James Owen: Here, There Be Dragons

Farther south on the beach, Charles was struggling with a leather-and-mail vest that one of the dwarves had offered him—which was three sizes too small. As he tried unsuccessfully to fasten the buckles, his little friend from Paralon plopped down on the sand next to him.
“Ready when you are, Master Scowler,” said Tummeler. He still had the heavy knapsack, which he was dragging around inside the old bronze shield he’d arrived with, and he had fashioned a helmet from an apple pail. It kept slipping down onto his nose.
“Tummeler!” Charles exclaimed. “No offense, but I don’t think badgers are suited for battle!”
“Really, think as such, do ye, Master Scowler?” replied Tummeler. “We badgers be gentle creatures, true—but I be thinkin’ ye’ve ne’er seed a badger with his fur all adander.”
“Now, now,” Charles began, keeping a nervous eye on the alltoo-close soon-to-be battlefield over the rise.
“I know what ye be thinkin’,” said Tummeler. “My smallish happearance an’ happy-go-nancy nature bein’ what they is, ol’ Tummeler can’t possibly be a warrior.
“Well,” he continued, “I’s hopin’ that th’ enemy thinks as such—then I c’n take ’em out with my secret weapons.”
“Secret weapons?” said Charles.
“Yup,” nodded Tummeler. “Gots ’em right here.”
The small mammal opened his heavy carryall and showed its contents to Charles and John, who had been eavesdropping as he strapped on armor of his own.
“Muffins?” Charles and John exclaimed together. “Your secret weapons are muffins?”
“Not just any muffins,” said Tummeler. “Blueberry.”
“I’m sorry,” Charles began.
Tummeler ignored him and instead removed a fist-size (badger-fist-size) muffin from the bag, took careful aim, and lobbed it considerably farther than either of the men expected was possible. It soared into the air and landed with a thunk onto the helmet of a satyr who had been slinking around the Orange Dragon at the landing fifty yards away. The satyr dropped to the ground, knocked out cold.
“Bloody hell,” said John.
“Amazing,” said Charles.
“Hard as rocks,” said Tummeler. “Whipped them up after I saw y’ off from Paralon, just in case.”
“Amazing,” Charles said again. “You made a blueberry muffin into a weapon.”
“Atchly, any kind of muffin will do,” said Tummeler, “but I found out that y’ needs t’ use blueberries if y’ wants t’ get it just so. It’s my own secret contribution,” he added.
“Won’t breathe a word of it,” said Charles.
Jack came running over to his friends, breathing hard.
“What is it?” said Charles. “What’s happened?”
“It’s the Goblins,” Jack panted. “The Violet Dragon has arrived at last.”

The last of the Dragonships resembled an elaborate Chinese junk, which was in line with the elegant mannerisms of the Goblin King and his entourage. It was smaller than the rest, more of a size with the Indigo Dragon, but tall, and it had a beautiful mainsail that shimmered in the light.
“I am very happy to see you,” said Bert, offering his hand in greeting. “My friend, Uruk Ko.”
The Goblin King hesitated, then took the old man’s hand, giving it a single dignified shake. “I greet you also, my friend the Far Traveler.”
“How many have you brought with you?” asked Nemo, looking with a barely disguised disdain at the Violet Dragon, which seemed manned by only a few officious types, none of whom were outfitted for war. “Are they coming by other means?”
“Yes,” said Uruk Ko. “Other ships of the kingdom bore my warriors here—more than a thousand, to be exact.”
Bert and Aven exchanged relieved glances. This battle would be more evenly matched than they’d first feared. “Do you realize,” Bert said, “that your goblins represent more than half of our defensive force?”
“Yes, I do,” Uruk Ko said. “I am pleased you also realize that. It will make what must happen easier to bear.”
“Whatever do you mean?” said Bert, scanning the horizon for a sign of the Goblin army’s ships. “When are they expected to arrive?”
“You misunderstand me,” said Uruk Ko. “They are already here.”
“Really?” Bert said, squinting. “How did I miss them?”
“Because,” said the Goblin King, “you are looking in the wrong direction.”
“What?” Bert breathed.
As one, the other captains and kings turned, then made their way up to the first of the hills, where they could look out over the enemy’s encampments. There they saw the black standards of the Winter King, as well as the flags of Arawn—but also, to the north, they saw with rising dread the unmistakable silken banners of the Goblin King.
“It was because of our friendship that I felt honor-bound to tell you myself, and in person,” said Uruk Ko, “and now I have done so. Please—as one who has stood with you as an ally, choose wisely, and leave the battlefield before we must come face-
to-face as enemies.”
The expressions of the other kings darkened, and a menacing growl came from deep inside Charys’s massive chest, as he moved defensively in front of Artus.
Aven spit, cursed, and began to lunge forward, drawing her sword. “What kind of man…,” she began, just as Bert stopped her advance.
“Not a man,” said Uruk Ko, as he turned to make his way back to the Violet Dragon. “A goblin, and a Child of the True Archipelago, who wishes only to drive out the usurpers that have ruled for far too long.
“Leave, my friends. A new age is dawning, and it will be birthed in fire. A new age; an age of Goblin, Troll, and Shadow.
“The age of Man is over.”

Chapter Eighteen

At noon the Black Dragon arrived.
It eased along the eastern edge of the island, safely in the lee of the pull of the falls, where the Winter King could take stock of the allies before making his way to where his army was massing.
“They will attack within the hour,” Charys said to the assembled war council, which was still reeling from the defection of the Goblin King.
“How can you be sure?” said Bert.
The centaur indicated the motion of the sun across the sky, moving westward, and the council saw what Charys had surmised. The terminus of the void, the edge to the darkness beyond, was only a few degrees away from the sun’s position and would soon engulf it.
“That’s why they have the fires and torches lit in broad daylight,” said Jack. “The Winter King is used to being here and knows it’s going to be dark soon.”
Charys nodded. “We will be in absolute darkness, and it will be difficult to separate friend from foe, much less counter the attacks of the Shadow-Born.”
Aven volunteered to start gathering torches, or anything that could be assembled into torches, from the ships, taking with her a company of fauns.
“Despite the stated intentions of Uruk Ko,” said Bert, “we must remember that the Winter King has another agenda. He plans to attempt to summon the dragons back to the Archipelago.”
Eledir gave what amounted to a restrained snort of derision. “Impossible. Only the High King has ever known how to do this. Even my own ancestors, who were confidants of the great Samaranth, did not know the secret.”
“Yes,” said Falladay Finn. “When Archibald offended them, the dragons left the Archipelago forever. We need to deal with the army that has been assembled here and now, and not the imaginary one we worry may come.”
“With respect, I disagree,” said John. “The secret of the summoning is in the Imaginarium Geographica, which was stolen and is now in the possession of the Winter King. He also has Archibald’s Ring of Power, which the Geographica says will allow the summoning to take place.”
“Even I have a Ring of Power,” snorted Falladay Finn, extending his hand, which bore a ring identical to the one Magwich had stolen.
“As do I,” said Eledir, “as do my lieutenants. Rings of Power, as you call them, are symbols of office and fealty, nothing more. My ancestor Eledin received his at the same time as the High King Arthur, and he never saw a difference in the two.”
“It doesn’t matter if we believe it,” said John. “The Winter King does. And if he’s right, then we’ll be lost. But if he’s wrong, then maybe we can divert his attentions away from the battle long enough to gain an advantage.”
The kings and captains exchanged knowing glances, and John realized that there would be no advantages to be gained by a distraction. Once joined in battle, the opposing force would be irresistible and would flow over the assembled forces of the allies like a wave.
“We still do not know the real scope of his army,” said Falladay Finn. “As yet, we have not seen any of the Shadow-Born among the assembly.”
“That’s a concern,” Eledir said. “Perhaps greater than the Trolls and Goblins, who can still be killed.”
“May I say something?”
The council turned to look at the speaker—Artus, who had not ventured an opinion since they’d begun, instead allowing John, Jack, or Bert to speak for Men and Paralon.
Charys nodded. “You are the heir to the Silver Throne,” he said. “Speak, and we will listen.”
“Well,” Artus began, “I’ve been thinking—Ordo Maas told us that the Shadow-Born were created by that magic kettle, right?”
“Pandora’s Box,” Eledir said. “A myth. Nothing more.”
“Ordo Maas didn’t think so,” said Artus. “And besides, the Shadow-Born came from somewhere, didn’t they? Do you have a better explanation?”
Eledir remained silent and indicated with a nod for Artus to continue.
“If my grandfather—King Archibald—started creating the Shadow-Born by opening the box, and the Winter King created more of them and began taking over the Archipelago by keeping it open, then why don’t we just do what Aven suggested, and find it, and close it?”
This suggestion was met with a resounding silence, which was then shattered by Charys’s booming laugh.
“By my body and bones, that’s either the most kingly thing I’ve ever heard, or it’s the single stupidest plan on Earth,” he said, laughing and stomping his hind legs.
“If that is the source of his ability to create Shadow-Born,” Artus continued, “then by closing it, we can prevent him from creating more.”
“That’s a good plan,” said Nemo. “I wonder what effect closing the box would have on the existing Shadow-Born?”
“Also,” said Artus, growing bolder with each comment of support, “it’s probably here, on the island. The Winter King wouldn’t have risked losing it to combat or weather by keeping it on board the Black Dragon, so if this is really his base, it’s probably somewhere around here.”
Bert, Nemo, Eledir, and Falladay Finn exchanged glances of unabashed admiration over the boy king’s conclusions.
“If he does possess such a weapon,” mused the Dwarf King, “he would keep it here. There may be something to this strategy after all.”
“Right,” said Artus. “So all we have to do now is go into his camp, sneak past all the goblins, trolls, Shadow-Born, and Wendigo, find Pandora’s Box, and close it. It’s simple, really.”
Charys slapped his forehead. “Ah, boy,” he said, resigned. “You had it going so well, up until the end.”
“But he’s right,” said Charles, who’d been listening in from the perimeter of the council. “That’s exactly what needs to be done.
“Look,” he said, gesturing at the island beyond. “It’s a natural battlefield—everyone is expecting that both sides will meet in the middle, and the Winter King’s side is expecting the cover of darkness to be to their advantage. So no one would be looking if someone went behind their camp to snoop around while all their attention is focused on us in the center.”
“That sounds like a plan,” said Charys. “Good luck.”
“What?” Charles said, his face suddenly gone pale. “I-I wasn’t really volunteering. I’m not a soldier.”
“Not many here are, lad,” Nemo said. “But we’re going to do what we can, all of us, nevertheless.”
“We’ll do it!” came an excited voice from somewhere nearer the ground. “Master Charles an’ his faithful squire, Tummeler, vanquishing foes and, uh, closin’ boxes!”
Charles blinked, then grinned. “I guess we’re the stealth force,” he said, looking down at the exuberant badger. “God help us all.”
“The torches are ready,” said Aven, approaching the council with several in hand.
“And just in time,” said Nemo, shading his eyes and looking up at the sky. The sun was half-covered in Shadow. In minutes the island would be plunged into darkness.

It was determined that Eledir would command the primary force of the allies’ army—appropriate, given that it was comprised mostly of elves from the Blue Dragon. The elves were primarily armed as archers, although they all bore wicked long swords for one-to-one battle.
Falladay Finn and his dwarves were the most heavily armed, as they’d been at the Council at Paralon, with each of them bearing heavy axes, braces of short knives, and archery equipment of their own. Finn, along with Nemo, served as Eledir’s primary lieutenants, with Charys and the assembled creatures bringing up the rear.
Jack, despite cautions from both Charys and the Elf King, had chosen to join in the battle alongside Nemo. Aven and Bert tried to dissuade him, but Jack would brook none of their concerns. His eyes were shining from the fire that blazed in his belly to see real combat. He didn’t understand that skirmishes aboard a ship, which were all he’d really experienced, were not the same as war, and further justified his choice by pointing out that he was at least as physically able as John, who’d been a soldier, and was more willing to boot.
“I’ll be fine,” said Jack. “No one’s gotten killed so far, have they? And you know it yourself—I’ve proven myself to be braver and more resourceful than you thought I’d be. So don’t worry. I’m going to do things on this battlefield you’ll remember for the rest of your life.”
Aven flashed a concerned look at Nemo, who indicated with a brief nod that he would try not to be separated from Jack during the battle.
As she walked back to the beach for more torches, Aven wondered if of the two, she was actually concerned for the right one. Like a drowning man can drag down his rescuer, she hoped that Jack’s inexperience in combat would not similarly impair Nemo. She though of going back and saying something more, but she had other matters to attend to and soon forgot about her concerns.

“We’re going to find the Winter King.”
John said it matter-of-factly, but it sounded more ludicrous out loud than it had inside his head.
He and Bert had reasoned that the Winter King would not engage in the actual battle—not if his goal was still to summon the dragons. John surmised that to make the attempt, the Winter King would move as far away from the battlefield as he could get—and that meant the rocky bluff to the west, which sharpened to a peak high above the roaring falls.
“That’s where he’ll be, I’m sure of it,” said John. “And Artus and I will have to be there too.”
“Why me?” asked Artus. “Shouldn’t I be on the field, with all the rest?”
Bert took the young man by the shoulders and peered at him over the top of his glasses. “You should not,” he said with equal parts sternness and affection. “If John is right, then you may be the only one of us who is able to summon the dragons, and that means you are too valuable to risk putting in open combat. Go with John, and see what you discover. We’ll buy you as much time as we can.”
The old Caretaker embraced the boy king in a brief hug, then turned and walked to the top of the hill, where Aven was waving a torch.
The sun vanished, and a cry and hue rose up from the other side of the island.
The battle was beginning.

The enemy force was moving south with a slow, deliberate pace, but Eledir directed the elves to rush forward and establish a center line to hold as far into the shallow valley as possible. Against the greater force, they would eventually, inevitably lose ground and be driven back to their ships. Eledir wanted to make sure they had as much ground to lose as possible.
Falladay Finn and the dwarves could not quite keep pace with the elves, so he instructed them to sheath their axes and pull out their bows and arrows. They would fire behind the enemy lines, then pick up their axes again to push forward when the elves were pressed to their first retreat.
Charys and the centaurs had one mandate: to flank the rest, and make sure that none of their enemies were trying to outflank them. It was bound to happen at some point, as battles frequently spill past their prescribed boundaries, but with John and Artus heading to the west, and Charles and Tummeler heading east, it would be better to keep as much of the action corralled in the valley as possible.
Nemo, for his part, was firing a weapon of his own manufacture, an air-propelled gun of some kind, which had greater range than anything in use by the other races, and he was augmenting his assistance to Eledir by taking out the Troll and Goblin commanders long-distance.
From the hills behind, Bert watched and worried, too old to join in himself. It was not the battle ensuing that worried him, but the one still to come. The trolls and goblins had engaged them, but the hundreds of Wendigo, who were better fighters than the trolls, and more fearsome than the goblins, were still inexplicably clustered around the tents. He had also been scanning the encampment with Aven’s spyglass since the battle began, but still…
…There was no sign of the Shadow-Born.

Charles’s plan was for himself and Tummeler to skirt around the eastern shore of the island and come around behind the Winter King’s encampment, there to look for the kettle. They were dressed in dark leathers and would carry no torches, planning on Tummeler’s animal senses to guide them through the darkness.
They were preparing to move down to the beach, when something in the torchlight caught Charles’s attention. He stopped and looked more closely, then his eyes widened in shock, and he dropped his supplies to go find Aven.
“Master scowler?” said Tummeler.
“Stay there,” said Charles. “I’ll be right back.”
“Aven!” Charles said, finding her gathering more flammable materials from the Green Dragon. “Listen to me. Something is wrong! Something is wrong with Jack!”
Aven started a curt retort, but bit it back. Something in Charles’s tone told her that this was not an unconsidered assessment. “What is it? What’s wrong with him?”
Charles took her arm and pulled her closer. “I couldn’t put my finger on it until just now. For the last few days, he’s grown more and more brash, reckless even. I thought…”
He blushed. “I thought he was just trying overhard to impress you.”
“Since the moment we met,” said Aven. “What of it? He’s grown confident. He’s become a man—maybe even a warrior, although I’d cut out my own tongue before I let him hear me say that.”
“I thought the same, but—”
“But what, Charles?”
Charles pointed to the rise twenty yards off where Jack was organizing several of the fauns and satyrs into a staggered line of archers. Aven was right: He was more confident. He did direct them with an authority that belied his youth, and he had proven himself in every battle they had joined. But Charles’s suspicions had manifested themselves in a form visible yet subtle, and Aven’s breath caught in her throat when she saw it.
Jack had no shadow.

The first engagement had gone badly.
The elves, impressive as they were in battle, were not a match for the trolls, the smallest of which outweighed the largest, stockiest elf. It was only the quality of their elf-forged armor that saved them from being completely overrun, and they retreated to switch to bows and arrows.
Unexpectedly, the dwarves fared better at hand-to-hand combat against the trolls, and they added to the attack a benefit for the Elven archers to the rear. The dwarves’ short stature meant that the huge trolls had to stoop to strike a blow, exposing the backs of their heads and shoulders to the arrows, while the dwarves whaled away at their legs and midriffs with the massive battle-axes. Still, the overwhelming might of the trolls was something to be held, and held only, not beaten back.
As they’d feared, the goblins had attempted a flanking action, only to be forced back into line with the others by the centaurs. The goblin archers’ aim was deadly, but the centaurs shrugged off the arrows as if they were wasps.
The other archers and pikemen gleaned from the mythbeasts and animals, led by Jack, came in behind the centaurs, and in moments the goblins were in full retreat. The trolls made another great push forward, then, amazingly, began to pull back as well.
“They’re retreating,” Charys said in amazement, blood streaming from his wounds, running freely down his flanks. “The goblins, and the trolls—they’re retreating!”
As unlikely as it seemed, the centaur was right.
With a cheer, the elves drew their swords and pressed ahead—then, suddenly, Eledir gave the command to stop, and the dwarves and centaurs also wheeled about.
Nemo signaled desperately to Bert, then gestured to the Winter King’s encampment, calling out something Bert couldn’t discern over the din of battle and roar of the falls.
He put the spyglass to his eye and looked in the direction Nemo had indicated. As if on cue, the Wendigo opened the tents all along the shore, which they’d assumed to belong to trolls and goblins who’d come from their homelands to fight.
They were mistaken. The Shadow-Born had been there all along—they had merely waited until the light and heat of the noonday sun had been enveloped in Shadow, when their power would be at its strongest, and they would be able to move almost invisibly in the dark.
“Dear God in Heaven,” said Bert. “This may truly be the end for us all.”
Aven spun around and suppressed a shudder, then, worse, began to silently weep.
John and Artus, who had not yet gone west, exchanged worried looks, then clambered up the rise to see what had shaken Bert and Aven so badly. A moment’s glance and an instant of comprehension was all that they needed.
They had expected, even planned for, the army of Wendigo; the trolls, guided by the traitorous Prince Arawn, had also come as no great surprise. Even a few of the lesser races from the edges of the Archipelago could have added to the bulk of the opposing army without rattling a veteran such as Aven. But what they saw not a mile away chilled the marrow in their bones and clenched their spirits in fear and growing horror.
At the edge of the vast plain of the battlefield, the great host of the Winter King had begun its approach. Marching toward them, from horizon to horizon, were the howling, snarling forms of Wendigo, and with them, mute and relentless, came the hooded specters of thousands and thousands of Shadow-Born.
Chapter Nineteen