The Dragons of Winter

by James A. Owen

  Across the field, Crowley slapped his head. “Idiot,” he grumbled. “I told you not to even try to tempt him, Dee.”

  “Shut up!” Dee said, striking Crowley a blow across the face. The game was not going as he had planned.

  “I gave you a chance,” Dee said to Kipling. “My army is going to tear you all to pieces.”

  “Oh, I really don’t think that’s going to happen,” Kipling replied. He walked to the front of the battle lines and began to recite a verse:

  From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and all creatures which go bump in the night may the good Lord preserve us, amen.

  “Hah!” Lovecraft barked. “What, is that supposed to be some kind of a prayer?”

  “Not a prayer,” Kipling said, smiling slyly. “A Binding.”

  There was a low vibration in the air as the invocation Kipling spoke triggered the Binding, which swept through the ranks of Dee’s army like a plague in London. As one, all the Wendigo, Yoricks, and the rest of the creatures that had been in the thrall of the Lloigor crossed the field, where they formed ranks behind Kipling, who bowed gracefully at his opponent.

  “My bishop takes your pawns, Dee,” said Verne. “All your pawns. Your move.”

  “I have just one left,” said Dee.

  To John’s right, next to Verne, Dr. Raven suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Verne was startled, and slightly puzzled, by the Messenger’s appearance.

  “Dr. Raven!” John exclaimed. “What are you . . . ?”

  “All good things happen, Caveo Principia,” Dr. Raven said to John, “in time.”

  Dr. Raven strode away from the Caretakers and across the field to stand next to Dr. Dee. He turned to face his friends from Tamerlane House, and as he did so, his form shimmered and changed. He youthened, and where Dr. Raven had been standing there was now a younger version, not much older than Edmund McGee.

  Only this younger version wore two watches: the silver watch of Verne’s Messengers and the Caretakers, and the ebony watch of the Cabal. He also wore one of the silver rings, but none of that was what struck fear into those on the Caretakers’ side of the battlefield.

  As he walked, the Ruby Armor of T’ai Shan vanished from the bag Aristophanes had carried it in and reappeared—on the young Dr. Raven.

  He was now wearing the armor Jules Verne had told the Caretakers would give the bearer near-infinite control over time and space—and he was standing with the Lloigor Dee.

  “That,” said Dr. Dee, “is checkmate, my dear Verne.”

  . . . in all three faces, the eyes blazed with the flames of vengeance.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Furies

  The skies over the beach at Corinth suddenly grew dark. As Rose cradled the body of Gilgamesh in her arms and tried to understand what had happened, the others formed a protective triangle around them.

  “That was not worthy of a queen,” Bert said, “and not worthy of a Dragon.”

  Azer seemed to take pause at the Caretaker’s admonition. “This world was meant to be ruled,” the Dragon hissed, “not cultivated and given over to children—even one who calls himself a king.”

  “That decision,” said a voice that echoed across the sky, “was not yours to make.”

  Above their heads, where the clouds were swirling together, a terrible apparition appeared.

  The woman was ten feet tall, with flowing robes, and appeared at times to have three faces, or perhaps even three bodies. The lines were indistinct and flowed into one another so that it was never entirely clear if this was one woman, or three. One of them carried a hammer, and another carried a torch. But in all three faces, the eyes blazed with the flames of vengeance.

  “Hecatae!” Aristophanes breathed. “The goddess of the crossroads!”

  Rose was equally taken aback by the extraordinary apparition before them. The goddess was, after all, of the pantheon Rose had been raised to believe in. She gently set Gilgamesh’s body aside, then knelt and bowed her head. Following her example, Bert and Charles did the same.

  “The Furies,” Rose said under her breath. “The first Morgaine.”

  “He was of the blood of the firstborn,” the Hecatae said, voices ringing out in a terrible harmony. “It is forbidden to harm those of his line. Forbidden to spill their blood. Forbidden to kill.”

  Aristophanes cowered. “I had to do it!” he cried. “I had no choice!”

  “You have not acted as a man should,” said the Hecatae. “You have acted ignobly, in haste, and for the weakest of reasons, little philosopher. And henceforth, you shall be marked, so that those around you in this world will know of your crime, and of your shame.”

  The Hecatae pointed a finger at Aristophanes, who was looking to Medea, hoping for some kind of intervention or protection—but the sorceress ignored him. He had done what she wanted, and now she had no further use for him.

  “Wait!” he called out to the goddess. “Wait! I can serve you instead! Please!”

  “You wished the freedom from responsibility to your fellows,” one face of the goddess said. “Now you shall stand forever apart from them, cloaked in the colors of a king, that all shall know your coward’s heart.”

  As she spoke, Aristophanes clutched at his arms, which had begun to turn crimson, as if he were covered in blood, then a rich shade of purple, which began to spread up his arms and over his entire body.

  “You wished the attentions of the crowd,” the second face of the Hecatae said, “now be among the most sought-after of creatures, desired and pursued, so that your only refuge will be in the shadows you served this day.”

  The philosopher screamed, as a bright red whorl appeared on his forehead. In moments it had grown into a bump, which burst with a spray of blood and skin as a horn sprouted out of his skull.

  “And you, who spoke truths, and betrayed those truths with the sting of a blade, now be in the flesh what you summoned with your actions, and never know another’s touch, lest they be poisoned by your own.

  “All these things you now are, and forevermore shall be, until the end of time. So mote it be.”

  With a scream, Aristophanes fled, running across the top of the dunes. In seconds he had disappeared from sight, but the companions could still hear the echoes of his scream.

  The Hecatae turned their attention to Medea.

  “It is forbidden,” they said again. Medea scowled. She had hoped—no, expected—that using the philosopher as the hand that killed Gilgamesh would spare her the vengeance of the Furies. Apparently that was not true.

  Medea stood facing them, defiant. “It was my right, as queen,” she said, all but spitting out the words in anger. “My right to rule. He should have chosen me, not my husband!”

  “Jason will pay the price for his choices, as you will pay the price for yours,” the goddess said. And Medea’s stolid composure finally cracked, and she fell to her knees, trembling. “But it’s not fair!” she cried. “Before his betrayal, I believed I was to rule with him, on the Silver Throne! And after, if not with him, then in his stead! And this old fool,” she continued, gesturing at the body of Gilgamesh, “would not grant me his blessing, even though he knew I would kill him if he did not!”

  “Your words have caused great pain, great misery,” they said to the cowering Sorceress, “and so has your vanity. Thus, forevermore, these shall be all that you have.”

  “Daughter,” the Hecatae said to Rose. “You are our heir. You are the Moonchild. And you have served us honorably and well. The punishment must come from your hand.”

  Rose gasped. “Me?” she exclaimed. “How—how could I possibly punish her?”

  “It is your responsibility,” the Hecatae said. “None other has the right. And we have already given you the means, in your past, which is still our time to come.”

  Rose nodded slowly, finally realizing what the goddess meant. She reached into her pocket and removed the multifaceted mirror, which, on impulse, she threw into the air. It began to sp
in and expand—and then it began to draw the queen of Corinth toward itself.

  Medea screeched in protest, but the sound was drowned out by a thunderclap. Lightning flashed, blinding the companions for a few seconds, and when their vision cleared, Medea was gone.

  Where she had crouched was the mirror, larger now, which reflected nothing of its surroundings, but which bore the image of the sorceress. She was weeping and pounding her fists against her transparent prison.

  “So mote it be,” said the Hecatae. “Forevermore you will dwell as an image in a cave of images, until such time as your children have redeemed you.”

  The mirror vanished from the sand. In that instant, Azer, who had witnessed all that had transpired, stroked her wings into the air and took flight.

  Rose and her companions saw, for the first time, something that was rarely if ever seen in the face of a Dragon—fear.

  “Stop,” said the Hecatae, and in midair the Dragon froze, suspended above them.

  “You have betrayed your calling,” the Hecatae said, their voices reverberating in the air, “and a price must be paid.”

  “I did not choose this!” Azer hissed through gritted teeth. “I did not choose to descend! He did this, he chose—”

  “The choice was yours, as it always was,” asserted the Hecatae. “And the price you pay is yours also, until such a day when you choose to serve someone other than yourself once more.”

  As they watched, Azer transformed from a Dragon to a terrible, beautiful woman, then back to a Dragon again, before finally falling to the sand as a half-formed Dragon with the woman’s head and torso. Azer had also been transformed to stone—to cavorite.

  “This is why she brought us here, to her home on Autunno,” Burt murmured to the others. “This was the day she became the Sphinx.”

  Rose looked up at the goddess. “What of Gilgamesh?”

  “We shall bear his body to the Elysian Fields,” the Hecatae said, dropping closer to gather up the old regent’s body, “where he shall rest until such a time as he may be called upon to rise, as great heroes are needed to do.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rose said. “I’m sorry we couldn’t stop them from killing him.”

  “Daughter,” the Hecatae said as they bore the body of Gilgamesh up into the clouds, “you have ever pleased us with your choices, and you please us still. Go now, and do the work you have set to do, and be not troubled. For your path is just.”

  With that, the Hecatae disappeared. The clouds cleared, and the moon was rising. And once more, the companions were alone.

  They spent the night on the beach, if for no other reason than that the Ring of Power was familiar and gave them a measure of security. Although after what had happened with Azer, none of them was quite so sure summoning Dragons would ever be such a good idea again.

  “Samaranth always did mention,” Charles said, “that he wasn’t a tame Dragon. The same apparently went for his wife.”

  “What are you doing?” Rose asked Edmund, who had been busying himself with his drawings all night.

  “I’ve tried using the old trump to Tamerlane House,” he replied, “but we’re simply too far away from any other recorded zero points for it to work across space and time. It still isn’t working well enough. And anyway, if we try to go back, whether by trump or by trying to find the keep, we’ll be going in the wrong direction.”

  “Wrong direction?” Charles exclaimed. “Don’t you want to go home?”

  “What I want,” Edmund replied, “is to put an end to all this and restore what’s been broken. But it’s not my choice—it’s yours.” This last he said not to the Caretaker, but to Rose.

  “Mine?” she exclaimed, blushing slightly. “We’re all making these decisions together, I thought.”

  “Yes,” Bert said, “but it’s been obvious all along who is the true factotum. Rose, you are the true fulcrum of history, and we will do as you feel best. It’s your choice. Decide, and we will follow.”

  “Then I say yes,” Rose answered. “We should keep pressing into the past. What are you thinking, Edmund?”

  “While Gilgamesh told us about the First City,” he explained, “I was making a drawing on one of the trump sheets in the Geographica. I think we can use it to go there and learn more about the Architect.”

  “And this one?” Rose asked, picking up a copy he had made on a sheet of bronze. “What is it for?”

  “The Caretakers.”

  “So they can try to rescue us somehow?”

  “No,” said Edmund. “Not to rescue us. We can’t risk anyone else interfering with the course of Chronos time. We’ve done too much already.”

  “What’s happened had to happen, because it did happen,” Bert said, “and it could not have happened any other way.”

  “So if we aren’t going to ask someone at Tamerlane House to attempt a rescue,” said Charles, “what is it you’re thinking of, Edmund?”

  “He’s thinking of a legacy,” said a voice behind them. “That’s the only reason to craft something in metal.”

  It was the shipbuilder, Argus.

  “I heard rumors that the queen had disappeared,” he said, “along with her Dragon. And in their place, the Corinthians have found a Sphinx. They have asked me to stay and help them create a temple around it, as a tribute to the gods.”

  “If you want,” Charles said, “there’s a nice, sturdy little building about a mile that way that would be perfect for the Sphinx.”

  Argus nodded. “And what of Medea?” he asked.

  Rose looked at her friends. “She got the immortality she was looking for.”

  The shipbuilder smiled and sat, leaning back against the rock to soak in the sun. “No one lives forever, my young friend.”

  “Maybe not forever,” said Rose, “but long enough for all practical porpoises.”

  “Hmm?” Argus raised his head. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a badger joke,” Rose replied, grinning. “It means you will live long enough to do what we want to ask of you.”

  “Ah,” Argus said, bemused.

  “The Corinthians asked you to construct the temple of the Sphinx?” Edmund asked.

  Argus inclined his head in answer.

  “Would you do something for me?” Edmund asked. “Just a small, simple request?”

  “What is it?”

  Edmund handed him the drawing on the sheet of bronze. “When you’re done,” he said, “simply place this inside the base of the Sphinx.”

  Argus frowned. “When the structure is finished, it will be considered sacred,” he said. “It isn’t meant to be used. No one will ever go inside, not without some extreme compulsion to do so.”

  Now it was Edmund’s turn to smile. “That’s what we’re counting on. Will you do it?”

  Argus smiled. “I am here in the sun today because of your good will,” he said. “I will do as you ask.”

  After breakfasting together, the companions bid Argus good-bye and began to gather their things together. All except Bert, who had rolled up his trousers and waded out into the ocean.

  Rose waded out of the surf and toward Bert. The Far Traveler had been consulting his watch, with a grim expression on his face. As she approached, Bert hurriedly snapped the watch closed and adopted a halfhearted smile that failed miserably to conceal his turmoil.

  “What is it, old teacher?” Rose asked him. “That’s the third time this morning you’ve checked your watch and not been pleased with what you saw there.”

  Bert sighed. “I didn’t realize that anyone had noticed.”

  “I think we’ve all noticed,” she said, looking over to where the others were, near the rocks. “I’m just the one who lost the draw about which one of us would mention it to you.”

  “As Argus said,” Bert remarked with tears in his eyes, “no one lives forever.”

  “Your time isn’t up yet,” said Rose. “Come and see—our young Cartographer has a plan.”

  “Verne sent us the only o
bject he knew would survive eight thousand centuries,” Edmund was saying to the others, “namely, the Sphinx. So at some point in the future, he is going to have to open it, and when he does, he’ll find the bronze I made of the drawing and know where we’re going to go—because I’ve tested it, just a little, and I think we can use the drawing I made as a chronal map.”

  “That’s a tall order,” said Rose. “According to Gilgamesh, it was thousands of years ago.”

  “We’re going to have to try it,” Edmund said. “I believe in you, Rose. And I think that I’ve drawn it accurately enough. We can see this through. We just have to believe.”

  She took his hand, and the others stood next to them inside the Ring of Power as Edmund concentrated on the drawing he held.

  The young Cartographer’s hand trembled, and he bit his lip, hoping the pain would steady his hand before the others noticed. In response, Rose squeezed his arm supportively, then added her own concentration to the drawing. But still, nothing happened.

  And then, deep inside the drawing . . .

  . . . a leaf fell from a tree and floated gently on a breeze in the faraway place, coming closer and closer until it brushed past Edmund’s fingers before drifting out of the frame.

  The trump shuddered, and then, much to the companions’ relief, it began to grow and expand, until it was more than a dozen feet across, and nearly as high.

  “Well done!” Charles exclaimed, applauding respectfully. “I doubt the original Cartographer could have done any better.”

  “Well,” Bert began.

  “Hush that,” Charles admonished. “He did very well.”

  “Shall we?” Edmund said, beaming at the others.

  “Absolutely,” said Rose.

  On the broad field in front of the house on Easter Island, the two armies faced each other, waiting, each wondering what this new defection meant to the Great Game.