The Winter Knights

by Paul Stewart

  ‘It's lame, sir,’ came the reply. ‘Damaged its left leg on the treadmill last week, it did.’

  Xaxis rounded angrily on the trembling stable-hand. ‘Last week!’ he stormed. ‘How many times do I have to tell you people? If they can't work, they're dead meat. Understand?’

  ‘Y … yes, sir,’ the stable-hand replied, on the verge of tears.

  It had been so different in the old days, when Hall Master Fenviel Ve n d i x had been in charge. Strict and stern he might have been, but it wasn't unknown for Fenviel to stay up for nights at a time tending a lame prowlgrin personally. When Daxiel Xaxis and his gatekeepers had taken over, Hax Vostillix had given them one order, and one order only. ‘Keep the treadmills turning, day and night!’

  Before long, the neverending labour at the East and West Landings had taken a terrible toll on the prowl-grins of the Hall of Grey Cloud, and the rigid order of the roost pillars had broken down completely. If it was to maintain a perch, every prowlgrin now had no option but to work hard, day in, day out – and the ever-growing number of gatekeepers in the hall, with their logworm tunics and freshly forged weapons, made sure that they did so.

  There were no more ‘retirement’ pillars for those creatures who had served Sanctaphrax, no matter how well. Any old or sick prowlgrins were simply slaughtered, becoming stew or glue, depending on their age. Neither were there sire-roosts or brood-roosts any longer. There was no time to raise and nurture pups, ensuring they grew strong and healthy, to replace the losses. Instead, to maintain numbers, prowlgrins were supplied by the leaguesmen in Undertown, who made a healthy profit from the flocks of sickly malnourished specimens they shipped up from their stinking hatching pens.

  And as for the magnificent knights’ pillar roost, since the original thirteen highly trained pedigree prowlgrins had departed on their ill-fated voyages, their places had been taken by increasingly young and skittish creatures, as ill at ease as their young masters.

  Acknowledging the salutes of a cluster of newly-recruited gatekeepers, Xaxis left the great hall through a low arched doorway and marched briskly up the stairs on the other side. It had been a long and trying day. As if secretly building up his army of gatekeepers and getting the furnace masters to equip them with the weapons they needed wasn't enough, Daxiel had also had to run after Hax Vostillix from the moment he'd got up.

  With each failed stormchasing launch, Hax felt less and less secure, and now insisted that his Captain of the Gatekeepers stayed at his side at all times. It was tiring, and a bore, Daxiel thought, especially when he had his own plans to attend to …

  He hurried along the corridor, seized the gold handle of his blackwood door and burst into his chamber, only to be confronted by the looming figure of a leaguesman standing by the window with his back towards him. At the sound of the door slamming shut, the intruder spun round.

  His face was red and sweaty, and he was wearing clothes which, though opulent, were clearly old and worn, as if the owner couldn't bring himself to replace them. The embroidered patterns on the quilted jacket were of the finest silver thread, carefully patched in numerous places, while the ruffs at his neck and cuffs were flamboyant, but frayed.

  ‘What are you doing here, Heft?’ Xaxis demanded, his hand moving automatically to the handle of his sword. ‘I thought I told you not to come to the academy. It looks suspicious if you keep turning up …’

  ‘I wouldn't have to,' said Heft Vespius, his whiny voice laced with a hint of menace, ‘if you kept your side of the bargain. I've found you new gatekeepers - the meanest, toughest, fiercest tavern brawlers that Undertown has to offer. And it wasn't easy, I can tell you.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Now I want to be gangmaster of the East and West Landings, just like we agreed.’

  ‘It's not that easy, Heft,’ said Xaxis smoothly. ‘You know that. This isn't Undertown, where the leagues can throw their weight around with impunity’

  He joined the fat leaguesman at the window and stared out at the snow-capped towers and spires outside.

  ‘In Sanctaphrax, you need to watch and wait, flatter and deceive, calculate just the right moment, then …’ He raised a gloved fist. ‘Strike!’

  Daxiel slammed the fist into Heft's flabby midriff.

  ‘Ooophh!’ Heft doubled up in pain and collapsed at Daxiel's feet.

  ‘Perhaps you'll listen in future when I tell you not to come here – especially now of all times …’

  ‘Why … now …?’ gasped Heft, turning a red, fear-filled face up towards the Captain of the Gatekeepers.

  ‘Because, my fat friend,’ said Daxiel, with an evil sneer, ‘the academics-at-arms are getting suspicious. That jumped-up little swordmaster is looking for any excuse to demand that Hax Vostillix disband the gatekeepers, and if the Captain of the Gatekeepers is seen meeting leaguesmen in his chambers, it's just the excuse he needs.’ Daxiel held out his hand and smiled grimly. ‘But let's not quarrel,’ he said.

  Heft gingerly took the captain's outstretched hand and pulled himself sheepishly to his feet.

  ‘If you could just see your way to having a word with Hax. Get him to make me the gangmaster,’ he said in his whiny voice, ‘like you promised …’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Daxiel wearily. ‘Hax.’

  It really was becoming irksome having to bow and scrape to the Hall Master of High Cloud, who could think only of cloudwatching and stormchasing, and who saw phantom earth-scholars hiding in every corner. He smiled humourlessly. If he was going to advance any further, there would have to be some radical changes in the Knights Academy.

  ‘Don't worry, old friend,’ Daxiel said. ‘You leave Hax Vostillix to me …’

  ii

  The Swordmaster

  Dengreeve Yellowtusk strode down the broad avenue past the sprawling clusters of minor academies, their spires, turrets, cupolas and balconies swathed in a thick blanket of snow. Behind him marched another twenty heavily-armed and armoured academics-at-arms.

  Snow had fallen throughout the hours of daylight, with the clouds clearing and the temperature plummeting at dusk. Now, the billowing drifts had frozen solid, and resembled nothing so much as great marble quilts. The sound of the academics-at-arms’ heavy boots, creaking and crunching in the hard snow, bounced back and forth from building to building. A hundred strides on, the avenue opened up into a wide square, fringed with more schools – Sleet, Squall, Whirlwind, Dawn and Hailstones – and at the far end, an imposing stone emplacement built into the city wall.

  Dengreeve Yellowtusk, swordmaster and leader elect of the academics-at-arms of the Knights Academy, crossed the snowy square and climbed the stairs to the top of the emplacement. There, like the bones of some giant creature, was a heap of splintered struts, supports and beams – all that remained of the two-seat swivel catapult which had once formed part of the great floating city's defences. Beside it, his gloved hands resting on the parapet wall as he stared down, was a solitary academic-at-arms.

  At the sound of the swordmaster's footsteps, the academic started back and spun round. He was little more than a callow youth; gaunt, pale and hollow-eyed, distress distorting his even features. A look of recognition flashed across his face.

  ‘Swordmaster,’ he said, his expression brightening up for a moment. ‘Thank Sky you've come.’

  ‘What happened, academic?’ said Dengreeve.

  ‘Happened?’ he said blankly. ‘It was so sudden …’ He swallowed. ‘The … the catapult … It just snapped … They didn't stand a chance, either of them …’

  ‘It's all right, son,’ Dengreeve said, his voice low and reassuringly calm. He'd seen shock like this before in academics-at-arms who had seen action; the blank expression, the stuttering words … He set the contingent of academics-at-arms he'd brought with him to the task of picking through the wreckage of the giant catapult. Then, stepping forwards, he gripped the young academic by the shoulders. ‘Wendip, isn't it?’ he said. ‘Wendip Throx, if I'm not mistaken.’

  Dengreeve Yellowtusk prided him
self on knowing the names of all the academics-at-arms in the Academy Barracks. The youth nodded.

  ‘Well, I want you to start at the beginning, Wendip,’ said the great tufted goblin, ‘and tell me everything that happened. In your own time …’

  The young academic nodded bravely, and sniffed. ‘It was approaching eight hours,’ he said, ‘and we were almost at the end of our watch.’ He sniffed again. ‘We'd had a pretty uneventful day all told, and were looking forward to getting warm and having a good meal in the …’ He paused, his face crumpling up as tears threatened to overwhelm him. ‘… in the Eightways.’

  ‘Carry on,’ Dengreeve Yellowtusk told him firmly.

  ‘I was on look-out,’ the youth continued. ‘The other two were seated at the catapult … We hadn't been able to do much all day, what with the blizzards and all. But when it stopped, we decided … well, we thought … Just for a laugh …’

  ‘Yes?’ said Dengreeve gravely.

  ‘Well, sir, we thought we'd have a bit of firing practice. Just a few shots … To make sure the spring mechanism and angle-aligners were all working properly.’

  ‘And what exactly were you intending to practise with?’ said Dengreeve. ‘Your supply of cliff rocks, maybe? Or the flaming leadwood balls over there?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Wendip. ‘Of course not! We wouldn't waste real ammunition …’ He hung his head.

  ‘So what was it then, Wendip?’ Dengreeve asked.

  ‘Snowballs,’ the young apprentice replied quietly.

  The swordmaster shook his head. It wouldn't be the first time since the bad weather had struck that the young academics-at-arms on guard-duty had been caught using the great swivel catapults to indulge in snowball fights, hurling the great balls of snow and ice out into the sky over the Edge.

  ‘And then what happened?’ he said.

  ‘As I said, sir, something just snapped,’ Wendip said. ‘There was a loud crack. I turned round, and saw the catapult arm fly off its mounting, taking Tonsor and Quiltis with it …’ He shook his head. ‘They never stood a chance.’

  Just then a cry went up from the heap of splintered wood and twisted metal. Dengreeve and Wendip looked round to see one of the academics-at-arms kneeling in the midst of it all, one arm raised, and a large metal bolt glinting in his fingers.

  ‘I've found it, sir,’ he announced. He climbed to his feet and took it to the swordmaster for him to inspect. ‘It's one of the mounting-bolts,’ he announced. ‘It's old and worn. Should have been replaced – an accident waiting to happen …’

  The colour drained from Dengreeve Yellowtusk's face. ‘I asked those furnace masters in the Hall of White Cloud,’ he growled. ‘I pleaded with them. The catapults need a complete overhaul, I said; replacing, if need be … But no, they were too busy supplying the gatekeepers’ every request!’

  He slammed his fist down on the parapet, dislodging a flurry of snow. Tonsor Wexis and Quiltis Wistelweb? Dengreeve's blood began to boil as he recollected the two young academics-at-arms. They'd only just come from the Lower Halls. Inseparable they were, full of life and laughter; delighted they'd been assigned to serve on the swivel catapults together – and just look where it had got them.

  The swordmaster's eyes blazed as they scanned the void beyond the Edge. The furnace masters had ignored the academics-at-arms in favour of the gatekeepers because that jumped-up gatekeeper captain had ordered them to – and everybody knew who Daxiel Xaxis's master was …

  The academics-at-arms were all staring at the sword-master now, the looks on their faces showing clearly that they shared his anger. Dengreeve gave way to his mounting fury.

  ‘Hax Vostillix!’ he shouted at the darkening sky. ‘You will pay for this! Two brave academics-at-arms are dead! As Sky is my witness, you will pay!’

  iii

  The Former Hall Master of Grey Cloud

  Fenviel lowered his dark goggles, pulled the hood of his cape up over his head and slipped out from the shadows of the archway. Keeping close to the wall, he made his way towards the huge wooden wheel at the end of the East Landing.

  Despite the goggles, Fenviel Vendix, former Hall Master of Grey Cloud, raised his hand to shield his eyes as he drew closer. The sun had only just set, and the distant horizon curdled and swirled with bright, turbulent cloud. There would be more snow before the night was through, that much was certain. The prowlgrins and giant fromps would have to work hard that night, raising and lowering the mighty log burners to maintain the warmth of the great floating rock.

  Ahead of him, they were working now. Eighty prowlgrins and two giant fromps, all in harness, marching ceaselessly, driving the great barrel-shaped wheel round and round. As it turned, so the boards creaked and groaned, and the axle bearings squealed. Each revolution of the great wheel caused the log burner to descend thirty strides. It continued down until the rope had all been paid out when, at a cry from below, the hoist-lever at the side of the wheel was wrenched across, the mounting-reel flipped over, and the rope began to pull the burner up again.

  Fenviel paused behind one of the basket-posts and eyed the prowlgrins sadly. The poor creatures were being worked to death. Already so many of his favourites from the roost pillars were gone, while their replacements from Undertown were faring no better. Their coats were dull, their ribs stuck out and there were scars and running sores across their backs from the constant whippings and beatings they were given. Undernourished and ill-treated, they were – why, he'd even heard that the stables they dragged themselves back to were now unheated.

  ‘Mind your backs!’ bellowed a voice from behind him. ‘Get out of the way!’

  He turned to see a fresh contingent of prowlgrins being driven along the landing towards him by a group of stable-hands and grooms from the Hall of Grey Cloud. Watching them closely were the gatekeepers. It was they who were barking out the commands. Each of them had a whip in one hand and a riding crop in the other, which they weren't afraid to use – both on the creatures and on those looking after them.

  ‘Get over there, Sky damn you!’ shouted a tall, stocky gatekeeper with a flat, brutal face and lop-ears, and he slashed his crop at the scarred rear of a grey prowlgrin.

  Fenviel winced as if he'd been struck himself. The creature let out a plaintive cry and scampered over towards the others.

  The next moment, a loud klaxon sounded, the rasping noise cutting through the air like a rusty blade. The day shift was about to give way to the night shift. It was followed at once by the barks and howls of the prowlgrins in the treadmill who, recognizing the noise, knew that it signalled the end of their toil – at least for a while.

  As they were unhitched from their harnesses and led back onto the landing, their places were taken by the prowlgrins that had just been brought up from the roost perches. The operation was carried out in a chaotic scramble of exhausted prowlgrins, stumbling and pushing against each other as they were beaten and bellowed at by the oafish gatekeepers.

  Meanwhile above them, the two giant fromps – who were forced to do two shifts to each of the prowlgrin's one, and were only halfway through their day's work – looked round bleakly, and, raising their trunk-like snouts, hooted mournfully. Their feathery ears hung limply at the sides of their heads, while their once-sleek dappled coats were drab and mangy, and covered in patches of red-raw skin where the rough harnesses chafed.

  ‘Keep going!’ one of the gatekeepers roared, and struck the giant fromps viciously on their backs. ‘Keep going!’

  Fenviel Vendix looked on, impotent rage boiling up inside him. The huge creatures were famously mildmannered and biddable and, in the right hands, would need only the gentlest of coaxing to do as they were asked. Out in the Deepwoods, they were used in construction work high up in the ironwood glades and, handled by tree goblins, were also used to harvest lullabee grubs, the prized delicacies which, when roasted, yielded a purple juice that induced dream-filled sleep.

  He knew, too, that sometimes the tree goblins used giant fromps in ba
ttle, where they proved themselves to be wily and fearless fighters. And as he watched, Fenviel wished with all his heart that these fromps would also fight - that they would rise up against their tormentors and tear them limb from limb … But it would never happen, Fenviel realized. The poor, miserable creatures before him were too cowed, their spirit crushed by the continual beatings.

  ‘Yow-wah-aiii-aiii-aiii …’

  All at once, a cry went up. One of the prowlgrins -tired and hungry and disorientated after so many hours of turning the wheel – had stumbled as it stepped off the treadmill, and collapsed. A gatekeeper stood over the fallen creature, cursing loudly and lashing out with his whip, causing it to yelp with pain.

  All round it, the other prowlgrins skittered about nervously, their eyes rolling in their great heads as they reared up and pawed at the air. The stable-hands gripped their reins and tried their best to calm them down and lead them away.

  ‘I'll show you, you lazy, stinking, good-for-nothing beast!’ shouted the gatekeeper, raising his whip high above his head.

  Fenviel strode up to the treadmill, his riding crop clutched in a white-knuckled fist. How dare these vicious, violent oafs treat any living creature in such a way. But especially his beloved prowlgrins! It was barbaric. Inexcusable. Intolerable …

  ‘Stand back,’ he barked.

  The gatekeeper spun round to confront the insolent stable-hand who had had the nerve to challenge him. Fenviel Vendix slowly removed his goggles and fixed the red-faced gatekeeper with an unblinking stare.

  ‘Stand back,’ he repeated.

  The gatekeeper lowered his whip and, with a shrug of his shoulders, turned away. ‘Stupid prowlgrins is one thing,’ he muttered as he joined his comrades, ‘but crazy academics is another!’

  Fenviel bent down and tenderly stroked the prowl-grin's head. But it was too late. The prowlgrin's breath was coming in short, shuddering gasps and, as the former hall master continued to stroke it, the eyes glazed over and it quietly died.