“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 paper clips 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 modeling 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.
Adrenaline shot through Ivy’s body. She leaped onto her bike, aiming for a group of grim-wolves who 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 paper clips 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 toward oncoming aggressors. They seemed to have perfect aim. Ivy spotted one spoke pierce the tough, slimy hide of a selkie, who screeched in pain—No wonder the underguards used them. The spokes scattered toward 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, swiveled the bicycle around to face Valian and Seb. They were backed up against the cave wall, defending themselves against a pack of vicious-looking scarecrow creatures who attacked with flaming scythes. Ivy drove the pedals hard, rattling toward them at full speed. Enough spoke missiles remained on the wheels to defend against oncoming attackers without the wheels buckling, allowing Ivy to clear a path through the horde.
When she reached the boys, however, the bike collapsed. Ivy launched 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 refrigerators 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 toward him. “Lundinor’s moving to the surface; we need to take refuge.”
Seb shuffled closer as Valian fetched the thimble from 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 ultrathin metal slid around the thimble’s edge, about the width of Ivy’s arm. Another ring formed, and another. They continued appearing—in increasing diameter—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.
Sipping from a cup of tea, an old lady stared out 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 in his lap.
Just then a loud boom! sounded outside, rattling the windows. The old lady dropped her teacup and grabbed the nearest railing 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 bus 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 and 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 teenage boy helped each other down the step onto the grass, while the jogger attended to the driver.
“I checked upstairs: the top floor of the bus is empty,” he added. “But I’ve go
t no reception on my phone. What’s going on?”
The ground was still trembling—an aftershock maybe? Peering across the heath, the old lady noticed the crumbling outline of a tall structure that hadn’t been there before: a gated archway with strangely shaped posts on either side. She rubbed her forehead, guessing she had a concussion and was seeing things. It was probably fallen trees or debris from damaged buildings.
Three figures were approaching from across the field. One wore a white lab coat. Another—who appeared to be floating over the grass—was dressed in a hooded robe. The tallest of the three sported a black suit and bowler hat and carried a cane.
“Hello? Excuse me!” the jogger shouted. “We need some help over here!”
The strangers murmured. As they drew closer, the old lady saw that two of them were wearing masks covering their faces. One had horns and tusks; the other featured a wide snake-like mouth and jutting fangs. But Halloween had come and gone….
She glanced nervously at the jogger beside her, whose face was drawn wide in disbelief.
Sensing danger, she turned and ran.
The tracks of Valian’s tears were the only patches of his cheeks clean of dust. Blood trickled from a wound above his ear; his leather jacket was torn at the shoulder. He viewed Ivy and Seb nervously before pulling his finger out of the thimble. The rings of wafer-thin steel that formed the giant shield retracted, revealing a bright landscape beyond.
Ivy wiped her nose and forced herself to her feet. Pain throbbed in her hands and knees; her lungs burned as she heaved in fresh air smelling of mud and rain. The red and white lights of slowly moving traffic blinked in the distance. She recognized the vista: they were standing on a hill in Blackheath Park, overlooking London.
“This can’t be happening,” Seb croaked, staggering upright.
Brilliant sunlight illuminated the devastation of their surroundings. The scythe-wielding scarecrows had vanished along with the rest of the Dirge’s army. In their place was the empty floor of the arrivals cave, now fenced by a crumbling wall of soil, rock and debris, churned from the earth. The entire area had been dragged to the surface.
Ivy looked over her shoulder to where the Great Gates of Lundinor towered over them, twisted and damaged after being caught in the skirmish. Ten meters of rocky wall was still intact on either side, though wobbling ominously in the breeze. The path through the gates sloped downward into a giant chasm. “Lundinor hasn’t resurfaced in its entirety yet,” she remarked. “Maybe Octavius Wrench has to do it in phases because wielding the Sword of Wills takes so much energy.” The thought gave her a sliver of hope. “We can’t give up. Not yet.”
Nearby, a bus had swerved onto the grass to avoid a large crevice in the road. Steam rose from the engine at the back; a few people—commoners—seemed to be sitting or lying in the field a safe distance away.
“Let’s see if we can help those people,” Ivy suggested. Adrenaline was still pumping through her veins; she couldn’t stand still.
Seb nodded, though she could see that his hair was singed and his forehead puckered with red blisters.
“Can you sense the army of the dead?” Valian asked, looking left and right. “They can’t have just vanished.”
Ivy spread her senses across the park, but it was difficult to control her skill after the anguish she’d felt during the battle. Her mind and body felt shaken and weak. She managed to detect a prattle of fractured souls filling the gaping hole that dropped down into Lundinor. “They’ve stopped just under the surface,” she said, “like they’re waiting for something.”
“…or someone,” Seb corrected, holding a shaky finger out toward the crashed bus.
Several shadowy figures were moving with calm purpose in their direction. Ivy caught the disturbing hiss of Octavius Wrench’s wrecked soul among them. She angled her body defensively. “It’s the Dirge. They’re carrying the Sands of Change and the Sword of Wills.”
Hemlock was easy to distinguish because of her white lab coat; the others were wearing dark clothes.
“They’ll kill us if they see us,” Valian said bleakly. “We can hide over there.” He steered them behind a knoll of soil, where they all crouched down. Seb inspected his phone screen, being careful to shield the light so that it didn’t give away their position. He spoke in a hushed voice: “I can’t call the police. I’ve got no reception up here.”
“It might have something to do with the Great Gates,” Valian said. “Common technology doesn’t work well in Lundinor. Perhaps the gates are interfering with the signal. We have to think of something else.”
“With only the thimble, we won’t be able to fight them,” Ivy decided. “Maybe we can outwit them some other way?”
Murmured noises signaled that the group had drawn closer. Ivy’s skin prickled as she heard a distressed voice. “Let me go!” a woman was crying. The sound was muffled, as if something was choking her.
Ivy peeked out from behind the mound. The Dirge stood in front of the Great Gates. Ivy could tell who they all were from the masks they were wearing. For the first time she saw Octavius Wrench’s true face, in his Augrit form. His skin was transparent and, through it, she saw dark shapes shifting around like shadows under the surface. From the glint of silver in his hand, she could tell he was carrying the Sands of Change. The Sword of Wills hovered over his back, just as it had done when Monkshood had been wielding it to control Valian on top of Breath Falls. As long as Octavius Wrench possessed it, Ivy knew that the underguard would remain under his command.
Octavius Wrench was flanked on one side by Hemlock and on the other by Monkshood, who, as he floated, held an elderly woman up by her neck. The woman had graying hair and wore a periwinkle-blue scarf draped around her shoulders, the ends falling over the front of her long wool coat. Her slim legs dangled above the ground as she tried to wriggle free. The poor woman seemed as helpless as a rag doll in Monkshood’s grasp. “Please,” she croaked desperately. “What do you want with me?”
Fire burned within Ivy’s belly. “She’s a commoner,” she muttered to Valian and Seb. “She’s got no idea what’s going on. We have to save her.”
Ivy had no time to formulate a plan as Seb went racing out from behind their mound, shouting angrily. She supposed that was the only strategy he’d come up with—scream at the evil people until they went away. Her feet pounded on the cave floor as she hurried after him, considering their real options. They were unarmed and outnumbered; how could they possibly win?
“Leave her alone!” Seb yelled.
“Help me!” The old lady’s voice trembled as she writhed around, longing to be free.
“You! Again?” Octavius Wrench snarled and turned a dark stare on Ivy and Seb. “What an unpleasant surprise.” He lifted a gloved finger, and, at his command Monkshood hoisted the old lady higher. A small squeak escaped from her throat, yanking on Ivy’s heart.
“Put her down!” Ivy cried, her nostrils flaring. “She hasn’t done anything to you!”
Monkshood parted his robes with his free hand and, in a streak of silver, withdrew his uncommon can opener. Hemlock lashed her electric cord and plug toward them, cracking the stone floor.
“Kill them all,” Octavius Wrench commanded. With a flick of his fingers, a trio of grim-wolves came padding through the Great Gates and began sniffing around. “And search the area for any more.”
Ivy and Seb started edging back. In her peripheral vision, Ivy noticed Valian run to join them. “Ivy, look out!” he yelled.
She moved away—just in time—as Hemlock’s plug struck the ground by her feet. She knew it was only a matter of time before she was ripped apart—either by the plug’s claw-like pins or a steel crab’s pincers.
All at once a strange noise sounded overhead—a scream combined with creaking wheels and the high-pitched tune of a nursery mobile. Ivy looked up. Mr. Rife—feathered buccaneer
’s hat and all—came flailing through the sky, one hand gripped around the handlebar of a vintage pram. Squashed inside the carriage was a small girl with thick ice-blond hair.
“Rosie!” Valian cried happily.
The pram crushed Monkshood as it landed on top of him. Freed from his grasp, the old lady managed to jump aside in time to avoid being hit as well. She rolled and lay where she stopped, stirring only to rub her head. Rosie jumped lightly out of the pram.
Glaring at Mr. Rife, Hemlock charged—
But Mr. Rife was ready for her. “Right then.” Tensing his jaw, Mr. Rife opened his jacket to reveal a battery of objects hastily strapped to the inside (Ivy had seen some of them displayed at the auction house). “Let’s see how you deal with these.” He grabbed a staple gun and fired it in Hemlock’s direction. Although no staples shot out, Hemlock slowed. Her limbs jerked as if they were attached to strings being worked by a puppeteer. Then her feet cemented themselves to the ground, her neck went stiff, and with one arm sticking out at a right angle and her other hand stuck to her hip, she looked ready to perform the “I’m a Little Teapot” nursery rhyme.
“Gah!” she screeched, struggling to break free.
Meanwhile, as Octavius swooped toward the army of the dead and started barking orders at them to attack London, Monkshood activated his can opener, releasing a horde of razor-sharp crabs onto the cave floor. The slashing noises of their knifelike pincers sent tremors through Ivy’s jaw as she stumbled back.
“Mr. Rife!” she screamed. “Help!”
Mr. Rife, catching sight of where Ivy, Seb and Valian stood defenseless, threw something at Rosie. Rosie bent her knees and leaped up to catch it. It was a long-stemmed wooden tobacco pipe—the very same one that her parents had scouted years ago in Bolivia. Ivy remembered having seen it on display at the auction house. But how it was going to help now, she couldn’t imagine.
The Uncommoners #3 Page 19
