The Shadow Dragons (18 page)

“Certainly,” said Fred. He took the steel-pointed tool from the man’s hand and quickly scribbled two names, which flared with silver fire. As they watched, the writing turned blue, as if it were changing ink.

“Thank you,” said the tattooed man, and promptly went to sleep.

“Just a word of advice,” Charles began.

“Oh, the names?” said Fred. “Don’t worry—I didn’t use ours. That might get us into trouble.”

“Very perceptive!” Charles said, surprised. “Whose names did you write?”

“Harry Houdini and Arthur Conan Doyle,” said Fred.

“This is already a great partnership,” Charles said as they entered the town.

It was a pastiche of a town that seemed to have been assembled from a dozen cultures. There were gabled roofs topped with elaborate weather vanes sitting side by side with Turkish domes. The overarching theme was vaguely eastern European, but that might have been an impression generated by the age of some of the structures. The very air was ancient here. And although it was dressed up in familiar garb, that was just the wool covering the wolf underneath.

“There are stories,” Charles whispered, “of a German village called Germelshausen, which fell under an evil spell cast by a witch. I’ve also heard of a similar tale from Scotland, about the Brig o’ Doon, in Bobby Burns country, where Tam O’ Shanter raced to safety across a stone bridge to escape from a village full of witches.”

Fred swallowed hard. “An awful lot of references t’ witches, Scowler Charles,” the little badger said. “I hope this village in’t like those villages.”

“You and I both,” said Charles, hitching up his belt. “Nothing to do but follow the path and see where it takes us.”

As it was, their path led them right past a bakery, which was filled to overflowing with cakes, and pastries, and puddings, and on and on and on. It was a culinary wonderland in the middle of a virtual medieval village.

“Grandfather would be sorry he missed this,” Fred said, reaching for a muffin from a cart near the door.

“Don’t,” warned Charles, grabbing Fred’s paw. “I don’t think it’s wise to eat anything here. I’ve read far too many stories about travelers being trapped in places just because they ate a morsel of food—and if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather be able to get home!”

“No problem, boss,” said Fred.

“This also smacks of a witch’s gambit,” said Charles. “The minute you set foot in the gingerbread cottage, you suddenly find you’re in an oven being roasted for dinner.”

“Good call,” Fred said, pointing up.

In the sky above them, silhouetted against the apricot sky, was a gaggle of witches—but Charles commented that they were wholly unlike any witches he had ever seen.

“How many have you seen?” asked Fred.

“Practically none,” said Charles, “but I’ve read a lot about them, and these don’t fit any of the descriptions.”

The witches were not on brooms—they were riding bicycles. Each one was sitting upright with ramrod-straight posture and was wearing a dour gray dress, topped off with a black shawl and a pillbox hat.

The bicycles were as average as any he’d seen, except for the fact that they flew. Each one had reflectors on the front (for safety, he assumed) and a small wicker basket behind the seat. They bobbed and wove exactly like a flock of birds, each following in formation behind the others.

Charles and Fred ducked down an alleyway to stay out of sight, splashing through some puddles and tripping into a laundry line as they ran.

The witches were gradually moving southeast to northwest. They had nearly moved away from Charles and Fred altogether when one of the last witches in the gaggle pulled away from the group and stopped, hovering in the air above them.

She squinted her eyes and turned her head from side to side, then lifted her head up to the air and sniffed, then sniffed again.

A smile spread across her face, and she looked down directly at Charles and Fred’s hiding place.

“Oh, no,” said Charles. “She can smell us.”

“You mean me,” Fred groaned. “Wet badger fur is a curse—a curse, I tell you!”

“This way!” Charles yelled. “We’ll try to lose her in the alleys and switchbacks.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he ran headfirst into a solid brick wall. Fred plowed into him a second later, and they both ended up sprawled in a heap.

Charles had led them into what was a blind alley. There were a few open doors on the adjacent walls, but the wall at the end was too high to scale.

“That’s an unexpected turn of events,” said Charles. “I don’t think we can outrun her now!”

“We’ll get you, my lovely boy,” the witch cackled, “and make a fine pie of your dog!”

“I’m not a dog!” Fred shouted. “I’m a badger!”

The witch swooped down with terrifying speed and swung something at Charles as she passed.

He threw himself aside just in time, but she caught his sleeve. He rolled over as the witch spun about for another pass, and he realized that the elbow of his jacket was in tatters.

Rather than brandishing a wand, the witch was wielding a long, razor-edged fork.

“Oh, come on,” Charles groaned. “A fork? What kind of a witch are you?”

“The kind who eats lovely little children like yourself!” she screeched as Charles again threw himself aside, protectively shielding Fred.

“Children!” Charles huffed, jumping to his feet. “I’m no child! I’m an
editor!
With
tenure!”

The witch just laughed in response—a sound that was like grinding metal gears. She made another lightning pass that reduced Charles’s jacket to a ragged mess.

“Curse it,” Charles exclaimed. “There wasn’t supposed to be any fighting. We’re the espionage division, for heaven’s sake!”

The witch continued to laugh as she came around again, but this time she wasn’t targeting Charles. She was aiming at Fred.

Charles threw himself in front of her just before she ran down the little mammal, and the bicycle bounced violently off of his back. It knocked the wind out of him and only irritated the witch.

“Fred! Run!” Charles shouted. “I’ll buy you some time and keep her attention on me!”

“I’m not leaving my partner!” Fred yelled back. Then he turned and dashed inside one of the houses.

“I didn’t really expect him to go,” Charles said under his breath. “That was just something you’re supposed to say.”

The witch stopped laughing as she realized that she’d just lost track of one of her quarry. She rode the bicycle more slowly now, and a dark rage settled over her face.

“I can catch you anytime I want,” she said with menace as she brandished the fork, which was tipped with crimson.

My blood,
Charles realized. This was not going at all well, and it promised to get worse.

“I enjoy the game,” the witch said, “but now it’s time to finish it.”

She dropped down to a height just level with Charles’s head and hovered in front of him.

“You aren’t going to escape,” she said, grinning wickedly, “and neither will your dog.”

“He’s a badger, actually,” said Charles.

“Did you really think you could defeat me? Was that your plan?”

“Not precisely, no,” Fred responded as he appeared in a nearby doorway. “The plan was to get you to come closer and hold still.”

Before she could react, Fred threw a handful of a thick, cream-colored substance at her. It struck her in the face and stuck like glue.

The witch shrieked in fury and wheeled the bicycle about. She let go of the handlebars to clutch at her face with her hands, and the bicycle spun crazily around, finally flipping end over end, completely out of control.

The bicycle crashed into a wall and plummeted to the ground. The witch fell off it just before it struck, and she rolled several times before she finally came to a stop against a barrel. She didn’t move.

“Betcha no dog can do
that
,” Fred said, wiping his paws and smirking. “Stupid witch.”

“What was that?” Charles asked, flabbergasted.

“You said I couldn’t eat anything, but you didn’t say I couldn’t use the food as a weapon,” said Fred. “There were no muffins in there anyway. So I used the next best thing. Tapioca pudding.”

“Fred,” said Charles, “I’m completely impressed!”

“It’s not as good as a poke in the eye with a sharp stick,” said the little badger, “but it’ll do in a pinch.”

Charles and Fred had finished binding and gagging the witch, whom they hid behind a bushel of potatoes in the cellar of one of the houses. She only narrowly avoided being put into an oven.

“I still say we should have flipped the coin for three out of five,” Fred grumbled. “She wouldn’t have given us that much of a chance.”

“That’s what separates her from us,” Charles said in admonishment. “We try not to eat anyone else.”

“Oh, I wasn’t going to eat her,” said Fred. “But she would have made a nifty chunk of charcoal.”

“At least she provided us with transportation and a disguise,” Charles said as he pulled the shawl over his shoulders. “What do you think?”

“You make a pretty good witch,” said Fred.

“Thanks a lot,” said Charles. “If anyone asks, you’re a dog.”

“That’s very insulting,” said Fred.

“Hey,” said Charles. “If I have to go in disguise, then so do you.”

“Fair enough.”

“How do you think this thing works?” Charles asked, examining the bicycle.

“It’s not mechanical like the principles,” Fred said, crouching to examine the gears. “I think it’s purely magical.”

“Oh, excellent,” said Charles. “No risk there,” he added with obvious sarcasm.

“Unless you’ve got a better idea, this is our best means of seeing the entire area at once,” said Fred. “Time is of the essence, remember?”

“Okay,” Charles said as he straddled the bike and lifted the lid on the wicker basket. “Hop in, Rover.”

“This is very humiliating,” said Fred as he clambered into the basket.

“Better than taking on another one of the witches, or something worse,” said Charles. “Hold on—I’m going to attempt a takeoff.”

He started pedaling and found he had to hold the handlebars tightly to counter the wobble from one of the bent wheels. He had no idea if a damaged wheel on the ground would have any effect on the contraption’s ability to fly.

It didn’t. With a few shaky hops, the bicycle bounded into the air. Pedaling furiously, Charles had cleared the rooftops in a matter of seconds, and soon they were high enough to see all of Abaton.

They were still on the eastern edge of the town, which sprawled all across the hilltops and into the valley below. They could see clusters of flying bicycles, but none near enough to cause immediate alarm.

There were several fires burning throughout the town, and the smoke obscured much of the sky. But it was clearer to the west, and Charles and Fred realized in the same instant that the western edge of the valley was where they needed to go.

There, in the distance, was the unmistakable form of a tower, stark and black against the twilight.

It was the Keep . . . remade as a patchwork

lighthouse . . .

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Construct

The council of war
at Tamerlane House looked as if a library of fairy tales had collided with a library of literary biographies, and someone had turned the result into a full-color, three-dimensional frieze.

The king and queen sat opposite Edgar Allan Poe at one end of the table; Charys, the centaur, sat between Mark Twain and Charles Dickens; Rillian, the unicorn mouse, sat on the table in front of Washington Irving; and Stephen, in full Golden Fleece regalia, sat next to his mother across from Geoffrey Chaucer. The Valkyrie Laura Glue, her wings discreetly folded behind her, was standing behind John and Daniel Defoe, and the improbable young Nemo stood next to her; while the Elf King Eledir, the Dwarf leader, Falladay Finn, and several surly fauns stood behind the rest of the Caretakers. It was, to put it simply, a remarkable group.

“Geoff,” John said, still assimilating the recent events, “where should we begin?”

They had already decided to conceal the covert operation Fred and Charles were engaged in. If there was still a traitor among the Caretakers, serving him a play-by-play summary of their own efforts wouldn’t be helpful.

The Last Book was already a secret from almost everyone— and so it would be difficult to express the concern the Caretakers were feeling at its loss.

Thus, once Bert, Artus, and Aven had addressed the group and detailed the events that had occurred on Paralon, the next order of business became the Prophecy itself.

“We believe that the Chancellor has spies within these walls,” said Chaucer, “and so we must prepare for the inevitable. We will be attacked. And I believe that it will happen sooner rather than later.”

“I concur,” said Bert. “To move so in Paralon itself, he must be exceptionally confident.”

“With good reason,” said Artus. “He’s been amassing power and influence for a long while. His allies will be our former allies— and so this will not be a war of armies. It will be a last stand.”

“What Artus is trying to so cheerfully get across,” said Aven, “is what my father was explaining earlier—this is not a new battle, as far as the Prophecy is concerned. This is the endgame.”

“Oh, that was much more cheerful,” said Defoe. “We have the Caretakers and the knight—when do we acquire the weapon the girl is supposed to use against the Winter King? Or Chancellor? Or whatever we’re supposed to call him.”

“The Shadow King,” said Poe. “The Winter King is no more, and the Chancellor is a fiction. We are dealing with a Shadow King, and we will prevail. I have seen it.”

“How do you know this?” asked Eledir.

“Because,” said Poe, “in the future, there are still pistachio nuts.”

“I’m going to assist Quixote and Rose,” said Bert, “in their efforts to acquire the weapon. Artus and Aven have asked Jack to assist the captains in fortifying the Nameless Isles in preparation for the Shadow King’s move against us. And John and Stellan are going to continue in the effort to learn more of what our adversary is planning.”

“We should have someone trying to suss out other spies,” Defoe said with a sideways glance at Jakob Grimm. “Whoever they might be.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Chaucer. “Will you take charge of that, Daniel?”

Defoe nodded. “I will.”

“Excellent,” Chaucer said. “Then for the moment, we’ve work to do.”

Jack realized that being in charge of the war preparations meant that he was going to have to speak to the young Nemo. The appearance of the youth and the gleaming Dragonship was not as unusual to those in the Archipelago as it was to him. There had been numerous events caused by the Time Storms that had changed many things in the lands. But this was a harder thing to process. After having caused the older Nemo’s death during the great battle at the Edge of the World, Jack made sure to visit Nemo’s grave every time he’d come to the Archipelago, and he always had plenty to say. But now, with a young Nemo in the very next room, alive, he realized that he couldn’t find any words.

Jack’s musing was interrupted when a strong hand clapped down on his shoulder.

“When first we met,” Charys said, “you were a student who was playacting at being a warrior. Now you are a teacher. And as a descendant of Charon himself, I can truly say there are few callings more noble.”

“A teacher, yes,” Jack replied. “But still playacting at being the warrior, I’m afraid.”

At this the centaur grew serious. “Not playacting, Caretaker. Your deeds are well known throughout the Archipelago, and your bravery and skill are without question. The Far Traveler himself told me that you were a soldier of note in the Summer Country as well. Is that true?”

Jack nodded. “It is. But I’m afraid I didn’t fare much better there than I did here. I still failed to protect the ones who depended on me.”

“We are all here of our own choosing,” Charys countered. “None among us has been coerced, or compelled against his will. Nemo knew what he was doing, and he knew, as do I, the day of his death.”

“I know, and I accepted that, long ago,” Jack said with a fleeting glance over at the young captain he was avoiding. “But I was hardly prepared for . . . for
this
.”

“I have some of my own troops to attend to,” Charys said as he wheeled about on his hind legs, “but consider this, Caretaker: What if you are the one who makes Nemo into the warrior he becomes? What if this is the opportunity to teach him what he needs to know to truly be a good man?”

“But for what?” Jack said, protesting. “We know what happened to him in the end.”

“If for no other reason,” Charys called back over his shoulder, “teach him well, so that when the time comes in his own future, he will be prepared to pass on what it means to be a man . . .

“. . . to
you.
”

Charles and Fred landed well short of the tower. They concealed the bicycle in a thicket a few hills to the south of it, then stood up to take stock of their target.

Charles let out a long, slow whistle. It was the Keep of Time, remade as a patchwork lighthouse comprised of doors, rough-hewn stones, and creaky scaffolds. The space between the doors was only broad enough to allow one to open without compromising those adjacent to it, and there were few landings on the stairways—as if the opportunity to pause between doorways were an unthinkable folly.

Unlike the authentic keep, wherein the stairways were on the interior and the doors opened out into whatever time they were anchored to, this construct was exactly the inverse. The structure was built as a hollow tower, and the doors were then inserted into frames, which allowed them to open inward.

“That can’t be safe,” Charles murmured. “It’s practically insane.”

“Why?” asked Fred.

“Because all of the doors are linked to some point in the past,” Charles whispered. “Just harnessing that kind of energy is almost impossible to conceive. But at least in the real keep, the doors opened out—that let each portal have its own space, so to speak. But if the doors open inward . . .”

“There’s no space,” said Fred. “They’ll all be jammed in together.”

“That’s my worry,” said Charles. “I don’t think anything good can come of this.”

The tower was all but impossible to approach. It was positioned high enough that any two guards could see everything approaching in any direction, and that would have been hard enough to bypass. The tower’s scaffolding was a beehive of activity, with workers shoring up the base, adding to the top, and building new frames for doors to be set into.

Even worse, two more men approached the tower from the west, dragging another door behind them. Charles had briefly entertained the idea of disguising himself as a laborer, but there was also the possibility of running into Burton, who would easily recognize him. These two new arrivals tripled the odds of that happening.

“Houdini and Conan Doyle,” Charles whispered. “The rogue Caretakers.”

“I’ve heard tell of them,” said Fred. “That’s why I signed their names when we got here—although just mentioning them makes Bert very sad.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Charles. “They’re worthy men—they’ve just made some very poor choices.”

They watched as the Magician and the Detective carried the door to a frame that was built in a nearby field and placed it upright. Another man was called over from the tower to examine it, and Charles shuddered in recognition.

“And there he is,” he hissed. “Burton. All the players but one have come to the stage.”

Burton opened the door and looked inside. From their position, Charles and Fred couldn’t see what he was looking at, but he seemed to declare it satisfactory, as two other workers came over to help carry it up to the top of the winding scaffolding.

“Do you think they’re arranged the same way as they were in the real keep?” Charles wondered aloud. “Oldest at the bottom, and getting younger as they rise?”

“That would make sense,” said Fred, “if they have been harvesting them as they fell. They would want to fix each door in place as they brought it here.”

“I agree, apprentice,” said Charles. “We’ve got to get over to that tower for a closer look. They’re building it for some purpose, and we must discover what it is.”

“Someone’s coming this way,” said Fred, pointing.

A very familiar-looking figure came clomping along the cobblestones. He was muttering to himself and walking with a strange, clumsy, high-footed gait.

As he came closer, they could see why. Bags, which were leaking sand in copious amounts, were bound around each of his feet and were tightly bound mid-calf. With every step he took there was a whumping sound and a small cloud of dust.

The figure stepped under one of the lights, and Charles swore softly and rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“Why am I not surprised in the least?” he said under his breath. “If there’s something shifty or untrustworthy to be done, it’s a level bet that Maggot is somewhere about.”

Fred squinted to see better. “The Green Knight, you mean? He’s a maggot?” He frowned. “He doesn’t look like a maggot.”

“You’d be surprised,” Charles replied. “There’s nothing under that armor but slime.”

“Then how did he get to be the Green Knight?”

“It’s supposed to be a penance.”

Fred looked over the crates again. “Well then, he’s doing it wrong.”

Charles grinned. “We’ll fix that. Follow me.”

The Caretaker and his apprentice slipped silently along the tree line just on the outer edge of Abaton’s southernmost wall, mirroring Magwich’s movements along the cobblestone path. When he came to an entrance into the town itself and turned his back to them, they leaped out and seized him, dragging him back into the bushes.

At first Magwich thought he’d been grabbed by a witch and an overly large familiar, but then Charles pulled off the hat and shawl and revealed his identity to the hapless knight.

“Eeep!” Magwich shrieked. “What—what are you doing here? You aren’t supposed to be here!”

He stopped and looked at Charles more closely, puzzled. “You’re dressed like a witch,” he said, fear giving way to curiosity. “What’s
that
all about?”

“I’m in disguise,” said Charles.

“It works for you,” said Magwich.