The Search for the Red Dragon

by James A. Owen

  The men had the appearance of brothers and were dressed in a manner similar to the Lost Boys. They were speaking in loud voices tinged with Greek accents. They were Hugh the Iron and William the Pig. Jason’s sons. The original Lost Boys.

  John’s eyes widened in realization, and he looked at Bert, who nodded frantically. He realized the same thing John had about the two young men who were waving a greeting and coming ashore, not realizing that the Croatoans were preparing to attack.

  “Go back!” John yelled. “William! Hugh! Get back on the ship! You must get away!”

  “What?” one of the young men called, waggling a finger in his ear. “I can’t hear a thing with this cursed beeswax Peter put in our ears, can you, Will?”

  The other shrugged and tapped the side of his head, then, with the other hand outstretched in friendship, walked toward Hairy Billy.

  Instead of taking the proffered hand, the Indian lifted his spear and impaled the boy on it.

  “No!” Aven and John screamed together.

  Hairy Billy merely smiled wickedly and drove the spear deeper into the bewildered boy. The boy called William cried out in horror and leaped to his brother’s defense, but the other Indians were already moving to the attack.

  This new spectacle was distracting enough to the Croatoans that Aven caught one of them off guard, throwing him to the ground and snatching away his spear. Quickly she stabbed the Indians holding Charles and Bert, while John coldcocked the one who been behind him and caught Aven’s knife.

  The Croatoans were now being pulled in two fronts, but they were still focused on the weaker opponents with the Dragonship. Burton turned to face the companions and was knocked brutally off his feet by Aven.

  “Being called a wench I can live with,” she said, “but no one calls me ‘helpless.’”

  In a flash, Burton was back up and sparring with her, while Charles and Bert were busy with their own opponents. Only John tried to reach the two young men who had arrived in the Red Dragon. But he was not fast enough.

  The Croatoans fell on them, swords ripping and tearing at their flesh with the spears and knives. William made a valiant effort to defend himself and was obviously skilled with weaponry, but he could do little more than fend off the attackers until he and Hugh could stagger back onto the ship.

  In seconds the living Dragonship had pulled away from the shore and was gaining speed back toward the rift in Time.

  “No!” John shouted. “Don’t let them go! Charles, we have to stop that ship!”

  But it was already too late. The Red Dragon—the Argo—was already far away from the shore, carrying the battered bodies of William and Hugh with it.

  The air around the islands began to tremble, and again the sound of thunder split the air. And suddenly the ship was gone. It had vanished back into Time.

  John dropped to his knees and pounded the sand with his fists. “We could have stopped it,” he exclaimed. “We could have stopped it all. But now it’s too late.”

  Even the Croatoans had paused in their attacks on the companions, realizing that something was amiss.

  “What are you talking about?” said Charles, still brandishing a spear at one of the Indians. “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t you see?” John said. “William and Hugh were unharmed before Burton fought with them. He’s the one who set this in motion—and now they’ve disappeared back into the ripples of Time itself, where they are wrecking on the shoreline where Bacon found them seven hundred years ago!”

  John stood and marched to Burton, grabbing him roughly by his jacket. “If only you had listened!” John shouted. “If only you had trusted us, this would all be over. And now it’s all gone wrong! You fool! You arrogant fool!”

  “Look!” Bert shouted, pointing over the water. “It’s coming back!”

  The thunder was constant now as Time shuddered, and once more the Red Dragon sailed into view. But this time it wasn’t alone. Behind it, with the sole exception of the Indigo Dragon, all the other Dragonships—White, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, and Violet—were falling into a well-ordered formation.

  On the foredeck of the Red Dragon stood the two young men they had seen on the beach just minutes before, but they had changed.

  These were not boys, but men, who were battle-hardened and cold. And they were not entirely human, not any longer. The exposed metal on their arms, torsos, and faces showed that their bodies were at least partially mechanical. And even at that distance, the companions could hear the ticking emanating from their chests.

  These were the Clockworks Laura Glue had warned them about—the abductors of the Lost Boys.

  And behind them, filling the decks of the seven Dragonships, were hundreds and hundreds of children. Some were dressed in animal skins, some in armor. But all of them were fitted for battle.

  The companions and the Croatoans stood mute as the armada came to rest in the shallows of the island. Then the leader of the army climbed over the Red Dragon’s railing and jumped to the sand. He was a dark-skinned, blue-eyed young man, and on his head and shoulders was his mantle of command—the unmistakable head, horns, and pelt that comprised the Golden Fleece.

  “Dear God,” Aven whispered, her eyes locked on the golden warrior at the forefront of the army now leaving the ships. “That’s Stephen.

  “That’s my son.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Thimble

  With only a gesture from their leader, the Children’s Army streamed over the sides of the ships and through the water. In minutes all of the adults, Caretakers and Croatoans alike, were surrounded. A group of the children went to the nearby fishing cottages and captured the Indians there as well, and also the children who had been freed from the labyrinth, and who seemed more confused than anything else.

  It was only then that the thunder subsided enough for them to hear the soft melodies being played by the pipes.

  A tall, emaciated figure, cloaked and hooded in black, stepped off the Red Dragon. In his hands were the panpipes, and he played a tune that resonated strongly within everyone who heard it.

  But with the children, the effect ran more deeply. Every one of the children who had been on the ships wore glazed, entranced expressions. The piper was controlling them all.

  “The King of Crickets,” breathed Bert.

  The music stopped. “The very same,” purred a voice that trembled with hate. “But you may call me the Piper.”

  “The King of Crickets,” breathed Bert.

  Aven was still too fixed on her son to notice or care what the tall man was saying. Stephen would hardly look at her. To him, she was simply one of his prisoners.

  “He’s only a child! He’s not yet nine years old!” said Aven. “How can he be this…this…”

  John suddenly realized what had rattled her so. This Stephen who commanded an army and wore the Golden Fleece was a teenager, fourteen, perhaps older, and already had the manner and bearing of a man. Whatever else he had become, he was no longer a child.

  “He was a child, when I claimed him,” said the Piper. “He and many, many others who serve me. They have traveled many places, and the journeys have taken several years to complete.”

  “But it’s only been a few days!” Aven cried.

  “To you, perhaps,” said the Piper. “But our Crusade has been in progress for a long while, and will go on longer still. We have returned here only to deal with a few loose ends.”

  There was a cry of pain and surprise, and the companions were astonished to see Burton lying on the ground, bleeding from his mouth and sobbing.

  Standing above him with a clenched fist was a girl, who was dressed like the Croatoans. It was Burton’s missing daughter, Lillith. He had seen her in the throng and rushed to embrace her—and was met with a blow to the face that belied her size.

  This wasn’t a girl any longer, but a warrior, as her father had just discovered to his great sorrow.

  “I almost feel sorry for the bugger,” Charle
s whispered. “He does all these awful things just to find his own child, and she’s as entranced as the rest of them.”

  “I’m not that sorry,” Bert whispered back. “Much of this is his fault.”

  “What is it you want, Orpheus?” John said, feigning boldness. “Why are you doing all this?”

  “Orpheus?” the Piper said in surprise. “You think I’m Orpheus?” He tipped back his head and laughed, long and hard. “Oh, my dear Caretakers, you have surprised me, when I thought there were no surprises left in this world. It was worth returning just to hear that.”

  “Not Orpheus?” John whispered to Bert. “How could we be so mistaken?”

  Bert shook his head. “I don’t know. If the Piper isn’t Orpheus, then I’m at a loss.”

  “How did he know?” wondered Charles. “How did the Piper know we were Caretakers?”

  Before John could answer, several of the soldiers started to blink and shake their heads. Apparently, without constant reinforcement, the mesmerizing effects of the Piper’s music could not hold sway over them.

  The Piper again raised the pipes to his lips and began to play, and instantly Stephen, Lillith, and all the rest of the soldier children straightened, their eyes glazing over once more. Then the tune took a wicked turn, and the Indian girl Lillith drew a long knife from her belt.

  She advanced toward the companions, and it became clear that the Piper was compelling her to kill them.

  Aven rose to her feet and took a defensive stance. John may have been a soldier, but she was better at hand-to-hand combat. The girl was smaller, but the knife was lethally sharp, and it was obvious she could wield it with skill.

  All along the outskirts of the group, the children from the labyrinth huddled together in knots, terrified that something beyond their understanding was happening—and even more terrified that it was beyond the grown-ups’ understanding too.

  “John, look,” Charles hissed between clenched teeth. “The Piper is playing, but it isn’t affecting Laura Glue or the children of Haven at all.”

  About fifty feet away, their little friend was putting on a brave face, but she was obviously scared to death—and utterly unmoved by the Piper’s music.

  “She had beeswax in her ears,” said John. “Didn’t she?”

  “It’s not the beeswax,” argued Charles. “It’s got to be something else that’s shielding them from the spell.”

  Charles was right. The Indian girl Lillith was completely entranced and was circling Aven, feinting and lunging with the precision of a cold machine—but Laura was still crouching at the base of the rocks, a terrified expression on her face.

  “None of the children from any of the Dragonships were able to resist the music,” whispered Charles. “And Lillith succumbed again the minute he began to play. So what is it that makes the others immune?”

  “I don’t know,” said John. “It must have something to do with Haven, maybe something peculiar to all the children who were there….”

  John’s breath suddenly caught in his throat when he realized the words he’d just spoken.

  Something unique, that only they possessed.

  Something peculiar to the children in Haven, and the other children in the labyrinth who had been deemed “unsuitable” to enlist in the Crusade.

  Something that made them immune to the effects of the Piper’s music.

  And suddenly John’s heart began to race, and he realized what it was, what it had to be. But how could he use the knowledge to their advantage without getting everyone killed?

  His train of thought was broken by a scream. Lillith had at last found an opening in Aven’s defenses and struck a wicked blow to her side. Aven dropped to her knees in pain, her left arm falling useless as her tunic turned crimson with blood.

  Lillith quickly moved forward for a killing strike but was halted by a trilling harmony from the Piper.

  “No,” he said. “Not yet, anyway. Defeating her is enough. There is no one who might stop us now.”

  Aven struggled to her feet as Lillith moved to take her place at the Piper’s side. “No,” Aven said, her voice a rasp of agony. “It’s not over.”

  “Oh, but I think it is,” said the Piper. He again put the pipes to his lips and played a discordant tune, and suddenly Stephen strode forward and, with a kick, forced his mother roughly to the ground. He placed a sandaled foot on the back of her neck and pushed her face into the abrasive sand. All the while, his face was empty—only the music, and the illusion it painted in his mind, mattered.

  The notes changed, and Stephen lifted his foot and turned to face the Dragonships.

  “Shall I tell you about your son?” the Piper said, his voice cruel and mocking. “Shall I tell you of all the atrocities he will commit, and the death he will bring to the world? Do you want to know all the evil he has already done?

  “Do you want to know the best part?” the Piper went on, his voice growing softer, but still dripping with wicked glee. “He knows. Deep inside, somewhere within, he is still the child you remember. And as he goes forth at my command, at the head of my army, bringing destruction to the world beyond, he knows what he is being compelled to do—and there is nothing that can prevent it. He is mine, now and forever.”

  Aven did not move, but wept into the sand. “My son is truly lost to me,” she murmured dully. “Lost. My lost son.”

  Lost son, thought John. Lost Boys. It had to be. Peter had known. He had been the Piper once—so he had to have known too how to defeat the Piper’s spell. And Jamie had to have known as well, or else why send Laura Glue for him to begin with?

  “‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,’” quoted the Piper. “It was prophesied, inevitable. And now,” he said, raising the pipes to his lips, “we shall have an ending, and go forth to the Great War that we have been building for seven hundred years.”

  “Stop!” John called out in what he hoped was a forceful-sounding voice. “Show mercy. At least let her say her last farewell. Let her say good-bye to her child.”

  Aven looked up at John. The fatigue and pain masking her face was not enough to hide her astonishment. What was he playing at?

  The Piper tilted his head and smiled cruelly, as if sensing an opportunity for further torment. “Farewell to her child,” he purred. “Let it not be said I am without mercy—to a point.”

  He gestured with his hand, and Stephen spun about on his heel and stood above the battered figure of his mother once more.

  It was all John could do to keep his expression placid, and his voice steady. “Aven,” he said, “accept the Piper’s mercy. Say goodbye to your son. Say good-bye…and give him one final kiss.”

  Please, thought John. Please, Aven. See this. See this connection. For the sake of us all, see this in my eyes, and know what you must do.

  Aven saw it.

  She looked up at the Piper, showing him a pleading, already grieving mother, needing, wanting this one small thing. “May I?” she asked. “May I give my son a kiss?”

  The Piper preened at the plaintive, almost desperate tone in her voice.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “For this, the last time you shall ever see your son, I shall permit a kiss.”

  Aven tilted her head slightly in acknowledgment of the act of mercy. She stood shakily, weak from loss of blood, and slowly, painfully, walked to her son.

  Stephen looked indifferently at his mother, his arms crossed. His gaze was not dead, but it was passionless. There was no spark, only drive. He was a tethered life that lacked his soul, and it showed in the vacancy of his eyes. And in moments his master was going to use him to start a conflagration that would consume the world.

  Aven choked back a sob.

  She leaned in, as if to kiss Stephen’s cheek—then, masking the motion with her crippled left arm, she swiftly reached up with her right hand and pulled something out of her tunic.

  She kissed him, and at the same moment slipped the small silver thimble into his hand.

  For an i
nstant it seemed as if nothing happened. Then Stephen’s eyes went wide, and he began to shudder.

  The Piper’s eyes narrowed. Something was amiss.

  Aven watched a myriad of emotions suddenly flowing across her son’s face, and he made a small noise, as if in pain. And then his eyes cleared. They widened, focused, narrowed.

  And Aven’s son smiled at her.

  “Mother,” he said softly. “You know I don’t like being kissed in front of my people.”

  The Piper snarled and lifted his pipes to his lips.

  Before she could react, Stephen thrust Aven behind him and in the same wheeling motion hurled his long knife at the Piper.

  It struck him in the throat, before a note could be sounded by the pipes, and he let out a choking scream.

  There was a thunderclap, and a shattering across the sky. And the figure of the Piper exploded into shards of darkness.

  Guided by the shadow that had sought him out and bound itself to him, Jack steered the Indigo Dragon past the last of the Wandering Isles into the sixth and final district of the Underneath, to the last island.

  The Ninth Circle, according to Dante. The center of Hell. Not someplace one might choose to go willingly. But Jack did, not because he was compelled by the shadow, but because he felt its need. It needed help, and it had sought him out. Not one of the adults. Jack. Young Jack. It trusted him, and he could not betray that trust.

  Incredibly, the ninth island was small and unremarkable. All that it appeared to hold were a few stunted trees and a tumble of stones that appeared to be a cairn, or perhaps the entrance to a cave.

  Jack tilted the guidelines of the Indigo Dragon, spun the wheel, and headed for the island.

  The pieces of darkness that had formed the Piper’s body were thousands upon thousands of crickets, which scattered into the crevices and under the rocks, the better to escape the light. But what remained behind had nowhere to go.