Jack was incredulous. “But—but his rudder is gone! How in heaven’s name did they turn like that?”
“Only one answer,” said Bert. “The Black Dragon is not such in name only, but a true Dragonship—although how he managed to get his hands on one I cannot imagine. Dragonships are alive and have wills of their own—and more powers available to them than ordinary vessels.”
“So what do we do now?” said Jack.
In answer, Aven drew her sword. “We do whatever we can. Arm yourselves, and prepare to be boarded.”
While the fauns worked to coax more speed out of the Indigo Dragon, Bert, Bug, Jack, and Charles divvied up the remaining weaponry, which was old and rather shopworn. John had disappeared.
“Sure,” said Jack, “the only soldier among us, and he’s hiding somewhere. It’s no wonder he got sent home.”
Charles looked disapprovingly at his younger friend but said nothing, instead turning his attention to the rapidly approaching ship.
With the ease born of a superior motive power, the Black Dragon glided alongside the Indigo Dragon and aimed a brace of cannons at her.
“Oh, dear,” said Bert, as the cannons erupted in echoing thunder and masses of hot iron began screaming through the air above their heads.
“He’s not aiming to sink us?” Charles shouted.
“He can’t risk losing what he’s after,” Jack shouted back. “He still wants the Geographica. Where is John and that damned book, anyway?”
“I saw him go into the cabin,” Charles yelled.
“It figures,” said Jack, as the Black Dragon’s cannons continued their relentless fire.
Bert and Aven were arguing as to strategy (she advocating more offensive maneuvers, he advocating flight), and John had just reemerged to take up a sword and join the fray when a well-aimed cannonball shattered the mainsail mast and ended any debate. A second destroyed the rudder. And a third, to their horror, sheared the masthead itself—the soul of the Dragonship—cleanly from the prow. The Indigo Dragon was dead in the water.
It took only moments for the smaller ship to become completely overrun by Wendigo. Whatever bravado the companions’ swords had birthed was swallowed up by common sense, and they dropped their weapons.
The Wendigo forced them to their knees, tying their hands behind their backs, and then lined them up along the far railing.
The Winter King’s servants had begun to light torches, which cast fearful shadows across the deck; as against Aven’s vehement protestations, the fauns were herded aboard the Black Dragon, casting back mournful glances as they went.
“I suppose they’ll be put to service for the Winter King now?” Charles asked.
“Not quite,” Aven said, looking at the ravenous stares the Wendigo were giving their new shipmates. “Less service to him than served to his crew.”
“Dear God,” breathed Charles.
“They may still have the better end of the licorice whip,” said Bert. “Look—we have more company.”
Two of the Shadow-Born had stepped onto the deck, bringing with their presence a chill to the atmosphere. Where they moved, the color seemed to drain out of the air itself. The robes they wore were featureless and black; hoods covered their faces. Only the hands, pale and ethereal, which extended below the draped sleeves, bore witness that the Shadow-Born had once been human. Even the Wendigo stepped aside as they passed.
“That’s a Shadow-Born?” Jack whispered to Charles. “They don’t look very terrifying to me. I don’t know why Bert and Aven got so worked up about them.”
Just then, one of the fauns broke free from its captors and ran squealing back across the gangplank to the Indigo Dragon. Moving with incredible speed, the first of the Shadow-Born stepped in front of the fleeing creature. The faun stopped in its tracks.
The Shadow-Born reached out and grasped the poor beast by its own shadow. The faun began to jerk about as if it were a puppet on a string, letting loose a shriek that was cut short as its shadow ripped free in the specter’s grip.
The Shadow-Born clutched its prize to its chest, and as they watched, the shadow of the faun wavered and disappeared, and the substance of the Shadow-Born seemed to grow darker.
The faun dropped to the deck, glazed eyes rolling back in its head. The color had been drained from its flesh and fur along with its shadow, leaving it all but dead. Or worse. The limp body on the deck would normally have been too tempting for the Wendigo to resist, but they all stayed well clear of the motionless form.
None of the companions had anything to say about the Shadow-Born after that.
Then a third figure came aboard, and for the first time, the companions got to take a good look at their pursuer, their adversary, the man called the Winter King.
He was not tall; rather shorter than they might have expected. His countenance and dress was that of a Mongol, but of a high caste—more Genghis Khan than Attila the Hun. His skin was swarthy and gleamed with the sweat of the battle. He wore a slight mustache and wispy beard in keeping with the upper Asian bent of his appearance, but even his stride bespoke power. Even John had to admit reluctantly that the bearing and manner of the Winter King, enemy though he was, exuded a regal nobility that demanded attention, if not respect.
Also, disturbingly, the Winter King cast no shadow.
Still, the most distinguishing characteristic of his appearance was his right hand—or rather, his lack of it. Where his hand should have been was a gleaming steel brace that ended in a sharp, curved hook.
The Winter King stepped across to the deck of the Indigo Dragon and surveyed his captives. Aven spit at him, hitting him on the cheek.
He drew his left hand across his face, wiping off the spittle, then licked it, much to the disgust of the companions.
“Not the reception I’d hoped for—but not unexpected, either.”
His voice was vaguely European, with an accent that was difficult to place. The inflections and tone seemed to be equal parts British and Roman, in the old sense of the term. Nevertheless, the Winter King spoke with a timbre of authority that would brook no opposition.
“You sailed with the Indian, didn’t you?” he asked Aven, almost casually. “His first mate, as I recall. You should have stayed with him. Better for you that you had.”
“He escaped you, didn’t he?” said Aven.
An almost imperceptible sheen of anger flashed across the Winter King’s features. “For the moment. But there will be a reckoning, I think, in the future. It was my mistake to engage the Yellow Dragon in combat—the delay it caused was just long enough that I missed returning to Paralon and the Council, else I would be your king now.”
“Not bloody likely,” said Bert. “You should have built a better Parliament.”
The Winter King moved on to Bert, smiling in what was almost an expression of old camaraderie. “Ah, yes—my old friend the Far Traveler.”
“We are not friends,” said Bert.
“Too true,” said the Winter King. “Thank you for pointing it out.” He moved again to face John, Jack, and Charles. “And who might you three be? More Caretakers drafted from the Children of Adam and Eve?”
“I’m the Caretaker,” John said quickly. “They’re just friends of mine.”
“So noble,” said the Winter King, “to try to draw attention to yourself. Not that it will help them, mind you, but a noble effort, nonetheless. And you,” he continued, turning to Bug. “What are you?”
“I’m his squire,” Bug said, nodding at John.
The Winter King’s eyes widened in surprise. “His squire?”
“Yes,” said Bug. “But I plan to become a knight.”
“Really? Have you any knightly training?”
“I thought I killed a dragon once,” said Bug, “but I recently found out I was mistaken. So, no, not really. But I think I’d be good at it, and I’m getting much better with a sword, so you should let us go now, before Sir John and I have to get really upset and take you and your crew prison
er.”
“Oh, ho, ho!” The Winter King laughed. “I think I like this one best. He has more mettle than the rest of you put together.”
He turned back to John. “You are outnumbered, outgunned, and outmaneuvered. And I can kill you all with a word. But you know what I really want.”
“Yes,” John said.
“Oh, my boy…,” said Bert.
“It’s all right, Bert,” said John. “If we give him what he wants, he won’t hurt any of us. Isn’t that right?”
“I said no such thing,” replied the Winter King. “But there’s no question of what will happen if you fail to cooperate.”
John nodded. “It’s in the cabin, wrapped in oilcloth, inside a buckled leather bag.”
Aven hissed something unintelligible and looked away. Charles and Bert visibly drooped, and Jack stared straight ahead, focused on the Black Dragon. Only Bug seemed to act as if John had done the right thing—and in truth, done the only thing he could do.
One of the Shadow-Born moved swiftly through the cabin door and emerged a moment later with the oilcloth-bound parcel, which it handed to the Winter King.
“The Imaginarium Geographica,” the Winter King murmured with what was almost a purr as he stroked the oilcloth. “Magnificent. There are countless wonders to be found in this book, if you but know how to discern them—but you don’t, do you? Otherwise, I would never have been able to catch up to you.”
John’s face burned with shame, but he remained silent.
“I think our business here is almost concluded,” said the Winter King, “save for one or two loose threads.”
He gestured with his hook, and a clutch of Wendigo brought a whining, struggling figure across from the Black Dragon. They thrust him to the deck alongside the companions, and when he lifted his head, they all gasped with the shock of recognition.
It was the Steward of Paralon.
“Please!” the Steward begged. “You have to help me!”
“Is he asking us, or asking him?” Charles said to Bert. “Because I’m not feeling very charitably toward him right now.”
The Steward overheard the whisper and threw himself to the deck, wailing.
“I don’t have any further need of you, Magwich,” the Winter King said to the prostrate man. “But another may come with me, if he wishes.” He had moved down the line of companions and was now standing directly in front of Jack.
“What?” said Jack. “Me?”
“You,” said the Winter King. “In our earlier encounter, I saw enough to realize that it was due to your ingenuity that the Indigo Dragon escaped. And in our battle just concluded, you again proved yourself to be resourceful, courageous, and a more than worthy adversary.”
“Pfft,” said Aven. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” said the Winter King, who had not taken his eyes off Jack. “Not all of my servants are Shadow-Born. Some of them—the greatest of them—have chosen to seize greatness, to forge their own path….”
“Their own path as your lackeys, you mean,” said Bert.
“Keep a civil tongue, Far Traveler,” the Winter King retorted. “As I recall, you have been less than successful with your own protégés. They seem to either quit on you or come into the job with half a heart.
“Be honest with yourself—you define yourself as ‘good,’ and me as ‘evil,’ but it seems to be my followers and not your own who live by the courage of their convictions.”
“Is that why you had to kill the kings and queens of the Parliament,” Bert said, “and replace them with clockwork constructs?”
The Winter King shot a poisonous glance at the cowering Steward. “Those toys were not meant to engage in debate, much less function indefinitely,” he said, “just to keep a semblance of order until I could assume my place on the Silver Throne. But you are mistaken about one thing—I didn’t kill the kings and queens. They continue to serve—merely in a different capacity.”
He gestured with his hook, and the two Shadow-Born removed their hoods. Both Aven and Bert gasped in recognition.
“The King of Hearts,” Bert began.
“And the King of Spades,” finished Aven.
On the Black Dragon, the other Shadow-Born also removed their hoods, and a nod from Bert confirmed that they were the other two kings, Clubs and Diamonds.
“They wouldn’t join you, so you stole their spirits and compelled them to serve you,” said Bert.
“The exceptions that prove the rule,” the Winter King shrugged. “It makes the others who do that much more determined not to disappoint me.
“Still, they are merely servants, and as powerful as they are, not always as useful as the Wendigo, who have more…”
“Life?” said John.
“I was going to say, ‘substance,’” said the Winter King, “but yes, life. Which is what I’m offering to young Jack: life eternal. The chance to never grow old. Willingly cast aside that which makes you human, and weak—set aside your spirit, and become truly Shadowless, and you will discover a power that makes you greater than any king.”
He looked again at Jack. “So what’s it to be? I know you are conflicted, but that’s what life is—the choices you make, and the consequences they bring. Do you want to become a pirate king, and take a path of adventure with me? Or do you want to stay with this broken-down old vagabond and become one of his lost boys, spending your days entombed in stacks of dusty books?”
“I—I have to think about this,” said Jack.
“Jack!” Charles hissed. “You can’t possibly be considering…He—he murdered the professor!”
“Jack,” said Aven, an uncommon sincerity in her voice, and oddly, a gentleness, too. “Please. Don’t listen to him. You’re better than he is—you know this.”
Jack looked at the earnest, pleading faces of his companions, then drew himself up and looked at the Winter King. “Thanks anyway. But I can’t go with you.”
The Winter King looked at Jack and stroked his chin with the gleaming hook, considering. Suddenly he moved closer, and Jack puffed up his chest in what he hoped looked more like a gesture of defiance than fear.
Jack could feel the hot breath of their captor as the Winter King leaned in and began to whisper in his ear. He spoke too quietly for the others to hear, and Jack’s face gave no hint as to the content of the words.
A moment later, the Winter King straightened, spun about on his heel, and crossed back to the deck of the Black Dragon.
One of the Shadow-Born gestured at the Indigo Dragon and their captives, indicating a question as to what to do with them.
The Winter King hefted the parcel in his hand and snorted, giving the order without even a cursory backward glance.
“Break it. Break it into pieces, and let them drown.”
“I know all of the Children of the Earth.”
Chapter Ten
Marooned
“Well ,this is a fine how-do-you-do,” said Charles. “Although I think I may welcome being drowned if I don’t have to listen to this wailing.”
The Steward of Paralon had taken up with a high-pitched keening, punctuated by frequent snorts and gasps. Charles kicked him, which only made the terrified man wail louder.
“Leave him be,” said John. “He’s useless anyway.”
“It’s your own fault,” Bug said to the Steward. “You’re not a Shadow-Born, or a Shadowless. You’re not even a Wendigo. Didn’t you think your master might someday just get rid of you?”
“That’s pathetic,” said Charles. “He’s not even the Devil’s right-hand man. He’s just the lackey who runs to the corner to buy him tobacco.”
The Steward took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “I’m just a contract worker—I don’t deserve to be treated this way.”
“Bloody hell,” said Charles. “Your hands are free, you fool! Untie the rest of us!”
“Don’t want to,” sniffed the Steward. “You’ll hit me, or pummel me, or something equally nasty. An
d I think, all things considered, I’d rather just drown without taking a beating first.”
“You idiot,” said Aven. “Can’t you swim?”
“No.”
“If we’re free, none of us will drown—including you!” The others all nodded enthusiastically, each of them keeping a watchful eye on the departing Black Dragon.
“Promise?” said the Steward, looking warily at Charles.
“I promise,” said Charles. “Untie us, and there will be no pummeling until we’re all safe on dry land.”
“Okay,” said the Steward. “Now, if I can just get that in writing…”
Charles screamed and kicked Magwich in the head. The Steward of Paralon dropped to the deck, out cold.
“Great,” said Jack, as the other ship wheeled about and began speeding toward them. “He was our only chance.”
“Sorry, sorry,” said Charles. “But can you blame me?”
“Not really,” Jack admitted.
“Brace yourselves,” said Bert. “Here comes the Black Dragon.”
The companions had hardly any time to react further before the great black ship had rammed the defenseless Indigo Dragon, cracking her in two.
They were thrown violently into the water as the aft section of the ship began to sink almost immediately. The fore was still buoyant, but sinking fast, and more torches were extinguished with each passing moment, plunging the companions into darkness.
The Black Dragon had already begun to move away. The Winter King was apparently confident that there would be no recovery for the helpless companions.
His mistake was one that any of them might have made themselves—he’d underestimated Bug, whose hands were free instants after they hit the water.
Swimming swiftly among them, Bug freed first John, then Aven, who untied her father and Jack. Jack freed Charles, who then realized he’d have to take responsibility for the unconscious Steward, lest he drown.
“Drat,” said Charles.
Jack and Aven swam away from the sinking pieces of the boat, while John swam toward it, disappearing into the cabin moments before it was completely submerged. He reappeared moments later. “Got my coat,” he said, smiling broadly.
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