Midnight Over Sanctaphrax (15 page)

‘So what line of work are you in?’ said Twig.

‘Same as most round here,’ the cloddertrog replied. ‘Dock work. Loading. Unloading…’ He grinned. ‘Wouldn't swop it for the world.’

The cloddertrog beside him turned and punched him good-naturedly on his fleshy arm. ‘That's coz your soft in the head, Grom,’ he said. He turned to Twig. ‘I'll tell you what, I for one wouldn't mind swapping places with one of them academical types up in Sanctaphrax. Living in the lap of luxury, they are.’

‘Pfff,’
said the first, and spat on the ground. ‘I'd sooner be down here, Tugger, as you very well know - with a jug in my hand and surrounded by mates.’

‘See?’ said Tugger, turning to Twig and Cowlquape, and screwing a thick finger into his temple. ‘Soft in the head. Finest sapwine they drink up there in the floating
city, out of cut-glass goblets. Or so I've heard.’

‘They certainly do,’ said Twig. ‘We were up there only the other day - on business,’ he added. It seemed unwise to let the cloddertrogs know of their true connection with Sanctaphrax. ‘You wouldn't believe the wealth.’

‘Oh, I would,’ said Tugger.

‘Mind you, none of them seemed as happy as anyone here,’ said Twig, looking round.

‘Told you!’ said Grom triumphantly. He drained his jug and folded his arms.

‘In fact,’ Twig went on, ‘they all seemed rather distracted. Apparently reports have been coming in that spirits have been sighted in Undertown. In particular in the boom-docks … Mind you, it's probably all a load of nonsense,’ he said. ‘You know what they're like with their lofty ideas - it's what comes of living with their heads in the clouds the whole time …’

The two cloddertrogs exchanged glances. ‘Yet maybe there is some truth in the stories this time.’

Twig's eyes narrowed. ‘You don't mean …’

‘I've seen them myself,’ said Grom.

‘Me, too,’ said Tugger, nodding earnestly. ‘Two of them.’ He leant forwards conspiratorially ‘They glow!’

Cowlquape's heart began to thump. He looked Twig and Tarp Hammelherd up and down for any trace of their own tell-tale luminous light. Thankfully, the lufwood torches were blazing so brightly that there was none.

‘Glow?’ he heard Twig saying. ‘How peculiar. But tell me, where exactly did you see them?’

‘Once down by the river, glowing in the darkness,’ came the reply. ‘Once up in the market-place, late at night when all the lamps had been put out.’

Grom nodded. ‘And once, at midnight, I seen them floating along an alley. There one minute, they were, then gone again.’ He shrugged. ‘Sky alone knows where they came from or where they go to - but they give me the heebie-jeebies, so they do.’

Tugger laughed heartily and slapped Twig on the back. ‘Enough of this talk of spirits,’ he said. ‘I got a mighty thirst on this evening. Another jug?’

Twig smiled. ‘I'm afraid not,’ he said. He turned to the others. ‘Come on Tarp, Cowlquape. If we're going to complete our business this side of midnight, we'd best be going.’

‘Please yourself.’ The cloddertrog turned away. ‘Too good to drink with the likes of us,’ said Grom, nudging Tugger.

Twig, Tarp and Cowlquape retreated. The light drizzle turned to great heavy drops of rain. Twig felt a surge of irrational anger welling up inside him. He fought against the feeling. Beside him, Tarp's and Cowlquape's faces were drawn and tense.

‘Waaargh!
You stupid oaf!’ bellowed an angry voice.

‘Me, stupid?’ a second voice roared. ‘You ridiculous dunderhead!’ There was the sound of a clenched fist slamming into a jaw.

‘It's … it's the weather doing this,’ Twig muttered through gritted teeth, and grabbed Cowlquape by the arm.

The next instant, the whole place exploded into violence as each and every cloggertrog turned on one another. Fists flew. Teeth were bared. Clubs were drawn. Curses filled the air.

‘Quickly, Cowlquape,’ Twig said, steering him forwards. ‘Let's get out of here.’

But there were cloddertrogs everywhere, gripped by rain-rage, blocking their way, lashing out blindly at any who came too near. Punching. Kicking. Snarling and biting.

The great vat was splintered and leaking. A scrum of half a dozen of the furious creatures fell screaming to the ground, where they squirmed and writhed in a flood of tripweed beer, still scratching and scraping and scuffling with each other.

‘I'll rip off your head.’ ‘I'll tear you limb from limb!’ ‘I'll yank out your liver and swallow it whole!’

And all the while, the terrible rain grew heavier. It hammered down torrentially flooding the narrow streets and dousing the blazing lufwood torches, one by one.

‘Come on, Tarp,’ Twig called as he and Cowlquape attempted to squeeze through the crush of thrashing bodies. ‘I…
wurrrgh!’
he grunted as a particularly large cloddertrog seized him from behind and clamped a fleshy hand over his mouth. Another cloddertrog had hold of Cowlquape. A third pinned Tarp against a wall.

Half a dozen more torches sputtered and died. Then, all at once, the last of the blazing lufwood torches went out, and the whole area was plunged into darkness.

‘
WAAAAH
!’
the cloddertrog screamed in Twig's ear and shoved him roughly away. He careered into Tarp. Their luminous glow became brighter than ever.

‘Spirits!’ the cloddertrogs howled and fell back -enraged still, yet too terrified to attack.

‘Quick,’ Twig whispered to the others. ‘Let's get out of here before they realize we might not be spirits after all.’

He grabbed hold of Cowlquape's arm, and the three of them made a dash for it. The cloddertrogs bellowed after them, but did not follow. Yet there were others out there on the streets - everywhere they looked - all driven to bloodthirsty violence by the madness of the weather.

‘What do we do?’ said Tarp, running first in one direction, then back again. ‘We're done for! We're doomed!’

‘This way,’
hissed a voice in Twig's ear.

‘Very well, this way!’ he shouted and ran up the narrow alley, the others hot on his heels. ‘Stick together!’ he bellowed. ‘And pray to Sky that…’

‘Aaaaargh!’
they all cried out in horror as the ground beneath them seemed to give way.

Falling. Down, down, down. Tumbling through the dark, fetid air, arms and legs flailing wildly. Above their heads there was a loud bang as a trapdoor slammed shut.

• CHAPTER TEN •
THE CISTERN

‘G
oodness!’ Cowlquape gasped as the rapid descent came to an abrupt halt. Something soft, silken and oddly springy had broken his fall. With a cry of surprise he bounced back, and grunted with pain as Tarp Hammelherd crashed heavily into him. The two of them fell back down onto the bouncy mesh of fibres. Twig landed on top of them both.

All at once, there was a click. Then a thud. Then, with a hissing swish, a rope drawstring tightened up. The mesh-like material gathered around them, gripping them tightly and thrusting the three hapless individuals close together.

The first thing that hit Cowlquape was the incredible stench, so powerful it felt like the fingers of an invisible hand reaching down his throat and making him gag. Encased in the thick netting, the glow from Twig and Tarp was muted, but by the faint light that
did
penetrate
outside, Cowlquape slowly began to make out his surroundings.

They were suspended high above a great, steaming underground canal. All around them, pipes protruded from the walls of the immense tunnel through which the canal flowed. A constant stream of filthy water poured from the pipes and into the foaming torrent below.

The sewers,’ Cowlquape groaned. ‘I …
Ouch!
That hurts!’ he yelped as Twig's bony elbow pressed sharply into his back. ‘What are you doing?’

Trying to draw my knife,’ Twig grunted. Though I can't… seem to … move …’

‘OWWW!’
Cowlquape howled, still louder.

Twig gave up the struggle. It's hopeless,’ he muttered. ‘I just can't reach it.’

‘Wouldn't do you much good if you could,’ came Tarp Hammelherd's muffled voice from below them. His face was pressed into the bottom of the net. ‘It's made of woodspider silk.’

Twig groaned. Woodspider silk was the material used in the manufacture of sky pirate ship sails - light as gossamer, yet tough enough to withstand the battering of the gales which swept in from beyond the Edge. His knife would be as good as useless against the thick spun fibres from which the net had been constructed.

‘This is terrible, cap'n,’ Tarp Hammelherd complained. ‘I'd have sooner chanced my luck with those crazy cloddertrogs than ended up strung up like a great tilder sausage.’ He winced miserably as the steaming vapours of the passing filth swirled up into his nostrils. Piebald rats sniffed the air and squeaked up with frustration at the glowing bundle dangling above them. ‘Somebody, or something, set this trap,’ he said, ‘and we've fallen into it.’

‘What do you mean,
something?’
said Cowlquape, alarmed.

‘I've heard that muglumps live in the sewers,’ came Tarp's hushed and muffled voice. ‘Fearsome beasts they are. All claws and teeth. But clever, devious - perhaps one of them might have …’

‘Shhh!’
Twig hissed.

From far in the distance came a harsh, clanking sound.

‘What's
that?’
Cowlquape whispered, dread setting the hairs at the back of his neck tingling.

‘I don't know,’ Twig whispered back.

The clanking grew louder. It was getting closer. Twig, pinned against Cowlquape, couldn't turn his head. Tarp, beneath them, couldn't see a thing. Only Cowlquape, whose head was fixed so that he could gaze back along the tunnel, faced the direction of the sound. He gulped.

‘Can you see anything, Cowlquape?’ said Twig uneasily. He knew that it wasn't only piebald rats and muglumps that lived in the sewers. There were trogs and trolls who had left their underground caverns in the Deepwoods for the promise of a better life in
Undertown, only to find that the frantic bustle above ground was too much to take. Some starved. Others had taken up residence in the sewerage system underground, where they scavenged a brutal existence.

The clanking was closer than ever now, harsh and clear above the gushing pipes.
Clang!
Metal scraped on metal.
Clang!
The pipes seemed to shudder.

And then Cowlquape saw it: a great metal hook which swung through the air, clanged against a pipe jutting out from the tunnel wall and took hold. The hook was fastened to a gnarled wooden pole around which two bony hands tightened their grip and pulled.

A shadowy figure standing awkwardly in a bizarre craft of lashed-together driftwood emerged from the gloom. He swung the hook again.
Clang!
It gripped the next pipe, and he pulled his barge against the current of the foaming canal, closer and closer.

Cowlquape gasped. ‘I can see something,’ he whispered.

CLANG
!

The boat was almost beneath them now. A huge flat-head leered up at him.

‘Twig,’ Cowlquape squeaked, ‘it's …’

The hook sliced through the air in an arc, then ripped back, releasing the net. Like a hot flight-rock - with the three hapless individuals still bound up inside - it fell with a heavy thud into the bottom of the goblin's barge, just as the current took it underneath.

They hurtled along the stinking canal, buffeted by waves of filth, the driftwood craft dipping and rocking
in the swell. The goblin, balanced expertly on the stern, loomed over them. In his bony hands was the long hook, now acting as a rudder and guiding the makeshift boat on its way. Faster and faster, and …

CLANG!

The boat jolted to an abrupt halt as the goblin's hook latched fast to a jutting pipe overhead. Twig, Cowlquape and Tarp struggled inside the net.

‘What have we caught today, Bogwitt?’ came a voice from above.

‘Bogwitt?’ breathed Twig.

Dagger in hand, the goblin reached down and pulled the slip-knot that held the top of the net. The net fell away. Twig leapt to his feet, glowing brightly. Mouth agape, the astonished flat-head goblin dropped his dagger.