Here, There Be Dragons

refused.”
He sheathed his sword and stepped closer to Artus, extending his hand, palm down. “Kneel before me, boy. Swear fealty to me. Make me the rightful heir. And I will give you a quick and painless death. Refuse, and your agonies shall be unending.
“Kneel and swear fealty to your ancestor….
“Kneel, and swear by my true name—Mordred.”

“Mordred!” John said, eyes blazing. “I don’t believe it!”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe,” said Mordred. “All I need is his oath—and then I shall be king of your world, too.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
Aven stood just outside the circle of stones. She was holding two swords—one pointed at Magwich, and one pointed at Mordred.
“Ah—the Pirate Queen,” Mordred said, redrawing his sword. “If you don’t mind, we’re dealing with men’s business here, and we’d like our privacy.”
“Not going to happen,” Aven said again. “Everyone in the Archipelago will know what you’ve done, and there’s no way in hell you’ll ever sit on the Silver Throne.”
“There are two of us, and one of you,” Mordred said.
“Two of us, and one of you,” Magwich repeated with shaky bravado.
“How can you get to me before I cut the young king’s throat?”
“You won’t cut his throat,” said Aven, “because you need him to swear the oath to you—and he won’t.”
“He will,” said Mordred, “if I order Magwich to kill his friend the Caretaker.”
Aven looked at Magwich. “Listen to me, Steward. Whatever else happens here, I will kill you. Whether or not John dies, or Artus dies, or I die—I will kill you with the last of my strength, no matter what.”
Magwich screamed and dropped John’s sword, then ran down the hill, shrieking and madly waving his arms.
“Well?” said Aven, turning back to Mordred, as John scrambled to his feet and retrieved his sword. “Two against one, in our favor this time.”
“But my sword is at the boy king’s throat,” said Mordred, “so it seems we have a stalemate.”
“Actually,” a deep voice rumbled from above, “this is what’s called a ‘checkmate.’”
Samaranth dropped out of the sky, and with one swift motion disarmed Mordred and carried him back into the air, clutching the Winter King in a great gnarled claw. He stroked the air with ancient wings, and they hovered almost motionless high over the edge of the waterfall.
“You were a terrible student,” said Samaranth, shaking his head. “I understand your ambition, and your desire for greatness, but you’ve handled things so poorly these last twenty years since your return, that I think it’s time for you to step offstage, so to speak, and let others direct the course of affairs in the Archipelago.”
“You don’t have the right to command who rules in the Archipelago,” said Mordred.
“Neither do you—but Archibald deserved better than to die. And you’ll die yourself long before you ever have a chance to sit on the Silver Throne.”
“I’ll live to suck the marrow from your bones, you old fool,” Mordred spat. With a sudden motion, he drew a wicked-looking dagger from one of his boots and stabbed it into the great dragon’s claw. The dagger broke off at the hilt.
Samaranth sighed.
“It’s not that I dislike you, Mordred,” the dragon said, “because I do like you, a great deal. But at heart, you really are a stupid little man.”
Samaranth opened his claw.
Mordred—the Winter King—fell soundlessly into the void and disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Two

All Their Roads Before Them

The remainder of the night was spent in caring for the wounded and obtaining oaths of fealty from the Goblin King and Troll commanders, and all of the things that must be attended to at the conclusion of a war—which, all things considered, was far preferable to going through the same motions from the losing side. However, despite the return of the dragons and the victory over the Winter King, the struggle for control of the Archipelago was not yet over.

Arawn, the Troll Prince, had claimed the Silver Throne for himself and had overrun Paralon with his own armies, while sending the rest to fight with the Winter King. It would take planning and the support of the other races to regain command of Paralon—but given the ease with which the dragons had dispatched the trolls the night before, it was less a matter of “if” than “when.”

The Wendigo, the worst and most fearsome of the enemy force, had been cornered against the base of the western bluff by Charys and his centaurs—and thus had an unobstructed view of the fate of the Winter King. Their response was unexpected. They turned from the centaurs, howling, teeth gnashing, and began to flee in the only direction available to them.

“The dragons have returned…whether or not we stay is up to you.”

As they went over the edge, they continued to howl and screech in rage, but the roaring of the waterfall quickly overwhelmed the sound, and no one heard them as they fell.

That left only one question to be resolved: What exactly had happened to the Shadow-Born?

“I think they may be able to tell us,” said Bert, pointing down the shoreline.

Approaching along the sand from the east was a very unusual sight: Charles, walking slowly, was pulling on straps of leather attached to a makeshift wooden sled. In the center of the sled was the unmistakable shape of Pandora’s Box—a great black kettle, lidded with a gleaming bronze shield. Tummeler was perched on top, munching away on a stale muffin.

“Hello, Master Scowlers!” Tummeler said. “We brung…brang…bringed…We got Aunt Dora’s Box!”

Bert, Aven, Artus, and John ran over and joyfully embraced their two friends. “You did it!” Artus exclaimed. “You closed the box!”

“Well, that was the plan, wasn’t it?” said Charles. “It would have looked bad for us if you’d asked us to do this one thing and we let you down.”

“Right,” said Tummeler. “Not that there was ever a question—after all, Master Charles be an Oxford scowler, an’ he has a reputation t’ maintain.”

“Indeed,” said Charles. “And I have to say, it’s been a very difficult night, all told. So,” he added, stretching his back and looking around. “How did everything go on this end?”