The Dragons of Winter

by James A. Owen

  “And if they choose not to, are they permitted to leave?” asked Burton. “I only wonder this because we were called your guests—but last night, the door was locked.”

  “That was for security,” said Winter. “I shall order it kept unlocked in the future.”

  The companions exchanged uneasy glances at this suggestion that their stay might be longer than they wished—whatever their choice would have been.

  “Have you ever had ‘guests,’” Burton pressed, “who wanted to stay in Dys but didn’t want to become Lloigor?”

  “A few,” Winter admitted, “like Vanamonde’s father—your old colleague, Bert. Moses . . . Nebogipfel, I think it was. I’ll have to check the label on his skull.”

  “Keeping the skulls of your enemies as trophies?” Bert asked with a barely suppressed shudder. “Isn’t that a bit . . .”

  “Barbaric?” Lord Winter finished for him. “Perhaps. But one man’s barbarism is another man’s culture. Isn’t that right, Sir Richard? And besides,” he added with a grin at Bert, “I learned it from you.”

  Bert looked horrorstruck. “I’ve never taken a head from anyone in my life!” he exclaimed vehemently. “Nor would I keep the skull as a trophy!”

  “Ah, not to quarrel,” Charles put in, “but according to what John and, ah, Jack, told me, that isn’t precisely true.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Bert.

  “You did exactly those things in the country of the Winter King during the Dyson incident,” Charles said, a pained expression on his face. He seemed to hate the appearance of supporting this Lord Winter’s point of view on anything, least of all on a point regarding their mentor. But the truth was the truth.

  “That wasn’t me!” sputtered Bert. “That was—”

  “A version of you, who had lived through some terrible tragedies,” said Lord Winter, “and in the process, had to make some terrible choices. But make no mistake, Bert. It was you. I know. I remember.”

  “It weren’t—I mean, it wasn’t,” Bert shot back. “I wasn’t there.”

  “We all like to think that we will always make the choices that flow in line with our image of ourselves,” Lord Winter said, turning to look out over the city, “but the truth is, we never know what we’ll really do until we’re already in the soup. And then, we do what we must, just as you did. It doesn’t diminish the good choices you made to have chosen to do something you abhor,” he continued, “but neither does it mean you suddenly changed character when you made those other choices. You are who you are.”

  Bert shook his head. “I would not have done those things—not if I had any choice,” he added before Charles could correct him. “It just isn’t in my character.”

  Their host spun about to face him. “Nothing we actually do,” Lord Winter said, “is out of character.”

  He stood, and with a little encouragement from Lord Winter’s Dragons, the others rose as well. None of them had so much as touched a morsel of food.

  “No one was hungry, I guess,” Winter said. “Come—let me escort you back to your room. After all, traveling so many thousands of years must have made you all very tired.”

  The companions followed Winter and Vanamonde back down the stairs to the room where they’d spent the night. None of their belongings seemed to have been touched. Not their duffels, or their books, or . . .

  . . . their weapons.

  “Perhaps we may speak again later,” Lord Winter said from the open doorway, “and I can tell you more about my decision to join the Echthroi and why”—he smiled broadly—“you will make the same choice, in the end.”

  Rose had already been considering a choice, and there, in that moment, as Lord Winter spoke those words, she made it.

  Steeling herself to her task, she carefully, quietly removed the sword Caliburn from its sheath underneath her duffel, and before he could speak, she whirled around and rushed over to Lord Winter.

  “You,” she cried, “are not Jack!” and she buried the sword to the hilt in his chest.

  It had absolutely no effect.

  She stared at him, eyes wide and unblinking in disbelief.

  “I was wondering why it was taking you so long to try that,” Winter said, not even trying to conceal the pleasure in his voice. “I decided that you were either too timid to actually strike, or you were too overwrought with emotion for your dear uncle Jack to try it. But I’m glad to know that you weren’t too weak to try. And I’m sorry that you had to fail so badly.”

  He gave her a shove, and she flew backward into the corner, hitting her head roughly against the wall.

  “And,” he said, taking little notice of the companions who had flown across the room to Rose’s aid, “I’m sorry that I have to break your little toy.”

  He reached up and grabbed the hilt of Caliburn—and snapped it off. Then he simply pulled out the blade, which emerged clean and bloodless from his chest. He dropped it to the floor with a clatter.

  “Impossible!” Burton breathed. “That sword should have defeated any Shadow!”

  “Any mortal’s shadow, eh, Sir Richard?” Winter said, winking. “But not primordial Shadow. Not Lloigor. Not Echthroi. And especially not while I wear this armor.”

  The fear in the companions’ eyes was evident, and he chuckled, then held up his hands.

  “It’s all right,” Lord Winter said. “I’ve no desire to harm you. Step closer, and observe.”

  To better facilitate their examination, Lord Winter stepped forward himself and raised his arms, turning slowly so they could see all the armor he wore.

  “What is it?” asked Burton. “Where did you get it?”

  “There was an old Chinese legend,” Lord Winter began, “about a young girl named T’ai Shan. In the beginnings of time, there came upon the gods of the world a great drought—and I say gods, and not peoples, because in those days, all were considered as gods. They spoke with the beasts of the Earth, and lived long lives, and knew all the secrets that there were. But not the reasons for the drought.

  “Crops died, livestock perished, and soon starvation followed. And all the great gods came together to try to find a solution, but none was forthcoming. No one knew what had caused the drought, and no one knew how to resolve it. But one child, a crippled girl named T’ai Shan, who lived as a beggar on the outskirts of the first city of the gods, knew what must be done.

  “She recalled a story told by her grandfather, who was one of the elder gods, that when the gods needed aid, they prayed to the stars, and the stars came to Earth and aided them. So she rose on her crutch and hobbled away from the city, which was radiantly bright, into the darkness where she could see the stars, and she began to pray.

  “One of the stars heard her prayer and descended to Earth to give her aid. He said that far to the west there grew a flower, a rose, which contained within it a single drop of dew. If she were to find that rose and return to the city, the drop of dew would become a torrent that would restore rain to the world and fill the oceans again.

  “All he required of her was that when this was done, she give the rose to him. And T’ai Shan agreed.

  “So the star took from himself scales of fire and gave them to the girl, instructing her that she should find a smithy to forge them into armor. And when she had done so, she would be able to traverse the great distance and retrieve the rose.”

  Lord Winter paused, as if he were struggling to remember—but after a few moments he regained his composure and continued on, his voice strong and unwavering.

  “T’ai Shan found a smith, and her armor was made. And as the gods of the Earth began to die, she went on her great journey, defeating terrible beasts and overcoming immense obstacles to succeed in her quest. And succeed she did—but when at last she returned, the star declared that he wished to keep the rose, and the dewdrop, for himself, and thus force the gods to swear homage to him, that he should rule over all the Earth.

  “But T’ai Shan knew that this was wrong, and she resisted. The
star tried to take the rose from her, but he had given her too much of his own fire, and in the great battle that followed, he was defeated, and fell.

  “T’ai Shan succeeded in bringing the water back to the world, but she could not control it, and a deluge flooded all the Earth. Only through great sacrifice were the gods able to save parts of their world—and when the waters again receded, they found that the world had changed. It was no longer theirs—T’ai Shan had given it to their children, as it should have been all along. As her grandfather, the elder god, had told her the world was meant to be. To ensure that the gods would not try to reclaim it, she left her armor to the children, so that they might defend the world themselves. And with that, she walked into the mountains and vanished forever.”

  Lord Winter lowered his head, and the companions looked at one another, uncertain whether he was done—and more uncertain whether they dared to say anything.

  Edmund was the one who finally broke the silence. “Begging your pardon, lord,” he said respectfully, “but why did you tell us that story?”

  Lord Winter laughed, a short, sharp bark, and turned to face the boy. “Innocence,” he said, more to himself than to any of them. “It’s a refreshing thing, after so long.”

  “I told you that story, my young Cartographer,” he said, holding Edmund by the chin so the boy was looking him in the eye, “so that you would understand—I serve the Shadows, but fire still has its uses.”

  “You are not wearing the Ruby Armor of T’ai Shan,” Bert said firmly. “As powerful as that armor is, an Echthros would not be able to countenance its touch. And the armor forged from a star would not shatter Caliburn. Only Deep Magic could do that. So your armor is something else.”

  Lord Winter started to respond in anger, but caught himself and replaced the harsh words on his tongue with a sickly sweet smile. “Very good, old friend. I’m impressed.”

  He released Edmund’s chin. “I told you the story, boy, because somewhere in time and space, the bearer of that armor still exists. And unlike this sword, he does have the ability to injure me. So I forged armor of my own.”

  “Armor strong enough to break the sword of Aeneas?” asked Rose. “How?”

  “As useful as the Spear of Destiny once was as a weapon, I found it to be far more useful as armor,” Lord Winter replied, stroking his chest. “It heals any wound, deflects any blow against me. And together with the energies of the Echthroi, makes me all but immortal. And so I have had all the time needed to create this,” he continued, spreading his arms to indicate the city that stretched into the distance, “my perfect world.”

  As it had before, the tower began to shake with a loud rumbling, lasting longer this time.

  Bert snorted. “Hardly perfect, ‘Lord Winter,’” he said. “Your dark tower seems to be coming apart.”

  “Not coming apart,” Winter replied. “On the contrary—Camazotz is growing.”

  Charles threw a surreptitious glance at Burton, who nodded almost imperceptibly. So they were right—it was like the keep, in some ways at least.

  “Growing?” said Edmund. “Why?”

  “It no longer matters,” Winter replied, trying—and failing—not to glance at Rose. “My plans have recently undergone a change, and soon I’ll no longer need the tower.”

  “Why?” asked Burton.

  “Because,” Lord Winter said as he turned to walk away, “I’ve realized it is a world of perfect order, just as the Echthroi have ordained it to be. Just as it was always meant to be. Just as it will always be. And soon,” he added as the door closed with an almost imperceptible hiss, “just as it will have always been.”

  Again the companions were alone, and in the silence, they let the full possibility of his words sink in.

  “It’s us,” Charles said. “We’re the somethings that changed him doing whatever it is he plans to do.”

  “Agreed,” said Burton. “What think you, Bert?”

  But the Far Traveler wasn’t paying any attention to the discussion. Instead he was listening at the door. Then he reached down, grasped the latch . . .

  . . . and pulled it open.

  “The door!” Rose exclaimed. “It’s unlocked! We can leave!”

  “Of course,” Edmund said, still not entirely grasping whether they were supposed to be prisoners. “He did say we are his guests.”

  “Guests are always free to leave the party,” Bert said hastily, cutting off whatever sarcastic remark Burton was about to make to the boy, “and a good guest knows when it’s time to dust the crumbs off his lap and bid the host good evening.”

  “If it’s all the same to you,” Charles said as the companions headed out the door, “I think we’ll pass on saying good-bye.”

  “Agreed,” Burton and Rose said together.

  “Wait!” Edmund exclaimed, stopping in the doorway. “What about Archie? We can’t just leave him behind!”

  Rose started to answer, but it was Bert who turned around. “That can’t be helped right now,” he said, sternly but also with honest regret and sympathy. “You may not realize this yet, young Edmund, but it’s a miracle enough that we’re leaving this room alive.”

  “B-But Lord Jack . . . ,” Edmund stammered.

  “That is not Jack,” Rose said firmly. “I don’t know who he is, but Lord Winter is not our Jack. Listen,” she added, putting a comforting arm across his shoulders, “we aren’t leaving him for good. We’ll come back for him. But right now, we are in the heart of the enemy’s stronghold—and we aren’t safe. We have to find high ground, where we can make a plan. But we’ll come back. I promise.”

  Comforted, Edmund nodded and followed her and Bert out to the corridor where the others were waiting. Swiftly, and thanks in part to Edmund’s unerring sense of direction, they retraced the path that Vanamonde had used to bring them along to their room, and in short order were again outside the tower.

  Keeping close to the buildings, they made their way back to the massive entry doors, trying to avoid being seen—but very quickly they noticed that no one was looking for them. The few of Lord Winter’s Dragons they passed took no notice of them. And so their escape proceeded swiftly and without event. Their flight from the tower was done in silence, each of the companions keeping their thoughts to themselves. There would be time enough to talk and commiserate later. But as they ran, all Rose could think of was whether she would be able to keep the promise she’d made to Edmund.

  And whether, if they were given the chance, she would be brave enough to.

  Ringed about the high canyon walls were the great, skeletal remains . . .

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Unforgotten

  “Something’s gone wrong,” Jack said as he and John examined the cavorite pedestal in front of Tamerlane House. “I can feel it in my spleen. Something’s wrong. They should have come back before now, don’t you think?”

  “It’s only been a couple of days,” John replied as he sat on a nearby rock and started pulling at the long grass that grew in patchy clumps all over the islands. “That’s the point of them staying there in real time—so that they’ll have more time at the other end of the mission, in the past. And as to their other goal, well, there’s no telling what’s needed.”

  “I understand,” Jack said, “but you’ve read the book. England isn’t that big. They should have found her and returned by now. And Bert . . .”

  “I know,” John said irritably. They didn’t speak of it much, but both men were constantly aware of the time—and how little of it Bert had left.

  “At least,” Jack said as he moved over to sit in the grass next to John, “when they do get back, we’ll have another solid zero point connection for our Imaginarium Chronographica.”

  “That’s the thing that disturbs me about our Imaginarium Chronographica,” John murmured. “I think our adversaries already have one, or something very much like it. And,” he added, “it’s better than ours.”

  “One of the reasons,” said Verne’s v
oice behind them, “that the Cabal’s Imaginarium Chronographica is, well, not necessarily better . . . let us say, more complete than ours, is that not only did they have a head start in creating one, but somehow, they are adding all our zero points to their own—as we discover them.”

  Verne, Dickens, Twain, and Byron stepped off the porch and walked to where John and Jack were sitting. Verne lowered himself to the ground and sat with the younger men. “We do not know ‘when’ they have gone, but they know ‘when’ we have. And in that,” he finished, “they have a decided advantage over us.”

  “But if a zero point isn’t created until Rose and Edmund create it, how could they do that?” asked John.

  “Bread crumbs,” said Byron.

  “If this is the start of a poem, I’m going to clock you,” said Dickens.

  “I mean, they’re leaving a trail of bread crumbs,” Byron said, irritated at being marginalized—again. “Rose and the Cartographer must somehow be leaving a marker that the Cabal can follow to each zero point. It’s the logical explanation.”

  “Perhaps,” Verne said, stroking his beard. “But how?”

  Jack sighed. “This was all a whole lot easier when we just had to climb up some stairs and open a door in a tower someone else had already built.”

  “That is part of our quest,” a quiet voice said. “It’s part of why the travelers needed to undertake their journey—to restore what was.”

  The companions turned in surprise at hearing the speaker. It was Poe. Edmund Spenser was also with him.

  It was surprising not that Poe had spoken, but that he had left the confines of the house. He rarely ventured outside—at most once or twice during the time that John and Jack had known him.

  “That’s the other thing I miss about the good old days,” said Twain. “We didn’t have to rely on a blasted deck of cards to go anywhere. We had the Dragonships.”