Here, There Be Dragons

The Steward grimaced. “The Parliament…,” he began.
“The Parliament,” said Bert, “called a council to debate the matter of succession. Whether or not there is an heir, as you say, we should be allowed to address them.”
“By what right,” asked the Steward, “do you speak?”
“I am one of the Caretakers of the Imaginarium Geographica,” said Bert, “and the other sits beside me.”
This brought many nods, mostly friendly, from the throng. The Steward shook his head. “I appreciate your desire to participate,” he began to say.
“Let him speak,” came a gruff voice. It was Uruk Ko, the Goblin King.
The Steward could bluff and bluster past most of those assembled; he could not, however, stare down an actual king of an entire race. Reluctantly, he bowed and stepped to the side of the hall, casting nervous glances up at the Parliament members.
Bert stood in the center of the Great Hall and faced the gallery. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Parliament,” he began, “I have had direct and recent experience with the man called the Winter King….” But before he could continue, he was cut off by the King of Diamonds, who stood and shook his fist at the other man.
“Unacceptable,” said the king. “The Parliament cannot accept the proposal.”
“Did he make a proposal?” John whispered to Charles. “If so, I missed it.”
Bert seemed similarly puzzled. “Your Majesty, if I have presumed too much—”
“Yes, entirely out of the question,” the king continued, as if he had not heard Bert at all. “A Walrus as High King is preposterous. And everyone knows a Carpenter cannot be High Queen—if we allowed that, then who would organize all of the dances?”
“This is very strange,” said Charles.
“Shush,” said Jack. “Look—another king is rising to speak.”
The King of Spades raised a hand. “Please don’t fire the cannons,” he said, “or I shall never be able to remove the potatoes from my ears.”
The dwarves had begun to murmur, as if they too sensed all was not well.
“They’re all mad,” said Jack. “What is this?”
“I don’t know,” said Aven. “Something is very wrong.”
The Steward was about to escort Bert off the floor, when the Queen of Clubs’s head caught fire. The flames shot high into the air, and yet she remained seated, hands folded, a gentle smile on her face, as if nothing were amiss.
The murmuring that began with the dwarves had now spread to the elves and goblins. And the trolls were beginning to unsheathe their weapons.
The Queen of Hearts, a portly, dark-haired woman, picked up a croquet mallet from under her seat and smashed the King of Hearts in the chest. “I hate roses,” she said. “They never speak when spoken to.”
Bert looked around, but the Steward had disappeared. All throughout the seats, the delegates were rising to their feet, shouting.
One of the trolls overcame his forced decorum and threw a mace directly at the Queen of Hearts. With the impact, her chest split open and spilled a cascade of wheels and cogs onto the floor of the hall, showering the nearby delegates in an explosion of sparks.
The Parliament members were not human at all. They were clockwork constructs.
“A fraud!” boomed the Troll Prince Arawn, standing and shaking his armored fist. “The Council is a fraud!”
In moments the entire Great Hall of Paralon had erupted in chaos.

“Quickly!” Tummeler shouted. “Master scowlers! Get in, get in!”

Chapter Seven

The Forbidden Path

The smoke was acrid, and it filled John’s nose, mouth, and lungs. Desperately, he covered his head with his arms and burrowed more deeply into the muddy French soil.

The shelling had been relentless. And just as it seemed the travails could grow no worse, the telltale fog of the Gas came wafting malevolently through the shattered trees.

Screaming, John leaped to his feet and began to run, only to be caught up in the rolls of concertina wire that had been strung along the rear trenches. All around him were bloated bodies of the dead, lying in a landscape blackened, stripped bare of life. Helplessly, he could only watch as the Gas crept closer, accompanied by the increasingly thunderous sound of the artillery: Boom. Boom. Boom…

Boom.
“John!” said a voice he knew, but it was not that of any soldier in his battalion. “John, for God’s sake, pull yourself together!”
John shook his head, blinking, as he came to his senses and his vision cleared. Charles was grasping him by the shoulders, shaking him and shouting his name. His other companions were making their way to the exit under the sparse cover of the boxfronts of the seats. Incredulous, he looked around at the maelstrom of weapon play, flames, grappling bodies, and furious shouting that had moments before been the Grand Council.
There was no sign of the goblins; and the last of the elves were just departing under the cover of the northern arch. The dwarves had spread across the gallery and had begun hurling explosive bundles at the troll delegates, as more and more trolls flooded through the southern and eastern entrances. The trolls had clambered into the center seats and had smashed the members of the Clockwork Parliament to pieces. In the uppermost part of the gallery, bellowing directions to his arriving reinforcements, was the Troll Prince Arawn.
More than one treachery had been planned for that day, it seemed.
“That’s why there were so many ships in the harbor,” Aven said to Bert. “The Trolls planned a revolt no matter what happened in the Council.”
Bert nodded in agreement, as he and Charles supported the dazed John under his shoulders and moved lower toward the western arch. “The Steward of Paralon just beat them to the punch,” he said. “This may be the Archipelago’s undoing.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Jack said, scowling at John.
“The explosions,” Charles said. “He’s gone into a bit of battle shock.”
“I’ll be all right,” John said, attempting to regain his footing. “Really.”
Aven glared and Jack’s eyes narrowed in disgust as John shook off Charles and Bert’s assistance. “Let’s