The Book Man, Chapter 86 (Revised)

86 THE FINAL FIGHT

Christian stood for a moment in shock at the battle’s recommencement. Beside him, Minerva wielded her skillet. Narodnaya and Goblin bared their teeth at the horde of creatures now attacking not only the circus-folk and fairies, but the hellhounds, banshees, spiders, and night-mares as well.

Then Christian remembered the knife in his pocket and waved it about in a pathetic attempt at self-defense. As an imp’s skeletal blue body bounded toward him, he froze, remembering the screams of a horse and Graham Chelsea at the attack of an earlier imp, a horn stabbing into his hip. The knife fell to the ground. Minerva raised her skillet at the imp as it covered the ground between them. It continued on, unfazed, grinning at them with bloodied teeth, and all Christian could think was that Minerva had already lost an arm and he was not going to let her get hurt again—

He forgot the knife and hurled himself in front of her. As the imp reached out clawed blue hands, he squeezed his eyes shut, but then he heard something crash into his attacker. When he opened his eyes again the imp was on the ground, weighted down by Goblin and his chains. Without use of his arms, Goblin bit at the imp savagely until plum-colored blood poured from its throat.

When the imp was dead, Goblin stretched his neck out, and the grass beneath him grew taller and wiped the blood from his chin. Christian stared at him.

“You saved my life,” he said.

Goblin shrugged. “You listened to my story.”

Christian hauled him to his feet.

“What’s your real name?” he asked.

“Azal,” Goblin said. “My name is Azal.”

This time the battle did not last long, for Neva was there. After a few minutes of fighting, he escaped his attackers and rose high into the air. White light burst from his hands and fell upon the field, landing on the hags and furies, the werewolves and imps, with shrieks of pain. It looked as if dozens of massive sparklers had been set off. White sparks danced on the bodies of the evil creatures, burning brightly even when their hosts rolled in the grass. Their wails grew higher and higher until all at once they vanished in another burst of light. All that was left of them were tendrils of grey smoke wafting up from the field.

Neva landed on the ground again and said, “That’s taken care of. But now, this.”

He kicked at his brother’s side. Goblin grunted. His blue eyes blazed with hatred.

“You won’t kill him, will you?” Christian asked anxiously.

“No,” said Neva. “If you ask it of me, I will spare him.”

“And no more imprisonment,” Christian said. “At least, not in a tree. Maybe a nice room in the palace. With window-boxes for his plants.”

Neva studied him.

“You are a strange human, Christian Abernathy,” he said. “No, I will take responsibility for my brother this time. You were right to say I should have done so in the first place.”

To some of the fairies he said, “Take my brother back to my palace and have Raya put him in the dungeon for now. I will deal with him when I return.”

Goblin’s blue eyes looked hurt at his brother’s words. Christian felt a wave of sympathy toward him—though he might have felt much more sympathy had the creature not tried to kill his friends. He remembered Tirion and Morrow and wondered if his hellhound had found them yet, if Tirion was still alive.

A golden blob of light zoomed toward him and collided with his forehead.

“Ouch,” he said. When he looked up he saw Aurelia hovering before him with a grin plastered across her tiny face.

“You did it, Book Man,” she said. “You did it. We are going home, my sisters and I. We are going home!”

“Oh,” said Christian. “You’re welcome.”

“Aurelia,” Goblin said. Christian looked at him in surprise. The fairy shook her head sadly.

“I told you,” she said to Goblin. “I told you to stay put. I told you I’d put in a good word for you. I told you.”

Then her sisters lifted Goblin’s chains and drifted away with him, headed for the rose garden and the portal. Aurelia watched them go with a wrinkled brow.

The ground began to rumble and shake. The circus-ponies whinnied and reared, the night-mares took flight—and Christian’s hellhound flew out of the tunnel as the ground over Goblin’s throne caved in. When the hellhound landed beside Christian, the Rover king slid off its back with Tirion in one arm and his canteen and a piece of his shirt in the other.

“How is he?” Christian asked.

“Not good,” Morrow said grimly. “Tirion. Tirion, hey.”

He shook the elf’s shoulders. Christian watched him and asked Aurelia, “Can’t you do something?”

She shook her head. “It is too late for him. I can stop his pain, but I cannot save his life. No one can.”

Tirion stirred and said, “Morrow.”

“Hey.” Morrow gripped the elf tighter as he struggled to sit up. “No, don’t get up. Don’t—you’ll be alright, just—”

“I would have abdicated,” Tirion said. His green eyes were vague, his speech labored, but Morrow fell silent and waited. “When this was over, I would have told Father I could not be king.”

Not far from Christian, Rowan bit her thumb as she watched the proceedings. Her brow had wrinkled into a frown again, but this time Christian felt no urge to laugh. He, like everyone else, was waiting to see what Morrow would say. But when the Rover finally spoke, his lips moved so little and his voice was so soft they almost couldn’t hear him.

“Lie still. You’ll make it worse.” There was a collective, disappointed sigh from his audience.

The elf laughed, a grating, choking sound that spit more blood onto his chin.

“Hardly makes a difference now.” Morrow wiped the blood from his face. Tirion gripped his wrist, and his eyes cleared for a moment. “I still love you.”

Morrow stared at him for a moment. Then he leaned forward and kissed him.

Christian felt he should turn away and give them privacy (such as he could), but the sight held his gaze like a consuming fire. It was the saddest kiss he had ever seen, a sadder kiss than he could ever have imagined: not a first kiss, but a last kiss.

When Morrow pulled away again there was a faint smile on Tirion’s lips, but it twisted into a grimace of pain. The elf’s hand rested on the hilt of the knife in his abdomen. He was too weak to move it.

“Help get this knife out of me.”

“But—” Morrow said, and then stopped.

“I know what will happen,” Tirion said. And then, in a pleading voice when the Rover made no move to help him: “It hurts, Morrow. Please.”

Everyone stared at the Rover, waiting for him to decide. A muscle worked in his jaw. After a moment he said, “On three.”

Tirion nodded and grimaced again. His chest heaved as his lungs tried to get more air. Morrow wiped his hands on his coat and grasped the handle of the knife.

“One,” he said.

Minerva squeezed Christian’s hand.

“Two.”

Christian closed his eyes and resisted an urge to also cover his ears. Morrow sucked in a long breath.

“Three.”

There was a sucking sound as Morrow pulled the knife free, silence except for Tirion’s ragged breathing. Then a long, rattling breath and something like a gentle sigh, and when Christian finally opened his eyes Tirion was dead.

“Tirion?” Morrow’s eyes were bright with tears, but he did not cry. He laid a trembling hand on the elf’s chest. “Tirion. Hey.”

It was almost as if he did not yet understand what had happened. He looked like a small, stunned child, and Christian’s heart hurt at the sight of him.

“Morrow?” he said timidly, but Morrow’s gaze had found Neva in the crowd surrounding him. He wiped his eyes.

“Bring him back,” he said to the angel.

“I cannot.”

“Horse shit,” Morrow said. “You gave my father immortality when he asked for it. He should have died long ago—”

Neva gave the shadow of a grin. “Preventing death is not raising one from it. I can prolong a man’s life indefinitely, though in truth your father would not have lived forever. Even I am not that powerful.”

Morrow’s face was white. “But—”

“Do you not think,” Neva said waspishly, “if I had this power, my mother would still be alive? I am sorry, son of Morrow, but I cannot give you what you ask.”

Morrow’s face crumpled. Christian could not stand the sight of him looking so young and vulnerable, so distraught, but before he had made up his mind to offer his friend comfort, Morrow leaned over Tirion’s body and wept. His shoulders shook with silent sobs—only for a moment. Then he raised his head and glared at Neva.

“Give him an elven burial, then,” he said.

“Is that what you ask of me?”

“If that’s all you’ll do for me, yes.”

“Then it is done.”

They all watched in silence, but nothing happened. Morrow still clutched Tirion’s body.

“Morrow,” Neva said, “you must let him go.”

Tears rolled down the Rover’s cheeks. He dashed them away irritably and said, “Fine, then.”

He laid the elf out with his hands crossed over his chest. Then Christian held out a hand to pull him to his feet. Morrow rose and stood beside him, red-eyed and wiping at his face now and then.

The ground around Tirion’s body bubbled. Bright green shoots curled up out of it, hundreds of them winding together and growing higher and higher, twisting tighter and tighter until the body was hidden in greenery. The shoots continued to grow, still higher and tighter, changing from green to smooth grey. Branches shot out of its top; new leaves grew on the branches and changed from yellow to green to deep red. Then it stilled. A delicate new tree with silvery bark and crimson leaves stood in the spot where Tirion’s body had lain.

Morrow’s eyes were bright.

“Are you alright?” Christian asked.

“No,” said Morrow, wiping his eyes again, “but thanks for asking.”

“Come,” Neva said. “Time is short until dawn and we must return to the portal.”