The Fire Chronicle

by John Stephens

  Then he heard Emma whispering, “It’s not real … it can’t hurt me … it’s not real …,” and he murmured along with her; the pain eased, and he could breathe again.

  There was a flash beside him; Gabriel had unsheathed his falchion and was holding it at the ready. The elf captain spoke a single word, and every elf along the walls had an arrow notched to his bowstring.

  The black horde surged up the slope, close enough now that Michael could see the jagged swords of the Screechers, the sea of glowing yellow eyes.…

  “Both of you,” Gabriel said, “go—”

  But before he could order them away, the horde abruptly stopped, fifty yards from the fortress. They filled the entire slope, pulsing like some vast, terrible beast. The shrieking continued. Michael’s gaze traveled over the Screechers’ ragged uniforms and decaying green bodies, the small, hateful eyes of the Imps.…

  Why didn’t they attack?

  Why didn’t the elf captain order his troops to shoot?

  Everyone, defenders and attackers alike, appeared to be waiting; but for what?

  The answer came as a lone figure was spotted advancing across the plain. Even at a distance, Michael could see Rourke’s bald head gleaming in the sun. A path opened in the center of the host, and Rourke ascended the volcano in long, sure strides. As he came closer, Michael saw that the man was wearing a uniform of some kind; it looked like an old cavalry uniform: high leather boots, breeches flared out wide, a khaki shirt with braids upon the shoulder. In one hand, he held a short riding crop.

  Reaching the front of the army, Rourke halted and held up the whip.

  The shrieking stopped.

  “A good day to those within!”

  It was Gabriel who answered. “You are not welcome here! Leave now! We will give you this one chance!”

  The bald man laughed. “Will you then? That is kind indeed!” He shaded his eyes with his hand. “Do I spy wee Michael and Emma hiding among all those pesky elves? My, my! What a chase you’ve led us on! Whyever did you leave Malpesa so quickly? I so had wanted to make your acquaintance!”

  The man had an easy, lilting accent that Michael couldn’t quite place.

  “And I could’ve introduced you to a friend of mine!”

  Rourke turned, and Michael saw that another figure was making its way across the plain. This figure had none of Rourke’s brisk forward momentum, but came on slowly, steadily. It was a man, Michael perceived, of normal size, walking with his head down, as if unsure of his footing. Then, as he picked his way past the large boulders at the foot of the volcano, the man looked up, the sun reflected off his glasses, and Michael felt a hand reach into his chest and seize his heart.

  He let out a gasp and had to steady himself against the fortress wall.

  “Michael?” Emma asked. “What is it? Who is that?”

  “That’s … that’s …”

  But the word died in his throat.

  By then, the man was beside Rourke. He wore faded jeans and an old button-down shirt. He had a short beard and reddish-brown hair that was badly in need of a trim. He was visibly thin; his clothes hung loosely on his frame. He looked very tired.

  Michael felt Emma stiffen; she knew.

  Still, he had to say it, at least once:

  “That’s … Dad.”

  Rourke placed his giant’s hand on their father’s shoulder. “I’m thinking you’ve guessed the identity of my friend here. I would only like to point out that he hasn’t been harmed in the least. Fit as a fiddle, aren’t you, Richard? Go on and tell the kiddies.”

  The children’s father hesitated, as if he were reluctant to be a part of what was happening.

  “Speak up, my lad.” And there was an edge of menace in Rourke’s voice. “Don’t keep us in suspense. I’m sure Michael and Emma have been worried sick.”

  Their father finally raised his head. Michael watched his eyes scan the walls and then fix on him and Emma. Seeing them, he seemed to sag slightly.

  “I haven’t been harmed! Neither of us have! Your mother and I are both well! I’m … so sorry about this!”

  Their father’s voice was dry and ragged, but Michael could feel it, like an old key fitting in a long-forgotten lock, opening something deep inside him.

  “Sorry?” Rourke exclaimed. “What on earth is there to be sorry about? You’re delivering welcome news! Now, kiddies, don’t imagine that we’ve minded having your ma and pa as guests. Become like family, they have. Of course, like family, you do sometimes want to bash their heads in!” He laughed and slapped the children’s father on the back. “Anyway, to business. Can’t keep everyone waiting. Don’t want your elf mates late for the hairdresser. Here is the deal I’m prepared to offer, and I think you’ll find it a very fair one: wee Michael and Emma will turn themselves and the Chronicle over to me, or I kill dear old Richard on the spot where he stands! Any questions? Grand. You have two minutes to decide!”

  So that’s it, Michael thought. This is how it ends.

  Over the years, Michael had imagined meeting their father—indeed, meeting both their parents—many, many times. And he’d always imagined it the same way. There would be all the necessary hugging and kissing and crying, which Michael and his dad would both generously put up with; then, after his sisters and their mother went off to do girl stuff (Michael wasn’t sure what that was, but thought it probably involved more hugging and kissing and crying), he would hand his dad The Dwarf Omnibus, saying that he had kept it safe for him, and his dad would say something like “But it’s yours!” and Michael would reply, “Don’t need it. Got it memorized,” and after his father had made suitable sounds of being impressed, the two of them would sit down and talk about dwarves all evening (the scene always took place in the evening). The one time Michael had shared this with Emma, she’d told him it was hands down the weirdest thing she’d ever heard and that dwarves were not nearly as great as he thought they were. But Emma hadn’t understood that it had nothing to do with dwarves. The point was that his father would’ve seen who Michael was and he would’ve liked him. He would’ve been happy to have spent an evening in his son’s company. That was it. That was all Michael wanted. And they could’ve talked about dwarves or earthquakes or dragonflies or nothing at all.

  But that was never going to happen. Not now.

  “Someone shoot that bald guy!” Emma was shouting at Gabriel and the elf captain. “He’s just standing there! What’re you waiting for?”

  “They can’t,” Michael said. “The Screechers would kill Dad.”

  “But—”

  “Your brother is right. Your father would never make it to the fortress.” Gabriel knelt, bringing his face level with the children’s. “I will only say this: were it up to me, I would never have you pass into the enemy’s power. But this is your decision, and a terrible one to have to make. Whatever you choose, I will not stand in your way.”

  Michael looked at his sister. “What do you think?”

  Emma was biting her lower lip and glancing feverishly from Michael to Gabriel and back to Michael. “I don’t … I don’t know.… Whatever you think.”

  So it was up to him. Just as, he reflected, it would’ve been Kate’s decision if she were here. Not surprisingly, Michael found himself remembering King Killick’s words: A great leader lives not in his heart, but in his head. Michael believed that; he knew his father believed that; he also knew that the Dire Magnus absolutely could not gain control of the Chronicle. If that happened, all was lost.

  The logical course of action was clear.

  There was only one problem; Michael couldn’t let his father die.

  I’ll trade myself and the Chronicle, he thought. But not Emma.

  “Time’s up!” Rourke shouted.

  Michael felt Gabriel’s hand upon his shoulder and he raised his gaze to the man’s eyes. He apologized silently, and Gabriel nodded.

  Then Gabriel said, “Do this for me. Ask to talk to your father. The more we can delay, the better. The w
izard may yet come.”

  “Yeah,” Emma said eagerly, “that’s a great idea! Go out there and talk and talk, long as you can! Be real boring! You can totally do that!”

  Michael had made his decision and now he wanted it over. But he said he would do what they asked, knowing that if it didn’t work, he was ready. He looked down the slope. His father’s glasses were two bright disks in the sun.

  “I … want to talk to him first!”

  Rourke shrugged. “Very well. Only fair you get to inspect the goods.”

  Emma hugged him. “Just talk to Dad. Don’t do anything else. Promise?”

  Michael promised without looking her in the eye. Then he turned, feeling the soft brush of Wilamena’s hand touching his, and followed the elf captain down the ladder and over to the fortress’s main doors.

  There Captain Anton stopped him, speaking in a low voice:

  “You give the sign, and my archers will have twenty arrows in that bald giant before he can blink. If your father knows to run, perhaps you can both make it back alive. We will cover you the best we can.”

  “What should the sign be?”

  “You could scratch the back of your head?”

  “Okay. But … what if I just need to scratch my head normally?”

  The elf looked at him. “Resist.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  Then the captain gave a signal, the heavy bolts were pulled back, the extra beams removed, and the fortress doors swung open. The elf clapped Michael on the arm.

  “Go well, Sir Rabbit.”

  A moment later, Michael had passed through the gates and was outside the walls, and there was nothing between him and the horde of monsters. He had never felt so exposed. Michael focused on his father’s face and began walking, his right hand pressing his bag to his hip, feeling the bulge of the Chronicle alongside the familiar shape of The Dwarf Omnibus. In the whole valley, there was only the sound of Michael’s boots upon the rocks.

  He stopped ten yards from Rourke and his father. The slope here was relatively flat, and Michael had to gaze up into his dad’s face. He looked much older than in the photo with Hugo Algernon, much older and much more tired. The beard too was new. Though Michael thought he looked less like someone who had a beard and more like someone without the time or means to shave. Up close, he was even thinner.

  His dad smiled sadly. “I’m so sorry, Michael.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Are you okay? Are you hurt at all?”

  Michael shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  “And Emma?”

  “She’s okay. She’s back there.”

  “But Kate’s not with you?”

  “No. It’s … a long story.”

  Rourke chuckled. “True enough, lad. But you’ll be seeing your lovely sister before long. Oh yes indeed.”

  Michael sensed that the man knew something about Kate and was taunting him. But Michael wouldn’t take the bait. He thought about what the elf captain had said and wondered if he and his dad could actually make it to the fortress.

  “So you know,” Rourke said, as if reading his mind, “if those shifty elves try anything, I have a dozen morum cadi with crossbows who will kill your father before he takes a step.”

  Well, Michael thought, so much for that.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “They won’t let me say. But she’s fine. She sends her love. And she says that whatever you decide, we’ll understand. I am happy to see you. Even like this.”

  Michael nodded and said, quietly, “Me too.”

  They were both silent for a moment.

  “I tried.” Michael could hear his voice breaking. “I did my best.”

  “I know you did,” his father said. “It’s okay.”

  “And Kate’s not here!” It was all spilling out as the walls that Michael had built up came tumbling down. “I had to be the leader! I had to make all the decisions! I tried to do what you would’ve done! Like King Killick says!” He paused, overcome, not wanting to cry in front of Rourke. Finally, when he had composed himself, he looked back up. There was confusion on his father’s face. “You know, what King Killick says about leadership …”

  He stopped, thinking his father would continue. But instead he saw his father, for one flickering moment, glance at Rourke.

  “I’m sorry, Michael. A lot’s happened in the past ten years; I don’t think I remember.”

  “Yes, you do!” And it was suddenly vitally important that his father did remember. “Dr. Algernon said it was your favorite quote. King Killick said, ‘A great leader lives not in his heart, but in his head.’ Don’t you remember? You have to remember!”

  “Oh, of course,” his father said, smiling. “I always did like that quotation. And it’s very true.”

  And then, without even really understanding what he was doing, Michael said, “Killick was an old king … of the elves.”

  His father’s smile never wavered. “Yes, I remember now. The elves have a great deal of wisdom. Thank you for reminding me of that.”

  “Well,” Rourke cut in, “this has been a delightful reunion. But we’re not here to natter away the day. You and your sister come along and you have my solemn promise that neither you nor your parents will be harmed. Refuse, and I’ll put Richard and every elf in that fortress to the sword, and you will still leave with us. Understand?”

  Michael’s mind was spinning. His father hadn’t remembered the quotation. Then he’d acted like he had! And he’d thought that Killick had been an elf! Had he just forgotten?

  “Boy, you’re severely testing my patience.”

  “Okay. But I … I have to explain it to my sister. I’ll bring her out.”

  He needed to get away; he needed space and time to think about what had happened. He started to turn.

  “Wait.”

  Rourke had his knife to their father’s throat.

  “You want to bring out wee Emma yourself, fine. Leave the Chronicle.”

  Michael could feel the tension in the fortress, the hunger coursing through the Screechers and Imps. It seemed as if all their lives were poised on the edge of Rourke’s blade. He reached into his bag and felt for the hard leather cover he knew so well.

  “Let my dad hold it, though. Just till Emma and I get back.”

  Rourke smiled. “Of course.”

  Michael stepped forward and handed his father the book.

  “There’s … a curse on it. Keep it closed.”

  He watched as his father ran his hand over the cover.

  “I thought it was red.”

  “The Order hid it in the lava, so the leather got burned. I’ll be right back.”

  He started up the slope toward the fortress. He had to force himself to go slowly. His heart hammered; his nerves were raw and jangly. He stumbled on loose rocks. Halfway to the gate, he glanced over his shoulder. Rourke was watching him, and the moment their eyes met—perhaps the bald man saw something or perhaps he was already suspicious—Rourke snatched away the book that Michael had given his father. Michael didn’t wait for him to open it and look inside; he was already sprinting forward.

  “Stop him!” Rourke shouted. “Stop the boy!”

  The cries of Screechers tore the air. Michael was twenty yards from the gate when he tripped, sprawling full out upon the rocks. He was up in an instant, but the delay had cost him. He could hear the Screechers closing in. Then the elf captain was running out of the fortress, bow outstretched, his hand a blur as he fired a volley of arrows that whistled past Michael’s head and shoulders, finding their marks with an accordion-like thik-thik-thik-thik. The elf grabbed him by the arm, shouting, “Run!” and pulled him on. Then they were through the gate, Michael heard the huge doors slam shut, and he fell to his knees, panting.

  “Michael?! What happened?! Are you all right?” It was Emma, clutching at his arm. “You gave him the book! And what about Dad?! He’s still out there!”

  Michael forced himself to stand. “That’
s not … that’s not Dad.…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He forgot this quotation, the one he’s supposed to love, and … and he thought King Killick was an elf … and I gave him The Dwarf Omnibus and he thought it was the Chronicle. That’s not him!”

  Michael could see that Emma didn’t understand, but there was no more time to explain. Out beyond the walls, Rourke was shouting his name. Quickly, with Emma and the elf captain following, Michael climbed up to the battlements.

  Wilamena rushed toward him as he stepped off the ladder. “Oh, Rabbit—”

  “Not now,” Michael said.

  He ran to the wall. Gabriel was already there, staring down the slope. Below them, Rourke had a knife at the throat of the man Michael no longer believed to be his father. The Dwarf Omnibus lay upon the ground.

  “Lad! I’m giving you one last chance.”

  Michael turned toward Emma. “Listen, I know you don’t trust me—”

  “What?! What’re you talking about?”

  “I mean, not the way you used to! And I understand! But you have to trust me now! That’s not our dad!”

  Emma stared at him, and, even without the power of the Chronicle, Michael saw the pain of his betrayal still so fresh inside her. It was awful to see it, awful to know that he was responsible. But he didn’t look away. He knew what it was he was asking.

  “You’re sure?” she said. “Like, one hundred percent sure?”

  Was he that sure? Was it even possible? Even with all the evidence—forgetting the quotation, mistaking Killick for an elf, not recognizing The Dwarf Omnibus—with all that, there was still room for doubt. There was no way to be one hundred percent sure.

  But Michael knew, in his gut and in his heart, that that man was not their father.

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I trust you.”

  Michael turned to the elf captain. “Shoot him.”

  “The bald man? With pleasure.” He notched an arrow and drew it back.

  “No,” Michael said. “The man pretending to be our dad.”