Clash of the Sky Galleons (32 page)

Wood of all kinds, from towering heaps of roughly hewn logs to criss-cross stacks of seasoned timber, filled every corner of the great cavern. Purple-tinged lufwood, ringed lullabee and grey, featureless leadwood; stinkwood and scentwood, their vastly different smells competing with one another in the cool air; bundles of thick sallowdrop branches and huge boulder-like slabs of sumpwood; neatly cut boughs of blackwood and redoak and the opalescent knots from dried silverpine -and all gathered and graded according to quality and size.

Wind Jackal stood for a moment, scanning the array of different woods, gently stroking his chin. Behind him, Chopley Polestick tutted and shook his grey tufted head.

‘Not you as well,’ he grumbled in his gruff voice. ‘You don’t have to tell me …’ he went on. ‘Bloodoak timber. Am I right?’

‘How did you know?’ said Wind Jackal, turning and smiling down at the timber-master.

‘Because that’s all anybody seems to want just lately’ he said. ‘Something’s going on back there in Undertown … No, no!’ The timber-master shook his head and wagged a finger at Wind Jackal. ‘Don’t tell me, because I
don’t want to know. What I
do
know is that the last of the seasoned bloodoak was shipped long ago.’

‘Can’t you get any more?’ Quint blurted out without thinking - then wished he hadn’t when he saw the look on the old woodtroll’s face. It was a mixture of irritation and impatience, as if the timber-master was about to scold a stubborn hammelhorn.

‘I’ll tell you, young master, what I tell those pushy leagues types who come here wanting bloodoak,’ he said, tapping his blackwood staff on the earthen floor. ‘The bloodoak is no ordinary tree. It grows far from the well-trodden path. You don’t chop down a bloodoak, you
hunt
it, with all the skill and cunning that you can muster. It can take years to tread a path to the glade of a bloodoak, and great courage to bring one down. Its wood - stripped and properly carpentered - is the finest in all the Edgelands for strength and buoyancy, and one tree can furnish twenty sky ships, but at a cost…’

The old woodtroll shook his head as if remembering some distant event, and was silent for a while. Wind Jackal reached into his greatcoat and took out a tilder-leather purse, heavy with gold pieces - the profits from the cargo of tallow candles.

‘There is enough here,’ he said coolly, handing the bulging purse to the woodtroll so that he could test its weight, ‘to furnish the whole village with new cooking pots, to buy every matron a new tilder-wool shawl and every tree-feller a new axe - and still have enough left over for a full season of feasting!’

Chopley Polestick handed the purse back to Wind Jackal and, although he frowned, there was a twinkle in his small black eyes.

‘And in order to earn this fortune?’ he said, fixing Wind Jackal with a level stare.

‘I have a buyer in Undertown who requires bloodoak, and I have entered into a contract to supply it. I
always
honour my contracts …’ Wind Jackal’s voice was calm and reasonable, but icily determined. ‘Now, I could have sought out rogue timberers. Scoundrels who think nothing of laying waste to the forest and using slaves as tarry-vine bait, and whose services are cheap. But I wanted the best…’

‘Then you have chosen well, Captain,’ said Chopley Polestick. ‘The Snetterbarks, the Snatchwoods and the Polesticks are the finest tree-felling families in the twelve villages, each six axes strong! But it is many seasons since any of us have trodden a new path in search of bloodoak. It’ll take at least a year …’

Wind Jackal smiled and jingled the fat purse. ‘Not,’ he said, his eyes glancing upwards, ‘if you
leave
the path…’

The sun was low in the sky and the trees cast long shadows across the great circular table, yet still the feasting continued. From the cabins all round, now lit from within by lufwood lamps, woodtrolls came and went, carrying trays, platters and earthenware jugs.

Maris sat between two elderly woodtroll matrons,
who both could have been her old nurse’s sisters, so alike did they seem to her, with their small twinkling eyes and rubbery button noses. Across the great table of polished redoak sat Tem Barkwater and Steg Jambles, each flanked by excited young woodtrolls who kept pressing platters of woodtroll delicacies on them: sweet-wood cookies, slippery oakelm broth, tilder-sausage pastries and huge steaming mounds of sour-smelling tripweed.

Steg laughed and joked, and even joined in the chorus of woodtroll songs that kept breaking out without warning. Beside the harpooneer, Tem Barkwater looked wary and pensive. He took sips from the huge tankard of woodale before him, but hardly touched the platter of roast hammelhorn steak - and all the while shooting worried looks into the shadows forming beneath the trees.

‘Have another sweetwood cookie, my little sapling,’ purred the woodtroll matron beside Maris. ‘You look like you could do with some flesh on those delicate little bones of yours. Don’t you think so, Felda?’

‘All skin and bones!’ agreed the second matron. ‘Too true, Welma, dear.’

‘My nanny’s name is Welma!’ cried Maris excitedly. ‘At least, she used to be my nanny. She looked after me until my father died …’

‘You had a woodtroll nanny?’ cooed both matrons together.

‘Yes,’ said Maris. ‘She was born out here in the Deepwoods. Welma Thornwood.’

‘Thornwood!’ gasped the matrons, almost upsetting a flagon of sapwine in their surprise. ‘Why, we have Thornwoods in the twelve villages! At least three families - perhaps they’ll know of this Welma of yours …’

Across the circular table, lit up now by glowing lanterns of all shapes and design, Steg leaned over to Tem, a look of concern on his face.

‘I say, lad, are you all right? Not coming down with something, I hope. Woodfever? Or glade-fret?’

‘No, no,’ said Tem, trying to smile. ‘It’s just that.…’ His face clouded over, and he reached out and pulled a tall glowing lamp towards himself. ‘Out with it, lad,’ said Steg.

‘Being here … In the middle of the Deepwoods like this … It brings back such memories …’ Tem took a gulp of woodale and shivered.

Just then, wild clapping and cheering rang out as the timber-master, Chopley Polestick, appeared together with Quint and Wind Jackal. The old woodtroll grasped a bulging tilder-leather purse in one of his gnarled hands and waved his blackwood staff over his head with the other.

‘Sharpen your axes!’ he commanded, ‘and send word to the Snetterbarks and the Snatchwoods! Tomorrow we and our guests here go in search of the bloodoak!’

Maris rushed over to Quint, who was smiling broadly.

‘Quint! Is this true?’ she said, her eyes blazing with excitement. ‘Can I come, too?
Can
I?’

Quint looked to his father. Wind Jackal laughed, all the cares and worries of the last few weeks seeming to fall away in front of their eyes.

‘Of course, Maris!’ he said. ‘Though there’ll be no tramping along woodtroll paths for us, for on this expedition, the
Galerider
comes too!’

His words were almost lost in the tumult that had erupted at the timber-master’s announcement as the great table was swiftly cleared and woodtrolls rushed to their cabins to prepare for the momentous event to come. Steg, Maris and Quint gathered round Wind Jackal as he issued instructions for the preparation of the sky ship.

‘Steg, I want harpoons, cutlasses, saws and axes sharpened and greased. Maris and Quint, I want three hammocks strung up in the cargo-hold - and make sure the water butts are full. Tem, check the ropes and …’ His voice softened. ‘Tem?’

But the young fore-decker wasn’t listening. Instead, he sat by himself at the great circular redoak, now cleared, his eyes wide with horror and his mouth twitching as he muttered the same word over and over in a quavering voice.

‘Bloodoak … Bloodoak … Bloodoak …’

*

Spillins patted the soft weave of the caterbird cocoon and sighed.

‘Well, Lorkel, I envy you your fine nest and beautiful tree. You’ve picked a wonderful spot, and no mistake.’

Lorkel the oakelf gazed into his new acquaintance’s large dark eyes with large dark eyes of his own.

‘You don’t fool me, Spillins, my friend,’ he chuckled. ‘For all the storm-damage and worn weaves, you’ve never once regretted hanging your caterbird cocoon from a sky-ship mast … This forest glade is far too quiet for you, and you know it.’

Spillins chuckled in reply. ‘That’s true, Lorkel. The
Galerider
will always be my home …’ His face darkened. ‘And yet.…’

Lorkel gazed into Spillins’s eyes. ‘You are troubled.’

Spillins nodded. ‘My captain’s aura,’ he said slowly, ‘is cloudy and sick-looking. And as for the young sky pirate, Thaw,
his
aura is even more worrying …’

Lorkel nodded and laid a wizened hand on Spillins’s shoulder. ‘Auras can be difficult,’ he said. ‘But always remember, Spillins, my friend, though someone’s
aura may sicken, it can also heal - given time.’

Spillins’s large dark eyes seemed to glaze over. ‘That’s part of the problem,’ he whispered. ‘I think time is running out…’

By late morning, as the dappled sunlight was streaming down onto the mooring-platforms and docking-rings, the
Galerider
was packed up and ready to leave.

The goodbyes were a heartfelt affair for the woodtroll timberers. Members of the eighteen-strong band bade farewell to their families and friends, with young’uns clinging round the legs of their fathers, refusing to let go. After much kissing and hugging, tears and shouts of
good luck!
and
safe path! -
this last shout greeted by nervous looks and more tears from the matrons and young’uns - everyone finally climbed aboard.

Steg Jambles unhitched the tolley-rope and leaped back over the balustrade and - with Thaw Daggerslash cooling the flight-rock and Wind Jackal at the helm -the great
Galerider
slipped its moorings and rose gracefully into the air. Below them, the whoops and cheers of the waving crowd below grew faint as the ascent gathered speed, and the sky ship soared off above the trees.

Chopley Polestick extricated himself from the band of woodtrolls - who were sitting cross-legged on the deck in a circle, their arms wrapped round each other’s shoulders and humming softly - and joined Wind Jackal
at the helm. It was the first time the timber-master’s feet had been so far from the ground, and he felt dizzy and slightly sick.

‘Is … is it always this … this
shuddery?’
he asked, as the sky ship passed through a covering of low cloud.

‘Shuddery?’ said Wind Jackal, laughing out loud.

‘It’s … it’s a woodtroll expression,’ said the timber-master, reddening. ‘How we describe standing on an unstable branch …’

Wind Jackal clapped his hands round the woodtroll’s shoulder. ‘You’ll soon find your sky-legs,’ he assured him. ‘And once you do, who knows? - Maybe you might even prefer the
Galerider
to those well-trodden paths of yours.’

Chopley smiled queasily. ‘I doubt it, Captain. Though I must admit, this view is better than any I’ve ever seen - even from the tallest ironwood pine.’

Wind Jackal’s hands darted over the flight-levers, though his gaze remained on the timber-master.

‘What exactly should we be looking for?’ he asked, as the woodtroll scanned the vast carpet of treetops spread out below.

Chopley shook his head. ‘Difficult to say, Captain,’ he said, still wobbly on his feet and clutching the balustrade. ‘Certainly it’s impossible to spot a bloodoak from above. Its glade is dark and concealed beneath the forest canopy. No, what we must look out for are the signs …’

‘Signs?’ asked Wind Jackal.

‘Small, open glades. Perhaps a ring of them - although
sometimes, they may lie scattered in groups of two or three,’ said the woodtroll. ‘They’re where the tarry vine ensnares its prey. The tree itself will lie some way off, hidden. To find the bloodoak, Captain, we’ll have to hunt on foot. Only down there,’ Chopley pointed a stubby finger down into the depths of the forest, ‘can we hope to track it down.’

‘More signs?’ Wind Jackal smiled grimly.

The woodtroll nodded. ‘Small but important signs,’ he replied.
‘Vital
signs!’ he added. ‘After all, our very lives will depend on them.’ His face grew more serious. ‘The first is a quality of the air. In our woodlore, it is known as
deathstillness -
a deep oppressive silence that surrounds the tree, devoid of birdsong or creature cry of any kind. Then there is the smell: the
underscent.
Thick, sickly, rancid, it is. Once smelled, never forgotten.’