The Search for the Red Dragon - James A. Owen [38]
“What makes you think it’s important, Artus?” asked John.
“This,” said the king, indicating at the second page. “He refers to the ‘construction’ of two mechanical men, but calls them by name before the task has been completed—so perhaps they weren’t entirely mechanical after all.”
“Half man and half machine?” said Jack. “That’s quite a concept, especially for the thirteenth century.”
“He calls them Hugh the Iron and William the Pig,” continued Artus, reading. “They may have been…John? Can you read this?”
John leaned closer and examined the text. “Brothers? Or…comrades, maybe. It’s unclear. But it does indicate that they may have represented his first experiment with constructing Clockworks—even if they began as men.
“It says there was a shipwreck of some kind, and they were nearly killed. Bacon may have saved their lives. They were both mortally wounded, and…how strange,” said John. “Bacon also says that he thought they were deaf, but that it turned out their ears had been sealed with beeswax.”
“That’s all interesting enough,” put in Jack, “but what makes you think it’s relevant to what’s occurring now?”
“The last paragraph,” said Artus excitedly. “I think this is the myth the Caretaker in London was referring to. Can you translate, John? You’re faster than I.”
Artus stood and let the Caretaker take his seat. Clearing his throat, John began to translate the sharp writing.
“It says that when he had made ‘new’ men of them, Hugh the Iron and William the Pig repaid him by turning on him and beating him nearly to death. Only the presence of several animals—including, strangely, chickens—and a friendly griffin saved him.
“Bacon writes that the brothers seemed to be entranced, or enchanted. But the whole time they were beating him, they did not speak.
“Suddenly the sky grew dark and seemed to split into shards, which fell to the horizon. A great shape, absent of form, rose and covered the sky, and Bacon swears that all the while, he could hear the faint notes of a children’s rhyme being whistled, or played, perhaps on a pipe.
“Then, from the shattered sky, a great ship appeared and beached itself in front of them. Hugh moved to one side of it, and William to the other, and each of them placed a hand upon the prow, then together began to recite a verse:
By right and rule
For need of might
We two bind thee
We two bind thee
By blood bound
By honor given
We two bind thee
We two bind thee
For strength and speed and heaven’s power
By ancient claim in this dark hour
We two bind thee
We two bind thee
John’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “That’s uncomfortably close to another verse I once heard read.”
Artus nodded slowly in understanding. “The Summoning. For the Dragons, in the Ring on Terminus. But as I interpreted it, that could only have been spoken—effectively—by one of royal blood. Uh, me, specifically.”
“’Tis true,” said Bert. “There are very few spoken spells that have any true power. Not enough to count on two hands. One is the Summoning…But another is the Binding. And even to have known the words to speak would have been a rare thing.”
“But that would have been during the time of Artigel’s rule,” said Artus. “I never heard of Hugh or William in the Histories.”
“Maybe these are the Histories that changed,” murmured Charles. “The unraveling and reweaving the Morgaine spoke of.”
“What happened next, John?” asked Jack. “Does it say?”
John quickly scanned the remainder of the passage. Suddenly his eyes grew wide and the blood drained from his face.
Artus gripped his friend by the shoulders in support, and finally the Caretaker Principia spoke.
“Bacon called out to them as they boarded the ship,” John said hoarsely. “A ship with a large eye inset in the upraised prow, under the head of a great serpent.”
“That’s impossible!” Bert shouted, startling the