Read Online Freeglader by Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Stewart, Chris Riddell
Tags: Ages 10 and up
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a curled and glowing heap.
Xanth crouched down and put an ear tentatively to Rook's chest. His heartbeat was so faint, Xanth could hardly hear it.
‘I'm so, so sorry, old friend,’ he said, scooping Rook up in his arms and heaving himself to his feet. ‘This is all my fault.’
He turned and began the long, arduous journey across the Edgelands rock, the heavy burden weighing him down and making every step an ordeal.
‘By Earth and Sky, Rook,’ he swore, stumbling on across the rocky pavement, ‘enough brave librarian knights have died because of me. I shan't let you become one of them.’
• CHAPTER SIX •
DUSK
The Palace of the Furnace Masters
H emuel Spume rubbed his spidery fingered hands together and smiled a thin-lipped smile. He always enjoyed this time of day.
The furnace fires had been freshly stoked for the night shift and the tall chimney stacks were belching out thick clouds of acrid smoke that stained the early evening sky a brilliant red. Exhausted lines of workers were tramping off to the low open-sided huts to snatch a few hours of much-needed sleep amid the unceasing din of the drills and hammers coming from the metal-working shops. An undercurrent of low, muttered complaints filled the air as the night workers jostled each other to reach their benches and forges.
The Foundry Master was standing in the upper gallery of the Counting House, a tall, solid wooden tower at the western end of the magnificently carvedPalace of the Furnace Masters. The mullioned windows were grimy with soot, both inside and out, yet this did little to mar the splendour of the view outside.
As far as the eye could see, the rows of blackened chimneys pointed like accusing fingers up at the blood-red sky. Beneath them, the glowing furnaces seemed to stare back at Hemuel, like the eyes of a thousand forest demons, throwing grotesque shadows across the huge timber stacks that fed them. Everywhere there was noise, bustle and industry, just the way he liked it – and never more so than now, as dusk was falling. With the changing of the shifts, the clamour of activity in the Foundry Glades was reaching a crescendo, before settling into the night-time cacophony of hammer-blow, foundry-clatter and furnace-blast.
Hemuel traced a bony finger through the soot on the window, and pushed his steel-rimmed glasses up his long nose. It hadn't always been like this. Oh, no. When he – Hemuel Maccabee Spume – had first come to the Deepwoods all those years ago, the Foundry Glade had been an insignificant forest forge, turning out trinkets and cooking pots for itinerant goblin tribes and the odd band of wandering shrykes. The ambitious young leaguesmen back in Undertown had said he was mad to bury himself out here in the Deepwoods, but Hemuel knew better…
The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement as he thought back to those early days. So much had changed since then, and almost all for the better – at least, for him.
Stone-sickness had put an end to sky-flight, changing
the patterns of trade in the Edge for ever. No longer could the heavily-laden league ships transport the manufactured goods of the Undertown workshops out to the Deepwoods and return with precious timber and raw materials; no longer could the sky pirates prey upon the wealthy merchants and traders. After stone-sickness had struck, all cargo had to travel overland. And that – as Hemuel Spume had taken note – was a costly enterprise.
Once the shrykes had taken control of the Great Mire Road, the Undertown leagues had been forced to pay them high taxes for the right to trade with the Deepwoods. Costs of their products had soared and, as a result, the Undertowners had priced themselves out of business. Hemuel Spume had seized the opportunity to fill the gap in the market. The Foundry Glade – independent of the shrykes' greedy influence – had grown and prospered.
Soon it wasn't just one glade but many, spreading through the boundless Deepwoods like
Xanth crouched down and put an ear tentatively to Rook's chest. His heartbeat was so faint, Xanth could hardly hear it.
‘I'm so, so sorry, old friend,’ he said, scooping Rook up in his arms and heaving himself to his feet. ‘This is all my fault.’
He turned and began the long, arduous journey across the Edgelands rock, the heavy burden weighing him down and making every step an ordeal.
‘By Earth and Sky, Rook,’ he swore, stumbling on across the rocky pavement, ‘enough brave librarian knights have died because of me. I shan't let you become one of them.’
• CHAPTER SIX •
DUSK
The Palace of the Furnace Masters
H emuel Spume rubbed his spidery fingered hands together and smiled a thin-lipped smile. He always enjoyed this time of day.
The furnace fires had been freshly stoked for the night shift and the tall chimney stacks were belching out thick clouds of acrid smoke that stained the early evening sky a brilliant red. Exhausted lines of workers were tramping off to the low open-sided huts to snatch a few hours of much-needed sleep amid the unceasing din of the drills and hammers coming from the metal-working shops. An undercurrent of low, muttered complaints filled the air as the night workers jostled each other to reach their benches and forges.
The Foundry Master was standing in the upper gallery of the Counting House, a tall, solid wooden tower at the western end of the magnificently carvedPalace of the Furnace Masters. The mullioned windows were grimy with soot, both inside and out, yet this did little to mar the splendour of the view outside.
As far as the eye could see, the rows of blackened chimneys pointed like accusing fingers up at the blood-red sky. Beneath them, the glowing furnaces seemed to stare back at Hemuel, like the eyes of a thousand forest demons, throwing grotesque shadows across the huge timber stacks that fed them. Everywhere there was noise, bustle and industry, just the way he liked it – and never more so than now, as dusk was falling. With the changing of the shifts, the clamour of activity in the Foundry Glades was reaching a crescendo, before settling into the night-time cacophony of hammer-blow, foundry-clatter and furnace-blast.
Hemuel traced a bony finger through the soot on the window, and pushed his steel-rimmed glasses up his long nose. It hadn't always been like this. Oh, no. When he – Hemuel Maccabee Spume – had first come to the Deepwoods all those years ago, the Foundry Glade had been an insignificant forest forge, turning out trinkets and cooking pots for itinerant goblin tribes and the odd band of wandering shrykes. The ambitious young leaguesmen back in Undertown had said he was mad to bury himself out here in the Deepwoods, but Hemuel knew better…
The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement as he thought back to those early days. So much had changed since then, and almost all for the better – at least, for him.
Stone-sickness had put an end to sky-flight, changing
the patterns of trade in the Edge for ever. No longer could the heavily-laden league ships transport the manufactured goods of the Undertown workshops out to the Deepwoods and return with precious timber and raw materials; no longer could the sky pirates prey upon the wealthy merchants and traders. After stone-sickness had struck, all cargo had to travel overland. And that – as Hemuel Spume had taken note – was a costly enterprise.
Once the shrykes had taken control of the Great Mire Road, the Undertown leagues had been forced to pay them high taxes for the right to trade with the Deepwoods. Costs of their products had soared and, as a result, the Undertowners had priced themselves out of business. Hemuel Spume had seized the opportunity to fill the gap in the market. The Foundry Glade – independent of the shrykes' greedy influence – had grown and prospered.
Soon it wasn't just one glade but many, spreading through the boundless Deepwoods like
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