Stormchaser by Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell Page B

than any other sky pirate ship.
    It was, however, the harshness of his justice which now kept Twig cowering in the flat-head's berth, too nervous to appear until Slyvo Spleethe had spoken up for him. He had no option but to wait.
    ‘Storm to starboard, and advancing,’ came Spiker's shrill cry. ‘Three minutes to contact, and closing.’
    ‘Belay that skysail,’ roared Cloud Wolf. ‘And check all winding-cleats.’
    As the sky ship pitched abruptly to the left, Twig clutched hold of the main stanchion and clung on tightly. He knew the turbulence was a mere foretaste of what was to come. Normally at this point, with a storm so close, the Stormchaser would descend, drop anchor and remain there until it had passed. But not today.
    Today, the sky ship would greet the storm up in the sky. It would tack closer and closer, until it was drawn into the hurricane-force slip-stream and be whisked away. Ever faster the Stormchaser would fly, inching its way round to the head of the storm. Then, when Cloud Wolf judged the moment to be right, it would spin round and pierce the outer shell of the maelstrom.
    This was the most dangerous moment of all. If the Stormchaser flew too slowly, it would break up in the violent air. If it flew too fast, then there was always the risk that they would pass straight through the storm, emerge on the other side and watch helplessly as the Great Storm continued without them. In either event, their quest for stormphrax would be over.
    No, Twig had heard that there was only one way to penetrate the inner calm of a Great Storm safely, and that was to hold the sky ship at a thirty-five degree angle against the windspin – at least, that was the theory. Yet, as the sky ship bucked and turned and Twig held on for grim death, the Stormchaser struck him as absurdly small and fragile for so daunting a task, no matter what angle they chose.
    ‘One minute to contact, and counting,’ Spiker shouted above the oncoming roar.
    ‘Secure that spinnaker!’ Cloud Wolf screamed. ‘And Spiker, get down from the caternest, NOW !’
    Twig had never heard such urgency in Cloud Wolf's voice before. What must it look like, he wondered, this Great Storm which filled his father – the esteemed Quintinius Verginix – with so much terror and awe? He had to see for himself.
    Hand over hand, he pulled himself along a crossbeam towards the hull. Although there were no portholes down this deep in the sky ship, the cracks between the curving planks of lufwood were, in places, wide enough to see through. Wedge-shaped chinks of light sliced through the gloom. Reaching the hull at last, Twig knelt down and peered into the cracks.
    Below him, he saw the featureless wasteland of the Mire stretching out in every direction. The white mud rippled in the wind, as if the entire wasteland had been transformed into a vast ocean. And there, to complete the illusion, was a ship.
    ‘Except it's not sailing,’ Twig muttered as he squinted at the distant shipwreck. ‘And probably never will again.’
    As the Stormchaser sped onwards, Twig realized that the ship had not been abandoned. There was someone there: a tall, thin figure, brandishing his fist at the sky. As colourless as his surroundings, he was well camouflaged. Twig wouldn’t have noticed him at all had it not been for the bright lightning of the approaching storm glinting on the dagger clenched in his fist.
    Was it the storm he was cursing? Twig wondered. Or was it the sight of the Stormchaser itself, passing overhead, that had filled the curious bleached individual with such anger?

    The next instant, both he and the shipwreck were gone. Lightning-dazzle briefly lit up the flat-head's disgusting quarters. The air crackled and hissed. Twig struggled to his feet and peered through a chink higher up the hull, wincing as the onrush of air stung his eyes. He wiped his tears away on his sleeve and squinted back through the gap in the wood.
    ‘Sky above!’ he cried out.
    Directly in