James Owen: Here, There Be Dragons

For a little longer, anyway.
“How much farther?” whined Magwich, who trailed his master by several yards.

“Well?”
The Steward shook his head. “I don’t think it matters. I’m pretty sure we have all you need, and we’re in the best place to do it.”
“Pretty sure?” said the Winter King. “I thought you had been trained to read that atlas.”
Magwich shrugged. “I never actually finished training, remember? A few of the languages here are just beyond me—but I can still get the gist of it, so what does it matter if we miss a few details?”
“Never mind,” the Winter King snapped, snatching the book back. “Let’s just get this done, and then after I’ve assumed control of the entire Archipelago, I’ll make sure you get the reward you’ve earned.”
Magwich licked his lips and bowed deeply. “Thank you, my Lord.”
“Idiot,” said the Winter King.
“Whatever you say, my Lord.”
“Just shut up, will you?”
“As you command, my Lord.”
The Winter King clenched his jaw. “If you say one more word, I’m going to put my hook through both of your eyes and pull your brain out through the sockets.”
“Sorry, my Lord.”
The Winter King sighed heavily and opened the Geographica. “Just show me where the summoning is, and tell me what to say.”

A hundred yards into their mission, Charles already regretted having agreed to it. He was soaked from head to toe in seawater, and he smelled faintly of brine. Worse, Tummeler was also soaked, and the odor of wet badger fur emanated from him in waves.
They had decided to keep to the edge of the shoreline, the better to steer clear of any stragglers from the Troll or Goblin armies. But unlike the beaches on the south, which were smooth and sand-covered, the eastern side had been subject to the unending tidal forces created by the pull of the falls—and as a result, the beach was rocky and uneven. Every few steps, one or the other of them had taken a tumble into the surf, only to reemerge splashing and sputtering.
They were noisy, dragging a trail throughout the visible sand, and were projecting a smell that could be followed by a blind Wendigo with a head cold.
They were, Charles decided, the worst stealth force ever to be sent on a mission during wartime.
“Don’t mind my sayin’ so,” said Tummeler, “but you’re starting t’ smell funny.”
“I was about to say the same thing,” said Charles.
Tummeler stopped, and looked visibly hurt by the remark. “What d’ you mean?”
“Nothing—forget it,” said Charles, realizing the badger had meant his remark as a compliment.
He was outfitted in light armor the elves had given him to replace the ill-fitting Dwarven tunic, but otherwise carried only a short sword and small hatchet, as he thought appropriate for a stealth mission. Tummeler, however, not only had a large knife, but also was still dragging his supply of rock-hard muffins inside the battered bronze shield.
“Listen, Tummeler,” Charles began, “do you really think it’s justified to take along all this, this, stuff? After all, we’re supposed to be sneaking in to search for Pandora’s Box—not engaging in a conflict.”
Tummeler puffed up his chest in a gesture of badgerly defiance. “Better t’ make th’ effort t’ bring it, then t’ find ourselves in a situation where we wants t’ have it, and finds it’s not there.”
Charles thought about that a moment. “Now that you’ve put it that way,” he said, “it is a bit comforting to have more weapons along. But do you really need the shield? It’s leaving quite a track.”
“Mister Samaranth gave it t’ me,” said Tummeler, “and told me t’ bring it here. He said we’d need it, sooner or later, so bring it I done.”
“Fair enough,” said Charles, “but what say I carry it, so we make better time?”
“Okee-dokee,” said Tummeler, hefting the knapsack over his shoulders and passing the shield to Charles.
“Heavy,” Charles muttered as he slipped the shield over his back.
“Y’r not kidding,” said Tummeler. “Onward.”

With the retreat of the trolls and goblins, the strategy of the Winter King was now obvious. The first onslaught by the denizens of the Archipelago was meant merely to test the resistance of the allies at best, and to cut down as many of the opposing forces as they could at worst. For their part, the trolls and goblins were merely cannon fodder—if they survived the initial attack, and damaged the allies in the process, then all was good. But if they faltered, and many lost their lives—just as good. Because the main force of the Winter King’s army were the Wendigo and the Shadow-Born, and there would be no testing or trials, no retreat and withdrawal—just brutal, bloody combat to the end.
The nearest wave of Shadow-Born had reached the advance line of elves and dwarves, and the method of battle they intended to use to defeat the allies became blindingly clear.
The Shadow-Born brushed off arrows like toothpicks, and while a direct blow from an ax or a pike might slow them it wouldn’t stop or damage them. And then they were close enough to grasp the shadows of the warriors and rip them free.
The dwarves and elves who lost their shadows screamed, then dropped to the ground, drained of their will and resistance. Then, as the Shadow-Born moved on to other victims, the Wendigo fell on the helpless soldiers to slaughter them in a rending of claws and teeth.
“Douse your torches!” Charys called out. “Put them out!”
Eledir and Falladay Finn exchanged startled glances. It would reduce the threat of the Shadow-Born, true—but then they would be facing the Wendigo in the dark.
“There’s no choice!” Charys yelled again. “Douse your torches and pull back, or we are already lost!”
At the rear of the field, Aven and Bert rushed forward to confer with Jack and Nemo.
“What are they doing?” Aven cried. “How can we fight in the dark?”
“Charys is right,” said Nemo. “But it won’t be completely dark. The Wendigo carry their own torches—but the light from those will cast our shadows backward, not ahead. That will give us a chance to fight, at least, before—”
He stopped and looked down at the ground where they were standing, where his own shadow overlapped with Bert’s and Aven’s—but not Jack’s.
Bert saw it too, and looked at Jack with an expression both sorrowful and fearful.
Jack looked at the ground, then back at the others with a defiant set to his jaw. “I know. I saw it vanish some time ago. But I don’t think it means anything—I’m on your side, remember?”
“Doesn’t mean anything!” Bert exclaimed. “Jack—you’ve become a Shadowless! That’s worse than a Shadow-Born!”
“How?” Jack said stubbornly.
“It means you have the capacity for darkness,” said Nemo. “You may be choosing to stand with us in the light, but your heart is choosing to be in Shadow.”
Jack made a cutting motion with his hand. “I don’t believe you. Judge me on what I’m actually doing, not on what you think I believe.”
“Remember what the Cartographer said about choices and consequences, Jack,” said Bert. “Think about what happened to him, over choices he made!”
“The Winter King said the same thing on the Black Dragon, remember?” said Jack. “Which one do I believe? The one who’s imprisoned and couldn’t help us, or the one who’s able to conquer?”
“The one who’s trying to kill us, you mean,” said Nemo.
“Can’t I have both?” said Jack. “The conviction of the Cartographer and the strength of the Winter King?”
“You can’t have one foot in and the other out,” said Bert. “It doesn’t work that way.”
Nemo looked grimly at Aven. “We don’t have time for this. If he’s going to become one of the Lost Boys, it’ll be his own cross to bear—but I have a battle to fight.”
“Wait,” Aven said, grabbing Nemo by the arm. “He is good, I know it. Take him, fight with him! If you can’t trust him, then trust me!”
Nemo looked at Aven for a long second, then motioned to Jack. “Come on, then,” he said. “If nothing else, you’ll be the one fighter we have that the Shadow-Born can’t touch.”

The Steward of Paralon, previously a Caretaker-in-
training, went over the summoning of the dragons for the third time before he was certain (to a degree) of the exact wording. It had been sandwiched in with the notations on the map for the Island at the Edge of the World and the actual location where the ritual was to be performed.
He was a bit relieved that the Winter King didn’t question him (too) extensively as to the accuracy of the translation—if his master really knew how much supposition and guesswork was involved, he’d have already cut the Steward’s throat.
But then, Magwich justified, if the Caretakers of the Geographica weren’t meant to exercise a little creative license, then why were they given credit for having a good imagination?
“Well?” said the Winter King.
“I have it,” replied Magwich. “Stand here, at the edge of the peak, hold forth the Ring of Power, and repeat what I say.”
As Magwich began to read, the Winter King smiled and felt a shiver of anticipation run through him. Repeating the phrases given to him by the Steward, the Winter King raised his hand. The ring shimmered in the cloying air above the falls, at the edge of the void. And, suddenly…
Nothing happened.
Standing, hand upraised, the Winter King’s eyes narrowed, and he looked sideways at Magwich.
“Perhaps you have to read it more than once,” the Steward said.
The Winter King dropped his hand and looked closely at the ring. It was not a question of whether he’d been given a fake—the ring was embossed with the seal of the king: a scarlet letter A. It was the High King’s ring.
Still, nothing. It wasn’t working.
“So be it,” the Winter King hissed. “If I must take the Archipelago with sharpened steel and smoke and blood and death, so be it.”
He tossed the Imaginarium Geographica to Magwich and drew his sword. “Let us finish this.”
With that, the Winter King turned and began to stalk back down the embankment.
“Wh-where are you going?” sputtered Magwich.
“I’m going to go to the battlefield and oversee my victory,” the Winter King said without bothering to stop or turn around. “I could care less what you do.”
“B-but what do you want me to do with the Geographica?”
The Winter King stopped and stiffened, then turned and spoke, his voice icy with hatred.
“Burn it.”

It had taken very little time for John and Artus to make their way around the southern tip of the island, then scale the sloping rise of rock that led to the flat bluff and the peak beyond. They actually wasted more time than they’d spent climbing arguing about whether or not their place was alongside their friends on the battlefield.
John’s logic won out over a still-reluctant Artus; a choice proven wise when they saw, off in the distance, the shapes of the Winter King and the Steward, arguing.
“Let’s go!” whispered Artus. “He has the Geographica, and I’ll bet my ring, too! Come on—we can take them!”
John knew Artus was more than a match for the Steward, but he was less confident about his ability to take on the Winter King mano a mano. But more than that, he was held back by a nagging in his subconscious; a sixth sense that was saying things to him in a still, small voice: Wait. Wait. They do not have the power they believe they have. Wait.
He shook his head and pulled Artus behind one of the scattered standing stones. “Not yet.”
Artus arched an eyebrow. “But why? What if he’s able to summon the dragons?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said John. “Summoning and commanding are two different things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember what Samaranth was like?”
“Sure.”
“He said he took the ring from your grandfather when he proved himself no longer worthy to use it. Does it seem to you like the Winter King is any more worthy?”
“Not bloody likely,” said Artus.
“Right. Now, if the Winter King could summon the dragons, can you imagine Samaranth doing anything he ordered him to do?”
“No.”
“Exactly. So we wait. And watch.”

Magwich cursed and stomped his foot on the ground in frustration. He’d used up all the matches he’d had in his wallet, and tried using his sleeves (which burned quite nicely) as tinder, but he couldn’t so much as singe the cover of the Imaginarium Geographica.
He’d tried tearing out pages, to use them as starters, but they were tougher than leather and wouldn’t even wrinkle. He had just about decided to chuck the thing over the edge and report in that he’d burned it to ashes, when he heard the footfalls behind him.
“Master, I was just about to…” he said, turning. He didn’t finish. John smashed him across the face with a left cross, and the Steward of Paralon dropped to the earth like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
“Excellent!” Artus exclaimed. “Charles will be so disappointed that he didn’t get to do it.”
In the distance they could see the descending form of the Winter King, who was moving to join the fray. Suddenly, as they watched, all the torches on the allies’ side of the battle went out, as if they’d been snuffed.
Artus and John looked at each other and swallowed hard.
John picked up the Geographica and turned to the pages with the summoning. “All of the information is here,” he said. “Either they got it right, and the ring didn’t work, or the ring could work, and they got the summoning wrong.”
“Or,” Artus said as John read, “the ring doesn’t work and the summoning doesn’t work. In any regard, we don’t have the ring.”
“I don’t think we need it,” said John, an undisguised excitement rising in his voice.
“Why not?”
John read, then reread, then re-reread the passages. “It’s not a piece of jewelry,” he said, astonished at the realization. “It’s a place. The Ring of Power is a place.”
He started pacing around in a broad circle, looking for all the world to Artus as if he’d gone insane.
“There,” said John, pointing eastward, nearer the base of the peak. “Farther back, on the ridge.”
Artus looked to where John was pointing, but there was nothing there except for more of the queer standing stones, which they’d seen a dozen of on their hike.
“That’s the place,” said John, his confidence rising with a flush in his cheeks and a quickening of his pulse. “I’m certain of it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“We have a circle of standing stones just like it back home,” said John. “We call it Stonehenge.”
Chapter Twenty