Here, There Be Dragons

by James A. Owen

  “They will fight you,” said John. “All the races of the Archipelago will fight you. They’ll never let you take the Silver Throne—not while a true heir still lives.”

  A wicked smile spread across the Winter King’s face, and John realized with horror that that was precisely what he had in mind.

  Protectively, he moved in front of Artus, placing himself between the two kings.

  “You can try to kill him,” John said, “but that still will not make you king—not of a throne that has been passed along the only bloodline to have the mandate of the Parliament.”

  “But I do have the mandate,” said the Winter King. “The blood that flows through his veins flows though my own.”

  “You’re a member of the royal line?” John said in astonishment. “I don’t believe you! It’s a lie!”

  The Winter King chuckled. “No, it isn’t.” He paced slowly in front of John and Artus, taking great pleasure in the effects of his revelations. “Do you think the Parliament would spend decades locked in debate, or even entertain the notion of a usurper taking the throne, if I didn’t have a legitimate claim?

  “No,” he continued, “they have been unable to choose a new High King precisely because there was one of royal blood who could block all comers—myself—but whom they in their foolishness could not bear to appoint.”

  “How could you be an heir?” asked Artus. “All of the king’s family—my family—were killed.”

  The Winter King laughed. “Boy, I am much older than you give me credit for—in fact, I am almost as old as that fool shipbuilder Thoth, or Deucalion, or whatever it is he calls himself now.

  “I am even older than the Silver Throne itself,” he continued, “and I swore to your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather that his heirs would one day kneel before me. And here you are.”

  Suddenly, the Winter King struck out with his sword, creating a deep, brutal gash across John’s chest. The Caretaker screamed and dropped to his knees, trying futilely to draw his own sword. The Winter King kicked it away, then gestured for the approaching Magwich to take it up and hold the sword over John.

  Artus managed to get his own short sword free of the sheath, but he was no match for the Winter King’s prowess. In seconds the heir to the Silver Throne was weaponless and helpless before his attacker.

  “It’s ironic,” said the Winter King, “that I should be holding a blade to your throat twenty years after I held it at the throat of your grandfather, and your father before him.”

  Artus looked up. “You killed my family?”

  The Winter King nodded. “That’s what I find ironic—the entire Archipelago believed your grandfather to be an evil man, when he was actually one of the greatest kings ever to rule here. His only mistake was in placing too high a value on protecting his family.”

  “What do you mean?” said John, who was still breathing hard, although the bleeding from his wound had slowed. “Archibald killed his family.”

  “So the story goes,” said the Winter King. “But in truth, all he ever did wrong was overstep his bounds, when he asked that idiot to steal Pandora’s Box. That was a forbidden magic—and its use brought with it a mandatory expulsion from the Archipelago.”

  “Then why did he risk using it?” said Artus. “What was so terrible that he would risk losing even the support of the dragons?”

  The Winter King grinned. “That would be me. I had been in exile myself for many years in his world,” he said, flicking his hook at John, “and had only recently returned after discovering the secret of passage to the Archipelago. I built the Black Dragon and went to Paralon to demand that Archibald relinquish the throne.

  “He equivocated and stalled long enough to find a greater magic with which he could defeat me—Pandora’s Box. And when he opened it, he lost the mandate of the dragons, and that fool Samaranth took his ring, when he should have taken the box instead.”

  “Why didn’t Samaranth just let him use the box?” said Artus.

  “Because,” John cut in, spitting flecks of blood as he spoke, “even the king has to abide by the rules—and using evil to fight evil was not the way of the Silver Throne.”

  “Well put, if misguided,” said the Winter King. “Archibald had lost the ability to summon the dragons—but would not name me his successor. So I killed his family, one by one, and then the king himself. I thought I’d gotten them all,” he said to Artus, “but it seems I was mistaken.

  “And now I will offer you one small, final mercy. The same one I offered your grandfather, which he refused.”

  He sheathed his sword and stepped closer to Artus, extending his hand, palm down. “Kneel before me, boy. Swear fealty to me. Make me the rightful heir. And I will give you a quick and painless death. Refuse, and your agonies shall be unending.

  “Kneel and swear fealty to your ancestor….

  “Kneel, and swear by my true name—Mordred.”

  “Mordred!” John said, eyes blazing. “I don’t believe it!”

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe,” said Mordred. “All I need is his oath—and then I shall be king of your world, too.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  Aven stood just outside the circle of stones. She was holding two swords—one pointed at Magwich, and one pointed at Mordred.

  “Ah—the Pirate Queen,” Mordred said, redrawing his sword. “If you don’t mind, we’re dealing with men’s business here, and we’d like our privacy.”

  “Not going to happen,” Aven said again. “Everyone in the Archipelago will know what you’ve done, and there’s no way in hell you’ll ever sit on the Silver Throne.”

  “There are two of us, and one of you,” Mordred said.

  “Two of us, and one of you,” Magwich repeated with shaky bravado.

  “How can you get to me before I cut the young king’s throat?”

  “You won’t cut his throat,” said Aven, “because you need him to swear the oath to you—and he won’t.”

  “He will,” said Mordred, “if I order Magwich to kill his friend the Caretaker.”

  Aven looked at Magwich. “Listen to me, Steward. Whatever else happens here, I will kill you. Whether or not John dies, or Artus dies, or I die—I will kill you with the last of my strength, no matter what.”

  Magwich screamed and dropped John’s sword, then ran down the hill, shrieking and madly waving his arms.

  “Well?” said Aven, turning back to Mordred, as John scrambled to his feet and retrieved his sword. “Two against one, in our favor this time.”

  “But my sword is at the boy king’s throat,” said Mordred, “so it seems we have a stalemate.”

  “Actually,” a deep voice rumbled from above, “this is what’s called a ‘checkmate.’”

  Samaranth dropped out of the sky, and with one swift motion disarmed Mordred and carried him back into the air, clutching the Winter King in a great gnarled claw. He stroked the air with ancient wings, and they hovered almost motionless high over the edge of the waterfall.

  “You were a terrible student,” said Samaranth, shaking his head. “I understand your ambition, and your desire for greatness, but you’ve handled things so poorly these last twenty years since your return, that I think it’s time for you to step offstage, so to speak, and let others direct the course of affairs in the Archipelago.”

  “You don’t have the right to command who rules in the Archipelago,” said Mordred.

  “Neither do you—but Archibald deserved better than to die. And you’ll die yourself long before you ever have a chance to sit on the Silver Throne.”

  “I’ll live to suck the marrow from your bones, you old fool,” Mordred spat. With a sudden motion, he drew a wicked-looking dagger from one of his boots and stabbed it into the great dragon’s claw. The dagger broke off at the hilt.

  Samaranth sighed.

  “It’s not that I dislike you, Mordred,” the dragon said, “because I do like you, a great deal.
But at heart, you really are a stupid little man.”

  Samaranth opened his claw.

  Mordred—the Winter King—fell soundlessly into the void and disappeared into the darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  All Their Roads Before Them

  The remainder of the night was spent in caring for the wounded and obtaining oaths of fealty from the Goblin King and Troll commanders, and all of the things that must be attended to at the conclusion of a war—which, all things considered, was far preferable to going through the same motions from the losing side. However, despite the return of the dragons and the victory over the Winter King, the struggle for control of the Archipelago was not yet over.

  Arawn, the Troll Prince, had claimed the Silver Throne for himself and had overrun Paralon with his own armies, while sending the rest to fight with the Winter King. It would take planning and the support of the other races to regain command of Paralon—but given the ease with which the dragons had dispatched the trolls the night before, it was less a matter of “if” than “when.”

  The Wendigo, the worst and most fearsome of the enemy force, had been cornered against the base of the western bluff by Charys and his centaurs—and thus had an unobstructed view of the fate of the Winter King. Their response was unexpected. They turned from the centaurs, howling, teeth gnashing, and began to flee in the only direction available to them.

  “The dragons have returned…whether or not we stay is up to you.”

  As they went over the edge, they continued to howl and screech in rage, but the roaring of the waterfall quickly overwhelmed the sound, and no one heard them as they fell.

  That left only one question to be resolved: What exactly had happened to the Shadow-Born?

  “I think they may be able to tell us,” said Bert, pointing down the shoreline.

  Approaching along the sand from the east was a very unusual sight: Charles, walking slowly, was pulling on straps of leather attached to a makeshift wooden sled. In the center of the sled was the unmistakable shape of Pandora’s Box—a great black kettle, lidded with a gleaming bronze shield. Tummeler was perched on top, munching away on a stale muffin.

  “Hello, Master Scowlers!” Tummeler said. “We brung…brang…bringed…We got Aunt Dora’s Box!”

  Bert, Aven, Artus, and John ran over and joyfully embraced their two friends. “You did it!” Artus exclaimed. “You closed the box!”

  “Well, that was the plan, wasn’t it?” said Charles. “It would have looked bad for us if you’d asked us to do this one thing and we let you down.”

  “Right,” said Tummeler. “Not that there was ever a question—after all, Master Charles be an Oxford scowler, an’ he has a reputation t’ maintain.”

  “Indeed,” said Charles. “And I have to say, it’s been a very difficult night, all told. So,” he added, stretching his back and looking around. “How did everything go on this end?”

  All the allies wanted to know what had happened in the enemy camp, and Charles and Tummeler told the story in a rush, there on the beach, pausing now and then to compliment one another on their stealth and prowess.

  The elves removed Pandora’s Box from the sled and, after some debate, secured it in the hold of the White Dragon. It wasn’t until Charles and Tummeler had changed into fresh clothes and had something to eat, that their companions recounted all the events of the night—with one exception.

  “Mordred, you say?” said Charles. “Astonishing. Absolutely astonishing. But tell me, where’s Jack? I expected he’d have dispatched them all single-handedly, and you’d all have been carrying him around on a platform by now, giving him medals and whatnot.”

  No one answered, but the expressions on their faces said that something was terribly wrong.

  “John?” Charles began. “He’s not…Jack isn’t dead, is he?”

  “No,” said John. “Not him—someone else.”

  “John wasn’t there,” said Bert. “Let me tell you what else has happened.”

  They talked for a long while, and wept, and mourned—not just for the loss of one friend, but for the burden the other would carry, which none of them knew how to lift.

  Late in the morning, the landscape of the island had changed yet again. When they first arrived, it had been an unblemished plain, motionless in the serene anticipation of what was to come. Then, an overrun battlefield of warriors and churning movement, and later, a charnel field of suffering and loss. Now it was much as it had begun. The enemies had either become uneasy friends or been dispatched entirely. And those who’d come to their aid had been taken onto the ships to mend or were surveying the land, watchful, not quite certain that it was indeed over.

  The dragons, having done what they were summoned to do, had largely left the island, appearing only in brief glimpses in the clouds above.

  Only Samaranth remained, and he and the companions gathered together near the circle of stones to say their farewells.

  “We have but a few moments to talk, here, in this sacred place,” Samaranth said to them. “So speak. Ask of me what you will, and I shall do my best to answer.”

  Artus, John, Aven, Bert, and Charles were sitting on a flat patch of grass a short distance away from the standing stones, where Samaranth landed and sat, folding his wings deferentially.

  “What do I do now?” said Artus.

  Samaranth laughed, with a great huffing noise. “Do? Whatever you choose to. You are the High King now.”

  “That’s what makes me nervous,” said Artus. “I don’t know anything about being a king.”

  “Your friends did not know anything about being Caretakers, and yet somehow they managed,” said Samaranth. “Although they seem to be missing one of their number.”

  “Jack,” said Aven. “He hasn’t spoken to anyone all morning. He’s locked himself in the cabin of the White Dragon and refuses to come out.”

  “Yes,” said Samaranth, nodding. “Tummeler has explained to me what happened. Regrettable.”

  “Regrettable?” said John. “Captain Nemo is dead! And it was Jack’s fault!”

  “Perhaps,” said Samaranth, “but Nemo was not a child. He was not coerced. And he knew the stakes and the risks. Jack should learn from this and become stronger for the experience.”

  “Become stronger?” said John. “How?”

  “An interesting question coming from you, little Caretaker,” said the dragon, “for as I recall, much of this journey was set in motion because of another death.”

  John hesitated. “You mean the professor.”

  “Indeed.”

  “But that wasn’t my fault,” said John. “Not directly. There was no way I could have prevented it.”

  “Perhaps,” said Samaranth. “But when he was offered the chance, did he not say that he was willing to die, because his work was done?”

  “How could you know that?” said John.

  Samaranth shrugged. “Ask yourself this, young Caretaker—do you feel you have achieved your purpose?”

  John thought a moment. “Yes.”

  “Would the professor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then your redemption did not come through his resurrection, but through your belief in a greater purpose. Something Jack would benefit to remember.”

  “You know,” said Charles. “I think you knew all along that you had the means to close Pandora’s Box, and you could have given it to us on Paralon.”

  “Yes,” said Samaranth. “I had Perseus’s shield. When Archibald opened the box, Mordred stole it, but left behind the shield, never having foreseen needing it. I kept it, and Archibald’s ring, for a time when both would be needed.”

  “But why didn’t you just tell us that was how we could overcome the Shadow-Born?” said Charles.

  “You didn’t ask me that,” said Samaranth. “You asked me how to deal with the pursuit of the Geographica.”

  “Couldn’t you have just told us?” asked John. “It might have saved us a lot of time and trouble.�
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  “The dragons do not exist to solve your problems for you,” said Samaranth, “but to help you learn to help yourselves, and you have.

  “You and your friends,” he said to John, “needed to solve the riddles of the Imaginarium Geographica and the mysteries of the Archipelago, and you did. There was a price to pay, and each of you has paid it in your own way.

  “You have managed to establish a new rule in the Archipelago, and that can only reflect well in your own world. And those who have paid a dearer price know this, and would not see you suffer for doing what you had to. Tell that to Jack, when you see him. And that should he ever need them, he has many, many friends in the Archipelago to call upon.”

  “I have one question,” said Charles. “In all the hullabaloo, I lost track of that snake Magwich. What will we do with him?”

  “Already dispatched,” said the dragon. “He was taken up by one of my kin, who asked the same question, and after conferring with the king”—he finished, winking at Artus—“we realized that the Archipelago already had a means in place for dealing with his kind. We can only hope he redeems himself as well as did the last Guardian of Avalon.”

  Charles looked at his friends and shrugged. “Fair enough. I just wished I’d gotten to smack him across the head one more time.”

  Samaranth stood and stretched his wings to take flight.

  “Wait!” said Artus. “Have the dragons really returned? They’re back for good?”

  Samaranth looked at the young king and smiled. “Yes,” he said at last. “The dragons have returned, true—but whether or not we stay is up to you. Rule wisely. Rule well. And should the need arise, call on us.”

  He leaned over, covering the young man in shadow, and offered his claw. Artus held out his hand, and into it dropped the ring of the High King of Paralon.

  “I took it from one king who was not worthy to wear it,” the dragon said, “and did so again last night. I hope that you will never give me cause to do the same.