Midnight Over Sanctaphrax (13 page)

The hinges creaked. The hammerheads spun round.

‘Evening,’ said Twig calmly. ‘Evening, Motley. A goblet of your finest sapwine if you'd be so good.’ He glanced round and a smile flickered over his lips; Cowlquape had followed him in after all. ‘And one for my friend here, as well.’

‘I … we're just about to close,’ said Motley.

Twig glanced up at the cluster of customers skulking in the shadows at the back of the tavern, too cowardly or too inebriated to come to Motley's aid. None of them looked as if they were about to leave.

‘No wonder business is bad,’ the hammerhead said gruffly. ‘Turning away your customers like that!’ He looked Twig and Cowlquape up and down, and smirked. The dark-grey ironwood of his false teeth gleamed in the turquoise glow of the lullabee flames. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, pointing with a knife towards one of the benches that was still upright.

Cowlquape moved to obey the goblin. Twig laid a reassuring hand on the youth's shoulder.

‘Sit down!’ roared the hammerhead.

‘Just do as they say,’ said Motley weakly. Til be with you directly’

Twig and Cowlquape remained where they were.

‘Did I not make myself clear?’ the hammerhead growled between clenched teeth. The other two turned and made towards them, fists clenched and eyes blazing.

‘Riverrise clear!’ Twig replied steadily, and drew his sword with its great curved blade: the sword his father had thrust into his hands just before being swept away in the Great Storm. It flashed in the turquoise light.

For a moment, the surly goblins were stunned to silence. Then they turned, looked at one another and laughed with disbelief.

‘You little pipsqueal!’ the nearest one bellowed at the
young captain and drew his own weapon; an evil-looking sickle. ‘Come on then,’ he growled, sneering, beckoning, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

‘Go on, Tabor,’ the hammerhead with the knife grunted encouragingly. Motley seized the opportunity to slip away. ‘That's it!’ Stepping back smartly from the shadows, Motley swung his club,
‘
UNNKH
!’

The blow struck the hammerhead on the side of his head, felling him like a tree and sending his knife skittering across the floorboards. It came to rest at Cowlquape's feet. Cowlquape hesitated, then bent to pick it up.

The heavy knife felt strange in his grasp. Despite his father's best attempts to teach him, Cowlquape had never mastered the art of self-defence. He turned on the second hammerhead nervously. ‘You'd better just watch it,’ he said, as threateningly as he could. ‘Don't make me have to use it.’ His voice was thin and unconvincing.

Behind him, the sickle of the third hammerhead sliced through the air. Twig leapt to his young apprentice's side, sword raised. The sickle struck it with a ferocious blow that jarred the length of his arm. He held his ground.

‘The uglier they are, the prettier the victory,’ Twig muttered. He lunged forwards ferociously, once, twice, at the two hammerhead goblins.

The sickle hissed through the air again, low and from the side this time. Twig jumped back. The cruel tip to the blade missed his stomach, but snagged on the fastener of his hammelhornskin waistcoat. Cowlquape spun round and stabbed furiously at Twig's attacker.

‘Aaiiil’
the cloddertrog squealed, as the sharp blade cut into the thumb of his fighting hand.

‘Attaboy,’ Twig shouted out encouragingly. He raised his arm and thrust the sword forwards. It found its mark and the hammerhead's sickle clattered to the ground.

Cowlquape kicked it over to the side wall. Twig pressed his sword against the hammerhead's neck.

‘Leave now,’ he said coldly, ‘or so help me, I shall finish the job off.’

The two hammerheads exchanged glances. ‘Let's get out of here!’ one of them bellowed, and they both spun round and beat a hasty retreat. Neither of them once looked back at their fallen comrade.

‘Sky above,’ Cowlquape muttered. He held out the hammerhead's knife to Twig.

Twig smiled. ‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘You earned it. That was excellent, Cowlquape,’ he said. ‘I didn't know you had it in you.’

Cowlquape lowered his head bashfully, and slid the knife down behind his belt. Neither did he.

‘Not exactly known for their loyalty to one another, hammerhead goblins,’ Motley chuckled, as he hung the club back on the wall. He turned to Twig and Cowlquape. ‘Yet dangerous for all that,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming to my aid, gentlemen.’ He righted one of the upturned benches. ‘Take a seat. You shall drink of my finest barrel - and on the house, of course.’

Twig and Cowlquape sat down. Cowlquape was drenched in sweat, his hands shaking. He looked around the tavern for the first time.

The other drinkers, sipping and slurping in the shadowy corners, seemed unaware of the recent disturbance. Some sat beneath the rows of hexagonal barrels set into the far wall like woodbee honeycomb; some hunkered on low logs by the drinking troughs. In the corner, the covered brazier glowed turquoise and echoed with the melancholy singing of the burning logs.

‘It sounds like lullabee wood,’ Cowlquape remarked unsteadily. He still felt shaken.

‘We
are
in the Lullabee Inn,’ said Twig, and smiled. ‘Takes me back to the Deepwoods when I was a boy. Spelda - the woodtroll mother I told you about - would put a lullabee log on the fire at bedtime. The mournful songs used to lull me to sleep.’

‘They sound eerie to me,’ Cowlquape shuddered.

Motley returned with three goblets brimming with golden liquid. He sat down between them.

‘To your very good health,’ he said, and they all raised
the sparkling sapwine to their lips.
‘AaaahV
Motley sighed appreciatively. ‘Pure nectar.’

‘It's very good,’ said Twig. ‘Eh, Cowlquape?’

Cowlquape winced as the pungent liquor burnt his throat and sent stinging vapours up his nose. He placed the goblet down and wiped his eyes. ‘Very nice,’ he rasped. He frowned and turned to Motley. ‘But aren't you afraid the racketeers will be back?’ he said.

Motley chuckled. ‘Hammerheads are cowards at heart,’ he said.
‘Once bitten
and all that. Once word gets round that the Lullabee Inn's no pushover they'll leave me alone - for the time being at least. And it's all thanks to you two!’

‘Oi, Motley!’ came a gruff voice from the far corner. ‘More woodgrog, now!’

‘Coming up!’ Motley shouted back. He climbed to his feet and wiped his hands on his apron. ‘No peace for the wicked,’ he said. ‘Give me a shout when you need a refill.’

Motley scuttled away. Twig turned to Cowlquape who was trying a second sip of the sapwine. ‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘I may as well have a look round while we're here. Chat to some of the locals. See if anyone knows anything.’

Cowlquape placed the glass down for the last time, nodded eagerly and jumped to his feet. ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘I'll come with you.’ He didn't fancy being left on his own in this rough, shadow-filled place with its strange mournful music.

There were a dozen or so individuals in the tavern all
told. Trogs, trolls and goblins: heavy drinkers with lined, leathery faces and blank staring eyes.

‘Greetings, friend. Can I get you a drink?’ said Twig, tapping the shoulder of a small figure hunched over the drinking trough. ‘Interesting weather we've been having.’

The creature turned, revealing itself * as a lugtroll. He focused in on Twig's face. ‘What d'ya want?’ he snarled.

Twig raised his hands. ‘Just a drink,’ he said. ‘And a little con-!’ versation. Motley! Fill my friend's trough here. He looks thirsty.’

Several pairs of eyes looked round and stared at him blankly.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the lugtroll. Twig had got his attention.

‘Like I said, interesting weather - strange rains, hailstones as big as a goblin's fist, all sorts of things falling out of the sky. Why, I even heard tell of shooting stars falling to earth right here in Undertown.’

The lugtroll shrugged. ‘I ain't seen nothing,’ he said. ‘Just got off a sky ship from the Great Shryke Market. Carrying slaves we were.’ He grunted. ‘Never again! The noise was horrible - screaming and moaning they was, all the way. Can't get it out of my head. I came straight here to forget.’ He buried his face in the brimming trough and Twig moved on.

‘Cap'n?’ came a gruff, questioning voice to his right.

Twig spun round. Cowlquape peered into the shadows, trying to see who had spoken.

‘Cap'n, is that you?’ A heavy seat scraped back on the wooden floor and a stocky individual scrambled to his feet, rubbing his eyes as if he had just woken from a sleep. Twig stared as the figure approached. It was a Deepwoods slaughterer: hair wild and blood-red skin, deep purple in the shadowy darkness. His morose features twisted round into a grin. ‘Cap'n Twig, it is you, isn't it?’ he said. ‘Tell me it is?’

‘Tarp?’ said Twig. ‘Is that you, Tarp? Tarp Hammelherd? From the crew of the
Edgedancer?’
Twig cried out. ‘Yes, it's me! It's me, your captain!’

The two of them fell into one another's arms.

‘Oh, cap'n,’ Tarp said, tears welling in his eyes. ‘I feared I would never live to see this day’

Twig broke away from Tarp's stifling embrace and gripped the slaughterer's arms. ‘But you
did
live, Tarp! You're alive! You're really alive!’ he said, his voice quivering with excitement. ‘And now I have found you!’ He turned to Cowlquape. ‘Look, Cowlquape,’ he said. ‘We've found one of my …’

He fell silent. His young apprentice looked as if he had seen a ghost. He was standing stock-still, mouth open and eyes almost popping out of his head. At his side, Motley looked equally dumbstruck.

‘Cowlquape, what in Sky's name is the matter?’ said Twig.

‘Y … you're b … both glowing,’ came the stammered reply.

‘Like a pair of tilder-oil lanterns,’ said Motley, staring in awe.

Twig looked at Tarp. It was true. A luminous light was glowing brightly from the top of the slaughterer's blood-red hair to the tips of his tooled leather boots. He looked down at his own body. Chest, legs, arms, hands, wiggling fingers - they were all aglow.

All round them, the regulars were muttering to one another. They wagged their fingers, they shook their heads. The lugtroll next to Cowlquape fingered the amulets around his neck. ‘Spirits,’ he hissed. ‘Spirits in the boom-docks. And now spirits here. It ain't natural, I tell you.’

A couple of mobgnomes climbed to their feet. ‘I'm not staying here,’ said one nervously, and scuttled to the door.

‘Me neither,’ said his companion. He turned to Motley as he hurried past. ‘Things in Undertown are weird enough these days without spirits turning up at the Lullabee Inn!’

‘Yeah,’ muttered the lugtroll, hurrying after them. ‘Spirits is where I draw the line.’

‘But … but they were just leaving,’ said Motley. ‘Weren't you?’ he added, as he ushered all three of them hurriedly to the door. ‘Nothing personal,’ he muttered to Twig. ‘But you're upsetting the customers. And trade is trade you understand.’ He pushed them gently but firmly outside.

As the door slammed behind them, Twig turned to the others. ‘There's gratitude for you!’ he chuckled. ‘But who cares? You're
alive,
Tarp! That's what matters.’