Stormchaser (16 page)

Tem and Stope Boltjaw leapt to it. And as the sail flapped and billowed, Cloud Wolf offered up a little prayer that he would be virtuous for ever more – if the sailcloth would just hold.

‘Now, let's see,’ he muttered through clenched teeth as he returned his attention to the weight-levers. ‘Up with the peri-hull-weights, and down with the port hull-weights, small…’ The
Stormchaser
trembled. ‘Medium…’ It leaned to the left. ‘And large…’

As the third weight was lowered, the
Stormchaser
– still held in place by the raised mainsail at the front of the driving storm – began slowly to turn. Cloud Wolf stared down at his compass. Bit by bit the sky ship was shifting round to the thirty-five degree angle required to penetrate safely to the centre of the storm.

Forty-five degrees, he read off. Forty. Thirty-seven … Thirty-six…

‘
LOWER THE MAINSAIL!
’ he bellowed.

This time neither Tem Barkwater nor Stope Boltjaw needed telling twice. They unhitched the rope. The sail fell. The sky ship slowed, and was instantly swallowed up by the dense billowing clouds of purple and black. They were entering the Great Storm.

The air was blinding, choking. It crackled and fizzed. It smelled of ammonia, of sulphur, of rotten eggs.

All around them, the wind thrashed and battered. It pummelled the hulls and threatened, at any moment, to snap the creaking mast in two.

‘Just a little further, my lovely one,’ Cloud Wolf urged the
Stormchaser
gently. ‘You can do it. You can bring us safely to the centre of the Great Storm.’

Even as he spoke, however, the sky ship shuddered as if to say, no, no it could not. Cloud Wolf threw an anxious glance at the compass. It was back at forty-five degrees. The wind was hitting them full on. The juddering grew more violent. Much more, and the sky ship would be shaken to pieces.

With trembling hands, Cloud Wolf raised the three starboard hull-weights as high as they would go. The
Stormchaser
swung back. The fearful judders subsided.

‘Thank Sky,’ Cloud Wolf said, as he seized the opportunity to wipe the sweat from his brow. He turned to Hubble by his side. ‘Hold tight,’ he instructed. ‘Any second now and …
YES
!’ he yelled – for at that moment, the compass point swung round to thirty-five degrees and the
Stormchaser
plunged through the violent, violet storm and into the eerie stillness within.

‘
RAISE THE MAINSAIL
!’ he bellowed, his voice echoing as if he was standing in a huge cavern. If they were not to fly out the far side of the storm, the sky ship's momentum would have to be brought under control. The sail should – if he had remembered his studies accurately – act like a brake. ‘
RAISE
ALL
THE SAILS
!’

At first nothing seemed to happen to the sky ship as it continued to hurtle on towards the back of the storm. The flashing fingers of lightning which fanned out before them, came closer and closer. Tem Barkwater, Stope Boltjaw, Spiker and the others leaped to the ropes – even the Professor of Light joined in. Together, they hoisted the sails up, one after the other after the other. And as the sail-sheets rose, so the
Stormchaser
finally slowed down.

Before they came to a complete standstill, Cloud Wolf lifted the port hull-weights, lowered the starboard hull-weights and – when they had turned right about – pulled the prow-weight back to its original position.

Now facing the way the Great Storm itself was travelling, the
Stormchaser
sailed on within it. All around him, Cloud Wolf could hear the excited cheering of his crew. But he knew better than to celebrate too soon. Pin-point accuracy was essential if the
Stormchaser
was to maintain its position – one weight too low, one sail too high, and the sky ship would hurtle to one side of the storm and be spat into open sky.

‘Hold a steady course, Hubble,’ the captain said. ‘And Spiker,’ he called, ‘how long before we cross into the Twilight Woods?’

‘’Bout twelve minutes,’ the oakelf called back.

Cloud Wolf nodded grimly. ‘I want you all – each and every one – to keep a watchful eye for the lightning bolt,’ he commanded. ‘If we are to retrieve the stormphrax, we must see exactly – and I
mean
exactly – where it lands.’

Back below deck, Twig slithered this way and that over the hard, wooden floor as the
Stormchaser
continued to pitch and toss. Every jolt, every jerk, every judder which was felt above deck, was magnified a hundredfold by the time it reached the bowels of the sky ship where he lay. Yet all the while Twig had not stirred. It was only at that moment when the
Stormchaser
finally pierced the wild outer edges of the turbulent storm that his eyelids had fluttered.

He became aware of voices behind him. Hushed and plotting voices: familiar voices. Taking care to remain as still as possible, Twig listened.

‘… and I don’t think the captain will put up much of a fight when he discovers what will happen to his captive son if he does,’ Slyvo Spleethe was whispering. ‘So, for the time being, Mugbutt, I want you to keep him down here.’

‘Down here,’ the flat-head whispered back.

‘Until I come for him,’ said Spleethe. He paused. ‘I’ll have to choose my moment very carefully.’

‘Very carefully,’ Mugbutt repeated.

‘After all, stormchasing is a hazardous business,’ Spleethe continued. ‘I shall wait until Cloud Wolf has retrieved the stormphrax – before disposing of him.’ He laughed unpleasantly. ‘Let him do all the hard work, and then reap the rewards.’

‘The rewards,’ said Mugbutt.

‘And what rewards they are to be!’ Spleethe said. ‘Captain of a sky pirate ship
and
Leaguesmaster! You stick with me, Mugbutt,’ he added breathlessly, ‘and you shall have wealth and power beyond your wildest dreams.’

‘Wildest dreams,’ the flat-head chuckled.

‘And now I must leave you,’ said Spleethe. ‘I don’t want the captain to become suspicious. And remember, Mugbutt. Keep Twig well guarded. I’m depending on you.’

As the sound of the receding footsteps faded away, Twig trembled with horror. What a fool he had been to
listen to so shiftless a rogue. The quartermaster was intent on mutiny and – if he had understood him correctly – was planning to use Twig against his father to ensure that his wicked plans bore fruit.

Somehow, before that happened, he would have to warn Cloud Wolf – even if it did mean having to confront his father's wrath.

He opened one eye slightly, and peered out at the ferocious flat-head goblin. The question was, how?

• CHAPTER TEN •
C
ONFESSION

A
sound, unfamiliar to the Inner Sanctum, echoed round the gold-embossed ceiling of the chamber. It was the sound of humming. Although utterly tuneless, it bounced along with unmistakable joy and optimism.

The servants – and there were many who tended to the Inner Sanctum and its important occupant – were under strict instructions to maintain complete silence at all times. And music of any kind – humming, singing, whistling – was particularly frowned upon. Only the week before, old Jervis – a loyal servant for more than forty seasons – had been caught crooning a lullaby under his breath. (He had recently become a great-grandfather.) For this moment of mindless contentment he was dismissed on the spot.

It was not, however, a servant humming now. The sound came from the thin lips and pudgy nose of the
Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax. For Vilnix Pompolnius was feeling exceedingly pleased with himself.

‘Hmm, hmm, hmmm. Pom pom pom pom,’ he continued as he busied about. ‘Pom pom pom…’ He paused and chuckled as the details of the previous evening came back to him. He had been dining with Simenon Xintax, and a most illuminating meal it had proved to be.

As a rule, the Leaguesmaster was far from his favourite dinner guest. He was, as far as Vilnix Pompolnius was concerned, an ill-mannered oaf – he slurped his soup, he chewed with his mouth open, and he belched loudly after every course. Yet it served Vilnix well to keep him sweet. If it wasn’t for the support he received from the leagues, his own grip on power would soon evaporate.

As always, Xintax had eaten and drunk too much. Not that Vilnix objected. In fact he positively encouraged the Leaguesmaster's gluttony, piling seconds and thirds onto his plate and keeping his glass constantly topped up with Xintax's favourite woodbrew. After all, as his grandmother had so often said,
a full stomach and a loose tongue oft go hand in hand
. The Leaguesmaster's tongue had started to loosen during dessert. By the time the
cheese and crackers were served, he was practically babbling.

‘Mother Horsefeather, she's the one, she…
bwurrrp
… ’Scuse me!’ He paused to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. ‘She's only gone and organized a trip to the Twilight Woods, hasn’t she? Her, the Professor of Light, and a sky pirate captain – can’t remember his name just now … Anyway, they’re all in it together. They’re …
bwulchh
… Whoops.’ He giggled. ‘They’re planning on returning with a whole cargo of stormphrax,’ he explained and pressed his finger to his lips conspiratorially. ‘It's meant to be a secret,’ he said.

‘Then how have you come by this information?’ Vilnix Pompolnius demanded.

Xintax tapped his nose knowingly with his finger. ‘A cry in the spew,’ he slurred and giggled again. ‘I mean, a spy in the crew. Spleethe. Told us everything, he did.’ Then he had leaned forwards, seized Vilnix chummily by the sleeve and grinned leerily up at his face. ‘We’re going to be rich beyond belief.’

‘Pom pom pom pom,’ Vilnix hummed, as the words came back to him. Rich beyond belief! At least, he thought,
one
of us is.

At that moment, there was a respectful knock at the door and the tousled head of his personal manservant, Minulis, appeared. ‘If you please, your Most High Academe,’ he said, ‘the prisoner has been prepared and awaits your attention.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Vilnix nodded, and smiled unpleasantly. ‘I shall be there, directly.’

As Minulis closed the door behind him, Vilnix rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘First Xintax spilling the beans, now this Forficule character dropping into our lap – my my, Vilnix, aren’t
we
the lucky Most High Academe!’