Here, There Be Dragons

the deception of the Clockwork Parliament.”
At this, Tummeler clicked his teeth nervously but kept his eyes on the path ahead.
“There,” said Tummeler at last. “There she be.”
He gestured ahead at the steep rock face of the canyon, where an enormous edifice seemed to have been carved into the stone itself, in much the same manner as Paralon. It was rougher, cruder, but bore the same unmistakable craftsman-ship. A great framework of stone and iron was inset into the southern wall of the canyon, and two huge wooden doors within that. Above, wrapped protectively around the upper part of the doors, was a stone bas-relief of a dragon, surrounded by exotic golden lettering.
“Elvish,” Tummeler stated, as Bert nodded in agreement.
“How do we get in?” Jack asked, examining the doors. “There doesn’t seem to be a handle or keyhole.”
“Perhaps the inscription is a magical instruction,” said Charles. “Remember where we are, and how things work in this place.”
“I don’t suppose you can read that,” Jack said to John, who scowled, face reddening.
“Jack,” Charles admonished. “Mr. Tummeler brought us here—I’m sure he can facilitate our entry.”
“Oh, drat and darn,” said Tummeler. “I’ve forgotten the magic word again.”
“What does the writing say?” John asked, not quite daring to touch the inscriptions, which were deeply engraved into the granite, yet were worn smooth with extreme age.
“It’s Elvish,” Tummeler repeated. “It says, basically, ‘Declare allegiance, and be welcomed.’”
“Well, doesn’t it perhaps mean that the magic word that opens the door is ‘allegiance’?” said Jack. “In Elvish?”
“That’s a stupid idea,” said John. “Then anyone who spoke Elvish could get in.”
“Pr’cisely,” said Tummeler. “No, it be an actuated magic word. One of the oldest magic words there be. It was made so by one of th’ great Elven Kings of old, called Eledin, he be.”
“Eledin?” said Charles. “That’s close to ‘Aladdin,’” he said, waving his hand across the doors. “If only it was that easy—to simply say, ‘Alakazam.’”
With a low groaning of wood and metal, the giant oaken doors cracked apart and slowly began to spread open.
“Y’ know the sacred magic word,” said Tummeler, eyes wide with respect. “Y’ be a true scowler, master Charles.”
“Good show, Charles,” said Jack.
“Bravo,” said Bert.
“That shouldn’t have worked,” said John. “It was supposed to be Ali Baba and ‘Open Sesame.’”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Charles.

There were several skeletons strewn about the entryway, robed in various styles of clothing. A few of the remains were misshapen, the bones either too short or elongated and overly large. It was Jack who realized that not all of the remains were human.
“Does everyone still think this is a good idea?” Jack said. “It looks as if other adventurers weren’t entirely successful at getting very far.”
“Oh, don’t mind the bones,” said Tummeler. “The Archivist keeps ’em about to give th’ place atmosphere.”
“Scared, Jack?” Aven said with a mischievous grin.
He straightened his posture and stepped forward. “No.”
With Jack leading the way, the companions moved down the corridor, which was as tall as the doors and lit by the supernatural glow of runes engraved in the walls some ten feet above their heads.
“More Elvish,” said Bert.
The corridor opened into a broad cavern that was honey-combed with holes, each of which was filled with books, or artifacts, or in some cases, gold and jewels.
“Hello?” said Tummeler. “Is anyone there?”
“Welcome,” rumbled a deep, smoky voice. “I hope you’ve come by for a cup of tea, because those are the only kind of visitors I permit here anymore.
“Otherwise,” the voice continued, “I’m going to have to kill you all.”

“Will you drink with me? Or do you want to plunder, and die?”

Chapter Eight

An Invitation to Tea

Even the light from the Elvish runes seemed to recede as an immense red dragon rose slowly to its feet and moved toward them from the shadowed recesses of the cavern.

“My name is Samaranth,” said the great red beast, “and all those you see around you declined my invitation, opting instead to help themselves to the treasure. So, Sons of Adam, choose. Will you drink with me, or do you want to plunder, and die?”

“Are you serious?” said Jack. “Tea or death? Of course we’ll take the tea.” The others all nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “What kind of fool would choose death?”

“Bet they wuz Cambridge scowlers, eh, master Charles?” said Tummeler with a wink.

“Undoubtedly,” said Charles.
The stone floor was covered with an assortment of Persian rugs of varying sizes. The largest lay squarely before them, where the dragon indicated they should sit.
“This is quite an honor,” Bert whispered to John as they seated themselves in a semicircle at the feet of the dragon. “There are no other dragons left in the Archipelago. Haven’t been since the old king died. But to share tea with Samaranth…”
“What’s special about Samaranth?” John whispered back, keeping a wary eye on the dragon, “as opposed to, well, regular dragons?”
“He’s the first,” Bert replied. “The oldest. The original dragon of the Archipelago. In fact, he may be the oldest creature alive.”
“Perhaps you are correct,” Samaranth said, smiling. “I may indeed be the oldest. But time, as you well know, Son of Adam, is relative.”
Bert reddened at this and folded his arms, bowing. “I meant no disrespect, Samaranth. I am indeed