Stormchaser (6 page)

The caterbird did as it was told, folded its wings up and thrust its head back outside. Flabsweat was almost
upon them, a heavy club swinging at his side. Twig reached up and, with his hands round the creature's neck and shoulders, pulled gently. Flabsweat raised the club. The caterbird pushed its legs hard against the perch.

‘Come on!’ Twig urged it desperately.

‘Almost there…’ the caterbird strained. ‘I … Made it!’ It flapped its wings experimentally – once, twice – then launched itself off from the edge of the cage and soared up into the air, apparently none the worse for its confinement.

It was time for Twig to make himself scarce, too. Without looking round, he turned on his heels and sped away into the thronging street. As he set off, the club
glanced against his shoulder. A second earlier, and it would have smashed his skull.

Faster and faster Twig ran, barging through the crowds, elbowing dawdlers out of his way. Behind him, Flabsweat screamed with rage.

‘Thief! Scoundrel! Netherwicket!’ he roared. ‘
CATCH HIM
!’

Twig ducked down into a narrow alley. The shouting grew fainter, but Twig kept going, faster than ever. Past pawnbrokers and tooth-pullers, barbers and inns, round a corner – and slap-bang into the arms of his father.

Cloud Wolf shook him roughly by the shoulders. ‘Twig!’ he bellowed. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. We’re ready to set sail. What have you been up to?’

‘N…nothing,’ Twig faltered, unable to return Cloud Wolf's furious gaze.

High in the sky, behind his father's head, Twig saw the caterbird flapping off into the setting sun – past Sanctaphrax, out of Undertown, and away. He sighed enviously. The caterbird might be gone, but its doomladen words remained with him.
A vicious circle, that's what it is. If nothing is done then it is only a matter of time before everything falls apart
.

And for a second time, Twig found himself wondering, But what
can
be done?

• CHAPTER THREE •
C
RIES AND
W
HISPERS

i
In the Twilight Woods

I
t was twilight. It was always twilight in the woods, with the sun permanently setting. Or was it rising? It was difficult to tell. Certainly none who entered the Twilight Woods could ever be sure. Most, however, felt that the golden half-light between the trees whispered of endings not beginnings.

The trees, majestically tall and always in full leaf, swayed in a gentle breeze which endlessly circled the woods. They, like everything else – the grass, the ground, the flowers – were coated in a mantle of fine dust which glittered and glistened like frost.

Yet it was not cold. Far from it. The breeze was balmy, and the earth itself radiated a soothing warmth which rippled through the air above so that everything swam slightly before the eyes; nothing was quite in focus. Standing in the Twilight Woods was like standing under water.

There was no birdsong, no insect-rustle, no animal-cry, for none of these creatures inhabited the woods. Yet, to those with ears to hear, there were voices – and not simply the whisperings of the trees. They were real voices – muttering, mumbling, occasionally crying out. One was close by.

‘Hold steady, Vinchix,’ it said wearily, though not without hope. ‘Nearly there. Hold steady, now.’

The voice came from high up in the air, where a wrecked sky ship was skewered on a jagged treetop, its broken mast pointing accusingly up at the sky out of which it had dropped. Dangling from a harness was a knight, seated upon his prowlgrin charger and silhouetted against the golden sky. Inside the rusted armour, their bodies were skeletal. Yet both the knight and his mount were alive, still alive.

The visor creaked, and the ghostly voice repeated its words of encouragement, words of command.

‘Nearly there, Vinchix. Hold steady!’

ii
In the Palace of the Most High Academe

The chamber – or Inner Sanctum, as it was known – was truly sumptuous. The floors were carpeted with snow-white fur, the ceiling embossed with gold, while those areas of wall not lined with bookcases were panelled with blackwood and silver, and encrusted with precious stones. Ornaments cluttered every surface – porcelain vases and ivory figurines, ornate carvings and intricate time-pieces.

A crystal chandelier sparkled from the centre of the room, unlit, but glinting in the sunlight – shooting darts of brilliance all around the room. On the silver panels, they flickered; on the polished tables, the cabinets, the grand piano; on the portraits and mirrors – and on the gleaming pate of the Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax himself, who was stretched out on an ottoman next to the long arched window, fast asleep.

He looked out of place in the opulent surroundings. The black gown he wore was faded, and there were sandals on his feet – modest, scuffed. Likewise, his angular body and sunken cheeks spoke of a life of abstinence rather than indulgence; his shaven head, of humility and rigour – yet also a degree of vanity. After all, why else would a person have his personal monogram –
ViP
– stitched into the hem of his hair-shirt?

A high-pitched rasping vibrated throughout the chamber. The person stirred and rolled onto his side. His
hooded eyes snapped open. The rasping sound came again, louder than before. He sat up and peered through the window.

Situated at the top of one of the tallest, and certainly the most magnificent tower in Sanctaphrax, the Inner Sanctum offered breathtaking views across Undertown and beyond. The Most High Academe looked down. Between the billowing clouds of smoke, he could just make out half a dozen or so Undertowners busy securing the latest chain to the side of the great floating rock.

‘Splendid,’ he yawned, and climbed stiffly to his feet. He stretched, scratched, rubbed a hand absentmindedly over his head, and yawned again. ‘Things to be done.’

He strode over towards a massive ironwood chest which stood in the corner of the room, pulled a heavy iron key from the folds of his robes and crouched down. At sundown, he was to have a meeting with Simenon Xintax, the current Leaguesmaster. Before then, he wanted to weigh the remaining phraxdust and calculate just how long the precious specks would last.

The lock released with a soft click, the lid creaked open and the Most High Academe stared down into the gaping darkness within. He bent down, retrieved a glass phial, held it up to the window – and sighed.

Even
he
could see the liquid dust was all but gone.

‘A problem, certainly,’ he muttered, ‘but not yet an emergency. Better get it weighed, though. Work out just how many particles of phraxdust remain. Bargaining with Xintax from a point of ignorance would be fatal…’ He wriggled round irritably. ‘But first I have got to do something about this intolerable itching.’

Thankfully, thoughtful to the last, Minulis his man
servant, had remembered the back-scratcher. A pretty thing it was, with a solid gold handle and claws of dragon ivory. The Most High Academe squirmed with pleasure as he scraped it up and down his back, reminded – as he always was – that the greatest pleasures in life are often the simplest. He lay the scratcher down and – deciding to postpone his calculations a little longer – poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter which Minulis had also thought to bring.

He walked across the room and stopped in front of a full-length mirror, smiled, straightened up and lifted his head. ‘To you, Vilnix Pompolnius,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘The Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax.’

At that moment, the drilling began again – louder than ever. The floating rock trembled, the Inner Sanctum rocked and the mirror shook. The Most High Academe was so startled that he let the glass slip from between his fingers. It broke with a muffled
clink
and the spilt wine spread out over the white fur like blood.

The Most High Academe turned, and stepped away in disgust. As he did so, he heard a breathy whooshing sound behind him, followed by an almighty crash. He froze. Turned back. And there, lying on the floor in a thousand pieces, was the mirror. Crouching, he picked up a piece of glass and turned it over in his hand.

What was it his grandmother used to say?
A broken looking-glass, a sorrow come to pass
. He stared at the dark eye staring back at him from the jagged fragment, and winked. ‘It's a good job
you’re
not superstitious,’ he said, and cackled with laughter.

iii
In the Mire

The leader of the gnokgoblins – a short, stocky female by the name of Mim – sniffed the air, fingered the collection of talismans and amulets around her neck and stepped forwards. She winced as the soft mud oozed up between her stubby toes.

Screed Toe-taker watched her scornfully. ‘Still think you can make it across the Mire on your own?’ he said.

Mim ignored him and waded on.
Squellp, squellp, squellp
went the pale sticky mud as it covered first her ankles, then her calves, then her knees. She stopped and looked up. The Mire seemed to stretch out for ever in front of her. Even if she, by some miracle, could make it
across to the other side, she knew that neither old Torp nor the young’uns would stand a chance.