Then the world changed; the elf princess was swaying on a thin branch atop one of the great trees, and Michael was with her; and just as every snowflake and shard of ice had been different, so every leaf and needle on every tree was different, and the birds all answered Wilamena’s call, and she raised her face to the sun, and Michael had never imagined his heart could be so full.…
Then darkness. Michael recognized the cave, the pool of lava, the tunnel leading to the keep; he felt how the dragon’s body was a cage for the princess, how she fought, day after day, to hold on to her memories of the snow and the trees and the sun, but it was like shielding a candle on a dark, windswept plain.…
Then, without warning, Michael was lying on the forest floor, surrounded by splintered branches and trees, and he felt Wilamena’s heart, his heart now, pumping out black blood onto a bed of crushed ferns.…
Live, he thought. Oh, please, please, live.…
“Michael!”
He was in the tunnel. The book open upon his knees, Wilamena’s scorched name fading into the page. He felt hollowed out and shaky. Emma and Gabriel were both staring down at him.
“I’m sorry,” Emma said. “Gabriel says that tunnel’s a dead end. We gotta go the other way.”
“But I don’t know if she— I have to try again—”
“There is no time,” Gabriel said. “We must go. Now.”
“But—”
“Michael, they’re coming!”
And then, finally, he heard the shrieks echoing down the tunnel.
Running, the screams of the Screechers at their heels, the air throbbing red; they rounded a corner, the tunnel opened up, and then, suddenly, they were in the great, smoking cauldron of the volcano. Below them, a hundred and fifty feet or more, was a roiling, churning lake of magma; above them hung the blue-black disk of sky. Michael felt as if they were perched on the side of some giant’s enormous stewpot.
“Look!” Emma cried.
And Michael, squinting through the smoke, made out the mouth of a tunnel on the far side of the cone. He also saw, as did Gabriel and Emma, that the ledge they stood on was part of a path that ringed the whole inside of the volcano and would take them all the way around. The Guardian, it seemed, had not led them astray.
“Come,” Gabriel said. “We must hurry.”
Emma took the lead. They went as fast as they dared; the ledge was narrow and uneven and one wrong step would send them plunging to their deaths. Breathing was painful, as the air scorched their lungs, and the fumes from the lava made them nauseous and light-headed. When the children tried to steady themselves against the wall of the cone, the rocks burned their palms. And all the while, the volcano quaked and rumbled, and huge bubbles exploded out of the magma, sending globs of lava shooting upward.
Michael tried to focus, but as with a dream that lingers after waking, he couldn’t shake off the feeling of being caged by the dragon’s body.
They were halfway around the cone when there was a shout behind them. Rourke had emerged from the tunnel and was striding toward them along the path, Gabriel’s falchion clenched in his right hand.
Gabriel drew his own sword. “Go. I will catch up.”
Without a word, Emma grabbed Michael’s hand and pulled him on.
Gabriel braced himself along the widest bit of ledge, and waited.
The children had gotten within forty paces of the tunnel when the volcano gave a violent jolt, and Michael, stumbling, twisted his ankle badly. Right away, he felt it start to throb, and he knew that any more running was beyond him.
“Michael—”
“I’m okay. I just—”
“No! Look!”
She was pointing past the mouth of the tunnel, to where a figure was coming toward them along the path. The figure was a skeleton, its bones blackened and smoking. It clutched a jagged-edged sword and moved with a jerky lope the children recognized.
“It’s one a’ them Screechers the dragon torched!” Emma exclaimed. “But its body’s all burned away. How’s the stupid thing still alive?”
Michael didn’t know and didn’t care. The creature had circled the path from the other direction and was about to cut off their access to the tunnel. If that happened, they’d be trapped. Michael stood, putting all his weight on one foot.
“Emma, I can’t run. You have to go on—”
“What?! No! I’m not leaving you here!”
Michael was about to say that he was the oldest and was ordering her to run when two more Screechers appeared on the path. They also had been burned, if not so completely as the first—which in some ways made them even more horrible, with the bits of charred flesh and muscle still clinging to their bones—and all three were closing in.
“You can climb, can’t you?” Emma demanded.
“What?”
“And I do trust you, you idiot! Who else ever fought a dragon for me, huh?!”
Michael shrugged. “… No one?”
“That’s right! And you’re my brother! I’ll always trust you! Tell that to your stupid book! Now look!”
Fifty feet above them was what appeared to be the opening of a small tunnel.
She pushed him toward the wall, shouting, “Climb!”
The rough, porous rock of the volcano made for ready handholds and footholds, and Michael found that he was able to climb with one leg, though not as fast as Emma, who quickly outpaced him. Indeed, the real pain was in his hands, which were soon raw and scorched. But the sounds of their pursuers coming up behind them, of bony fingers scraping against rock, helped him ignore the pain and climb even faster.
And Michael couldn’t stop thinking of what Emma had said and wondering if she really meant it. The thought filled him with new hope and strength and chased away the shadows clinging to his mind.
Suddenly, the volcano gave a shudder, and the rocks Michael was gripping came loose in his hands. He scrabbled madly at the wall as he plummeted downward; there was a hard crunch, and he caught hold of what felt like a twig or stick poking from the rock. Only it wasn’t a twig. To his horror, he saw he was clinging to the dismembered arm of a Screecher. Turning, Michael saw a one-armed skeleton disappearing into the lava. It seemed he had landed on top of the creature, the impact breaking its arm, even as its hand had remained clenched around the rock. Michael made a mental note to wash his own hands properly the first chance he got—Screecher bones probably carried all sorts of germs—and he looked up to tell Emma he was okay, only to see a second monster grab hold of her boot and try to yank her off the wall.
“Emma!”
He started toward her, but he hadn’t gone more than a few feet when the skeleton tumbled past, clutching Emma’s boot. Michael looked up. Emma smiled and waggled her foot.
“I undid the laces.”
Then her smile vanished. Following his sister’s gaze, Michael saw that the smoke over the lava pit had cleared, and Gabriel and Rourke were visible across the cone. The men stood toe to toe, their weapons a blur, the sound lost in the rumble of the volcano. Gabriel was not attacking, but merely parrying Rourke’s strokes, which rained down in a continuous onslaught, as if the bald man had not one weapon but many, all in constant motion. Then a new cloud of smoke hid them from view. Michael looked up, expecting to see Emma climbing down to help her friend.
But Emma hadn’t moved, and Michael realized that she wasn’t leaving him, that she wouldn’t leave him, that she had indeed meant every word she’d said.
“Quit daydreaming!” she shouted. “That thing’s right behind you!”
Michael scrambled upward. He could hear the Screecher clawing at the rocks below his feet, and he told himself that Gabriel would find a way to win; he always did.
Emma called down, “I’m here! There’s a tunnel! Hurry!”
The volcano seemed on the verge of breaking apart. Chunks of rock had begun blasting off the wall as jets of hot gas pockmarked the cone. Michael’s arms quivered with fatigue. As he approached the ledge where Emma waited, the
cone tilted in, and Michael’s bag hung below him like a pendulum. Emma lay down on her stomach and reached toward him. Michael knew the Screecher was close.
“Don’t look down! Take my hand!”
Michael strained upward and caught his sister’s hand. Just as he did, the Screecher leapt and grabbed hold of his legs.
“Michael!”
He was pulled completely off the wall. Emma was flat on her stomach, holding his hand with both of hers as the Screecher clung to his knees. The creature was almost all bone and weighed very little, but Michael could feel Emma’s sweaty fingers slipping through his own.
“Michael! I can’t hold you! Michael—”
The skeleton was climbing up Michael’s body, the bones of its hands digging into his thighs. Michael fumbled for the knife in his belt.
“I need—”
“Michael—stop moving—I can’t—”
And then his hand slipped through Emma’s fingers.
Rourke seemed to have no weakness. He was stronger than Gabriel, faster, better rested; and he wielded Gabriel’s own weapon, rescued from the skull of the dead troll, more easily than Gabriel ever had himself. Indeed, the man’s only weakness, if it could be called a weakness, was that he liked to talk, and did so incessantly, even as he rained down blow after crushing blow.
“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.