“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 fr
om 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
The Return of the Dragons
The Winter King stepped onto the battlefield just as all of the torches began to go out, and he smiled broadly in response. His enemies would be doubly handicapped now. Fighting in the dark, against warriors who could not be killed. If they were wise, they’d drop their weapons and run for their ships, which would give them a temporary respite at best. As long as he had the ability to create more Shadow-Born, it would only be a matter of time before he eventually got around to conquering all the lands in the Archipelago.
Both the battle and the conquest, not to mention his inevitable expansion into the larger world beyond, would have been faster had he been able to summon the dragons. But there was no use complaining about what might have been when all he needed now was patience.
He’d waited for things before. He could wait again. Raising his sword, he shouted a battle cry and ran to join the Shadow-Born.
In minutes the elves had lost almost a quarter of their soldiers, and the dwarves, scarcely less.
Dousing the torches had helped, but it was only a remedy, not a cure. The Shadow-Born could push through archers like stones through water, and only heavy weapons gave them any pause at all.
“John,” said Artus breathlessly, “those aren’t stars…”
Eledir ordered his troops to pull back, but Falladay Finn had fallen, his shadow torn away by a Shadow-Born. Only the swift actions of the dwarves, and the self-sacrifice of several of them, allowed his limp, pallid form to be taken to safety.
Charys, leading the centaurs, took over the front lines. They had the greatest reach, and using pikes and long bardiches, could hold the line of Shadow-Born from advancing too quickly. Under their flanks, the Dwarven, faun, and animal archers held back the Wendigo in a similar fashion with a never-ending hail of arrows.
They were defending with darkness; Jack decided they needed to create an offense of light.
Jack had taken a few moments to examine Nemo’s weaponry aboard the Nautilus, and he’d found among the various hydraulic and steam-powered weaponry a few devices of a more conventional nature, which he could adapt to better use. Including, namely, the ingredients for gunpowder.
Nemo had been running back and forth, guiding the efforts of the mythbeasts and animals, taking shots at the Wendigo when he could. Jack yelled at him and they dropped behind a hillock to examine Jack’s contraption.
“It’s called a grenade,” Jack said.
Nemo was incredulous. “There are reasons I don’t use explosives in warfare, young Jack,” he said. “They’re too unpredictable.”
“In your world, maybe,” said Jack, “but not in mine. This is my kind of weapon, from the real world. If Shadow-Born can be pushed back, they can be blown up.”
Nemo looked unconvinced. “Do you have any experience making this sort of device?”
“I’ve read a lot about them,” said Jack, “and I used the cannon on the Indigo Dragon pretty effectively.”
Nemo started to rise in protest, but Jack cut him off.
“This is the place where imagination counts for as much as everything else, right?” said Jack. “So I improvised a little. It’ll still work. I’ve been improvising since I came here—and I always seem to come through.”
Nemo bowed his head, considering, then met Jack’s eyes. “All right. What do we need to do?”
“Sound a retreat from the valley,” said Jack. “Get our troops coming up the hill, then light the fuse and fling it into the center of the enemy force, at the lowest point. If it works, I can fashion several more from what you have aboard the Nautilus.”
Nemo seemed impressed, then took a closer look.
“I don’t think there’s a long enough fuse,” he said, examining Jack’s handiwork. “What if—”
“Are you questioning me?” Jack shot back. “Just do as I tell you, and everything will be fine.”
Nemo gave him a long, considered look, then nodded. “Aven trusts you, and so I cannot do less. Get more of them ready. We’re going to need them.”
Nemo conferred with Charys and Eledir, and the retreat was sounded. The allies turned and ran up and out of the small valley, away from the carnage that was taking place among their fallen comrades.
The enemy wasted no time in surging forward, only now they were under the direct command of the Winter King, who led the charge.
Jack was running down the hill past the retreating centaurs with the second grenade as Nemo lit the first device and threw it directly at the Winter King.
The charge exploded prematurely, almost as soon as it was thrown, showering the phalanx of Wendigo and Shadow-Born in dirt, but nothing more. The effect on the captain of the Nautilus was a different matter.
The right half of Nemo’s torso, including his arm and shoulder, was completely gone, blown away by the charge. His face was burned and blistered, and the corneas of his eyes had been utterly scorched. He was blind, and dying in agony.
All because he had trusted Jack.
Jack ran to his fallen comrade and dropped to his knees. With the retreat, he and Nemo were alone on the battlefield with several thousa
nd of the enemy approaching fast. Jack fumbled with the second grenade, but before he could light it, the Shadow-Born were on him.
Without a pause, the Shadow-Born rushed past and continued up the hillside.
Jack looked around wildly, confused, as thousands of the cold, black forms flowed around him. Even the Wendigo did little more than pause to sniff at Nemo before moving on. Then the Winter King was there, looking down at him.
In answer to Jack’s silent plea, the Winter King spoke, a cruel light glittering in his eyes.
“They left you, Jack, because Shadow-Born do not consume their own.”
With a cold smile and a wink, the Winter King ran past.
As he stared on in horror, Jack’s shadow flickered back into view, then solidified. But it was too late—the damage had been done. Nemo was dead.
Jack knelt in the blood-soaked earth and began to scream.
Charles and Tummeler had to twice submerge themselves in the surf to avoid random groups of Wendigo that had caught their scent and come looking. Being completely under water hid their smell, but did little for their spirits.
Nevertheless, they had managed to make their way around the entirety of the east side and had drawn up alongside the Black Dragon itself. Charles’s biggest concern had been identifying the tent of the Winter King, but that proved not to be a problem. It was not only the largest tent in the encampment, but also the only one with posted guards—two nasty-looking Wendigo.
“That’ll be what we’re looking for, no doubt about it,” Charles whispered. “I’m sure Pandora’s Box is inside. Why else bother posting guards on a tent behind an army the size of the one he’s got?”
“Agreed, Master Scowler,” said Tummeler. “So—when we gets inside, what’s y’r plan? Do we try t’ steal th’ kettle, or just cap it here?”
“Steal it, if we can,” said Charles. “I haven’t the faintest idea how we’d go about closing it. There’s bound to be some sort of magic involved, so I doubt it’ll be as simple as nailing a board to the top and adding a ‘Do Not Touch’ sign.”
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