Stormchaser (34 page)

‘Easy as she goes!’ the Stone Pilot called.

Twig nodded as he turned the wheel slowly to the left. ‘Stay calm,’ he told himself. ‘Keep a steady course – and concentrate.’

The sky ship keeled to port. Twig's head spun. There was so much to remember. With the wind coming from the south, the starboard hull-weights needed to be raised higher than the port hull-weights – but not too high, or else the sky ship would go into a spin. His task was made no easier by the lack of the neben-hull-weights and the constant nerve-racking creaking of the old rotten hull.

‘You’re doing fine!’ the Stone Pilot called up encouragingly.

Am I? Twig wondered. He hoped so. That last time he had tried to sail a sky ship, it had ended in disaster – and that was with his father there to take over when things got too difficult for him. Now there was no-one to come to his aid. Twig was on his own.

‘You can do it,’ he urged himself. ‘You
must
do it!’

At that moment, he glanced up to see a dark cloud speeding towards them. As the
Windcutter
rose higher, the cloud descended. They were on collision course.

‘What is it?’ Twig gasped. Trembling with unease, he spun the helm to the left. The cloud, too, shifted direction. ‘And what's going to happen when it strikes?’ he shuddered.

Closer and closer, it came. Twig became aware of a curious noise – a squawking, squeaking, screeching noise – that grew louder, and louder still. All at once, he
saw the cloud for what it really was. A flock of birds; all flashing wings and lashing tails. The ratbirds were returning.

As one, the flock wheeled round the sky ship once, twice, three times, darting between the sails in figures of eight, before swooping down out of view beneath the hull. Through the many cracks they flew, and into the base-hold of the ship where they took up residence. The familiar sound of twittering and scratching filtered back up to the deck.

‘Ratbirds!’ Twig whispered, his face beaming with delight. It was a good sign. Even if it was an old wives’ tale about ratbirds abandoning a doomed sky ship, Twig was as glad to see them arrive as Tem Barkwater had
been dismayed when they left. And, as he raised the remaining sails and the sky ship lurched forwards, his heart soared. Like his father, his father before him, and his father before him, Twig –
Captain
Twig – was in charge of his own sky pirate ship.

Far below him – and farther all the time – the shadow of the sky ship skudded across the glistening white mud of the Mire. Now and then Twig would lean forwards and adjust one or two of the hanging weights. It was coming more easily now. He was beginning, as Cloud Wolf had put it, to develop
the touch
.

On and on they sailed, running before the wind. Ahead, the horizon melted away in a bank of swirling mist and the distant floating city of Sanctaphrax vanished. Below, the shadow abruptly disappeared too, as clouds – real clouds this time – swept across the sun. All round him, the air was filled with the creaking and
whistling of a gale-force wind as it tugged and strained at the sky ship. Every now and then, a plank would splinter and fall away. The
Windcutter
was slowly falling to bits, but still she flew on.

‘Don’t panic,’ Twig whispered in a vain attempt to still his thumping heart. He fiddled feverishly with the levers. ‘Lower the sails a little. Raise the hanging weights. Gently. Gently.’

‘We should be there before darkness falls,’ came a voice at his shoulder.

Twig turned. It was Maugin. ‘Shouldn’t you be tending to the flight-rock?’ he asked anxiously.

‘There's nothing to do for the time being,’ Maugin assured him. ‘Not till we come in to land. I’ve been checking round the ship. We’ll have to take it slowly.’

‘And the stormphrax?’ said Twig. ‘The lantern needs to be burning at a sort of twilight brightness,’ he reminded her.

‘The stormphrax is fine,’ she said. ‘Everything's fine.’ She paused. ‘Except…’

‘What?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘But I have the horrible feeling the mast-bindings we secured are giving way. We must sail with the wind until we absolutely have to tack against it to make Undertown. Otherwise the mast will break. It means we’ll be taken over the Edge. We must keep our nerve until the last minute.’

Twig tensed. His palms were wet and his mouth was dry. Just the thought of sailing over the Edge into the uncharted sky beyond, where even the sky pirates never
dared to venture, filled him with dread. Yet, if the Stone Pilot was right about the mast, they had no choice. They would have to sail with the wind until they were level with Undertown, and then turn, dash back towards land – and pray.

‘Is the Mire still below us?’ he said.

Maugin went to check. ‘Yes,’ she called back from the balustrade. ‘But the Edge is approaching. Keep the lights of Sanctaphrax in view.’

‘I know!’ Twig snapped as he raised the starboard hull-weights. The boat lurched and listed; the mast creaked ominously.

‘Go with the wind,’ said Maugin. ‘Let her have her head.’

Twig nodded grimly. His hands gripped the helm, white knuckled; he drew blood biting into his lower lip. The sky ship listed even further. If he wasn’t careful it would roll over completely.

‘Easy!’ Maugin called, as the ship dipped savagely. Twig lowered the stern- and prow-weights. The sky ship steadied momentarily. Twig sighed – but his relief was short-lived. ‘Twig,’ she said, her voice as calm and steady as ever. ‘We’ve gone over the Edge.’

An icy chill coursed through his veins. The wind had taken them towards the mysterious nether-regions beyond the Edge where dragons and monsters were said to roam, where few had visited and none had returned. To a place known only for the weather it conjured up – Great Storms, of course, but also mad howling whirlwinds that warped the mind and filled sleeping heads
with visions; thick, suffocating fogs that stole the senses; driving rain, blinding snow, sulphurous dust storms that coated everything in a fine layer of particles – now green, now grey, now red.

‘Got to keep sight of the lights of Sanctaphrax,’ he murmured. ‘Wait till they’re level with us. Keep your nerve, Twig. Keep your nerve!’

Tearing herself away from the mesmerizing mists which writhed and swirled beneath her, Maugin ran back to the helm. ‘I’ll take the wheel,’ she said. ‘You concentrate on the levers.’

The wind gathered force. The tattered sails screamed as it tore through the fresh rents in the sailcloth. The groaning timbers of the hull grew shrill with splintering.

Twig's hands danced over the levers. Lifting here, lowering there, steadying the mast jib. And all the while, the lights of Sanctaphrax drew nearer on the starboard bow, glinting tantalizingly from solid ground.

Beneath the crumbling hull of the
Windcutter
was the inky blackness of the void. Panic rose in Twig's throat. He wanted to pull the ship about, straight into the teeth of the gale that gripped them, and make a dash for the grey cliff face of the Edge. If they crashed over land, at least they’d stand a chance of surviving. But here, beyond the Edge, they could fall for ever.

His hand jerked out for the starboard hull-weight lever. He felt an iron grip. Maugin's slender hand held him at the wrist. ‘Not yet,’ she whispered, mouth close to his ear. ‘Have faith. Wait for the lights to come level. Wait, Twig. Wait.’

Twig's panic receded. But he was drenched with sweat, and shivering violently – with cold, with anticipation. All at once, a sickening crash split the air behind them and the aft-spar flew past, down into the darkness, dragging its sail with it.

‘It's all right,’ Twig shouted, as he steadied the rudder-wheel to bring the bucking sky ship back under control. ‘I’ve got her.’

Maugin surveyed the horizon. ‘Now!’ she shouted.

Twig's hand immediately shot out for the starboard hull-weight lever for a second time. This time Maugin did not stop him. He pulled down with all his might. As the heavy boom swung about, the
Windcutter
jarred as if hit by a giant hammer, and tacked into a blast of icy wind.

The mast screeched under the strain, its sails ripping apart and flying past him like phantoms. Then, with an ear-splitting splintering, the entire mighty upright began to buckle.

‘Don’t break,’ Twig implored. ‘Not now!’

With an agonizing screech, the mast folded backwards. The teeth of the gale bit deep into its rotten centre and …
CRASH
! It split in two and the top half slammed past the bridge.

Twig threw himself on the Stone Pilot as the great column swished past their heads like Screed's evil scythe.

‘We’re done for!’ he screamed as the sails fell limp and the
Windcutter
began to drop through the air. Abruptly, the lights of Sanctaphrax were snuffed out. ‘We’re lost!’

‘No!’ Maugin was screaming back. ‘The flight-rock. The flight-rock will save us. Cool the flight-rock and we float. Twig, we float!’

They clawed their way to the stone-cradle, with the wind whistling through their ears as the ship fell in a vertical spin.

‘Pull that iron ring, Twig!’ screamed the Stone Pilot. ‘Pull it with me. One. Two. Three. Now!’

Together, they hauled back the great iron ring of the stone cradle and a loud hiss spat out from the bars as cold earth fell on the stone encased within. The roaring in Twig's ears grew less. The
Windcutter
was slowing. It was steadying. Twig opened his eyes. The wreck of the sky ship was righting itself as, with growing buoyancy, the flight-rock strained at the bars of the stone-cradle and pulled them upwards.

‘Listen now, Twig.’ Maugin's voice was tense and urgent. ‘When we rise above the Edge, we
must
have sail – any sail. To take us forwards; to take us back over land.’

‘I’ll give you sail,’ said Twig. He was strangely calm. They hadn’t come this far to fail now.

The glow of the stormphrax chest cast a ghostly light over the tangled mess of rigging and tattered sail. Twig scanned the wreckage. The mast was broken – but it would have to do. He threw himself into the task of raising a makeshift sail with feverish intensity.

They were rising with increasing speed when suddenly, yes, there were the lights of Sanctaphrax, and Undertown, straight ahead in the distance. Twig pulled on the sail ropes with all his might, the coarse fibres biting into his flesh, drawing blood.