She imagined some of the scenes from her favourite stories – a sword fight between a dastardly pirate and a flying boy, a water vole rowing along a river, a dragon’s egg hatching in a boy’s arms – and projected them at the Stone of Dreams.
‘Ciao, bambina con le storie,’ it said.
Ivy wasn’t sure what that meant, but she’d certainly caught its attention. It didn’t seem hostile. She refocused and tried something else. This time she sent an image of herself, Seb and Valian imprisoned in chains on the castle battlements, followed by another image of three gallant heroes similarly detained: Athos, Porthos and Aramis from The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas. She envisaged them in their striking blue capes and feathered hats, locked up in the Bastille – an infamous French prison.
Instead of responding with words, the Stone of Dreams sent her a vision of a dashing prince riding towards a terrible forest of black thorns. Ivy recognized the scene from The Sleeping Beauty by Charles Perrault.
And thereupon the floor vibrated. With a loud clang, the fetters fell apart.
‘It’s working!’ Seb cried, shuffling away. ‘Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it!’
A large crate appeared through the door of Mr Punch’s tower shop and dragged itself over the stones towards them with an ear-flinching scrape. It came to a stop at Valian’s side; the lid flew open and Valian peered in. A grin spread across his face. He brought out a small red can of oil with a long steel spout and shook it close to his ear. Liquid splashed inside.
‘Thank you, Stone of Dreams!’ he cried. Squeezing the lever, he dispensed a few drops onto his ankle binding. The ultra-thin wire unravelled like elastic and sprang back into a paperclip. Valian then passed the can to Ivy so she could pour it onto his wrists, as he couldn’t do that for himself. ‘Uncommon oil changes any fluid into what uncommoners call “Quick Slick”,’ he explained. ‘You can use it to loosen just about anything, including the cement between bricks. I’ve seen people demolish entire buildings with the stuff.’ Helping each other, the three of them used the Quick Slick to unfasten every paperclip. Valian tucked them inside the pocket of his leather jacket in case they came in useful later.
Once they were all back on their feet, they hurried into the castle and Ivy directed them to the great hall at the heart of the building. Ghoulish black banners hung from the vaulted ceiling and a long table in the centre was set for a feast, complete with spooky candelabra centrepieces.
They found Mr Punch imprisoned in exactly the same way they had been. He had assumed the guise of the white-bearded shopkeeper Ivy had met once before in his Curiosity Shop. His spectacles were set off-kilter, and his shirt and waistcoat had been torn – no doubt during the struggle with the underguards – but his appearance seemed to have stabilized.
‘Thank you,’ he murmured as Valian used the Quick Slick to loosen his chains and Ivy persuaded the Stone of Dreams to open his fetter. ‘Hurry – we need to get to the gatehouse,’ he told them. He sounded weary but determined.
‘Is everything all right with your … friends?’ Ivy questioned. She wasn’t sure how to refer to the other souls inside him without sounding rude, and she certainly didn’t want to offend any of them.
‘The others have finally realized the severity of the situation facing us all,’ he explained quickly. ‘I only hope it isn’t too late. We have to unlock Lundinor’s defences now, if we want to stop the Dirge’s army. This way.’
‘What about the book on the Stone of Dreams?’ Ivy asked as they strode towards the door. It was still lying open on top, but she couldn’t read the spine.
‘Dracula by Bram Stoker,’ Mr Punch said, without stopping. ‘Octavius Wrench believes that, if Lundinor looks frightening, commoners will be all the more intimidated when it rises to the surface. There isn’t time to change it now. I don’t know where they disposed of King Arthur.’
Ivy wanted to offer the Stone of Dreams a thank-you before they left the room, so she visualized Dorothy, the heroine in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, saying farewell to her friends the Scarecrow, the Tin Woodman and the Lion before she left Oz to return home.
As they rushed through the castle, Mr Punch checked the walls and looked round every corner. He seemed to be searching for something. Ivy thought it likely he was finding the new layout of the building confusing. Just as they reached the gatehouse, he stopped to examine a tapestry hanging on the wall. It depicted a flock of red-beaked crows swooping down upon a burning village.
‘Classic vampire decor,’ Seb muttered.
Mr Punch pulled back the fabric to reveal a hidden staircase. Although the light only permeated a couple of metres down, Ivy could see that the steps were thick with dust and covered with spider’s webs. ‘This passage only appears in versions of Lundinor when my shop has stone walls,’ Mr Punch explained. ‘It leads to a spot outside the Great Gates. The underguards and I last used it during the Great Battle of Twelfth Night to evacuate many of Lundinor’s citizens. I want you three to do the same now. Find the ladders in the arrivals chamber on the other side: they will lead you to safety on the surface.’
‘What about you?’ Ivy asked. ‘You can’t stop the Dirge’s army on your own.’
‘I won’t be on my own,’ Mr Punch reassured her. ‘Come, you’ll see.’
He led them to the portcullis, which was still drawn up from when the underguards had left. The drawbridge beyond was flanked by wooden posts, each fitted with a rusty iron bracket that held a murky glass lamp. Flames flickered inside every lantern except one.
‘Every undermart in the world has the same defence mechanism,’ he told them, approaching the cold lantern. ‘Only the highest-ranking quartermaster is ever told of it, so I doubt the Dirge know.’ He struck a match, opened the hinged glass panel and lit the rope wick. A flame burst into life, sending a misty glow seeping through the glass sides. The other streetlamps shuddered and, with a splintering crack, their wooden supports split in two. In unison they uprooted themselves from the bridge floor on their new legs and turned to face Mr Punch. Their iron brackets unfurled to form arms, with which they lifted their lamps on top, giving them each a sort of large glowing head.
‘Lamppost warriors?’ Seb exclaimed. ‘Awesome.’
‘Stop the Dirge’s forces from reaching the Great Gates,’ Mr Punch commanded the lampposts. ‘Ignore any instructions from the underguards – they are not themselves.’
The soldiers saluted and turned in the direction of the Gauntlet. Ivy remembered the different lampposts she’d seen in Nubrook and Strassa and guessed that they must have the same uncommon power. She bloomed with hope for a brief moment before remembering how vast the army of the dead was.
‘Now, you three get yourselves to safety,’ Mr Punch ordered as he joined the rear of his battalion. ‘Good luck.’
Ivy, Seb and Valian returned to the castle, descended the secret staircase and started down a long, straight tunnel. Uncommon lemon squeezers were fixed to the walls every ten paces, their pale-yellow glow muted by layers of cobweb. The cool air smelled musty and stale: it didn’t surprise Ivy that nobody had been there for fifty-odd years. The place made her think of Judy and Scratch, alone inside the mountain at Strassa. She hoped they were OK.
After a few minutes of walking they heard strange sounds overhead – high-pitched shrieks, thuds and bangs. They quickened their pace as the walls started to rumble. The conflict had begun.
‘This path must run below the Gauntlet.’ Valian’s mouth was drawn in a straight line, his forehead crinkled. ‘Everyone’s right above us.’
Ivy had a nauseous feeling in her stomach and it was only growing worse. She pondered whether Valian felt as uncomfortable as she did about running away from a clash with the Dirge. After all, he’d spent his entire life fighting them and was bound to want to do so now. ‘I know we came here to help Mr Punch – and we’ve done that,’ she said firmly, ‘but it feels wrong to leave when he’s fighting to protect everyone we love.’
‘I know,�
� Seb agreed. ‘But what can we really do?’ He bared his arms, showing the empty space where his drumsticks used to be. ‘We’ve got no way to stop them. We wouldn’t last a second up there.’
‘That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try,’ Ivy told him.
‘Hey – what’s that up ahead?’ Valian said.
A strange-shaped shadow lay across their path. As they got closer, they saw that it was actually several objects strewn over the floor, carpeted in decades of filth. Ivy brushed clean an underguard’s tricorne hat, while Valian heaved a black bicycle upright. Seb found a small canvas pouch printed with the underguard logo – a five-pointed star surrounding a gloved fist.
‘This must have been strapped to the bicycle,’ he said, examining the Velcro on one side. ‘Mr Punch said that this tunnel was last used to evacuate people during the Great Battle of Twelfth Night. Perhaps an underguard officer left it here in all the commotion.’
Ivy put the hat down and ran her hands across the frame of the bicycle. It felt warm to the touch. ‘This is uncommon, but I’ve never seen an underguard riding one before. Do you know what it does, Valian?’
‘No, sorry. The underguards must have used them before I was born.’
Seb unzipped the canvas pouch and a silver thimble fell out.
‘Now, those I do know a little about,’ Valian said, ‘although I’ve never seen one in action.’ He picked it up. ‘My parents told me that uncommon thimbles offer “the heart’s protection” – whatever that is.’
Ivy knew that buttons treated ailments, so perhaps all sewing-related objects had healing properties. ‘There might be other objects in the tunnel,’ she said, taking the bicycle by the handlebars and wheeling it forward. ‘Let’s keep going and see what we can scavenge.’
They quickly reached the end of the tunnel after collecting just one more item – a broken toilet brush which only worked when you gave the handle a good whack. As they climbed the steps towards the exit, Seb gazed despondently at the dying sparks between the bristles. With every step, the sounds of battle grew more ferocious. Ivy heard the crackling roar of fire and the splintering of wood. Perhaps the lampposts weren’t faring too well …
‘It sounds like they’re fighting right outside,’ she said. ‘If this tunnel opens on the other side of the Great Gates, then Mr Punch must have failed to hold the Dirge’s army back.’ Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes as she imagined what might have happened to him. ‘If Octavius Wrench raises Lundinor to the surface, the army will move into London.’
‘Then it’s now or never if we want to help,’ Valian decided, gathering the uncommon paperclips from his pocket.’
Ivy knew their chances were slim. She readied herself to mount the uncommon bike, her hands shaking on the handlebars. She had no idea what it could do but, if it had belonged to an underguard, then it must have some useful ability. Seb banged the faulty toilet brush against the tunnel wall to ignite the sparks, his knuckles white on the handle.
‘Before we go out there,’ Valian said, his eyes watery, ‘I want to say thank you. I couldn’t have found Rosie without your help – not just in the past few days, but before that too. Having friends like you gave me hope again.’
Ivy smiled at him. She tried to think of something to say to make them all feel braver. ‘Let’s do this for Rosie,’ she managed in a brittle voice. ‘And for Mum and Dad, and Scratch. Let’s do this for them.’
‘And Judy,’ Seb added, ‘who I still may be able to see again – if by some miracle we survive this.’
‘And Mr Rife,’ Valian said, ‘and Curtis and Johnny Hands and all our friends in Lundinor.’
Ivy pictured the faces of all the uncommoners she and Seb had met in the last year who’d shown them kindness – Violet Eyelet, Ethel Dread, Mr Littlefair, Miss Hoff and Miss Winkle …
She clenched her jaw and felt her resolve stiffen.
The tunnel exit was hidden behind a large trader’s information board, which swung aside to allow them through. A deafening roar hit Ivy in the chest as she caught sight of the battlefield ahead, filling the arrivals chamber. The wrought-iron gates of Lundinor were bent open as if they were made of nothing stronger than modelling clay, and a whirlwind of dead creatures poured through them, running on two legs or four, some slithering, others flying. There were beings immersed in flames; others that looked like huge spiders the size of elephants. Ivy spotted lampposts with burning legs, and smashed lamp-heads parrying blows from three-armed ninjas with long swords. Wraithmoths swooped down upon them, turning the air noxious.
Adrenalin shot through Ivy’s body. She leaped onto her bike, aiming for a group of grim-wolves which were swiping at a lamppost warrior with their sharp claws. On the edge of her field of vision she saw Valian run into the fray, throwing paperclips like Frisbees. Seb sprinted at his side, aiming charged flares at nearby enemies.
‘Gahhhh!’ Ivy cried, doing her best impression of the warrior queen Boudicca. She thrust her feet down on the pedals and shot forward, her bones shaking as the bike crossed the rocky cave floor.
Individual scuffles flashed past on either side – grimps pulverizing lampposts with clubs, green gobbles spearing wooden legs with their pincers. A series of dull thuds resonated by Ivy’s knees. She almost laughed when she saw that the silver spokes of the bicycle wheel were detaching themselves from the rim and shooting like arrows towards oncoming aggressors. They seemed to have perfect aim. Ivy spotted one spoke pierce the tough, slimy hide of a selkie, which screeched in pain – No wonder the underguards used them. The spokes scattered towards the grim-wolf pack like porcupine quills. The wolves howled and fled to another part of the cave.
Knowing she was riding a weapon energized Ivy’s muscles. She braked and, with one foot touching the floor, swivelled the bicycle round to face Valian and Seb. Their backs were to the arrivals chamber wall, defending themselves against a pack of vicious-looking scarecrow creatures, which attacked with flaming scythes. Ivy drove the pedals hard, rattling towards them at speed. Enough spoke missiles remained on the wheels to defend Ivy from oncoming attackers without the wheels buckling, allowing her to clear a path through the horde.
When she reached the boys, however, the bike collapsed. Ivy launched herself into the legs of one of the scarecrow creatures, stunning it before it could swipe its scythe at Valian’s head. She grazed her hands and knees as she came to a skidding halt beside Seb.
A loud cracking noise sounded overhead. Everyone – on both sides of the battle – looked up at the cave ceiling as dust fell in a number of places, clouding the air. Stalactites the size of fridge-freezers began dropping like giant daggers, shattering on the ground below. Entire swathes of the Dirge’s army went flying, along with what was left of Mr Punch’s lamppost forces.
‘This is it!’ Valian grasped the torn sleeve of Ivy’s coat and dragged her towards him. ‘Lundinor’s moving to the surface; we need to take refuge.’
Seb shuffled closer as Valian got the thimble out of his pocket. ‘Here’s hoping “the heart’s protection” can shelter us from those giant falling rocks.’
Ivy held her breath, willing the thimble to save them. Valian pushed his finger inside, and a ring of ultra-thin metal about the width of Ivy’s arm slid round the thimble’s edge. Another ring formed, and another. They continued appearing – their diameter increasing – until they had formed a huge dome-like shield, with the thimble at the apex.
The ground tremored as rubble crashed down around them, but the thimble shield didn’t even twitch. Valian’s arm trembled, holding his finger in place. Ivy went to support his elbow, assuming the load was hard to bear.
‘No, it’s all right,’ he told her. ‘It’s as light as paper.’
It wasn’t the weight of the thimble shield that caused him to shake, she realized; it was fright. Smoke crept under the edge of the shield and dust coated the inside of Ivy’s mouth, making her cough. She tucked herself closer to the boys and closed her eyes, waiting for it all to be over.
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Sipping from a flask of tea, an old lady stared out of the window of the number 89 bus as it rumbled along across the east corner of Blackheath Park. The heath was quiet and still, the dim cloudless sky lit by the early morning sun. It made a pleasant change from the thunder and lightning of the last week during Storm Sarah.
The lady’s gaze wandered around the ground floor of the double-decker. There were only two other passengers on board: a man in jogging shorts and a T-shirt, covered in sweat; and a teenage boy wearing a football shirt. The boy had a small Yorkshire terrier snoozing on his lap.
Just then, a loud boom! sounded outside, rattling the windows. The old lady dropped her flask and grabbed the nearest handrail as the bus shook violently. There was a screech as it swerved off the road and mounted a bank, coming to a sharp halt. The impact launched her into the aisle, where she banged her head against another seat.
She blinked, rubbing a spot above her ear. Her head was sore, but she couldn’t feel any injuries. Had there been an earthquake? She could hear a strange groaning sound outside, like the very bowels of the earth were moving.
‘Everyone all right?’ a man called.
‘Yes, I’m OK!’ The lady hoisted herself up. The door to the driver’s compartment hung open and the jogger was peering in.
‘The driver’s awake but dazed,’ he said. ‘I’d better stay with him.’
The lady made her way over to the teenage boy with the dog. ‘Hello, son, are you injured?’
The boy was pale; he was speaking hurriedly in another language. The dog whimpered as she took the boy’s shaking hand. ‘It’s all right, you’re going to be fine. Do you have any pain anywhere?’ she asked him.
The boy rubbed the back of his head.
‘There’s smoke rising from the engine,’ the jogger cried. ‘We’ve got to get everyone out!’ He pressed the emergency door button. A whiff of churned earth wafted in from outside. The old lady and the boy helped each other down onto the grass, while the jogger attended to the driver.
The Frozen Telescope Page 18
