The air above the Island at the Edge of the World echoed with the sound of a hundred thunderclaps as the great beasts dropped out of the sky.
Three dragons, elders by appearance and manner, came swiftly to rest in front of the stone circle, where they bowed in deference before Artus.
“I think they want instructions,” John whispered. Artus looked at the magnificent creatures before him, then turned and pointed at the battlefield. “Help them. Help my friends.” It was apparently instruction enough. The dragons bowed their heads a second time, then stroked their wings and rose into the air. Directly to the east, the Troll and Goblin armies had just marched back onto the battlefield at the center of the small valley and were expecting to participate in the wholesale slaughter accorded to overwhelmingly victorious armies. Thus, they were surprised to suddenly be themselves overwhelmed by a larger, stronger army of dragons. Uruk Ko, whether through wisdom or cowardice, immediately signaled for his troops to lower their weapons and their banners. As many kings retained their thrones through diplomacy as through conquest, and it made more sense to acquiesce than to go through what would be a pointless loss of soldiers in the name of pride. The commanders of the trolls did not engage in a similar burst of reasoning, and instead opted to fight the incoming dragons. The conflict lasted all of three minutes, and that was only because the dragons kept having to move out of one another’s way as they proceeded to incinerate, chew up, or step on the soldiers of the Troll army. The Shadow-Born would not fall so quickly, or easily. Tummeler was very disappointed. “Cheer up, old sock,” Charles said as they entered the tent of the Winter King. “I couldn’t have done it with a dozen cannonballs, let alone three blueberry muffins.” “It would’ve been just th’ two,” Tummeler complained, “if that first Wendigo hadn’t turned ’is head just as I conked ’im.” “Still,” said Charles, “when you got him with the third muffin, he was at a dead run—and that made for a much more impressive display of sportsmanship.” “Really?” Tummeler said, brightening. “Thanks, Master Charles.” Inside the tent, Charles lit the torchieres on either side of the door, and what their light revealed was unmistakable. It was in the center of the tent, on a simple wooden platform that had leather handles for easier transport. As they’d expected, it was an iron kettle about three feet high and slightly less in circumference, giving it a somewhat elongated appearance. The exterior was decorated with bronze platings of cuneiform writings and stylized images of ravens. They had found Pandora’s Box. There was no cover or lid, just the remnants of wax around the edges. “So,” said Tummeler, “what’s y’r grand idea?” “We can’t look into it,” said Charles, “so transport is going to be a problem. So we have to go with our original plan and close it—and I think that Samaranth knew more than he was telling us. That’s why he gave you the shield.” “Let me do it,” said Tummeler. “I can’t see into it at all—it’s an insufficiency of height, as my friend Falladay Finn would say.” “Go ahead,” said Charles, handing him the shield. With considerable effort, Tummeler hefted the heavy piece of bronze above his head and approached the open kettle. In one fluid motion, he slid the shield off his head and onto the top of the iron container—where it clicked into the raised lip, fitting perfectly. Before Tummeler could move or speak, the kettle they called Pandora’s Box began to glow with an unearthly light. “That’s either really good, or really bad,” said Charles. “But I expect we’re going to be finding out which sooner than we realize.” When the dragons arrived, the Winter King had been facing the leaders of the bruised and battered allies, appraising them. Charys and Eledir were prepared to fight to the death—but Aven and Bert had all but given up hope. The death of Nemo had been a great blow, and the apparent loss of Jack an even greater one. Thus, the Winter King was expecting a complete submission when, in a few moments, his world turned upside down. At first he attributed the dragons’ sudden appearance to his summoning, figuring the delay was due to the rotation of the Earth, or dragon inefficiency, or something he could get angry about, being that he now commanded them. It wasn’t until they started squashing trolls that he realized they weren’t there in service to him. A shout of triumph rose from the ragged allies, which brought a snarl to his lips. The Winter King spun about. “Cheer all you like,” he said bitterly. “You won’t be alive long enough to savor your victory—not while I still command the Shadow-Born!” The timing could not have been better to render the Winter King utterly speechless—for as he spoke, the thousand-strong Shadow-Born wavered, and vanished. “Well,” said Charys, stamping his hind legs and shifting his grip on the massive pike he held, “I would like to announce that the school of ‘Beating the Tar out of Wendigo’ is once more in session.” Once more, the battlefield was a frenzy of activity, lit brightly by the flames of the dragons. The elves, dwarves, and centaurs formed a blockade around the Dragonships and their injured comrades and kept the Wendigo in a thick cluster with a flurry of arrows. Staying together in a pack made sense when in combat against fauns; against dragons, not so much. In the chaos of the fighting, the Winter King slipped away. Aven was making her way back into the valley to look for Jack, when she saw the Winter King scaling the embankment to the west. She paused for a second, uncertain of what to do, then turned and began to follow him. 
