by Anne Cameron
“Oh, no! It’s Germ!” Indigo blushed beside Angus.
Angus grinned, nudging Dougal. Germ had fallen asleep over his workbooks, his hair sticking up at odd angles, a thin trickle of drool collecting on his chin.
“He’s going to be mortified when he finds out everyone’s been watching him slobber all over the desk,” Dougal said over the sound of sniggering.
Indigo sank down further in her seat, covering her face with her hands. Angus decided that the only thing that would truly upset Germ was the fact that he’d slept through his glorious moment of fame.
Thankfully, the demonstrator turned the lens farther round and focused in on another window in the lightning catchers’ living quarters instead. Catcher Killigrew, who had clearly decided not to attend the event, was busy ironing a voluminous pair of spotted underpants. He then proceeded to trim the long hairs protruding from his nostrils with a small pair of clippers.
“Urgh!” Dougal cringed away from the unsavory sight as the demonstrator hurriedly moved the weather eye sixty degrees to the west.
“Yes, well, I think everyone gets the gist of things. When faced with more challenging terrain,” Leonard Galipot said, quickly trying to regain the interest of the audience, most of whom were still snickering at the sight of Catcher Killigrew’s underpants, “the weather eye can be extended to even greater heights.”
He pushed a button on the side, and the contraption rocked to and fro alarmingly. When the image settled a moment later, a sharp intake of breath swept around the entire audience. The weather eye was now swaying in a high wind, looking down over a range of snowcapped mountains. In the distance, clearly visible for the first time, was the swirling weather vortex over Castle Dankhart.
Angus stared at the disturbing image on the screen, holding his breath. Indigo, horror-struck, was clutching her face with her fingertips.
“Since our arrival at Perilous we have been using the weather eye to help monitor the weather vortex,” Lettice Galipot explained.
It was the first time most of the audience had seen a live view of the castle, at storm level or otherwise, even if it was completely obscured by the vortex. Several lightning catchers stood up for a better look. Millicent Nichols fainted in the row in front of them and had to be carried out of the tent for some air. Angus felt his stomach churn. Somewhere beneath the seething weather vortex, his mum and dad were trapped. It was exactly like the weather sample he and Indigo had seen in the Dankhart archive, only a thousand times bigger and far more turbulent than any photograph or description had ever managed to convey. Nor did it seem to be thinning out; if anything, the cloud looked much more violent than the last pictures in the Weathervane. Angus glanced at Dark-Angel, Rogwood, Gudgeon, and Jeremius, who were now leaning toward one another in urgent discussions. This was not what they’d been expecting to see.
“If we zoom in, we can observe the cloud in more detail,” Lettice Galipot said.
“I can see some of the deadly seven!” Angus stared at great swaths of ice-diamond spores, scarlet sleeping snow, and rancid rain.
“I think I’m going to be sick!” Dougal hissed, shielding his eyes from the lightning bolts, giant hailstones, and countless bits of flying debris.
BOOOOOOOOM!
The ground suddenly trembled beneath their seats.
“What’s happening now?” Dougal shot to his feet in a panic.
The whole audience suddenly seemed to be standing; some were clambering out of their seats, and heading for the exit.
“Look!” Angus pointed at the large screen, even brighter and more visible now in the dimming light of the late afternoon. It showed a startling new image from the weather eye.
The weather vortex had doubled in size. The enormous turbulent cloud, which now whirled with the energy of a thousand violent storms, seemed to be grower bigger by the second.
BOOOOOOOOM!
Another explosion rocked the tent.
“Why does it keep doing that?” Indigo yelled above the screams of panic breaking out all around them.
“I think—I think the weather vortex is finally dispersing!” Dougal explained, his glasses slipping down to the end of his nose in surprise. “It’s releasing all the energy and the most dangerous weather that’s been tied up at the inner core for months!”
BOOOOOOOOM!
“We’ve got to get out of this tent now!” Dougal warned as the ground shook forcefully for a third time. “If that cloud gets blown over Little Frog’s Bottom, we’ve had it!”
“No! Wait!”
Angus called Dougal back. Indigo stopped dead in her tracks, and all three of them stared at the confusing images now flitting across the large screen. The cloud had finally been blown clear of the castle by the last explosion. For the first time they could see exactly what was hidden underneath it. There were no signs of any catastrophic weather accidents. The castle stood intact, as tall, dark, and spooky as they’d seen it in the storm hollow.
Gudgeon had been right all along. Dankhart had been using the weather vortex to hide something so monstrous, so huge that it filled the screen in front of them. Angus blinked at the startling image in horror.
“Dankhart’s built a lightning tower!”
16
MURDEROUS STINGING FOG
The lightning tower, a giant metal pyramid with an eerie skeletal heart, soared above the dark castle. It glistened and sparkled, drenched in rain and melting snowflakes from the weather vortex. The tower was monstrous, far bigger than the ones Angus had seen with his own eyes through the retrospectacles in London.
“Dankhart’s been fooling everyone!” he said, a shiver of understanding shaking him down to the bone. “I should have realized when I saw the towers through the retrospectacles, when I read Edwin Larkspur’s name in the Weathervane. I bet that’s where Dankhart got the idea, from the lightning tower remains!” He stared at Dougal and Indigo, trying to explain. “Edgar Perilous and Philip Starling helped build the towers so they could capture lightning and use it for the good of all humankind. But Dankhart’s going to turn it into a weapon!”
“And if you add fire dragon scales to lightning storm particles . . .” Indigo added, understanding instantly.
Dougal turned as pale as a stinging fog. Angus remembered Hartley Windspear’s chilling words in the Inner Sanctum: “The lightning catchers noted that fire dragon scales, when combined with lightning storm particles, could produce weather of cataclysmic power.”
“It was Dankhart all along. Crevice never wanted those dragon scales for a bunion cure, and with Valentine Vellum’s help, Dankhart’s going to create his own catastrophic weather!”
“Don’t just stand there gawping, you three!” Gudgeon jumped down from the stage and stepped over the emptying rows of chairs until he reached them. “That storm’s about to break, and Principal Dark-Angel’s ordered an immediate evacuation to Brabazon Botanicals, so shift it!”
“But the crypt!” Angus blurted out, refusing to move. He had to be sure; he had to know that the storm prophet coffins were still intact, the dragon scales safe. “Has anything happened in the crypt?”
Gudgeon frowned. “I should have guessed you three would already know about that. Someone broke into one of the storm prophet tombs early this morning and stole some fire dragon scales.”
Angus glanced sideways at Dougal and Indigo, his worst fears suddenly confirmed.
“Catcher Coriolis raised the alarm, but it was already too late, and this is not the time or the place to be having discussions about the crypt!” Gudgeon added, staring up at the tent ceiling, which was shaking wildly in the wind. “I won’t tell you three again. You’d better shift it to Brabazon Botanicals before I carry you there myself!”
He turned away from them abruptly and marched over to shout at some dithering lightning cubs.
They ran, quickly joining a large group of fleeing third, fourth, and fifth years being herded toward the exit closest to Brabazon Botanicals by Catcher Sparks.
“Move along there, quickly now!” she shouted. “And stop pinching Croxley on the arm, Twill!”
Angus tried to turn his head to see who was elbowing him in the shoulder blades and almost choked. Disappearing across the deserted stage, which was now behind them, he was positive he’d just caught a brief glimpse of a lone figure in a long black coat. He ducked under Twill’s armpit, trying to get a better look, but the stranger had already vanished.
“The stranger in the coat!” he whispered urgently in Dougal’s ear. “I think he’s heading for the far side of the tent.” He tried to point, accidentally poking a third-year girl in the eye. “Sorry!”
“But what can we do?” Dougal said.
“Find out if we were right about Vellum, Crevice, and those dragon scales, for a start. If they were stolen first thing this morning, I bet Vellum’s on his way to deliver them to the bone merchant right now!”
“But nobody will believe us,” Indigo said. “Valentine Vellum’s a senior lightning catcher. We can’t just accuse him of stealing something so valuable.”
“They might believe a photo,” Dougal said, dragging the spy pen out of his pocket to show them.
Angus stared at his friend. “Dougal, that’s genius!”
Indigo nodded. “All we’ve got to do now is catch Vellum in the act!”
“But what about the weather vortex?” Dougal scowled up at the canvas above their heads. The sky outside was clearly darkening, causing light levels inside the tent to drop dramatically. “We can’t just go skipping off into the night with that thing threatening to drop the entire deadly seven on our heads.”
Angus glanced with some difficulty at his weather watch, which was now flashing several desperate warnings at him. It would be very close. If they got caught out in the vicious weather, they could be injured, knocked unconscious, or worse.
“We’ll have to do it quickly. If we can just prove Vellum’s in cahoots with Crevice and Indigo’s dear old uncle Scabby . . .”
They twisted around with some difficulty.
“Watch where you’re treading, McFangus! That was my foot!” Edmund Croxley complained, glaring down at him.
“Sorry!”
“Ow!”
“Sorry!”
They pushed against the fleeing tide, being knocked and buffeted, pushed and dragged, and for several minutes it was impossible to make any headway.
“McFangus! Midnight! Dewsnap!” An arm shot out from a tight knot of lightning cubs, grabbing Angus by the elbow. “You’re heading in the wrong direction,” Catcher Sparks said, emerging from the crowd. “You will turn around and go straight to Brabazon Botanicals with the rest of the lightning cubs and do exactly as your uncle Jeremius instructs.”
“But, miss—” Angus began.
“No buts, McFangus, and no diversions either. Do I make myself clear?”
She went hurtling off two seconds later to stop three hysterical first years who were attempting to flee through a hole in the tent.
“Nobody’s going to listen to us,” Indigo said, looking determined. “We’ve got to see where Vellum’s going.”
Indigo led the way, breaking through a tiny gap in the crowd, and raced for the exit on the far side of the tent. Outside, the square had grown eerily dark. The weather vortex was advancing across the sky toward Little Frog’s Bottom at a frightening pace. Angus gulped. It had already started to unravel into great long rolls of blackened cloud. It looked a hundred times more deadly than it had on the screen inside the tent.
He swiftly checked his weather watch, which had gone into meltdown and was warning him to take cover, pull on his rubber boots, and flee the island all at the same time.
“We haven’t got much time,” he said, scanning the square for any signs of life, hoping they hadn’t already lost Vellum. He saw a flicker of movement.
“Over there!” A solitary figure was hurrying toward the far side of the square. They ran across the cobbles, keeping out of sight in the deep shadows as they raced past the fishmonger’s, Noggins (the hat shop), and the Yodeling Yeti café. All the cheerful displays and colorful awnings that had greeted their arrival had been hastily dragged inside. The shops now looked deserted and unfriendly in the growing gloom, with shutters drawn across the windows. The statue loomed ahead in the darkness, Starling and Perilous watching the horizon as if they, too, were waiting for the deadly storm to break.
CRASH!
Angus flinched as a long streak of lightning struck out, illuminating ghastly bruiselike greens and yellows hidden deep within the clouds. The edge of the weather vortex had finally reached Little Frog’s Bottom. It was the most frightening storm he’d ever seen, worse than the one he’d witnessed through the retrospectacles as it destroyed London. Its tar-black edges hovered with menace.
“We’re never going to make it!” Dougal yelled above a sudden howl of angry wind. “We’ve got to get inside now!”
“We could take shelter inside Cradget’s!” Indigo pointed to the puzzle shop as it appeared up ahead.
Angus hammered on the door with his fists, no longer bothering to keep his voice down, hoping that someone would hear him and come to the rescue.
“It’s no use. The place looks deserted.” He stepped back and stared up at the shuttered windows.
“The statue! Head for the statue!” Indigo was already running across the cobbles toward it. But the weather was moving much faster than their legs could carry them. There was an infinitesimal moment of calm; then:
BOOOOMMMM!
Giant hailstones exploded through every inch of air around them. Angus was instantly knocked off his feet, his knees scraping against the cobbles. Fish, snails, splinters of wood, a thick soup of raging weather descended upon the square with a ferocious howl. He scrambled to his feet, shielding his face from great gusts of razor rain that sliced at his clothes and slashed through his shoes as if they were made of paper. Something grabbed his arm. It pulled him forcefully across the cobbles, dodging to the left as a nasty squall of scarlet sleeping snow swept past.
Bang!
He tumbled through a small door and fell to his knees again.
Bang!
The noise of the storm subsided abruptly as the door slammed shut, rattling violently on its hinges. Dougal, soaked to the skin, was bent double beside him. Indigo had guided them both to the safety of the statue.
“Come on!” She led the way up a long spiral staircase to the inside of Philip Starling’s head, where windows looked out over every part of the square.
“I can’t see anything except foggy hailstones, giant electrified snowflakes, and that horrible rancid rain!” Dougal said, racing over to Philip Starling’s nearest nostril, where another window had been placed.
Angus stared at the deadly weather battering the statue. The rest of the square had disappeared beneath sheets of raging weather. The storm made a dreadful noise, howling, pounding, and snatching at the windows. There was another sound, too, closer, inside the statue. Angus swung around. An open window was banging against its catch.
“Shut that window before the weather gets inside!” He raced across the head to help Indigo, but it was already too late. Long fingers of murderous mist had crept inside. The mist advanced swiftly, grabbing Dougal and bundling him up tightly. Angus swerved to the left, trying to dodge the mist before it could trap him, too, and failed.
“This stuff doesn’t feel the same as the mist in the storm hollow!” Angus said, struggling against the tight coils, which had already started to pull in against his rib cage.
“That’s because it’s combined itself with that stupid stinging fog that Catcher Hornbuckle discovered on the Imbur marshes,” Dougal spluttered, barely keeping his head above the foggy curls. “It’s murderous stinging fog now!”
“What! How can you tell?”
His question was answered a second later as the murderous stinging fog delivered a sharp stab of pain to the side of his neck.
“Ow!” The fog had a tight grip o
n him now and was refusing to let go no matter how hard he wiggled his shoulders from side to side. “What’s wrong with this stuff? Why won’t it give way?”
He could feel it slowly squeezing the air out of his lungs, stinging his arms, face, and legs, paralyzing him with excruciating pain. The fire dragon stirred angrily inside his chest. It was desperate to burst free and help him escape, but something was dreadfully wrong. The stinging fog was pulling in with an iron grip, squeezing the last gasps from his body, the last struggle from his limbs. He twitched and jerked, purple stars now bursting before his eyes as he tried to drag some extra air into his shrinking lungs, but it was impossible to breathe. The room slipped sideways as he fell to the floor. The fog quickly engulfed every part of his body, and a white vapor descended. The battle was almost over.
“Angus?” A shrill voice forced its way through the fog in his brain. Indigo was leaning over him, a terrified look on her face. “Angus! Are you all right?”
“Of course he isn’t! Some mad, murderous, stinging fog has just tried to squeeze him to death. He’ll probably never be the same again!”
Angus sat bolt upright, coughing, trying to reinflate his squashed lungs. The inside of Philip Starling’s head swam before his eyes. “W-what happened?”
“All the mist suddenly shot across the room and wrapped itself around your body. It was awful!” Indigo told him, looking shaken. “Dougal tore it to shreds with his fingers, and we managed to pull you free.”
“Then Indigo soaked up the last of the fog in her sweater and squeezed it out the window before it could start attacking us again,” Dougal explained.
“But we thought it was too late!” Indigo added.
“Honestly, we were both convinced you’d had it,” Dougal said, sounding shocked by his own bravery.
“Thanks!” Angus took another deep gasp of air, feeling immensely grateful. It was not the first time his friends had saved him from certain injury or worse. “I definitely owe you one for that.”