Stormchaser (11 page)

BOOK: Stormchaser

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But still Cloud Wolf remained unmoved. ‘Many long years have gone by since I left the Academy,’ he said. ‘And the
Stormchaser
is not the sky ship she once was…’

‘Wolfie! Wolfie!’ Mother Horsefeather chided him. ‘Such false modesty! Quintinius Verginix was the most outstanding knight the Academy had ever seen, and the skills you learned there have been honed to razor sharpness as Cloud Wolf, the finest sky pirate captain ever.’ Twig heard his father snort. ‘And as for the
Stormchaser
,’ she went on, ‘we will have it repaired, realigned, refurbished – the works. She will fly as she has never flown before.’

For a moment, Twig thought this would sway it. Surely his father would be unable to resist such an offer. Cloud Wolf smiled and played with his waxed side-whiskers.

‘No,’ he said. He scraped the chair noisily backwards and stood up from the table. ‘And now if you’ll excuse me…’

Mother Horsefeather began scratching at the floor in a sudden fury. ‘Excuse you?’ she screeched. ‘No I will
not
excuse you.’ Her voice grew more and more shrill. ‘You have no choice! I have something you need – and you have something I need. You
will
do what I say!’

Cloud Wolf merely chuckled to himself as he made for the door. In an uncontrollable rage, Mother Horsefeather flapped and thrashed about. The table tipped over. The chairs went flying. Twig, dodging back out of her way, caught sight of Forficule. He was staring intently at the door, ears quivering and a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

‘You’re finished!’ Mother Horsefeather was screaming. ‘Finished! Do you understand? I’ll see you never so much as set foot on a sky ship again. I’ll…’

There was a muffled knock. Mother Horsefeather froze. The door opened. ‘You!’ she exclaimed.

‘My lord,’ Cloud Wolf gasped, and fell to his knees.

Twig stared at the newcomer in confusion. He was old – very old – with long white hair and a stout staff to aid his unsteady gait. With his broken sandals, his fingerless gloves and his patched and threadbare gown, he looked as wretched as any alley-vagrant. Yet there was his father kneeling down before him.

Twig turned to Forficule for an explanation, but the nightwaif had moved away. It was up on the table, urgently whispering into Mother Horsefeather's ear behind its pale and bony hand. Twig would have given anything to know what was being said but, strain as he might, he could hear nothing but a conspiratorial
hssp-psss-psss
.

Twig groaned, returned his attention to his father – and groaned again. If he had been disappointed by Cloud Wolf's reaction to Mother Horsefeather's proposal, then he was mortified to find his father still kneeling.

Will you stand up and fight? he wondered bitterly. Or do you intend to remain on your knees for ever?

• CHAPTER SIX •
S
CREED
T
OE-
T
AKER

T
he journey across the Mire was proving to be as harsh as anything Mim had ever experienced. And if the leader of the gnokgoblin family was finding the going tough, then the others were all but at the end of their strength. Mim's concern was growing more acute with every passing minute.

Screed had given strict instructions that they should all keep together, yet the further they went on across the endless muddy wasteland, the more separated they were becoming.

Mim squelched back and forth along the long straggling line as fast as the gluey mud would allow. From the young’uns up at the front to old Torp, who was bringing up the rear, and back again, she went – offering words of encouragement as she passed.

‘Not far, now,’ she assured them. ‘Nearly there.’ The
rank, stagnant stench of the Mire grew stronger. ‘Forget where we are now and keep your thoughts on the wonderful place for which we’re bound – a place of plenty, a place of opportunity, a place where goblins are respected and the streets are paved with gold.’

The gnokgoblins smiled back at her weakly, but none made any attempt to reply. They didn’t have the energy. Even the young’uns, who had started out so enthusiastically – gambolling ahead like lambs – were now dragging their feet painfully slowly. Mim knew it would not be long before the first of her party gave up completely.

‘Hey!’ she cried out to the gaunt figure up ahead. ‘Slow down a bit.’

Screed turned. ‘Now what?’ he snapped irritably.

Mim strode towards him. The burning sun beat down ferociously. Screed waited for her to catch up, hands on hips, leering. ‘We need a rest,’ she panted.

Screed looked her up and down, then squinted up at the sky. ‘We keep on till sundown,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll rest for the night. It's too dangerous travelling by darkness – what with the sinking-mud and poisonous blow-holes…’

‘Not to mention the muglumps, oozefish and white ravens,’ Mim interrupted tartly. ‘Not that we’ve encountered any so far.’

Screed pulled himself up to his full height, and stared down his nose at her scornfully. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, his voice loaded with sarcasm, ‘I was under the impression that you employed me as a guide to
avoid
these dangers.
If I’d only
known
you wanted to see them for yourselves…’

Mim looked down sheepishly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It's just … Well, some of us are finding it difficult to keep up with the pace you’re setting.’

Screed glanced back along the line of goblins. ‘You paid for a two-day crossing,’ he said sharply. ‘Any longer than that and it’ll cost you.’

‘But we haven’t got any more money,’ Mim cried out.

Screed's yellow teeth gleamed against the bleached paleness of his lips. ‘Like I say,’ he said, turning and walking away. ‘It’ll cost you.’

Darkness had fallen by the time Screed Toe-taker called it a day. He stopped on an outcrop of rocks and placed the lantern down. ‘We’ll stop here,’ he called back through cupped hands.

One by one, the goblins started to arrive.

‘Keep that infant still!’ Screed shouted at a young female with a squawling babe-in-arms. ‘It’ll attract every muglump for miles around.’ He lifted the lantern and peered back the way they’d come. ‘And where are the others?’ he snapped. ‘Just my luck if they’ve already gone and got themselves lost.’

‘No, look! Over there!’ one of the young’uns cried, and pointed back towards a curious, squat figure which was shuffling towards them out of the low, swirling mist. As it grew closer, the one figure became three. It was Mim, trudging purposefully on with a youngster on her back and an arm around old Torp.

Screed smiled. ‘All present and correct,’ he said.

Buoyed up by the gleeful cheers of the others, Mim staggered across that last stretch of sucking quicksilver mud and up onto the rocky outcrop. Old Torp released himself from her supporting arm and sat down. ‘Well done, old-timer,’ she whispered breathlessly. ‘You made it.’ She pulled the sleeping youngster from her back, laid him gently down on the ground and covered him with a blanket. Then, groaning with the effort, she pulled herself upright and looked round.

‘Well, it's certainly not the most comfortable place I’ve ever spent the night,’ she said. ‘But it's dry. And that's the main thing. So, thank you, Screed, for bringing us to this place.’

‘My pleasure,’ he said, ignoring the sullen faces of the others – it was, after all, an expression he had seen a thousand times before. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘you must all get some sleep.’

The gnokgoblins didn’t need telling twice. Within seconds, all of them were rolled up in their blankets, like a row of woolly cocoons – all, that is, except for Mim. ‘And yourself?’ she asked Screed.

‘Me?’ he said loftily, as he perched himself on the top of the tallest rock. ‘Oh, don’t you worry about me. I have little need of sleep.’ He gazed round the flat landscape, glinting and glistening like burnished silver beneath the moon. ‘Besides, someone has to keep watch.’

Mim was reassured. Despite what she’d said earlier, she hadn’t liked the sound of the muglumps, oozefish or white ravens one tiny little bit. She wished Screed a good night, snuggled up between two of the young’uns and, by the time dark clouds rolled over the moon a couple of minutes later, she was, like all the others, fast asleep.

Screed listened to the rasping chorus of snoring and smirked to himself. ‘Sleep well, little dwarves,’ he whispered, ‘or goblins – or whatever you are.’

He brought the lantern nearer as the clouds rolled in, and pulled a knife from his belt which he began sliding gently back and forwards over the smooth rock. Occasionally he would spit on the metal, and inspect the blade in the yellow light. Then off he went again, slowly, methodically –
whish, whish, whish
– until every point along the blade was sharp enough to split a hair in two.

Woe betide the creature that thought it could get the better of him. Screed stood up, lantern in one hand, knife in the other. Woe betide
any
who fell into his clutches.