The Fire Chronicle (39 page)

And the black smoke pouring from the volcano looked more and more ominous.

Just then there was a loud thud, and the fortress gates shuddered. Gabriel peered over the wall to see a pair of knobby-armed trolls standing before the gates, wielding a giant tree as a battering
ram. The elves were firing down arrow after arrow; the creatures’ backs and shoulders were barbed like porcupines, but the trolls paid the arrows no mind and smashed the tree into the doors again and again—
thud—thud—thud
—as Rourke, standing safely out of bowshot, urged them on. A few more blows, Gabriel knew, and the doors would crack open.

He turned to the elf captain. “Get a rope.”

“Why?”

“To pull me in after.”

With that, Gabriel slashed at an Imp scrambling over the wall, took hold of the creature’s ladder, and with a great heave and leap, threw it and himself down and away from the wall. Riding the ladder, Gabriel vaulted himself farther than he ever could have leapt, so when the ladder tilted over, he was directly above the trolls, and he heard Rourke’s voice through the din: “There! On the ladder! Shoot him!” As he dropped down, Gabriel swung his falchion at the exposed neck of the nearest troll—who did not see him, focused as the creature was upon its task—and, with the added force of his fall, it was perhaps the hardest blow Gabriel had ever struck. Then Gabriel hit the ground, rolled, and was up and leaping out of the way as the now-headless troll came crashing down. There was a bellow of pain as the ram landed on the second troll’s foot, and Gabriel could hear Rourke shouting for the Screechers to shoot and not worry about hitting the bloody troll. Gabriel placed one foot on the tree, leapt into the air, and with a two-handed overhead chop, buried his falchion in the skull of the second troll.

And there it stuck, four inches deep.

Gripping the handle, Gabriel pressed his foot against the creature’s chest and tried to pull the blade free. It didn’t budge. Gabriel had just decided to leave the falchion and run for the fortress when the troll—who did not seem especially bothered by having a giant machete buried in its head—let out a roar of fury and grabbed him around the middle. “That’s it!” Rourke shouted. “Don’t let him go!” Gabriel felt his ribs being crushed together, the massive, stone-hard fingers digging into his chest and back. With his remaining strength, Gabriel smashed his heel into the creature’s nose again and again, till at the fifth blow, the monster abruptly released him. Gabriel fell to the ground, gasping, as the pain-maddened troll, black blood pouring down its face, stampeded through the ranks of the Screechers and Imps. Gabriel staggered to the wall, caught hold of the rope that had been thrown down, and was yanked up the side of the fortress. The elf captain helped him over the top, and Gabriel looked back to see Rourke step in front of the rampaging troll and, with one swipe of an outrageously long sword, lop off the creature’s head.

Rourke’s bullyish affectation of good cheer had been replaced by real anger, and he pointed his bloody sword directly at Gabriel. His intention was clear; the two of them would meet before long.

Gabriel showed no response and turned away to find a weapon.

“You won’t even tell us?!”

Michael shook his head. “I spoke too soon. I should’ve analyzed all the pieces before I said anything. It’s a ridiculous idea.
Let’s just forget all about it, go upstairs, and watch the battle. Okay?”

Michael, Emma, and the elf princess were standing at the base of the tower, speaking in hushed tones, as the Guardian was only twenty yards away, still tied to a column. So far, the man had given no sign that he was even aware of their presence.

Emma looked at the princess. “He’s afraid of something.”

Wilamena agreed. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but you are right. Something has stolen his fierce rabbit heart.”

“I’m not afraid!” Michael protested. “Of anything!”

“Sure you are,” Emma said. “You’re so afraid you won’t even tell us the idea.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then tell us!”

“Fine. But it’s a stupid idea.” And he took a breath, resolving to race through the explanation as quickly as possible. “Seeing the princess’s crown reminded me of the dragon bracelet. This one, remember?” He held up the severed gold bracelet he’d retrieved from the debris atop the tower. “And it occurred to me that if we fixed the bracelet, we could turn her back into a dragon and she could help us win the battle.”

“You’re right,” Emma said. “That is a stupid idea. Wow.”

“How would such a thing even be possible?” Wilamena asked.

“It’s not,” Michael said. “So let’s just—”

“Hold!”

Michael already had one foot on the stairs, but Wilamena’s voice turned him around. Her manner had changed. Once again, she seemed suddenly regal and commanding, like a true princess.

“Even now, elf soldiers are fighting for you, perhaps dying for you! You have an obligation to tell me what you know. How would we accomplish this?”

“There’s an anvil and forge in the courtyard.” Michael spoke without meeting her eyes. “We melt down your crown and use the molten gold to seal the cut in the bracelet; then we recast the enchantment so that I’m the dragon’s master instead of the Guardian. That’s assuming there has to be a master,” he mumbled, “and you can’t just, you know, be your own master.”

“And how’re you gonna redo some spell?” Emma demanded. “You’re not a magician. You’d need Dr. Pym. Or—or—”

“Or my old master.”

Emma looked at the elf princess, then across the chamber at the Guardian, then back at Michael. “The guy who tried to kill us? Who murdered all his friends? That’s the guy you want to help us? Your plan’s even dumber than I thought.”

“Actually,” Wilamena’s blue eyes were shining in the gloom, “it’s brilliant.”

Michael stared at the ground and said nothing.

“Yes, I see it now,” the elf princess said. “There is a way to get Xanbertis to help, and the clever rabbit has figured it out. But for some reason, the idea scares him.”

“Wait,” Emma said. “So the plan’s
not
stupid?”

“Look at me, Rabbit.”

Michael raised his eyes. The princess’s manner had softened. She laid a cool hand on his arm.

“I do not know why this thing scares you and I do not ask. Only hear this: I do not want to become the dragon. It means
returning to a prison, one I thought I would never escape. But as long as elves are dying, I will do my duty. Will you do likewise?”

The elf princess could not have picked a word more likely to turn Michael around. The idea of duty ran through every aspect of dwarfish life. To accuse a dwarf of neglecting his duty was to accuse him of not being a dwarf. But how much of Michael’s decision came from that, and how much from the princess’s cool hand on his arm and her blue eyes gazing into his, Michael could never have said.

He straightened his shoulders. “Go build up the fire in the forge. Start melting the crown. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Wilamena squeezed his arm. “Thank you.”

“Okay,” Emma said. “But no one tell me anything. ’Cause that would be, like, a disaster.”

Wilamena led her away, whispering, “I will tell you, but you really are very impatient, you know that.…”

Left alone, Michael wasted no more time, but walked immediately to where the Guardian was tied. He knew he couldn’t allow himself to hesitate. And he’d promised now. Still, his hands were trembling, and he gripped the strap of his bag to stop their shaking.

“I need your help.”

The man did not look up, and gave no sign of having heard.

“There’s a battle going on. Our side’s going to lose. When that happens, Rourke’s army will kill the elves, kill you, and take the
Chronicle
. I need you to help me fix the bracelet that turned the princess into a dragon.”

Still, the man did not look up.

“Do you hear me? They’re going to steal the
Chronicle
! And kill you!”

Finally, the man raised his head. The red glow from the hole in the center of the floor gave his eyes an evil gleam. He glared at Michael with undisguised hatred.

“Good.”

And he dropped his head back down.

This was, more or less, the reaction Michael had expected.

So get on with it, he told himself. You know what you have to do.

Michael knelt, shutting out the shrieks of the Screechers and the sounds of the battle and focusing on the man before him.

“I think you weren’t always like this. It was all those years, all those centuries; it was too much. I need the man you used to be.”

The Guardian lifted his head, and, just for a moment, Michael thought he saw something flash across his face—a plea, perhaps? He remembered looking into the eyes of mad Bert the night before and seeing the same look of entreaty.

Then it was gone, replaced by a sneer. “That man is dead.”

“No,” Michael said, hating the quiver he heard in his voice, “I think he’s still inside you somewhere.” And he opened his bag and drew out the
Chronicle
. “Wilamena—the princess—said the book can heal people. Like it healed my sister. And I think you’re sick, is all. And maybe you don’t want to get better because then you’ll have to face the things you did. But the
Chronicle
can help. I … can help.”

The man lurched forward, hissing, “Don’t be a fool! Remember what happened with your sister! You took on all her pain,
and it was too much! The pain of a child! Now you would do the same with me? I, who have been alive for almost three thousand years? I murdered my brothers! I betrayed my oath! Write my name in that book, and it will be you who murdered! You who betrayed! The pain will break you, boy. I promise. Your heart is not strong enough.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Tears were blurring Michael’s vision. “You think I’d be doing this if I had any other choice? I don’t even want to be here! I wish I was in Cambridge Falls. Or back at the Edgar Allan Poe Home in Baltimore, which is saying something, believe me.” He rubbed his knuckles across his eyes and took a long breath to settle himself. “But I am here. And Kate put me in charge.”

Then he snapped free the stylus and opened the book to the middle. His hand was shaking so badly that it took him three tries to prick his thumb and draw blood.

“I’m warning you, boy. Don’t do this.”

The tip of the stylus was smeared dark red. Michael gripped the shard of bone. Then he paused, unsure.…

“Do you spell Xanbertis with an
X
or a
Z
?”

“What?”

“I bet an
X
. Anyway, the book’ll figure it out.”

And Michael lowered the bloodied tip of the stylus to the page.

A shiver rippled through his body, and, as had happened with Emma, the Guardian snapped into razor-sharp focus. Michael could pick out the thousands of individual hairs of his beard, he could hear a beetle scratching at the inside of a pocket, smell the
weeks of packed-on dirt and sweat (he had been able to smell that before, now it was just much worse). He began to write, the letters smoking and bubbling upon the page. He felt the power of the book rise up.…

Michael stopped writing. Half the Guardian’s name lay scorched upon the page. He could feel the man watching him, waiting. And perhaps it was the desire not to look weak, or the memory of his silent promise to Wilamena, or just plain stubbornness, but somehow Michael made himself scratch out the last letters, and the magic rose up and swept him away.…

Michael was a young man, arriving at a walled city beside the sea. The city was all low-roofed red-brown buildings, clustered about a single high tower. It was to the tower that the young man directed his steps, for he had been called to the Order; and his excitement and pride and fear were Michael’s excitement and pride and fear.…

And Michael felt the young man’s love for his new brothers; he felt the young man’s awe for the great trust given to him and the other Guardians; and, when Alexander’s army attacked the city, Michael felt the depths of the young Guardian’s rage and grief and shame as he and three others fled with the
Chronicle
, leaving behind their wounded and dead brothers.…

And Michael was with the man, no longer young, as he and his remaining brothers carried the
Chronicle
across the southern seas; he felt the man’s iron determination as they marched over the ice, and Michael was with them when they arrived at the snowbound valley of the elves, and he felt the man’s wonder as
they used the
Chronicle
to wake the sleeping volcano and bring the valley to life.…

And then years, decades, centuries slipped by.…

And it was then that Michael felt the madness take root and grow, twining like a weed around the Guardian’s mind. It was not greed that possessed him—that now possessed Michael—it was fear. Fear that someone would steal the
Chronicle
. At first, the fear was directed at the world outside. But as the years fell away, the fear found enemies closer by. He—the man, Michael—saw in his brothers their desire for the
Chronicle
. He knew that he alone could keep it safe. He alone could protect it. It was his duty, his responsibility. And then Michael was standing behind one of his brothers, and there was a knife in his hand.…

Michael felt himself falling into an endless darkness, and he tried to pull back, to save himself, but there was nothing to cling to; he was drowning in the man’s grief and guilt, and it was too much; the man had been right, he wasn’t strong enough; and Michael’s last thought was of Kate and Emma and how he’d failed them.…

“Michael!”

He opened his eyes. Emma was leaning over him, holding a bucket. Michael’s head and chest were dripping wet. Emma tossed aside the bucket and seized him in a hug.

“You’re okay! Oh, I was so worried!”

For a few moments, Michael could do nothing but submit to Emma’s hug. He did, however, manage to get his bearings.
First off, he was not dead. Secondly, he was no longer in the lava-lit chamber of the keep. Someone had moved him to the courtyard.

“I … I need to sit up.”

Emma helped to prop him up. Michael felt trembly and hollow, as if the smallest jolt might shake him to pieces. He started to think about what had happened—then stopped himself. He wasn’t ready to relive it. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. He was alive; that was enough.