Here, There Be Dragons

by James A. Owen

  “You really need to readjust your priorities,” said Charles.

  “Look who’s talking,” Jack said, pointing at the hapless Steward, who was beginning to awaken.

  “Point taken,” said Charles.

  Bert was faring the worst. He had more clothes on than the rest of them—clothes that had become immediately waterlogged.

  “I’ve got you,” said Bug, lending assistance to the older man.

  “Thank you,” said Bert. “How did you manage to free yourself, anyway?”

  Bug grinned. “Easy. Swimming lessons on Avalon. The Morgaine used to tie my hands behind my back every morning and make the Green Knight row me to the middle of the pond, where I’d have to free myself and swim back.”

  “That’s terrible,” said Bert,

  “Naw,” said Bug. “The only really hard part was getting out of the burlap bag.”

  “Jack!” Aven shouted. “John needs your help!”

  John was indeed in trouble. He was treading water, but he had his arms wrapped around his coat, which he’d folded into a bundle that he was clutching tightly to his chest. This position made it all but impossible to keep his face above water.

  With strong, sure strokes, Jack reached his companion in seconds and flipped him over into a dead man’s carry. John refused to relinquish his coat and continued swallowing water for his trouble.

  “I think he’s gone into some kind of shock again,” said Jack. “He’s not going to be much help, and I can’t carry us both for very long.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have to,” said Bert, pointing into the moonlit night sky. “Look.”

  High above them, circling, observing, were several immense birds, each with a wingspan as broad as the deck of the Indigo Dragon.

  “Are they birds?” said Charles. “I’ve never seen the like.”

  “Bloody big birds,” said Jack.

  “Steady on, lads,” said Bert. “They’re friends—I think,” he added quickly.

  Seven great crimson and silver cranes glided down at an angle crosscurrent to the breeze, and one by one picked up each of the companions in tapered claws that were enormously strong. The rescue complete, the great avians turned and flew swiftly toward the southern horizon, while below, the last remnants of what had been the Indigo Dragon sank beneath the waves.

  The companions awoke one by one to find themselves on a beach, both cooled and drying from a gentle breeze that blew from the south. There was no sign of the giant birds that had rescued them from the water.

  They were spread across some fifty yards of sand, well away from the high-water mark. Their rescuers had obviously intended for them to be safely up out of harm’s way, where they could sleep without fear of being pulled back in by the receding tide.

  John was lying outstretched, drowsing, his head resting on his jacket and his face pointed toward the rising sun.

  Bert was several yards to his right, snoring peacefully, and had even somehow managed to retain his hat.

  A bit farther on to the left, and much to Jack’s chagrin, Aven had fallen asleep with her head nestled in the crook of Bug’s arm, while in between, he and Charles were clustered with the Steward of Paralon, who was watching them from half-closed eyes.

  “All right, you git,” said Charles, sitting upright and grabbing the Steward by the lapels. “Awake is awake and asleep is asleep, but I’ll bash your head in with a coconut before I’ll let you spy on us for that king of yours.”

  At this the Steward set up such a mournful howling that everyone was soon awake, and even feeling a bit sympathetic.

  “You’ve put quite a scare into him, Charles,” said John, yawning, “but can’t you get him to shut up?”

  “What was it the Winter King called him?” said Jack. “Maggot?”

  “Magwich, if you please,” sniffed the Steward. “It’s Magwich. And I was his prisoner, just as you were.”

  Aven had awakened and blinked sleepily a few times before realizing what position she’d ended up in and with whom. Quickly she and Bug stood up and stretched, hoping the others wouldn’t notice that they were both blushing.

  “So, uh, how did you sleep?” asked Bug.

  “I’m wet,” said Aven. “I hate sleeping in wet clothes.”

  “You look good in wet clothes,” Bug offered.

  “Oh, shut up,” said Aven, unable to hide the quick grin as she spoke. She walked over to the loose circle that was forming around the Steward. “What is this idiot yammering about?”

  “He claims he was a prisoner of the Winter King,” said Charles. “Which doesn’t explain why he wasn’t tied up like the rest of us. Nor does it explain the comment about having been ‘useful.’”

  “What are you all looking at me for?” said Magwich. “I was his hostage, not his collaborator!”

  “Mmm-hmm,” said John. “As if we’re likely to believe you.”

  “He used me!” Magwich wailed. “I didn’t want to do it, but he made me!”

  “It is possible,” John admitted. “After all, Tummeler and the animals were used in just that way too.”

  Bert nodded. “There’s would be little point in hiding his allegiance to the Winter King now,” he said. “Whatever has gone before, it’s obvious he was intended to die along with the rest of us.”

  “Sure,” said Aven, “because the Winter King no longer needed him. He said as much. I say we just kill him and spare ourselves the trouble of watching our backs.”

  “Seconded,” said Charles.

  “Kind of bloodthirsty, don’t you think, Charles?” said John.

  “I’m an editor,” said Charles. “I have to make decisions like that all the time.”

  “You should be looking to that one, if you want to root out a traitor,” the Steward said, pointing an accusing finger at Jack. “The Winter King obviously had something particular to say to him.”

  “I don’t even understand what he whispered to me,” Jack retorted. “And you saw the rest—he asked me to join him, and I told him no.”

  “But you thought about it,” Magwich said.

  “I didn’t see you tied up,” Jack retorted. “Your hands were free. If it was so bad aboard the Black Dragon, why didn’t you just throw yourself overboard?”

  “I hate the water,” said Magwich. “Can’t swim. Hate all this business with ships. If the Winter King hadn’t needed me for that little deception at Paralon, he could just as well have left me in London—and believe me, I’d have been much better off.”

  “Speaking of Paralon, you seemed more like an advocate of his than a hostage,” said Charles. “And…wait. Did you say you were in London?”

  “I knew it!” John exclaimed, jostling Charles aside and coming nose-to-nose with Magwich. “I knew I’d seen you before.”

  He turned to his companions. “He was in London—and Staffordshire before that. He was on the train with me, and I saw him again at the docks, with the Wendigo.”

  Another puzzle piece fell into place. “You were the one who led the Wendigo to the club,” John said to the cowering Magwich. “We had to flee for our lives, and it was all your fault!”

  The terrified Steward stammered in protest. “Not to kill you! Just to find the book! That’s all! All he ever wanted was the book!”

  “Did you also lead him to the professor?” said Bert. “Did you help him murder my friend?”

  “Oh, no,” Magwich said with some relief. “I was only supposed to lead him to this one—John—but he didn’t have the Geographica either. You all managed to escape from him anyway, so what’s the problem?”

  John turned to Charles. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Go ahead and kill him.”

  Magwich shrieked again and started to run until he realized John’s suggestion wasn’t intended to be taken seriously—mostly, anyway.

  “None of this matters,” said Aven, “because he got what he was looking for. The Winter King has the Imaginarium Geographica.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” said
John. He took his bundled jacket from underneath his head and began to unfold it.

  “If you hadn’t been so determined not to lose your coat,” said Jack, “I wouldn’t have had to save you, you know.”

  “Don’t think I’m not grateful, but wasn’t the coat I was trying to save,” John retorted. “It was what I’d wrapped inside.”

  John pulled open the flaps to reveal a slightly damp but otherwise unharmed Imaginarium Geographica.

  All of the companions crowded around him with exclamations of surprise and astonished whoops, save for Magwich, who stood a distance away, sniffing in disdain at the camaraderie of the others.

  “My lad,” Bert said, beaming, “today you have done the role of Caretaker proud.”

  “Bravo, John,” said Charles.

  “I’ll admit, I’m impressed,” said Aven. “But if you had the Geographica, what was wrapped in the oilcloth the Winter King stole?”

  Jack realized it before the others, and convulsed with laughter. “Of course! It was the right shape, the right size…”

  John grinned. “I thought it might buy us a few minutes, but I never really expected it to work.

  “I gave him Tummeler’s recipe book.”

  “So for the moment,” Charles said, “we appear to have regained the upper hand, at least with regard to what he wants and what we have. But the question still remains: Why does the Winter King want the Geographica so badly that he would destroy the Archipelago to get his hands on it?”

  As one, the companions all turned to look at Magwich, who sighed in resignation.

  “The Ring of Power,” Magwich said sullenly. “He needs the Geographica to find the High King’s ring.”

  The companions exchanged astonished looks, and Charles crouched down in front of the pouting Steward of Paralon. “What does he need with the High King’s ring?” he asked. “What makes it so important?”

  “The dragons,” said Magwich. “It says as much inside your book there. The proper summoning, read by the High King while wielding the Ring of Power, calls the dragons.”

  “So that is the real power of the Silver Throne,” said Bert. “The ability to control the dragons would be the ability to control the border between the worlds, if not the entirety of the Archipelago itself.”

  “Precisely.” Magwich nodded. “The Winter King believes the location of the ring is hidden within the Geographica. Used together with the summoning, he thinks the dragons would return to the service of the new High King—himself.”

  “Well, he’s out of luck twice then,” said Jack, tossing a bauble from his vest pocket into the air and then catching it again, “because I have the High King’s ring right here.”

  “What?” Magwich shrieked, abruptly standing up. “You mean you’ve had it all along?”

  “Since that mess at Paralon,” said Jack. “We were given it by—”

  “By an ally of the old king,” Bert interjected. “But remember—we were warned that it may not be what we think it is.”

  “I wonder if that’s why the Winter King tried so hard to convince you to join him,” Charles said to Jack. “Maybe he sensed that you had it.”

  “Not likely,” said Aven. “He thought he was taking the Geographica. Why leave the ring behind when that was part of the reason he needed the Geographica to begin with?”

  “I think I’ve found the summoning he’s talking about,” said John, who’d been leafing through the Geographica. “It does say something about a ‘Ring of Power,’ and calling on the dragons, but it’s in some combination of Latin and Egyptian. It’s going to take a while to work it out.”

  “What else is new?” said Aven. “At least you kept him from getting the atlas,” she finished in what was practically a compliment. “You’re not nearly as stupid as I thought you were.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said John.

  “Not to interrupt your discussion, Sir John,” said Bug, who’d been observing the proceedings from a distance, “but a very, very large cat is watching us.”

  An immense golden creature, mane flowing to and fro with the breeze, was sitting just inside the treeline about thirty feet away. It watched them with a lazy, disinterested expression, as if it came across marooned travelers every other day.

  “That’s not a cat,” Jack said, his voice as still as he could manage. “That’s a lion.”

  “Oh!” Bug said. “The Green Knight told me about them. He said lions were called Kings of the Forest.”

  Before any of the companions could stop him, Bug strode quickly toward the great cat, hand outstretched. Instead of turning the boy into an opportune snack, as they half expected would happen, the lion allowed Bug to stroke its mane, then scratch behind its ears. A low rumbling sound began to emanate from the beast, and after a moment they realized it was purring.

  “I hit my head,” said Charles. “I hit my head in the wreck, and I’m seeing things again.”

  The companions’ attention had been so drawn by the lion that they only just realized it was not alone. Throughout the woods, under trees and in them, were hundreds of cats, and they were all watching the arrivals on the beach.

  “I can’t tell if we’re in trouble or not,” said Charles, “but I’m glad Bug made friends with the big one first.”

  “Cats…,” Bert mused. “An island of cats…That sounds very familiar to me. John? May we consult the Geographica?”

  “Sure.”

  They opened the book, and John handed it to Bert. “I know it’s here somewhere,” said Bert. “It’ll be among the pages in the back, near the map to the Cartographer’s island—if I’m right, this is one of the elder islands.”

  As they looked, the others tried not to notice the fact that the cats came in all shapes and sizes—including more than a few in the predator class, a fact that Jack mentioned to Charles.

  “Aren’t all cats predators, though?” Charles responded.

  “Probably,” said Jack. “But this is the first time I’ve ever wondered if I classified as prey.”

  After a few minutes, Bert thumped a triumphant fist on an open page. “There! I knew it!”

  He summoned the others to where he and John were examining the Geographica and pointed to a map of a roughly oval-shaped island. “I think I know where we are,” he began.

  “You are on our home,” a voice, amused but welcoming, said from the trees. “Uninvited, but welcome nonetheless.”

  The cats parted like clouds of dust in a monsoon, and an ancient man, gray-haired and white-bearded, moved through them to the beach. He was carrying a gnarled staff, which spouted a flame from its top. Seven other men, the youngest of whom seemed of an age with Bug and Jack, were also approaching from the treeline.

  “I am Ordo Maas,” said the ancient man. “Welcome to Byblos.”

  It was a tradition common throughout cultures of the world to revere the elders of a society, and since the days of Methuselah, it had simply been assumed that the older a person was, the more life experience they’d had: Therefore, they were probably wiser than anyone else.

  By that measure, John surmised, Ordo Maas might have been wiser than every other living being on Earth. He emanated the aura of such advanced age that one could suppose he might have predated the great Mesopotamian cities of antiquity, the Chinese Empire, and several of the lesser mountain ranges like the Andes and the Alps (being merely a contemporary of the Himalayas). At the very least, he was probably wiser than anyone John had ever met, or was likely to meet, short of Adam himself.

  If there had been any question as to whether or not Ordo Maas deserved a large measure of respect, it was obliterated by Bert’s response to his appearance. He whipped off his hat and threw himself prostrate on the ground in front of the ancient man. Even Samaranth had not received this measure of outright worshipfulness.

  Aven hesitated only an instant before dropping to a slightly more dignified kneeling position, which Jack, John, Charles, and Bug quickly emulated. Only Magwich remained standing, but he
seemed to be frightened out of his wits and was hunched over, trembling (which Charles figured was just as good).

  Ordo Maas frowned and covered his eyes. “This is why I gave up being a king,” he said, shaking his head. “Everyone wants to waste time bowing, and scraping, and ‘if-you-please’-ing, and at my age, that just won’t do. Please,” he finished, tapping Bert with the torch-topped staff he was holding, “do get up.”

  “My apologies,” said Bert. “I didn’t think it would hurt to start with the formalities, just in case.”

  “Formalities?” said John.

  “This is the island of Byblos, my boy,” Bert said. “I’d heard of it since the first day I became a Caretaker.”

  “Begging your pardon,” said Charles, “but we’ve been to Paralon, and as impressive islands go, it’s a pretty hard act to follow.”

  “Paralon?” said Ordo Maas. “Tell me, how is my good friend Mr. Tummeler? Is he still writing books?”

  “You know Tummeler?” said Charles.

  “Very well,” said Ordo Maas. “I know all of the Children of the Earth.”

  “How is that?”

  “Because,” said the eldest of the seven men accompanying Ordo Maas, “all of the Children of the Earth—the animals—are descended from those he brought here, thousands of years ago.”

  “Yes,” said Bert. “That’s what I was trying to say. While there were wilder lands, occupied by creatures that were the precursors of the other races scattered throughout the islands, the true beginning of the Archipelago was here, on the island of Byblos. What Samaranth is to the dragons, Ordo Maas is to men.”

  “Well, now I really feel old,” said Ordo Maas. “Raising the animals was easy—teaching them to speak was much harder.”

  “In that case,” said Charles, “I’m very pleased to meet you indeed.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” said Ordo Maas. “Please,” he continued, gesturing with the staff toward the slight path in the woods from which they had come, “let us repair to my home, and you may rest, and sup. And as we walk, you can tell me about what my friend Tummeler has been up to.”