The Winter Knights (31 page)

Then he'd dashed away before she could stop him.

What a strange barkscroll it had been, summoning her here to the Loftus Observatory with no explanation. And the handwriting! A thin, spidery scrawl so unlike Quint's usual beautiful penmanship.

Something was wrong, Maris was certain, and now she was going to get to the bottom of it. Pushing open the door to the observatory, she began to climb the stairs, two at a time. By the time she'd reached the circular Observatory Chamber, Maris was panting with exertion. Outside, high up at the top of the Great Hall, the bell chimed a quarter off eight hours.

‘Quint?’ she called, rushing to the door to the north gantry platform and stepping through it. ‘Quint? Are you there?’

Quint strode towards the Loftus Observatory through the thick snow. In the distance, the Great Hall bell was chiming a quarter off eight hours. His heavy black cape billowed out behind him as he quickened his pace, the glowing lamp-staff in his gauntleted fist throwing a glinting light onto the battered old suit of armour he wore.

How inconvenient of his mentor, the Professor of Light, to summon him to the Loftus Observatory on this morning of all mornings, Quint thought.

Until about a couple of hours ago, the plan that Quint, Phin, Stope and Raffix had been working on for weeks now had been going perfectly. Stope's work in the forge was completed, Raffix had prepared the
Galerider
and Phin had retrieved the light-casket from Philius Embertine's bedchamber. All that had been left was for Quint to equip himself. He'd sneaked down to the lecture theatre in the Hall of White Cloud and carefully unhooked the old knight academic armour from its stand. It was surprisingly light, and Quint had experienced a guilty thrill as, piece by piece, he'd buckled the armour on.

So this is what it felt like to be a knight academic in full armour, he'd thought, and smiled to himself.

The suit was clearly too big for him, and was battered and worn, but Quint felt magnificent as he quietly left the hall and made his way up the Central Staircase, taking care to conceal it beneath his heavy black robe. He'd just got to the Central Landing when who should come sneaking up behind him but Vilnix, his thin face red from running, and his voice an urgent, panting whisper.

‘Thank Sky I've found you, Quint! I've been looking for you everywhere. Why aren't you in your study?’ Vilnix had gasped.

‘I couldn't sleep,’ Quint had lied. The last thing they needed was the sneaky squire discovering their plan. Fortunately, Vilnix seemed to have other things on his mind, for he didn't give Quint's heavy cloak or armoured boots a second glance.

‘That's just as well,’ said Vilnix, ‘because the Professor of Light wants to see you urgently on the north gantry platform of the Loftus Observatory at eight hours. And don't be late,’ he'd said, and smiled wolfishly at Quint. ‘Your very future depends on it!’

Vilnix had gone off, chuckling to himself and rubbing his hands together. Try as he might, Quint couldn't work him out. But then, he thought, as he hurried up to meet Raffix in the Central Hall of the Upper Halls, he had more important things than the workings of Vilnix Pompolnius's mind to worry about.

He reached the entrance to the Loftus Observatory and rushed inside. He hoped this meeting with his mentor wouldn't take too long. Raffix and the others were waiting for him back at the Knights Academy. Quint arrived at the Observatory Chamber, gasping for breath. The armour had felt light at first, but now, after climbing all those stairs, it seemed to weigh more than stormphrax itself.

The north gantry door was ajar. Quint walked over to it and pulled it open.

‘Maris!’ he exclaimed. ‘What are
you
doing here?’

Maris turned from the balustrade, a look of joy on her face. ‘Quint!’ she gasped. ‘At last.’

Quint stepped onto the gantry. As he did so, there was a loud
crack
, and the look of joy on Maris's face turned to horror as the platform beneath her feet suddenly gave way.

With lightning reflexes, Quint shot out a gauntleted hand and grasped Maris by the wrist, hanging onto the handle of the creaking gantry door with the other. Below them, the platform clattered and clanged against the sides of the tower as it crashed to the ground. Above him, Quint felt the door hinges shudder as they began to give way. Four metal bolts buckling under the strain was all that stood between them and certain death.

Maris turned a tear-streaked face up towards his, and Quint tightened his grip on her wrist. His arms felt as if they were being wrenched from their sockets, and sharp stabs of pain shot through his shoulders. The gantry door began to buckle and, below him, Maris seemed to sense this …

As she dangled precariously over the edge, she screamed, ‘Save yourself, Quint!’

•CHAPTER NINETEEN•
BLOOD IN THE SNOW

T
he skies over sleeping Sanctaphrax were pitch black, with dark turbulent clouds delaying the onset of dawn. Inside the Hall of White Cloud, although the furnaces had burned down low and needed stoking, the glowing embers cast a soft crimson light throughout the forge.

In the far corner, behind a clump of twisting flue-pipes, a wiry young grey goblin emerged from a nest of rags, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and gathered together the small bundle he'd prepared the previous evening. He slung it over his shoulder and, checking that there was no-one else up and about at such an early hour, he crept softly out of the forge and headed for the Central Staircase.

At the other end of the Knights Academy, in a study alcove of the Academy Barracks, a sleepy-headed academic-at-arms yawned, stretched and scratched his head before climbing gingerly out of bed. He stood for a moment, shivering. The little lufwood stove had gone out in the night, and despite the heavy tilderwool blanket that hung at the entrance, his study alcove was bitterly cold. Still shivering, he grabbed his clothes and hurriedly dressed. Then, having buckled the breast-plate and upper armour of an apprentice swordmaster into place, he hurried off down the corridor towards the Central Staircase.

In the Central Hall of the Upper Halls, a gangly young knight academic-in-waiting with oval spectacles paced the floor. His brow was furrowed. Pausing for a moment beneath one of the tall, ornately decorated pulpits, he reached out and, with his forefinger, traced the twists and curves of a carved tarry-vine with his forefinger. This was the pulpit where the Fellowship of the First Scholars held their debates.

He walked on, looking up at the towering pulpits all round him. In the one to his left, the Knights of the Great Storm held their secretive meetings; and in that one over by the back wall, he knew that the Friends of Mist and Fog would meet to talk endlessly of the weather …

So much discussion and debate, he thought with a wry smile, and pushed his spectacles back up his nose. The Pulpit Societies of the Upper Halls generated enough hot air to warm the Sanctaphrax rock to its core. Yet for all their talk, not one of the squires, knights or high professors who gathered there could explain this endless winter – nor decide what to do about it.

Just then, he heard the sound of footsteps and turned to see two figures approaching. One was a slightly built forge-hand, the other an apprentice swordmaster.

‘Where's Quint?’ the apprentice swordmaster whispered, his face drawn and anxious-looking.

‘He's been called to meet his mentor at the Loftus Observatory at eight hours,’ said the young knight. ‘He only heard a few moments ago …’

‘So what do we do now?’ asked the forge-hand, urgently. ‘We can't call it off. We might not get another chance …’

‘Well, we can't leave Quint behind,’ said the knight, as calmly as he could manage. ‘I think we should go ahead as planned, get everything prepared. Quint will join us as soon as he can. Now,’ he said, with a smile, ‘instead of standing round here debating like some Pulpit Society, let's get a move on.’

They were about to slip away when the sound of more footsteps echoed round the vast, empty hall. The group turned to see a thin, hunched Upper Hall squire crossing the floor, rubbing his hands together gleefully as he did so. Catching sight of the three figures over by the pulpit, the squire paused for a moment. He seemed as surprised as they were to find anyone else up at this hour. He approached them, the smirk on his face changing to a sneer.

‘Who have we here, then?’ he asked. ‘Raffix, Phin! And … let me see … Ah yes, Stope the forge-hand, I remember you …’

‘Vilnix Pompolnius,’ said Raffix. ‘What are you doing creeping about this early in the morning?’

‘I could ask you the same question,’ said Vilnix, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

‘Us?’ said Raffix nonchalantly. ‘Oh, um … We've just formed a Pulpit Society … Though only a small one, you understand …’

‘How interesting,’ Vilnix sneered. ‘And what's this Pulpit Society of yours called?’

‘Called?’ said Raffix, his face reddening.

Vilnix chuckled. ‘You mean to say you've dragged an academic-at-arms and a grubby little forge-hand up from the Lower Halls to form a Pulpit Society, and you haven't even thought up a name?’

‘It's …’ Raffix began.

‘Perhaps
I
can help,’ Vilnix interrupted. ‘The Apprentice Windbags! Or the Ranting Ratbirds … Or no, I've got it – the Boring Barkslugs!’ He sniggered at his own joke.

Raffix bridled, colour flushing his cheeks. ‘If you must know,’ he said stiffly, struggling to come up with a plausible name that would wipe the smile off the squire's smug features, ‘we are called … the Winter Knights.’

*

The bedchamber of the Hall Master of High Cloud was dark and cold. A moaning sound, low and eerie, was coming from the large sumpwood bed, chained to the centre of the floor. The bed swayed and lurched as its occupant thrashed about and clawed at the bedclothes.

Hax Vostillix was having a bad dream.

He was on board a stormchaser, gripping the balustrades grimly as the fragile vessel rolled and swayed, pitched and plunged. One moment he was unbearably hot, as though his body were in flames; the next, as the fragile sky ship was swallowed up by the freezing ice-blizzards, he became so cold that his teeth chattered and his body shook uncontrollably.

All at once, a loud screeching sound filled his ears, and he looked down to see thousands of ratbirds streaming from the hull of the ship, twisting round in the air, before speeding off towards the far horizon. The sky ship was out of control and, in a fast and furious spiral, spinning down towards the white mud of the Mire …

Hax Vostillix's eyes snapped open. He was bathed in sweat, his skin dripping and his nightgown soaked right through. But he was cold. Bitterly cold. His fingers and toes were so frozen he could barely feel them, and yet inside, his belly was on fire, churning and convulsing. And then there was the pain …

Hax had never known pain like it. It wrenched and racked his stomach, like a thousand red-hot needles that stabbed and slashed, twisting his guts into knots.

‘
Wooorgh!
’ he groaned. ‘
Aaoouurgh …
’

Spasm after spasm of intense pain drove though him, folding him up double as it cramped and branded. Grunting with utter misery, Hax rolled over and crawled from the swaying sumpwood bed. He stumbled across to his desk – its surface strewn with cloud charts, weather predictions, ballistics lists and mist readings – and slumped down into the chair.