Free Stormchaser by Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell Page B

wreck of a sky ship which lay half-buried in the mud like a giant skeleton. Unblinking, Screed kept his eyes fixed on the glinting ribs of the broken hull. Closer and closerhe came. Not once did he falter. Not once did he look back.
    ‘At last,’ Screed muttered as he made it to the wreck. He glanced round for any tell-tale sign of intrusion and, when he was satisfied there was no-one and nothing there, he scuttled into the shadowy recesses of the lopsided shipwreck.

    If some intruder had taken the opportunity to investigate the place during its owner's absence, he, she or it would have been left shaking with disbelief at the horrors the ship concealed. The dank air, for a start, was thick with the pungent stench of death. And then there were the walls – studded their length and breadth with mummified toes, nailed to the wood.
    There were big toes, small toes, hairy toes, scaly toes, toes with razor-sharp talons, toes with claws, toes with webbing – all of them shrivelled and black. And thesewere just a fraction of the total number – the select few – for at the far end of the hull in a massive wedge-shaped drift, were thousands upon thousands more.
    Screed sloshed his way along the sky ship. He didn’t register the gory trophies lining the walls, neither did he notice the awful stench; to Screed Toe-taker, the wreck of the Windcutter simply smelled of home.
    He hung the lantern on a hook above a huge chest of ironwood and glass, opened the lid, crouched down and set to work. One by one he pulled the severed toes from his bag and, like an insane manicurist, scraped beneath the nails with a small file. Tiny particles of dust – some glistening white, some tinged with sepia – dropped down into the chest with the rest. And when he was satisfied that every speck had been removed, he tossed the toes on to the great heap with the others.
    Finally done, Screed stared down with dreamy contentment into the chest. It was more than three-quarters full of the toe-nail scrapings. ‘Oh, my beea-oootiful looty-booty,’ he whispered. ‘One day you will fill the chest, right up to the top. One day soon, Sky willing. And on that wondrous day, then maybe – just maybe – shall my quest be at an end.’
    Screed stood up, slammed the lid shut, and stepped outside. The long night was over. To his left, the tell-tale purple clouds of a gathering storm were rolling in from the retreating darkness. To his right and far away in the distance, was a sky ship, silhouetted against the rising sun.
    Both were coming closer.

• CHAPTER SEVEN •
A SSENT AND B ETRAYAL
    M other Horsefeather watched uneasily as the ancient figure approached Cloud Wolf. She knew from bitter experience that it could be disastrous to allow the different parties – the supply and demand, so to speak – to meet. Far better to remain in the middle: fixing the deal, pulling the strings. And yet, as Forficule had pointed out, since she had singularly failed to persuade Cloud Wolf to embark on the journey, the newcomer was their only hope.
    He leaned forwards and tapped Cloud Wolf with his staff. ‘Arise, Quintinius Verginix,’ he said.
    Twig watched his father climb to his feet and look up. He saw his eyes gleaming with reverence, with respect, and at that moment, Twig knew with absolute certainty who the old, shabbily dressed person must be. It was his father's erstwhile patron and mentor, the Professor of Light.
    ‘It has been a long time, Quintinius,’ he said. ‘The finest Knight Academic in a hundred generations, you were – yet…’ He paused and looked at Twig, seeing him for the first time. ‘Who is this, Horsefeather?’ he demanded.
    ‘The lad is with me,’ Cloud Wolf answered for her. ‘Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of him.’
    ‘Are you sure?’ the professor asked.
    ‘Quite sure,’ said Cloud Wolf, polite yet firm.
    The Professor of Light nodded resignedly. ‘We failed you, Quintinius Verginix. I appreciate that.