The Dragons of Winter (43 page)

“Hah,” said Crowley. “That’s just—”

“Wait,” said Verne.

With a great noise that sounded like an enormous tree splitting, a crack ran up the height of the statue, and it shattered into a dozen pieces.

“Shades,” hissed Tesla.

“I’m in awe,” said Jack.

“Meh,” said Elly Mae, and ambled her way back to rejoin the ranks of the battle goats.

“Cavorite armor, laced with runic silver,” Verne said, smiling broadly. “We’ve been working on it for years, and the goats know how to use it. Nothing your creatures of Shadow have can penetrate it. And now the goats are angry. You shouldn’t have made them angry, Dee.”

“You can still rejoin us, Kipling,” Dee said, moving his attention to a different kind of attack. “What Burton once offered you is still there to be taken. Your son can still be returned to you.”

For the briefest of instants, Kipling seemed to hesitate before steeling himself and shaking his head.

“Why not?” Dee exclaimed, the slightest tinge of frustration
starting to creep onto his voice. “Isn’t it what you want? To have your son again, living and whole?”

“My son died honorably,” said Kipling, “and my time with him is cherished—but past. To try to reclaim it would be to mock those memories. And while you are right, that I do long to be reunited with him, I have learned something from these men.” He looked at John and smiled. “Sometimes there are things that are more important to the world than what I want.”

Across the field, Crowley slapped his head. “Idiot,” he grumbled. “I told you not to even try to tempt him, Dee.”

“Shut up!” Dee said, striking Crowley a blow across the face. The game was not going as he had planned.

“I gave you a chance,” Dee said to Kipling. “My army is going to tear you all to pieces.”

“Oh, I really don’t think that’s going to happen,” Kipling replied. He walked to the front of the battle lines and began to recite a verse:

From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and all creatures which go bump in the night may the good Lord preserve us, amen.

“Hah!” Lovecraft barked. “What, is that supposed to be some kind of a prayer?”

“Not a prayer,” Kipling said, smiling slyly. “A
Binding.”

There was a low vibration in the air as the invocation Kipling spoke triggered the Binding, which swept through the ranks of Dee’s army like a plague in London. As one, all the Wendigo, Yoricks, and the rest of the creatures that had been in the thrall
of the Lloigor crossed the field, where they formed ranks behind Kipling, who bowed gracefully at his opponent.

“My bishop takes your pawns, Dee,” said Verne. “
All
your pawns. Your move.”

“I have just one left,” said Dee.

To John’s right, next to Verne, Dr. Raven suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Verne was startled, and slightly puzzled, by the Messenger’s appearance.

“Dr. Raven!” John exclaimed. “What are you . . . ?”

“All good things happen, Caveo Principia,” Dr. Raven said to John, “in time.”

Dr. Raven strode away from the Caretakers and across the field to stand next to Dr. Dee. He turned to face his friends from Tamerlane House, and as he did so, his form shimmered and changed. He youthened, and where Dr. Raven had been standing there was now a younger version, not much older than Edmund McGee.

Only this younger version wore two watches: the silver watch of Verne’s Messengers and the Caretakers, and the ebony watch of the Cabal. He also wore one of the silver rings, but none of that was what struck fear into those on the Caretakers’ side of the battlefield.

As he walked, the Ruby Armor of T’ai Shan vanished from the bag Aristophanes had carried it in and reappeared—on the young Dr. Raven.

He was now wearing the armor Jules Verne had told the Caretakers would give the bearer near-infinite control over time and space—and he was standing with the Lloigor Dee.

“That,” said Dr. Dee, “is checkmate, my dear Verne.”

. . . in all three faces, the eyes blazed with the flames of vengeance.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
T
WO
The Furies

The skies over the beach
at Corinth suddenly grew dark. As Rose cradled the body of Gilgamesh in her arms and tried to understand what had happened, the others formed a protective triangle around them.

“That was not worthy of a queen,” Bert said, “and not worthy of a Dragon.”

Azer seemed to take pause at the Caretaker’s admonition. “This world was meant to be ruled,” the Dragon hissed, “not cultivated and given over to
children
—even one who calls himself a king.”

“That decision,” said a voice that echoed across the sky, “was not yours to make.”

Above their heads, where the clouds were swirling together, a terrible apparition appeared.

The woman was ten feet tall, with flowing robes, and appeared at times to have three faces, or perhaps even three bodies. The lines were indistinct and flowed into one another so that it was never entirely clear if this was one woman, or three. One of them carried a hammer, and another carried a torch. But in all three faces, the eyes blazed with the flames of vengeance.

“Hecatae!” Aristophanes breathed. “The goddess of the crossroads!”

Rose was equally taken aback by the extraordinary apparition before them. The goddess was, after all, of the pantheon Rose had been raised to believe in. She gently set Gilgamesh’s body aside, then knelt and bowed her head. Following her example, Bert and Charles did the same.

“The Furies,” Rose said under her breath. “The first Morgaine.”

“He was of the blood of the firstborn,” the Hecatae said, voices ringing out in a terrible harmony. “It is forbidden to harm those of his line. Forbidden to spill their blood. Forbidden to kill.”

Aristophanes cowered. “I had to do it!” he cried. “I had no choice!”

“You have not acted as a man should,” said the Hecatae. “You have acted ignobly, in haste, and for the weakest of reasons, little philosopher. And henceforth, you shall be marked, so that those around you in this world will know of your crime, and of your shame.”

The Hecatae pointed a finger at Aristophanes, who was looking to Medea, hoping for some kind of intervention or protection—but the sorceress ignored him. He had done what she wanted, and now she had no further use for him.

“Wait!” he called out to the goddess. “Wait! I can serve you instead! Please!”

“You wished the freedom from responsibility to your fellows,” one face of the goddess said. “Now you shall stand forever apart from them, cloaked in the colors of a king, that all shall know your coward’s heart.”

As she spoke, Aristophanes clutched at his arms, which had
begun to turn crimson, as if he were covered in blood, then a rich shade of purple, which began to spread up his arms and over his entire body.

“You wished the attentions of the crowd,” the second face of the Hecatae said, “now be among the most sought-after of creatures, desired and pursued, so that your only refuge will be in the shadows you served this day.”

The philosopher screamed, as a bright red whorl appeared on his forehead. In moments it had grown into a bump, which burst with a spray of blood and skin as a horn sprouted out of his skull.

“And you, who spoke truths, and betrayed those truths with the sting of a blade, now be in the flesh what you summoned with your actions, and never know another’s touch, lest they be poisoned by your own.

“All these things you now are, and forevermore shall be, until the end of time. So mote it be.”

With a scream, Aristophanes fled, running across the top of the dunes. In seconds he had disappeared from sight, but the companions could still hear the echoes of his scream.

The Hecatae turned their attention to Medea.

“It is forbidden,” they said again. Medea scowled. She had hoped—no, expected—that using the philosopher as the hand that killed Gilgamesh would spare her the vengeance of the Furies. Apparently that was not true.

Medea stood facing them, defiant. “It was my right, as queen,” she said, all but spitting out the words in anger. “My right to rule. He should have chosen me, not my husband!”

“Jason will pay the price for his choices, as you will pay the
price for yours,” the goddess said. And Medea’s stolid composure finally cracked, and she fell to her knees, trembling. “But it’s not fair!” she cried. “Before his betrayal, I believed I was to rule with him, on the Silver Throne! And after, if not with him, then in his stead! And this old fool,” she continued, gesturing at the body of Gilgamesh, “would not grant me his blessing, even though he knew I would kill him if he did not!”

“Your words have caused great pain, great misery,” they said to the cowering Sorceress, “and so has your vanity. Thus, forevermore, these shall be all that you have.”

“Daughter,” the Hecatae said to Rose. “You are our heir. You are the Moonchild. And you have served us honorably and well. The punishment must come from your hand.”

Rose gasped. “Me?” she exclaimed. “How—how could I possibly punish her?”

“It is your responsibility,” the Hecatae said. “None other has the right. And we have already given you the means, in your past, which is still our time to come.”

Rose nodded slowly, finally realizing what the goddess meant. She reached into her pocket and removed the multifaceted mirror, which, on impulse, she threw into the air. It began to spin and expand—and then it began to draw the queen of Corinth toward itself.

Medea screeched in protest, but the sound was drowned out by a thunderclap. Lightning flashed, blinding the companions for a few seconds, and when their vision cleared, Medea was gone.

Where she had crouched was the mirror, larger now, which reflected nothing of its surroundings, but which bore the image of
the sorceress. She was weeping and pounding her fists against her transparent prison.

“So mote it be,” said the Hecatae. “Forevermore you will dwell as an image in a cave of images, until such time as your children have redeemed you.”

The mirror vanished from the sand. In that instant, Azer, who had witnessed all that had transpired, stroked her wings into the air and took flight.

Rose and her companions saw, for the first time, something that was rarely if ever seen in the face of a Dragon—
fear
.

“Stop,” said the Hecatae, and in midair the Dragon froze, suspended above them.

“You have betrayed your calling,” the Hecatae said, their voices reverberating in the air, “and a price must be paid.”

“I did not choose this!” Azer hissed through gritted teeth. “I did not choose to descend! He did this, he chose—”

“The choice was yours, as it always was,” asserted the Hecatae. “And the price you pay is yours also, until such a day when you choose to serve someone other than yourself once more.”

As they watched, Azer transformed from a Dragon to a terrible, beautiful woman, then back to a Dragon again, before finally falling to the sand as a half-formed Dragon with the woman’s head and torso. Azer had also been transformed to stone—to
cavorite
.