‘And gag him, Cowlquape!’ he said. ‘I'll listen to no more of this creature's spineless whining.’
While Cowlquape bound and gagged the former captain of the Skyraider, Twig took to the helm and raised his telescope to his eye. Far in the distance and slightly to starboard, a patch of the unending Deepwoods seemed to be glowing with an oily yellow light. He focused the glass.
‘We've found it, Cowlquape,’ he breathed. ‘We've found the Great Shryke Slave Market.’
With nimble fingers, Twig raised the mainsail a fraction, realigned the studsail and lowered the port hull-weights. The great sky ship swung gently round until the faint, but growing, yellow glow was directly before them. He raised the port hull-weight, lowered the stern-weight and shifted the rudder-wheel a tad to starboard. The Skyraider was on course.
Cowlquape joined Twig at the helm and, as the slave market drew ever closer, the pair of them were overwhelmed by the sounds, the smells, the sights emanating from the curious agglomeration of life stretching over a vast area of the forest. For if the places the market had left behind were dead, then this - this raucous, pungent, seething mass of activity - was more vibrant than any place either of them had ever experienced before.
A thousand odours filled the air: pine-smoke and pole-weasel perfume, mothballs and woodgrog, and hammelhorns spit-roasting over roaring flames. Below it all, however - noticeable only when the currents shifted the more pleasant scents away - was the omnipresent
stench of rotting, of decay: of death.
Cowlquape shuddered involuntarily.
Twig turned to him. ‘You're right to be apprehensive,’ he said. ‘For all its glitter and dazzle, the Great Shryke Slave Market is a terrible place. It claims for itself the unwary, the foolish …’ He placed his hand reassuringly on Cowlquape's shoulder. ‘But not us, Cowlquape,’ he said. ‘We shall not fall into its clutches.’
‘A thousand strides, and closing,’ the look-out called down from the caternest.
Twig readjusted the hull-weights and shifted all the sail-levers down a fraction. The sky ship glided downwards through the sky.
‘Five hundred strides!’ the look-out announced. ‘Landing-stage on the port bow.’
Cowlquape squinted ahead. In front of them he saw an aerial jetty, jutting out from the top of a stripped tree. At the far end, closest to them, stood one of the bird-creatures: a stocky individual with dowdy feathers and a beak and claws which glinted in the purple light of the flare it was waving as it guided them in. Cowlquape swallowed.
‘A shryke,’ he murmured softly.
Twig raised the neben-hull-weights and lowered the stern-weight. The sky ship slowed and dipped. He lowered the sails, one by one: the flight-rock would do the rest.
‘One hundred strides!’
As if in respo
nse to the look-out's cry, Jervis and a gangly individual with a markedly twisted spine - Stile the ship's cook, Cowlquape presumed - appeared on the deck. They looked round, eyes wide, mouths open. The sky ship docked.
There were the passengers, sailing the ship. Grimlock was primping and preening by the bowsprit in a frock-coat. And the captain was trussed up on the floor …
‘What in Sky … ?’ Jervis muttered.
Just then, there was a loud thud behind them as the end of the gangplank dropped down onto the stern. Twig and the others turned to see a dozen or more of the formidable shrykes marching across the board and advancing towards them.
‘What have you got to trade?’ their leader - a stout bird-creature with multi-coloured beads plaited into her drab, tawny feathers - asked as she reached the bridge.
‘Not much, I'm afraid,’ said Twig. ‘Bit of a mix-up in Undertown. We ended up carrying hammelhorns instead of slaves.’
The shryke narrowed her cold, glinting eyes and tilted her head to one side. ‘Do you mean to tell me there are only free citizens on board?’ she squawked indignantly.
‘Except for one,’ said Twig. He prodded Captain Vulpoon in the back with his foot and smiled at the shryke. ‘A prime specimen,’ he said. ‘Links with academics, or so I understand.’
‘Really?’ said the shryke, her neck feathers ruffling up. She turned to her second in command. ‘The roost-mother might be interested.’
‘My thoughts entirely,’ said Twig.
‘How much are you asking?’ asking the shryke.
Twig's head spun. ‘A hundred and fifty,’ he said, plucking a figure from the air.
The shryke's eyes narrowed. ‘Roundels or docklets?’ she demanded.
‘R … roundels,’ said Twig. The shryke tutted and turned away. ‘I mean, docklets. A hundred and fifty docklets.’ He smiled. ‘I'm sure Mother Muleclaw won't be able to resist getting her claws into him.’
The shryke hesitated for a moment. Then, she turned back and stared at Twig with one yellow eye. ‘The price is still high,’ she said. ‘But… it's a deal.’
The crew of the Skyraider gathered on the main deck all gave a cheer as the shryke grasped the bundle before her. Captain Thunderbolt Vulpoon had treated them all like slaves. There were no tears for the avaricious tyrant as - wriggling like a barkslug - he was hefted up onto the feathery shoulders of his captors and carried away.
‘Mffll bwfll blmmfl’ His muffled oaths were lost to the
The same to you!’ Jervis called after him. ‘And good riddance,’ He turned to Twig. ‘What's to become of us now, though?’
‘Of you?’ said Twig. ‘You're all free. You can do what you want, go where you want… Back to Undertown for a start, then who knows?’
‘Please, young master, take us back,’ pleaded Jervis, his gnarled hands reaching out and clutching Twig's. ‘We need a captain if we are to sail the ship.’
‘No, I…’ Twig muttered. ‘It's not possible. We … that is, Cowlquape and I have business to attend to …’
Cowlquape leant across, raised his hands and whispered in his ear. ‘The cargo, Twig. Don't forget the cargo.’
‘Don't worry, Cowlquape. I haven't forgotten,’ said Twig. He raised his head and addressed the motley crew before him. ‘When I said “you're all free,” I meant it. All those on board the Skyraider - each and every one - are free.’
‘You mean … ?’ Jervis began. ‘The … the slaves?’
‘Yes, old-timer,’ said Twig. ‘Those you helped to waylay and transport to this terrible place are as free as yourself. And I warrant that there'll be creatures amongst them who have some skill in skysailing.’ He turned to his young apprentice. ‘Come, Cowlquape. Let us go and release Vulpoon's prisoners.’
Cowlquape followed Twig back below deck, and down deep into the dark bowels of the sky ship. He couldn't help but feel a warm glow of pride inside him. Twig could simply have walked from the Skyraider and left its occupants to their fate. But no. Even now, though they were on a quest to search for Twig's lost crew, the young captain could still spare the time to assist others. Cowlquape remembered his dream, and winced with embarrassment. If anyone was fit to wear the mantle of Kobold the Wise it was the young captain, not himself.
As they clattered down the final flight of stairs - their boots echoing on the bare boards, the air, fetid and foul, chinks of light penetrating the gloom from broken hull planks - a cry went up from the chained prisoners. With a shudder, Cowlquape recognized the sound he'd heard earlier.
Is there someone there?’ they shouted. ‘Water! Water!’ ‘Something to eat.’ ‘Korb! Korb, is that you?’ ‘Have mercy on us, I beg you!’
Twig shook his head. There was no knowing when the poor wretches had last eaten or drunk anything and Twig's blood boiled at the monstrous injustice of it all. He strode towards the door, took the ring of keys from Cowlquape, selected the largest and pushed it into the keyhole. The key scraped in the lock like an angry rat-bird. Inside, the voices fell still.
‘Pfwooahl’ Cowlquape gasped as Twig pushed the door open and a blast of foul air struck him full in the face.
‘Hide your revulsion,’ Twig whispered back at him. ‘It is not the prisoners’ fault that their conditions are so disgusting.’ He stepped inside. ‘It is the greed that led to their imprisonment that is to blame for this foul place.’
A raucous clamouring immediately began. ‘Where's Korb?’ ‘Where's our food and water?’ ‘What's going on?’ ‘Why aren't we sailing any more?’
Twig looked around at the miserable assembly of flat-heads and gnokgoblins, cloddertrogs and woodtrolls, and raised his hands for quiet.
‘Friends, your ordeal is over!’ he called. ‘The Skyraider is to return to Undertown! And you will travel with it, to be reunited with your families!’
The prisoners looked at one another in confusion.
‘You are going home!’ Twig announced. He raised the ring of keys above his head and shook them. ‘As free citizens! You, and the crew that tyrant enslaved. There, will be no slaves at all on board this sky ship ever / again!’
For a moment, there was absolute silence. Then a flat-head goblin gave a mighty cheer, and the hold exploded in whoops and cries of tumultuous joy. The sky ship trembled and lurched as the trolls, trogs and goblins -their chains clanking - danced round with delight.
Twig waited for the noise to subside before continuing. ‘Now, I need volunteers to crew this ship,’ he said. ‘How many of you have experience of skysailing?’
Half a dozen arms shot up into the air.
‘We've done our bit, Cowlquape,’ said Twig with a smile. ‘They'll be able to get back safely to Undertown. Our quest lies in the slave market.’ He turned back to the prisoners. ‘You will all be unshackled,’ he said. ‘Be patient. Your turn will come.’
Twig divided the keys up between himself and Cowlquape. One by one, the pair of them matched key to lock, unfastened the manacles and set the prisoners free. They streamed out of the dark, filthy hold, away from their prison and up on deck to taste the clear air and look at the stars. There was laughter and much hand-shaking; there were tears and heartfelt thanks. At last, wiping sweat from his brow, Cowlquape peered into the gloom of the farthest corners of the hold.
Only two shackled prisoners remained. A young pinched-looking gnokgoblin with an eye-patch and, at the opposite end of the cavernous chamber, a small figure bundled up in a ragged cloak.
Cowlquape approached the bundle. It let out a faint sigh as he fumbled with the key in the lock of the manacle around its leg. The mechanism failed to click. He tried again, but it was no good.
‘I can't seem to unlock this one,’ Cowlquape called across the room. ‘It must be the key - or the rusty lock. Or something.’
‘Let me try my key,’ Twig called back. ‘I won't be a minute,’ he said to the gnokgoblin as he pulled himself up and crossed the filthy straw which covered the floor. ‘Let me see,’ he said to Cowlquape, putting the key in the lo
ck. ‘Ah, yes, I think I've got it.’ He frowned. ‘Cowlquape?’ he said. ‘What's the matter?’
Cowlquape shook his head. ‘I don't believe it!’ he gasped. ‘Look, Twig, look!’
‘What is it, Cowlquape?’ said Twig. ‘Tell me …’
But Cowlquape was not listening. ‘It's fate, Twig! It's fate!’ he babbled excitedly as he stared unblinking at the young captain's outstretched hand. ‘Fate itself must have brought us to this place!’
‘Cowlquape,’ said Twig sharply. ‘What are you talking about?’
And then he saw. His hand, his arm - they were glowing. His entire body was aglow with the same bright light that had illuminated him before. When he had met up with Tarp Hammelherd, and Bogwitt, and Wingnut Sleet…
He turned and looked at the bundle of rags cowering immediately before him, his raised arm shielding his sensitive eyes from the sudden light. ‘It can't be. Can it? Spooler?’ he said. ‘Can it really be you?’
The oakelf started back. He lowered his arm - an arm that was also glowing. ‘Captain Twig?’ he whispered. ‘Captain Twig!’
‘Spooler!’ Twig exclaimed, and he embraced the oakelf tightly, lifting him up off the ground in his excitement. ‘It is you!’ He turned to Cowlquape, beside himself with joy ‘It's Spooler!’ he exclaimed. ‘The fourth missing member of my crew. Oh, Spooler,’ he said, releasing his grip on the oakelf and looking him deep in his eyes. ‘I hoped … but I never dreamed … But tell me, how did you end up in this terrible place?’
The oakelf looked down. His brow furrowed. ‘I … I'm not sure, Captain. It's all a blur,’ he whispered.
‘We were on board the Edgedancer,’ Twig reminded him gently. ‘Tethered to the caterbird. We set off into open sky in search of my father, Cloud Wolf.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Spooler. ‘That I remember.’ He shuddered. ‘And I remember seeing the weather vortex from the top of the caternest, coming closer and closer …’
‘Yes?’ said Twig eagerly.
‘And then, nothing,’ said Spooler. ‘The next thing I knew I was lying in the gutter in the Undertown fish market.’