Midnight Over Sanctaphrax: Third Book of Twig

  • CHAPTER TWELVE •

  THUNDERBOLT VULPOON

  Twig heaved himself up, swung his leg over the safety-rail and rolled over onto the deck. Then, without pausing, he jumped to his feet and peered back down, over the side.

  ‘Cowlquape!’ he bellowed. Certainly he had heard no splash and, though he peered closely at the muddy riverbed below, he could see no sign of his young apprentice. ‘Cowlquape!’ he cried out again. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Down here,’ came a weak voice.

  Twig's heart gave a leap. ‘Where?’

  ‘On the hull-rigging,’ said Cowlquape. ‘But I don't know if I can hang on for much longer.’

  ‘Yes, you can!’ Twig urged him. ‘You've got to, Cowlquape.’

  Far below now, the Edgewater River gave way to the Mire.

  ‘It … it's no good,’ Cowlquape whimpered. ‘I can't get a foothold and my arms … so weak …’

  Twig looked round desperately for help, but the Skyraider was oddly deserted. The mobgnome had disappeared, and there was no-one else in sight apart from a squat and somewhat flamboyant figure standing up at the helm.

  ‘Help!’ he bellowed. ‘Help! Someone's fallen overboard!’

  Lost in the mechanics of skysailing, the helmsman seemed unaware of the drama unfolding behind him. The sky ship soared higher.

  ‘There must be someone here!’ Twig roared, ‘HELP ME!’

  ‘What, what, what?’ came a nervous, twittery voice by his side. It was the mobgnome, back again. An ancient-looking gnokgoblin with bow-legs and white whiskers stood behind him.

  Twig groaned. Neither of them looked up to much. ‘My companion fell,’ he explained hurriedly. ‘He's clinging on to the hull-rigging. Get me a rope and a stave-hook. Now!’

  The two crew-members nodded and disappeared. A moment later, they were back. Twig tied one end of the rope to the main aft winding-cleat and tossed the rest over the side. Then, with the stave-hook under his arm, he lowered himself down the rope.

  ‘Whoa,’ he gasped, as the sudden rush of wind snatched his breath away. ‘Keep your nerve,’ he told himself. ‘Easy does it.’

  With the rope twisted between his feet, Twig carefully let himself slip down. Hand over hand, he went, past the portholes, past the winched grappling-hooks. Further and further. As the hull curved in and away from him, he found himself dangling in mid-air.

  ‘Don't look down, whatever you do,’ Twig heard.

  He twisted round. And there was Cowlquape, half-way down the side of the sky ship, clutching hold of the hull-rigging for dear life. He'd managed to loop one leg through the criss-cross of ropes, but there was blood all round his fingers from his blistered palms. Every second he remained there the rope dug in deeper.

  ‘Hold tight, Cowlquape!’ Twig yelled across the airy gap. ‘I'm going to try swinging closer.’

  By constantly shifting his weight Twig set himself in motion - not back and forwards as he'd hoped, but in a series of widening circles. The sky ship soared higher still. Far below him, the bleached mire glistened like the surface of an ocean of milk. As the circles grew wider still, Twig passed closer and closer to the hull-rigging until finally, with the stave-hook outstretched, he managed to hook a piece of rope and pull himself in.

  ‘There,’ he grunted, as he grabbed hold of the rigging to Cowlquape's right. ‘We'll have you back on board in no time.’

  He twisted round, and tied the rope firmly around Cowlquape's waist. As he was securing the knot, he saw just how badly the lad's hands had been chafed. The blood was dripping from his shaking fingertips.

  ‘Hang on, Cowlquape,’ he said. ‘I …’

  The stave-hook slipped from his grasp and tumbled down to the ground below. The sky ship was by now too high for them either to see or hear it landing. Twig squeezed Cowlquape's shoulder.

  ‘I'm going to climb back up on deck,’ he said. ‘When I give the word, let go. We'll pull you up.’

  Cowlquape nodded, but could say nothing. His face was white with fear.

  Twig darted up the hull-rigging and leapt back onto the deck. The mobgnome and the old gnokgoblin were still there.

  ‘Grab the rope and take the strain,’ he ordered. The two crew-members did as they were told. Twig joined them.

  ‘Let go, Cowlquape!’ he shouted down.

  The rope lurched and grew heavy.

  ‘Right,’ Twig grunted to the others. ‘Now, pull! Pull as if your lives depended on it.’

  Slowly - painfully slowly - the three of them tugged and heaved, inching their way back across the deck. Suspended below them, Cowlquape felt as if nothing was happening. It was only when he twisted round and looked back at the hull that he saw he was indeed rising up towards the deck.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Twig said encouragingly. ‘Just a little bit more and … Yes!’ he exclaimed, as the tousled head of his young apprentice abruptly came into view. While the mobgnome and the gnokgoblin braced themselves, Twig secured the end of the rope to the tether-post, rushed back to the balustrade and seized hold of Cowlquape's wrist. ‘Got you!’ he grunted.

  Cowlquape tumbled down onto the deck. Twig slumped down beside him, exhausted.

  ‘Well, well, well, what have we here?’ came a syrupy voice. ‘Scurvy stowaways, is it?’

  Twig looked up. It was the squat figure he had seen at the helm. He climbed to his feet. ‘We're no stowaways,’ he said, and pulled the small piece of cloth from the posting-pole out of his pocket. ‘We wish to travel with you to the Great Shryke Slave Market - I take it you are Thunderbolt Vulpoon.’

  ‘Captain Thunderbolt Vulpoon,’ came the reply, as the fastidious little person tugged at the ruffs around his wrists and twirled the points of his waxed moustache. A great ring of keys jangled at his belt. ‘Indeed I am.’ His eyebrows arched and curled like the sound holes on a wood-lute. ‘But this is against all the laws of skysailing,’ he said. ‘Surely you must know that nobody may board a sky ship without its captain's permission. How else can a potential passenger be vetted before setting sail? I don't even know your names.’

  ‘I am Twig,’ said Twig and, ignoring the puzzled flicker of half-recognition which passed across the captain's ruddy face, he turned to his apprentice. ‘This is Cowlquape.’

  The captain sniffed dismissively ‘Riff-raff by any other name would smell as rank.’ He turned. ‘Grimlock!’ he bellowed.

  The towering figure of a brogtroll, clothed in filthy rags, emerged from a trapdoor in the floor behind them. ‘Grimlock be here, master,’ he rumbled.

  ‘Grimlock, seize these wretches!’

  With awful purpose, the captain's brutal sidekick strode towards Twig and Cowlquape, arms outstretched. Twig held his ground.

  ‘We are not riff-raff, Captain Vulpoon,’ he said. ‘We apologize for our rather hasty boarding, but yours was the only ship bound for the slave market, and we didn't want to miss it. Call your minder off.’

  Grimlock lurched closer.

  ‘We can pay,’ said Twig, reaching inside his shirt for the leather pouch the Professor of Darkness had given him. ‘Five gold pieces each, wasn't it?’

  The captain paused. He looked them up and down.

  ‘Perhaps I've been too hasty,’ he said with a smile. ‘You have the look of academics about you. From Sanctaphrax, no doubt - Fm sure you could manage fifteen.’

  ‘But…’ Twig began.

  Grimlock seized Cowlquape by the shoulders and lifted him off his feet.

  ‘All right!’ shouted Twig. ‘Fifteen it is.’

  Captain Thunderbolt Vulpoon smirked as the coins jangled down into his pudgy hand. ‘Put him down, Grimlock,’ he said.

  Cowlquape sighed with relief as he felt the reassuring solidity of the deck beneath his feet once more. He watched the flabby captain spit into his right palm and shake hands with Twig, then turn and grab his own hand and …

  ‘Aaa-ovnwl’ he howled, and pulled away.

  The captain looked down. ‘Oh, would you look at that,’ he
said as he saw Cowlquape's upturned palms. ‘Like two raw hammelhorn steaks! We'll have to get you patched up.’ His dark eyes gleamed. ‘A fine specimen like you.’

  Cowlquape squirmed uneasily. ‘A specimen?’ he wondered out loud.

  ‘Did I say specimen?’ said the captain. ‘Sorry, I meant to say, a fine figure of a lad.’ Cowlquape recoiled as the captain scrutinized him closely. ‘Bright eyes, strong teeth, broad shoulders…’ He smiled. ‘And bound for the Great Shryke Slave Market.’

  Twig nodded. ‘We have important business there,’ he said.

  Thunderbolt Vulpoon smiled all the more broadly. The sun glinted on his silver teeth. ‘Indeed you have,’ he said softly. ‘But first things first.’ He turned to the old gnok-goblin. ‘Jervis,’ he said sharply, his face hardening. ‘Show our guests to their quarters. And Teasel,’ he barked at the mobgnome. ‘Tell Stile there will be two extra mouths to feed - and get something from the medical supplies for the lad's wounds.’

  Jervis and Teasel jumped to it nervously.

  ‘And you,’ he shouted at the brogtroll. ‘Go down and still the … the cargo.’ He nodded up at the main-mast, which was swaying precariously from side to side. ‘They're getting too restless.’

  ‘Grimlock go,’ the brogtroll muttered, and lumbered off.

  Vulpoon raised his eyes theatrically to the sky and swept a limp hand across his powdered forehead. ‘Worst crew I've ever captained,’ he complained. ‘Still,’ he went on, affable and charming once again, ‘we shall endeavour to ensure that your voyage is a comfortable one.’

  The rolling from side to side grew more and more extreme until everyone on deck - the captain included -had to grab on to something or risk being tossed off the side of the sky ship. Vulpoon grinned sheepishly.

  ‘Live cargo!’ he said, and snorted. ‘Trouble is, once they get the jitter up, the whole boat's thrown out of kilter.’

  ‘Live cargo?’ Twig queried, as the sky ship leaned sharply to port, and then lurched back again.

  ‘Hammelhorns,’ said Vulpoon, his eyes flickering round his swaying ship. ‘To satisfy the catering needs of the slave market.’

  Twig nodded, his thoughts already elsewhere. At that moment a plaintive howling went up. It cut through the air and sent shivers of unease darting up and down Cowlquape's spine. The sky ship righted itself. The howling abruptly ceased. And, with the mainsail billowing, the Skyraider soared forwards.

  ‘That's better,’ said Thunderbolt Vulpoon, his fat face creasing into a smile as he rubbed his pudgy hands together. ‘So, Jervis, jump to it.’ He turned to Twig and Cowlquape. ‘And if there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask. Supper will be served in an hour's time.’

  *

  Their quarters were comfortable enough, and the days passed with a frustrating sameness - the two companions seldom leaving their cabin. But Cowlquape still felt uneasy. Lying on his front one day, unable to concentrate on the barkscroll in front of him, he looked up from his hammock. ‘I just don't trust him,’ he said.

  ‘What's that?’ said Twig.

  ‘Thunderbolt Vulpoon,’ said Cowlquape. ‘I don't trust him. Or that hulking great bodyguard of his.’

  Twig turned from the porthole of the cramped cabin and looked at the anxious lad.

  ‘What's more,’ Cowlquape continued, ‘I still don't understand why he's taking a cargo of hammelhorns to the slave market. It can't be profitable.’ He frowned. ‘I reckon I know what his live cargo is.’

  ‘What?’ said Twig.

  ‘Slaves,’ said Cowlquape darkly.

  ‘Out of the question,’ said Twig. ‘Sky ships from Undertown don't carry slaves, you know that.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Undertown is a free town, Cowlquape,’ said Twig. ‘And the punishment for attempting to enslave the least of its inhabitants is death. No-one would willingly serve on such a ship.’

  Cowlquape shrugged. ‘I still think hammelhorns is an unlikely cargo,’ he said stubbornly. ‘Anyway, we'll see when we get to the market, won't we? Though when that will be, Sky alone knows! Nine days we've been sailing now. Nearly ten …’

  ‘The Deepwoods is vast,’ said Twig. He gazed back

  through the porthole at the never-ending carpet of green leaves stretching out before them. ‘Endless! And the great slave market moves through it, constantly.’

  ‘So, how will we find it,’ said Cowlquape, ‘if it shifts from place to place?’

  Twig smiled. ‘The Great Shryke Slave Market stays in one place for many months, sometimes years, then suddenly, overnight, it packs itself up and sets off on prowlgrin-back for a new location in a clamouring, raucous flock.’

  ‘Then, how … ?’

  ‘Nothing is impossible to track, Cowlquape,’ said Twig. ‘It is simply a matter of reading the signs correctly.’

  Cowlquape pushed the scrolls away and drew himself up on his elbows. ‘Signs?’ he said.

  ‘Do you mean to tell me there's nothing about the Great Shryke Slave Market in those scrolls of yours?’ asked Twig, his eyes twinkling.

  Cowlquape reddened. ‘Nothing that I've come across so far,’ he said. ‘Though my father once told me about the fearsome bird-creatures that run the place - and who give it its name. Shrykes. Flightless. Vicious. With unblinking eyes …’

  ‘The Bloodoak tavern back in Undertown is owned by such a bird-woman,’ said Twig. ‘Mother Horsefeather is her name.’ His eyes went dreamy for a moment, then he continued. ‘What you've got to understand is that the Great Shryke Slave Market is like one huge living organism, moving across the vast Deepwoods, seeking out fresh pastures in the Deepwoods to “graze”. But in time the market consumes everything around it and the area it has occupied dies. Then it must move on - or die itself. The burnt-out villages it leaves behind offer vital clues to the informed as to where the market has travelled on to. An experienced trader - or a keen-eyed sky pirate captain - can spot and follow the dead groves like footprints, until the great market itself is found.’

  Cowlquape shook his head. ‘Thank Sky we're on a sky ship, then,’ he said. He sat up and peeked beneath the bandages around his hands.

  On his first night on board, Jervis had spent ages carefully rubbing hyleberry salve into the wounds and wrapping them in padded gauze. Each night since then, he had returned to change the dressing, though he barely spoke a word to the two travellers. Twig saw the lad scrutinizing his hands.

  ‘How are they?’ he asked.

  ‘Itchy,’ said Cowlquape.

  ‘That means they're healing,’ said Twig. ‘Do you fancy a bit of a walk? Stretch your legs up on deck?’

  Cowlquape shook his head. ‘I'd rather get back to my reading if it's all the same to you,’ he said, picking up the barkscrolls once again.

  ‘As you wish, Cowlquape,’ said Twig. ‘But if you ever get bored with ancient history,’ he added with a smile, ‘you know where to find me.’

  The moment he heard the door of the cabin click, Cowlquape set the barkscrolls aside again, lay back in the hammock with his bandaged hands across his chest, and closed his eyes. He'd had no intention of reading. All he wanted to do was shut out the terrible feeling of nausea which had held him in its grip ever since he had first leapt on board the Skyraider. Nine days and nine nights he'd been on the ship and he still hadn't got his sky-legs.

  The sounds of flight echoed round the cabin as the sky ship sailed on. The creaking of the bows. The slapping of the sails. The soft, hypnotic whistling of the wind in the ropes and rigging. Cowlquape grew drowsy, and fell asleep.

  He dreamt that they had landed in the Deepwoods and that he and Twig were on their own. The forest was green and gloomy, like nowhere he had ever seen. The air screeched and twittered with unseen, unknown animals. There was a trail of footprints, scorched into the ground beneath their feet.

  ‘Welcome,’ came a voice.

  Cowlquape looked up. Standing in the shadows of twelve massive lintlepines was a tall, crowned figure. There was a trident
and snake embroi dered into his robes. His plaited beard almost touched the ground. His eyes were kindly, but also inexpressibly sad. His whole body seemed to glow. Cowlquape gasped and fell to his knees.

  ‘Kobold the Wise,’ he said. ‘Oh, sire, you c … cannot imagine w … what a pleasure … w … what an honour …’ His trembling voice gave way to a whisper.

  ‘You look cold,’ said Kobold, stepping forward. ‘Take my mantle,’ he said, swinging it round Cowlquape's shoulders.

  ‘But …’ Cowlquape protested.

  ‘Take it,’ said Kobold. ‘It is yours now,’ He turned away and disappeared back into the shadows.

  ‘But, sire!’ Cowlquape called after him. ‘I cannot … I could not… I am not worthy.’

  His words were drowned out by the insistent sound of a woodpecker hammering its head against the bark of one of the lintlepines.

  ‘Sire!’ Cowlquape shouted again.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Cowlquape's eyes snapped open. The cabin was in darkness. He looked round blindly.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! BANG!

  ‘Yes?’ Cowlquape shouted.

  The cabin door opened and there, silhouetted against the light in the corridor, was the dishevelled figure of Jervis. ‘Come to see to your dressings,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Cowlquape. ‘I didn't realize it was so late.’

  Jervis closed the door behind him and crossed the floor. He set a small box down on the ledge, closed the porthole and lit the lamp. Cowlquape sat up and swung his legs down the side of the hammock. Jervis stood before him, then began unwinding the first bandage. The peppery scent of the hyleberry salve grew more intense.

  ‘I think they're almost better,’ said Cowlquape.

  The scab came away with the final twist of lint. Below it, the skin was smooth and soft. Jervis examined the hand critically in the lamplight before pronouncing it ‘good as new’.

  ‘Are we approaching the Great Shryke Slave Market yet?’ Cowlquape asked, as Jervis set to work on the second bandage.