The Fire Chronicle (29 page)

“That’s neither here nor there!” he said irritably. “Just hop down and get me the
Chronicle
; then we’ll take a quick picture—”

“Did he tell you how he became convinced the
Chronicle
was his, and then murdered two of his comrades in the dead of night?”

Michael didn’t move. Despite the cavern’s overpowering heat, he felt a chill settle upon him.

“That’s … not what happened.”

“Oh, it is, I assure you. Only one of his comrades managed to escape, and my master has long feared that he will return with allies to claim the book. That, of course, is where I come in. To help him defend his blood-drenched prize.”

“No, that’s—no! One of the other Guardians went crazy! And you’re here to protect the
Chronicle
from the elves! That’s why he hatched you. The Order, they brought an egg all the way from Rhakotis! He told us!”

Michael commanded himself to remain firm and not fall for the dragon’s tricks. Though it didn’t help that the creature’s laughter was filling the cavern.

“Protect the book from the elves? Why would the elves want some silly old book? And he didn’t hatch me from any egg, I’ll tell you that.” The dragon became strangely somber. “But you are right; the elves will not trouble him. Would you like to know why?”

“I’m not interested in more of your lies.”

The dragon murmured, “Those bad manners again,” but went on, as if Michael had asked to hear the story.

“You see, Rabbit, after killing and driving off his comrades, my master was not in his right mind. He saw enemies everywhere. And the elves were close by and strong. He convinced himself that they coveted his treasure. So one day, he surprised the elf princess in the forest—it is her kingdom at the far end of the valley. He tricked her, placed a curse upon her, and has kept her captive ever since. You will not see her, but she is here. The elves do not dare attack.”

“And they didn’t even … want the book?”

“No. So my foolish master is safe from an enemy that was not an enemy and his treasure is safe from a people who never wanted it. Is that not madness? And now he’s tricked you into coming here. Poor, doomed Rabbit.”

“You’re lying. That’s what dragons do. They lie.”

“Well, let’s do a little test, shall we? Give me an order, and let’s see if I have to obey it. This will be fun.”

Michael was beginning not to like this very much. He wanted to get the book and be done. He decided he would forgo the photo.

“I’m waiting, Rabbit. Give me an order.”

“Go … go get me the
Chronicle
.”

“Hmm, no.”

“I said”—Michael was trying, and failing, to keep the panic from his voice—“go—get—the—
Chronicle
!”

“I heard you the first time, Rabbit. No need to shout.”

“So go get it!”

“You go get it.”

“Stop it!”

“Stop what? Stop going to get the
Chronicle
? Or stop talking?”

“Stop talking!”

The dragon laughed. “You’re very cute when you’re angry.”

Michael was trembling all over. His fists were clenched tight, and his eyes burned with tears of frustration. It couldn’t be true; it just couldn’t.…

“But why would … why—”

“Why would he lie? Why send you down here? From what I gather—I can’t read his thoughts exactly, but I do feel what he’s feeling, we’re connected, you see—he’s nervous about a companion of yours, some big, strapping fellow, and wanted to put you both at your ease. So he had you meet Bert.”

“But … he’s Bert … isn’t he?”

Michael could see the shadowy form of the dragon moving across the ceiling. The creature was even larger than he remembered.

“Yes. And no. He’s also Xanbertis, murderer and oath breaker. And he wants me to kill you. So I’ll ask again—and please stop looking toward the tunnel, you’re not going anywhere—do you prefer to be eaten alive or roasted? I say roasted. Less to clean up after.”

Michael heard a growl that he was almost sure came from the creature’s belly.

“Li-listen,” he stammered, “don’t do anything rash.…”

As he spoke, Michael’s hand was rummaging in his bag,
searching for anything that might convince the dragon not to eat him. His fingers fumbled with his pocketknife, compass, camera,
The Dwarf Omnibus
, the badge proclaiming him Royal Guardian of All Dwarfish Traditions and History—all useless, all worthless.

“If you’re being held here against your will, I have a friend who’s a very powerful wizard.…”

Running was pointless; the dragon would catch him in an instant. But there had to be something, anything—

“Wait! I’ll give you this!”

Michael’s hand had closed around the golden circlet he’d taken from the sculpture of the elf girl. It wasn’t much; indeed, it was very little with which to bargain for his life; but it was all he had—and G. G. Greenleaf had said that dragons suffered from gold lust and G. G. Greenleaf had never been wrong.

Even so, Michael was unprepared for what happened next.

The moment the crown cleared his bag, the dragon gave a roar so fierce, it was like a wind striking Michael’s body. He saw a blur of gold fly toward him, a flash of fangs and claws. Michael turned away in terror. Without thinking—and this was the action that no doubt saved his life—he held the golden circlet out over the pool of lava.

“I’ll drop it!”

The dragon landed a foot behind him, the impact shuddering through the rock. Michael could feel the creature’s breath, like the hot blast of a furnace, crinkling the hair at the back of his neck. Up close, the dragon smelled of burnt metal and sulfur and something else that Michael couldn’t place, almost like … perfume?

For a long moment, neither boy nor dragon moved or spoke.

“So drop it,” the dragon said finally. “I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do!” Everything about Michael—his hand, his legs, his voice—was shaking terribly. “The lava will melt it in a second! I’ll drop it, and you’ll never get it!”

“Do that,” the dragon said, “and I’ll kill you.”

“Aren’t you going to kill me anyway?”

“True. But since you have to die, at least give me the crown. Don’t be a poor loser.”

Michael’s arm was already growing tired. He looked down and saw one great talon only inches from his right foot. To Michael’s surprise, there was a gold band, almost like a bracelet, clasped tight around the dragon’s foreleg. Was that why it wanted the circlet so badly? So it would have a matching set? G. G. Greenleaf was right; dragons were certainly vain creatures.

“Come now, Rabbit. Give me the crown, and I promise to make the roasting very quick and even.”

“Wait! I want to see the
Chronicle
! I’ve come a long way. If I’m going to die, I want to see it at least once. You have to give me that!”

“And then you’ll give me the circlet?”

“Yes.”

“You swear?”

“Yes.”

“What will you swear on? What’s most important to you?”

“My sisters,” Michael said without hesitation. “I’ll swear on them.”

“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.”