familiar figure stepped through the doorway.
“Jonathan!”
He placed a finger on his lips for silence and beckoned her
into the corridor. Once there, he took her hands between his
dark ones. “It is very good to see you, Lizbeth Anderson. I
have been looking for you and Master Anderson, but couldn’t
find you until you returned to Evenmere.”
“Are you well?” she asked. “You look exhausted.”
“I have been … ill, and have traveled a long way in a short
time. I’m in an awful hurry. I need to speak with you.”
“I should wake Carter.”
Jonathan glanced back into the room, where Lord
Anderson lay sleeping. “It can’t be done just now. He walks
the country of dreams. You will have to tell me what I need to
know.”
“How did you ever find us?”
“I don’t mean to be impolite, but there isn’t time for your
questions. I must know what happened when you stepped
through the Eye Gate. You succeeded in your quest, because
the Balance is changed and I haven’t seen any sign of the
poets, but I need the details. If you will come and sit beside
me?” He gestured toward a nearby alcove.
Jonathan’s eyes, suffused with an uncustomary concern,
glistened as she told of the wonders of Deep Machine and the
battle with Jormungand. He asked many questions, and when
she was done, he rose quickly and gave a low bow.
“I thank you and bid you farewell. Tell Master Anderson I
am sorry I missed him.”
“But where are you going and what will you do? Why are
you so desperate to know what happened?”
“It is too complicated to explain. Every minute counts.”
And with that, he left her.
On the morning of the third day, the three companions
reached Loft, where Carter was able to contact the White
Circle Guard. There the travelers determined to part ways:
Professor Shoemate to Aylyrium, Carter to the Inner
Chambers, and Lizbeth to join Duskin at Lowing Hall.
“What will you do now?” Lizbeth asked the professor.
“I don’t know,” Erin said. “Poetry and literature have been
my whole life. For it to be channeled as a weapon … Perhaps I
can use it to somehow alleviate the harm I have done.”
Carter and Lizbeth wished her luck, and she departed,
accompanied by five members of the Guard. Five more would
journey with Lizbeth. Two years later, the professor would be
named Poet Laureate of Aylyrium. She took the post with the
greatest reluctance, stating her lines were the poorest imitation
of the ones she had read in The Book of Verse . A decade after,
she would pen Poetry as Political Force , a volume
instrumental in the historic reforms of Shyntawgwin.
Lizbeth turned to Carter. “What will you do about
Jormungand, and how can we help?”
“I don’t know the answer to either question. I am going to
do what I can. I wish I knew what Jonathan was up to. He is
being quite mysterious. I don’t want to sound melodramatic,
but if I fail, you may be called upon to serve in my stead.”
“Oh, Carter—”
He placed his fingertips against her lips. “Hush. We will
hope for the best, but you must be prepared. You and Duskin
should come to the Inner Chambers as soon as you can, I
think. Tell my brother … tell my brother I love him greatly,
and am proud of the work he has done, as I am proud of you.”
She hugged him fiercely and kept a brave face, but burst
into tears as she watched him stride down the long corridor,
alone as he so often was. She kept her eyes fastened on him
until he vanished from sight.
The Last Dinosaur
Jonathan Bartholomew fell silent. Jormungand shifted his
weight, making the attic boards creak. The heavy exhalations
of the behemoth echoed among the rafters.
“So you rushed from your tête-à-tête with Lizbeth
Anderson just to tell me this?” Jormungand asked. “Couldn’t
wait to spend a few hours reminding me of my defeat when
victory was so close? Bad form, isn’t it? Bad enough to get
you vivisected.”
“I told the story for three reasons. First, because the telling
of tales is a part of tradition, and this is the time and place for
ceremony, here in this attic on this very day. Second, because I
needed to buy time, to prevent you from taking immediate
revenge upon Master Anderson, which is why I was in such
haste. And in the best conventions of storytelling, I will
withhold the third reason until the proper moment. But there is
one part of the tale I still don’t understand. I believe you were
the author of The Book of Lore. But when did you write it?”
Jormungand chuckled mirthlessly. “So even the great
Storyteller doesn’t know everything. Nor could you, for the
book was my most carefully kept secret. Perhaps you
remember a Master named Augustus Cane?”
“He wasn’t Master long, and he disappeared …” Jonathan
paused. “That’s right. He vanished into the Mere of Books, his
body never found. I should have remembered that.”
“When he first came to my attic, I appeared in a more
pleasant guise,” the dinosaur said, “more serpent in the garden
than behemoth. I enticed him, turning his head, showing him
sense and nonsense until the Master himself became my pupil.
A most excellent jest, that, worthy of a note in a good
scrapbook! At my bidding, he penned The Book of Lore ,
supposedly to depict the wonders I had seen in Evenmere. The
fool didn’t realize I had designed the book to bend him to my
will.”
“But you didn’t delude him completely, did you? He
caught on to your tricks and sealed the book in the cave in the
Mere.”
“His will was stronger than even I suspected,” Jormungand
said. “He was bound to the book by then, and in sealing it he
paid for his heroics with his life.”
“And the book remained in the cave until Lord Anderson
recovered it.”
“The little Masters are so easily deceived,” the dinosaur
said.
“I see it now,” Jonathan said. “A masterful plan, executed
over centuries.”
“And worthless in the end.” Jormungand breathed fire.
“To finish my tale, then,” Storyteller said, “Lord Anderson
did return to the Inner Chambers to be reunited with his wife
and Mr. Hope.”
“How nice for him,” Jormungand rumbled. “I should have
killed him the last time he was here. I let him live because I
didn’t want to attract the attention of Those who originally
imprisoned me. That was why I couldn’t operate openly.”
“That’s right. That’s right. But there was another reason as
well. You have only one nature, of which struggle is the whole
part. You didn’t kill him because you must always have an
adversary.”
The dinosaur blew a heavy breath. “He has proved as
formidable an opponent as any of his
worthless predecessors,
and I do love to watch one of the Masters suffer. I wanted him
to see his petty little universe brought to shambles. Quite
dissatisfying. But it is the doctor who disappoints me most. He
was my undoing. His lack of greed—”
“That’s right. These humans show remarkable sparks of
good at the oddest moments. Master Anderson is
demonstrating that right now, preparing to come here to seal
you in the attic.”
“I knew he would.” Jormungand gave a ghastly
approximation of a grin. “He places his hope in the Words of
Power, but even the Master of Evenmere can’t contain the Last
Dinosaur now that I am free. No Master ever had authority
over me. Do you know what I am going to do to him? Kill
him, of course, but I will do it with exquisite deliberation. I
will cook him alive, minute by minute. Perhaps I will let you
live long enough so you can watch. I will—”
“No, old dragon, you will not.” Jonathan rose to his feet.
Jormungand breathed fire, scorching the air. “Enough of
your impertinence!”
“Do you know who I am?” Storyteller asked.
“A wandering vagabond, a bit of hope in a hopeless
package. Tall tales and inspiring stories for an ant hill about to
be drowned by the rain.”
“But we are every one of us more than we seem—you,
Master Anderson, the people of Evenmere. Come closer and I
will tell you my identity. I won’t speak it aloud in this place.”
“So much the better,” Jormungand said. “It puts you in
easy reach.”
The behemoth leaned his great head down, and Jonathan
whispered a single name into the darkness.
Jormungand sat back on his haunches. “You lie!”
“Storyteller never lies. And he has the power to put the
dinosaur back in his hidey-hole.”
The minstrel let his ragged coat drop from his shoulders. It
fell in a heap to the floor, revealing his slender, vulnerable
frame. “The third reason for telling my tale was to make you
impatient, to bring out that bad temper of yours, because once
begun you cannot restrain your wrath. I am here, old reptile,
and you, who have but one nature, must do as it commands
you.”
For the space of half an hour, Jormungand raged across the
attic, bellowing his fury, his heavy footfalls thundering against
the floorboards, his flames lighting the darkness. Miles he
traveled into the deepest recesses, so far his fires became a
distant torch to Jonathan’s eyes. He stomped back, shaking the
entire attic, breathing so much flame the whole house would
have surely gone up, had the attic not been proof against it.
At last the juggernaut stood before Storyteller again, silent
with a cold and deadly hush.
“Very well,” Jormungand finally said. “I do what I must.
From the beginning of time, the blood-sacrifice has turned
back the forces of Chaos. The blood of such a one as you,
freely given, will imprison me once more. But understand this,
old man—in thwarting me you have revealed who you are, and
I, who am terrible in my defeat, will use that if I can. And I
will make you suffer with a torment far greater than I would
have done to Anderson. The remaining moments of your life
will be an agony beyond understanding.”
“Do your worst,” Storyteller said, lifting his hands. “It is
all I ever expected.”
Stepping through the portal on his quest toward Deep
Machine, Carter had feared he might never clasp William
Hope’s hand again, or hold his wife and son in his arms once
more. To return and experience that joy had been sweet
beyond his understanding. But too soon, he had hugged Sarah
and Jason goodbye again, and said farewell to his friend for
what might be the last time.
He thought of that as he stood at the entrance to the attic.
He had climbed these steps before, wondering whether he
would survive, but this was different. The Word Which Seals
could not seal the entire attic, so he would try to seal
Jormungand within the space, similar to the way he had sealed
The Book of Verse . His intuition told him he would not
prevail, but he had to make the attempt. The dinosaur could
not be allowed to remain free.
He did not bother carrying weapons. His pistol would be
futile against the behemoth, and his Lightning Sword lay in
pieces in the Inner Chamber. Even if it were whole, it wouldn’t
help. As terrible as the Black Beast had been, it was the barest
portion of everything that was Jormungand.
He ascended the creaking stair, lantern in hand. When he
reached the top, he halted and listened, straining to hear the
noise of breathing. The attic lay silent. Had Jormungand gone?
Would Carter have to search for him throughout the house?
He crossed the attic, sweat beading his upper lip. The
boards groaned beneath his weight. The air lay musty and
thick.
“Antsy, are we?” a voice whispered in his ear.
He turned and shouted the Word Which Seals. In his
mind’s eye, he saw it forming around Jormungand, a golden,
growing circle. The dinosaur must have seen it too, for he
snapped his jaws at it. For a breathless moment it held, then
collapsed, bouncing around the attic with a sound hollow as
marbles ricocheting off metal walls, unfocused and useless,
sealing nothing.
A wreath of dragon-flame fountained above Carter,
revealing Jormungand standing between him and the stair. The
Word had failed. His only hope now lay in escape. He raised
the Word Which Manifests to mind. It would not harm the
brute, but might purchase enough time for him to make his
exit.
“Pointless,” the dinosaur said. “I see the Word flowering
within you.”
Lord Anderson abandoned the effort. “As always, you are
infallible within your own domain.”
“A pity I was less so at Deep Machine.”
“I should have suspected you from the beginning.” As he
spoke Carter shifted his feet, edging to the right.
“No doubt you have many questions. Unfortunately, I can’t
provide you with a last meal—it will be the other way around
—but out of courtesy for a brave enemy, I will give you the
answers you seek.”
Carter took another shuffling step. “The postman told us
much of it. You must have enjoyed using the Poetry Men to
spread your anarchy.”
Jormungand blew a snort of flame. “It was a lovely plan.
The poets were the perfect tools. You probably wonder why I
chose forces aligned with beauty and wonder as my weapons.
Not quite like me, you might say.”
“I assume it was the simplest way.”
“Oh no, my little gnat. Not at all.”
“Why, then?” Lord Anderson took another slight step to
the right, seeking a chance to bolt.
“I could have chosen a dozen other methods of causing
havoc, but I picked poetry because I knew it was a
power that
would never be associated with me.”
“But how could you …” Carter hesitated, feeling a faint
stirring in the back of his mind. Man and beast eyed one
another through several long seconds. Lord Anderson was
stalling for an opportunity to escape. Was it his imagination, or
was the dinosaur also playing for time?
“How could I what?” Jormungand rumbled.
The Master kept silent, studying his adversary. Why hadn’t
the monster already killed him? Was this another of the
dinosaur’s torments, delaying the falling of the hammer? Or
was something else involved?
“Perhaps you wonder why I used agents instead of acting
openly?” Jormungand suggested.
Carter weighed his words carefully, any thought of escape
now vanished. “Something undoubtedly prevented you.”
“It was much more than that. Much more.”
The dinosaur waited.
“I am sure it involved creating the maximum amount of
pain,” Carter finally said.
“Not at all. You’ve missed it completely. Not surprising,
considering your limited intelligence.”
Another silence fell. At last, Carter cleared his throat and
said, “I have a question.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Are you once more a prisoner in the attic?”
The dinosaur turned with deadly speed. Carter instinctively
threw his arms up to ward the blow, though he knew nothing
could stop it.
Jormungand’s massive tail slammed against the floor, a
thundering impact that rattled the entire attic. The force threw
Carter from his feet; he landed on his back on the dusty
boards.
The Last Dinosaur blew flames against the roof, then grew
utterly quiet.
Finding himself still alive, Lord Anderson gave a grim
smile and sat up on his elbows. When his opponent remained
quiescent, he stood, intentionally taking the time to brush
himself off, using the seconds to steady his nerves. Still, his
voice trembled when he spoke. “I believe you must answer the
question, which is the second one I have asked since entering
the attic.”
“Jormungand, the Last Dinosaur, the Greatest Creature in
Existence, is bound once more.”
Carter blew a quivering breath. “You hoped I wouldn’t
know. You wanted me to ask more than three questions so you
could slay me.”
“I see nothing to my liking will come of this,” Jormungand
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