The Fire Chronicle (40 page)

He saw he was in a wood-roofed shelter along the fortress wall. To his left was the forge. He felt the heat radiating from the fire. And he could hear, beneath the din of battle, the steady
clink-clink-clink
of hammering.

“How did I get here?”

“How do you think?” Emma said. “He carried you.”

“Who?”

“Him!” She moved, and there was the Guardian, standing at the anvil. He wore a heavy leather apron and thick leather gloves. His unruly beard had been bound up with string. In one hand, he held a pair of tongs. In the other, a hammer. The tongs gripped the golden bracelet, now throbbing red with heat, and the man swung the hammer down, striking the bracelet again and again. He was chanting softly. For a moment, Michael was too stunned to do anything but stare. As he watched, the man lifted the smoking bracelet and plunged it, hissing, into a bucket of water.

Michael scrambled to his feet. “He brought me here?! Him?!”

“Yeah. When I saw him carrying you, I thought he must’ve
gotten loose and killed you or something, but— Hey, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Spotting his bag on the ground, Michael had snatched it up and was dumping out the contents. His camera, his pens and pencils, his journal, his compass, his pocketknife, a half-eaten pack of gum, his badge from King Robbie—everything tumbled forth, including the
Chronicle
, with the stylus snapped neatly into place. Michael didn’t understand. He’d passed out in the keep; then, somehow, the Guardian had gotten free. Only rather than escaping with the
Chronicle
, the man had put the book into Michael’s bag and carried him here. Now it appeared he was repairing the bracelet. It didn’t make sense.

Unless …

Michael picked up the book, turning it over in his hands. Was it possible?

“So it really worked,” Emma said.

“Huh?”

“The Guardian guy, when he brought you out, he wasn’t crazy at all. He was totally nice. Your plan worked.”

“Yes,” said a voice, “he healed me.”

The man stood beside them. He’d removed his leather apron and gloves, but his cheeks and forehead glistened with sweat and were stained black from the fire. He looked more demonic than ever. Except for his eyes. Michael found himself staring into them and thinking of Dr. Pym’s eyes. They had none of the wizard’s merriness, but there was in them the same sense of great age, and wisdom, and kindness. Michael felt some of his panic ebbing away.

“You’re wondering how I got free,” the man said. “When you collapsed, you fell toward me. I was able to get the knife from your belt.”

“Okay, but … why …?”

“Why did I not escape with the
Chronicle
? As I said, you healed me. I am again the man that I was.” Then he knelt before Michael and raised his voice to ring out over the clamor of battle. “Bear witness all that I do pledge my breath, my strength, my very life, to your service. So I swear till death frees me of my bond.”

Emma whispered, “Whoa.”

“You brought me back to life,” the man said. “You are the Keeper.”

Fractured and empty as he felt, Michael could only shake his head. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe he was the Keeper; he didn’t want to believe.

The man held out the golden bracelet. “It is done. The spell is complete.”

Michael took it. The metal, so solid and warm in his hand, helped to steady him. He ran his thumb over the spot where his knife had cut through. The new gold had formed a faint, raised scar.

Okay, he told himself. Don’t think about the
Chronicle
. Don’t think about what happened. Think about this. Think about what you need to do now.

But he was like a wounded man trying not to think about the gaping hole in the center of his chest.

He managed to say, “Where’s the princess?”

“Here.”

Wilamena stepped into the enclosure. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying, and it occurred to Michael that the princess hadn’t been there when he’d woken. But he didn’t ask what she’d been doing. There was no time.

“The bracelet’s ready.”

The elf princess held out her arm. “And so am I.”

Gabriel was fighting atop the wall when a roar in the courtyard spun him around. Gabriel recognized the sound, knew the creature that had made it, and told himself it wasn’t possible. Then a golden blur shot past him, and he looked up to see the last rays of the sun glinting off the dragon’s hide. A great silence fell upon the fortress as attackers and defenders alike stopped fighting and gazed skyward.

Footsteps pounded up the ladder from the courtyard, and Michael and Emma, breathless and flushed, ran toward him.

“Gabriel!” Emma cried. “Did you see? We did that! You see?”

She pointed to the sky, but Gabriel was staring at the children.

“You did this?”

“Well, it was mostly Michael. But I helped with the fire.”

Michael, standing there, could feel the man’s eyes upon him and understood his concern. Gabriel didn’t know about the change in the Guardian, or that he, Michael, in being the one to place the bracelet on Wilamena’s arm, was now the dragon’s master.

“It’s okay. She’s on our side.”

Michael hoped he sounded confident. In truth, the elf princess’s transformation had rattled him. It turned out to be one thing to know that someone is going to turn into a dragon, and quite another to have it happen before your eyes.

Michael had been sliding the bracelet over Wilamena’s wrist, and reflecting—he hadn’t been able to help himself—on the perfect, honeyed softness of her skin, when his fingers had brushed a patch that was actually a little dry. Curious, he’d looked down and seen golden scales blossoming along her arm; he’d watched as her fingernails grew and thickened into claws, and he was just beginning to feel a tad uneasy, to think that perhaps they’d rushed into this, when a deep, serpenty voice hissed, “Get back, Rabbit,” and Michael had looked up to see Wilamena’s blue eyes turn the color of blood. The Guardian had yanked both him and Emma out into the courtyard, and a moment later, the wooden enclosure around the forge exploded, and the golden dragon, in all her terrible glory, stepped forth.

Wilamena was now hundreds of feet above the fortress, and Michael was staring skyward, wondering what he was supposed to do, how the bond between them worked, and just then the elf princess spoke to him. He didn’t hear her voice in his head; it was nothing so precise. It was more a feeling: she was there; he was not to worry; she had the situation well in hand.

For the first time since Emma had woken him with the bucket of water, Michael began to feel better.

“Just watch.”

The mass of the attacking army was clustered hundreds deep against the fortress wall, while a dozen siege ladders, studded with
Imps and Screechers, stood wedged against the battlements. No one had moved since the dragon’s appearance. All were waiting to see what she would do. Then the dragon wheeled about and tore down out of the sky. Michael felt a hot wind as she flew past, heard the sound of ladders snapping, of Imps and Screechers being thrown to the ground.

“See?” Emma cried, grabbing at Gabriel’s arm. “You see?”

Rourke’s forces were in disarray, unsure whether to continue their assault upon the fortress or turn and face this new threat. The elves took advantage and poured arrow after arrow into their midst. The dragon, meanwhile, swung about and dove at the army, breathing out a rippling swath of flame. Disarray became chaos, and for a few minutes, those upon the walls watched as the dragon ravaged the attackers. At one point, she landed in the center of the force, breathing fire in a great circle all about her; then she chased down and crushed the burning creatures that tried to flee.

“Wow,” Emma said. “She seems … really angry, huh?”

Michael silently agreed, and glanced about to gauge the reaction of the elves. It was then he noticed how few of them manned the walls. Puzzled, Michael looked into the courtyard, and saw, beneath a wooden shelter, more than a dozen elves lined up on the ground, their cloaks drawn tight about them. A cold weight settled on Michael’s heart, and he understood where Wilamena had been when he’d woken beside the forge, and why she’d been crying, and that now she was taking her revenge.

Then Gabriel said: “Rourke is coming.”

Some while before, Rourke had retreated to the base of the
volcano, where an Imp had set up a table and chair and proceeded to serve him lunch, which Rourke had eaten without any sense of hurry while watching the progress of the battle. Now he was charging up the slope, an enormous spear clutched in his hand. Wilamena was hovering ten feet in the air, torching a troop of
morum cadi
. She seemed to feel Michael’s panic and turned; but she was off balance, and Michael gasped as the point of the spear drove deep into the joint of her shoulder.

“Watch out!” Emma cried. “He’s got another!”

Again, the warning came too late; and all those upon the wall heard Rourke’s second spear puncture the dragon’s chest. Michael felt another searing jolt of pain, and his connection to the elf princess was severed. For a moment, it seemed that Wilamena would fall among the Imps and Screechers and be set upon. But then, struggling on one wing, she pulled herself higher into the air, and Michael watched as she careened down the slope, out over the plain, and crashed into the depths of the forest.

It seemed to Michael as if he too had been stabbed.

She’s dead, he thought. She’s dead, and it’s my fault.

Rourke, meanwhile, had bounded forward, snatching up the battering ram that had been dropped by the trolls and charging toward the gate.

“The keep!” Gabriel shouted, pushing Emma and Michael toward the ladder. “Make for the keep!”

Michael felt numb. He was hardly aware of climbing down. In the courtyard, the blue-eyed captain was forming his elves into a line. Gabriel swept up Emma and shouted for Michael to follow. There was a loud splintering and the doors of the fortress
burst open. Michael saw Rourke, wielding Gabriel’s falchion, step through the wreckage as black-garbed Screechers and Imps swarmed past him into the courtyard.

He could hear Emma calling to him, but her voice sounded far away.

Wilamena was dead, and it was his fault.

Michael watched as the elves met the invaders. The blue-eyed elf captain clashed with Rourke in the center of the melee, their blades flashing and clanging; then something spun through the air, and Michael saw it was the captain’s sword; he was down, and Rourke, laughing, moved in to finish him off. Michael wasn’t aware of making a decision, but suddenly he was running forward, a rock clenched in his hand. For once in his life, his aim was perfect, and the rock thudded off the bald man’s head. Rourke stopped and turned, giving the elf captain a second to recover his dropped sword and spring to his feet. Michael felt a momentary surge of triumph.

Then Rourke pointed at Michael, shouting,
“The boy! Get me the boy!”

Three Screechers broke from the fighting. Michael turned to run, tripped, and fell. He scrambled to his knees, then glanced back, expecting to see dark shapes closing in; but the Guardian had rushed between him and the Screechers. The man’s sword was a blur as he parried strikes from all sides, and Michael watched as he cut down first one Screecher, then another. As he fought, his back seemed to straighten, and his movements were swift and sure.

Michael knew that the man was buying him time to escape.

Get up, he thought. Run.

But then the ground trembled and he fell again. At first, Michael thought the volcano was finally erupting, but the quaking was strangely rhythmic, and he looked and there, charging toward him through the gates, came the last remaining troll.

He tried to stand, but his limbs refused to obey.

He could only watch as the troll thudded nearer, blacking out the sky.

The Guardian leapt into view, throwing himself at the monster. He seemed almost to embrace the troll; then the troll flung the man away, and the Guardian flew through the air and collided with a wooden post. Michael waited, but the troll made no move to seize him, and then he saw the hilt of the Guardian’s sword protruding from the creature’s neck. He rolled away as the monster pitched forward.

A second later, the Guardian pulled Michael to his feet.

Shielding Michael with his own body, the Guardian ran with him past the smoking corpses of the Screechers, past the battling elves, and up the steps to the keep. Once inside, the man released him, and Emma threw her arms around Michael’s neck and clung to him, even as she scolded him for staying behind. For a moment, Michael simply stood there, panting. The red glow from the tunnel was brighter than ever, and the sounds of the battle were muffled by thick stone walls.

He heard Gabriel barring the door.

“What’re you doing?” Michael pulled away from Emma. “The elves won’t be able to get in!”

“The elves will make their stand in the courtyard.”

“But—”

“It is their choice,” Gabriel said. “We will climb to the tower. Help may still come—”

“No!”

Michael, Emma, and Gabriel all turned to the Guardian. He had fallen to one knee. Long ribbons of blood stained his arms and legs. Michael hadn’t even realized he’d been wounded.

“There is a way out.” The man’s breath was strained, his face beaded with sweat. “You must go through the volcano. Past the cauldron, there is a path that will lead you out the other side. It is the only way.”

As he finished speaking, he slumped forward, and Michael ran to the man’s side. He was already pulling out the
Chronicle
.

“Hold on! I can heal you—”

“No … there is no time.”

“But—”

“No!” The man seized Michael’s arm; his voice had fallen to a whisper. “Beware. The book will change you. Remember who you are.”

Michael nodded, though he had no idea what the man meant.

“Please, let me help you.…”

“Just tell me, have I fulfilled my oath?”

Michael had to speak through the knot in his throat. “Yes.”

“Then I can meet my brothers with honor.” And Michael watched as an immense, invisible weight slipped from his shoulders. With the last of his strength, the man pushed Michael away. “Now go. Go.”