The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [117]
“Oh, no,” John whispered. “It isn’t possible.”
“I’ve been waiting for them all these years,” said Burton. “I’m surprised you haven’t been.”
Out on the edge of the harbor, in front of the defensive line of Dragonships, seven more ships drew up close and stopped.
They weren’t just ships—they were the Dragonships themselves, brought out of the past by the Shadow King and led by a fourteen-year-old Stephen and the half-clockwork sons of Jason of myth.
“And thus is the history fulfilled,” Bert murmured. “If Stellan and the others don’t return soon, this is truly the end for us all.”
On the large, outermost of the Nameless Isles, Artus despaired.
“Are those what I think they are?” he said grimly.
“Yes,” Jack said, stunned. “Those are the ships we saw in the Underneath, and attacking Kor! But how could he do this? How did he bring them here?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Artus, summoning Laura Glue and the Valkyries. “We can’t fight them. They are our own children. The best we can do is try to hold them back long enough for—”
“I know,” said Jack.
“Spread the word,” Artus told Laura Glue. “All ships to the air, where they cannot follow us. And those of us on the ground should be instructed: defense only. No child is to be harmed, if we can help it. They are being compelled, and their wills are not their own.”
“Consider this,” Jack said as Laura Glue sped off. “When they returned to us during the conflict in the Underneath, after being pulled away in Time, they were battered and bruised, but unharmed. This was when they were pulled to. Things may yet turn out in our favor.”
“Or it means that they wiped us out here,” said Artus. “Whatever happens, we’ll hold them, won’t we Jack?”
“We will,” Jack said, gripping his friend’s shoulder.
There was a stirring of a westward breeze in the Pygmalion Gallery, and Rose, Archimedes, Quixote, and Ransom stepped through the portal from Terminus.
“What must we do now?” asked Rose.
Ransom went to the window and looked up at the sky.
“I just pray we haven’t come too late,” he said. “The Shadow King is here.”
“Archie,” Rose said. “Get to Bert and the Caretakers, right away! They need to know about Defoe!”
Obediently, Archimedes flew from the room.
“We have to go outside,” Rose said to Quixote. “I don’t know what’s to be done, but we need to get to the king or queen.”
“According to the Prophecy,” said Ransom, “the sword is for you to use.”
“It never occurred to me to ask,” said Quixote. “Do you even know how to use a sword?”
“The one good thing about British boarding schools,” Rose said as they left the gallery, “is that the better ones all teach fencing. And I wouldn’t be my grandfather’s heir if I hadn’t taken first place in the competition.”
“John!” Hawthorne shouted from down the corridor outside the conservatory. “Come quickly! Hurry!”
John and several other Caretakers rushed out to see what the matter was. It was Jakob Grimm. Hawthorne was half carrying, half dragging him down the hall, trailing blood.
“It’s how they found us!” Hawthorne said as they pushed open a door to one of the spare rooms. “They took Jakob’s map off his back!”
“I’m sorry!” Jakob cried through the tears and mucus running down his face. “I didn’t want to bring them! I fought it, as hard as I could! But then they took what they wanted anyway, and it’s all for nothing!”
“What is, Jakob?” asked John, getting his arm under the poor man’s shoulder to help Hawthorne place him on a settee. “What’s for nothing?”
“The Shadow King promised,” Jakob sobbed. “He said if I cooperated, he would let my brother live. And I resisted!”
“If he promised something like that,” said Chaucer, “then I suspect your brother is already dead.”
Jakob collapsed in a heap of shuddering sobs as the Caretakers and several of the ravens began tending to his terrible wound.
“Grimalkin and I found him in one of the upper rooms,” Hawthorne said, looking appreciatively at the Cheshire cat that had appeared at their feet. “Somehow, a spy is still among us.”
“How are they getting in?” John asked, pounding