The Storm Tower Thief Page 16

  “Just be grateful it wasn’t Percival Vellum’s feet,” Dougal said.

  At the end of the lesson, they were forced to heat up a bag of powdered instant survival stew for dinner, over a roaring campfire. Concocted by the experimental division, the stew was gray and lumpy with bits of floating gristle, and it tasted, in Angus’s opinion, like a bowl of burned turnips that had been strained through a pile of festering socks.

  On the way back to the changing rooms, Jeremius took them on a small detour to an observation platform placed right on the edge of the emergency cold-weather training course.

  “In some parts of the world, iceberg hopping is considered a competitive sport,” he explained as they watched several lightning catchers attempt to leap from one towering mass of ice to the next. “But here at Perilous, it is a crucial part of our cold-weather training. Icebergs are formed when a piece of freshwater ice breaks off the end of a glacier or ice shelf. No two icebergs are the same shape, but they can be flat-topped or tabular, domed, pinnacled, wedged, drydocked, or U-shaped . . . or blocky. Ninety percent of their bulk exists below water, which is where the phrase ‘tip of the iceberg’ comes from. Many are ten thousand years old or more, and they can weigh up to two hundred thousand tons, but some are much larger. Others are the size of a grand piano and are called growlers, due to the noises they sometimes make.”

  Dougal gulped, looking nauseated.

  “Icebergs are deadly. They can roll over without warning, throwing anyone standing on them at the time into freezing water. The training icebergs you see here are a fraction of the average size, and strict safety measures have been put in place, of course. If lightning cubs are ever caught attempting to cross this lake without the strict supervision of an experienced iceberg hopper, they will be expelled from Perilous immediately.”

  Indigo looked disappointed. Angus watched with sweaty palms as three lightning catchers attempted a daring human bridge maneuver between two wobbling icebergs. He was quite relieved when Gudgeon escorted the lightning cubs back up into the Exploratorium a few minutes later. And he felt a huge surge of affection for his cozy room as he and Dougal entered it at last. A warm fire was blazing in the grate, perfect for toasting his wet socks. He could already see the lump in his bed where a hot-water bottle had been thoughtfully placed.

  It wasn’t until he’d pulled off one sodden snow boot that he saw it. A note had been shoved under his door and was half hidden beneath the edge of his rug. He hopped across the room on one foot to retrieve it . . . and then instantly wished he hadn’t bothered. The handwriting on the envelope was horribly familiar. With a sinking feeling, he ripped it open and read the short message inside:

  Angus,

  Rogwood will collect you from the entrance hall at 8:30 this evening for your first session with Doctor Obsidian and the projectograms. Please do not keep either of them waiting.

  Principal Dark-Angel

  Angus sighed. Thanks to the ice diamond storms, the lightning heart, and the unsettling news about his uncle, there had been no spare room in his head to worry about fake storms, the strange pale doctor, or tests.

  He handed the note to a curious Dougal.

  “You’d think Dark-Angel would have more important things to think about than you at the moment,” he declared as Angus found his boot and pulled it back on. “They can’t force you to do it. Just tell Gudgeon you don’t feel like leaping about after any thunderstorms tonight.”

  “I can’t,” Angus said wearily, “I’ve already agreed to do the tests.”

  “Tests, yeah, but this is more like experimentation.”

  Ten minutes later, Angus made his way up the spiral stairs again and found Rogwood waiting for him in the entrance hall.

  “Ah, Angus, we meet again.” Rogwood smiled kindly from beneath his braided beard. “I must apologize for dragging you away from the comfort of your room at such a late hour. No doubt you were thinking of retiring to your bed with a good book on lightning puzzles or famous Imburcillian explorers.”

  Angus smiled. He’d left Dougal snuggled up in the camp bed, immersed in Imburology: An A–Z of Fascinating Facts and Frippery. He’d been reading the chapter called “Ghosts, Ghouls, and Famous Phantoms.”

  “I presume that Miss Midnight and Mr. Dewsnap are now fully aware of your extra activities?” Rogwood asked as they headed down the nearest tunnel and descended swiftly into the darkness.

  “Er . . . yes, sir, sorry,” Angus said sheepishly. “I know I promised not to tell anyone, but I, um, didn’t want to lie to them.”

  Rogwood nodded. “Perfectly understandable, under the circumstances. But it might be wise not to mention the fact to Principal Dark-Angel.”

  They walked in silence after that. As they descended deeper into the gloom, however, the uneasy questions that had been lurking at the back of Angus’s mind began to surface once again. What would Doctor Obsidian’s tests show about his skills? Would he be compared with other storm prophets from the past? And if so, would he be at the bottom of the weather-wrangling class?

  A few minutes later, they were striding along the corridor that led past the mysterious testing tunnels. Cold black flames flared from under a door on the left, and there was an odd, rhythmic thumping noise coming from one on the right. It sounded like a whole troupe of fog yetis doing the Highland fling.

  Rogwood ushered him through the last door at the end of the corridor. Doctor Obsidian wasn’t the only person waiting for them, however. Principal Dark-Angel, Felix Gudgeon, and Valentine Vellum were also talking in a quiet huddle.

  “If you would wait here for a few moments, Angus, I will see if Doctor Obsidian is ready to begin,” Rogwood said with a friendly smile, and he went over to join the others.

  Angus undid his coat and loosened his scarf, suddenly feeling uncomfortably hot inside his warm winter clothes.

  “Ah, Aramanthus, at last.” Principal Dark-Angel turned to greet him. “We were just discussing the details of tonight’s test.”

  Doctor Obsidian had stacked a number of projectograms against a familiar wooden box. The odd spiky measuring device sat on its own, a little farther away. Angus gulped, thinking he should have faked a twisted ankle after all.

  “The projectograms I have prepared offer a wide range of dangerous weather scenarios,” the doctor explained in his whispery voice.

  “And you are certain one of these will trigger the appearance of the fire dragon?” Principal Dark-Angel asked.

  Doctor Obsidian nodded. “I believe so. Advanced projectograms work on many sensory levels. Angus will believe the danger before him is real.”

  “I still don’t see why he has to be here.” Gudgeon glowered, staring at Valentine Vellum with obvious loathing. “What Angus can or can’t do doesn’t concern him.”

  Vellum bristled. “I am here at the special request of Principal Dark-Angel, who requires my expertise in the area of lightning strikes.”

  “Only thing you’re an expert in, Vellum, is poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong,” Gudgeon grumbled, giving him a withering stare.

  “That will do, Gudgeon!” Principal Dark-Angel snapped. “I will ban both of you from any further involvement unless you can be trusted to behave in a civilized manner. We are simply here to observe tonight’s test.”

  All four of them turned to look at Angus, who tried to pretend that he hadn’t heard a single word of this heated conversation and that he was fascinated instead by a section of bare rock on the wall.

  “Doctor Obsidian,” Principal Dark-Angel continued, “are you ready to begin?”

  The doctor nodded once.

  “Good. Then I suggest we stop wasting valuable time.” She turned toward Angus with a frosty smile. “I trust you are keeping warm in these difficult times, Angus?”

  “Er . . .”

  But without waiting for his answer, she retired to a seat against the wall.

  “Don’t let Vellum put you off,” Gudgeon said, giving Angus’s shoulder a friendly sq
ueeze. “It’s all hot air and no brains with that one.” Angus managed a weak smile as Gudgeon sat down with the others.

  “If you would come this way, Angus,” Doctor Obsidian said, leading him to a chair where a weatherproof coat and hat had been laid out next to a pair of rubber boots.

  “Weatherproof clothing is not strictly necessary, of course, but perhaps it will assist with the illusion that the test is being conducted within a real storm?” he said, sounding hopeful. “You can put your own boots over there before we begin.” He pointed to an old newspaper on the floor.

  Angus was just about to pull off his boots when he realized that the newspaper article staring up at him, several months old now, concerned the theft of the lightning tower artifacts from the museum in London. And he wondered nervously if one day in the distant future, an Imbur archaeologist would uncover the testing tunnel and find the remains of an eleven-year-old boy buried deep within.

  He buttoned up his weatherproof coat with fumbling fingers. There was now a vague, unhelpful buzzing in his ears.

  “I think we will begin with one of the smaller, less powerful storms, just to get things started,” Doctor Obsidian announced. “Remember, Angus, you are perfectly safe.”

  Angus had no more than a second to wonder what he was about to face when—

  Click.

  He was suddenly standing in a wooded glade. Tall, shady trees towered above his head, forming a soft green canopy from which a gentle rain was dripping. The entire tunnel had been transformed into a woodland. Angus stared in amazement at the lifelike toadstools popping up through the mossy ground, the thick, knotted tree roots running under his feet like fossilized veins. He could hear the soft pitter-patter of drizzle on his coat, he could feel a cold trickle of rain running down the back of his neck, and yet . . . He ran a hand over his skin just to check. He was still as dry as a bone. The projectograms were even more amazing than he’d imagined. The rain was utterly convincing.

  “I will now introduce an element of danger,” Doctor Obsidian announced.

  Angus felt his muscles tense. He could still see and hear everything that was going on outside the boundaries of the projectogram, which somehow made the illusion even more believable. What would the doctor consider dangerous enough to make him see the fire dragon? And suddenly—

  Click.

  He was standing on top of a hill, the only high spot for what looked like miles around, and above his head, in the gathering gloom, a violent storm was brewing. Rumbles of thunder echoed around the tunnel. There was nowhere to hide, nothing to take shelter under; he would be forced to defend himself from the lightning bolts that were lining up to use him as target practice. . . .

  CRASH!

  Angus flinched as the first blinding flash of lightning skimmed past his ears and struck the ground three feet to his left. He looked around for an escape. . . . If he could flatten himself against the wall of the tunnel—

  CRASH!

  The second bolt of lightning seemed to fill the entire tunnel like a huge electrified cobweb. Angus pressed his hands tightly over his ears, but the thunder that followed was still deafening and made his entire rib cage vibrate. The projectogram was amazing! He wanted to make a run for it, to tell Dark-Angel that he’d changed his mind. He definitely didn’t want to take part in any tests, ever again!

  For the next thirty minutes, he dodged, ducked, and darted about the tunnel, his heart leaping with every new flash of lightning, his brain aching as he struggled to make sense of it all. But after three bitterly cold blizzards, two gusty storms, and a mini tornado on a tropical island, the fire dragon had still refused to appear.

  Angus leaned against the wall of the tunnel, desperately trying to catch his breath as the latest projectogram faded. His legs were aching, his weatherproof hat had been ripped off his head ages ago, and his boots were hanging on by a rubbery thread. He was also starting to suspect that he might be in the middle of some very real weather after all, that Doctor Obsidian had secretly smashed several storm globes inside the tunnel to produce genuine blizzards, tornadoes, and lightning.

  What would happen if he simply pretended to see the fire dragon, he wondered, clutching a stitch in his side? Would they be able to tell that he was fibbing?

  “I think perhaps one more projectogram, and then we might call it a night?” Doctor Obsidian suggested.

  Principal Dark-Angel nodded, clearly disappointed that Angus had done nothing remotely impressive so far.

  There was another click. A vicious icicle storm appeared and began to pelt Angus with foot-long daggers. He had barely had time to register the danger when the projectogram began to flicker and rumble, sending strange vibrations throughout the tunnel.

  “Obsidian! What’s going on?” Gudgeon demanded, leaping to his feet. “I thought you said these projectograms were safe?”

  “There is a minor instability in the program. It is nothing to be alarmed about; there is no immediate danger. It may produce a few spontaneous lightning sprites, nothing more. I will have it fixed in a few seconds.”

  But the rumbling continued. The shaking became so strong that Angus could hardly stand on his own two feet. Meanwhile, the weather had gone haywire. One second he was standing beneath a blazing sun that made his eyeballs ache with the brightness; the next, puddles were collecting around his feet from a torrential downpour.

  Clunk!

  There was a sudden crackle of electricity in the air. A bolt of lightning shot across the ceiling, illuminating the entire room like a thousand-watt bulb. Angus flinched, pressing himself against the wall. And then there was a new sound.

  BOOM!

  The icicle storms, palm trees, and puddles disappeared. In a dark corner of the tunnel, something strange was happening. A tall plume of glittering diamond-shaped spores was rising toward the ceiling, shimmering ominously.

  “Ice diamond storm!” Gudgeon roared. “Everyone get out now!”

  Angus stared at the glittering plume, his insides suddenly clenched tight. There was no time to ask if the spores were real. He ran, stumbling, toward the door. Valentine Vellum had already disappeared through it, saving his own skin first. Gudgeon, Rogwood, Principal Dark-Angel, and the doctor were hard on Vellum’s heels.

  “Angus! This way!” shouted Rogwood, urging him across the tunnel to the door.

  But the ice diamonds were spreading too rapidly, forming a barrier, cutting him off.

  He tripped and fell to the ground. “Argh!” An icy blast of glacial air hit him before he could get to his feet again. The horrible cold crept through his clothes, stealing warmth from his fingers and toes, biting into his bones. He watched his fingers turn blue as the frost crept over his knuckles like a fungus.

  He was dimly aware that Gudgeon was shouting something urgent at him, then—

  BANG!

  The fire dragon burst into the tunnel at last! It blazed before him, molten fire dripping from every scale and claw. It hovered, uncertain. But Angus already knew it was too late to stop the deadly spores from freezing the air in his lungs, from slowing the blood in his veins to a sluggish crawl until the reliable thump, thump, thump of his heart simply came . . . to a gradual . . . s-stuttering . . . halt.

  He opened his eyes with a jolt of surprise and blinked up at the ceiling. He was still in the tunnel. He was also still very much alive.

  “Are you hurt?” Rogwood was leaning over him. “Did you bang your head when you fell?”

  Angus shook his head gingerly. It felt as if a large herd of elephants had been using it as a trampoline. Everything between his ears—including his skull, his brain, and big clumps of his hair—now throbbed painfully. He could also see two Rogwoods kneeling before him, like a pair of heavily bearded twins.

  “Is the boy all right?” Gudgeon demanded, appearing beside them, his face creased with concern.

  “I-I’m fine,” Angus said, sitting up groggily. His eyes finally slipped back into focus.

  “Nevertheless, I would like t
o check that you are not suffering from a concussion or any other injuries before you attempt to stand.” Rogwood frowned. “How many fingers am I holding up, Angus?”

  “Er . . . four, no, wait, I mean, three!” He corrected himself quickly as his blurred vision sharpened once again. “Definitely three fingers.”

  “Hmm.” Rogwood examined the bumps on his head silently for several moments before speaking again. “I’m afraid you will have some quite spectacular bruises in the morning, but there appears to be no serious harm done.”

  “But the ice diamond storm . . .”

  “It wasn’t real. It was just another projectogram.” Gudgeon folded his arms across his chest, looking deeply unimpressed.

  “Another projectogram?” Angus said, suddenly realizing that he felt perfectly normal now, apart from the throbbing in his head. His heart was still beating; blood was still flowing through his veins. There was no trace of the freezing that he’d felt in his fingers and toes just a few minutes before. The projectogram had fooled his senses completely. Just as the fake rain had convinced him he was wet, the fake ice diamond storm had convinced him he was about to die.

  “Obsidian should have told us,” Gudgeon growled. “I thought Angus was in big trouble.”

  “But that was the entire point of this training session,” Valentine Vellum said, sneering at him from the shadows. “You were supposed to believe the storm was real.”

  “I notice you were quick enough to make a run for it.”

  Vellum glared at Gudgeon. “That is beside the point. In my opinion—”

  “When I want your opinion, Vellum, I’ll ask for it. And I won’t be asking anytime soon.”

  “Silence!” Principal Dark-Angel snapped. “It was I who asked Doctor Obsidian to include the fake storm in this test session.”

  Gudgeon stared at her, stunned.

  “Doctor Obsidian,” Dark-Angel continued when nobody else spoke, “did you manage to obtain any significant readings from this evening’s activities?”

  The doctor hurried over to the spiky measuring device. He studied it for several moments, then nodded. “It shows a high level of brain activity only after the spores appeared. There are also some extremely promising sensory peaks that should be investigated further.”