The Guardians: Nicholas St. North and the Battle of the Nightmare King

by William Joyce

  As she continued forward, she could barely make out where the tracks ended. The light of the lantern ahead of her—the last one she could see—was mistier than the others had been. Its shine hit in odd directions. Katherine paused, trying to sort out why that was so.

  The ominous clanking they’d heard earlier grew louder and louder; she could feel the reverberations. But she continued forward until she stood under the lantern and its strange glow. The light looked as if it were being blown in the wind.

  She followed its fading glow as it twisted farther away, but toward what? She took a few more steps forward, following the light. And with each step, the tunnel grew wider and taller—immense, in fact. And then, to her complete surprise, it stopped. Just stopped. A gray vastness loomed in front of her, a giant wall that blocked her from going any farther. But it didn’t stop the light; Katherine could see that the misty stream of lantern light was actually flowing into this wall of dense, dark, metallic-looking rock.

  And then she knew. She was at the Earth’s core.

  She approached the wall cautiously, her dagger at the ready. It occurred to her that her weapon couldn’t possibly be of use against a wall, but perhaps it could defend against what was on the other side of the wall. So she kept her dagger raised, and she listened intently.

  The sounds from within were deep and menacing, like growling thunder from an approaching storm. She heard what she thought was . . . laughing. Laughing? Could that be possible? Then she realized that it was Pitch’s laugh. A cold shiver ran through her soul.

  Katherine reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the locket that she had gotten from Ombric. She looked at the picture of Pitch’s daughter. Again she felt a strange sort of sadness. She had lost her father before she’d ever really known him, and yet she missed him every day. Their time together had been so brief, but the bond lived on. She knew it would never fade or die. She studied the picture of that long-ago little girl and wondered: Might this locket be a much more powerful weapon against Pitch than any dagger?

  Then a shift in the lantern’s light caught her attention. The light was changing—twisting down and splitting into different threads, fanning out like a web that arched behind her. She spun around. Surrounding her stood a dozen or so Fearlings. The tendrils of the lantern light fed directly into their leaded armor.

  “NORTH!” Katherine managed to scream before they whisked her away to the awful place behind the wall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Power of the Inner Pooka

  REMEMBER,” NORTH WAS SAYING, glowering at Bunnymund. “Pitch is mine.” The Pooka’s nose twitched.

  Then they heard Katherine’s scream.

  North didn’t wait for Bunnymund to respond. He turned on his heels and ran, his sword leading the way as if it couldn’t wait to do battle. A knot of Fearlings plunged down at him. He could tell at a glance that they were more formidable than any Fearlings he’d seen before. They looked denser somehow, and though his sword was glowing far more brightly than usual, its light seemed to be sucked into the Fearlings themselves. North was startled. But the hilt of the sword wrapped itself tightly around his hand, and this gave him courage—he literally felt himself becoming stronger, faster. He slashed at the marauders as they descended upon him.

  He had expected them to vanish with one quick touch, but they did not. Instead, he heard the clank of metal against metal as he struck at the Fearlings and realized that they were armored, like knights of old, but deformed, tangled, and terrible.

  And armed.

  How could that be? North managed to think as he lashed out again and again, barely able to stop the Fearlings’ heavy swords from carving him up as they swooped down at him like giant murderous bats. They swerved in midair to attack again. North willed himself to be stronger and faster still, and as he did, the sword responded.

  When the Fearlings dove at him again, he sliced them down with swift and brutal precision. Their armor hacked open, the Fearlings vanished into nothingness. The empty armor fell to the tunnel floor like hunks from a broken coffin.

  North gripped his sword and stood ready for the next onslaught, but none came. In the tense quiet he had time to think one terrible thought: What has happened to Katherine?

  The sword seemed to respond for, from its hilt, a small oval mirror emerged. At first North saw only his own face and Bunnymund and his army racing from the train behind him. Then the mirror showed another image—blurry at first, then sharper. It was Katherine, surrounded by Fearlings. Then it shifted to the face of Pitch as he looked down at her. The image faded and the mirror grew dark, reflecting nothing.

  North gripped his sword so intensely that he began to shake. This is my fault, he thought. He’d dropped his guard. Let himself become distracted by—what? By a candy-making rabbit!

  Bunnymund came up just behind North. Pookas have an uncanny ability to sense what others think and feel. He knew that North thought he was a silly creature. Ridiculous, even. But that didn’t bother him.

  He could also sense North’s anger and determination, his need to help his young friend. The rabbit had kept his distance from the tumultuous feelings of living things for centuries, but now he knew he must respond as he would have in days of old.

  He put his paw on North’s shoulder in as friendly a way as a Pooka can. Then he sighed deeply. “Dear fellow,” he said to North, “this will be more difficult than I had imagined. Drastic measures are required.” He reached into his robe and pulled out three chocolate eggs.

  “This is no time for sweets,” North snapped in frustration.

  “For you, perhaps,” said the rabbit, then he popped the three chocolates in his mouth. The Egg Army gasped in almost-perfect unison. None of them had ever seen Bunnymund eat a chocolate. They had only heard rumors of what happened when Pookas ate the substance.

  There was a curious rumbling. North turned around to face Bunnymund. The rabbit appeared to be growing before his eyes, becoming huge, then hulking, like a warrior from a mythology not yet written.

  Bunnymund raised his egg-tipped staff above his head and let out a yell that shook the tunnel like an earthquake. The army of eggs did likewise. The sound was unlike anything North had ever heard.

  It was the first time in a thousand years the world had heard the Pookan war cry.

  And even Nicholas St. North was impressed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Battle Begins

  PITCH HAD ALMOST NO time to relish the capture of Katherine. He knew that if the girl was here, North and Ombric must be near—and the magic library close at hand! But moments after the Fearlings had brought the girl to him, he heard that extraordinary, otherworldly sound.

  He alone among all the creatures living had heard that war cry before. It was a sound he’d hoped to never hear again. He remembered it from the time he’d destroyed the Pookan Brotherhood. It was the one battle of the Golden Age he had nearly lost. “They’ve got a Pooka with them!” he hissed with alarm.

  He knew he must act quickly.

  “Make ready!” he bellowed to his Fearling Army. “The battle begins!”

  The Fearlings gathered with enviable swiftness. Armor ready, weapons raised, they were a force no one would wish to face.

  Pitch grabbed Katherine by the collar and dragged her with him. “Come, sprite,” he muttered. “I’ve no time to dally with you just now.”

  He rushed from chamber to chamber, shouting commands, making sure his dark army was in place and ready, and all the while Katherine dangled at his side like a sack. She watched every movement of the Fearling troops, which was no easy feat, as she was being buffeted about with Pitch’s grim grip tight at her neck. But she could see the trap that Pitch was planning. The Fearlings would let North and Bunnymund make their way deep into the hollow of the Earth’s core, then surround and overwhelm them.

  Her mind raced. As Pitch planned to destroy her friends, she plotted how best to stop him.

  The Pookan war cry g
rew louder and closer. The Egg Army had obviously made it through the wall of lead that surrounded Pitch’s lair.

  Time was short. Katherine had so few choices, and none played to her favor. But then, as Pitch was hurrying into another chamber, she saw the metal cages holding the children. Her friends!

  They’d crawled back up into the cages to avoid detection by Pitch, but Tall William and the others could see her as well. They yelled and stuck their hands through the airholes to wave. She tried to shout back, but Pitch swung her suddenly to his other hand. As he did so, she noticed, for only an instant, that this hand seemed different . . . changed . . . almost human-looking. Then she heard the opening of a metal door, and she was shoved into a small room. The door slammed behind her. She was immersed in a darkness that was total and complete.

  And though he did not know it, Pitch had put her in the one place where she most needed to be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Voice

  OMBRIC HAD BEEN FURIOUSLY preparing for his trip to the Earth’s core. From the moment he’d figured out what had happened to his library and Mr. Qwerty’s role in its disappearance, he’d worked nonstop to make a perfect reproduction of it. Every single book, every single history, calculation, chart, map, mixture, blueprint, plan, and spell had been duplicated and set down. The entire village had been busy, binding the texts that Ombric had dictated to the owls (who were brilliantly adept at writing and drawing with both talons at the same time). It was fortunate that Ombric could call upon his unmatched memory to recite the entire trove of his knowledge.

  When the last volume was stitched and bound, Ombric stood back to take in the whole of it. It looked as if his library had never been touched; it looked perfect. But it was all bogus. There were flaws carefully crafted into each bit of information. Because of Ombric’s perfect memory, he knew exactly where to make a change here, a switch there. If followed to the letter, not one spell in this entire fabrication would work.

  Ombric had no idea what form the real library was in since Mr. Qwerty had bravely devoured it. The wizard was impressed by this brilliant bit of strategy on Mr. Qwerty’s and Nightlight’s part, but he had to make certain that Pitch did not get the real library—the phony one would have to be used to trick the villain.

  This had been an extremely exhausting task, and he still had to muster the energy to astrally project himself and the immense library all the way to the center of Earth.

  He sat in his favorite chair thinking about his store of knowledge. Remembering it had been both satisfying and bittersweet. He felt as though he had relived the entire arc of his life. He remembered learning each and every bit of magic: where he’d been, who he’d been with at the time. He realized that he’d achieved a rich, wild, vivid life. He had lived as he had believed. He had seen and known more wonder than almost any mortal ever had. So he felt a weary satisfaction. He would just need to rest his mind for a while.

  Ombric leaned back and tugged at his beard, the owls watching him worriedly. They had never seen their master so tired, so frail.

  Ombric’s breathing became quiet and rhythmic, and he drifted into a deep sleep.

  He dreamed of when he was just a child in the city of Atlantis. There had been a day in his childhood that had always baffled him—the day of his first magic. And now he seemed to be reliving it. He hadn’t been much younger than the youngest William, and had been secretly listening to the lessons of the older children; he had heard knowledge he was not yet supposed to know. He learned the secret of how to make a daydream come true.

  The young Ombric stood in an open field and started to recite the spell. It was a difficult enchantment and required great concentration, but he was a boy with a talent for concentration. He focused hard, till his mind was clear of all distraction. He chanted the words slowly and thoughtfully. Ombric had always daydreamed of flying. And after a time he started drifting upward, at first just grazing the top of the tall, green field grass, then higher, and finally up into the sky. He flew in and around clouds, soaring and spiraling like a fantastic sort of bird.

  But he had gone too fast and flown too high. His young mind grew tired. He could no longer maintain the spell, and he began to fall. Fear took over his thinking as he plummeted to the ground. He knew he must stop being afraid and focus on the spell, but his pulse was pounding and panic set in.

  He began to tumble uncontrollably, spiraling end over end with sickening speed. Everything was a terrifying blur. He fell so fast that he began to black out.

  And he was glad. He couldn’t stand to feel a terror this total, and he didn’t want to face the instant that was coming—the moment when he would smash to the ground and be no more. As he began to lose consciousness, he felt a strange sort of calm. An acceptance of what would happen. Then he heard a voice whisper to him: “I believe. I believe. I believe.” It was a pleasant voice. One he did not recognize, but at the same time, it sounded familiar. And he no longer felt afraid. Then, as all went black, he knew—knew—everything would be all right.

  And it was. He opened his young eyes some time later. He was in the same green field. He was not hurt. Not a scratch or a bruise was on him. Only his red hair was tousled. Ombric never knew how he had survived or who had spoken the magic words to him. But on that day he had learned the power of fear, that fear was an enemy that must always be conquered.

  Then the memory ended, but the dream went on. . . .

  Ombric now saw himself in that same field from childhood. He was not a boy anymore but very old. He lay in the soft green grass. It was so cool and comfortable. There was a soothing breeze, and the sky above was alive with white clouds that drifted by like great galleons. I am so tired. Maybe I will just stay here forever, he thought. It is peaceful.

  But now he heard the words again, echoing from far away. But this time the voice was different.

  It was a young girl’s voice. He struggled to sit up, and as he did, he saw Katherine standing near him. Then North appeared next to her. They beckoned him to join them.

  They spoke, but he could not hear them. He could only hear the mysterious voice from long ago: “I believe. I believe. I believe.”

  Then suddenly, he woke up. He looked around his library, startled. He could still hear the voice, but only the owls were there.

  And for the second time he felt the minds of Katherine and North reaching out to him. Their thoughts and his had become connected. He felt—no, he knew—that they were in grave danger and that he must act instantly.

  He grabbed the box that held Nightlight’s moonbeam and the broken bits of the diamond dagger. Then he waved his staff over the new stacks of books. He felt strong again. Young again. Like Ombric in days of yore. Could he project himself to the Earth’s core? In an instant! And the books? Absolutely! His friends needed him! The peace he felt in his dream could come later.

  But that voice from the past . . . the voice that had saved him on that fateful day when he first learned the glory and terror of magic. It sounded so familiar now.

  Who—or what—was it?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  In Which All Is Linked by an Ancient Mind Trick That Has a Most Surprising Origin

  NORTH WAS DAZZLED. BUNNYMUND was a madman, or rabbit, or whatever . . . a dervish! A devil! A juggernaut! There simply wasn’t a way to describe the Pooka’s electrifying deeds. He had taken his relic and fixed it to the end of his staff, then aimed it at the lead wall that blocked their way. If this ancient lead had never seen sunlight, starlight, or any light other than lava light before, it was seeing it now. The light that the relic contained blistered forth from a thousand tiny holes that opened up from its shell. This light would not be blocked or consumed; it could peel back the dense lead as smoothly as sealing wax from parchment.

  But still, North felt wary—it was almost too easy. The Fearlings kept retreating without putting up much of a fight. They were going deeper and deeper into the Earth’s core, and the wavy, peculiar lead-and-lava landscape was har
d to mark or remember. North prided himself on his stellar sense of direction, but he now felt uncertain about how to find his way back out, and his warrior’s instincts were telling him he was being pulled into an ambush.

  It was at just that moment that there came a sort of ringing in his ears, the sensation blocking out the clatter of battle around him. He looked to Bunnymund, and he knew that the Pooka was experiencing the same sensation.

  The magic sword could feel it too. The mirror emerged again from its hilt, and North could see Katherine’s face in it. Her lips did not move, but he could hear her voice. “There is no time to tell you everything. We must call Ombric here now!” she said. “He needs us, and we need him. Pitch has made a trap for you.”

  But how can we call Ombric? North wondered. Then he remembered when they were back in Santoff Claussen, when he had felt their minds unite as one. He knew that he must concentrate to make their minds combine again. Despite the skirmish going on around him, he closed his eyes, and all became quiet except for his and Katherine’s voices: I believe . . . I believe . . . I believe. Then he heard Bunnymund’s voice join theirs! And this surprised North. They had a new ally, a new friend.

  But then North saw Ombric in the sword’s mirror. He was lying in a field of grass. He looked sad, old, as if he were dying. It scared North, and he could tell it did the same to Katherine and Bunnymund. So they shouted out to him, their minds as one, “Believe, believe, believe. You are needed!”

  The mirror went bright, then Ombric was no longer visible. North heard Katherine say, “Be cautious. Wait for Ombric. Wait for me.” Then the mirror went dark again.

  North turned to Bunnymund, who was smiling.

  “I haven’t done the Pookan mind meld in centuries. I didn’t know you and the girl knew how.”