The City of Fear Read online

  About this book

  When Evil has seized the city.

  When Death stalks every street.

  One boy must do battle.

  Spring 1892, and LONDON is ruled by fear. The brutal LEGION have captured the Queen and walled off the city, ushering in a reign of TERROR. Only the WATCHERS, a motley band of rebels led by BEN KINGDOM, can stop them.

  But an evil enemy is secretly scheming to unchain the deadly BEAST OF HELL, from which no one can escape. As Ben readies for the final fight, only one question remains; will the Watchers be VICTORIOUS, or could this be Ben’s LAST BATTLE?

  www.benkingdom.com

  To Ben and Lucy (the real ones)

  Being your dad is the best thing about being me.

  This book is for you.

  Contents

  The Prophecy

  Dedication

  Map of Ben Kingdom’s London

  Day One: Mr. Sweet’s London – 27th April, 1892

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: The Wings of Death

  Chapter 2: The Forgotten Prisoner

  Chapter 3: No Hiding Place

  Chapter 4: Once a Thief

  Chapter 5: The Great Escape

  Day Two: 28th April, 1892

  Chapter 6: Tick, Tick, Tick

  Chapter 7: Night-time at the Wax Museum

  Chapter 8: Scoundrels, Lowlifes and Rogues

  Chapter 9: Sweet Dreams

  Chapter 10: Down Among the Dead Men

  Chapter 11: The Coming Storm

  Day Three: 29th April, 1892

  Chapter 12: Breakout!

  Chapter 13: The Sleep of the Grave

  Chapter 14: The Circus is Coming

  Chapter 15: God Save the Queen

  Chapter 16: Battle Plans

  Chapter 17: The Luck of the Devil

  Day Four: 30th April, 1892

  Chapter 18: Daddy’s Girl

  Chapter 19: The Puppet Master

  Chapter 20: The Cry for Blood

  Chapter 21: Tooth and Claw

  Chapter 22: Bringing Down the House

  Chapter 23: Here Lies Augustus Moon

  Day Five: 1st May, 1892

  Chapter 24: Revolution Day

  Chapter 25: The Battle of London

  Chapter 26: Into the Jaws of Doom

  Chapter 27: Hell on Earth

  Chapter 28: The Creatures of the Pit

  Epilogue: 14th May, 1892

  The Watchers

  Collect the Series

  Ben’s Guide to London Watcher Slang

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The Wall. Two short, hard words that had come to mean life or death for the people of London. It just depended which side you were on.

  Captain Mickelwhite led his Legion brigade along the battlements, enjoying the slap of the sword against his leg. Overhead, thunderclouds were gathering and ravens croaked as they battled against the wind. The first drops of rain struck Mickelwhite as cold and heavy as stones, but he didn’t care. He felt unstoppable.

  The Legion had built the Wall in six weeks.

  Six weeks of pain. And blood. And war on the city streets.

  Mickelwhite smiled, a slash of red against his ghostly pale skin; he had never had so much fun.

  Not many Londoners had known that conflict was coming. They had been too busy or too stupid to see the signs that a war had been waging around them for centuries; a secret, silent war. On one side were Ben Kingdom and the Watchers, spies and warriors living on the rooftops; and on the other was the Legion lurking in their maze of tunnels beneath the city. It was the oldest battle in the world, the eternal battle between light and dark. And the dark was winning.

  Soon the Watchers would be no more.

  “Quickly, boys,” Mickelwhite urged his troop of boy-soldiers. “You know that it doesn’t do to keep Mr. Sweet waiting.”

  The brigade had been together for a long time – first sharing a lowly barracks in the Under, the Legion’s subterranean lair, then leading labour parties working on the Wall.

  They were all young, Mickelwhite included, but they had grown up fast. There was John Bedlam, a short, stocky lad, born and raised in the Devil’s Acre. Fighting came as naturally to him as breathing. Beside Bedlam was Jimmy Dips, a rat-faced pickpocket; then came Hans Schulman, a German lad with fists the size of ham hocks but a clumsy pair of feet. Finally, limping along in the rear was the hunchback, Munro, pulling his mangy three-legged bulldog, Buster, along behind him.

  “Look,” said Mickelwhite, surveying the bruised and broken city beneath them. The Wall surrounded it, as inescapable as a hangman’s noose, marking the limits of Legion rule, the territory which Mr. Sweet had staked out for himself. “We did this.”

  “Makes you proud, don’t it?” said Bedlam.

  The Wall was not a thing of beauty. Houses had been torn apart to provide enough stone. Whole streets sacrificed for the great cause. Some buildings had become part of the Wall itself; their windows bricked up against the outside world, the rooms filled with rubble, their roofs fortified by coils of barbed wire. Jagged sheets of metal, spiked railings torn from front gardens, broken glass, wooden stakes with sharpened points; all crowned the Wall like a necklace of death. Anything and everything that could be used to repel an attack had found its way into the monstrous structure.

  Rising in the west in Hammersmith, the Wall stretched as far as Lime House Cut in the east. It snaked along the north bank of the Thames, where all the bridges stood broken, leaving the river like a moat. Only Tower Bridge had been kept whole, its drawbridge defiantly raised. To the north, Legion rule stopped at Balls Pond Road. Beyond that, outside the Wall, London had been levelled to the ground for a distance of one hundred feet. All that remained was a swathe of debris and the skeletons of houses. This was the northern Dead Man’s Land – littered with landmines and mantraps, it was a deterrent to both attackers from outside the Wall and would-be escapees from within.

  And south of the river it was much worse.

  That was where the resistance had been the strongest, stirred up by the Watchers. That was why the Legion had wiped South London off the map.

  Mickelwhite felt a sudden wave of hatred towards Ben Kingdom and his rabble rousers. Bile rose in his throat and he spat out a curse. “Death to the Watchers!” he snarled.

  “And death to Ben Kingdom!” said Bedlam.

  About a quarter of stubborn Londoners had dared to resist Legion rule. They had fought back. But they had lost. And then they had been punished. It was these men, women and children who had built the Wall. With chains around their ankles, the work gangs had slaved day and night. Mickelwhite, Bedlam and a thousand other Legionnaires had cracked the whip until the work was done.

  A short distance ahead, Mickelwhite could now see Mr. Sweet, standing alone on the windswept battlements. None of this would have been possible without him. Who else but Sweet would have had the courage and strength to achieve all this? Mickelwhite felt his breathing quicken as he drew near. It was an honour to be in his presence. Through cunning manipulation not only had Mr. Sweet made himself Prime Minister, but then, with treasonous audacity, he had kidnapped Queen Victoria and crowned himself as King in her place. And now, at Sweet’s command, the Legion had bullied and beaten an entire city into submission. Truly, his deadly ambition knew no bounds.

  Mickelwhite studied Mr. Sweet with admiration. The strong broad shoulders. The massive arms of a weightlifter. But…the scars…

  It was forbidden to talk about Mr. Sweet’s “accident”, but it was no secret that he had suffered terrible burns during the Legion’s battle against the Watchers at the Feast of Ravens. Mickelwhite couldn’t forget the inferno that had swept thr
ough the Tower of London when the Watchers had attacked during Mr. Sweet’s dark sacrificial ceremony of power. However, he could only guess at what remained of Mr. Sweet’s once handsome face after the flames had caressed him from head to toe. That was probably why the great man had begun to dress so…eccentrically.

  Mickelwhite could see the outline of the mask which encased the whole of Sweet’s head; the hard lines of the eye sockets, the fierce point of the beak. The collar of the man’s coat was wreathed in black feathers and on his head, encircling the shining dome of the mask, sat the crown of a king.

  Not just any crown though. This was the Crown of Corruption – the great weapon of the Legion. It was set with the thirty Coins of Blood – the same silver coins that Judas, the great betrayer, had once held in his clammy palm – and it gave its wearer ultimate power to dominate the minds of weaker men. Sweet had made the crown his own, fixing shards of metal, daggers of broken glass, even long square nails around the iron band, until it resembled the Wall itself.

  As they drew closer, Mickelwhite could sense the raw power radiating from Sweet. It was as if the man was a furnace and to draw near was to feel the blistering heat of the rage that boiled within him.

  The young captain announced his presence with the Legion salute, slamming his left fist to his chest. “My Lord!” Mickelwhite declared.

  The big man turned slowly and Mickelwhite felt himself flinch as two eyes pierced him, as hard and unforgiving as metal skewers.

  “So, it is finished,” said Sweet. “Finally.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” said Mickelwhite, nodding. “The Wall is now complete.”

  “Hmmm,” Sweet growled. “Complete, you say?”

  Mickelwhite could feel the sickly tide of fear rising inside the other boys; Sweet had that effect.

  “Sector three is secure?” asked Sweet.

  “Yes, My Lord,” Bedlam snapped in reply. Sector three had been his to oversee.

  “And the watchtowers?”

  “Yes, My Lord,” said Jimmy Dips.

  “And the tunnels? Every conceivable exit blocked, including the outer limits of the Under?”

  “Yes, My Lord,” muttered Munro. He and Buster had only just caught up with the rest of the brigade, the dog whimpering at the boy’s side.

  “You were responsible for the work gangs who were collapsing the passages beneath Hackney Wick?” Sweet continued.

  “Yes, My Lord,” Munro mumbled, his eyes on his feet.

  Sweet took a step forwards and plucked Buster up into his arms, stroking the dog’s wet fur and scratching behind its ears. Mickelwhite couldn’t help but notice the skin on Sweet’s hands, a patchwork of scabs and open sores; another souvenir of the flames.

  “Didn’t the Watchers lead an escape through one of those tunnels three days ago?” said Sweet, still fussing with Buster.

  “Yes…but, my work party was one of the smallest and…” Munro’s words dried in his mouth. “The tunnel is sealed now,” he whispered. “It will never happen again.”

  “No,” said Sweet, “I’m certain it won’t.”

  Munro braced himself, waiting for the inevitable punishment for failure. He shut his eyes, but his master’s blow never came.

  “And so the real work begins,” Sweet continued. “Every soul in London shall bow to me or face the consequences. The Watchers must be hunted down and eliminated, every last one of them. And Ben Kingdom must be made to suffer…” Sweet gestured towards his mask. “Just as I have suffered.”

  Sweet swung round towards Munro again, and offered the dog back to him with outstretched arms. Gratefully, Munro reached out to reclaim the only living creature that he could truly call his friend.

  At the last instant, Sweet snatched the poor animal away and, in a single movement, flung Buster over the Wall.

  They all heard the pathetic whimper as the dog fell. Followed by the awful crunch of its landing.

  “You should be grateful,” Sweet growled. “You find me in a merciful mood tonight!”

  It was only then that it occurred to Mickelwhite that Mr. Sweet might be insane.

  “Hold on tight,” Ben Kingdom whispered.

  Lucy Lambert gave him a wry look with her one good eye. A leather eyepatch hid the other empty socket. “I can see why you’re our leader,” she said. “I never would’ve thought of that.”

  Ben flashed her a grin. Both he and Lucy were Watchers. They lived and ran and fought on the rooftops of London – all they ever did was hold on tight. That night, however, they were hanging on for dear life.

  For over an hour, Ben’s squad had been hiding on the stone gallery above the ghostly white face of Big Ben. Rain had been falling steadily all evening and the sky had turned from grey to black to an angry purple. Up here, with the storm churning around them, Ben felt as if he was in the belly of the beast. The hair on the back of his neck stood to attention and his right hand trembled involuntarily, as if an electric current was passing through it. Then a fork of lightning blistered across the sky, followed by the deep booming rumble of thunder as the clouds around them began a battle of their own.

  Water streamed down Ben’s face beneath the rain’s merciless assault. They were all cold to the marrow and afraid too, truth be told. That was why Ben made light of their situation. He was the leader of the Watchers, the one the prophecy called the Hand of Heaven. It was his duty to keep the spark of hope going. And since the Wall went up, hope was in short supply.

  There were just five of them in the squad. Five Watchers against the army of the Legion. But Ben couldn’t have chosen a better crew to stand by him. He looked along the line, saw the faith glinting in their eyes beneath the rain-streaked goggles, and his heart surged with pride.

  Lucy Lambert was the bravest person Ben had ever met; fearless and loyal and true. Beautiful as well, Ben thought. He had known her for long enough now not to even see the scar that split her cheek in two. If he could choose only one Watcher to fight beside him, it would be her.

  Next to Lucy was Valentine, a boy who had been an enemy in the Legion when Ben first met him. Valentine was a toff and he looked it, with his pointed nose and pinched lips, but Ben, like every good guttersnipe, knew better than to judge by appearances. Toff or not, Valentine was alright by him since he came over to the Watchers.

  Then there was shaven-headed Ghost; so silent, so still. No one had ever heard the African boy speak a word, and yet they all trusted him – Ghost was a Watcher to the core. Ben met his gaze and gave him a nod. We’re gonna need your strength tonight.

  Last in the group was Nathaniel Kingdom, Ben’s big brother. Anyone could see they were related; they had both inherited their father’s strong features. But only Ben had their mother’s flame-red hair. Ben had never had a chance to thank her for it though, because she had died giving birth to him. For a long time neither Ben nor Nathaniel nor their father had known how to handle the depth of their loss, but in the midst of the war with the Legion, they had grown closer than they had ever been. The risk of death made them all cling tighter to the things that really mattered.

  For three months all they had known was war. Running. Fighting. Hiding. Knowing that the greatest battle – the final battle – was fast approaching. Every day they spread the word in the taverns, on street corners, in whispers, in private, out of the corner of their mouths. A simple secret message: 1st May, we take the city back. 1st May is Revolution Day! That was when free Londoners were going to fight back against the Legion, and when Ben and the Watchers would destroy Sweet’s grip on the city and restore the Queen to the throne.

  Or die trying.

  But before the final conflict could even begin, it was the Watchers’ duty to get those not fit for battle out to safety: the youngest, the elderly, the invalids and the vulnerable. That was why Ben and his crew were clinging to the tower of Big Ben – watching over the latest in a long line of breakouts they had orchestrated.

  On the ground, Ben’s father, Jonas Kingdom, and Jago Moon, oldest, tou
ghest and roughest of the Watchers, were preparing to help the new batch of escapees make their bid for freedom. They had to get them up and over the Wall to the boat that was waiting silently for them in the Thames. A boat filled with British soldiers.

  For the last few weeks the Watchers had been working hand in hand with the army. Less than a mile away, on the far side of the death zone, the full might of Her

  Majesty’s armed forces were waiting with loaded rifles and fixed bayonets. But that was all they had been able to do – wait.

  For Queen Victoria was still Mr. Sweet’s prisoner, and every Londoner had heard his threats pronounced from the battlements by loudhailer: “Attack my city and you will be welcomed by your Queen’s severed head on a spike.” No one doubted that Sweet would be true to his word.

  And so the army was over a barrel and would remain that way, unless Ben and the Watchers could rescue the Queen. For now they played a deadly game of cat and mouse, with the Watchers sneaking out refugees and the army spiriting them away to safety. All in preparation for 1st May – Revolution Day.

  From his viewpoint on the clock tower, Ben could see Watcher sharpshooters, poised and ready. They used weighted crossbow bolts instead of lethal pointed ones, but these were still enough to knock a Legionnaire unconscious. Life was precious to the Watchers – all life, including the lives of their enemies – but they still had to defend themselves. The sharpshooters gave ground cover. Ben’s squad provided protection from above.

  Because the sky was where the real danger lay.

  The Legion was not simply an army of men – they were an ancient order, allied with the darkest forces of creation. Fallen angels fought for the Legion, beasts with the heads and wings of eagles, known as the Feathered Men. Every Londoner, even the staunchest Legion supporters, had come to fear the shadow of those wings of death. Very often it was the last thing a person saw, hanging over them, before beak and talons ripped them to shreds.

  Just then, Big Ben tolled. This close to the huge bell, the vibrations rattled every fibre of Ben’s body. Twelve melancholy chimes.

  As well as the usual Watcher equipment – crossbow pistol, rope, extendable quarterstaff – Ben and his crew were wearing bulky backpacks. Ben could feel the weight cutting into his shoulders. He shifted uncomfortably, anxious to get going.