Stormchaser (23 page)

‘Garlinius!’ protested the knight pitifully.

Twig brought his knee up hard, and connected with the knight's breastplate with a loud clang. The knight fell back and landed heavily with an echoing clatter on the crystal-covered ground. A cloud of sepia dust flew up into the air. Twig fell to his knees coughing violently.

‘Garlinius!’

The knight was back on his feet. In his hand he held a long saw-toothed sword, vicious-looking despite the rust that cloaked it.

‘Garlinius,’ he said again, his voice suddenly thin and menacing. His blue eyes looked straight into Twig's, their clear intensity mesmerizing him for an instant. The knight raised the sword.

Twig stopped breathing.

The knight's wizened face creased with confusion. ‘Garlinius?’ he called out. ‘Where are you?’

His eyes bore into Twig's.

‘Come back, Garlinius,’ he implored. ‘We can be friends again. If you only knew how long I’ve searched. Garlinius! Please…’

Twig shuddered with pity. The knight was quite blind. The Twilight Woods had robbed him of his senses, every one; of his wits, of his reason – yet left him with his life. He would never rest. He would never find peace. Instead, he was doomed to continue his never-ending search for ever and ever. Nothing in the Deepwoods was as cruel as this place, thought Twig. I must get out! I won’t let the evil Twilight Woods have
my
wits,
my
sight … I will escape.

The knight, hearing no reply, turned regretfully away. ‘So near,’ he whispered. ‘Always so near, and yet…’

He whistled softly through his rotten teeth and the prowlgrin padded obediently to his side. Wheezing and panting, the knight clambered back into the saddle.

‘I will find you, Garlinius,’ he cried in his frail, cracked voice. ‘A quest is a quest for ever. Wherever Vinchix takes you, Bolnix and I will follow.’

Twig held his breath and remained absolutely still as the knight shook his fist in the air, tugged on the reins and rode off into the depths of the Twilight Woods. The golden light gleamed on the back of his armour as he faded into the confusing patchwork of light and shade. The creaking grew softer, the clip-clop footfalls fading away to nothing.

Finally, Twig let out his breath, and gasped for air. As he did so, he felt a sharp pinch at his shoulder. The sepia knight's gauntlet still held its grip.

• CHAPTER FOURTEEN •
L
OUDER
C
RIES,
S
OFTER
W
HISPERS

i
In the Mire

S
creed Toe-taker patted his stomach. The oozefish had tasted as vile as ever – bitter, bony and oily – but they had taken the edge off his hunger. He leaned forwards and dropped the bones into the fire where they crackled and burst into flames; the heads and tails, he tossed to the scavenging white ravens which had been hopping round the wrecked ship expectantly ever since the first wisps of fishy smoke had risen into the air.

‘There you are, my lovelies,’ he rasped.

The birds squabbled noisily over the scraps of food – pecking, scratching, drawing blood – until, one by one, they each seized a piece that suited them, leaped up into the air and flapped away to eat it in peace.

‘Oozefish,’ Screed snorted, and spat into the fire.

It was years since Screed had first set up home in the bleached wasteland, yet he had never got used to the
taste of the food the Mire had to offer. Occasionally, of course, he would pilfer the provisions brought by the hapless goblins, trolls and the like, whom he would lead to their deaths. But their supplies of stale bread and dried meat were scarcely any better. No. What Screed Toe-taker craved was the food he had once eaten every day – hammelhorn steaks, tildermeat sausages, baked snowbird … His mouth watered; his stomach groaned.

‘One day, perhaps,’ he sighed. ‘One day.’

He picked up a long stick and poked thoughtfully at the embers of the fire. The weather was calm this morning, with little wind and no clouds – unlike the previous day, when the sky had churned and rumbled with the passing storm. It had looked like a Great Storm. And he remembered the sky ship he’d seen speeding towards it like a flying arrow.

‘Stormchasing,’ Screed muttered, and sneered. ‘If they only knew!’ He cackled with laughter. ‘But then, of course, by now they
will
know. The poor fools!’ he said, and cackled all the louder.

The sun rose higher in the sky. It beat down fiercely, causing a swirling mist to coil up out of the swampy mud.

‘Come on then,’ Screed said, as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Can’t sit round here all day.’

He heaved himself to his feet, kicked wet mud over the smouldering embers and ashes and surveyed the horizon. A broad smile spread across his face as he stared across the hazy Mire to the Twilight Woods beyond.

Who would arrive next, desperate for a guide to lead them across the Mire? he wondered, and sniggered unpleasantly. ‘Looty-booty,’ he whispered, ‘here I come!’

ii
In the Palace of the Most High Academe

Vilnix Pompolnius yelped with pain and sat bolt upright. ‘Imbecile!’ he shouted.

‘A thousand, nay, a million apologies,’ Minulis cried out. ‘I slipped.’

Vilnix inspected the injured finger and licked away a drop of blood. ‘It's not too serious,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Anyway, a little bit of pain never did anyone any harm.’

‘No, sire,’ Minulis agreed eagerly.

Vilnix settled himself back on the ottoman and closed his eyes. ‘You may continue,’ he said.

‘Yes, sire. Thank you, sire. At once, sire,’ Minulis babbled. ‘And you may be sure, it won’t happen again, sire.’

‘It’d better not,’ Vilnix snarled. ‘There are many who would leap at the opportunity of becoming personal manservant to the Most High Academe of Sanctaphrax – should the post suddenly become free. Do I make myself clear?’

‘
Crystal
clear, if I might make so bold,’ said Minulis ingratiatingly.

With the utmost care, he lifted the bony hand once more and resumed the manicure. The Most High
Academe liked his nails filed to needle-points. They enabled him to scratch his back most satisfyingly.

‘Minulis,’ said Vilnix Pompolnius at length, his eyes still closed. ‘Do you dream?’

‘Only when I sleep, sire,’ he replied.

‘A good answer,’ Vilnix replied. ‘And one that illustrates the difference between you and me.’

Minulis went on with his filing in silence. The Most High Academe did not like to be interrupted.

‘The only times
I
dream is when I am awake.’ He opened his eyes. ‘I dreamed of all this,’ he said, sweeping his free hand round the sumptuous Inner Sanctum in a wide arc. ‘And lo and behold, my dreams all came true.’

Minulis nodded. ‘The Council of Sanctaphrax is lucky indeed to have so wise and venerable a scholar as its Most High Academe.’

‘Quite so,’ said Vilnix dismissively. ‘And yet, since reaching the pinnacle of success, I have missed my dreams.’

Minulis tutted sympathetically.

Abruptly, Vilnix sat up and leaned forwards conspiratorially. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret, shall I?’ he whispered. ‘Following my supper with the Leaguesmaster and my little chat with that nightwaif creature, I have started dreaming again. Wonderful dreams,’ he said softly. ‘Dreams more vivid than any I have ever had before.’

iii
In the Backstreets of Undertown

Deaf, destitute and on the street, Forficule had sunk just about as low as it was possible to sink. No use to anyone, least of all Mother Horsefeather – who he knew wouldn’t now give him so much as a second glance – he sat cross-legged on a threadbare blanket, his head swathed in bloody bandages, watching the good citizens of Undertown scurry past him without a second look.

‘Spare a little change?’ he cried out at intervals, and rattled his tin cup. ‘Help save a poor soul less fortunate than yourselves.’

His words, however, fell on ears as deaf as his own. After eight hours of begging, the cup still contained no more than the brass button that he himself had placed there that morning. By sundown, Forficule was about to leave when somebody did finally pause beside him.

‘Spare a little change,’ he said.

‘A little change?’ the newcomer said softly. ‘Come with me and I’ll make you rich beyond compare.’

Forficule made no reply. He hadn’t heard a single word. Slitch – reluctant to repeat his offer any louder – crouched before him and rubbed his thumb and middle-finger together. Forficule looked up and concentrated on the gnokgoblin's lips.

‘Money,’ Slitch mouthed. ‘Wealth. Riches. Come with me.’

If Forficule had been able to hear Slitch's thoughts – or
even his voice – he would have recognized him at once as the unscrupulous goblin who had caused the death of the unfortunate slaughterer, Tendon. But Forficule could hear neither. Like a baby, he had to take the smiling goblin's words at face value. He climbed to his feet, tucked the grimy bundle of rags under his arm, and let himself be led away.

Perhaps it was his desperation that left Forficule as blind as he was deaf. Or perhaps he didn’t want to remember what he had seen before. At any rate, he did not remember the familiar scene in the hut, of mortar, pestle and crystal.

‘Stormphrax,’ Slitch mouthed, and smiled as he handed the nightwaif the pestle.

Forficule nodded.

‘But hang on a moment,’ Slitch went on. He turned and removed a phial of deep yellow liquid from the shelf. ‘Dampseed oil,’ he explained, and removed the cork stopper. ‘If we pour a little into the bowl with the crystal, then…’ He stopped. ‘What are you doing?
NO
!’ he screamed and lunged at the nightwaif.

But it was too late. With his eyes fixed on the glistening, sparking shard of stormphrax, Forficule had heard nothing of Slitch's explanation. He gripped the pestle firmly in both hands. ‘Here we go,’ he whispered, and brought it sharply down.

BOOM
!

CRASH
!