Screed was not in his wrecked sky ship home. The moment he was sure that no-one would notice, he had ducked down out of sight behind a rock and rolled in the mud until he was covered from head to foot in the bleached sludge.
‘Make myself disappear, I shall’ he said, and chuckled throatily
Then, satisfied that he was perfectly camouflaged, Screed climbed to his feet and doubled back across the Mire as fast as he could, keeping parallel to the path the sky pirates were taking. Although he could see them, they couldn’t see him.
‘Keep to the path, you addleskulls,’ he hissed as he passed Twig and the old fellow. ‘Don’t want you getting swallowed up by the Mire, do we? At least, not yet.’
‘Be gone, you bleached devils!’ Screed roared as he raced towards them, arms flapping wildly.
The white ravens bounced back on their springy legs, furiously cawing but did not fly away. Screed crouched down. Although much of the body had already been consumed by the scavengers, the feet huge, hairy and rapier clawed were still intact. As he tilted his head to one side, the sun glinted on the countless minute crystals trapped in the fur between the toes.
‘Such beea-oootiful looty-booty,’ Screed smirked.
He drew his knife from his belt and, with the detached precision of a surgeon, sliced off the toes and slipped them into his leather bag. The white ravens screeched and squawked in a frenzy of frustration.
‘There’ he told them. ‘All yours now.’ And with that, he swung the bag onto his shoulder and loped off again. ‘One down’ he chuckled. ‘Four to go.’
Spiker was the first he came to. The oakelf was still down on his hands and knees yet no longer able to crawl. His breath came fast and wheezing. Screed stood, hands on his hips, looking down at the pitiful creature. The next moment he wrapped his arm around the oakelf’s shoulders and pulled backwards. The blade of his knife glinted for an instant. The oakelf gurgled, clutched at his throat and collapsed.
‘Did him a favour, really’ Screed muttered to himself as he set to work on the toes. ‘Putting him out of his misery like that.’ He stood up and looked ahead at the figure with the hood, still struggling painfully on.
‘Ready or not’ he muttered. ‘Here I come!’
The exhausting trek was taking its toll on Twig. Although little more than skin and bones wrapped up in a gown, the Professor of Light’s weight seemed to be increasing as Twig lugged him, without a break, across the squelching, stagnant mud.
‘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. ‘I 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.
‘Sanctaphrax.’
The next moment, he fell to the ground, dead.
Twig climbed shakily to his feet. He stared at the motionless body. ‘I’ve killed somebody’ he murmured as he closed Screed’s eyes with his trembling finger-tips.
He looked at peace now and, as in those last moments of life, oddly majestic. A lump rose in Twig’s throat. What had happened to turn him into so loathsome a creature? His gaze fell on the bag strung around the dead guide’s shoulders. Might his personal belongings offer a clue? Twig leaned forwards, loosened the drawstrings and looked inside.
‘Whoooaargh!’ He retched emptily. Tears filled his eyes, but the sight of the cluster of toes lingered. He tossed the bag away, bent over double and took long deep breaths. ‘Why?’ he gasped at last and stared at Screed in horror. ‘What kind of a monster were you?’
But he had no answers left to give. Twig pulled himself to his feet. As he turned away, the white ravens were already gathering. It was only then that he looked at the gauntlet.
•C H A P T E R N I N E T E E N•
SCREED’S LOOTY-BOOTY
With his sword cutting a swathe through the growing flock of scavenging birds, Twig hurried towards the Stone Pilot’s body. The inside of the glass eye-panels set into the hood were misted up. Did this mean the Stone Pilot was still breathing? Could he still be alive after the savage blow that Screed had dealt him?
‘If only I could get these things off’ Twig muttered as he tugged in vain at the set of bolts which held the hood and gloves in place. He knelt down and pressed his ear against the heavy coat, searching for a trace of a heartbeat. A broad grin spread over his face, for there it was faint, but regular the Stone Pilot’s beating heart.
‘Now, don’t you worry’ Twig said as he leapt to his feet. ‘I’ll soon have you back at the shipwreck. It’s cool there.’ He slipped his hands under the Stone Pilot’s arms and round his chest. ‘You’re going to be … wheeoo!…’he groaned as he lifted the shoulders off the ground, ‘… just fine!’
With every gruelling step, Twig’s body cried out for rest yet he did not ease up, not even for a moment. If the Stone Pilot died, then Twig would have lost his entire crew and that was something he would not allow to happen.
‘Almost there,’ he muttered breathlessly. ‘Not long now.’
The Stone Pilot made neither a sound nor a movement, but Twig knew that his heart must still be beating, for the white ravens were leaving them alone. The moment it stopped, they would attack in an instant.
At last, he found himself bathed once again in the long shadow cast by the shipwreck. Twig gazed up at the merciless white sky and offered silent thanks.
‘Professor,’ he called, looking about him. ‘Professor?’
‘In here,’ came a weary voice from inside the shipwreck. Twig turned. To his left was a large hole in the side of the hull. ‘In here’ the professor said again, his voice little more than a whisper.
As Twig dragged the Stone Pilot through the broken entrance, he was struck by the breathtaking smell of decay. He laid the Stone Pilot down beside the far wall and found the professor propped up against a fallen beam on the opposite side. The branch at his back was still keeping his neck poker-straight. He was alive yet even in the gloom, it was clear that he was in a bad way.
‘He killed him,’ the professor was groaning. ‘He murdered him.’
‘No,’ said Twig. ‘He’s injured and perhaps badly, but he’s still alive.’
The professor sighed weakly. ‘Not the Stone Pilot,’ he wheezed and swept his arm round. ‘This ship,’ he said.
‘I found the name plate. It’s the Windcutter. It was captained by Screedius Tollinix. Screedius Tollinix!’ he wailed. ‘A fine and valiant knight.’ His eyes burned with rage. ‘Until that loathsome guide got his hands on him, that is,’ he added and collapsed in a fit of coughing.
Twig stared back at the professor. Of course! When the professor called out, Screed had recognized his own name. That was why he’d paused … And Twig had killed him. He hadn’t the heart to tell the professor that Screedius Tollinix and their guide were one and the same.
He crouched down beside him. ‘Try to get some sleep,’ he said.
‘No, no,’ the professor said agitatedly. ‘There will be time for sleep soon enough. There are things we must elucidate, explain: things we must discuss …’ For a second his eyes went blank. When they focused again, they looked bewildered, frightened. ‘Twig, my boy’ he said, his voice low and breathy. ‘You must listen. And listen well. I must tell you about stormphrax.’
‘But…’ Twig began.
‘After all, that is why I am here,’ the professor went on. ‘That is why your father insisted I travel with you all. For I know everything there is to know about the sacred crystals. Their value. Their properties. Their power.’ He paused. ‘Since stormphrax is too heavy to move when in darkness and too volatile in direct sunlight, we must… you must engineer a constant but dim light to accompany it until it has reached its resting place at the heart of the floating rock of Sanctaphrax. And when that happens…’
‘But what’s the point of all this?’ Twig blurted out. ‘We haven’t got any stormphrax. We weren’t able to retrieve any from the Twilight Woods. Or had you forgotten, Professor? We failed.’
‘Twig, be quiet!
’ the professor insisted. He raised his arm and pointed to the far end of the hull. ‘Over there,’ he wheezed.
Twig turned. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness by now and, as he stared into the shadows, he saw a large chest half sunk in the mud. ‘W … what is it?’ he asked.
‘Go and see,’ said the professor.
As Twig crossed the oozing floor towards the chest, the smell of rotting flesh grew stronger. ‘Woaagh!’ he gasped, and gagged at the sight of the thousand miniature trophies nailed to the wooden walls. ‘Bwwwoorrgh!’ he heaved again, as the huge sloping pile in the corner revealed itself to be countless thousands more of the amputated toes.
‘What in Sky’s name?’ he muttered, and looked back at the professor for some explanation.
The professor waved him on impatiently.
Twig stopped next to the glass and ironwood chest and looked down. The top was closed, but not locked. He hesitated. What if it was full of more body parts? What if Screed also had a thing for eyeballs, or tongues?
‘Open it!’ he heard the professor insist.
Twig leaned forwards, took a deep breath, and threw the lid open. A silvery light gleamed from within. Twig stared down and trembled with awe at the sight of the multitude of flashing, sparking crystals. ‘Stormphrax!’ he gasped.
‘And more than enough for all our needs’ said the Professor of Light.
‘But how?’ said Twig. ‘I …’ He cut himself short. ‘The toes!’ he exclaimed.
‘Precisely’ said the professor. ‘As the hapless goblins, trolls, trogs or what have you set off from the Deepwoods for Undertown, their journey took them through the Twilight Woods. There, particles of stormphrax collected under their toenails and claws, do you see? Then, when they reached the Mire, they encountered Screed that most foul of individuals who stole their money, slit their throats and took their toes.’ He sighed wearily. ‘Though why?’ he moaned. ‘That is the question. What use could such a degenerate soul have had for so wonderful a substance?’