The Fire Chronicle (42 page)

“Don’t get me wrong, boyo, you’ve got pluck, and I like pluck—almost had you there—but you’re still just a man, while I—oh, now that one gave you a haircut—I am so—much—
more!
”

Rourke’s blade clanged off Gabriel’s sword, and Gabriel lunged forward, pressing him into a clench. It was an act of self-preservation. Gabriel had had no rest since the start of the battle, many hours before, and his movements were growing sluggish, his sword arm heavy and slow. He could not ward off many more blows.

Rourke laughed. “Why, lad, you’re dead exhausted! Shall we take a break? Have a spot of lemonade? Get someone to massage your toes?”

Gabriel said nothing and tried to drive the man back. But Rourke wouldn’t budge. Nor did he resume his attack. He just stood there, smiling grandly, the hilt of his blade locked with Gabriel’s. Gabriel realized that the man was taunting him.

“Tell me,” Rourke said, “how does it feel to know that the Dire Magnus will soon return to this mortal plane? That his footsteps will once again grace our sweet, gentle earth? Does it not fill you with awe? With wonder? With gratitude?”

Gabriel continued to strain against the man. The longer Rourke talked, the more time it gave the children.

“I think he is a fool. Pym beat him once. He will do so again.”

“Oh, will he? And who will help him? His magician allies are dead. I killed them myself. And Pym alone is no match for my master.”

“We have the children.”

“Yes, of course,” Rourke said, “the children.”

The bald man shoved him away; Gabriel saw a flash of steel and raised his sword. Too late, he realized it was a feint, and Rourke’s kick caught him full in the chest. He felt ribs snap, and he flew backward, bouncing off the wall, as his sword spun away and he tumbled off the ledge.

A moment later, Gabriel was dangling, one-handed, over a sea of lava.

Rourke came and crouched above him, the falchion balanced casually on his shoulder. “Well, lad, you put up a good fight and
have nothing to be ashamed of. I just have one question before we pop you into the cooker.”

Gabriel had managed to find a grip for his other hand; his legs still hung free.

“Did Pym ever tell you what will happen to the wee children when the Books are finally brought together? I’m curious, for you see, I asked the tykes’ parents and they didn’t know. It made me wonder how much the old fella has been keeping to himself.”

Gabriel looked up. He knew it was what Rourke wanted, but he couldn’t help himself. The fact was, Pym never had told him what would happen when all three books had been found and brought together. He’d only ever said that it was necessary to the children’s safety. And Gabriel had accepted it. So what did Rourke know that he didn’t?

“Ah,” Rourke said, the glow from the lava shining off his bald head, “I thought not—”

Just then the entire volcano lurched to the left. Rourke was caught off balance and fell backward. In a flash, Gabriel had pulled himself onto the ledge. His broken ribs scraped together, filling him with a dull, sapping nausea. But he knew this was his one chance. He kicked away the falchion, knocking it into the pit. Then he stomped, with all his strength, on the man’s wrist. Bellowing, Rourke threw his shoulder into Gabriel, then charged forward, pinning him against the wall, where he pounded Gabriel with elbows and fists. Gabriel felt more ribs crack, and he whipped up his head, the back of his skull colliding with the bald man’s chin. Rourke cursed and slammed Gabriel into the rock
wall, again and again. Gabriel felt his vision blur, and he kicked out blindly. He felt a sort of thick crunch; there was a cry of pain, and the man released him.

Gabriel leaned against the wall, panting, waiting for his vision to settle. Rourke was bent over, cradling his knee.

“You rascal, I think you’ve bloody crippled me!” He pulled out a long, gleaming knife. “I was going to let you go easy, but now I have to hurt you.”

He lunged forward, and Gabriel, too weak to defend himself, felt the blade slide between his shattered ribs. More than anything, Gabriel hoped that Emma was away, out of the volcano, and not seeing what was happening.

“I want to finish what I was saying.” Rourke pulled out his knife and stabbed Gabriel yet again. “When the Books are finally brought together—are you still alive in there, still listening?—when the Books are brought together, the children will die. That’s the truth, my lad. It’s been prophesied and it will happen. So all this time you’ve been protecting the little lambs, old Pym’s been leading them to the slaughter. I thought you’d enjoy knowing that as you die.”

And he drove the knife in again, and deeper still.

Gabriel felt the steel point reaching inside him, and he felt the volcano make its last and greatest shudder, and he called up his remaining strength and locked his arms around Rourke as the ledge crumbled beneath their feet. At some deep level, Gabriel believed what Rourke had said. But did that mean Pym had used him all these years? Gabriel didn’t know. He only knew that
Rourke had to be kept from the children. The man fought him, but Gabriel held him fast till they were both falling toward the lava, releasing him only when he knew that Rourke, like himself, was doomed.

And neither man, Gabriel nor Rourke, saw the large shape shooting past them into the smoke.

After his fingers had slipped from Emma’s, Michael had thought that was that: he was finished. But he found himself bumping and skidding down the wall of the cone, shredding his clothes, bruising and skinning the whole front half of his body; and when he crashed onto the ledge fifty feet below, it turned out that he’d done nothing worse—beyond all the scrapes and bruises—than sprain his other ankle.

Then something snapped tight around his throat, and his head was jerked back. He realized he was being choked by his own bag. Michael managed to roll onto his stomach so the strap was against the back of his neck, and he peered over the edge of the path. There, dangling over the pool of lava, was the skeleton.

Honestly, Michael thought, I really do hate these things.

The bag’s pouch hung between Michael and the creature, and Michael reached down and pulled the
Chronicle
free. The skeleton was clawing upward, trying to reach him, but Michael drew his knife and—saying goodbye to his journal, his compass, his pens and pencils, his camera, his pocketknife, his badge from King Robbie—he cut the strap and watched his bag, its contents, and the Screecher all fall and be swallowed by the lava.

Michael flopped onto his back. Emma had been calling his name, and he could see her face, far above him, and gave a weak wave.

Okay, he thought, enough lying about. You’re not on vacation. Stand—

That was as far as he got before the volcano spasmed and the ledge he was on collapsed. Michael felt himself falling and shut his eyes, clutching the
Chronicle
tight to his chest, as if the book might somehow save him. And because his eyes were closed, he felt, rather than saw, the great claws that seized him about the middle. When he did open his eyes, they were seared by the fumes and heat rising from the lava, and he saw only a blur of golden scales, and already the dragon—for it was her, Wilamena, her golden scales, her body healed and whole—was turning, swooping upward, and Michael saw two more figures falling toward the lava, and Wilamena snatched them both out of the air and climbed higher; and Emma was above them, screaming with joy and jumping up and down, and without stopping, the dragon plucked her from the ledge; and then there was an explosion, and Michael looked down and saw the entire cauldron of lava blasting toward them; and they flew before it, out of the cone, Michael feeling the cool night air on his face, looking back to see the lava shooting into the darkness, and the dragon turned, diving down the side of the mountain, and there was the fortress, with lava flooding about its walls, and, silhouetted atop the tower, a small cluster of figures.

The dragon hovered just above the tower, and the elf captain and six exhausted, wounded elves fell back in astonishment.
Setting down Michael and Emma and Gabriel, Wilamena perched upon the wall, Rourke still clutched in her talons.

“Your Highness, you’re alive!” The elf captain dropped to a knee. “I would compose a sonnet—”

“Perhaps later,” growled the dragon. “Are you all that remain?”

“We are. The bald devil slipped past us to the keep. We fought our way here, expecting to find the children. Then we ourselves became trapped.”

Suddenly, the dragon gave a roar of pain, and Rourke tumbled off the side of the tower. Rourke’s knife was stuck in the dragon’s leg, shoved between the armored scales. Michael yanked it out, and peered over the wall.

“He’s gone! I can’t see him anywhere!”

Dark blood ran down Wilamena’s leg.

“Are you okay?” Michael asked.

The dragon Wilamena seemed almost to smile. “I’m fine, Rabbit.”

“Michael!” Emma was kneeling beside Gabriel, panic in her eyes. “Gabriel—he’s hurt really bad! You gotta help him!”

But as Michael started to open the
Chronicle
, the tower shook, and the elf captain said there was no time, they would help their friend once they’d reached safety. And the elves lifted the unconscious Gabriel onto the dragon’s back, and Emma climbed up behind him, and Michael sat before him, so that together they pinned the wounded man in place. Then the dragon snatched up the remaining elves and, beating her great wings, leapt into the
air. When Michael looked back—they were already high over the plain—he saw the entire fortress sinking into the volcano.

“Hurry!” Emma shouted, a sob breaking her voice. “I think—I think Gabriel’s dying!”

“Your friend is strong,” said the dragon. “He will not die. We will not let him.”

“Where’re you taking us?” Michael asked.

“Home, Rabbit. I’m taking you home.”

The iron bell crashed down. Rafe lay without moving, beams from the collapsed staircase piled on his back. Kate was on her side in the doorway, unable to reach Rafe in time to save him. She could only cry—

“STOP!”

—and shut her eyes.

A second passed. Two seconds. Three …

Where was the crash? The thud that would shake the floor? Everything was silent and still, and the only thing Kate felt was her heart pounding in her chest.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. Nothing had changed. The bell was exactly where it had been, twenty feet above Rafe’s head. Only it wasn’t falling; it simply hung there in the air. She looked around. The tongues of flame climbing the walls were frozen in
place. Then Kate realized how utterly quiet it was. The roaring of the fire, the popping and breaking of glass, the snapping of beams: all had stopped.

She got to her feet and stood there, afraid to move.

Henrietta Burke had said that the magic of the
Atlas
was a part of her; she only had to stop fighting it. The moment the woman had said it, Kate had known she was right. Ever since Kate had taken the Countess into the past, she’d felt the power inside her. But she’d pushed it down, denied it.

Then, as she saw the bell plummeting toward Rafe, all the barriers she’d erected had come tumbling down.

But what was this eerie stillness?

Even as she asked the question, Kate knew the answer:

“I stopped time.”

She could feel the strain inside herself. It was as if she had dammed up a river and it was struggling to break free. She knew she could not hold it back much longer.

She took a step toward Rafe—and stopped.

A terrible thought had taken hold of her.

Rafe was destined to be the Dire Magnus—the reason her family had been divided, the reason she and Michael and Emma had spent the last ten years in orphanages, the reason they’d grown up without knowing their parents. She only had to relax, to let time flow; the bell would fall, and her family would be together once more.

She stood there a second longer, then said a silent apology to her family.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just can’t.

She stepped forward, took Rafe by the wrists, and pulled him out of the rubble.

She was barely aware of dragging him through the main hall of the church. All her strength and focus was required to hold time in check. The longer it was stopped, the greater the pressure became. She pulled him through a hole in a half-destroyed wall and out into the dark, empty street. There she dropped his arms and collapsed at his side.

And let go.

She felt a roaring inside her, and the world’s noise returned. She heard the crackling of the fire, the crash and clanging of the bell as it struck the bottom of the tower, the shouts of the mob around the corner. She was on her hands and knees, gasping, her dress soaked with perspiration.

“What—where—”

Rafe had opened his eyes, the cold air jarring him awake. He leapt up, stared at the street, the burning church, at her.…

“Did you—how did I get here?”

Kate was still trembling from her effort. She took several shaky breaths and got unsteadily to her feet.

“She was right.… Miss Burke said I had the magic in me. I’d just been … afraid of using it. I stopped time. I pulled you out of the church.”