Beyond the Deepwoods (5 page)

The next moment, there was a muffled thud from behind him as something fell to the ground. Twig nervously opened one eye and inspected. A fromp was lying on the forest floor. Its furry, prehensile tail was twitching. Twig remained perfectly still as the halitoad shot out its sticky tongue, grasped the hapless fromp and scuttled off with it into the undergrowth.

‘That was close!’ Twig said, and sighed with relief. He wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘
Too
close!’

The moon had turned milky, and the shadows had deepened. As Twig wandered miserably on, the gloom clung to him like a damp blanket. The halitoad might be gone but that was the least of his worries. The fact remained that he had strayed from the path. Now, he was lost.

Often Twig stumbled, sometimes he fell. His hair became wet with sweat, though his bones were chilled to the marrow. He didn't know where he was going, he didn't know where he'd been; he hoped he wasn't simply going round in circles. He was also tired, yet each time he paused to rest a growl or snarl or a ferocious roar would set him trotting off again.

At last, unable to go any farther, Twig stopped. He sank to his knees and lifted his head to the sky.

‘Oh, Gloamglozer!’ he cursed. ‘Gloamglozer! Gloamglozer!’ His voice rang out in the frosty night air. ‘Please. Please. Please,’ he cried. ‘Let me find the path again. If only I hadn't left the path! Help me! Help me! Help…’

‘HELP!’

The cry of distress cut through the air like a knife. Twig jumped to his feet and looked round.

‘HELP ME!’ It wasn't an echo.

The voice was coming from Twig's left. Instinctively, he ran to see what he could do. The next moment he stopped again. What if it was a trap? He remembered Tuntum's bloodcurdling tales of woodtrolls who had
been lured to their death by the false calls of the daggerslash, a monstrous creature with forty razor-sharp claws. It looked like a fallen log – until you stepped on it. Then its paws would snap shut, and so they would remain until the body of the victim had started to decay. For the daggerslash ate only carrion.

‘For pity's sake, help me, someone,’ came the voice again, but weaker now.

Twig could not ignore the desperate plea a moment longer. He drew his knife – just in case – and set off towards the voice. He hadn't gone more than twenty paces when he tripped over something sticking out from the bottom of a humming combbush.

‘Ouch!’ cried the voice.

Twig spun round. He'd tripped on a pair of legs. Their owner sat up and glared at him angrily.

‘You oaf!’ he exclaimed.

‘I'm sorry, I…’ Twig began.

‘And don't stare,’ he interrupted. ‘It's very rude.’

‘I'm sorry, I…’ Twig said again. It was true; he
was
staring. A shaft of moonlight was shining down through the forest onto a boy, and the sight of his red-raw face, crimson hair waxed into flame-like points, and necklaces of animal teeth, had startled Twig. ‘You're a slaughterer, aren't you?’ he said.

With their bloodied appearance, the slaughterers looked – and sounded – ferocious. It was said that the generations of spilt blood had seeped through their pores and down into the follicles of their hair. Yet, although their business was indeed the butchery of the
tilder they hunted and the hammelhorns they reared, the slaughterers were a peaceable folk.

Nevertheless, Twig could not hide his revulsion. Apart from the occasional Deepwood traveller, the slaughterers were the woodtrolls’ nearest neighbours. They traded together – carved wooden items and basketware, for meat and leather goods. However, the woodtrolls, like everyone else in the Deepwoods, despised the slaughterers. They were, as Spelda put it, the bottom of the pot. No-one wanted to associate with the folk who had blood, not only on their hands, but all over their bodies.

‘Well?’ said Twig. ‘Are you a slaughterer?’

‘What if I am?’ said the boy defensively.

‘Nothing, I…’ Lost in the Deepwoods, you couldn't afford to be too choosy about your companions. ‘I'm Twig,’ he said.

The boy touched his forehead lightly and nodded. ‘My name's Gristle,’ he said. ‘Please take me back to my village. I can't walk. Look,’ he said, and pointed to his right foot.

Twig saw the six or seven angry purple marks at the back of his heel. Already the whole foot had swollen to twice its normal size. Even as Twig watched, the swelling spread up his leg.

‘What's happening?’ gasped Twig.

‘It's … it's…’

Twig realized the boy was staring at something behind him. He heard something hiss, and spun round. And there, hovering just above the ground, was the vilest creature Twig had ever seen.

It was long and lumpy, with luminous slime-green skin that glistened moistly in the milky moonlight. Along the length of its body were bulging yellow spots that oozed a clear liquid. Wriggling and squirming, the creature fixed Twig with its huge cold eyes.

‘What is it?’ he whispered to Gristle.

‘A hover worm,’ came the reply. ‘Whatever you do, don't let it get you.’

‘No chance,’ said Twig bravely, and reached for his knife. It wasn't there. ‘My knife,’ he cried. ‘My naming knife. I…’ And then Twig remembered. He had been carrying it when he tripped over Gristle's legs. It must be on the ground somewhere.

Twig stared ahead, too terrified to take his eyes off the hover worm for so much as a second. The creature continued to writhe. The hissing sound was coming not from its mouth, but from rows of ducts along its underbelly. These expelled the air which kept the worm hovering aloft.

It moved nearer, and Twig found himself staring at the creature's mouth. It had rubbery lips and floppy feelers, and gulped constantly at the air. Suddenly the lips parted.

Twig gasped. The hover worm's mouth was full of tentacles, each one with a dripping sucker at the end. As the jaws widened, the tentacles sprang out and wriggled like maggots.

‘The knife,’ Twig muttered to Gristle. ‘Find my knife.’

He heard Gristle rummaging through the dry leaves. ‘I'm trying,’ he said. ‘I can't … Yes,’ he cried. ‘I've got it!’

‘Quick!’ said Twig desperately. The hover worm was quivering, ready to attack. He reached behind his back for the knife. ‘Hurry
UP
!’

‘Here!’ said Gristle, and Twig felt the familiar bone handle in his palm. He closed his hand around it, and gritted his teeth.

The hover worm swayed in the air, backwards and forwards, and trembling all the while. Twig waited. Then suddenly, and with no warning, the hover worm struck. It flew at Twig's neck, mouth agape and tentacles taut. It stank of rancid grease.

Terrified, Twig leapt back. The hover worm abruptly switched direction in mid-air and came at him from the other side. Twig ducked.

The creature shot over his head, hissed to a halt, coiled itself round, and attacked again.

This time it came from the front – just as Twig had hoped. As the creature's tentacles were about to suction themselves onto his exposed neck, Twig twisted round and lunged forwards. The knife plunged into the soft underbelly of the worm, and ripped along the row of air ducts.

The effect was instant. Like a balloon that has been inflated and released, the creature spun wildly through the air with a loud
thpthpthpthppppp
. Then it exploded, and a mass of small, slimy scraps of yellow and green skin fluttered down to the ground.