“John,” said Artus breathlessly, “those aren’t stars…”
Eledir ordered his troops to pull back, but Falladay Finn had fallen, his shadow torn away by a Shadow- Born. Only the swift actions of the dwarves, and the self-sacrifice of several of them, allowed his limp, pallid form to be taken to safety.
Charys, leading the centaurs, took over the front lines. They had the greatest reach, and using pikes and long bardiches, could hold the line of Shadow-Born from advancing too quickly. Under their flanks, the Dwarven, faun, and animal archers held back the Wendigo in a similar fashion with a never-ending hail of arrows.
They were defending with darkness; Jack decided they needed to create an offense of light.
Jack had taken a few moments to examine Nemo’s weaponry aboard the Nautilus, and he’d found among the various hydraulic and steam-powered weaponry a few devices of a more conventional nature, which he could adapt to better use. Including, namely, the ingredients for gunpowder.
Nemo had been running back and forth, guiding the efforts of the mythbeasts and animals, taking shots at the Wendigo when he could. Jack yelled at him and they dropped behind a hillock to examine Jack’s contraption.
“It’s called a grenade,” Jack said. Nemo was incredulous. “There are reasons I don’t use explosives in warfare, young Jack,” he said. “They’re too unpredictable.” “In your world, maybe,” said Jack, “but not in mine. This is my kind of weapon, from the real world. If Shadow-Born can be pushed back, they can be blown up.” Nemo looked unconvinced. “Do you have any experience making this sort of device?” “I’ve read a lot about them,” said Jack, “and I used the cannon on the Indigo Dragon pretty effectively.” Nemo started to rise in protest, but Jack cut him off. “This is the place where imagination counts for as much as everything else, right?” said Jack. “So I improvised a little. It’ll still work. I’ve been improvising since I came here—and I always seem to come through.” Nemo bowed his head, considering, then met Jack’s eyes. “All right. What do we need to do?” “Sound a retreat from the valley,” said Jack. “Get our troops coming up the hill, then light the fuse and fling it into the center of the enemy force, at the lowest point. If it works, I can fashion several more from what you have aboard the Nautilus.” Nemo seemed impressed, then took a closer look. “I don’t think there’s a long enough fuse,” he said, examining Jack’s handiwork. “What if—” “Are you questioning me?” Jack shot back. “Just do as I tell you, and everything will be fine.” Nemo gave him a long, considered look, then nodded. “Aven trusts you, and so I cannot do less. Get more of them ready. We’re going to need them.” Nemo conferred with Charys and Eledir, and the retreat was sounded. The allies turned and ran up and out of the small valley, away from the carnage that was taking place among their fallen comrades. The enemy wasted no time in surging forward, only now they were under the direct command of the Winter King, who led the charge. Jack was running down the hill past the retreating centaurs with the second grenade as Nemo lit the first device and threw it directly at the Winter King. The charge exploded prematurely, almost as soon as it was thrown, showering the phalanx of Wendigo and Shadow-Born in dirt, but nothing more. The effect on the captain of the Nautilus was a different matter. The right half of Nemo’s torso, including his arm and shoulder, was completely gone, blown away by the charge. His face was burned and blistered, and the corneas of his eyes had been utterly scorched. He was blind, and dying in agony. All because he had trusted Jack. Jack ran to his fallen comrade and dropped to his knees. With the retreat, he and Nemo were alone on the battlefield with several thousand of the enemy approaching fast. Jack fumbled with the second grenade, but before he could light it, the Shadow-Born were on him. Without a pause, the Shadow-Born rushed past and continued up the hillside. Jack looked around wildly, confused, as thousands of the cold, black forms flowed around him. Even the Wendigo did little more than pause to sniff at Nemo before moving on. Then the Winter King was there, looking down at him. In answer to Jack’s silent plea, the Winter King spoke, a cruel light glittering in his eyes. “They left you, Jack, because Shadow-Born do not consume their own.” With a cold smile and a wink, the Winter King ran past. As he stared on in horror, Jack’s shadow flickered back into view, then solidified. But it was too late—the damage had been done. Nemo was dead. Jack knelt in the blood-soaked earth and began to scream. Charles and Tummeler had to twice submerge themselves in the surf to avoid random groups of Wendigo that had caught their scent and come looking. Being completely under water hid their smell, but did little for their spirits. Nevertheless, they had managed to make their way around the entirety of the east side and had drawn up alongside the Black Dragon itself. Charles’s biggest concern had been identifying the tent of the Winter King, but that proved not to be a problem. It was not only the largest tent in the encampment, but also the only one with posted guards—two nasty-looking Wendigo. “That’ll be what we’re looking for, no doubt about it,” Charles whispered. “I’m sure Pandora’s Box is inside. Why else bother posting guards on a tent behind an army the size of the one he’s got?” “Agreed, Master Scowler,” said Tummeler. “So—when we gets inside, what’s y’r plan? Do we try t’ steal th’ kettle, or just cap it here?” “Steal it, if we can,” said Charles. “I haven’t the faintest idea how we’d go about closing it. There’s bound to be some sort of magic involved, so I doubt it’ll be as simple as nailing a board to the top and adding a ‘Do Not Touch’ sign.” “Okay,” said Tummeler. “I know you’ll do for th’ best.” “We should have brought Jack,” Charles lamented. “He’s got a knack for improvising in difficult situations.” As they whispered back and forth, they moved stealthily out of the water, using the bulk of the Black Dragon as a blind. On the sand, Tummeler shook the water out of his fur and plopped down on his haunches, and Charles squatted down next to him, dropping the heavy shield to rest. “There be just somethin’ I been wond’ring,” said Tummeler. “If it’s a big ol’ cooking pot, why does everyone call it ‘Aunt Dora’s Box’?” “Pandora’s Box,” Charles corrected, “and it’s just the nature of things to change. That’s the nature of storytelling—a kettle becomes a cauldron becomes a crochan becomes a box, all depending on who’s telling the story. And since Pandora had it last, that’s the story—and name—everyone knows. “Take your shield, for example,” he continued, turning over the shield and dusting off the sand. “It was probably used by a Roman soldier, or a legionnaire, or someone like that, and it was called ‘Polemicus’s Shield,’ or something like that—but I’ll always know it as ‘Mr. Tummeler’s…” He stopped, mouth gaping. “Master Charles?” said Tummeler. “What is it?” Charles was looking at the surface of the shield. The pattern forged on it was a bit tarnished, but still gleamed with visible detail. It was a stylized depiction of the Medusa, from Greek myth. “Tell me again what Samaranth said when he gave this to you, Tummeler.” “Samaranth said it belonged to a famous hero in your world,” said Tummeler. “Pericles, or Theseus, or… or…”
