Midnight Over Sanctaphrax (34 page)

‘Wuh,’ the banderbear grunted, and picked Cowlquape up in his massive arms.

‘You can't escape.’ ‘You'll never make it!’ ‘Leave the boy behind,’
the flitterwaifs hissed furiously as they flapped around in the trees above them. They were ravenous. They smelt blood and sensed fear. Food so succulent was hard to find in the Nightwoods and they weren't about to surrender their prey without a fight. All at once, one of their number tilted its wings and dive-bombed. Others followed suit.

‘Aaargh!’
Woodfish screeched, as three sharp claws slashed at his face. He swung his cutlass. Twig gripped his father's great sword tightly. They took up positions on either side of Goom and staggered on blindly, stabbing and thrusting at the darkness - and as the flitterwaifs continued their frenzied bombardment, so the travellers’ heads were filled with the shrill voices of their attackers.

‘Give him up!’
they screeched.
‘Leave the boy. He's ours!’

‘What do we do, Woodfish?’ said Twig nervously. ‘We're never going to outrun them.’

Without saying a word, Woodfish crouched down and began heaping lumps of the claggy mud beneath his feet
on top of one another. Then, reaching up to the youth in Goom's arms, he removed his cloak and wrapped it around the large shapeless form he'd constructed.

‘Right, let's get out of here,’ he whispered. ‘And as we leave, I want you all to
think
about how sad it is that we have had to abandon Cowlquape to his fate.’

‘Don't go. Not that way,’
the flitterwaifs complained.
‘Leave the boy, or you'll be sorry!’

As Twig continued into the darkness he did as Woodfish had told him, concentrating on what an awful tragedy it was that his young friend had been left behind. Goom and Woodfish were doing the same. They hadn't gone more than a hundred strides when the flitterwaifs began to fall back.

‘It's working,’ came Woodfish's voice inside his head. ‘Keep it up.’

I'm so sorry to leave you here, Twig thought. But we'll be back for you soon, Cowlquape. I give you my word!

Behind them now - and further behind with every step they took - the flitterwaifs were converging on the cloaked heap of mud. It sounded right. It smelled right. Yet the youth was not there. All at once, a far-off howl of rage echoed through the trees as the waifs realized that they had been tricked.

Woodfish turned and mopped his brow. ‘We've lost them,’ he said. The waterwaif knelt and listened again, ears close to the ground. ‘I hear water. We're very close.’

‘Close to what?’ Twig asked.

Woodfish gestured ahead. ‘The Deepwoods’ black heart.’

*

At the top of the Loftus Tower in Sanctaphrax, the Professor of Darkness was close to despair. The barometer needle was rising and falling, seemingly at will. The tacheometer was broken, as were the dynamometer and anemometer, while the fragile woodmoth material of the sense-sifter was hanging in tatters. Every single one of his precious instruments was being battered to bits. And if he was unable to collect the relevant data, then what was he to tell the academics and apprentices who were relying on their Most High Academe to come up with a reason for the sudden change in the weather?

He crossed to the broken window and, shielding his eyes from the searing blast of air, looked down on his beloved floating city. There wasn't a single building which didn't bear the scars of the ravaging storms. Statues had been toppled. Towers had collapsed. Debris littered the ground. And there were gaping holes in every roof where slates had been torn away by powerful twisters which had swept in from open sky the previous night.

It was little wonder that there were whispers going round the dusty corridors about evacuating the floating city. To remain on the great floating rock, so exposed to the incoming storms, seemed more and more foolhardy by the day. Yet, for the Professor of Darkness, leaving Sanctaphrax was unthinkable. It was his sanctuary, his home - his life. And he had the three sky pirates to consider too. Tarp, the slaughterer, and Bogwitt, the goblin, were adamant that they were to stay until Twig returned - even if the weasely Wingnut Sleet did not seem so convinced …

‘Oh, Sky preserve us,’ he muttered unhappily to himself. ‘Where is this all going to end?’

*

Drawn on by the sound of running water, Woodfish continued through the dark forest with the others following close behind. In Goom's arms, Cowlquape stirred.

‘I'm sorry,’ he moaned. ‘I didn't mean to … They said Kobold the Wise … They said …’

‘It's all right, Cowlquape,’ said Twig. ‘You're safe now. Do you think you can walk?’

‘I think so,’ said Cowlquape as Goom put him gently down. ‘It's all my fault, Twig …’

‘Quiet!’ said Woodfish. His fan-like ears quivered. ‘I sense great danger. We're not out of waif country yet.’

They edged forwards step by faltering step, each holding the shoulder of the one in front, with Woodfish leading the way. The forest was black and, with their hooded cloaks masking their luminous glow, the three sky pirates were invisible. Behind them followed Cowlquape, shivering with cold and weakened by the attack on him. Although he had no glow to mask, he missed the warmth of his abandoned outer cloak. A deep silence fell, as impenetrable as the darkness.

Then Twig saw them, just ahead - waif eyes glinting from the surrounding trees. He took a sharp intake of breath. How could they possibly survive another attack?

‘This way!’ cried Woodfish suddenly, his fan-like ears fluttering. ‘Follow the sound of the water. And don't listen to the waifs!’

Stumbling wildly, the four travellers carried on through the lurching forest, the eyes dancing in the trees ever closer, and fearful whispers invading their thoughts again.

‘You'll never escape! You'll never get away!’

‘Stay! Stay here with us …’

Twig!’ Cowlquape moaned. ‘I can't…’

‘You must, Cowlquape!’ Twig urged him breathlessly. ‘Just a little further … I can hear the water now.’

‘
NO
!’
came an anguished cry, and the water waif disappeared from view.

‘Woodfish!’ Twig cried.

The next moment he and Cowlquape reached the edge of the dark, boggy ground. The land fell away abruptly before them, steep and strewn with boulders. And there was Woodfish, his faintly glowing figure tumbling down over the scree, far beneath them. Cowlquape groaned with dread.

Behind, the intensity of the whispers grew to a mounting crescendo. The air trembled with flapping wings.

‘Wuh?’ Goom grunted. The bell-like sound of trickling water echoed up out of the gloomy abyss.

Cowlquape hesitated. ‘This can't be right,’ he shouted to Twig. ‘This can't be Riverrise!’

‘We must go on!’ Twig cried. ‘We must follow Woodfish!’

Before he knew what was happening, Cowlquape felt his arm being tugged, and he was pulled forwards onto the treacherous slope beside Twig. Down he hurtled, his feet slipping on the sliding gravel scree.

All round them, the desolate howl of the thwarted waifs echoed through the air. Even they would not venture down into the rocky abyss.

‘Aaaaiii!’ Cowlquape screamed with pain.

His ankle had gone over. He tumbled to the ground, but kept falling down the long, steep slope. Down, down, amid a tumbling mass of rock and stone. Bouncing. Crashing. His knee struck a boulder. His face and hands were cut. His head slammed down against the ground.

Then nothing …

‘The water, Cowlquape,’
came a voice.
‘Go to the water, and drink.’

Cowlquape looked up. There before him, standing next to a deep pool at the base of a mighty waterfall, was a tall, crowned figure with embroidered robes and a long plaited beard. His warm, sorrowful eyes seemed to stare right through into Cowlquape's spirit. Every inch of him ached; his head throbbed and a sharp pain stabbed up from his legs as he tried to move.

‘You,’ he murmured softly.

‘Yes,’
said Kobold the Wise.
‘It is I, Cowlquape.’
He dipped his finger in the pool and wiped it along Cowlquape's lips.
‘The water, Cowlquape,’
he said.
‘You must drink the water. It will restore you. It is the water of Riverrise!
He smiled.
‘So much awaits you, Cowlquape,’
he said, as he turned and walked off behind the waterfall.
‘But first, drink the water.’

The dream ended. Cowlquape stirred. And back came the pain. Every bone in his body felt as if it had been snapped in two. His nails were ragged and torn. Blood, from deep gashes across his forehead, trickled down his face.

Then he heard water trickling, and opened his eyes. There
was
a pool there. It was smaller and darker than the one of his dreams, and the mighty waterfall no more than a trickle.
Drink the water.
The words of Kobold the Wise filled Cowlquape's head.

He looked round. The others lay near him. With a jolt, he saw that their motionless bodies were glowing no more.

Drink the water.

Wincing with agony, Cowlquape rolled onto his front. Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself along the ground with his one good arm, inch by terrible inch.

Drink the water.

At the edge of the pool at last, Cowlquape stared down at his battered reflection in the rippled water - the gash, the torn ear, the blood … He reached down and scooped at the water with his hand. It was cool and velvety. He brought it to his mouth, and sipped.

A shimmering warmth coursed through his veins in an instant. He drank some more. The terrible racking pains vanished and the wounds stopped throbbing. When he'd drunk his fill, Cowlquape wiped away the blood and inspected his reflection a second time. There wasn't a scratch on him.

The water of Riverrise,’ he gasped.

Once, twice, three times, he cupped his hands in the pool and carried the cool, restoring water to his companions. He let it trickle down over their lips, into their mouths, and watched with unbounded joy as their eyes flickered and the soft familiar luminosity began to glow from their bodies once again.