The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [119]
“Stay clear of his reach,” Jack warned. “He has the spear, and we don’t have anything that can defeat it. Not yet. All we can do is try to hold him off,” he finished grimly, with a silent prayer.
“Come, let us reason together,” said Artus.
“No reasoning, no discussion,” said the Shadow King. He glanced up at the Dragon shadows circling overhead and smirked. “You may have delayed my plans for the Summer Country, but that is all you have done—delay. There is nothing to discuss but your defeat. And you have nothing that can overpower my spear.”
“I don’t have to defeat you myself,” said Artus. “I just have to hold you back long enough for Rose to get here, to do what she’s destined to do.”
“I’ve read your Prophecy,” the Shadow King hissed, “and it means nothing to me.”
“It means something to him,” said Kipling, “and you shouldn’t underestimate that.”
“Kill him,” the Shadow King said. “Kill him now.”
“You know,” Kipling remarked, “I really don’t think I’m going to be able to do that.”
The Shadow King looked at him in confused fury. “What about that order didn’t you understand?” he shouted. “Kill him!”
“What about my refusal didn’t you understand?” said Kipling. “I’m not a violent man, and I detest war.” He dropped the sword to the grass. “I quit.”
“You forget what I promised you, Caretaker,” the Shadow King said as he touched a contact on his chest and a circlet of mist began to swirl behind him. “You forget what I can do, whom I can return to you.”
Kipling paused, and started to look back. In the swirl of mist, a face began to appear—a young man, a soldier.
Kipling steeled himself and bit his lip. “I haven’t forgotten. I’ve just managed to keep the things that are truly right ahead of the things that I want for myself.”
“Your son, Kipling—”
“Is dead.”
With a snarl, the Shadow King released the contact, and the young soldier vanished.
Kipling walked around the reach of the Shadow King and stood behind Jack. “Greetings, Caretaker.”
“I don’t understand,” Jack hissed, “but I won’t argue with your choice.”
“I see,” said the Shadow King. “There are more traitors than I knew, here in the Nameless Isles.”
“Not traitors,” Artus said, turning to smile at Kipling, “just friends. And that’s how I know we’re going to win.”
“You won’t,” the Shadow King replied. With a single motion, he thrust the Spear of Destiny through Artus’s heart before anyone could cry out a warning. “I’m not going to take your shadow, boy,” he rasped. “I’m just going to end your life.”
“Ah, me,” Artus said, looking down at the spear sticking out of his chest. “Aven, I—”
The King of the Silver Throne dropped to his knees, then fell over on his side, dead.
When Defoe stepped out of the wardrobe secreted away in the uppermost room at Tamerlane House, a contingent of Caretakers was there to greet him.
“Well, this is a fine how-do-you-do,” he said, “to borrow a phrase. How in Hades did you find me out?”
“Traitors are themselves easily betrayed,” Poe said softly. “Friends may quarrel, and the bond may remain unbroken. But a traitor can have no friends who will not eventually side against him.”
“I can see that,” said Defoe. “You welcomed Burton into your midst easily enough.”
“Don’t take my name in vain, Daniel,” Burton said as he strode into the room. “I knew there were more moles about, but I thought you’d at least have been brave enough to be up-front about it.”
“Says the original traitor,” Defoe spat. “Physician, heal thyself.”
“Oh, I’m feeling just fine,” said Burton. “I finally realized that there was a price too high to pay to achieve my goals. It serves no one and nothing to seek after truth as an ally of evil.”
“You got cold feet, you mean.”
“I came to my senses,” said Burton, “and you’ve let the Shadow King’s hunger for power color your judgment.”
“Chain it,” Poe ordered, pointing at the wardrobe. “I’m guessing wherever the other one is, we’ll find Houdini and Conan Doyle.”
Defoe just glared at him.
“That’s answer enough,” said Poe. “We’ll strand them, and retrieve them when this is finished.”
“It’ll be finished soon