Read Online Stormchaser by Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell
Tags: Ages 10 and up
Ads: Link
he stared in through the open door, that there was not a single Edge creature, tribe or profession not represented in the throbbing room.
The cloddertrog on the door recognized Cloud Wolf at once. He informed them that Mother Horsefeather was ‘somewhere hereabouts’ and waved them through. Sticking close to him as Cloud Wolf carved a route across the room, Twig tried hard not to knock anyone's drinks as he went. Flat-heads were notoriously volatile and throats had been slit for far less than a tankard of spilled woodale before now. Jostled and crushed in the sweaty, steaming surge of bodies, it occurred to Twig that the Bloodoak was exactly the right name for the tavern after all.
The owner of the tavern was over by the rear exit. She looked up as Cloud Wolf approached.
‘Mother Horsefeather,’ he said. ‘I trust I find you well.’
‘Well enough,’ came the guarded reply.
She turned and stared down at Twig questioningly.
‘Ah yes,’ said Cloud Wolf. ‘This is Twig. Twig, Mother Horsefeather. I want him to sit in on our meeting.’
Twig trembled under the ferocious gaze of the creaturein front of him. Of course, he’d seen Mother Horsefeather before, but always at a distance. Close up, she was imposing, intimidating.
As tall as Cloud Wolf himself, she had beady yellow eyes, a sharp hooked beak and a ruff of crimson feathers around her neck. Her arms, too, were fringed with feathers which, since she was standing with her taloned hands clasped together, hugged her like a purple and orange shawl. Twig found himself wondering whether, under the voluminous yellow dress, her whole body was covered with the same magnificent plumage.
All at once, he became aware of someone sniggering to his right. He turned. And there, perched on a bar-stool, was a slight, almost luminous creature, grinning from ear to huge bat-like ear.
Mother Horsefeather raised a feathery eyebrow and glared at Twig menacingly. ‘This is Forficule,’ she said, and returned her unblinking gaze to Cloud Wolf. ‘He, too, will be present during our little talk,’ she told him.
Cloud Wolf shrugged. ‘It's all the same to me,’ he said, then added as if Forficule were not there, ‘What is it? Looks like the runt of an oakelf litter.’
Mother Horsefeather's beak clacked with sudden amusement. ‘He's my little treasure-weasure,’ she whispered. ‘Aren’t you, Forfy? Right then,’ she announced to the rest. ‘Follow me. We’ll find it much easier to talk in the quiet of the back room.’ And with that, she turned on her talon-toes and disappeared through the door. Cloud Wolf and Twig followed her, with Forficule bringing up the rear.
The room was hot, airless, clammy; it smelled of decay. And as Twig took his place at the small, square table, he felt increasingly uneasy. To his left was his father; to his right, Mother Horsefeather; while opposite him sat Forficule, eyes shut, ears trembling. The fur of his hammelhornskin waistcoat prickled beneath Twig's fingers.
Mother Horsefeather placed her scaly hands in front of her, one on top of the other, and smiled at Cloud Wolf. ‘Well, well,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Here we are again.’
‘Indeed,’ said Cloud Wolf. ‘And may I say how hale and hearty you are looking tonight, Mother Horsefeather – and how much yellow suits you.’
‘Oh, Wolfie!’ she said, preening despite herself. ‘You old flatterer!’
‘But I mean every word,’ Cloud Wolf insisted.
‘You, too, are as dashing as ever,’ Mother Horsefeather clucked admiringly.
Twig looked at his father. It was true. In his ornate sky pirate regalia – with its ruffs and tassels and gleaming golden buttons – Cloud Wolf looked magnificent. Then, with a sudden shiver, Twig recalled how angry his father's face had turned when he had let go of the helm; when the Stormchaser had gone into a downward spin. How he had cursed when their precious cargo of ironwood had tumbled down out of the sky.
He looked up. Forficule
The cloddertrog on the door recognized Cloud Wolf at once. He informed them that Mother Horsefeather was ‘somewhere hereabouts’ and waved them through. Sticking close to him as Cloud Wolf carved a route across the room, Twig tried hard not to knock anyone's drinks as he went. Flat-heads were notoriously volatile and throats had been slit for far less than a tankard of spilled woodale before now. Jostled and crushed in the sweaty, steaming surge of bodies, it occurred to Twig that the Bloodoak was exactly the right name for the tavern after all.
The owner of the tavern was over by the rear exit. She looked up as Cloud Wolf approached.
‘Mother Horsefeather,’ he said. ‘I trust I find you well.’
‘Well enough,’ came the guarded reply.
She turned and stared down at Twig questioningly.
‘Ah yes,’ said Cloud Wolf. ‘This is Twig. Twig, Mother Horsefeather. I want him to sit in on our meeting.’
Twig trembled under the ferocious gaze of the creaturein front of him. Of course, he’d seen Mother Horsefeather before, but always at a distance. Close up, she was imposing, intimidating.
As tall as Cloud Wolf himself, she had beady yellow eyes, a sharp hooked beak and a ruff of crimson feathers around her neck. Her arms, too, were fringed with feathers which, since she was standing with her taloned hands clasped together, hugged her like a purple and orange shawl. Twig found himself wondering whether, under the voluminous yellow dress, her whole body was covered with the same magnificent plumage.
All at once, he became aware of someone sniggering to his right. He turned. And there, perched on a bar-stool, was a slight, almost luminous creature, grinning from ear to huge bat-like ear.
Mother Horsefeather raised a feathery eyebrow and glared at Twig menacingly. ‘This is Forficule,’ she said, and returned her unblinking gaze to Cloud Wolf. ‘He, too, will be present during our little talk,’ she told him.
Cloud Wolf shrugged. ‘It's all the same to me,’ he said, then added as if Forficule were not there, ‘What is it? Looks like the runt of an oakelf litter.’
Mother Horsefeather's beak clacked with sudden amusement. ‘He's my little treasure-weasure,’ she whispered. ‘Aren’t you, Forfy? Right then,’ she announced to the rest. ‘Follow me. We’ll find it much easier to talk in the quiet of the back room.’ And with that, she turned on her talon-toes and disappeared through the door. Cloud Wolf and Twig followed her, with Forficule bringing up the rear.
The room was hot, airless, clammy; it smelled of decay. And as Twig took his place at the small, square table, he felt increasingly uneasy. To his left was his father; to his right, Mother Horsefeather; while opposite him sat Forficule, eyes shut, ears trembling. The fur of his hammelhornskin waistcoat prickled beneath Twig's fingers.
Mother Horsefeather placed her scaly hands in front of her, one on top of the other, and smiled at Cloud Wolf. ‘Well, well,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Here we are again.’
‘Indeed,’ said Cloud Wolf. ‘And may I say how hale and hearty you are looking tonight, Mother Horsefeather – and how much yellow suits you.’
‘Oh, Wolfie!’ she said, preening despite herself. ‘You old flatterer!’
‘But I mean every word,’ Cloud Wolf insisted.
‘You, too, are as dashing as ever,’ Mother Horsefeather clucked admiringly.
Twig looked at his father. It was true. In his ornate sky pirate regalia – with its ruffs and tassels and gleaming golden buttons – Cloud Wolf looked magnificent. Then, with a sudden shiver, Twig recalled how angry his father's face had turned when he had let go of the helm; when the Stormchaser had gone into a downward spin. How he had cursed when their precious cargo of ironwood had tumbled down out of the sky.
He looked up. Forficule
Similar Books
