Just my luck, thought Bingo, and redoubled his efforts, but backwards and backwards his opponent forced him. The Rumble troops emerged from their hiding places, exulting, and some climbed on to bookcases and, hanging on with one arm, waved the other and jeered at the two Borribles, so lonely and outnumbered.
Sweat was pouring down Bingo’s face and into his eyes, and his arms were aching and his hands were bruised and bleeding from the many blows that had clouted them. He dodged, he weaved, he ducked. He tried to remember all he had ever learnt about fighting with the Rumble-stick, but it didn’t seem to be enough. He had managed to ward off most swipes and stabs so far, but he himself had not yet struck a blow. His antagonist looked fresh and powerful, smiling grimly, his red eyes shining with triumph as he bore down on the Borrible from Lavender Hill.
The battle passed far beyond Napoleon but the Wendle kept his position, holding the main contingent of warriors at bay with his catapult, though he realized that if the Rumble did for Bingo he himself would have little chance of escape. Bingo too was aware of that possibility and he strove all the harder. He thought of his other friends and their long quest and all they had been through together. He had a brief mental picture of them being torn to death by the sharp teeth of the Rumbles; the notion angered him and he stopped retreating. He stooped suddenly and allowed the Rumble’s sticker to whistle over his head. He jabbed at his foe and at last wounded him in the knee.
The Rumble staggered and it was his turn to go on the defensive. Bingo thrust and fenced and fought, holding the lance now one-handed, now two-handed. He circled and struggled, and still the fight went on and still Bingo found it impossible to get through his adversary’s guard. But Bingo had had time to think; only cunning would win him this battle. So, pressing his namesake slowly back down the hill of books, Bingo tried a stratagem. He pretended to stumble. He slithered a step,
and, keeping a wary eye on his opponent, allowed himself to fall backwards, crying in pain for an imagined twisted foot.
The watching Rumbles cheered anew and Napoleon cursed his luck and moved nearer the ladder. He only had one chance, to climb out of the library as quickly as possible while the Rumbles celebrated their victory. But Napoleon was sure of one thing: if that Rumble did for Bingo, he wouldn’t live long to brag about it. He, Napoleon Boot, would make certain that a stone was rattling round the inside of the commander’s skull before his brain had time to register his conquest.
Bingo lay on the books, groaning and writhing, but his eyes kept still, watching the Rumble who, in his excitement, had not noticed that the Borrible, in spite of all his supposed pain, had not let go his lance.
The commander stepped forward. Quickly he raised his spear, ready to pierce Bingo’s breast. He plunged it down hard, leaning on it like a man pushing a shovel. At that moment Bingo rolled over with a thrust from legs and hands. He came to his knees, and as the point of the Rumble’s weapon embedded itself in the closed pages of some solid volume, he swung the shaft of his sticker and smote his enemy behind the ear.
The animal swayed, his legs buckling. He half turned, as if to run, but Bingo’s lance, still twirling in a circle above his head, struck the Rumble again and he fell into a crouching position. Then Bingo, slipping his grasp along the haft of his spear so that he could hold it like a sword, leapt upon the swaying figure of his enemy and bore him to the ground, and four inches of steel found the commander’s heart.
The fire crackled in the room and a hopeless groan came from the Rumbles; their greatest warrior was slain. The smoke swirled crimson in the draught between door and ventilation vent. Napoleon twisted his head and saw that his comrade, who he had imagined dead, was in fact rising from the prostrate body of the Rumble. His face was grimy and his clothes were torn. Blood was pouring down his left arm and down the side of his face where the Rumble spear had grazed his head, taken off his hat and cut his pointed ear. He was a sorry sight, blackened by soot, smoke and sweat.
‘Are you all right?’ called the Wendle, not taking his eyes from the Rumbles, who stood motionless in despair.
‘Yes,’ lied Bingo. ‘Ace, but I think we’ve outstayed our welcome.’
Napoleon did not reply but went over to the body of the Rumble, removed the sash and placed it over Bingo’s shoulders.
‘There, Bingo,’ he said with a smile. ‘When you get home you can hang it on the wall and write underneath, “Souvenir of Happy Holidays in Rumbledom”.’
Bingo looked down at the trophy. ‘Here,’ he said proudly, ‘I’ve got my name. I hope everyone else has.’
They backed slowly up the mountainous pile of books, and the Rumbles made no attempt to stop them; they were leaderless and weaponless for the time being. The danger would come when the two Borribles mounted the ladder and the Rumbles could charge forward and repossess the lances they had thrown earlier. They would be able to pick the Borribles off as they climbed, or, more likely, would overturn the ladder and spike their falling enemies on the raised barbs of their spears.
At the bottom of the ladder Napoleon and Bingo weighed their chances. ‘Best thing would be to have one of us at the top first,’ said Bingo, ‘then he can cover the other while he climbs.’
The Battersea Borrible had been greatly weakened by his battle, and Napoleon could see that he was in no condition to sustain another fight should the need arise, so he sent Bingo to the top of the ladder first.
Bingo climbed slowly, like an injured snail. His head ached and there was only a faint strength left in his hands. The hole in the ceiling seemed to get no nearer but he went on, taking care all the way. A fall from that height would be fatal. Looking down on the library he saw a scene of chaos. The great bookcases were cast down, and the once carefully classified books were strewn everywhere, or had been built into redoubts by the Rumbles. The smoke was dense and lay across the floor in dirty wraiths and had crept up the walls towards the ventilation shaft. From his high vantage point Bingo could see scores of Rumbles looking at him from their barricades and from under tables. Their snouts were pointed upwards, greedily twitching for his blood. All that held them in check was the steady gaze of Napoleon Boot.
When Bingo neared the opening in the ceiling he stopped climbing and shoved his left arm under and over a rung. He took his catapult from his back pocket with his right hand, loaded a stone and stretched the thick black rubber, ready to fire at any Rumble that moved.
‘All right, Nap,’ he called, and the Wendle, with a last threatening look around the room, began to climb, fast, his catapult between his teeth. He had climbed barely a dozen rungs when there was a commotion in the corridor leading to the library. Rumble warriors, sent on the errand by the commander, were returning, their arms loaded with lances. Their companions in the library shook themselves free of their fear, emerged from their hiding places and surged towards the ladder, calling loudly for vengeance.
Bingo shot his catapult as rapidly as he could, but hanging by one arm made it tedious work, and he was becoming terribly feeble. Rumbles were near to Napoleon now and lances struck the ladder by the Wendle’s hands, one took a chunk of flesh from his leg. He slipped and almost fell. The Rumbles shouted but Napoleon gritted his teeth and pulled his body upwards even faster, and Bingo fired his catapult past his friend’s head and broke many a Rumble’s skull with stones from the banks of the Bluegate Gravel Pit.
But at last Bingo was forced to retreat into the ventilation shaft in order to give Napoleon a clear run through the trapdoor. No longer threatened by missiles from above, the Rumbles swarmed forward and seized the ladder, keen to tear it down. The ladder shook and trembled and began to tilt, and it seemed that Napoleon was destined to fall on to the deadly spearheads below. Bingo seized the top rung and pulled against the dozen or so Rumbles who were tugging with might and main from the library floor, but, as Napoleon had said earlier, gravity was a force to be reckoned with and now it was on the side of the Rumbles.
Inside the shaft Bingo struggled and swore, bumping his head and knocking his wounds till the blood ran. Napoleon scurried upwards, hand over hand, not looking at the shining spears beneath him.
When the Wendle was a few rungs only from safety, the exhausted Bingo was almost lugged out of the shaft by a violent heave on the part of the Rumbles. Bingo managed to hold fast but he was now protruding, half in and half out of the trapdoor. He wrestled resolutely with the ladder which was threatening to shake Napoleon into space. A great shout went up from the Rumbles and the Wendle only stuck to the ladder by clinging with legs and arms together, but he still found time to spit directly downwards.
‘You cross-eyed bunch of weasels,’ he yelled. ‘You swivel-eyed moles.’
The Rumbles only pulled the harder, determined to drag the wretched Bingo back into the library. The top rung was torn from his bleeding hands and Napoleon seemed about to sway away from his friend for ever. But Bingo held his arms out to Napoleon and, as the Rumbles threw the ladder down with a fearsome roar, the Wendle thrust his feet into space, floated on air for a split second and then grabbed Bingo’s right arm with both his hands. He swung there, lances falling about him, and he looked up into the pained and desperate face of his fellow Adventurer.
‘Don’t faint now, Bingo,’ he cried. ‘I’ll be skewered like a pork joint if you do.’
Bingo slipped and slithered in the narrow space, lucky that it was so tight. Had the shaft been wider, the weight of Napoleon dangling and trying to work his way up to the lip would have pulled them both down. As it was, Bingo wedged himself across the opening, and although the pain seared into his shoulder like an axe, he kept still as Napoleon climbed up his arm. When the Wendle had one hand on the edge Bingo shifted his grip a fraction and hauled Napoleon in and they fell together in a heap.
It took a long while for them to recover. They gulped deep breaths, though each lungful had more smoke than air in it, and they coughed and retched in dreadful spasms. At last Napoleon got to his hands and knees and peered cautiously from the hole. A dozen or so of the Rumbles were grappling with the ladder, attempting to get it upright. Others raced from the fiercely burning library, instructing their comrades to run from room to room and along the corridors to guard against the escape of the two Borribles.
Napoleon roused the flagging Bingo. ‘Come on,’ he said tenderly, the first time that Bingo, or anyone else, had heard him talk in such a manner. ‘We’ve got to get you out of here.’
‘You’d better leave me,’ said Bingo, raising his head with an effort. ‘I can knock them off the top of the ladder as they come up. Give you time to get away.’
‘I’m not leaving you,’ said Napoleon firmly, ‘not after you saving my life. Anyway, all you’ve got to do is crawl.’
Bingo got to his hands and knees. ‘All right, I’ll have a go. Which way?’
That was a problem. The shaft stretched away darkly on either side of the opening. In which direction lay safety, if at all, they could only guess.
‘Let’s go the way the smoke is going,’ suggested Napoleon. ‘It might lead us out. If it don’t, it won’t.’
So, coughing and spitting, their eyes smarting and running with tears, they moved along the metal tunnel, banging their heads from side to side, like ping-pong balls in a drainpipe.
Torreycanyon leant back against the armoured car and felt pleased with himself. He had caused enough mayhem to account for three adventures. The engine of the armoured car lay smashed to smithereens by the blows of an iron bar he had found among the tools. He had emptied dozens of petrol cans all over the workshops, saturating the workbenches and the shelves where the spare parts were kept. Into the petrol tank of the car he had lowered a long length of rag and the petrol had soaked its way up and out. All he needed was a match and the whole place would go up like a bonfire and retard the Rumble war effort by a dozen years. But a match he did not have, his box must have fallen from his pocket somewhere.
During his work he had been interrupted by the Rumbles many times. The warriors had forced the door and chivvied him back along the workshop with their lances, but Torreycanyon had taken a lid from a dustbin and used it as a shield. Not one lance had really hurt him, though he was cut in several places from near misses.
He had defended himself like a lion in the garage area, just in front of the armoured car, and had beaten off many attacks. Scores of dead and unconscious Rumbles littered the battleground, others had crawled away to lick their wounds. Torreycanyon was almost content; all he wanted was one match so that he could add to the smoke that had drifted to him from the fires in the kitchens and library.
He leant against the car, liking the solidity of it behind him. He was tired. Twenty yards away stood a group of Rumble warriors, waiting for help and more spears. It was only a question of time before they wore him down and captured or killed him, but all he could think of was his
match; he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, like a firework. One match to that rag in the car and a touch of it to the floor and fire would spurt round the workshops quicker than a Borrible could run.
He wouldn’t care what happened to him then; perhaps he would be able to escape through the garage door. Set in the wall he had seen a red control button marked ‘Exit—Push once’ but there might be more Rumbles on the outside, waiting. It would be dawn over Rumbledown, he reckoned; time to be going.