Stormchaser (8 page)

Before she had a chance to reply, the Bloodoak tavern suddenly rocked with the force of a nearby explosion. Forficule clutched at his ears and squealed with pain.

‘Lawks-a-mussy!’ Mother Horsefeather cried out, and the ruff of feathers shot back upwards. ‘That sounded close!’ As the dust settled, Forficule removed his hands, and shook his head from side to side. His massive ears fluttered like two enormous moths.

‘Two more poor fools trying to grind their own phraxdust,’ he said sadly. He cocked his head to one side and listened intently. ‘The dead one is Tendon, a slaughterer.’

‘I remember him,’ said Mother Horsefeather. ‘Often in here, he is – was. Always stank of leather.’

Forficule nodded. ‘The survivor's name is Slitch,’ he said, and shuddered. ‘Ooh, a horrible piece of work, he is. He’d tried mixing stormphrax with deadwood dust and got Tendon to do his dirty work for him.’

Mother Horsefeather frowned. ‘Everyone is so desperate to get hold of phraxdust,’ she said. Her yellow eyes sparkled malevolently. ‘If anyone's to blame for what happened,’ she added, nodding her beak towards the table of rowdy leaguesmen, ‘it's them! Oh, what I wouldn’t give to wipe that smug expression off their loathsome faces once and for all!’

• CHAPTER FOUR •
T
HE
C
ARGO OF
I
RONWOOD

I
t was late afternoon and, having successfully concluded a deal with some woodtrolls for a massive consignment of ironwood, the crew of the
Stormchaser
were heading back to Undertown. The atmosphere on board the sky pirate ship was buoyant, and Twig – the hero of the hour – was feeling particularly pleased with himself.

Although he hadn’t personally known any of the woodtrolls they’d encountered, the fact that he’d been brought up in a woodtroll village meant that Twig was familiar with their ways. He knew when their
nos
meant
yes
. He knew when to haggle and, more importantly, when to stop – for if a woodtroll is offered too little for his wood, then he will take offence and refuse to sell no matter what. When Twig saw the tell-tale signs in their faces – a pursing of the lips and twitching of their
rubbery noses – he had nodded towards his father. The deal was as good as it possibly could be.

Afterwards, to celebrate, Cloud Wolf had cracked open a barrel of woodgrog and handed round tots of the fiery liquid to each member of his motley crew. ‘To a job well done,’ he proclaimed.

‘A job well done!’ the sky pirates roared back.

Tem Barkwater, a hairy giant of an individual, slapped Twig on the back and squeezed his shoulder. ‘Without this lad's knowledge of the Deepwoods folk, we would never have got the wood at such a price,’ he said and raised his glass. ‘To Twig!’

‘To Twig!’ the sky pirates chorused.

Even Slyvo Spleethe the quartermaster, who seldom had a good word to say to anyone, spoke generously. ‘He did indeed do well,’ he conceded.

Only one person failed to join in the congratulations: Cloud Wolf himself. In fact, when Tem Barkwater had proposed his toast, the captain had turned away abruptly and returned to the helm. Twig understood why. None of the crew knew that he was Cloud Wolf's son. To avoid any accusations of favouritism, the captain preferred it that way. Accordingly, he treated the lad more harshly than the other crew members and never betrayed any affection he might feel.

Understanding the reason for Cloud Wolf's surliness was one thing. Liking it, however, was another. Every slight, every injustice, every harsh word cut Twig to the quick and left him feeling that his father was ashamed of him. Swallowing his pride now, Twig joined Cloud Wolf on the bridge.

‘When do you think we’ll be back?’ he asked tentatively.

‘Nightfall,’ said Cloud Wolf, as he locked the wheel and made minute adjustments to the hanging weights. ‘If the winds remain favourable, that is.’

Twig watched his father in awe. Sky ships were notor-iously difficult to sail, yet to Cloud Wolf it came as second nature. He understood his ship as though it was a part of him. Having heard the caterbird's story, Twig knew why. ‘I guess you learned all about sky sailing and … and stormchasing in the Knights’ Academy…’

Cloud Wolf turned and stared at him curiously. ‘What
do you know about the Knights’ Academy?’ he demanded.

‘N…nothing much,’ Twig faltered. ‘But the caterbird told me…’

‘Pfff!’ Cloud Wolf said dismissively. ‘That scraggy blabbermouth! It is better to live in the present than dwell on the past,’ he said sharply. And then, clearly eager to change the subject, he added, ‘It's high time
you
learned the rudiments of skysailing.’

Twig's heart fluttered. He had been with the sky pirates now for more than two years. Like them, he wore one of the heavy pirate longcoats with its numerous hanging accoutrements – the telescope, the grappling iron, the compass and scales, the drinking vessel … Like them, his front was protected by an ornately tooled leather breastshield, while on his back was a set of parawings. In all that time, however, Twig's duties on board had been restricted to the most menial of tasks. He scrubbed. He cleaned. He was the all-purpose gofer. Now, it seemed, that was to change.

‘The flight-rock, when cold, gives us natural lift,’ Cloud Wolf explained. ‘Balance, forward thrust and manoeuvring have to be achieved manually. Through these,’ he said, and pointed to two long rows of bone-handled levers, each set at a different angle.

Twig nodded keenly.

‘These levers here are connected to the hanging weights,’ he said. ‘The stern-weight, prow-weight, starboard hull-weights, small, medium and large; port hull-weights, ditto, mid-hull, peri-hull, neben-hull, and
klute-hull-weights…’ he said, rattling off the names. ‘And
these
levers on the other side are attached to the sails. Foresail, aftsail, topsail,’ he said, tapping the levers, each in turn. ‘Mainsails – one and two – skysail, staysail, studsail, boomsail, spinnaker and jib. Got that? It's just a matter of keeping everything in balance.’

Twig nodded uncertainly. Cloud Wolf stood back. ‘Come on then,’ he said gruffly. ‘Take the wheel, and let's see what you’re made of.’

At first, it was easy. The adjustments had already been made and Twig merely had to grip the wooden wheel to hold a steady course. But when a sudden gust from the north-east caused the ship to dip, the task suddenly became more complicated.

‘Up the medium starboard hull-weight,’ the captain instructed. Twig panicked. Which lever was it? The eighth or the ninth from the left? He grasped the ninth and yanked. The
Stormchaser
tipped to one side. ‘Not
that
much!’ Cloud Wolf snapped. ‘Up the staysail a tad and down the large port hull-weight … The
port
hull-weight, you idiot!’ he roared, as the sky ship tipped over still further.

Twig yelped with terror. He was going to crash the boat. At this rate, his first attempt at skysailing would also be his last. He clung on to the helm grimly – brain feverish, hands shaking, heart thumping fit to burst. He mustn’t let his father down. Pulling himself forwards, he seized the ninth lever for a second time. This time he moved it gently, downing the weight only a couple of notches.

And it worked! The boat righted itself.

‘Good,’ the captain said. ‘You’re developing the touch. Now, up the skysail,’ he instructed. ‘Down the prow-weight a fraction, realign the small and medium starboard hull-weights and…’

‘League ship to starboard!’ Spiker's strident voice cried out. ‘League ship to starboard – and approaching fast.’

The words echoed round Twig's head. He felt short of breath; he felt sick. The rows of levers blurred before his eyes. One of them would almost certainly make the sky ship accelerate forwards – but which one? ‘League ship getting closer,’ Spiker announced. And Twig, in his blind panic, broke the first rule of sky ship sailing. He let go of the helm.

The wheel spun back viciously the moment his sweaty hands loosened their grip, sending him skittering across the deck. Instantly, the sails crumpled, and the
Stormchaser
went into a sudden spinning descent.

‘You halfwit!’ Cloud Wolf roared. He seized the wheel and, bracing himself against the deck, frantically tried to stop it turning. ‘Hubble!’ he bellowed. ‘Here. Now!’

Twig was just stumbling back to his feet when Hubble brushed past him. It was only the most glancing of blows, but the albino banderbear was a colossal mountain of a creature – and Twig went flying.

The next moment, the spinning stopped. Twig looked up. The wheel was clasped, motionless, in the banderbear's massive paws. And the captain, freed up at last, was running his hands over the levers – now here, now there – as surely as an accordion-player darting over the keys.

‘League ship, one hundred strides and closing,’ called Spiker. The captain's silent playing continued. ‘Fifty strides! Forty…’

All at once, the
Stormchaser
leapt forwards. The crew roared their approval. Twig staggered to his feet at last, muttering heartfelt thanks to Sky above. They’d made it.

Then Cloud Wolf spoke. ‘There's something wrong!’ he said quietly.

Wrong? thought Twig. What could be wrong? Hadn’t they escaped with their illicit cargo of ironwood after all? He squinted behind him. Yes, there was the league ship, miles away!

‘Something
very
wrong,’ he said. ‘We’ve got no lift.’

Twig stared at Cloud Wolf in horror. His stomach felt empty. Was this some kind of joke? Had he chosen this moment to tease him like a father? One look at the man's ashen face as he jiggled, jerked and yanked at a lever with more and more force confirmed that he had not.

‘It's … it's the bl … blasted stern-weight,’ he spluttered. ‘It's jammed.’

‘League ship gaining once more,’ Spiker called out. ‘And from the flag I’d say the Leaguesmaster himself was on board.’

Cloud Wolf spun round. ‘Hubble,’ he said, but then
had second thoughts. The massive creature was ill-suited to clambering over the hull. As were Tem Barkwater and Stope Boltjaw. And the oakelf, Spiker, though willing, would never be strong enough to release the great iron weight. Slyvo Spleethe would have been ideal if he wasn’t such a coward. While Mugbutt, the flat-head goblin, though fearless in battle and everything else, was too stupid to remember what he was supposed to do. ‘I’d better see to it myself,’ he muttered.

Twig leaped forwards. ‘Let me,’ he said. ‘I can do it.’ Cloud Wolf looked him up and down, his thin lips tightly pursed. ‘You need to stay here, at the levers,’ Twig went on. ‘For when I’ve released it.’

‘League ship at two hundred strides,’ Spiker called.

Cloud Wolf nodded briefly. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But be sure not to let me down.’

‘I won’t,’ said Twig grimly, as he hurried off to the back of the ship. There he seized a tolley-rope and pulled himself up onto the rail. A flash of forest green blurred past him far, far below.

‘Don’t look down!’ he heard Tem Barkwater shouting to him.

Easier said than done, thought Twig as he lowered himself carefully onto the hull-rigging, which hugged the bottom of the ship like cobwebs. The further down and round he went – slowly, carefully – the more upside down he became. The wind tugged his hair and plucked at his fingers. But he could see the stern-weight now – all tangled up in a loop of pitched rope.