The Winter Knights Read online

  ‘The biggest, strongest and most magnificent prowlgrin of all in the knights’ roost pillar!’

  Quint gazed across at the grand roost pillar situated at the centre of the Hall of Grey Cloud. It was in its thick, jutting branches that the thirteen mighty ‘stormchaser’ prowlgrins perched – each one the chosen mount of a knight academic-in-waiting. Unlike the lesser prowlgrins in the other roost pillars, these prowlgrins had names – Felvix, Borix, Demquix … They had all been trained with one aim in mind – to travel with their masters to the Twilight Woods on stormchasing quests.

  Along the branch from where Phin and Quint's pups were roosting, Vilnix was doing less well. His pup was a sad, thin creature with rheumy eyes and patchy fur. Quint suspected that if it wasn't for Vilnix's neglect, the pup would have been as fit and healthy as their own. But, true to form, Vilnix was having none of it.

  ‘It's not my fault,’ he'd storm. ‘The stupid creature won't feed properly! Besides, how am I meant to look after it all on my own? You lot help each other … It's not fair.’

  It was true, Quint realized. The other squires had teamed up and helped each other. The thing was, Vilnix was so unpleasant and rude, nobody had wanted to work with him. Now he seemed to sleep half the time and often forgot to feed the poor animal. Quint had taken pity on it and, whenever he could, would haul an extra bucket of offal up to the branch to feed Vilnix's pup.

  It was on just such an occasion when it happened.

  Three months had passed and Quint awoke in his dormitory sleeping closet, his back aching and his arms sore from stablework. He didn't need the dawn gong to wake him up any longer. No matter how tired he felt, just the thought of the pup waiting for him was all he needed to send him hurrying to the Hall of Grey Cloud.

  But on that particular morning, the moment he had climbed the roost pillar and stepped onto the branch, he knew that something was wrong.

  The prowlgrin pups were skittish and agitated, and above them the brood-prowlgrins were whinnying and snorting. Quint struggled along the branch with two laden offal buckets. The first, he hooked onto the branch at the feet of his prowlgrin pup, who bent down and guzzled greedily at the bucket's contents. He was about to hook the second offal bucket for Phin's pup when his gaze wandered along the branch.

  There, slumped on its side, its breathing coming in laboured bursts, was Vilnix's pup. It looked terrible, its eyes sunk deep into its sockets and its ribs showing. Quint approached and kneeled down, and stroked the poor creature's patchy fur.

  ‘There, there, boy,’ he said gently. ‘Here, try some of this.’

  The pup's nostrils quivered and a dull, glassy eye swivelled to meet Quint's gaze. With a grunt of effort, the pup hauled itself unsteadily to its feet and opened its mouth. Carefully, Quint scooped the steaming offal onto the prowlgrin's lolling tongue. The pup flicked it back and swallowed greedily. Quint scooped up some more.

  ‘You're starving!’ he muttered angrily. ‘Just you wait. I'll give that Vilnix Pompolnius a piece of my mind …’

  ‘Vilnix Pompolnius,’ came a low voice, and Quint looked up to see Fenviel Vendix standing over him, a look of fury on his face. ‘Vilnix Pompolnius!’

  Quint reddened. ‘Please, sir, it's probably not his fault …’ he began, not wanting to get another squire into trouble.

  ‘Starving!’ barked the hall master, clenching the riding crop and striding back across the branch.

  Above him, the brood prowlgrins yelped and growled, as if sensing his displeasure. From down below there came barked commands, and moments later Quint found himself surrounded by grooms and byre-gillies.

  ‘It's all right, lad, we'll take over from here,’ said one of the grooms as they gently lifted the pup from the branch.

  ‘We'll take him to the old'uns’ roost and feed him up, don't you worry,’ said another, and shook his head as they shuffled back along the branch.

  ‘There's always one in every bunch, too stupid or lazy to raise a pup,’ the first one said, ‘and the amazing thing is’ – he looked over his shoulder at Quint – ‘the other squires always try to cover up for them!’

  ‘Stick together, don't they?’ snorted a byre-gillie, scooping up an armful of hay and following the group. ‘Sort things out amongst themselves. Always have, always will.’

  Quint stared after them unhappily. He felt angry and ashamed. Angry that Vilnix had neglected the pup and that he hadn't stopped him; ashamed that he'd covered up for him – and that he'd been found out. He turned and made his way miserably out of the Hall of Grey Cloud and towards the central staircase.

  Outside, a fierce wind continued to buffet the Knights Academy and whistle through its corridors. Quint pulled his cape around his shoulders and climbed slowly up the spiralling stairs. Halfway up, he bumped into Phin, his hair sticking up and his clothes dishevelled.

  ‘Quint! There you are. You'll never guess what,’ he babbled excitedly. ‘Fenviel Vendix just came storming into the dormitories and hauled old Vilnix out of his closet by the scruff of the neck. Hopping mad he was about how he'd been treating his prowlgrin! Somebody must have told on him! Do you reckon it was one of the grooms? Tuggel, maybe? Or one of the byre-gillies? They all hate him, you know. One thing's for certain.’ He grabbed Quint's arm and steered him back down in the direction of the Eightways, from which the smell of freshly baked semmelseed cakes was wafting. ‘It couldn't have been a squire.’

  ‘What's that?’ said Quint, numbly, a hollow in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘I said,’ Phin repeated earnestly, ‘it couldn't have been a squire, Quint. After all, we squires stick together, don't we?’

  •CHAPTER TEN•

  SCREEDIUS TOLLINIX

  Ahushed stillness hung over the Hall of Grey Cloud as Quint walked through it that cold, overcast evening. Most of the roost pillars were empty and those that weren't had exhausted prowlgrins draped across their branches, fast asleep and softly snoring. Apart from them, the only sounds came from the central roost, where the magnificent stormchasing prowlgrins grumbled and purred, and from the nursery pillars, where the soft mewling cries of the most recently hatched pups trembled in the chilly air.

  Not that the Hall of Grey Cloud was any different from the rest of the Knights Academy or, for that matter, from the towers and walkways of Sanctaphrax beyond. The stranglehold of deepest winter had still not relaxed its grip. Every day, as the ice-storms and blizzards blew in from Open Sky, the great floating city was wrapped up in a fresh blanket of smothering snow. Once, Sanctaphrax had been a city of sounds, but no longer. Now, after the howling roar of the latest storm abated, the ice froze the music of the towers, and the drifts of fresh snow muffled the sounds in the streets.

  Quint reached the foot of a roost pillar, beside which a crackling brazier burned with a fierce purple light. There were squat, black braziers of burning lufwood at the foot of each roost pillar, with several more clustered together at the centre of the hall. They had been installed at Fen-viel Vendix's insistence after several in the prowlgrin flocks had developed hacking coughs. The blazing stoves took the chill off the roosts above, but with the bitter cold seeping through every crack and crevice of the hall, the luf-wood logs they burned had to be constantly replenished.

  ‘Warm enough, I hope, you bouncing sacks of guts!’ came a bitter sneering voice.

  Quint turned to see Vilnix coming towards him. Dressed up against the cold in thick leggings, heavy boots, a tilderfleece and a down-filled waistcoat, his movements were stiff. Dragging a cart laden with logs with one hand, he shook a fist at the roosting prowlgrins high above him with the other. When he noticed Quint, he stopped and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

  ‘Oh, it's you again,’ he said. ‘Come to pamper that prowlgrin of yours, I suppose.’

  Quint glanced up at the branch above where, three from the end, his pup – now a half-yearling and almost fully grown – nestled drowsily. With its magnificent orange coat and thick, glossy chin-mane, Quint would have known the creat
ure anywhere. It stood a good stride taller than its companions and was, Quint felt sure, destined for the central roost one day.

  ‘No, he's fine,’ he said. ‘Aren't you, Tash?’ He smiled. ‘It's you I came to find, Vilnix. I thought you might like a little help.’

  Ever since the neglect of Vilnix's own pup had come to light, Fenviel had assigned the squire to stove duty. ‘Logs,’ he'd ordered simply in his low, expressionless voice, and strode away – but every squire could tell the depth of the hall master's displeasure from the angry welt that ran the length of Vilnix's left cheek. Even now, weeks later, it was still raised and red from where Fenviel's riding crop had struck. And even though it had been an unfortunate accident, every time Quint saw it, he felt a sharp pang of guilt for having landed a fellow squire in trouble.

  Vilnix shrugged and stepped away from the log cart. ‘Be my guest,’ he said grudgingly, and went over to lean against the roost pillar.

  Quint rolled up his sleeves and began to unload the logs and stack them as close to the glowing brazier as he dared. Quint had lost his mother and five brothers in a terrible fire and now, despite the burnished metal that encased the blazing logs, the flames still made him shudder.

  ‘I was wrong about you,’ said Vilnix, stretching lazily. ‘You're not like those other stuck-up squires. Tonsor. Stupid, grinning Phin. They're all the same …’

  ‘Phin's a friend of mine,’ said Quint quietly, opening the stove door and gingerly throwing a log inside.

  ‘They do whatever that brute, Fenviel, barks at them,’ Vilnix went on, ignoring him. ‘But you, Quintinius, you're different. Yo u can tell that I'm being picked on by the hall master, just because my prowlgrin fell sick. I mean, it's simply not fair!’

  Quint bit his lip and continued feeding the brazier with logs until it glowed brightly and the roost branches above filled with appreciative purrs. He'd heard it all before. Every evening when he came to lend a hand, Vilnix would trot out the same old story …

  ‘Why me?’ he said, his voice high-pitched and indignant. ‘It's because I'm clever. Yes, that's what it is. I might not be Sanctaphrax born and bred, but I'm smarter than them. All of them. And my mentor is the Professor of Darkness – one of the twin Most High Academes no less – and they hate me for it!’

  His stare hardened, and Quint knew what was coming next. He busied himself with another log.

  ‘Why, if I ever find out who told on me to the hall master, I'll … I'll …’ Vilnix slapped the roost pillar with the flat of his hand, his face white with a mixture of rage and self pity.

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Quint quickly, feeling his own face flush bright crimson. ‘Why don't you let me finish the other stoves while you get a spot of supper at the Eightways. It's hammelhorn steaks tonight, I think.’

  Vilnix paused for a moment. ‘No, you're not like the others,’ he said, turning and sloping off, his bony shoulders hunched. ‘I won't forget, Quintinius. I won't forget.’

  It took four more trips to the log store before all the stoves were replenished and blazing brightly. Quint's back ached from hauling the heavy cart back and forth. With a sigh, he propped the wretched contraption against one of the cluster of stoves that heated the central roost, and slumped wearily to his haunches – which is where, moments later, Raffix Emilius, the Upper Hall squire, found him.

  ‘Not covering for that miserable, sour-faced squire again, are you?’ he said, shaking his head with disbelief. ‘Why do you do it, Quint?’

  ‘Oh, Vilnix isn't that bad,’ Quint said, climbing to his feet.

  ‘No?’ said Raffix, sounding doubtful. ‘From what I understand, he deliberately starved a pup. No wonder Fenviel lost his temper. If it had been up to me, I'd have thrown him out of the academy.’ He frowned. ‘What I don't understand though, Quint, old chap, is why you insist on doing his punishment for him.’

  ‘Squires should stick together,’ said Quint quietly.

  ‘Everybody knows that, Quint, but it doesn't mean having to do another fellow's punishments …’

  ‘You don't understand, Raff,’ said Quint, blushing. ‘The thing is …’ He scanned the hall about them, to make sure they couldn't be overheard. ‘I let it slip that Vilnix was neglecting that pup. Fenviel heard me and stormed off. That was when he struck him with that riding crop of his.’

  Raffix winced. ‘Yes, well, that was rather unfortunate, but the miserable squire undoubtedly deserved it.’ He shook his head. ‘Still, you being an honourable squire and all, I can see why you feel the need to help him …’

  Raffix put a hand on Quint's shoulder as they walked back through the hall.

  ‘Leave this with me, Quint, old chap. I'll have a word with the hall master. See if he can't ease off on Vilnix a little – and then you can stop doing his chores for him and concentrate on prowlgrin riding. Talking of which …’ The Upper Hall squire's face broke into a broad smile. ‘I don't suppose you'd care to join me in an evening gallop?’

  Quint spun round excitedly. ‘In the Inner Courtyard? You bet! I'll just go and saddle up Tash!’

  Raffix's eyebrows shot upwards. ‘Don't let Fenviel catch you calling him that,’ he laughed as Quint hurried back to the roost pillar. ‘No names, remember!’

  Just then there came a whole lot of noise from the far end of the hall. There was grunting and wheezing, heavy footfall and urgent commands.

  A moment later, the tall doors burst open and, under the supervision of a rowdy band of goblin grooms and stable-hands, each one dressed in heavy boots, fur-lined hats and over-smocks of finest hammelhorn leather, a long column of exhausted-looking prowlgrins appeared. They tramped inside, whinnying and snorting. Orange, black, brown, grey, piebald and skewbald – there was even an albino in amongst them, with snow-white fur and huge pink eyes. The one thing they all had in common was that their fur was steaming, with thick swirls of mist coiling up off their backs.

  These were the flocks returning from the giant treadmill on the West Landing. All day, they had been patiently trotting on the huge ironwood wheel, powering it as it winched a vast log burner up and down the surface of the Sanctaphrax rock. As the burner moved, so it came close to the rock face, warming the chilled stonecomb within and helping to make the great floating rock less buoyant.

  Quint reached the roost pillar and hurriedly climbed it. All round him, he could see the roost branches of the other roost pillars filling up as the tired creatures leaped up to them with the last of their strength.

  Soon, the flocks working on the giant treadmill on the East Landing would also return. The giant log burner suspended from that side of the rock balanced the effect of its counterpart, and consumed whole tree-trunks at the same prodigious rate. There would, however, be fewer prowlgrins returning from the East Landing, since a pair of giant tree fromps had been brought up from Undertown to aid them in their labours. Even so, with their arrival, the prowlgrin roosts would be full again.

  ‘Hello, Tash,’ grinned Quint as he patted his prowlgrin tenderly on its quivering nostrils. ‘Did you miss me? Time to stretch those legs of yours!’

  He swung the tilderleather saddle onto his prowl-grin's back, and the creature gave a whinnying cry of excitement in reply.

  Already the squeals and barks of the second group of returning prowlgrins could be heard approaching the hall. Their daily labours done, they were looking forward to their rest on the heated roost branches. In fact, it was the source of that heat – the braziers Fenviel had installed – that had given the Professors of Light and Darkness the idea for the giant log burners that now glowed day and night on either side of the great floating rock.

  It wasn't, however, a permanent solution. It could never be, for the giant log burners needed huge quantities of timber to do their work – timber that had to be shipped in from the distant Deepwoods. And in this perilously cold weather, that was no easy task.

  League ships (and the occasional sky ship of an enterprising sky pirate captain intent on undercutting the leagues’ prices)
landed at the boom-docks constantly, where they unloaded their cargoes of timber logs. Lufwood and lullabee burned best, the latter filling the air with eerie strains of music, but the leaguesmen liked to carry the denser leadwood too, in an attempt to counter the extreme buoyancy of the chilled flight-rock. There were few accidents on the incoming journeys. The return flights, however, in the unloaded sky ships, were a different matter entirely, with several vessels losing control and soaring off into Open Sky.

  From the boom-docks, the logs were transported on the backs of flat wagons. They were driven by mobgnomes and cloddertrogs, and drawn by teams of hammelhorns through the snowbound streets of Undertown to Anchor Chain Square. There, each day at dawn, the log burners were lowered and replenished before being winched up to resume their vital task.

  Quint watched the latest returning prowlgrins climb wearily up to their perches, while the ostlers and stable-hands rushed about, delivering buckets of refreshing water and nourishing offal.

  ‘Come on, Tash,’ he urged, jumping into the saddle and twitching the reins. ‘Let's go and find Raffix before it gets too crowded to move.’

  With a low growl, Quint's prowlgrin hopped down to the floor a dozen strides below. It landed soundlessly beside the glowing brazier and, at Quint's tugged command, headed towards the central roost pillar. There they met Raffix – who was sitting on the tall, dark brown prowlgrin that he had raised from a pup – and the pair of prowlgrins loped off on powerful legs to the far end of the hall, where high doors led to the Inner Courtyard.

  Quint had thought that the hall itself was cold, despite the braziers, yet as he led his prowlgrin out through the doorway, the blistering icy air struck him like a vicious slap in the face. It was so cold it snatched his breath away, leaving his nostrils stinging and his eyes watering.

  Bathed in moonlight and shrouded in the latest fall of snow, the Inner Courtyard resembled a vast blank barkscroll. On the far side, a row of tall posts ran along the curve of the West Wall, stopping just short of the low entrance to the Gates of Humility. At irregular intervals up the central trunk were thin horizontal branches of varying strength, which criss-crossed from one post to the next, creating a thicket of timber. These were the tilt trees, on which the abilities of the ablest prowlgrin and rider could be tested to the limit.