Midnight Over Sanctaphrax (30 page)

‘There,’ said Twig. ‘All the ingredients we need.’

By the time the moon rose, plump and bright, the four of them were sitting round the fire tucking into their tilder steaks and sweet rootmash, while the prowlgrins, apparently none the worse for their long ride, devoured the tilder carcass noisily. Cowlquape sipped at the tea Twig had put together.

‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘The gabtroll's was sweeter, but… not bad at all.’ All round him, the Deepwoods echoed with the rising crescendo of noise. Coughing, squealing, screeching … Cowlquape smiled. ‘And what's more,’ he said, ‘it seems to be doing the trick.’

Twig yawned. ‘Glad to hear it, Cowlquape, I…’ He yawned again.

‘Why don't you get some sleep,’ said Cowlquape generously. ‘I'll take first watch.’

‘I'll join you,’ said Spooler.

Twig nodded, too tired to argue. ‘We'll rest up till dawn,’ he said. ‘Make an early start.’ And with the old, familiar Deepwoods sounds ringing in his ears, he lay down by the fire, curled up and drifted off to sleep. Goom did the same. Spooler got up to check the prowlgrins.

Cowlquape crouched down by the fire and poked the glowing embers into life with a greenwood stick.

‘Who'd have thought that
I
would ever end up inside the Deepwoods, the ancient home of Kobold the Wise?’ he muttered. He laid the stick down and pulled the ancient barkscrolls from his pack. ‘Of all places!’

*

Far away in the floating city of Sanctaphrax, a cold, heavy mist swirled round its avenues and alleyways. Vox, the tall young apprentice from the College of Cloud, shuddered, wrapped his fur-lined gowns tightly about him and lengthened his stride. He was already late for his secret meeting with the newly-appointed Professor of Psycho-
ffl
Climatic Studies.

‘Out of my way, scum!’ he cursed, as an unfortunate sub-acolyte blundered into him in the mist.

‘S … sorry, Vox,’ the youth stammered, and Vox was gratified to hear the respectful nervousness in his voice. He cuffed him about the head, twice.

‘Just watch it in future,’ he snarled as, gown flapping in the icy wind, he strode away.

CRASH
!

The ground behind him shook. Vox started with alarm, then spun round angrily, sure that the impudent youth had thrown something at him. But he was wrong. He stared down shakily at the huge chunk of shattered masonry which had been dislodged by the treacherous winds high above his head. It had missed him by a hair's breadth.

‘The whole place is falling to bits,’ he muttered bitterly. ‘Time was when an apprenticeship in Sanctaphrax meant a secure future.’ Several more pieces of rock and mortar peppered
down onto the walkway, sending Vox scuttling away.

These days, nothing was secure in Sanctaphrax; the ferocity of the weather saw to that. Storm after storm had been blowing in from beyond the Edge of late, each one worse than the one before - thunderstorms, wind-storms, fire and ice-storms; great storms and mind storms. No-one had ever known anything like it. Repairs to the damaged buildings couldn't be made quickly enough, while all academic studies had ground to a halt. Something was brewing out there in open sky, that much was clear - yet there wasn't a single academic, not even the Most High Academe himself, who knew what.

‘And how can an ambitious young apprentice know who to make alliances with when the conditions are so unpredictable?’ Vox asked himself. Was the Professor of Psycho-Climatic Studies likely to prove any more influential than the Professor of Cloud in the end?

He paused on a bridge and, gripping the balustrade, looked at the clouds tumbling in from beyond the Edge.

‘That little runt, Cowlquape, had the right idea, disappearing from Sanctaphrax when he did,’ he muttered. Refectory gossip had it that the youth had set off with Twig, the wild-eyed madman that the Professor of Darkness had taken under his wing. Even stranger, the professor now had three more peculiar guests … Vox gritted his teeth. Despite his words,
he
had no intention of leaving Sanctaphrax.

‘Come what may, I shall turn the current situation to my advantage,’ he murmured. He traced his fingers over the scar on his cheek left by the bowl of steaming tilder stew. ‘And woe betide Cowlquape if our paths should ever cross again.’

*

A soft drizzle fell in the Deepwoods as the four travellers packed up the following morning. It dampened everybody's mood. Twig, Cowlquape and Spooler mounted their prowlgrins and set off. Goom, to save the strength of his prowlgrin, alternately rode or loped after them, the tether of the fourth prowlgrin wrapped round one massive fore-paw.

They continued through the dense, green forest in silence. It was no coincidence that, as clouds overhead grew darker and the rain fell heavier, niggling doubts began to gnaw at each and every one of them. They'd been lucky so far - very lucky - but now their luck had run out. They all knew that finding any further crew-members in the vast Deepwoods was an impossible task. The best they could hope for now was to find a village settlement, somewhere leaguesmen or sky pirates might visit to trade - then buy their passage back to Undertown. But out here in the perilous forest, even that was a formidable task.

Yet when the sky brightened and the warm sun burst through the canopy, their moods improved. Cowlquape breathed in the rich smells of the surrounding woodland: the dark, loamy soil, the juicy foliage, the fragrant fruit. It was all so different to the stale, smoky odour which tainted everything in Undertown.

‘How's it going?’ Twig asked him.

‘It's all so beautiful,’ Cowlquape said, with a sweep of his arm. ‘Especially now the sun's shining.’

‘Beautiful but deadly,’ said Twig in a low voice.

They travelled far that first day, eating the fruit and
berries that Goom sniffed out as edible as they went. (The prowlgrins would have to wait until they put up for the night before their meal.) And as they rode further, Twig pointed out some of the more exotic Deepwoods creatures that he recognized.

To Cowlquape, each one sounded grimmer than the last and the hairs at the back of his neck were soon tingling uncomfortably. There were halitoads, with their foul, choking breath; feline mewmels, with spiky tails and poisonous spit; mannilids - sticky, brain-shaped creatures which hung disguised in bulbul trees and lived off the oakhens who came in search of bulbul berries. A rotsucker flapped slowly across the sky far above their heads, while a skullpelt - with its yellow claws and hooked teeth - dined on a quarm it had charmed from the trees.

Despite everything they encountered, however, by the time evening came around again, they had not seen a single trog or troll or goblin - no-one who might be able
to help them. Twig seemed increasingly worried.

‘I know the Deep woods,’ he said. ‘I was brought up amongst wood trolls. They taught me never to trust the forest, always to be on the alert for danger.’

Cowlquape looked up from the oak-mallows he was toasting in the dancing flames of their fire. His mug of tea stood on the ground beside him. ‘We are going to be all right, Twig,’ he said nervously, ‘aren't we?’

‘Sky willing, Cowlquape,’ Twig replied softly. He turned to the youth and smiled. ‘Course we are,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Now drink your tea.’

On their tenth morning in the Deepwoods though, having still not met any creature who could help, no amount of the hairy charlock and oak-apple tea was enough to raise Cowlquape's spirits. The prowlgrins had gone.

‘I just can't believe it,’ he groaned. ‘I'm sure I checked them before I went to bed. They did seem jumpy - but I thought they'd be all right.’

Twig was alarmed. ‘Something must have scared them in the night and they pulled free of their tethers.’ He looked at Cowlquape. ‘Didn't I tell you to double-knot the tether-ropes?’

Cowlquape stared at the ground. ‘Sorry,’ he said, in a whisper. He looked up sheepishly. ‘So - what do we do now, without the prowlgrins?’

‘We go on,’ said Twig angrily. ‘On foot.’ With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Cowlquape saw fear in his eyes.

Twig set off at a furious pace and Cowlquape was soon puffing and panting.

‘Why can't we rest?’ he wheezed. ‘Or at least slow down a bit?’

Twig laid his hand on the young apprentice's shoulder. ‘You've still got a lot to learn about the Deepwoods, Cowlquape,’ he said. The fear remained in his eyes. ‘They might look peaceful and idyllic, but behind every tree there lurks danger - and we still don't know what may have upset the prowlgrins. We must find a settlement as soon as we can, or we will surely perish.’

‘But Twig, a few minutes’ rest can't hurt, can it?’ pleaded Cowlquape.

All at once, a series of piercing screams cut through the air. ‘Aaargh!
Aaaargh!
AAAAARGH
!’

Up ahead, the banderbear was leaping about in the middle of a glade of long swaying grass, like a creature possessed. The oakelf was nowhere to be seen.

‘Wuh!’ Goom bellowed, as he scythed furiously at the waving green fronds.

‘What's the matter with him?’ Cowlquape gasped. ‘And where's Spooler?’

‘This is the Deepwoods, Cowlquape!’ said Twig. He drew his sword and raced towards the banderbear. ‘I told you - there is danger everywhere!’

Dagger in hand, Cowlquape followed close behind as they entered the dappled glade. All round them, greatgrass grew thick and long. Goom, up ahead, waved his arms and shouted at them. Even to Cowlquape - who couldn't understand a single word the creature said - the meaning was clear. They should go back. The banderbear was telling them to escape while they still had the chance.

Suddenly Twig began slashing all around him. ‘I should have guessed!’ he shouted back. ‘We're in a bed of reed-eels, Cowlquape. They must nest all round here. No wonder the prowlgrins fled. Protect yourself …’

For a moment, Cowlquape couldn't move. Where the tall grass ought to have been, there was instead a great mass of green worm-like creatures protruding straight up from holes in the ground. They had small deep-set orange eyes and, for a mouth, petal-shaped suckers which swayed towards him as he passed by,
trying to attach themselves to his skin.

‘Get off!’ he screamed as, twisting and turning, he stabbed all round with the dagger.

As the blade came close, the lithe reed-eels retracted, sliding from view down inside their holes - only to pop up a moment later. Cowlquape swung his knife backwards and forwards. He couldn't afford to let up for an instant. When he caught up with the others, Goom had the oakelf over his shoulders and was beating a hasty retreat. Twig grabbed Cowlquape by the arm.

‘Hurry,’ he said, sweeping his sword round in a long low arc. ‘We must get out of here. The reed-eels are in a feeding frenzy’

Cowlquape didn't wait to be told a second time. With his dagger slicing wildly at anything that moved, he dashed ahead. The reed-eels were cunning. They plaited themselves together to bar his way. They slithered across the ground at his ankles.

‘Cowlquape, be careful!’ Twig shouted, and slashed at a loop of twisted eels.