He tossed the Imaginarium Geographica to Magwich and drew his sword. “Let us finish this.” With that, the Winter King turned and began to stalk back down the embankment. “Wh-where are you going?” sputtered Magwich. “I’m going to go to the battlefield and oversee my victory,” the Winter King said without bothering to stop or turn around. “I could care less what you do.” “B-but what do you want me to do with the Geographica?” The Winter King stopped and stiffened, then turned and spoke, his voice icy with hatred. “Burn it.” It had taken very little time for John and Artus to make their way around the southern tip of the island, then scale the sloping rise of rock that led to the flat bluff and the peak beyond. They actually wasted more time than they’d spent climbing arguing about whether or not their place was alongside their friends on the battlefield. John’s logic won out over a still-reluctant Artus; a choice proven wise when they saw, off in the distance, the shapes of the Winter King and the Steward, arguing. “Let’s go!” whispered Artus. “He has the Geographica, and I’ll bet my ring, too! Come on—we can take them!” John knew Artus was more than a match for the Steward, but he was less confident about his ability to take on the Winter King mano a mano. But more than that, he was held back by a nagging in his subconscious; a sixth sense that was saying things to him in a still, small voice: Wait. Wait. They do not have the power they believe they have. Wait. He shook his head and pulled Artus behind one of the scattered standing stones. “Not yet.” Artus arched an eyebrow. “But why? What if he’s able to summon the dragons?” “I’ve been thinking about that,” said John. “Summoning and commanding are two different things.” “What do you mean?” “Remember what Samaranth was like?” “Sure.” “He said he took the ring from your grandfather when he proved himself no longer worthy to use it. Does it seem to you like the Winter King is any more worthy?” “Not bloody likely,” said Artus. “Right. Now, if the Winter King could summon the dragons, can you imagine Samaranth doing anything he ordered him to do?” “No.” “Exactly. So we wait. And watch.” Magwich cursed and stomped his foot on the ground in frustration. He’d used up all the matches he’d had in his wallet, and tried using his sleeves (which burned quite nicely) as tinder, but he couldn’t so much as singe the cover of the Imaginarium Geographica. He’d tried tearing out pages, to use them as starters, but they were tougher than leather and wouldn’t even wrinkle. He had just about decided to chuck the thing over the edge and report in that he’d burned it to ashes, when he heard the footfalls behind him. “Master, I was just about to…” he said, turning. He didn’t finish. John smashed him across the face with a left cross, and the Steward of Paralon dropped to the earth like a puppet whose strings had been cut. “Excellent!” Artus exclaimed. “Charles will be so disappointed that he didn’t get to do it.” In the distance they could see the descending form of the Winter King, who was moving to join the fray. Suddenly, as they watched, all the torches on the allies’ side of the battle went out, as if they’d been snuffed. Artus and John looked at each other and swallowed hard. John picked up the Geographica and turned to the pages with the summoning. “All of the information is here,” he said. “Either they got it right, and the ring didn’t work, or the ring could work, and they got the summoning wrong.” “Or,” Artus said as John read, “the ring doesn’t work and the summoning doesn’t work. In any regard, we don’t have the ring.” “I don’t think we need it,” said John, an undisguised excitement rising in his voice. “Why not?” John read, then reread, then re-reread the passages. “It’s not a piece of jewelry,” he said, astonished at the realization. “It’s a place. The Ring of Power is a place.” He started pacing around in a broad circle, looking for all the world to Artus as if he’d gone insane. “There,” said John, pointing eastward, nearer the base of the peak. “Farther back, on the ridge.” Artus looked to where John was pointing, but there was nothing there except for more of the queer standing stones, which they’d seen a dozen of on their hike. “That’s the place,” said John, his confidence rising with a flush in his cheeks and a quickening of his pulse. “I’m certain of it.” “How can you be sure?” “We have a circle of standing stones just like it back home,” said John. “We call it Stonehenge.” Chapter Twenty The Return of the Dragons
The Winter King stepped onto the battlefield just as all of the torches began to go out, and he smiled broadly in response. His enemies would be doubly handicapped now. Fighting in the dark, against warriors who could not be killed. If they were wise, they’d drop their weapons and run for their ships, which would give them a temporary respite at best. As long as he had the ability to create more Shadow-Born, it would only be a matter of time before he eventually got around to conquering all the lands in the Archipelago.
Both the battle and the conquest, not to mention his inevitable expansion into the larger world beyond, would have been faster had he been able to summon the dragons. But there was no use complaining about what might have been when all he needed now was patience.
He’d waited for things before. He could wait again. Raising his sword, he shouted a battle cry and ran to join the Shadow-Born.
In minutes the elves had lost almost a quarter of their soldiers, and the dwarves, scarcely less. Dousing the torches had helped, but it was only a remedy, not a cure. The Shadow-Born could push through archers like stones through water, and only heavy weapons gave them any pause at all.
