followed by a blind Wendigo with a head cold. They were, Charles decided, the worst stealth force ever to be sent on a mission during wartime. “Don’t mind my sayin’ so,” said Tummeler, “but you’re starting t’ smell funny.” “I was about to say the same thing,” said Charles. Tummeler stopped, and looked visibly hurt by the remark. “What d’ you mean?” “Nothing—forget it,” said Charles, realizing the badger had meant his remark as a compliment. He was outfitted in light armor the elves had given him to replace the ill-fitting Dwarven tunic, but otherwise carried only a short sword and small hatchet, as he thought appropriate for a stealth mission. Tummeler, however, not only had a large knife, but also was still dragging his supply of rock-hard muffins inside the battered bronze shield. “Listen, Tummeler,” Charles began, “do you really think it’s justified to take along all this, this, stuff? After all, we’re supposed to be sneaking in to search for Pandora’s Box—not engaging in a conflict.” Tummeler puffed up his chest in a gesture of badgerly defiance. “Better t’ make th’ effort t’ bring it, then t’ find ourselves in a situation where we wants t’ have it, and finds it’s not there.” Charles thought about that a moment. “Now that you’ve put it that way,” he said, “it is a bit comforting to have more weapons along. But do you really need the shield? It’s leaving quite a track.” “Mister Samaranth gave it t’ me,” said Tummeler, “and told me t’ bring it here. He said we’d need it, sooner or later, so bring it I done.” “Fair enough,” said Charles, “but what say I carry it, so we make better time?” “Okee-dokee,” said Tummeler, hefting the knapsack over his shoulders and passing the shield to Charles. “Heavy,” Charles muttered as he slipped the shield over his back. “Y’r not kidding,” said Tummeler. “Onward.” With the retreat of the trolls and goblins, the strategy of the Winter King was now obvious. The first onslaught by the denizens of the Archipelago was meant merely to test the resistance of the allies at best, and to cut down as many of the opposing forces as they could at worst. For their part, the trolls and goblins were merely cannon fodder—if they survived the initial attack, and damaged the allies in the process, then all was good. But if they faltered, and many lost their lives—just as good. Because the main force of the Winter King’s army were the Wendigo and the Shadow-Born, and there would be no testing or trials, no retreat and withdrawal—just brutal, bloody combat to the end. The nearest wave of Shadow-Born had reached the advance line of elves and dwarves, and the method of battle they intended to use to defeat the allies became blindingly clear. The Shadow-Born brushed off arrows like toothpicks, and while a direct blow from an ax or a pike might slow them it wouldn’t stop or damage them. And then they were close enough to grasp the shadows of the warriors and rip them free. The dwarves and elves who lost their shadows screamed, then dropped to the ground, drained of their will and resistance. Then, as the Shadow-Born moved on to other victims, the Wendigo fell on the helpless soldiers to slaughter them in a rending of claws and teeth. “Douse your torches!” Charys called out. “Put them out!” Eledir and Falladay Finn exchanged startled glances. It would reduce the threat of the Shadow-Born, true—but then they would be facing the Wendigo in the dark. “There’s no choice!” Charys yelled again. “Douse your torches and pull back, or we are already lost!” At the rear of the field, Aven and Bert rushed forward to confer with Jack and Nemo. “What are they doing?” Aven cried. “How can we fight in the dark?” “Charys is right,” said Nemo. “But it won’t be completely dark. The Wendigo carry their own torches—but the light from those will cast our shadows backward, not ahead. That will give us a chance to fight, at least, before—” He stopped and looked down at the ground where they were standing, where his own shadow overlapped with Bert’s and Aven’s—but not Jack’s. Bert saw it too, and looked at Jack with an expression both sorrowful and fearful. Jack looked at the ground, then back at the others with a defiant set to his jaw. “I know. I saw it vanish some time ago. But I don’t think it means anything—I’m on your side, remember?” “Doesn’t mean anything!” Bert exclaimed. “Jack—you’ve become a Shadowless! That’s worse than a Shadow-Born!” “How?” Jack said stubbornly. “It means you have the capacity for darkness,” said Nemo. “You may be choosing to stand with us in the light, but your heart is choosing to be in Shadow.” Jack made a cutting motion with his hand. “I don’t believe you. Judge me on what I’m actually doing, not on what you think I believe.” “Remember what the Cartographer said about choices and consequences, Jack,” said Bert. “Think about what happened to him, over choices he made!” “The Winter King said the same thing on the Black Dragon, remember?” said Jack. “Which one do I believe? The one who’s imprisoned and couldn’t help us, or the one who’s able to conquer?” “The one who’s trying to kill us, you mean,” said Nemo. “Can’t I have both?” said Jack. “The conviction of the Cartographer and the strength of the Winter King?” “You can’t have one foot in and the other out,” said Bert. “It doesn’t work that way.” Nemo looked grimly at Aven. “We don’t have time for this. If he’s going to become one of the Lost Boys, it’ll be his own cross to bear—but I have a battle to fight.” “Wait,” Aven said, grabbing Nemo by the arm. “He is good, I know it. Take him, fight with him! If you can’t trust him, then trust me!” Nemo looked at Aven for a long second, then motioned to Jack. “Come on, then,” he said. “If nothing else, you’ll be the one fighter we have that the Shadow-Born can’t touch.” The Steward of Paralon, previously a Caretaker-in- training, went over the summoning of the dragons for the third time before he was certain (to a degree) of the exact wording. It had been sandwiched in with the notations on the map for the Island at the Edge of the World and the actual location where the ritual was to be performed. He was a bit relieved that the Winter King didn’t question him (too) extensively as to the accuracy of the translation—if his master really knew how much supposition and guesswork was involved, he’d have already cut the Steward’s throat. But then, Magwich justified, if the Caretakers of the Geographica weren’t meant to exercise a little creative license, then why were they given credit for having a good imagination? “Well?” said the Winter King. “I have it,” replied Magwich. “Stand here, at the edge of the peak, hold forth the Ring of Power, and repeat what I say.” As Magwich began to read, the Winter King smiled and felt a shiver of anticipation run through him. Repeating the phrases given to him by the Steward, the Winter King raised his hand. The ring shimmered in the cloying air above the falls, at the edge of the void. And, suddenly… Nothing happened. Standing, hand upraised, the Winter King’s eyes narrowed, and he looked sideways at Magwich. “Perhaps you have to read it more than once,” the Steward said. The Winter King dropped his hand and looked closely at the ring. It was not a question of whether he’d been given a fake—the ring was embossed with the seal of the king: a scarlet letter A. It was the High King’s ring. Still, nothing. It wasn’t working. “So be it,” the Winter King hissed. “If I must take the Archipelago with sharpened steel and smoke and blood and death, so be it.”
