The Fire Chronicle

by John Stephens

  “Then, Rabbit, we have a deal.”

  Michael heard the rasp of talons pushing off rock, and he turned to see the dragon launch itself into the air. For an instant, it hung above the pool, its golden scales reflecting the red glow from the lava, leathery wings outspread, armored tail whipping this way and that, and Michael gasped, for the creature was, despite all its fearsomeness, stunningly beautiful. Then the dragon dove and disappeared, seal-like, into the bubbling lake.

  Michael dropped the circlet onto the rocky floor and ran.

  He ran as he had never run before and never would again. Indeed, in that strip of tunnel between the dragon’s lair and the fortress, Michael Wibberly, who had never won a single race in school, who was always picked last for every team (and then only if the other team accepted some handicap, like having a turtle play first base), for that brief stretch, was the fastest boy in the world.

  For all the good it did him.

  Rounding the last corner, he stopped dead in his tracks, staring in horror. The gate over the mouth of the tunnel was closed.

  Michael threw himself against the bars. “Gabriel! Gabriel!”

  A pair of boots hurried down the steps into view.

  “What’re you still doing alive?”

  Michael felt all his strength desert him. The Guardian stood on the other side of the gate. In every way but one, the man looked exactly as he had when Michael had first seen him atop the tower—the same mismatched rags, the same wild hair and beard. The single difference was that Michael could discern not a trace of madness in his face; there was only a gleeful, greedy triumph.

  The man brandished a wooden club.

  “That friend of yours had a very thick skull. I had to give him three hard taps before he finally stayed down. Now, where is that dragon—”

  Just then there was a shriek of fury from deep inside the mountain.

  The Guardian smiled at Michael, and chuckled, “Uhhhhhhoh …”

  “Let me out! Please! Let me out! She’ll kill me! You—”

  The man’s hand shot through the gate, seizing Michael’s shirt.

  “Boy, the Chronicle is mine! I’ve guarded it for nearly three thousand years. For its sake, I’ve taken the blood of those I loved most in the world! Neither you nor any other will ever have it! You understand? Never!” He leaned closer, staring into Michael’s terrified face. “I always wondered who my old comrade would send against me. I’ve imagined wizards, warrior elves, troops of armored dwarves marching here to steal my treasure! And after all this time, he sends a pair of children! You were his great champions!”

  The man began cackling, and Michael found himself revising downward his opinion of the man’s sanity. He could hear the dragon’s footsteps thundering closer.

  “You know something?” Michael said. “You’re an idiot.”

  The man stopped laughing. “What—”

  That was all he managed before Gabriel—who had been creeping silently up behind the man—cracked him across the head with the butt of his falchion.

  And then Michael was shouting, his words a panicked jumble of “dragon” and “gate” and “hurry” and “hurry, please,” and Gabriel was staggering up the stairs, turning so that Michael saw the blood covering the side of his face and head, and there was a crackling in the tunnel, the sound of air catching fire, and the gate began to lift slowly, slowly, and Michael was crawling under it, yanking free the strap of his bag as it caught on one of the spikes, feeling the ground beneath him start to tremble; and then he was through, scrambling over the body of the Guardian, shouting, “Close it! Close it!” and sprinting up the stairs as an echoing roar told him the dragon had rounded the last corner.

  To Michael’s surprise, the creature did not crash into the gate. It did not rend and tear the metal in a fury to reach him. Michael lay on the stone floor of the chamber, gasping for air, his heart racing, listening to the sound of the dragon breathing just inside the mouth of the tunnel.

  And then, the dragon laughed.

  “Rabbit, you really are making things very difficult! If you weren’t so cute, I’d almost be angry. I suppose you know this gate is enchanted. Otherwise, I’d have torn it apart long ago.”

  “Of course,” Michael panted. He’d known no such thing.

  “Unfortunately, even though my master is unconscious, his order to kill you still holds. And you don’t really think that after two hundred years I haven’t found another way out of the volcano, do you?”

  Michael was up instantly. He could hear the dragon racing back down the tunnel.

  “Gabriel, we—”

  But Gabriel was unconscious on the floor, the wounds he’d received from the Guardian having taken their toll. After checking to make sure that his friend was breathing, Michael raced for the tower stairs. He had no plan. All he knew was that he had to get to Emma. As he climbed, he cursed himself for going into the volcano. He’d been stupid! Arrogant! It was Cambridge Falls all over! He’d thought he was smarter than everyone else, but he wasn’t, and now his sister would pay the price! The fact that he would die as well never entered Michael’s mind. He only knew that he had let down Emma, and let down Kate—again.

  As Michael emerged from the stairs into the open air, he saw Emma, exactly as he’d left her, motionless and staring into space. There was a shriek from above, and Michael spun about and saw the dragon, red streams of lava dripping from its wings, erupt from the mouth of the volcano. The dragon turned, a creature of fire, burning against the blue-black sky, and, with an eerie, graceful slowness, dropped down the side of the mountain. Michael seized Emma in his arms and struggled with her stiff body to the stairs, managing only a few awkward steps before he tripped and the two of them rolled in a tangle to the landing below. Michael’s nose was bleeding, his whole body was bruised and banged, and he was kneeling over Emma, repeating, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” as the top of the tower was suddenly ripped away. Michael looked up and saw the dragon banking in the air to come back for another pass. He threw himself across his sister, but the dragon didn’t ram the tower; it hovered there, using its great tail as a mace to knock away the remaining stones. In moments, the stairway was open to the sky, and Michael felt the dragon settle upon the wall.

  Something landed beside his feet.

  “There, Rabbit. I promised you a look at the Chronicle, and I keep my promises.”

  Michael leapt up, putting himself between the dragon and Emma, and drew the knife Gabriel had given him. Though it was crouched on all fours, the dragon still towered above him, all armored muscle and claw and fang. Michael was nothing next to it. Not even a rabbit. But he stood his ground, even as his legs shook beneath him.

  The dragon regarded him through narrow eyes the color of blood.

  “I really don’t want to eat you, Rabbit. In another life, I think we could have been friends. But I can’t disobey the will of my master.”

  “I’m not—” Michael stammered, “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Yes, you are. But you’re trying not to be, and that’s what matters. Because of that, I’ll give you one free tickle with your needle before killing you. Come closer.”

  Michael took one trembling step forward. He could feel the heat coming off the creature’s body. The dragon was right; he was scared. But also angry. It shouldn’t be ending this way: he and Emma separated from Kate. Emma not able to fight for herself. Him all alone.

  “You don’t know anything!” he shouted, tears now streaming down his cheeks. “You don’t know anything about us! Me and my sisters, why we’re doing this! You’re just—you’re just a stupid worm!”

  “That’s it, Rabbit. Let your anger flow. Your death will be so quick you won’t even know it. Strike.”

  The dragon’s breath was steaming Michael’s glasses. But as he raised the knife above his head, he saw, once again, the golden bracelet around the dragon’s foreleg. It stopped him. If the bracelet was gold, shouldn’t it have melted in the lava? Unless, Michael thought
, the bracelet was enchanted in some way. Just as the iron gate had been enchanted. Suddenly, the song the elves had sung in the clearing came back to him:

  For deep below that nasty hide

  There’s a princess hiding still.…

  Please come back, oh please come back,

  Change your gold band for this one.

  The dragon had said that a curse had been put on the elf princess.…

  And the Guardian had said the dragon was a girl.…

  But was it possible? Was it actually possible?

  “Strike, Rabbit! Now! Strike!”

  There was no more time to think. Michael swung down with all his might. He felt the knife cut neatly through the golden band and into the dragon’s leg. The dragon shrieked in rage and reared up, claws raking the sky. Michael closed his eyes and waited for the talons to rip through him.

  I was wrong. I’m dead. Emma’s dead. I’ve killed us both.

  And he was aware of an enormous, crushing sadness, greater than any fear of death, because he knew that he had failed his sisters.

  Then he heard a sound like a moan, and something struck the landing. Michael opened his eyes. The dragon was gone. In its place, a golden-haired elf girl, the living, breathing image of the sculpture in the clearing, lay amid the ruins of the tower. A severed bracelet was beside her. And beside that, a glowing red book.

  Well, Michael thought, look at that.

  And then he collapsed.

  “Separation. That’s their word for it. Surrender is more like it. Cowardly. Base. We are lions fleeing before rats. Nature revolts at the very idea. Cigar?”

  Rourke produced a leather case from inside his fur coat and flipped open the top, displaying four cigars lined up like missiles. The carriage was rumbling along the cobblestone streets, and Rourke, sitting across from Kate, had stretched out his great legs so that his feet rested on the seat beside her. He seemed a man very much at his ease.

  “No, thank you,” Kate managed.

  “Well, sick to my stomach it makes me, and that’s no lie.”

  Rourke bit off the end of his cigar and spat the nub out the window with such force that it knocked off the hat of a passerby. He chuckled and lit a match with his thumb. Soon, sweet cigar smoke filled the carriage.

  “I’m not denying that something had to be done. How the nonmagical vermin have been multiplying, the abuse and oppression of our kind. But nature teaches the rule of the strong. Let me tell you a story. Do you know Ireland at all?”

  Kate gave a small shake of her head.

  “My home, it is. And a beautiful and tragic place. I grew up in an orphanage outside Dublin run by the Sisters of Sweet and Enduring Charity. Never knew my parents. Though I was told that my mother was half giant, which is not difficult to believe, given the eye-boggling size of me. As it was, I was regarded as a freak. A thing not wholly human. And treated accordingly.”

  Kate said nothing. She was only half listening. She was searching through her pockets. It had to be there. She couldn’t have lost it.…

  “By the tender age of nine, I was larger than any man in Dublin, and was sold by the good sisters to a fella who owned a quarry. He chained my leg to a spike and I spent twelve hours a day hammering big stones into smaller stones. But I wasn’t yet finished growing, was I? Got bigger and stronger every day. Finally, my own master came to fear me. Indeed, so great was his fear, he plotted to kill me. Luckily, I discovered his sanguinary intentions, broke free, and, with the very hammer he gave me, smashed that empty head of his to pieces. Ah, a great day that was, dark and bloody and beautiful.”

  He smiled at the memory and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

  “Sure, I was caught easy. Too stupid to run. And sentenced to hang as soon as rope could be found strong enough to hold me. But the night before the sentence was to be carried out, I’m sitting alone in me cell, and suddenly I’m not alone. He’s there with me.” The man leaned forward eagerly. “And what did he say? ‘Declan Rourke, you are not human. Their laws cannot condemn you. If I free you, will you serve me faithfully?’ And how did I respond? ‘Brother,’ says I, ‘if you get me out of here, I’ll clean the mud from your boots.’ And didn’t he take me away and make me the man I am? Opened my eyes. Gave me power. A great, great man. And now, lass”—the bald giant smiled, leaning back—“you’re about to meet him.”

  The carriage passed through a pair of iron gates and into the courtyard of a large four-story mansion set in the middle of a block of mansions. An Imp stepped forward and opened the door. Rourke peered at Kate through the smoke.

  “You all right, lass? You do look awful pale.”

  “I … lost something,” Kate said. “It was in my pocket.”

  “And what was it? I’ll send an Imp back to search for it. Must’ve fallen out when we collided.”

  Kate imagined one of the Imps picking up her mother’s locket, touching it. She realized she’d rather never see it again.

  “It’s not important.”

  “In that case”—he gestured with his cigar—“my master awaits.”

  “We’re not blaming you.”

  “You should!” Abigail cried, pointing a finger at the two boys. “Ain’t they the ones that threw those snowballs? Hadn’t been for that, those kids never would’ve chased us and the Imps never would’ve gotten her! It’s their fault!”

  Beetles and Jake were both uncharacteristically quiet. They stood, side by side, twisting their caps in their hands. They were gathered in the belfry atop the church, arrayed in a line before Henrietta Burke’s desk. Rafe stood to the side. The old magician Scruggs, wrapped as always in his shabby brown cloak, sat against one of the pillars. The sun was low in the sky, a dull smudge visible through the clouds. It would soon be dark.

  “And it was definitely Rourke who took her?” Henrietta Burke asked.

  “It was him,” Beetles said quietly. “There ain’t no mistaking him. They put her in a carriage and took her to their mansion uptown. We followed ’em. Ran the whole twenty blocks behind the carriage.”

  “Yeah, you’re a coupla real heroes,” Abigail sneered.

  “Enough,” Henrietta Burke said. “You children can go.”

  Abigail, Jake, and Beetles headed toward the trapdoor. The boys paused at the top of the ladder and looked back at Rafe.

  “We didn’t mean nothing to happen,” Jake said. “We liked her.”

  “Yeah,” Beetles said. “We’re real, real sorry.”

  Rafe nodded. He was clenching something in his right hand. As soon as the boys were gone, he turned to Henrietta Burke.

  “I’m going to get her.”

  The woman shook her head. “She was never our responsibility, and now that is doubly so.”

  “Didn’t you hear? She got caught trying to protect them! We owe—”

  “Our duty is to those here! All day there have been reports of human mobs attacking magical folk. The humans sense that something is happening. I need you here. The Separation is only hours away. The girl is on her own.”

  “No.”

  Henrietta Burke had already gone back to her papers, but now she looked up sharply. Even Scruggs, who had been chewing his fingernails, took notice.

  “Excuse me?”

  Rafe stepped close to the desk; his voice, his whole body, was trembling with emotion. “Scruggs’s spell keeps the church hidden. You don’t need me. You just don’t want me going there. Ever since the Imps showed up, you’ve tried to keep me clear of them. Why?”

  “Because there is nothing to be gained by feuding—”

  “That ain’t it. I know Rourke’s looking for me—”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It ain’t important. Tell me what he wants!”

  Henrietta Burke stared at him. Her face gave away nothing. Finally, she said, “It is not Rourke who hunts you. He is merely the right hand. It is his master. A being whose power is beyond any of us.”

  “Whoever he is, if he needs something from me, I can
bargain. I can get him to give up the girl—”

  “He will never give up the girl. And if you enter that mansion, you will not emerge from it.” Then her gray eyes appeared to soften. “I know you want to save her. But you cannot sacrifice yourself.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?” The boy struck the desk. “What do they want from me?”

  Henrietta Burke glanced at Scruggs, looked back at the boy, and shook her head.

  Rafe stepped away. “Fine. But I’m going to get her.”

  “Why? What is it between you and this girl? Why would you risk so much?”

  For a moment, Rafe was silent. He was no longer trembling. He opened his hand and glanced at the golden locket Beetles had given him. The boys had picked it up from the sidewalk after Kate had been taken. He said, “You have your secrets. I have mine.”

  He’d started to turn when Scruggs spoke.

  “Wait.” The old magician shuffled to his feet. “There is a way to save her and still escape. You just have to enter without being seen.…”

  Kate had expected to be taken to the Dire Magnus immediately. But after entering the mansion with Rourke, she found herself engulfed in a flurry of activity. Imps in their shirtsleeves were moving about furniture, carrying crates of champagne, iced platters of salmon and oysters, large bouquets of flowers; there were small, wizen-faced creatures—gnomes, Kate learned—polishing floors, cleaning windows, spitting on and wiping down anything brass.

  “We’re having a bit of a do tonight,” Rourke said as he led Kate up a wide set of stairs. “You certainly picked the right time to drop in.”

  Still gripping her arm, he led her through a pair of double doors and into a ballroom. Kate had only ever been in one ballroom, the one in the mansion in Cambridge Falls, and this one dwarfed the other. The floor was a shining expanse of blond wood. To the right, French doors gave onto a balcony that looked out over the street. To Kate’s left, a wall of mirrors reflected the snowy scene outdoors. Red-cushioned chairs were being placed along the walls by a crew of Imps, while in the center of the room, an enormous crystal chandelier, with twisting, briar-like arms, had been lowered till it hung a foot off the floor, and three gnomes were using long metal tongs to fix white candles into dozens of holders.