“They’re retreating,” Charys said in amazement, blood streaming from his wounds, running freely down his flanks. “The goblins, and the trolls—they’re retreating!” As unlikely as it seemed, the centaur was right. With a cheer, the elves drew their swords and pressed ahead—then, suddenly, Eledir gave the command to stop, and the dwarves and centaurs also wheeled about. Nemo signaled desperately to Bert, then gestured to the Winter King’s encampment, calling out something Bert couldn’t discern over the din of battle and roar of the falls. He put the spyglass to his eye and looked in the direction Nemo had indicated. As if on cue, the Wendigo opened the tents all along the shore, which they’d assumed to belong to trolls and goblins who’d come from their homelands to fight. They were mistaken. The Shadow-Born had been there all along—they had merely waited until the light and heat of the noonday sun had been enveloped in Shadow, when their power would be at its strongest, and they would be able to move almost invisibly in the dark. “Dear God in Heaven,” said Bert. “This may truly be the end for us all.” Aven spun around and suppressed a shudder, then, worse, began to silently weep. John and Artus, who had not yet gone west, exchanged worried looks, then clambered up the rise to see what had shaken Bert and Aven so badly. A moment’s glance and an instant of comprehension was all that they needed. They had expected, even planned for, the army of Wendigo; the trolls, guided by the traitorous Prince Arawn, had also come as no great surprise. Even a few of the lesser races from the edges of the Archipelago could have added to the bulk of the opposing army without rattling a veteran such as Aven. But what they saw not a mile away chilled the marrow in their bones and clenched their spirits in fear and growing horror. At the edge of the vast plain of the battlefield, the great host of the Winter King had begun its approach. Marching toward them, from horizon to horizon, were the howling, snarling forms of Wendigo, and with them, mute and relentless, came the hooded specters of thousands and thousands of Shadow-Born. Chapter Nineteen There was an unusual kind of quietude on the stony peak that rose above the waterfall at the edge of the world. An almost white noise, created by the commingling of the sounds of battle from the valley to the east and the never-ending combustion engine of the falls to the remaining west.
The Winter King made his way along the bluff line, taking care not to slip on the rocks that were dampened and slick from the eternal spray. It was slow going, for he had only the hook to reach out with to steady himself. In his good hand he was clutching the Imaginarium Geographica. He didn’t trust his translator to carry it—if Magwich were to drop it over the edge, accidentally or otherwise, he’d have to kill him, and as it was, he was merely planning on forcing the hapless Steward to look into Pandora’s Box and become a Shadow-Born.
He’d have done it long before, were it not for the fact that Shadow-Born were mute—and annoying as it was, he still needed Magwich to retain the ability to speak.
For a little longer, anyway. “How much farther?” whined Magwich, who trailed his master by several yards.
“That’s the place,” said John…“I’m certain of it.”
The Winter King spun about. “What? You’re the one who said this was where we had to be to speak the summoning!”
“Well,” said Magwich, “I told you it said in the Geographica that you could use the Ring of Power only at the place in the Archipelago farthest to the west, which, technically, is here on the bluff. I don’t really know if the exact spot where you do it is important.”
The Winter King glowered. “Don’t waste my time, Steward. Are we there or not?”
In reply, Magwich motioned for the Geographica. The Winter King passed it over, then watched impatiently as the Steward thumbed through several pages, leafing back and forth between them, making little humming noises as he did so.
“Well?” The Steward shook his head. “I don’t think it matters. I’m pretty sure we have all you need, and we’re in the best place to do it.” “Pretty sure?” said the Winter King. “I thought you had been trained to read that atlas.” Magwich shrugged. “I never actually finished training, remember? A few of the languages here are just beyond me—but I can still get the gist of it, so what does it matter if we miss a few details?” “Never mind,” the Winter King snapped, snatching the book back. “Let’s just get this done, and then after I’ve assumed control of the entire Archipelago, I’ll make sure you get the reward you’ve earned.” Magwich licked his lips and bowed deeply. “Thank you, my Lord.” “Idiot,” said the Winter King. “Whatever you say, my Lord.” “Just shut up, will you?” “As you command, my Lord.” The Winter King clenched his jaw. “If you say one more word, I’m going to put my hook through both of your eyes and pull your brain out through the sockets.” “Sorry, my Lord.” The Winter King sighed heavily and opened the Geographica. “Just show me where the summoning is, and tell me what to say.” A hundred yards into their mission, Charles already regretted having agreed to it. He was soaked from head to toe in seawater, and he smelled faintly of brine. Worse, Tummeler was also soaked, and the odor of wet badger fur emanated from him in waves. They had decided to keep to the edge of the shoreline, the better to steer clear of any stragglers from the Troll or Goblin armies. But unlike the beaches on the south, which were smooth and sand-covered, the eastern side had been subject to the unending tidal forces created by the pull of the falls—and as a result, the beach was rocky and uneven. Every few steps, one or the other of them had taken a tumble into the surf, only to reemerge splashing and sputtering. They were noisy, dragging a trail throughout the visible sand, and were projecting a smell that could be
