Clash of the Sky Galleons (33 page)

‘I can imagine,’ said Wind Jackal, his hands running expertly over the bone-handled flight-levers.

‘Oh, I don’t think you can,’ said the timber-master with a gruff chuckle. ‘But you will, when the time comes.’ He stumbled down the steps and joined his fellow woodtrolls huddled on the aft-deck.

‘Master Spillins,’ called Wind Jackal, ‘you heard the timber-master, I trust? Look out for clusters of glades!’

‘Aye-aye, Cap’n,’ Spillins’s voice floated back. ‘That’s just what I’m doing.’

Despite his best efforts, however, Spillins saw nothing that first day as the
Galerider
swept on over the towering Timber Stands and left the paths of the woodtrolls far
behind. Yet later, when Wind Jackal brought the great sky pirate ship down to anchor above the treetops for the night, no one felt disappointed. Surely the next day would reveal signs of the bloodoak.

It didn’t. Nor did the following day; nor the day after that. And as they sailed on - with Wind Jackal using the sun, his compass and the tranche of charts to navigate the sky - the woodtroll band became ever more nervous and jittery.

Throughout the day, the band of woodtrolls remained up on deck, clustered together as far from the balustrades and the terrifying view as possible. Apart from Chopley Polestick, only one other woodtroll gained his sky-legs. Plucky and young, Tuntum Snatchwood would leave the others and join the timber-master at the balustrade, where the pair of them ventured a brave look over the side - though never for long. At night, when the rest of the crew retired to their cabins, the woodtrolls trooped down to the three large hammocks slung the width of the cargo-hold and climbed in, six to a hammock. And all the while - day
and
night - the group gave off the same curious buzzing, humming sound like the noise of smoke-drowsy woodbees.

‘Funny little fellows. What
is
all that moaning and groaning about?’ Thaw Daggerslash smiled, nodding towards the cluster of woodtrolls.

Hubble grunted from the nest of sailcloth he’d constructed beneath the aft-deck gunwales.

‘Some kind of chanting, I reckon,’ said Steg. ‘To ward
off evil spirits, or whatever … They’re a superstitious lot. I mean, look at the way they’re always rubbing those wooden amulets of theirs.’

‘Well, I hope it works,’ said Daggerslash.

‘Me too,’ said Duggin. ‘Though I’m beginning to think we’ll never find a blasted bloodoak, no matter how much they chant.’

‘Have a heart,’ said Steg. ‘The woodtrolls are frightened, away from their paths.’

‘Yes, and I know just how they feel,’ said Tem, his voice quavering and his face ashen grey. ‘Just the
thought
of them bloodoaks …’

‘Don’t worry, Tem,’ laughed Thaw Daggerslash. ‘We’ll only use you as tarry-vine bait as a last resort!’ Chuckling at his own joke, Thaw sauntered off towards the aft-cabins.

Steg glared after the sky pirate a moment before turning to his young friend. ‘Just a stupid joke, Tem,’ he said. ‘Don’t you go worrying yourself sick about it, there’s a good lad.’

Tem shook his head doubtfully.

‘When the time comes,’ said Steg,
‘if
it ever comes, and we’re in that bloodoak glade, I’ll be right beside you. I promise you, Tem, lad, old Steg Jambles won’t let anything bad happen to his fore-decker.’

Down below deck, Maris and Quint were staring into the galley’s store cupboards. With the
Galerider’s
quartermaster, Filbus Queep, gone, and Tem Barkwater hopelessly distracted, the pair of them had offered not only to prepare the meals, but also to
manage the supplies. They were about to go into the second week of the bloodoak voyage and, with eighteen extra mouths to feed, the store cupboards were looking increasingly bare.

Quint sliced the last of the stale black bread while Maris diluted the already watery stew. She laid the ladle down.

‘This is hopeless,’ she said. ‘When the stew’s finished, all we’ll have left are woodonions and glade oats.’

‘Delicious,’ said Quint with a laugh. ‘Onion porridge, my favourite!’

But Maris was having none of it. ‘This is no laughing matter,’ she complained. ‘How can we be expected to feed the crew if the store cupboards are empty, Quint? And your father won’t stop the search for us to forage …’

‘I’ve never seen our captain happier!’ came a voice, and the pair of them turned, to see Thaw Daggerslash standing there, his hands behind his back. ‘He’s like a new sky pirate up there at the helm.’ Thaw flashed them both one of his dazzling smiles. ‘Give the woodtrolls watered-down stew,’ he said. ‘What do you say
we
have roast snowbird for supper!’

He brought his arms from behind his back and held up six plump snowbirds.

‘Oh, Captain Daggerslash!’ gasped Maris, flushing pink with pleasure. ‘But of course we must share them with everyone!’

‘Not only a beautiful cook, but a fair and honest
quartermaster,’ smiled Thaw, handing the birds to Maris. Is there no end to your accomplishments?’

Now blushing furiously, Maris turned away and began busily preparing the snowbirds for the roasting tray

‘But how … ?’ began Quint, who could see no telltale crossbow bolts in the birds.

‘Simple,’ said Thaw triumphantly ‘I simply coated a log-bait with tar and the nibblick seeds I feed my rat-bird with, and the greedy things swooped down and stuck fast!’

‘You have a ratbird?’ said Quint, intrigued. ‘Indeed,’ said Thaw. ‘From my sky barge - only thing left to remember the
Mireraider
by. Now, Maris, remember, plenty of woodonion sauce with those snowbirds!’

The following morning, the sun hadn’t even risen above the horizon when Quint climbed from his hammock and made his way up to the helm. He emerged at the top of the stairs only to find that the sky ship had slipped anchor and was already in flight, with Spillins up in his caternest scanning the forest, Wind Jackal at the wheel, steering by the dim grey
morning light and the hooded figure of the Stone Pilot supporting herself on crutches, tending the flight-rock once more.

‘The Stone Pilot’s up!’ Quint exclaimed as he joined his father at the helm.

‘Wouldn’t stay in the infirmary cabin a moment longer. That roast snowbird certainly seems to have done her the power of good,’ said Wind Jackal, adjusting the flight-levers as the wind caught the sails and the
Galerider
soared high up into the sky. All round them, the air filled with a mist of droplets as the dew-drenched sailcloth quivered and flexed. ‘In fact, last night’s supper has revived spirits all round,’ Wind Jackal added. ‘Even our woodtroll friends seem happier this morning.’

Quint looked down to the aft-deck where the woodtrolls clustered in groups of six, busily sharpening their axes and chattering excitedly. Just then, the great orange sun split the distant horizon to the east, casting shafts of light out across the sky. At the same moment, Spillins cried out from the top of the mast.

‘Captain! Captain! There! A ring of glades!’

Quint stared over the balustrade. Sure enough, far below them was a telltale ring of glades circling a dark, dense mass of forest. The woodtrolls laid down their axes and danced in a circle, their arms round each other’s shoulders. The droning hum was gone. In its place - echoing around the sky ship - was a loud, triumphant whooping that brought the rest of
the crew onto the deck to see for themselves what was going on.

A matter of minutes later, the great sky pirate ship was hovering just above the forest canopy, and Steg, Thaw and Duggin - at three points along its length -were lowering grappling-hooks. Ropes were let down and the crew and the band of woodtrolls slid quickly down them.

On the forest floor, in the dense undergrowth on the fringe of the sunlit glades, the bloodoak-felling party organized itself into three groups, as the lone figure of the Stone Pilot remained at her post aboard the
Galerider.
Wind Jackal, Quint and Maris went with the Polestick clan; Steg Jambles, a white-faced Tem and Duggin the gnokgoblin joined the Snatchwoods, while Thaw Daggerslash, Hubble and a frowning Spillins fell in with the six axes of the Snetterbarks. Chopley Polestick took command, raising his carved blackwood staff to gain the attention of the three gangs.

‘Somewhere in there’ - he jabbed the staff in the direction of the dense, dark forest on the other side of the sunny glades - ‘lurks a bloodoak. Remember - look, listen and smell for the signs. Deathstillness. Under-scent. And out there in the glades, the tarry vine.…’

Tem felt his knees buckle and his heart begin to race. Beside him, Steg reached out with a steadying arm.

‘Easy there, lad. I’m with you,’ he whispered.

‘There are three axe-teams,’ the timber-master continued. ‘Enough for a classic death thrust. Snatchwoods approach from the east, Snetterbarks from the north … You must engage the tarry vine, and hold it off for as long as you can, while we Polesticks attack from the west. We’ll do our best to bring it down before any of you are taken.’ He looked round the circle of expectant faces. ‘Attack on my signal.’

Tem felt cold sweat trickling down his back.

‘And may the axes of our forefathers protect us!’

The timber-master waved his blackwood staff once more and the three axe-teams - with the
Galerider’s
crew falling in behind them - set off to take their positions on the edges of the glades.

A short while later, Quint and Maris found themselves crouched behind a thornberry bush beside Wind Jackal. There was no birdsong; no rodents scurried, no creatures cried. The three of them clutched razor-edged axes, each one sharpened by the woodtrolls of the Polestick clan, who were clustered round the timber-master. Putting his stubby hands to his mouth, Chopley gave a low hooting whistle that cut through the unearthly deathstillness of the sunlit glade in front of them.

At the sound of his whistle, Quint glimpsed the flash of sunlight reflecting off axe-heads between the clumps of trees and undergrowth as, from the north and east, the Snetterbarks and Snatchwoods dashed out into their respective glades.

‘Wait!’ Chopley growled to his axe-team as they tensed in readiness to spring forward. ‘Wait till they engage the tarry vine …’

Suddenly from the dense patch of forest in the middle of the ring of glades, came a whirring, snapping sound, as if a driver was cracking a hammelhorn whip.

Halfway across the eastern glade, Tem gasped in horror as a thick, green vine - with trailing tendrils and pulsating veins of sap - reared up from the lush meadow grass at his feet. A short woodtroll spun round just in front of the terrified fore-decker and swung his axe, and the thick, poisonous-green coil of vine exploded in a spray of stinking slime.

The severed stump flayed around violently before drawing back, rearing high in the air and sprouting three fresh, oozing tendrils that sprang out in opposite directions. All at once, Tem’s ears filled with the whirring sound of the Snatchwood clan’s axes hacking through lashing vine strands that slithered back, only to divide and lash out again.

Whirr! Splatch! Whirr! Splatch! Whirr! Splatch!

The hideous rhythm rang in his ears, freezing Tem to the spot.

‘Swing that axe, lad!’ shouted Steg Jambles beside him as the sounds of battle erupted in the glade to the north.

But Tem couldn’t hear him. He was back in the past, in a far-off glade, tethered to his brother Cal, and being driven by slavers towards the terrible sound of thrashing mandibles coming from the shadows …

Just then, an intense jolt of pain shot through his body; shocking, yet horribly familiar. Looking down, Tem saw a sinuous coil of green vine wrapped tightly round his forearm, and beads of blood pouring down from the vicious barbs which had pierced the skin.