The Fire Chronicle

by John Stephens

  “Okay.”

  “She might roast you first.”

  “Okay.”

  “Or just gobble you up.”

  “I got it.”

  The gate was up. Michael stood there, feeling the heat wash over him.

  “Don’t close the gate,” he said, and started down the stairs.

  It was just as in his dream.

  The long tunnel …

  The red glow in the distance …

  The brutal, throat-scorching heat …

  The difference being this was no dream, and Michael knew what lay ahead.

  The tunnel had turned a few yards past the gate and now ran straight on and down. The porous black rock was warm to the touch, and there was a sulfury sourness to the air. At first, Michael kept his feet moving with thoughts of Emma, frozen atop the tower; but with each step, the pull of the Chronicle became stronger, and soon it alone was drawing him on. Then the tunnel began to climb, and there was a new smell, one Michael had never encountered, and he could think only that it was the stench of dragon.

  Knowing he was close, Michael knelt down and, with trembling hands, pulled out The Dwarf Omnibus. There were several passages where G. G. Greenleaf had written about dragons, and Michael quickly found the relevant sections:

  Dragons are notable for their lust for gold—not a bad quality taken in moderation!… Dragons are immune to fire, obviously.… All dragons are terrifically vain; indeed, as to who is more vain, a dragon or an elf, I would not want to be the one to decide (hint: an elf!).… A dragon should never be engaged in conversation, as they are inveterate liars and tricksters, though if you’re actually talking to a dragon, you’re pretty much toast anyway.… Never, ever call a dragon a worm, no matter how much they’re asking for it!

  Michael snapped the book shut. He did not feel any better. He was about to rise when his thumb felt the stiff edge of the photo that Hugo Algernon had given him. He pulled it out, and there was his father, smiling up at him from deep in the past. Michael felt a hard knot of sadness in his chest. Would he ever actually meet his father? Would the day ever come when they would sit down, as Michael had often imagined, and talk about their love of all things dwarfish? When his father would tell Michael how proud he was of him? Crouching there in the reeking, sweltering cave, yards from a dragon’s lair, Michael thought that day seemed very, very far away.

  Michael slipped the photo into the book and then, on a whim, flipped through and opened to a different page:

  In the spring of that year, the goblin hordes marched into dwarfish lands, burning and pillaging everything in their path. King Killin Killick raised an army and rode out to meet the monsters. A young squire, riding alongside the king, asked what was the secret to his long and successful reign. King Killick replied, “A great leader lives not in his heart, but in his head.”

  It was the quote that Hugo Algernon had said his father loved. It was the quote that Michael loved and tried to live by. He read on:

  “Emotions cloud the issue,” the king explained. “The one who can see most clearly will always triumph.” Unfortunately, the day was fine, and Killick had chosen to ride without his helmet, and just then a goblin leapt from a tree and split his noble head in two. But let us take comfort that though the goblins routed the army, razed the countryside, and renamed Killick’s capital Goblin-Town (showing, thereby, their typical goblin flair with names), the great king’s words live on and are a lesson to us all.

  Michael closed the book and stood, feeling fortified. He slid the Omnibus into his bag, making room for it beside the gold circlet he’d taken from the sculpture of the elf girl. He adjusted his glasses. It’s time, he told himself.

  Twenty-seven nervous steps later, he entered the cavern.

  Gabriel stood atop the tower. He had cleaned the mud from Emma’s cheeks and the last bits of fern from her hair. He couldn’t stop wondering if he’d done the right thing in letting Michael go into the volcano alone. Would the wizard have approved? After all this time, had he made a mistake when it mattered most?

  Fifteen years earlier, Gabriel had almost died while fighting in Cambridge Falls. King Robbie McLaur’s dwarves had found him and saved his life. Later, while he’d been recuperating in his village, the wizard Stanislaus Pym had come to see him. He’d told Gabriel about the Dire Magnus and his hunger for the Books of Beginning and what it meant for the children.

  “The enemy knows the children will lead him to the Books. He will hunt them.”

  It had been autumn, the air cool and crisp, and Gabriel had just begun walking without crutches. The wizard had gone on:

  “Our only hope lies in finding the Books first. I will do all I can, but I need someone strong at my side. Someone who cares about the children.”

  Gabriel had been about to answer that he could depend on him, but the wizard had laid a hand on his arm.

  “Understand what I’m asking. A war has begun. It will go on for years to come, and I will need you every day of that time. For all your strength, you are a man, with a man’s span of years. This is the time you would find a wife, start a family. Know what you would be giving up.”

  Standing there, in the forest above his village, Gabriel had thought of the life that could be his. Then he’d thought of Kate, Michael, and Emma, especially of Emma, who had touched his heart in a way he’d never thought possible.

  “You are sure that finding the Books will keep the children safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I am yours to command.”

  He had never once regretted his decision. His only fear had been that he would somehow fail in his duty. And it was with that in mind that he turned to go down into the volcano, to seek out Michael and help however he could, when a crushing blow struck him across the back of the head.

  The cavern was roughly circular in shape, perhaps fifty feet across, with a ceiling that rose into darkness, and a large pool of lava that occupied most of the cavern floor. A narrow ring of black rock ran around the base of the walls. On the far side of the pool, Michael could make out the mouth of another tunnel. There was no dragon to be seen.

  Michael stepped to the edge of the pool, his eyes watering from the heat and fumes. He stared down at the bubbling surface and thought:

  You’ve gotta be kidding.

  The book’s pull was stronger than ever, and the source was, without question, within the pool of lava. The Order had put the book in a pool of lava! He almost couldn’t believe it. Indeed, he wouldn’t have believed it if the force pulling at him hadn’t been so strong. And he had to admit, it made a crazy sort of sense. Assuming the lava didn’t damage the book—which had to be the case—the Guardians must’ve planned for the molten rock to serve as a final line of defense.

  Great, Michael thought. But how am I supposed to get it out?

  He started looking around for a long stick.

  “Hello, Rabbit.”

  Michael stumbled backward, tripping, skinning the heel of his hand on the rocky floor. A deep, feline chuckle echoed around the cavern walls.

  “My, what a clumsy little rabbit you are.”

  Michael jerked his gaze upward. He had an idea where the voice was coming from, and he could just make out a large silhouette against the darker rock of the ceiling. The dragon was hanging upside down like a bat.

  “St-stay where you are! Don’t come down here!”

  “The rabbit comes into my home and starts giving me orders? Where did you learn your manners? Also, you have a very funny nose. I can see it from here.”

  This last was, undoubtedly, a strange thing for a dragon to say, but Michael was scrambling to his feet and didn’t notice. He’d had time now to take several deep breaths and remind himself that the dragon had to obey his commands. And as his initial panic subsided, a phrase of G. G. Greenleaf’s came back to him: Dragons are immune to fire. In a flash, Michael realized how he was going to get the Chronicle—the dragon was going to get it for him.

  Good old G. G., Micha
el thought, always there when you need him.

  “You’re right,” he said, softening his tone. “I’m sorry. You just surprised me, was all. I should introduce myself … my name is Michael P— Wibberly.”

  “Puh-Wibberly? What an odd name.”

  “No, just Wibberly. No P.”

  “Well, Michael Just-Wibberly. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I don’t get many visitors.”

  “Really?” Michael said. “It’s their loss.”

  He was gaining more confidence with each second and, indeed, felt that he was carrying himself remarkably well. Look at me, he thought, just standing here talking to a dragon. He decided that after he got the Chronicle, he would have the dragon pose for a picture with him. He glanced around for a rock on which he could prop the Polaroid.

  “Thank you, Michael Just-Wibberly. I want you to know that I’m going to remember how polite you were after I’ve eaten you.”

  Michael said, “… Excuse me?”

  “I said, I’m going to remember how polite you were after I’ve eaten you. That is the plan, you know.”

  Don’t panic, Michael told himself. It doesn’t know you’re the Keeper.

  “I’m afraid”—he was trying to maintain his confident tone—“you can’t eat me.”

  “Aren’t you the cutest rabbit? But you’re wrong. I can and I will and I must. I don’t really have much choice in the matter.”

  Michael heard the sound of iron-hard nails scraping on rock, the metallic slithering of scales. The great lizard was uncoiling itself from the ceiling. Michael felt suddenly, incredibly small. The idea arced across his mind that perhaps Gabriel had followed him into the tunnel and would now leap out to protect him.

  Don’t be silly, he thought. You’re alone. Gabriel wanted to come, and you told him not to. Your own fault for being such a top-notch debater. Just stay focused.

  “Listen, dragon”—it was time to adopt a sterner tone, such as one might use with a willful puppy—“there’ll be no eating me, you hear? You can’t! So just put that out of your head! I’m the Keeper!”

  “The what?”

  “The Keeper! I’m the Keeper of the Chronicle! That’s why I’m here! You’re supposed to get it for me!”

  “Really?” The dragon seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Yes! I need it to help my sister!”

  “That was your sister I snatched from the clearing? I thought I noticed a family resemblance, though she seems to have escaped the tragedy of your nose. Now, do you prefer to be eaten raw or should I roast you a little first?”

  “But you have to do what I say! The man—the Guardian—he said so!”

  Laughter rolled about the cavern.

  “That man and his lies! Let me ask you something, Rabbit. Did he tell you what happened to the other members of the Order? Did he say why he’s alone here? With only me for company?”

  Michael’s neck was starting to get sore from staring upward.

  “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.”