“Is that who I think it is?” Valian said, squinting.
“The souls within Mr. Punch are panicked,” she told him. “It’s as if none of them wants to relinquish control, rendering all of them powerless.”
Valian rubbed his chin. “The underguards can’t realize he’s Mr. Punch, or else there would be more of them here to apprehend him. No one else knows he’s a Hob, do they?”
Ivy shook her head; as far as she knew, it was a secret.
“Look over there—” Valian nodded to one of the underguards who appeared stiffer and more robotic than the others. He seemed to be issuing commands and directing the others what to do. “I can’t see any members of the Dirge anywhere, so where is that one getting his orders from?”
The underguard leader pointed at the Stone of Dreams and barked an instruction. Two of his men removed the copy of King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table from the lectern and put there in its place a smaller book with a black leather cover, which they opened at the pages in the middle.
The ground rumbled. Up in the room in the tower, Ivy steadied herself against the stone wall. “What’s happening?” The arrow-slit windows were expanding and filling with stained glass. Fiery torches were materializing on the walls, flooding the room with flickering orange light.
“They’re changing the appearance of Lundinor,” Valian realized.
He led Ivy back outside, onto the battlements. Lundinor was cloaked in darkness. The castle walls had grown higher, and a spiky black roof now covered the courtyard, obscuring Mr. Punch and the underguards. The jolly flags had transformed into tattered rags, and grotesque gargoyles loomed from the battlements.
Gazing into the distance, Ivy saw that Lundinor had turned into a decrepit medieval city. A black-as-night river ran through the center, crossed by arched bridges lined with nightmarish statues of winged creatures. The pointed spires of several Gothic cathedrals poked above the gloomy thatched houses on both banks. The stink of tar and sewage carried on the wind.
At the sounds of footsteps, Ivy turned. Four underguards were marching toward her and Valian, their faces immobile. One of them was holding Seb in an armlock. “Argh!” he yelped, gritting his teeth.
Ivy ran to help him, but the underguard leader strode out from behind them, stopping her in her tracks. The veins on his temple were purple and throbbing, as if he was straining with all his might against the Sword of Wills. When he opened his mouth, a familiar, deep voice spilled out.
“You couldn’t resist joining me, I see.”
Cold fingers traced the back of Ivy’s neck. Octavius Wrench…? He must be using the Sword of Wills to control the underguard’s vocal cords.
“Welcome to my glorious New Dawn,” he continued. “You lucky three will have front-row seats right here to watch Lundinor’s resurrection using the Sword of Wills.” He signaled to the other officers. “See that they are made comfortable.”
Two underguards strode toward Ivy and Valian. Ivy considered trying to resist, but she was worried that she’d endanger Seb’s life if she did. Her heart sank as uncommon paper clips were fastened around her wrists and ankles. The officer patted the pockets of her jeans and removed her magnifying glass and yo-yo before pushing her to the floor. Seb and Valian were secured in exactly the same manner and forced to their knees beside her.
One of the officers snapped Seb’s drumsticks in half, making him cry out. Another untied Valian’s boat shoes and removed everything from his pockets—he was carrying a considerable number of uncommon objects—and threw them, along with Ivy’s yo-yo and magnifying glass, over the castle wall. Ivy heard a distant splash as they landed far below in the moat. With a loud scrape, three heavy iron fetters rose from the stone floor and were fixed to their ankle bindings.
The underguard leader lowered himself to Ivy’s level, so his bloodshot eyes were at the same height as hers. “The sun is rising. In an hour’s time, its light will cover this castle and I will meet you all again, face to face.” He grinned malevolently. “Until then, enjoy the show.”
The troop marched away, into the castle. A door slammed shut; the sound of their footsteps faded.
“What does he mean, ‘its light will cover this castle’?” Valian asked. “We’re miles underground. How can he get the sun to shine down here?”
Ivy remembered Mr. Punch’s fragmented warning: Great Gates…Blackheath…using the sword…
“Blackheath is above us,” she murmured. “That’s how Octavius Wrench is planning to get natural light in here: the Sword of Wills can control the laws of physics. He’s going to lift Lundinor to the surface!”
Seb’s face went white as a sheet. “He can’t possibly…Lundinor is gigantic. It would be like a massive earthquake; millions of people would die.”
“Billions of people,” Valian corrected, “if he repeats the process in other undermarts around the world….Think of the Dirge’s map.”
Ivy’s ears were suddenly bombarded by angry voices. She wriggled to her knees so she could see over the parapet walls. Selkies were slithering out of the river, over the banks and onto the Gauntlet, the main road heading toward the Great Gates. The hulking shapes of all kinds of dead races floated out under the portcullis of every castle and added themselves to the procession.
“The army of the dead,” she said with a shiver. “They’re moving.”
Seb scratched at the paper clip around his ankles. His wrists were joined so tightly he could only move his fingers a tiny bit apart. “How are we going to escape? These things are unbreakable.”
“I freed Rosie with my uncommon boat shoes, but they’ll be lying at the bottom of the moat by now,” Valian said, tugging his bound feet away from the fetter embedded in the floor.
Ivy reached out with her whispering. Now that the dead were advancing toward the Great Gates, the castle was emptying of voices. She narrowed her field of sense to the curtain wall, concentrating carefully. “I think I can locate Mr. Punch. He’s on the ground floor in a room with what feels like the Stone of Dreams.”
“Can you ask the Stone to help us, like you did with the ship’s wheel?” Valian asked.
Ivy got a sinking feeling, thinking of her failed attempt to communicate with the Sword of Wills. “I’ll give it a go,” she said bravely. She scrunched her nose up in concentration and searched for the broken soul inside the Stone of Dreams. Its solemn voice came into clarity for a few seconds before it became muffled again. She refocused over and over, but on each occasion she was only able to lock on to it for a brief moment. “It’s no use,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not skilled enough.”
“You have to try once more,” Valian urged her firmly. “You couldn’t detect Mr. Rife’s pram when we were outside Forward & Rife’s auction house yesterday. Now you can sense a room in the center of this castle. Your abilities have gotten stronger, Ivy, even in that short space of time. You can do it.”
Valian was right. Even without the magnifying glass, she could perceive souls farther away than ever before. She took a deep breath and homed in on the Stone of Dreams again. This time, she told herself to be undaunted.
“Questi sono tempi oscuri per Lundinor,” the Stone uttered.
“I can hear it!” Ivy beamed at Seb and Valian. “It’s talking in a different language. Italian, I think.”
“Why can’t it speak English?” Seb groaned. “I don’t know any Italian.”
“Me neither,” Valian added, regretfully. “You’ll have to make it understand you some other way.”
Ivy considered the problem carefully. Mr. Punch had once told her that the Stone of Dreams was fond of books, which accounted for its extraordinary powers. Maybe her own love of reading might help her connect with it better.
She imagined some of the scenes from her favorite stories—a sword fight between a dastardly pirate and a flying boy, a water vole rowing alo
ng 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 envisioned 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 toward a terrible forest of black thorns. Ivy recognized the scene from 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 toward 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, Valian dispensed a few drops onto his ankle binding. The ultrathin wire unraveled like elastic and sprang back into a paper clip. Valian then passed the can to Ivy for her to pour it onto his wrists, as he couldn’t do that for himself. “Uncommon oil cans change 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 paper clip. Valian tucked them inside the pocket of his leather jacket in case they might be 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 center was set for a feast, complete with spooky candelabra centerpieces.
They found Mr. Punch imprisoned in exactly the same way they had been. He had assumed the guise of the white-bearded store assistant that Ivy had met once before in Mr. Punch’s 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. 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 defenses 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 toward 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 Lion before she left Oz to return home.
As they rushed through the castle, Mr. Punch checked the walls and looked around 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 décor,” Seb muttered.
Mr. Punch pulled back the fabric to reveal a hidden staircase. Although the light only permeated a few feet down, Ivy could see the steps were thick with dust and covered with spiderwebs. “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 defense 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 in the lamp and lit the rope wick. A flame burst into life, sending a misty glow seeping through the sides of glass. 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 murmured. “That’s…cool.”
“Stop the Dirge’s forces from reaching the Great Gates,” Mr. Punch commanded. “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 bar
ed 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 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 that only worked when you gave the handle a good whack. As they climbed the steps toward 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….
The Uncommoners #3 Page 18