“I haven’t done the Pookan mind meld in centuries. I didn’t know you and the girl knew how.”
“Neither did we,” North confessed.
“Even better,” replied the Pooka. And off he hopped, like some warrior-rabbit-buffalo.
North had no choice but to follow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The Mad Scramble
NORTH, BUNNYMUND, AND THE Warrior Eggs continued their push into the depths of Pitch’s lair. Now mindful of the trap they were entering, Bunnymund left small groups of men (or, rather, eggs) to help mark their way out and to sound the alarm if an ambush was coming.
But the Fearlings continued to pull back, now without fighting at all.
“Something is definitely up, Bunnymund,” said North.
“I’d say Pitch is making a tactical change in his plans,” the Pooka agreed.
“Do we split our forces?” wondered North.
“One of us goes forward to investigate while the other watches his back?” suggested Bunnymund.
“You read my mind,” North said jokingly.
“Yes,” replied the Pooka, “but only when I think it necessary.”
North wasn’t sure if Bunnymund was kidding or not, but before he could ask, the hulking rabbit gave him a good-natured shove. “Now, get going, my friend; you wanted Pitch to yourself.”
North shot the rabbit a glance as he led half the eggs toward the heart of Pitch’s hideout. “Come hopping if you hear anything,” he called over his shoulder.
The Pooka decided to let North have the last word. He didn’t mind the human’s rabbit jokes at his expense. It had been at least seven hundred years since anybody had made any sort of jest to him. He’d almost forgotten the peculiar pleasures of kidding and being kidded, and how humans used humor to help them not be afraid.
And there was much to fear in this place.
With spears, swords, and clubs at the ready, North led a tight formation of eggs cautiously forward. The Fearling troops were continuing to back away, their clattering armor sending waves of uneasy echoes through the tunnel. It was dim—only the blue glint of the lead lava flows provided any light.
Then North heard the Nightmare King bellow, “Come forward!”
North’s sword automatically tightened around his hand, but its glow stayed pale—North could tell it was doing all it could to avoid making him an easy target in this twilight.
Then they came to a huge open chamber. Great swirling lead columns formed a sort of circular shape to the room. The columns widened at the top as they merged into what could be called the ceiling.
Behind the lead columns, North could see only heavily armored Fearlings, a vast army of gray menace that completely surrounded the chamber and seemed eager to attack.
In the room’s center, Pitch was standing triumphantly among every book from Ombric’s library. They were stacked haphazardly in tall piles on the uneven floor of the chamber. North could see The History of Levitation While Eating, Mysteries of Vanishing Keys, and Ombric’s beloved books on Atlantis. What is the old man up to? North wondered. Pitch gazed greedily from book to book, then grabbed one and began to scan its contents. He smiled to himself, then looked up at North, staring at him with gleeful hate.
North matched Pitch’s stare, while, from the corner of his eye, he saw the children of Santoff Claussen huddled in cages that hung from lead beams.
Ombric was nowhere in sight, so North knew to bide his time and wait till the wizard made his play. North realized Pitch was expecting him to say something—explain the arrival of the books or demand that the children be released.
But North kept steady and quiet, as only the smartest warriors did. Let the villain make the first move.
“Why send a thief to do a Pooka’s job?” Pitch asked mockingly.
North said not a word; he just moved in closer, the eggs at his side. He raised his sword as if to strike.
“Where’d you steal that?” Pitch questioned, suddenly curious. “It’s a sword for a king, not a Cossack criminal.”
North stayed silent. The magic sword glowed. Pitch, however, did not reach for his own weapon, but instead held out one of Ombric’s books.
“At ease, brigand. I’ve got what I asked for. The books are here.” Pitch turned to a Fearling. “Release the children,” he ordered.
The Fearling unlocked the swaying cages, and the children jumped out. They tried to run to North, but the Fearling unsheathed his sword and brought it down in front of them, blocking their way.
Pointing to the sealed solid lead cage, Tall William shouted, “Katherine and Nightlight are in there!”
North inched closer, but still he said nothing. His sword glowed even brighter.
“No need to attack, Cossack,” Pitch said soothingly. “The books are here. A deal is a deal. We can part and fight another day. Yes?”
North eyed him suspiciously. Could this work without a fight?
“But . . . ,” Pitch continued, “I must be sure these books are what they seem.” And he began to read a spell.
North knew that the incantation was directed at him. What would Pitch do? Turn him into a fungus, a slave, a Fearling general? He prepared to charge, but the sword held him back! He pushed against it, but it would not budge.
Then he remembered what Yaloo the Yeti had told him: “Perhaps the weapon is fighting for you.”
The sword must know something, North decided.
Pitch, on the other hand, was growing angry. Something was evidently not going as he wished.
Pitch repeated the spell from the book slowly, carefully, as if testing each syllable. Then North understood: The spell was useless; the books were sabotaged!
Pitch tried another spell. Then another. He snatched up the book of enslavement spells and read the words he knew by heart. “They’re all fake!” he bellowed. “FAKE!”
North readied to strike. From behind him, he could hear the charge of Bunnymund and his troops. Pitch threw the book down and unsheathed his sword.
The room exploded into chaos.
The Fearlings rushed North. The earsplitting clash of two armies bent on destroying each other filled the chamber. Then the Pookan war cry sounded out above the din—Bunnymund had arrived, his relic staff sending beams of light crisscrossing the room, engulfing the Fearlings.
The room was furious with spears, swords, clubs, arrows, and armor. North was amazed. The Warrior Eggs were incredibly agile fighters. They could roll, leap, and charge with lightning speed, and their armor was most difficult to penetrate. Their weapons were injected with the ancient light of the egg relic and more than held their own against the Fearlings.
North kept own his sights on Pitch, who was moving toward the children. North’s sword glowed red; it was time to strike. He charged through the dense clusters of Fearlings and Warrior Eggs, easily felling every enemy that blocked his way.
Pitch was opening his cape. It rippled out and began to surround the children. North ran up the huge stack of books in front of him like it was a staircase, then leaped from the top, his sword at the ready, sailing over Pitch. Pitch’s cape was curling around the children like a pair of massive claws, but before he could close it, North landed between them: Villain and thief were face-to-face, swords drawn.
North said to his sword, “Do what needs doing.” With two deft swings, he sliced away the cape on either side of Pitch. The children were free! But in that one moment of victory, North’s guard was down, and Pitch did his worst.
North staggered backward, gasping. The handle of Pitch’s saber protruded from his side; the tip jutted out from the back of his coat. He’d been run through.
The children screamed. Pitch grinned. He pulled his sword back out. But North would not go down yet. He gripped his magic sword and it responded. It glowed with such brightness.
It was then that miracles occurred.
Nightlight’s cage exploded open and light poured from it. The entire chamber was awash with light. The armor-covered Fearlings wer
e almost blinded. Pitch pulled the cowl of his hood forward to block his face from the glare.
North charged again. Despite his wounds, despite the wrenching pain, he could feel an amazing power surge from the magic sword into him. It was almost as if the sword could remember Pitch and was eager to finish him. With indescribable fury, North hacked and lunged at the Nightmare King.
But Pitch had grown stronger since last they’d met, and even with the power of the magic sword, North was unable to best him. His wound was hampering him; he felt himself weakening. Then he saw the djinni, discarded in the corner. Without Pitch inside it, perhaps it would still heed his command.
“Djinni!” North shouted. “Attack him!” The djinni immediately stiffened and then ran toward North. It picked up two swords that were dropped in the battle. Was it coming to help or hinder?
The djinni attacked Pitch! Now we’ve a chance, North thought with relief.
When he next looked up, he was stunned to see Ombric there as well, swinging at Pitch with his staff and landing more blows than North would have ever expected from the old wizard. Then Bunnymund literally came flying into the room, his ears twirling with such speed that they held him aloft like a helicopter. With the relic at the end of his lance, he charged Pitch like a jousting knight.
But Pitch was their match. He shouted out to the Fearlings and they began to merge into him. He grew bigger and stronger, their armor adding layer after layer atop his. Now Pitch was truly a monster in size as well as spirit.
The children huddled into a corner. They could see what was happening—even without Ombric’s books of spells, Pitch seemed unbeatable. Fear crept into their hearts.
Then from the lead cage there shot another bolt of light, and a shimmering, perfect laugh pierced the noise of the battle like an arrow.
The thrill of the inner pooka
Nightlight’s laugh!
Nightlight flew straight toward Pitch, with Katherine riding on his back. His staff was outstretched, the diamond dagger repaired and aimed at Pitch’s heart.
North caught a glimpse of them as they streaked toward Pitch. Outstanding, he thought. The boy will do him in.
But Nightlight pulled up short, hovering just within reach of Pitch’s sword.
What is he doing?! North thought, pausing in midswing. “His heart, boy!” he shouted. “Strike him in the heart!”
Still Nightlight held back. Pitch, however, did not. He sliced savagely at Nightlight, but the spectral boy parried his blow, and his diamond dagger shattered Pitch’s sword. Now North and the others could move in for the kill.
But before they could strike, Katherine raised up her hand and held something out toward Pitch. Not a weapon—no, it was something she wanted him to see. What is she holding? North strained to look. The locket! With the picture of Pitch’s daughter!
For a moment time seemed to stand still.
Pitch stared at the locket, his face twisted and monstrous. His gaze did not waver from the picture. Then his face began to change, the anger and fury fading, replaced by a look that was mournful, anguished, and unbearably sad. North and the others held steady, hardly believing what they were seeing. The King of the Nightmares was no longer horrifying but horrified. He reached out with his damaged hand—the one he had used to try to change Nightlight into a Fearling, the hand that now looked human. He tugged the locket away from Katherine, and for an instant she felt his hand against hers. His touch was not of a creature of fear. It was the touch of a father who had lost his child. Pitch let out a long and haunted scream that came from the depths of whatever sort of a soul he still had.
He looked at the picture for one more moment, then faded, vanishing completely away. The Fearling Army disappeared with him.
And the battle was over.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
North Is Fallen
THERE WAS A SUDDEN and strange calm in the chamber. There they were, together at last, the heroes of the battle at the Earth’s core. Such an amazing and unlikely group: a spectral boy, a girl, a Cossack, an ancient wizard, a metal djinni, a huge Rabbit Man, and an army of Warrior Eggs. The children ran to the comfort of their friends and protectors. But North winced as the littlest William rushed into his arms. He grabbed at his wound, then dropped his sword and fell to one knee.
Ombric and Katherine hurried to his side. “How bad is it, lad?” asked Ombric, bending close. North could not answer. As they laid him down, his face grew paler and even more drained of color. His sword lay next to him. It seemed to dim and darken. Katherine took his hand. It felt cold. North looked up at her as she began to cry.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Bookworm Turns
IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL afternoon in the enchanted woods that surrounded Santoff Claussen. The children of the village were playing their favorite new game, called “Battle at the Earth’s Core.” The massive trees that edged the small open grove had bent their branches down in ways that looked like the lead columns of Pitch’s lair. William the Almost Youngest was pretending to be Ombric, Tall William was Bunnymund, Fog was the djinni, and Petter was Nightlight. The bear was Pitch, which worked very well, as he was so large and very good at tussling with the children with just enough wildness that it was really fun. Plus, he was very difficult to hurt by accident.
A group of squirrels pretended to be the children, dressed up in tiny clothes that matched what they had been wearing during the battle. The birds of the forest were the Fearlings, and a number of actual Warrior Eggs (a gift from Bunnymund) played themselves.
William the Absolute Youngest always wanted to be North; he loved North so much, and it was he who had last hugged North before he fell.
Petter yelled for Katherine to join them, to play her own character, but she did not answer. She rarely joined in this game—she’d lived it, after all, so she didn’t need to play it. Petter’s sister Sascha gladly took her place.
Katherine was up in the topmost branches of Big Root. She had made a small, ramshackle tree house in the crook at the highest point. She went to it often now. She could be alone there to think and to remember.
She spent her time making stories out of what she had seen. Sometimes she even wrote short little rhymes of their adventures. There was an egg that had fallen from a wall of Pitch’s chamber during the battle. She was sure he would break, but his armor had protected him. If only the same could have been said for North. He had fallen. And no one had thought he could be made whole again.
Today she was combining those two stories into a rhyme, drawing pictures of a great egg that had shattered and couldn’t be put back together again. She would sometimes make stories that were different from what had happened but were about how she felt or what she wished had been. This was a new way of thinking for her, and she loved it—needed to do it. These stories had become a mysterious new force in her, a way of healing and understanding the wonders and sorrows of her wild new life.
She was never actually alone in the tree house. Kailash would fly her up there and nap quietly as Katherine wrote, her long neck wrapped around the girl as she leaned against the soft, feathered body.
And there was one more companion with her: Mr. Qwerty. Or at least what he had become.
When Nightlight had told Mr. Qwerty to eat the library to save it from Pitch—yes, it had been Nightlight’s idea—something remarkable had happened. The spells and magic contained in the thousands of pages had transformed the glowworm. In his cocoon he had changed, but it was not into a butterfly. He became instead something that the world had never seen before. He had wings, many of them, but they were made of paper—he had become a sort of living book! His pages were all blank. It was on these pages that Katherine wrote her stories.
Katherine could hear her friends playing in the woods. They were making a story too, of that great and terrible battle. It always changed as they acted it out. Sometimes whoever played Bunnymund would come too later, or the bear would run off too soon, or the squirrels would decide that they
wanted to join in the battle and escape from the “cages” too early. But one part always stayed the same: when North fell. Somehow, it seemed important to do that part exactly as it had happened.
As Katherine sat in her tree house, she heard her friends readying for their game’s final battle. She stopped her writing to listen.
Down in the forest William the Absolute Youngest had fallen to the ground, the stick that was his pretend sword lying at his side. Sascha, Fog, Petter, and the others stood over him as he seemed to die. Then he reached for his magic sword.
Suddenly, a voice came booming from the trees at the edge of the clearing.
“No! No! No!” yelled Nicholas St. North. He came striding toward them. “That’s not how it happened! Bunnymund gave me that magic chocolate first.”
North came up to them looking very hale and hearty. He carried with him a large sack thrown over his shoulder.
“The magic chocolate saved me, I grabbed the sword, and it began to glow again,” he reminded them.
“But our stick sword can’t glow for real,” explained the youngest William.
“Well, this one can,” replied North cheerfully as he dumped the sack upside down. Toy swords and staffs and relics and costumes spilled out on the ground before them. “I made them this morning. Well, the djinni helped a bit.”
The children were delighted with their gifts. They grabbed their different costumes and weaponry and prepared to continue their game.
Katherine flew down on Kailash. She wanted to watch how her friends would act out the rest of the events now that they had props.
Bunnymund came popping out of the ground nearby, Ombric with him. The two had become close collaborators since the battle, once Ombric had discovered that it was Bunnymund who had saved him that long-ago day when he had tried his first magic. They traded spells and histories of this and that. He felt a strong kinship with the Rabbit Man—the only creature alive who was older and wiser than himself. Being with this marvelous creature made Ombric feel younger, almost like a student again.
The Guardians: Nicholas St. North and the Battle of the Nightmare King; E. Aster Bunnymund and the Warrior Eggs at the Earth's Core!; Toothiana, Queen of the Tooth Fairy Armies Page 18