Stormchaser (30 page)

‘Almost there,’ the professor said. ‘Just a few steps more.’

Suddenly, Twig found himself crossing into shadow. The air was instantly cooler. He looked up. The wreck of the great ship towered high above him.

‘Thank Sky!’ he gasped.

‘Thank
you
,’ said the professor.

Twig released the professor's legs and gently eased him off his back. ‘Aaah!’ he sighed, and his arms floated upwards as if by themselves. ‘I feel as if I could fly!’

The professor tutted sympathetically. ‘Was I really such a burden?’

‘For a while back there, I thought we weren’t going to make it,’ Twig admitted. ‘But we’re here now.’ He looked round. ‘Screed!’ he shouted.

‘Screed … Screed … Screed…’ the name echoed unanswered into the distance.

Twig shook his head. ‘Where is he? What's he playing at?’

The professor snorted. ‘I wouldn’t put anything past that scoundrel,’ he said.

Twig started with sudden alarm. Spiker and the Stone Pilot! He’d been so intent on rescuing the professor that he’d forgotten all about the rest of his crew.

He scampered over the overturned hull of the ship, leaped across to the mast and began shinning up. Even though the boat was resting at a perilous angle on the white mud, the caternest was still by far the highest landmark in the Mire. He looked back the way he had come.

Far away in the distance, he saw something. Brown on white. Motionless. Trembling with fearful anticipation, Twig unhooked his telescope from the front of his coat and put it to his eye.

‘Spiker,’ he gasped, as the terrible scene came into focus.

‘What's happened?’ he heard the professor calling up to him.

‘It's … it's Spiker,’ he called back. ‘He's dead. Murdered.’

‘And the Stone Pilot?’ the professor asked.

Twig swung the telescope round, sweeping the glistening white plains for any sign. ‘I … I’m just trying to find him,’ he blustered. Suddenly, a dark blurred shape filled the centre of the glass as it emerged from behind a bleached rock. His sweaty hands, shaking uncontrollably, slipped as he tried to adjust the focus. ‘Yes!’ he cried. ‘It's him. And he's quite near.’

‘Alive?’

Twig nodded. ‘Just,’ he said. ‘But he's dragging his right leg badly. He can barely walk. I…’ He gasped.
‘What was
that
?’

Some way behind the Stone Pilot, he had seen movement. White on white, yet visible for all that – as if the Mire itself had grown a body and a head. Someone or something was moving towards the Stone Pilot.

‘What is it?’ Twig trembled. ‘A mud-demon? A mire-monster? The terrible muglump?’

He re-focused the telescope. The creature came into sharp relief – the gangly arms and legs, the stooping back, the skull-like head with its tight skin that plucked at the mouth and eyebrows. Twig quivered with rage. This was no mud-demon or mire-monster.

‘Screed,’ he hissed. ‘I might have known.’

The Stone Pilot stopped. Turned. And Twig heard a muffled cry of anguish as the Stone Pilot screamed and staggered backwards. A dazzling flash of light slashed across Twig's eyes.

‘And he's got a knife!’

Twig snapped the telescope shut, scrambled down the mast, over the hull and ran back into the Mire.

‘Where are you going?’ called the professor.

‘To help the Stone Pilot,’ he called back. ‘Before it's too late.’

With sweat pouring and his body aching, Twig stumbled on as fast as he could. Screed and the Stone Pilot were rolling about in the mud. Closer he got. The knife glinted. Closer and closer. Now the Stone Pilot had the upper hand; now Screed was on top. If he could just … All at once, the Stone Pilot's head fell back, struck by a savage blow. The knife glinted again.

‘
SCREED
!’ Twig screamed.

The bony white figure instantly leapt away from his prey, and turned on the youth like a cornered animal. His yellow teeth gleamed. ‘Well, well,’ he rasped, as he drew a long evil-looking sickle from his belt. ‘Saved me the bother of coming to you, have you?
Most
considerate.’ He bounced the sickle up and down in his bony hand. The blade gleamed along its razor edge.

The colour drained from Twig's cheeks. He had so little first-hand experience of one-armed combat.

‘Come on then,
Captain
Twig,’ Screed taunted, and beckoned with his free hand. ‘Let's see what you’re made of.’ He scuttled closer like a mud-crab. ‘Or perhaps you’d prefer to turn and run – I’ll give you a head start,’ he added and cackled mirthlessly.

Twig drew his sword and stared defiantly into Screed's bloodshot eyes.

‘I will stay and fight you, Screed,’ he announced, praying that the wicked creature would not notice how his voice trembled, how his arm shook. ‘What's more,’ he said boldly, ‘I will defeat you.’

Screed stared back, but made no reply. He stooped lower and began swaying from side to side. Back and forwards flashed the sickle as he tossed it from hand to hand. And all the while he kept his unblinking gaze fixed on Twig's eyes. Then he jumped.

‘Waah!’ cried Twig, and leaped back. The curved blade sliced through the air, low and deadly. If he hadn’t moved when he did, the sickle would have ripped his stomach wide open. Again the blade came at him.

He's toying with me, Twig told himself. Driving me back towards the sinking mud. Fight back! Fight back – or die!

He braced himself. Suddenly the sickle swooshed down towards him – fast, low and wickedly glinting – Twig held his breath, gripped his sword fiercely and brought it up to meet the sweeping blade.

‘Unnh!’ he grunted, as the crashing blow juddered up his arm and jarred his whole body.

‘Come, come, captain,’ Screed leered, as he bobbed and weaved around in front of him. ‘Is that the best you can do?’

Suddenly, the air was whirling with the terrifying dance of the curved sickle. It spun, it plunged, it darted and dived. Heart in his mouth, Twig thrust his sword out. It clashed against the sickle again. And again and again…

I will defeat you! Twig's voice screamed in his head. For Spiker. For the Stone Pilot … For myself.

Screed darted abruptly to the left, and lunged forwards. Twig was too fast for him. He side-stepped out of
danger, deflected the sickle harmlessly away and thrust his sword at Screed's scraggy neck.

‘Now!’ he roared as he blundered forwards. ‘You…’ His foot slipped down the side of a concealed pothole. ‘Aaaaaiii!’ he squealed as his ankle went over.

As Twig crashed heavily to the muddy ground, the sword slipped from his grip and landed in the soft mud – just out of reach. Screed was on him in an instant. He pinned down Twig's gauntleted arm with his foot and tickled him under the chin with the point of the merciless blade.

‘Fancied your chances with Screed Toe-taker, did you,
Captain
Twig?’ he said, his face twisted with contempt.

He lifted the sickle high above his head. It was silhouetted against the sky like a black moon. The blade glinted.

‘
SCREEDIUS TOLLINIX
!’ The professor's thin, reedy voice echoed across the Mire. ‘What has that creature done to you?’

Screed froze, and turned his head. ‘What the…?’ he murmured.

Without a second thought, Twig wrenched his trapped arm free, rolled over, seized his sword and struck Screed a savage and penetrating blow in the centre of his bony chest. Thick red blood poured down the sword. It met Twig's gauntlet and turned to clear, sparkling water which splashed down his arm.

The sickle dropped to the ground with a soft
plattsh.
Screed looked down. He seemed almost surprised to see the sword protruding from his chest. His puzzled gaze met Twig's.

Twig gasped. The expression on Screed's face was changing before his eyes. Away went the evil leer; away the sneering lips and wild eyes. From the barbaric bloodthirsty maniac who, only seconds before, had been intent on tearing him to pieces, Twig watched Screed transform into someone quite different; someone calm, thoughtful – noble, even. His eyes sparkled with a faraway look and a smile
played around his mouth. The lips parted, and a single word slipped out from between them.