The rest of the fray lasted only minutes, as the dragons were pretty much impossible to defend against, much less attack with any success. With the battlefield clear of combatants, the allies were free to return and tend to their fallen comrades, where they made a startling discovery. All the soldiers who’d been struck down were still alive. The opposing army had lost many of their soldiers. But it was the plan of the Winter King to harvest the stolen shadows of the fallen warriors to create still more Shadow-Born. So while there was damage, and blood loss, and the occasional missing limb, the bodies of the elves, dwarves, and mythbeasts were otherwise unharmed. It was not a total victory: Most of the fallen had lost their shadows to the now-vanished Shadow-Born and were little more than rag dolls. But they still lived. And where there was life, there was hope. “Extraordinary,” said Eledir. “The Winter King’s own greed gave us more than a victory—we’d have lost more if he’d simply planned for slaughter, rather than angling to use our fallen as his servants.” He shook his head in wonder. “When I saw the dragons arrive, I was hopeful of a victory, but to have no casualties…” “You’re wrong,” Bert said sadly. “There were casualties—one dead, and one that may wish he had died.” Charys had returned to the campfires with two bodies slung across his massive back. One, the fallen captain of the former Yellow Dragon, who had been the most valiant of them all; the other, the young man who wanted more than anything to go to war, to be in battle, and show the world his worth and mettle. The eyes of both were closed—but only one would ever open them again. In the circle of stones, John and Artus watched with amazement as the dragons utterly transformed the shape, scope, and outcome of the battle that had been raging below. “It’s no wonder that everyone swore oaths of fealty to Arthur,” said Artus, “if this was what happened when someone ticked him off.” “I doubt he called on the dragons for every little dispute,” said John, “but the possibility would certainly have been an effective deterrent.” “It was,” said a cold voice, approaching from below. “Why else would the other races have been held in check on merely the possibility of a human king who could summon them?” It was the Winter King. He stepped inside the circle of stones, sword drawn and at the ready. “That was very impressive, the way you switched the books,” he said. “I’d been torturing my chief navigator for nearly an hour before I realized why all of his incomprehensible coordinates involved mentions of blueberries.” “Thanks,” said John. “I didn’t expect it to work myself.” “Of course, you should have kept a better eye on it later,” said the Winter King, noticing the just-stirring Steward of Paralon lying some distance away, “or else that imbecile wouldn’t have been able to take it away from you.” “True,” John admitted. “Still it seems to have worked out for the best—for everyone but you, anyway.” The Winter King’s eyes blazed. “You think so? You’ve lost more than you know, boy—and I still intend to have my victory here and now.” “Artus summoned the dragons when you could not,” said John. “If you’d had a better translator than that fool Steward, you might have too. But what victory can you have now? The ring you wear is meaningless, and even the Geographica won’t do you any good now.” Hearing them talking about him, Magwich came fully awake. “Master!” he screamed. “Master, help me! That one, there—he hit me! On the head!” The Winter King barely bothered to glance back at his hapless servant. “I told Magwich to burn it,” he said, giving the Steward a withering glare, “but it seems he’s unable to do even the simplest of tasks. But I don’t need the book or the ring to become the High King.” “They will fight you,” said John. “All the races of the Archipelago will fight you. They’ll never let you take the Silver Throne—not while a true heir still lives.” A wicked smile spread across the Winter King’s face, and John realized with horror that that was precisely what he had in mind. Protectively, he moved in front of Artus, placing himself between the two kings. “You can try to kill him,” John said, “but that still will not make you king—not of a throne that has been passed along the only bloodline to have the mandate of the Parliament.” “But I do have the mandate,” said the Winter King. “The blood that flows through his veins flows though my own.” “You’re a member of the royal line?” John said in astonishment. “I don’t believe you! It’s a lie!” The Winter King chuckled. “No, it isn’t.” He paced slowly in front of John and Artus, taking great pleasure in the effects of his revelations. “Do you think the Parliament would spend decades locked in debate, or even entertain the notion of a usurper taking the throne, if I didn’t have a legitimate claim? “No,” he continued, “they have been unable to choose a new High King precisely because there was one of royal blood who could block all comers—myself—but whom they in their foolishness could not bear to appoint.” “How could you be an heir?” asked Artus. “All of the king’s family—my family—were killed.” The Winter King laughed. “Boy, I am much older than you give me credit for—in fact, I am almost as old as that fool shipbuilder Thoth, or Deucalion, or whatever it is he calls himself now. “I am even older than the Silver Throne itself,” he continued, “and I swore to your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfather that his heirs would one day kneel before me. And here you are.” Suddenly, the Winter King struck out with his sword, creating a deep, brutal gash across John’s chest. The Caretaker screamed and dropped to his knees, trying futilely to draw his own sword. The Winter King kicked it away, then gestured for the approaching Magwich to take it up and hold the sword over John. Artus managed to get his own short sword free of the sheath, but he was no match for the Winter King’s prowess. In seconds the heir to the Silver Throne was weaponless and helpless before his attacker. “It’s ironic,” said the Winter King, “that I should be holding a blade to your throat twenty years after I held it at the throat of your grandfather, and your father before him.” Artus looked up. “You killed my family?” The Winter King nodded. “That’s what I find ironic—the entire Archipelago believed your grandfather to be an evil man, when he was actually one of the greatest kings ever to rule here. His only mistake was in placing too high a value on protecting his family.” “What do you mean?” said John, who was still breathing hard, although the bleeding from his wound had slowed. “Archibald killed his family.” “So the story goes,” said the Winter King. “But in truth, all he ever did wrong was overstep his bounds, when he asked that idiot to steal Pandora’s Box. That was a forbidden magic—and its use brought with it a mandatory expulsion from the Archipelago.” “Then why did he risk using it?” said Artus. “What was so terrible that he would risk losing even the support of the dragons?” The Winter King grinned. “That would be me. I had been in exile myself for many years in his world,” he said, flicking his hook at John, “and had only recently returned after discovering the secret of passage to the Archipelago. I built the Black Dragon and went to Paralon to demand that Archibald relinquish the throne. “He equivocated and stalled long enough to find a greater magic with which he could defeat me— Pandora’s Box. And when he opened it, he lost the mandate of the dragons, and that fool Samaranth took his ring, when he should have taken the box instead.” “Why didn’t Samaranth just let him use the box?” said Artus. “Because,” John cut in, spitting flecks of blood as he spoke, “even the king has to abide by the rules—and using evil to fight evil was not the way of the Silver Throne.” “Well put, if misguided,” said the Winter King. “Archibald had lost the ability to summon the dragons—but would not name me his successor. So I killed his family, one by one, and then the king himself. I thought I’d gotten them all,” he said to Artus, “but it seems I was mistaken. “And now I will offer you one small, final mercy. The same one I offered your grandfather, which he
