Stormchaser (22 page)

From deep within the knight's visor, the voice came again.

‘Hold steady, Vinchix,’ it said. ‘Nearly there. Hold steady, now.’

The white bones of the prowlgrin protruded from its papery, mummified skin, its empty eye-sockets stared out from the metal helmet bridle on which, in gold letters, the word
Vinchix
could just be picked out. It whinnied pitifully.

Twig swallowed hard. ‘Can you hear me?’ he asked the knight, his voice thin and quavery.

‘Hold steady, Vinchix,’ came the words again.

Twig stretched out a hand and touched the visor. Flakes of red rust fell away. Gently, scarcely daring to breathe, Twig raised the knight's visor.

Twig screamed in horror and recoiled. He spun round and, driven by blind panic, sped off into the heavy, golden depths of the Twilight Woods. No matter how fast or far he ran, however, the vision of the knight – decomposing, yet not dead – remained seared into his brain. The parchment skin shrunk tight on the grinning skull; the lifeless staring eyes; and, worst of all, the thin bloodless lips of the knight, still moving. ‘Nearly there, hold steady, now.’

On and on Twig went, alone and lonely, searching for the bolt of stormphrax, hoping and praying that his fellow crew-members were doing the same.

The half-light of the Twilight Woods confused his eyes. One moment it glowed a rich golden yellow, the next it shimmered in black and white. Deep shadows, pools of brightness. Charcoal and chalk. The chiaroscuro of darkness and light which confused everything it fell upon.

Ancient trees, with their gnarled trunks and twisted branches, seemed to writhe in the liquid air, taking on shapes of goblins and ogres and gruesome giants.

‘They’re just trees,’ Twig reminded himself. ‘Just trees is all they are.’ The words sounded musical, and oddly reassuring as he repeated them. ‘Just treesy-weesy trees. That's all, just…’

‘Twig!’ he shouted, and shook his head from side to side. He must pay attention, he must remain in control.

He continued over the soft mattress of fallen leaves, staring down at his feet. The ground was covered with tiny sparkling crystals, like a sprinkling of salt, like a skyful of stars. Twig smiled to himself. ‘See how they glitter,’ he whispered. ‘See how they glisten. See how they glimmer. See how they gleam…’

‘
TWIG
!’ he bellowed once again. ‘Stop it!’ And he slapped his face on both sides, once, twice, three-four-five times. He slapped it until it was pink and smarting. ‘Keep your mind on the task at hand,’ he said firmly. ‘Don’t let it wander.’

But this was easier said than done for the Twilight Woods were enchanting and seductive. They whispered, they echoed – they enticed. And as Twig made his way deeper and deeper into the woods, he was terrified to discover just how simple it was for his mind to drift away … to wander off … to disappear on distant flights of fancy…

‘You are Twig, son of Cloud Wolf the sky pirate captain,’ he reminded himself sharply. ‘You are in the Twilight Woods, brought here by the Great Storm. You are searching for stormphrax, for the crew of the
Stormchaser
– for a way out.’

So long as he could hold on to these truths, he would be all right. But with every step, it was becoming harder. The woods seemed to be closing in around him, impinging on his senses. They filled his eyes with their liquid distortion, his ears with their echoing whispers, his nose and mouth with lushness – and decay.

As he stumbled on, he thought he glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye. He looked furtively over his shoulder, then frowned with confusion. There was nothing there.

‘But I could have sworn…’ Twig muttered anxiously.

Time after time, it happened. Something
was
there. He was sure of it. Yet no matter how fast he spun round, he never caught sight of whatever it was.

‘I don’t like this,’ he shuddered. ‘I don’t like it at all.’

Behind him he heard a faint
clip-clop
sound. It caught him unawares and, before he knew it, Twig was back in the woodtroll cabin of his childhood. Spelda
Snatchwood – the woodtroll who had raised him as her own – was busying herself around the cabin, her bark sandals clipping and clopping on the wooden floor. The memories were so clear, so vibrant. He saw lufwood burning in the stove and smelt the pickled tripweed on Spelda's breath. ‘You are my mother-mine,’ he whispered. ‘And you are Twig, my beautiful boy,’ she whispered back.

Twig started at the sound of his name. He stared ahead, unable for a moment to make sense of the shimmering gloom. Were those eyes staring at him whenever he turned his head away? Were those claws and teeth glinting just out of sight?

‘You are Twig, son of Cloud Wolf,’ he told himself. ‘You are in the Twilight Woods. You are searching for your crew-mates – for a way out.’ He sighed. ‘A way out of this nightmare.’

A soft squeaking-squealing sound filled his head. Metal on unoiled metal. Twig smiled. It was supper-time on board the
Stormchaser
, and the sky pirates were all seated round a long bench tucking into a meal of baked snowbird and earthapple mash. It was silent apart from the regular
squeak squeak squeak
of Stope Boltjaw's ironwood jaw as he chewed. ‘Sounds like we’ve got a
woodrat in our midst,’ Tem Barkwater noted and laughed. ‘Eh, Twig? I said, it sounds like…’

Twig grimaced. It had happened again. How long before the treacherous woods robbed him of his mind completely? ‘You are Twig,’ he said, uncertainly. ‘You are in the Twilight Woods. You are searching for … for…’

Just then, from his right, there came the unmistakable sound of a prowlgrin whinnying. Twig groaned. He must have been going in a huge circle. All that walking – all that
concentrating
– only to find that he had come right back to the same spot.

He scoured the tops of the trees for any sign of the wreck of the sky ship – but found none. Puzzled and uneasy, Twig chewed at the end of his scarf. Perhaps I imagined it, he thought. Perhaps…

Panic rose in Twig's throat.

‘St … stay calm,’ he told himself. ‘Concentrate on what's ahead. Don’t look round. You’ll be fine.’

‘Steady, Bolnix, you’ll be just fine,’ wheezed an ancient voice.

Twig looked up sharply. His eyes focused – and his heart missed a beat.

• CHAPTER THIRTEEN •
T
HE
S
EPIA
K
NIGHT

I
n front of him was a second knight. He was encased, from top to toe, in rusting armour, and seated upon a prowlgrin. As he moved round in the saddle, the heavy metal plates clanked and rattled; the gauges clicked, the pipes whistled softly.

‘Hold steady now, Bolnix,’ said the knight, his cracked voice reedy, sibilant.

Twig saw two eyes glinting from behind the helmet visor. He shivered apprehensively, and looked away. The prowlgrin, old and weak, shifted from foot to foot agitatedly.

‘Steady, Bolnix,’ said the knight again. ‘Not too close, now.’

Wheezing with effort, the knight pulled off a gauntlet. Twig stared at the hand which was revealed. It was as gnarled as the branches of the ancient trees. Clunking
and clanking, the knight raised his arm and began fumbling with the visor.

‘Steady now,’ he said.

Twig froze as the visor creaked rustily, and slowly swung open. He found himself staring into a pair of startlingly blue eyes, sunk, like half-excavated jewels, deep into an ancient, craggy face.

‘Is that you, Garlinius? I have searched for so long.’ The voice was as ancient as the face – and twice as melancholy.

‘No,’ said Twig, approaching the figure. ‘Please sir, I’ve been shipwrecked. The
Stormchaser
…’

The knight recoiled, the pipes and gauges on his armour rattling alarmingly. The prowlgrin snorted with unease. ‘You speak to me of stormchasing, Garlinius! You, who robbed me of the
Storm Queen
, and never returned. Oh, Garlinius, I searched for you so long. If you only knew.’

‘Please,’ said Twig, taking a step closer. ‘I am not Garlinius. I’m Twig, and I…’

‘Garlinius!’ cried the knight, his mood suddenly improved. Returning the gauntlet to his hand, he leaped from the prowlgrin and grabbed Twig by the shoulder. ‘It's so good to see you!’ he said. ‘We parted on bad terms. We knights should never do that. Oh, but Garlinius, I have suffered since. I’ve wandered these woods, searching and searching.’

The knight was staring into Twig's face, his eyes burning an iridescent blue. The metal gauntlet tightened its grip.

Twig winced, and tried to pull away. ‘But I’m not Garlinius,’ he insisted. ‘I’m Twig. I am searching for my crew-mates, my…’

‘Lost and searching,’ the knight howled. ‘I too. I too. But it matters, now, not a jot. For we are reunited once more. You and me, Garlinius,’ he said, gripping Twig's shoulder still more tightly. ‘Me and you.’

‘Look at me!’ Twig cried desperately. ‘Listen to what I am telling you. I am
not
Garlinius.’

‘If you only knew how long I searched,’ the knight sighed. ‘Searching, always searching.’

‘Leave me alone!’ Twig shouted. ‘Let me go!’

But the knight would not let go. And no matter how much Twig squirmed or wriggled, he could not break free from the pincer grip of the heavy gauntlet.

Instead, and to his intense horror, he found himself being drawn closer and closer to the knight until he could feel the ancient creature's warm, fetid breath in his face. The knight raised his other hand, and Twig shivered with revulsion as he felt the bony, crepey fingers exploring every inch of his head.

‘Garlinius,’ said the knight. ‘The aquiline nose. The high forehead. How well we are re-met.’

Up so close, Twig saw that the knight's armour was coated in a fine layer of sepia dust. It moved over the metal breastplate almost like a liquid. Now he could see his reflection in the metal underneath; now his face was gone again.

‘If you only knew how lonely I’ve been, Garlinius,’ the knight cried out. ‘How long I’ve searched.’

Twig was beginning to panic. ‘I must break free,’ he muttered through gritted teeth. ‘I must get away.’

He reached up, grabbed the gauntleted hand that gripped his shoulder and pulled with all his might.