The Fire Chronicle (16 page)

Michael looked at the skeleton. He hadn’t moved, had he? Michael tried to remember if the skeleton’s head had been in that exact position.

“Michael, I forbid you to touch anything! In fact, come back right now! Do you hear me?”

“I’m just … tying my shoe.”

“Well, for goodness— Oh, hold on a second, my boy!”

Michael thought he could hear another voice, further off, his sister’s, and the wizard was calling to her. He wondered if something had happened in the graveyard. Michael sensed that his time was running out.

Choose rightly, and you may never die.…

Choose wrongly, and you will join me.…

The clay jar certainly smelled like poison, but maybe that was the point. When designing a puzzle, you always put the solution where it’s least expected. In which case, the swampy, wet-dog-smelling concoction was Michael’s best bet.

Or was that a little too obvious? Wouldn’t the skeleton man have assumed that Michael or whoever would automatically go
for the most disgusting alternative? Wouldn’t it be far more clever to have the least poisonous-seeming option not actually be poison? In that case, Michael should choose the ruby-colored bottle and its promise of root beer.

Except … there was still the metal flask to consider. That smelled like nothing at all. How did that figure into the equation? And, come to think of it, was he making a mistake in not looking at the containers themselves: a clay jug, a glass bottle, a metal flask? Was there some meaning there? Or perhaps the clue was in their respective placements on the table?

What I really need, Michael thought, are lab rats. I could feed each of them one of the potions and see who survives.

Michael glanced about, but the chamber was depressingly rat-free.

Admit it, he thought, you have no idea which is the right potion.

Very quietly, he murmured, “Eenie … meenie … miney—”

He stopped, too embarrassed to continue.

Choose, Michael told himself. You just have to choose. Do it. Now.

He uncorked the clay jug and tilted it into the goblet. His hands shook and he had to steady the jug against his body. Slowly, almost reluctantly, a foul greenish-yellow sludge slithered into the bowl of the goblet. Michael stared. How was he supposed to drink this? He’d need a spoon. Or a fork.

As Michael raised the goblet to his lips, he had to pinch his nose to keep from gagging. He could actually see the goop crawling toward his mouth. He knew he was being stupid. If only he’d
had more time, he could’ve worked it out. Perhaps found some rats in another cave. He was glad that Kate couldn’t see him, or Dr. Pym, or his dad, or even G. G. Greenleaf, author of
The Dwarf Omnibus—

Michael abruptly lowered the cup, the goop a hairbreadth away from touching his lips.

Setting down the goblet, Michael pulled the
Omnibus
from his bag. He knew the chapter he was looking for and opened directly to it. He read: “ ‘Puzzles have long been a key part of every magical quest, and no surprise, dwarves have always excelled at them!’ ”

Michael felt relief washing over him. Good old G. G. Greenleaf!

Michael closed the
Omnibus
and looked at the skeleton. The man had been one of the last Guardians of the book; he’d wanted to protect it. Therefore, he’d wanted most people to fail the test. But if someone just randomly chose a potion, he had a one-in-three chance of succeeding. Michael thought that seemed too high. The Guardian would not want one in three to succeed, but
the
one. The Keeper.

Michael was suddenly sure that none of the potions was the right answer, and that if he’d drunk the foul-smelling sludge, he would now be dead.

“Michael!”

Emma’s voice yanked him to the tunnel. He could see the flickering of torchlight at the far end.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“You gotta get outta there!” She was desperate. “They’re coming! Lots of them!”

“Who? What’re you—”

“Screechers! I saw them! Hurry!”

“But we still don’t know where the next book is! I can—”

“Michael”—it was the wizard speaking—“we’ll find the book some other way! Come back now! That is an order!”

But Michael was already turning back to the table. He was certain that if he didn’t get the answer now, didn’t discover the location of the
Chronicle
, then they would never find the book. And everything depended on that. Which meant everything depended on him. He opened the
Omnibus
and read the passage again. One phrase caught his eye: “Always go back to the directions; someone wrote them for a reason.…”

The directions, Michael thought:

Choose rightly, and you may never die.…

Choose wrongly, and you will join me.…

And Three will become One
.

Michael felt a shiver of excitement.

And Three will become One.…

Dr. Pym had said it referred to the three Books of Beginning, and perhaps it did. But perhaps it also referred to something else.

The green-yellow sludge was now half solid in the bottom of the goblet. Michael yanked the cork from the red bottle and splashed in the root-beer-smelling liquid; there was a hissing and bubbling, and the concoction turned black and, if possible, smelled even worse than before; but Michael was already upending the tiny flask, shaking out a few clear drops. The effect was immediate. The hissing and bubbling stopped, and the liquid in the goblet turned the color of pure silver.

“Michael, this is your last warn—”

“I’m drinking from all three jars!”

He wanted them to know what was happening. In case he was wrong.

Then, unable to resist the dramatic gesture, he raised the goblet toward the skeleton. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of anything suitably offhand and cavalier to say as a toast. Finally, he just muttered, “Well, here goes …,” and drank.

It was as if he’d poured ice water directly into his heart. The goblet clattered to the floor as Michael dropped to his knees. The cold was spreading through his body, and he could feel himself beginning to shake. Was it possible he’d been wrong? But he’d been so sure! He tried calling to his sister, but his voice failed him. He could feel his lungs freezing, ice forming in the chambers of his heart; his vision went dark; he bent forward, his forehead pressed against the rocky floor; a pounding shook his entire body. What a strange way to die, Michael thought. The pounding came
again, and again. Then Michael’s vision cleared, and he realized that the pounding was the beating of his heart, and he felt life and warmth moving through him, and he took a deep, deep breath, and once again he could hear Emma calling his name, crying, begging him to please, please come back.…

“I’m coming!” he shouted, getting to his feet. “I’m okay!”

And he was better than okay, much better than okay, for he knew where the
Chronicle
was hidden.

What happened afterward was a blur.

He scrambled through the tunnel. Hands pulled at him. Emma hugged him, told him he was an idiot, and Dr. Pym shouted to come away, there was no time.…

And then running. Back through the crease, reaching the cavern underneath the tomb, hearing the Screechers so close above them, the wizard yelling for the children to follow him, plunging into the tunnel that led toward Malpesa …

And running again, as fast as they could.

They had to get to the port; there was something waiting for them; plans had already been made; something would take them away. “I had a feeling”—the wizard’s voice was coming in quick huffs—“that we might need to leave Malpesa in a hurry.”

And as they ran, the awful screams echoed down the tunnel, enveloping them, making everything inside the children small and cold and weak, and it was all they could do to run on, faster and faster.

Abruptly, the tunnel spilled out into a wide underground canal, through which a dark river flowed, and they splashed
into the water, which was ice-cold and slimy and reached to their knees. As they struggled forward, the lights of their torches showed the mouth of another tunnel, paved in brick, on the far wall, and Michael knew they’d arrived at the sewers of Malpesa. Then the chilling cries erupted behind them, and he turned to see dark shapes leaping from the tunnel they’d just quit.

“Run!” the wizard cried. “Don’t stop! Run! Leave them to me!”

Michael took two steps and realized that Emma hadn’t moved. He seized her by the arm and dragged her forward, stumbling through the black water.

“It’s not real!” he shouted. “The screams can’t hurt you!”

“I—I know!” she shouted back. “Stop yelling in my ear!”

Glancing over his shoulder, Michael saw Dr. Pym standing to meet the Screechers; only the wizard wasn’t facing the monsters, he was looking up the canal, into the darkness. Michael and Emma reached the far side, and Michael pushed Emma up the embankment. Then he turned again and saw Dr. Pym wading toward him, a dozen Screechers in pursuit and more pouring like rats out of the other tunnel, and he became aware of a roaring, and then a great wall of water rushed down out of the darkness, filling the tunnel, and the wizard heaved him into the sewer as the wave struck the Screechers and carried them away in a tumble of dark water.

The next thing Michael knew, they’d reached a ladder; Emma went up first, and he followed hard on her heels. They climbed out of a well beside an old church, and the city was so quiet, so still, and then the wizard was climbing out and Emma
was asking if Dr. Pym had caused that flood, but before the old man could speak, they heard a fast, stamping
thud-thud-thud
, the ground shook, and the lumbering shape of a troll rounded the corner, swinging an enormous, metal-studded club, and charged toward them.

It was like fleeing before an earthquake; the ground trembled so that it was hard to find footing. The wizard led them down a narrow alley where the troll could not follow, and Michael heard it bellowing in rage, bashing the walls with its club. And then they were running along a crooked, boat-lined canal, and they heard the cry of a Screecher, and then another, and another, closing in from all sides, and Dr. Pym seemed to be rearranging the map of the city as they ran, causing bridges to vanish behind them, forcing buildings to smash together and bar their enemies’ way; but at every turn, three or four
morum cadi
would appear, rushing toward them, swords drawn and shrieking.

“The port,” Dr. Pym kept saying, “we must reach the port.”

Then they rounded the corner to the main canal and found a dozen Screechers guarding the bridge, and there was a man standing before them. He was the largest man Michael had ever seen. He wore a long, dark overcoat and black leather gloves, and his bald head shone in the lamplight. The very sight of him filled Michael with fear, and he felt Emma grab at his arm.

“Doctor!” The man held his hands out wide as if in welcome. “We’ve been waiting for you! Now, enough of this running about. We’re going to wake the neighbors.”

“You can’t have them, Rourke!” The wizard had moved in front of the children. “Not while I’m alive.”

“Well, you see, Doctor.” And the man smiled. “I’m actually okay with that.”

The Screechers charged forward, but Dr. Pym blew on his torch and a wall of flame sprang up in the middle of the street. Then, as if conducting an orchestra, the wizard threw up his arms, and a ball of fire shot into the night sky, turning in a great circle above the city.

“Dr. Pym!” Emma cried. “What’re we going to do?”

“If we cannot reach the port”—the wizard’s face was grim, and he had to shout over the noise of the fire—“then the port must come to us. This way!”

They sprinted to a decrepit four-story building that clung to the edge of the canal, and Dr. Pym pushed through a rotted door into the dark, musty interior and herded them up a wide staircase.

“To the roof! Hurry!”

As they climbed upward, Michael heard the door being torn from its hinges. His legs were burning and trembling with fatigue. At the top floor, a ladder led up through the rotten rafters, and the wizard urged them up, up, up, and then they were all three standing on a slanting, half-ruined tile roof, looking out over the city and the dark water of the canal, and the wizard sent another ring of fire, like a flare, into the sky, so that it hung there, burning above them.

“Who …,” Michael panted, “… was that man?”

“Rourke,” the wizard said. “The right hand of our enemy. I have to gather myself. They will be on us in moments, and we need time. Time above all else.”

Bells had begun to clang across the city, and Michael could
see lights going on in windows as voices called to one another in fear and alarm, and then the Screechers began to gain the roof. Some of them came up the ladder, but others scaled the outside of the building, clambering over the edge of the roof.

“Back!” the wizard commanded the children. “Get back!”

Michael and Emma retreated, but the tiles were loose and slippery, and one gave way under Michael’s feet, and he slipped and nearly slid off the edge.

There were Screechers everywhere now, and Dr. Pym sent a crescent of flame toward the creatures, the dry rags of their uniforms catching fire in an instant, and many of them fell flaming off the roof; and then the whole building shook, and Michael could hear enraged bellowing from below, and he peered over the side and saw a pair of trolls hammering at the building like lumberjacks attempting to fell an enormous tree. Meanwhile, Emma was hurling broken bits of tile as fast as she could snatch them up, and there was nowhere to go, nowhere to run.…

Then Dr. Pym was grabbing Michael’s arms and leaning close. The fire that was raging on the roof held the Screechers at bay.

“Michael, listen to me! You must find the
Chronicle
! It all depends on you! You saw where it is hidden? You can find it?”