The Winter Knights (The Edge Chronicles, Book 8; The Quint Trilogy, Book 2)
Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Original publication: 2005 in Great Britain by Doubleday
THE QUINT TRILOGY, Book II
In the great floating city of Sanctaphrax, blizzards howl through the streets as the Edgeworld descends into an endless winter. Quint, the son of a sky pirate, has just begun his training at the Knights Academy—training that involves heading out over the Edge on tethers to develop his flying skills. But when Quint breaks the rules and sets off for Open Sky on his own, he runs into the great sky leviathans known as cloud-eaters and must use all his skill and ingenuity if catastrophe is not to strike the Edgeworld. . . .
your final adjustments and prepare to launch!’ Sicklebough’s voice rang out above them. Quint looked at the model in Vilnix’s hand. It was a beautiful craft, certainly, but Vilnix had completely misread the pinewood smoke. If he launched the sky ship with the sails set as they were, the extra neben-weights would cause it to turn turvey the moment it reached the centre of the Storm Chamber. Quint wrestled with his conscience for a moment. Should he keep quiet? Let Vilnix humiliate himself after
forge-hand,’ smiled Spedius, turning to go. ‘Oh, and Stope …’ The smile froze on his thin, pinched features. ‘Not a word of this to anyone, understand?’ The heat of the central furnace took Stope’s breath away, despite the heavy tilderleather visor he wore. He checked the ventilation gauze and the temperature setting. The blue-grey metal ingot was now white-hot in the heart of the furnace, ready to be beaten out into a curved sheet on the great anvil beside him. Stope grasped the fire tongs with
design of the gauntlets,’ Philius was saying. ‘The fingers are banded for maximum manoeuvrability …’ – Tap! Tap! Tap! – ‘while the locking sprocket, here …’ – Tap! – ‘ensures that a tight grip can be maintained effortlessly for as long as the wearer requires …’ As he intoned the details he knew by heart, the old knight’s words flowed smoothly – all uncertainty, wavering and confusion gone. Outside, soothed by the sonorous rhythm of his speech, Stope’s eyes began to droop and his head to nod.
armchairs at the sight, but most carried on with what they were doing. Few in Sanctaphrax believed in stormchasing any longer, preferring instead to pray that the winter would end before it was too late. From a vantage point halfway up the suspended staircase to the study rooms, Phin peered through the glass of the oval window. On the top of the viaduct, he could just make out the ragged figure of Hax Vostillix. The hall master’s arms were raised, and his robes and beard flapped in the
one white. Sigbord turned to Wind Jackal. ‘The Most High Academes will see you now,’ he said, opening a door and ushering Quint’s father inside. Quint was about to follow when he felt the flat-head goblin’s hand on his shoulder. ‘Not you, young sir,’ he growled. ‘Take a seat over there until you’re called.’ Glancing round at where Sigbord was pointing, Quint saw a gangly youth in a faded tunic and patched breeches. He was sitting, hunched over, on a bench to the right of the door. Quint