Darwen Arkwright and the School of Shadows (29 page)

The flittercrake was dashing ahead, careless of whether the others could keep up or not. Alex was a few steps behind it with Owen at her heels, but Darwen, Rich, and Mr. Peregrine were way behind. Another scrobbler blundered into the hall from a side room on the right, blocking their way. They weren't going to make it.

The scrobbler turned to face them, hunching and spreading its arms to catch them. Its movements were still a little slow, and at the last second Darwen skipped to the left, yanking Mr. Peregrine and Rich after him. The old man stumbled, but the scrobbler's swinging snatch missed them, and the monster faltered, as if disoriented by its own movement. Before it could turn to find them, Darwen was pulling Mr. Peregrine on. Behind them, the stone hallway was filling with scrobblers. They were waking now, getting faster, more alert.

Rich stopped and picked something up. As Darwen ducked, Rich flung a chunk of slate into the mass of scrobblers. It thudded against one of them and the scrobbler turned wildly, furious, but unsure where the projectile had come from. As Darwen pressed on, looking back over his shoulder, he saw the scrobbler punch one of the others in the gut. The second stumbled back, colliding with another, and before Darwen had gone more than a few yards, they had turned blindly on each other, kicking and clawing and shouting.

“Should buy us a few seconds,” said Rich, businesslike.

“Nice one,” said Darwen.

But it was only seconds. Many of the scrobblers behind them weren't involved in the melee at all and there were still more spilling out ahead.

“Where's that portal?” Alex roared over her shoulder.

Darwen half closed his eyes and it was almost like he could see the gate, like he was picking it up on some kind of radar in his head. Fifty yards ahead and twenty to the left. But the scrobblers seemed to be everywhere, erupting from every alcove and hollow, half blind still, confused but bent on doing the only things they really understood: destroying, terrorizing, killing.

“You remember when we could stop them just by touching them because people loved us?” remarked Alex as she ran, pulling a speechless Owen along by the hand. “Good times. Next time I take a trip with you, Darwen Arkwright, I'm bringing a machine gun.”

Thirty yards ahead. Fifteen. Five.

Darwen rounded the corner, still pulling the struggling Mr. Peregrine, but Rich was helping again and the old man's feet barely touched the ground. There was the gate, flanked by pods. Two were open, another was starting to steam at the hinges, and three were dormant. Two scrobblers were already in their way, flexing their fingers thoughtfully as if discovering what their new bodies could do.

“You can sense where the portals are?”

The question was so quiet that, in the confusion and panic, Darwen almost missed it. It was Mr. Peregrine who spoke, and for all his exhaustion he had fixed Darwen with a particularly level stare.

“Yeah,” said Darwen, self-conscious. “I suppose all mirroculists can.”

Mr. Peregrine's brow contracted into a frown, and though he said nothing, Darwen could almost hear his answer:
No, Darwen, they can't. This is different. New
.

“It's no big deal,” said Darwen. “I can just feel it, especially if it's close or if it . . . is . . .”

“What?” asked Rich urgently. Darwen had tailed off, and was now gazing up the cavern to where the portal had flickered into life.

Someone was coming through.

For a split second Darwen thought the Guardians had sent reinforcements, that there would be a team to help them disarm the pods. Maybe it was Weazen.

But then he saw the face.

“It's the man in the gas mask!” he yelled. “Take cover!”

Revelations at Devil's Bridge

G
reyling's agent moved
as before, slow and deliberate, turning methodically as he aimed his gun—a different one this time, with a wide muzzle like a rocket launcher—and began firing: three quick shots at Alex, which she avoided by diving behind a bank of pods. One of them exploded in a burst of electricity, shattered rock, and twisted metal. The scrobbler inside blundered out, burning, bellowing in rage and pain. It took three steps, then fell heavily to the ground.

Darwen and Rich hid behind another pod with Mr. Peregrine as the man in the gas mask began his slow advance into the cavern. A scrobbler blundered into his path, and he blasted it aside, almost casually, without breaking stride.

Darwen risked a look across to where Alex and Owen cowered. They were all pinned down and the man in the gas mask was moving to where he would have a clear shot. Darwen gave Rich a frightened glance.

“Ideas?” he asked.

“Nothing,” said Rich. “Right now, our best hope is the scrobblers.”

But though the scrobblers looked angry, they also looked confused, far from clear who their enemy was. The man in the gas mask, by contrast, was a picture of deliberation. He came on, shooting at the scrobblers only if they got in his way, and even then it barely took his attention from his real targets. Darwen could feel the invisible eyes behind the gas mask fastened on him. Another few steps and his shot would be unobstructed. Darwen risked a look at Mr. Peregrine. The old man's face was a mask of horror that went far beyond fear for his life.

“What?” asked Darwen.

“They sent him!” said the old man, aghast.

But just as it seemed that the man in the gas mask had them, he stumbled and took a step backward. Some powerful arm had launched a chunk of slate at him and it had caught him a clear blow in the chest. He hesitated, and another rock came hurtling through the air. Greyling's agent sidestepped it, but he looked suddenly uncertain. As a third piece of stone was thrown, Darwen peered back to see where it was coming from.

A lone scrobbler had stepped out into the center of the hallway and was staring the man in the gas mask down with a single-minded purpose that matched his own.

“That scrobbler,” said Rich. “What is it doing?”

“Not it,” Darwen answered. “She.”

It was Blodwyn Evans, still caught between woman and scrobbler, but somehow tapping into her human memories and emotions. She took a quick step and hurled another piece of stone, hard and fast as a javelin. Greyling's agent misjudged it, and it caught him high on the head, so that one lens of the gas mask cracked. The impact snapped his head back, and when he righted himself, his body seemed unsteady, woozy.

“Now!” shouted Darwen, lurching out from behind the shattered pod, pulling Rich and Mr. Peregrine after him. “Get to the portal.”

Another chunk of stone hit Greyling's assassin squarely in the chest and this time he sank to one knee, just as Darwen reached him. They passed each other within inches, Darwen using all his strength to keep moving, Mr. Peregrine's deadweight half spread across his shoulders. But the portal had closed again, and Darwen knew the man in the gas mask's daze wouldn't last much longer. And there were still dozens of scrobblers that were steadily shaking off their grogginess.

Darwen had no choice.

“Take Mr. Peregrine,” he said to Rich, and, finding a little more speed and determination, he leapt past them and up to the wall where the portal was. He slammed one palm against it, reached with his mind, and felt the energy leave him. He sagged to the ground, vaguely conscious that the scrobblers were turning to look at him but also certain that the gateway had not opened.

No
, he thought
. Not now. Let me be a mirroculist just five minutes more
. This was not the time for his gift to fail him.

He tried again, standing, both hands to the wall this time, reminding himself that he should have several years as a mirroculist. That was what Lightborne had said. He might have it till he was sixteen.

But then again he might not. Others lost it earlier and Darwen's gut continued to tell him he was one of those. He focused on the portal, but as if to prove all his doubts, the flicker of life he produced in the gateway was even less than before.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched, though he knew it wasn't nearly big enough to be a scrobbler. Alex's face swam into view.

“You okay?” she said.

Darwen shook his head. “Can't open it,” he managed.

Panic flashed through Alex's face, but she mastered it almost instantly.

“Rich,” she said, still looking at Darwen. “Little help.”

Rich blundered over. Mr. Peregrine was behind him. He looked as shattered as Darwen felt.

Behind them, three scrobblers were watching, and as Darwen looked, they started moving toward them with grim purpose.

“Hands,” said Alex.

“We don't need—” Rich began.

“HANDS!” Alex demanded. She seized Darwen's hand in one of hers and Mr. Peregrine's in the other. Rich took Darwen's and Owen's.

“Okay, Darwen,” she said, her face leaning in so close that their foreheads touched. “Gotta do it.”

“I can't. . . .”

“You can,” she said. “We'll help. Now.”

Darwen's eyes closed in concentration. He felt the pressure of Alex's hand in his and focused. He saw the portal, felt the power leave his body, but this time, just as it seemed the gateway would flicker into nothing again, he sensed it catch like the motor of an old lawn mower. There was a whisper of energy that went though him, something that came from his friends, almost lifting him to his feet.

The portal stabilized.

“Go!” shouted Alex, and Darwen, who was too weak to see what was happening, was pulled through by the others. The energy hum of the portal became something else, though it took Darwen a moment to realize what he was hearing.

Water. A lot of it.

He opened his eyes just as Rich's grip on his hand became vise-like, and he heard Alex's sputter of “Whoa!”

He immediately saw why.

They were standing on the ledge of a rocky cliff facing what looked to be an ancient stone bridge spanning a narrow and heavily wooded gorge, at the bottom of which ran a churning torrent of water. The portal they had come through was a narrow but towering waterfall, plunging through the dense green shrubs and bracken that clung to the rock.

“How did we . . . ?” Owen was saying. “How
could
we . . . ?”

Darwen realized that it wasn't, in fact, one bridge that he was looking at. It was three, each slightly different and built directly on top of another with only the narrowest of gaps between them.

Darwen's gaze strayed back to the waterfall. He was close to blacking out, but he had to see if anything followed them through.

Nothing did.

“I know this place,” Owen gasped. “It's Devil's Bridge! But that's miles from Conwy.”

“Devil's Bridge?” Alex repeated. “Don't like the sound of that.”

“That bridge at the bottom,” said Owen, pointing. “The one we were under. That's ancient, that is. Built by monks in the Middle Ages, I think, though the story is that it was so difficult to build only the devil could have done it, in return for which he got the soul of whoever crossed it first. An old woman tricked him by sending a dog over before any people could cross.”

“More folktales to explain fissures between worlds,” said Rich.

“The other bridges were built later to handle heavier traffic,” said Owen. “The second is eighteenth century, the top one—the metal one—early twentieth. I came here as a kid. Never forgot it.”

“Climb up!” called Rich over the roar of the water. “There's a path over there.” He pointed to where a railed walkway snaked its way up one side of the ravine.

The wet stones were slick to the touch and Darwen moved cautiously, feeling like he was dragging sacks of rocks with each exhausted step.

“Mr. Peregrine,” Rich was hissing. “Mr. Peregrine! You are going to have to walk. Climb if you can. Can you hear me?”

The old man nodded absently, but his eyes looked vague and unfocused. Alex led the way, but she looked uneasy. “If he falls,” she whispered to Darwen, “I won't be able to stop him.”

Darwen nodded. Rich was big for his age, strong too, but even with Darwen's help, he couldn't be expected to carry the old man's weight on so precarious a route.

“I'll do it,” said Owen. “It's partly my fault that he's in this state, isn't it? You go ahead.”

“Wait,” said Darwen. However much his strength had left him, he could still feel the energy of another portal close by. He scanned the area and his gaze fell on the glittering water of the falls. There was no question what it was, and he felt both exhilarated that he had found a route out of here and weary beyond words at the prospect of trying to open it. “There's another portal in the waterfall,” he said. “We should use that. But I need a moment.”

“What if the man in the gas mask follows?” asked Alex. “He came through the portal like he was a mirroculist himself.”

“Yeah,” said Rich. “How is that possible?”

Darwen shook his head. “I don't know,” he sighed, “and I don't know how long Blodwyn and the scrobblers can keep him busy, but I really need a moment.”

He sat down and put his head in his hands.

“Blodwyn and the Scrobblers,” Alex echoed. “That sounds like the worst rock band in history.”

For a moment, Darwen just sat there, listening to the roar and splash of the waterfall, arranging his thoughts. He didn't want to say it, but he had to. He needed to know.

“I have a question,” said Darwen, turning to Mr. Peregrine.

“He's really tired, Darwen,” said Alex. “Can't it wait?”

“No,” said Darwen.

“What do you want to know?” asked the old man with an attempt at a smile.

“Who was the last mirroculist?” asked Darwen. “The one before me.”

Mr. Peregrine hesitated. “Well, Darwen,” he said between shallow breaths, “that is confidential information. The Guardians feel it is best to preserve the secret identity of anyone who serves the council. . . .”

“It was Eileen, wasn't it?” said Darwen.

Rich gaped, then turned to Mr. Peregrine, expecting him to deny it. But the old man just frowned thoughtfully.

“I thought so,” said Darwen. “I could tell. I could see it in her eyes when we crossed over, how much she missed it, how sad she was.
My time in Silbrica is done
, she said. Lightborne told me about how mirroculists grow out of their gift. Have you any idea how hard it is to lose something that special?”

He caught himself before the halt in his voice stopped him from going any further.

“I should have said,” Mr. Peregrine replied wearily. “I should have warned you that you would not be a mirroculist forever. As for Eileen, I thought that if she worked for me, it would be easier for her, if she stayed close to Silbrica, that the sense of loss would not be so great.”

“Yeah,” said Darwen, still angry. “I don't think it worked that way. Replace the ability to cross into another world full of beauty and wonder with spying on some kid and his friends? I don't think that really cut it. But I guess that when you're no use to the Guardians anymore, no one worries too much about what happens to you next.”

“Dude!” said Rich. “He said he was trying to help her. What's got into you?”

“Greyling was a mirroculist,” Darwen shot back. “Lightborne told me that too.”

Rich had opened his mouth to protest, but no words came and he just stared. Alex gave Mr. Peregrine a searching look, and at last the old man nodded slowly.

“I didn't want to confuse you,” said Mr. Peregrine. “I thought that—”

“Yeah, I know,” Darwen retorted. “You were trying to protect me, right? From the truth.”

“I just assumed . . .” Mr. Peregrine began.

“Yeah, you Guardian types do that a lot,” Darwen snapped.

“Darwen, I know you're upset,” said Rich, “but give the guy a break, okay?”

“One more question,” snapped Darwen, ignoring him.

“You are way out of line, Darwen,” said Alex. “The man has been through a serious ordeal. . . .”

“I said,” Darwen repeated, his voice rising, his teeth clenched. “One. More. Question.”

Mr. Peregrine seemed to brace himself, then nodded.

“Tell me about the man in the gas mask,” said Darwen. “The man who just tried to kill us.”

“What do you mean?” said Mr. Peregrine, hesitant.

“You recognized him,” said Darwen. “I saw it in your face. Blodwyn knew him too. I wondered how you could know one of Greyling's henchmen, but then I remembered what Moth and Weazen said about this terrible agent called the Fixer: a killer who worked not for Greyling, but for the Guardians.”