Edge Chronicles 6: Vox Read online

  Rook stumbled and dropped the log he was dragging to the furnace. His head was spinning.

  The ice was in retreat. Rook crawled from the bander-bear's warm arms. The memories, the thoughts, the feelings; they were all beginning to thaw.

  Suddenly, with a loud roaring in his ears and a flash of blinding light, everything came flooding back. Who he was. Where he was …

  ‘That's enough for today, dearie,’ said Hestera, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘You can get to your bed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rook, trying hard to conceal his relief. The stifling heat of the blazing furnace was getting to his racked and weary body now. He didn't know how much longer he could have kept going. With a huge effort - using every last reserve of strength - Rook hefted the log he was holding up into the fire and stood waiting for his next instruction.

  Hestera slammed the great round furnace-door shut and secured the latch. She turned to Rook. ‘You sleep over there,’ she said, pointing back to the low table. ‘Underneath.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rook.

  He shuffled towards it, crouched down and, taking care not to knock the bump on his head against the table-top, crawled beneath. There was a mattress of woodchips and shavings strewn across the tiles - soft, warm, inviting. Rook lay down, curled up into a ball and breathed in the sweet, aromatic scent of the fragments of wood. His eyelids grew heavy; his body seemed to sink into the floor.

  Hestera stood above him. ‘Sleep well, little furnace-keeper and build up your strength, she rasped softly. ‘You'll need it. Today you have fed the fire …’

  Rook wrapped his hands round his knees and pulled them up close to his stomach. ‘Thank … you…’ he whispered drowsily.

  A darkness descended; the outside was switched off, sense by sense - and Rook slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep. Hestera chuckled unpleasantly.

  ‘… But tomorrow you will feed the baby.’

  • CHAPTER SEVEN •

  Feeding the Baby

  Early the following morning, Rook was rudely awoken by something hard and pointed jabbing into his back. His eyes snapped open.

  For a moment, he was perplexed. He seemed to be lying on a pile of wood-shavings. The sharp, stabbing sensation struck him in the back a second time.

  ‘Owl ‘ he cried out loud, and rolled over.

  Peering down at him was a grey-skinned old goblin matron with a stick clutched in her bony hands, its sharp end pointed towards him. ‘Look lively, my loverly, she was saying. ‘Get up. There's plenty of work to be done.’

  At the sound of her shrill, wheedling voice, everything suddenly came flooding back. Speegspeel the butler, Hestera Spikesap the cook, and the sickly waif, Amberfuce, who had probed his mind and erased his past - or at least, tried to …

  Mustn't give myself away, Rook cautioned himself as he crawled out from beneath the table and scrambled quickly to his feet. He looked round giddily The furnace was glowing and the hot, stifling air shimmered like water. Hestera raised the stick and pointed to the table behind him.

  ‘Victuals, she said.

  Rook turned. A place for one had been laid. There was a large bowl of steaming grey gruel with a wooden spoon sticking out of the middle, and a glass of what looked like the same liquid he had drunk the previous evening.

  ‘Eat, drink - and be quick about it, dearie, said Hestera. ‘The furnace is getting low.’

  With no stool or bench to sit down on, Rook had his meagre breakfast standing. The gruel tasted as unpleasant as it looked - smoky, salty and with a stale tang of mould about it - but by washing down each claggy spoonful with a slurp of the frothing green juice, he was able to sate his hunger and slake his thirst at the same time.

  ‘Hurry up, dearie, said Hestera impatiently. ‘That furnace needs building up, She shuddered and pulled her shawl tightly about her. ‘My old bones are chilled to the marrow.’

  What was she talking about? Rook wondered. The kitchen was scorching. His entire body was damp with sweat. He drained the glass, laid it down next to the half-empty bowl and turned to Hestera. ‘Thank you, he said expressionlessly.

  ‘Better you thank me with deeds not words, said Hestera. ‘Stoke up that fire, dearie. Get it blazing white hot. White hot, d'you hear? As hot as it can possibly be, for today's the day we feed the baby.’

  ‘Yes.’ said Rook, taking care that his face betrayed not the faintest flicker of emotion. He turned away and headed for the great mound of logs, Hestera's words echoing in his head.

  Feed the baby? he thought. What baby?

  By the time Rook had dragged the first of the logs across to the furnace, Hestera had already opened the circular door. As he stepped in front of it, a blast of roaring heat struck him full in the face. He let out a soft, involuntary moan.

  Hestera turned and gave Rook a long, searching look. Rook could feel her dark suspicious eyes boring into him. Struggling to remain impassive, he reached down, seized the log and thrust it into the furnace. Then he turned, crouched down and worked the bellows, just as Hestera had shown him - four sharp movements, up, down, up, down. There was a crackle and a hiss and the glow from the fire turned from a deep gold to pale, luminous yellow.

  ‘White hot, remember, dearie.’ said Hestera. ‘More logs, more logs. And keep working those bellows!’

  A dozen logs and a deal of back-breaking bellows-pumping later, Rook was relieved to hear Hestera declare herself satisfied at last. The pot-bellied furnace was creaking and juddering as the fire inside blazed more furiously than ever; blinding as the sun and lightning hot.

  ‘Come over ‘ere, my loverly.’ she said. ‘Observe what I do.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rook croaked. His throat, parched and scorched, felt as though it had been sandpapered; his legs felt weak and heavy. Yet as he left the furnace and headed into the shadows where Hestera was busy fiddling with a length of rope, he found that the air was cooler and his head began to clear.

  ‘Unknot this for me, dearie.’ said Hestera. ‘I can't reach.’

  Rook nodded obediently, stretched up to the wall-mounted cleat and detached the tangled coil of rope. He handed the end to Hestera who, without a word, fed the rope through her hands. From high above, there came a soft clatter and Rook looked up to see a large wooden bucket slowly descending towards them. When it was low enough, Rook reattached the rope to the cleat.

  ‘Make sure it's tied securely, dearie.’ said Hestera. ‘That's it. Now come and have a look.’

  Rook gave the rope an extra tug, then returned to the bucket, now suspended a couple of strides above the floor. Steadying it with one hand, Hestera reached in with the other and pulled out a small, red, bulbous object which glistened as she held it up to the light.

  ‘It's an acorn.’ she announced.

  Rook frowned. With its red flesh, thin, slimy membrane and thick juice that oozed like blood, it looked like no acorn he had ever seen before. Nor did it smell like one.

  It was, he thought, his nose wrinkling at the stale, metallic odour, more like a piece of offal - a hammelhorn liver, perhaps; or a tilder kidney.

  ‘An acorn.’ he repeated, trying to mask the surprise in his voice.

  ‘But not just any old acorn, dearie.’ said Hestera. ‘This here is a bloodoak acorn. Harvested in the Deepwoods by woodtrolls, so they are, my loverly. And there's a tricky task, I can tell you¡ What with the bloodoaks eating all the flesh they can get their tarry-vines on and all, the harvesters often get harvested, if you take my meaning. You want to count yourself lucky you're here working for me.’

  ‘Yes.’ said Rook, his stomach churning.

  ‘That's why they're so expensive.’ she went on. ‘I mean, it stands to reason. But you try telling that to that old tightwad, Amberfuce. Always moaning on about the price, so he is. But as I always tell him, if it keeps the master upstairs happy, then it's gold pieces well spent, and no mistake.’

  Hestera carefully placed the acorn in the crook of her apron and, selecting another, held it up to the light. Rook w
atched queasily as she picked out four more of the quivering crimson blobs and placed them in her bloodstained apron. At last she turned to Rook.

  ‘That should do, my loverly.’ She pointed a bloodstained finger across to a rack of hearth-tools - tongs, brushes, shovels; a set of bellows and several small hatchets. ‘Fetch me a shovel, dearie.’ she said.

  Rook did as he was told.

  ‘No, not that one.’ came Hestera's voice from behind him as he reached out. ‘That one there with the long handle.’

  Rook seized the shovel she wanted, and returned to Hestera.

  ‘That's it, my loverly.’ she said. ‘Now, hold it out flat in front of me. That's the way. Now, we place them out on the shovel-tray, so.’ She stared down at the half dozen acorns thoughtfully. ‘Maybe one more.’ she said at last, turning and retrieving a seventh acorn from the swaying bucket and placing it next to the rest. ‘That's better. Now for the roasting. Follow me.’

  Hestera headed back to the furnace. Rook went with her, holding the bloodoak acorns out in front of him. Hestera slipped on a pair of heavy gloves, reached up and pulled the furnace-door wide open. The heat blasted out.

  ‘Oo.’z, lovely.’ Hestera cooed. ‘Nice and warm in my cold, old bones.’ She turned back to Rook. ‘Pass over the shovel.’ she said. ‘Careful, now.’

  Rook stepped forwards, feeling himself wilt as the heat grew suddenly more intense. He handed over the precious load of bloodoak acorns and retreated.

  ‘Pop it in like so.’ said Hestera, plunging the shovel into the white-hot heart of the furnace. There was a hiss and the unmistakable smell of roasting meat. ‘And now we wait.’ she said. ‘A couple of minutes ought to do it.’ She turned back to Rook. ‘Course, normally you won't be doing such a large batch, dearie.’ she said. ‘One acorn is enough for at least a hundred bottles of oblivion.’

  ‘Oblivion.’ Rook repeated.

  ‘I was making some up when you arrived.’ said Hestera, ‘do you remember? Oh, no, of course you don't.’ she added - thankfully before Rook could give himself away. ‘I was forgetting. Silly old Hestera …’ She picked at a splatter of crusted, blood-coloured sap on her apron. ‘Oblivion.’ she sighed. ‘It's the master's little tipple. Keeps him happy, so it does. And it's all my own recipe.’ she added, with obvious pride.

  Rook remained still, impassive.

  ‘I distil it from the finest vintage sapwine.’ Hestera nodded at the chaos of pipes and tubes, burners and bell jars set into the wall to her right. ‘I have some on the go the whole time.’ she said. ‘But it's my own secret ingredient that makes it so special. Powdered blookoak acorn. It's what gives it the kick the master likes so much … ‘ She pulled Rook close and her eyes narrowed. ‘It's our little secret. You won't tell anyone will you, dearie?’

  Rook could smell her fetid breath, sour and moist in his face. ‘No.’ he managed to say.

  The goblin released her grip and pushed him away with a laugh. ‘Course you won't, my loverly. After all, you're part of our little family now. You won't ever be meeting anyone else to tell Hestera's secret to, not ever again…’

  She turned back to the furnace, pulled the shovel out and inspected the acorns. ‘Hmm, half a minute longer, I think…’ She thrust them back inside. Of course, we shan't be making oblivion today. Oh, no. Today we're going to feed the baby.’

  ‘Feed the baby,’ Rook repeated softly, but his mind was still racing from the impact of her words. Never meet anyone else … Not ever again?

  Hestera pulled the shovel from the furnace a second time. ‘Perfect!’ she announced. ‘Look at it closely, dearie. This is exactly the colour and consistency you should be aiming for, see?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rook, looking down at the shovel. Where the seven slimy offal-like acorns had been, there now lay a single pile of powder; as fine as flour, as crimson as blood.

  Hestera pulled the shovel clear of the furnace, pushed the door shut with her shoulder and headed back to the table, the charred handle clasped in her bony hands. ‘As I say, normally I'd keep this in a jar until I needed it for the oblivion. But not today …’

  ‘No, today we're going to feed the baby,’ said Rook, relieved to hear his own voice was still flat and expressionless.

  ‘That's right, dearie,’ said Hestera. Her dark eyes glinted behind their hooded lids. ‘At least, you are.’ She rested the end of the shovel on the table-top. ‘Now, grab a bell jar, my loverly, and brush all of the bloodoak powder inside. That's the way. Every last speck. And be quick about it¡ Timing is everything.’

  Rook hurried to complete his task, trying his hardest to do exactly what Hestera had told him. Yet despite his best efforts, as he swept the soft bristles over the shovel, some specks of the red powder missed the bell jar and fluttered down to the damp floor. Hestera, thankfully, seemed not to notice.

  When the shovel was completely empty, she turned and returned it to the rack. Rook picked up the bell jar and examined the vivid red powder inside. It was so bright it seemed almost to be pulsating …

  Tut it down.’ came a voice by his shoulder.

  Hestera was back, a small pot clasped in her hands. She placed it down on the table next to the bell jar and unscrewed the lid. Curious, Rook peered inside. It was half-full of a pale sepia powder that glittered in the dim light of the kitchen.

  Thraxdust.’ said Hestera.

  Thraxdust.’ repeated Rook flatly, trying desperately to conceal a surge of excitement. He knew all about the stuff - that it came from stormphrax, that precious substance created in a Great Storm, so heavy in darkness that it had once been used to weight down the old floating rock of Sanctaphrax; that it was produced naturally and safely in the half-light of the Twilight Woods as the stormphrax broke down; that it could purify even the most polluted water …

  ‘Ay, finest quality phraxdust, dearie.’ said Hestera. ‘Garnered by the shrykes in the depths of the Twilight Woods.’ She tapped the side of her nose. ‘We have a little arrangement …’ She bustled forwards and handed Rook a pair of tweezers. ‘But we are wasting precious time.’ she said. ‘The bloodoak powder is cooling. See how the colour is growing dimmer. Add some phraxdust to it, dearie; then shake the whole lot up together.’

  ‘Yes.’ said Rook. He held the tweezers with his forefinger and thumb and dipped them into the pot. ‘How much do I add?’ he asked.

  ‘For seven bloodoak acorns, seven pinches of phraxdust.’ came Hestera's reply from the other side of the kitchen. Rook glanced round and was surprised to see that the old goblin matron had slipped away and was now crouched down behind a heavy bench, her white cap just poking up above the worktop. ‘Go on!’ she snapped.

  Rook turned back to the powders, his heart clomping like a skittish tilder. What he was doing must be dangerous, he realized - otherwise, why would Hestera be shielding herself?

  He leaned forwards and, with trembling fingers, took a tweezer-pinch of phraxdust and moved it over to the bell jar. Then, breath held, he opened the tweezers and a sprinkling of sepia fell onto the crimson powder inside.

  Rook reached in for a second pinch. His palms were wet. Glistening beads lined his forehead, and as he leaned forwards once more, he struggled to focus on the bell jar. Sweat was running into his eyes; his head was throbbing.

  ‘Take care not to drop any of the phraxdust, dearie.’ came Hestera's wheedling voice.

  Rook opened the tweezers and the tiny particles of phraxdust dropped. As they did so, a single speck broke away from the rest and swirled round in the scorching air-currents. Down towards the table-top it floated, then up again, spinning and glittering - now in lamplight, now in furnace-glow; then down again, floating past the edge of the table and hitting the floor with its traces of bloodoak powder … BANG!!¡

  The explosion which ripped through the kitchen was as violent as it was sudden. It shook the floor, it rocked the heavy table, it seized Rook and tossed him back across the kitchen like a wet rag. He landed heavily by the wall, the tweezers still clamped in his
grip.

  ‘Careless, dearie¡ Very careless!’ came a shrill voice. ‘Jaspel was careless, and he didn't last long!’ She wagged a bony finger at him reproachfully. ‘I told you to take care!’ ‘W … what just happened?’ stammered Rook, picking himself up. His nostrils quivered at a familiar smell -like wood-almonds; toasted wood-almonds …

  ‘You must have dropped some bloodoak powder before, and then some phraxdust just now.’ said Hestera matter-of-factly. Outside the bell jar, they're very unstable - any bit of moisture and … bang1/

  Rook froze. It suddenly occurred to him that if moisture was the cause of the explosion, then his entire body was a detonator. Just one clammy finger; one bead of sweat, and … The thought of it made him sweat more heavily than ever. Suddenly he was like a sieve, dripping water from every pore.

  ‘Hurry up!’ said Hestera sharply. ‘We must feed the baby. Carry on, dearie.’

  Wiping his shaking hands as best he could on the front of his jacket, Rook hurried back to the table. He raised the tweezers, reached forwards gingerly and held his breath. Then, with his fingers trembling like a sallow-drop in a storm, he dropped the next tweezer-pinch of sepia phraxdust into the bell jar. He repeated this four more times.

  ‘At last,’ said Hestera. ‘Now stopper it up and give it a shake.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rook faintly Feeling sick to the pit of his stomach, he reached forwards, seized the bell jar and held it up. The phraxdust formed a thin layer on top of the bloodoak powder. He pushed the cork into place.

  ‘A good shake, mind,’ said Hestera.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rook. He could feel the heat from the toasted powder warming his hands - his nervous hands; his moist, clammy hands … Eyes clamped firmly shut, he shook the glass jar vigorously. Nothing happened. He looked up. The powders had mixed together.

  Just then a tinkling sound echoed round the kitchen. It was coming from the wall behind the table, where a row of bells attached to coiled strips of metal were mounted to a board. Each one was identified by a small plaque beneath - the Great Hall, the Banquet Hall, the Master's Chamber … It was the one marked Leagues’ Chamber that had just rung. The bell was still swaying.