Midnight Over Sanctaphrax (28 page)

Mother Muleclaw rose to her feet once more. A hush fell.

The sky pirate captain managed to kill forty-three wig-wigs before his demise,’ she announced. ‘And twenty-seven more were wounded.’

The winners cheered. The losers - of whom there were many more - groaned.

‘The contest lasted for precisely ten minutes and …’ she hesitated. The spectators clasped their betting-slips tightly. ‘Ten minutes and forty seconds. That's four-o. Forty.’

Again, the few excited whoops of delight were drowned out by a general groan of disappointment. Mother Muleclaw clacked her beak.

‘But now, my friends, we must proceed,’ she announced. ‘It is time for the evening's main event,’ She nodded at the shryke guard on the platform below her, who began turning a great handled wheel. The pulleys creaked. The ropes shifted. From above the hanging royal-box, the bottom of a heavy, ironwood cage began slowly to descend from the dense grey-black foliage.

‘A classic contest!’ the roost-mother shrieked. The ultimate confrontation! Power versus perseverance. The mighty versus a multitude,’ She tossed back her plumed head. ‘For your delectation and delight, a genuine … an extremely rare … in the prime of physical fitness …’

The crowd went wild with feverish anticipation; waving their arms, stamping their feet. And, as the cage came lower - revealing the fierce, furious beast pounding at the bars of its hanging prison - their bloodthirsty cries became more and more tumultuous. Mother Muleclaw smirked with self-satisfaction, and when the cage was hanging directly next to the royal-box, she nodded down at the shryke for a second time. The turning stopped. The cage juddered to a halt. Mother Muleclaw raised a great taloned hand.

‘I give you … a BANDERBEAR
!’
she screeched.

Twig gasped. It wasn't just
a
banderbear. It was Goom.
There wasn't any doubt. Even if he hadn't recognized his face, the tell-tale scars from the spiked pit that had once trapped him gleamed on his left flank.

Clucking softly, Mother Muleclaw reached out and stroked the claws of the banderbear which stuck out between the bars of the hanging cage. ‘I know he's going to give those wig-wigs a run for their money,’ she said, her voice oily.

The crowd - whipped up to a frenzy by the thought of the ensuing confrontation - had begun chanting once again.

‘Down!’ they demanded. ‘Down! Down! Down!’

Cowlquape's whole body shuddered with revulsion.

‘We must act quickly,’ said Twig urgently. ‘Go back to that prowlgrin corral we passed. Buy four prowlgrins,’ he said, giving Cowlquape a handful of gold coins. ‘The largest and strongest you can find. Then meet me round the other side of the arena, on the walkway directly beneath the branches of the ironwood tree.’

‘But Twig …’ Cowlquape began.

‘Now,
Cowlquape,’ said Twig firmly and, before his young apprentice could say another word, he dashed off through the crowd.

Cowlquape stared after him for a moment, then turned to Spooler.

‘We'd best see about those prowlgrins,’ the oakelf said.

Cowlquape nodded. He only hoped Twig knew what he was doing.

The arena was thick with feverish betting as Twig made his way towards the ironwood tree.

‘Thirty gold pieces on twenty-eight minutes and nine seconds.’

‘Fifty each way on at least two hundred and fifty wig-wigs copping it.’

‘Seventy-five gold pieces!’

‘A hundred!’

Ignoring the yelps of pain and cries of anger as he elbowed his way through the jostling crowd, Twig finally arrived at the point where the trunk of the great tree emerged from behind the top terrace. He stopped, pulled the sky pirate grappling-hook from the front of his heavy longcoat and glanced round.

The atmosphere was now approaching fever-pitch and no-one - neither shryke nor spectator - noticed the young sky pirate standing in the shadows. Taking the rope in his hand, Twig swung the hook into the branches above and, when it took securely, scrambled up.

‘And now,’ Mother Muleclaw screamed above the din, ‘the moment you've all been waiting for!’ She nodded down at the shryke guard: she should begin to lower the banderbear into the pit below.

Twig reached a broad, flat branch high in the iron-wood tree and crept carefully along it. He stopped when he was directly above the royal-box and hanging cage. Below him, Mother Muleclaw raised her wings.

‘And so,’ she announced, ‘let the contest begin …
Whurrggh!’

As one, the crowd let out a gasp of astonishment at the sight of the young sky pirate dropping down into the royal-box and seizing the roost-mother. An arm grasped
her round the throat; a hand pressed the glinting blade of a knife against her ruffled neck.

‘Stop lowering the cage!’ Twig bellowed. ‘Bring it up level with the royal-box again - or the roost-mother gets it!’

With a squawk of indignation, the tawny shryke paused and fixed Twig with an astonished stare. Then slowly, she reversed the direction of her turning. The roost-sisters were in uproar, shifting about on their podium, screeching and squawking. Other shrykes - tawny guards and great, serrated-beaked slavers - closed in on the tree from the walkways menacingly.

‘Back off!’ Twig roared. ‘Tell them,’ he hissed into Mother Muleclaw's feathery ear. ‘Tell them now.’

‘St… stay back,’ said Mother Muleclaw, in a strangulated voice.

‘And tell them to drop their weapons!’ Twig increased the pressure of the knife.

‘Do as he says!’ she squawked.

‘That's better,’ said Twig. Then, still maintaining the
pressure on the knife, he reached over to the cage and unclasped the lid at the top. One of the banderbear's massive paws appeared.

Suddenly, the crowd seemed to realize what was happening. Up until that moment, the spectacle of the youth threatening the roost-mother had held them captivated. Now they saw what he had in mind, and were incensed.

‘He's released it!’ they roared furiously. ‘He's letting it go!’

Twig dragged the cowering Muleclaw to the far end of the royal-box as the banderbear heaved himself up out of the cage. He watched, heart in his mouth, as the great, clumsy creature grasped at a branch above his head for support, and stepped across the yawning chasm below.

As the banderbear fell into the royal-box, the crowd exploded with anger. ‘It's getting away!’ they raged.

The roost-sisters below craned their necks round to see what was happening.

Twig watched the banderbear climbing to his feet. ‘Goom,’ he said. ‘I knew it was you.’

‘Wuh?’ the great beast asked. ‘T-wuh-g?’

‘Yes, Goom,’ said Twig. ‘Didn't I promise that I'd never abandon my crew.’ He glanced upwards. ‘Pull yourself up onto that branch above our heads. Then pull me up beside you.’

The banderbear shuddered nervously, making the royal-box shake. Mother Muleclaw cried out as Twig's knife nicked the scaly skin beneath the feathers. The crowd howled with dismay as the great lumbering
creature reached up, sunk its claws into the overhead branch and swung its tree-trunk legs up into the air.

‘A hundred and fifty says he doesn't make it,’ a voice rang out above the din.

Two hundred says we'll be looking at a new roost-mother before the night is out!’ yelled another.

The crowd went wild.

At his third attempt, Goom managed to swing his legs over the edge of the branch and drag himself up. He crouched down on the broad branch and lowered a great arm.

‘Wuh!’ he said.

Twig grabbed hold of the banderbear's wrist. Goom pulled, and Twig was whisked up clear of the royal-box. The instant her attacker was gone, Mother Muleclaw cried out.

‘Seize them!’ she shrieked, jumping up and down in the box in a fever of rage. ‘No-one threatens the roost-mother
and lives! Guards …
Aaargh!’
she screamed, as one of the banderbear's razor-sharp claws sliced through several of the ropes that kept the royal-box in place. The box swung wildly. Her sharp talons gripped the wooden sides. ‘No,’ she whimpered. ‘Have pity …’

‘Pity?’ Twig shouted. ‘The only pity is that this was not done long ago,’ And with that, he reached down and sliced through the last ropes.

The royal-box plummeted down through the air, with Mother Muleclaw screaming all the way.

The crowd roared with delight. This was even better than a banderbear. This was the roost-mother herself. As the first of the wig-wigs emerged from the dark openings in the stockade, the noise became deafening. Whooping. Wailing. Cheering and shouting. ‘A hundred on …’ ‘Five hundred that…’ ‘A thousand!’

Twig turned to the banderbear. He seized him by a quivering paw.

‘Edge your way along this branch,’ he shouted, ‘then down onto that one, there.’ He pointed to a broader, flatter branch growing out of the trunk behind him. ‘It's almost as wide as the walkways. And then, when I say jump, jump!’

‘Wuh!’ the banderbear grunted in alarm.

The noise all around them was deafening: a great screeching from the shrykes and the roar of the bloodthirsty crowd.

‘Trust me,’ said Twig, struggling to make himself heard. He turned and made his own way along the branch, arms raised to keep his balance as the heavy banderbear anxiously lumbered after him. The leaves quivered. The branch swayed. Below him, Twig saw the boards of the wooden walkway come closer.