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 prisoner.” “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.
