Here, There Be Dragons

by James A. Owen

  “No—I mean, what gives it motive power?”

  “We gots to go somewheres,” Tummeler replied. “What gives you motive power?”

  “I—I just decide to go where I need to, and then I do,” Charles stammered.

  “Well, it’s the same with principles,” said Tummeler, “’cept I do the decidin’.”

  Aven smiled. “It’s a design manufactured by one of his predecessors,” she said, tilting her chin at John. “There is an element of steam involved, and often electricity, but no one truly knows how they run. Bacon only passed on the secret of their construction to certain animals and to Nemo. The animals can’t explain it well enough, and Nemo has never shared.”

  “Bacon?” said John. “Do you mean Roger Bacon, the Franciscan friar? He was a Caretaker too?”

  Tummeler nodded. “As I be telling you—always good eggs they be, those Oxford scowlers.”

  The Curious Diversity passed through an immense stone gate, bracketed by two equally massive statues. The statues’ left hands were outstretched in a gesture of warding; their right hands were held closer to the breast in a gesture of beckoning.

  “Th’ Great Kings of Paralon,” said Tummeler. “There be two outside each of the gates as th’ compass spins—east, west, north, and south.”

  “Incredible,” said John.

  “Hah!” said Tummeler. “Wait’ll y’ see th’ Great Hall.”

  When the Silver Throne was first established, Bert explained as they traveled, Arthur ruled from a modest castle on the island of Avalon. It was his eldest son, Artigel, who moved the seat of rule to Paralon, where he enlisted the Dwarves to build a great city.

  The streets were paved, and as they entered they saw a number of other principles, each of their own unique make, chugging along the roadways. The buildings they passed were white stone and glass, and all were topped with soaring roofs and towers.

  The main castle, which they had sighted from the harbor, was not built atop the plateau, but carved from it, into it, through it. It was a remarkable feat of engineering. Tummeler parked the Curious Diversity on a broad avenue at the intersection of streets below the towering edifice and motioned them to a bridge that led to two great applewood doors.

  “Here,” he said, gesturing with a paw. “I’ll be waitin’ here f’r when all’s said an’ all’s done. One word of warning,” the badger added. “Watch out for one in partic’lar. Th’ one called Arawn, that is. Eldest son of the old Troll King Sarum. He’s a bad ’un. Bad from the get-go, and bad to the core. He’s been calling for a full council for several years, and he has made it no secret that he thinks the time of Men is past, and a new High King should be chosen from one of the other races.

  “It don’t take a scowler,” Tummeler finished, “to guess who he thinks should get the job. Good luck to you all, master scowlers.”

  There were a thousand different races in the Archipelago, Bert explained—more if you included the animals. But only the four great races were allowed to send formal emissaries to the Council: the Trolls, the Goblins, the Elves, and the Dwarves.

  The fifth race, Men, convened the council out of sheer tradition. Despite the occasional conflicts that arose, all of the races respected Arthur’s lineage, and had accorded that respect to the Parliament during the years since the murder of the old king and his family. But they had grown restless, and each race wanted to claim the Silver Throne for their own.

  “Are we going to be allowed?” Charles asked. “We are neither royalty nor emissaries.”

  “We’ll be allowed,” said Bert. “I have some standing with the Parliament, and he, after all,” he said, tapping John on the shoulder, “is the Caretaker.”

  Aven rolled her eyes and cursed under her breath.

  “At least,” Bert added, “he is the bearer of the Imaginarium Geographica. That alone gives him, and you all, a degree of status.”

  John sighed and looked at Bug, who smiled supportively.

  Together, they entered the Great Hall of Paralon.

  Tummeler had not overspoken. The Great Hall was a sight stunning in its grandeur.

  Each entry from the four points of the compass opened through arches a hundred feet high, bracketing a great gallery of boxfront seats. Far, far above, the ceiling ended in a crystal window that may have been set atop the plateau itself. Carved into all of the pillars were alcoves bearing torches, illuminating the entire hall in a brilliant white light. It was, in a word, spectacular.

  “The Winter King will never get the throne,” Jack murmured to Charles.

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” said Jack, “he’d have to repaint everything black.”

  About half of the seats in the gallery were taken. Bert led the companions to a staircase behind one of the pillars on the left, and they climbed to an open cluster of seats about a third of the way up.

  “The central seating is reserved for the human Parliament,” Bert explained. “They’ve yet to arrive, which is good—we’ve not come too late.”

  The elves took up the seats to the right of center; they represented the largest number of delegates from any race. They were slender, fair-haired, and fair-skinned, and they bore the aloof demeanor of a race that rarely saw death.

  The dwarves sat to the left, above and around the companions. They were shorter and stocky, and well armed. Not a single delegate carried less than two short swords, as well as bows and braces of arrows.

  “Keep on their good side,” Bert warned. “They’re a testy lot. Like to pick fights—mostly with elves, though. It’s a height thing.”

  “So, uh, you lot built this place, eh?” Jack said to the dwarf sitting three seats over.

  “Yes,” said the dwarf.

  “Uh, nice work,” said Jack.

  “Humph,” snorted the dwarf.

  Bert raised a hand in greeting and saw the gesture returned by a greasy, gnarled man dressed in elaborate silken robes sitting high in the center of the gallery.

  “Uruk Ko, the Goblin King,” said Bert in explanation. “And entourage.”

  “A Goblin King?” John whispered in distaste.

  “Oh, he’s an affable enough sort,” said Bert. “Stellan—Professor Sigurdsson—and I once shared a long voyage with him in the southern isles on a ship called the Aurora. It was meant to be an exploratory expedition—mapping for the Geographica and whatnot—that somehow turned into an adventure all of its own.

  “But,” he concluded, shrugging, “that’s the sort of thing that happens when the captain is a talking mouse.”

  Directly opposite the goblins in the great hall, sitting low in the gallery, was a bulky, dark-visaged personage that could only have been a troll. Thick, corded arms were folded against a massive chest, which was further plated with heavy leather armor. His bearing and manner, as well as the number of supplicants crowded around his elevated chair, indicated that he was in all likelihood a creature of high status, if not the Troll King himself.

  “I don’t know him,” Bert said. “Those of the Troll race tend to keep to themselves in the eastern isles of the Archipelago.”

  “One guess,” said John. “I’ll bet that’s Tummeler’s Arawn.”

  “Quiet,” said Bert. “The Parliament is arriving.”

  Entering from a fifth entrance between the east and north gates, the representatives of the Parliament were dressed according to the suits in a deck of cards: clubs, spades, diamonds, and hearts. Somberly, they marched in, looking neither right nor left.

  Bert’s brow furrowed as the members of the Parliament filed in and took their seats with the rest of the Council.

  “What is it?” John whispered.

  “Can’t say,” Bert replied. “Something is amiss, although I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  They watched in silence as the elaborately dressed men and women settled into their places in the gallery. At length a shifty yet officious-looking man—the Steward of Paralon, Bert said—strode to the center of the hall and calle
d for order.

  “As Steward of Paralon, I shall oversee these proceedings,” he began. “In the absence of a legitimate heir to the Silver Throne, the Parliament, under my guidance, has ruled Paralon and with it, the Archipelago.

  “Now a claim has been made on the throne. A claim of birthright and blood.”

  At this there was a great deal of murmuring from the gallery. “What’s that about?” John whispered. “I thought all the heirs were dead.”

  “I don’t know,” said Bert. “Listen.”

  “The claim,” the Steward continued, “has been approved by the Parliament. If none dissent, by the end of the day we shall have a new High King.”

  Calls rang out to the Steward, who waited for the cacophony to die down before addressing them again.

  “The claim,” he said, “has been made by one of Arthur’s own kinsmen, and as such ought not to be disputed. While he has had no previous standing with this body, he has nevertheless come to be known by most of you…

  “…as the Winter King.”

  “Wait,” boomed a voice. It was Bert. “May I speak?”

  The Steward grimaced. “The Parliament…,” he began.

  “The Parliament,” said Bert, “called a council to debate the matter of succession. Whether or not there is an heir, as you say, we should be allowed to address them.”

  “By what right,” asked the Steward, “do you speak?”

  “I am one of the Caretakers of the Imaginarium Geographica,” said Bert, “and the other sits beside me.”

  This brought many nods, mostly friendly, from the throng. The Steward shook his head. “I appreciate your desire to participate,” he began to say.

  “Let him speak,” came a gruff voice. It was Uruk Ko, the Goblin King.

  The Steward could bluff and bluster past most of those assembled; he could not, however, stare down an actual king of an entire race. Reluctantly, he bowed and stepped to the side of the hall, casting nervous glances up at the Parliament members.

  Bert stood in the center of the Great Hall and faced the gallery. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Parliament,” he began, “I have had direct and recent experience with the man called the Winter King….” But before he could continue, he was cut off by the King of Diamonds, who stood and shook his fist at the other man.

  “Unacceptable,” said the king. “The Parliament cannot accept the proposal.”

  “Did he make a proposal?” John whispered to Charles. “If so, I missed it.”

  Bert seemed similarly puzzled. “Your Majesty, if I have presumed too much—”

  “Yes, entirely out of the question,” the king continued, as if he had not heard Bert at all. “A Walrus as High King is preposterous. And everyone knows a Carpenter cannot be High Queen—if we allowed that, then who would organize all of the dances?”

  “This is very strange,” said Charles.

  “Shush,” said Jack. “Look—another king is rising to speak.”

  The King of Spades raised a hand. “Please don’t fire the cannons,” he said, “or I shall never be able to remove the potatoes from my ears.”

  The dwarves had begun to murmur, as if they too sensed all was not well.

  “They’re all mad,” said Jack. “What is this?”

  “I don’t know,” said Aven. “Something is very wrong.”

  The Steward was about to escort Bert off the floor, when the Queen of Clubs’s head caught fire. The flames shot high into the air, and yet she remained seated, hands folded, a gentle smile on her face, as if nothing were amiss.

  The murmuring that began with the dwarves had now spread to the elves and goblins. And the trolls were beginning to unsheathe their weapons.

  The Queen of Hearts, a portly, dark-haired woman, picked up a croquet mallet from under her seat and smashed the King of Hearts in the chest. “I hate roses,” she said. “They never speak when spoken to.”

  Bert looked around, but the Steward had disappeared. All throughout the seats, the delegates were rising to their feet, shouting.

  One of the trolls overcame his forced decorum and threw a mace directly at the Queen of Hearts. With the impact, her chest split open and spilled a cascade of wheels and cogs onto the floor of the hall, showering the nearby delegates in an explosion of sparks.

  The Parliament members were not human at all. They were clockwork constructs.

  “A fraud!” boomed the Troll Prince Arawn, standing and shaking his armored fist. “The Council is a fraud!”

  In moments the entire Great Hall of Paralon had erupted in chaos.

  “Quickly!” Tummeler shouted. “Master scowlers! Get in, get in!”

  Chapter Seven

  The Forbidden Path

  The smoke was acrid, and it filled John’s nose, mouth, and lungs. Desperately, he covered his head with his arms and burrowed more deeply into the muddy French soil.

  The shelling had been relentless. And just as it seemed the travails could grow no worse, the telltale fog of the Gas came wafting malevolently through the shattered trees.

  Screaming, John leaped to his feet and began to run, only to be caught up in the rolls of concertina wire that had been strung along the rear trenches. All around him were bloated bodies of the dead, lying in a landscape blackened, stripped bare of life. Helplessly, he could only watch as the Gas crept closer, accompanied by the increasingly thunderous sound of the artillery: Boom. Boom. Boom…

  Boom.

  “John!” said a voice he knew, but it was not that of any soldier in his battalion. “John, for God’s sake, pull yourself together!”

  John shook his head, blinking, as he came to his senses and his vision cleared. Charles was grasping him by the shoulders, shaking him and shouting his name. His other companions were making their way to the exit under the sparse cover of the boxfronts of the seats. Incredulous, he looked around at the maelstrom of weapon play, flames, grappling bodies, and furious shouting that had moments before been the Grand Council.

  There was no sign of the goblins; and the last of the elves were just departing under the cover of the northern arch. The dwarves had spread across the gallery and had begun hurling explosive bundles at the troll delegates, as more and more trolls flooded through the southern and eastern entrances. The trolls had clambered into the center seats and had smashed the members of the Clockwork Parliament to pieces. In the uppermost part of the gallery, bellowing directions to his arriving reinforcements, was the Troll Prince Arawn.

  More than one treachery had been planned for that day, it seemed.

  “That’s why there were so many ships in the harbor,” Aven said to Bert. “The Trolls planned a revolt no matter what happened in the Council.”

  Bert nodded in agreement, as he and Charles supported the dazed John under his shoulders and moved lower toward the western arch. “The Steward of Paralon just beat them to the punch,” he said. “This may be the Archipelago’s undoing.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Jack said, scowling at John.

  “The explosions,” Charles said. “He’s gone into a bit of battle shock.”

  “I’ll be all right,” John said, attempting to regain his footing. “Really.”

  Aven glared and Jack’s eyes narrowed in disgust as John shook off Charles and Bert’s assistance. “Let’s get out of here,” Aven hissed through gritted teeth, “before the whole place comes down around our ears.”

  The companions raced down the corridor toward the avenue where they’d left Tummeler and his vehicle. Around them members of all the races ran about, trying to ascertain what had happened. Behind them, in the Great Hall, there were more explosions, and the smell of smoke.

  “The trolls will almost certainly have blockaded the harbor,” said Aven. “Our best bet is to try to get out of the city proper, and then circle back when the tumult’s died down.”

  “If it dies down,” said Jack.

  “What of the Indigo Dragon?” asked Charles, panting. “Will it be torched?”

  “No,
” said Aven. “She can take care of herself. She’ll already be out of harm’s way.”

  They reached the end of the corridor, bursting through the doors and into the open, where Tummeler already had the Curious Diversity waiting, its engine running.

  “Quickly!” Tummeler shouted. “Master scowlers! Get in, get in!”

  In a confusion of limbs the companions threw themselves into the seats of the principle. “North!” Aven shouted. “Take us north!”

  Tires squealing, Tummeler pulled onto the northern thoroughfare and sped away from the towers.

  It took several minutes to actually escape the confines of the walled city, and several minutes more to pass the last of the outposts where they might have been stopped. As luck would have it, all of the guards and sentries that might have held them in their flight had gone toward the heart of the conflict at the Great Hall.

  John’s earlier panic had subsided into a feverish slumber, interrupted only by occasional shakes of his limbs.

  “Fever dreams, that is,” Tummeler said, looking over his shoulder and clucking his tongue. “What ails master John?”

  Talking in turns, Bert and Aven explained to Tummeler what had taken place at the Grand Council. When they got to the part about the Parliament, the small mammal cut in and changed the subject.

  “Ah, I knowed there be trouble afoot, once I heard it wuz Arawn come t’ speak fer th’ Trolls,” said Tummeler. “But enough of th’ worries. I be taking you somewheres calmer, somewheres safe.”

  As he said this, he steered the Curious Diversity off of the main road and onto an unpaved tributary that sprouted off to the west. It led to the mouth of a canyon that creased the upper part of the plateau line, and was, Bert pointed out, supposed to be off limits to everyone.

  “Not t’ th’ animals,” said Tummeler. “This be a road known to us and few others, and since the royal family was kilt, only to us.”

  “A forbidden path?” said Charles. “Why is it forbidden?”

  “Because,” said Bert, “it leads to the remnants of the old city, the first city, which was built when Artigel sat upon the Silver Throne. The greater city was expanded upon and through the mountain when the first alliance with the Dwarves was made, but the original still exists—in fact, it houses the royal archive and library, unless I’m mistaken.”