The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [78]
“Are you sure you don’t want any of the rest of us to go with you?” Bert asked.
“You can’t spare the resources,” said Charles. “And besides, Fred and I are basically reprising another successful espionage partnership. His grandfather and I made quite the team.”
Fred beamed. “That you did,” he said proudly. “May our venture be as successful.”
“Very well,” said Ransom. “I’ll keep the card open here on this end. If you have any trouble, come running. But remember, Charles . . .” He let the sentence trail off.
Charles nodded. “I understand. If the portal is discovered, you’ll have to close it.”
“We’ve opened it this time,” Ransom said, “but I don’t know if we can do it again. Time is of the essence, Charles.”
The two men shook hands, Ransom shook Fred’s paw, and Charles thanked Bert and Hallward for their help. And then he and his apprentice stepped through the portal in search of the Town That Didn’t Exist.
In his own explorations, Charles had once come across a place in Germany where a narrow alley between a distillery and a seed merchant actually led to an entire district outside space and time.
The entire community seemed sickly and poorly maintained, with faded whitewash on the houses and holes in the cobblestone streets. The seasons themselves were confused in that place, and the trees were barren even in springtime.
He had always planned on exploring it at greater length, but others in the area had stumbled on it and ransacked the hidden village. Not long after, a series of grisly murders occurred in all the nearby German towns, and people whispered that it was the vengeance of the dark spirits who dwelled within.
It was only then, at the moment he was passing through the Trump, that he recalled that the townsfolk who claimed to have seen the spirits described them as men with oversized bird skulls for heads.
He tried to contain the shiver that rolled up his spine, and only just managed to disguise it as stretching before Fred noticed.
“Are you worried?” asked Fred.
“Not in the slightest,” said Charles.
“Good,” said Fred. “So am I.”
There was a signpost pointing to Abaton that stood just before a half-crumbled gate. The gatekeeper was a blind man, dressed in a loincloth. Every inch of his body was covered in tattoos—some pictorial, but most were words and random markings.
He perked up as he heard them approach. “What business have ye in Abaton?”
Charles sighed. It was not good espionage to declare your intentions. “Our own, if it’s all the same to you.”
“It’s my job to ask, no need to be twisty about it. Sign your names, and enter.”
“Sign?” said Charles.
“With the stylus,” said the man. “On my skin. I am the keeper of the gate, and all who enter and leave must sign.”
“Certainly,” said Fred. He took the steel-pointed tool from the man’s hand and quickly scribbled two names, which flared with silver fire. As they watched, the writing turned blue, as if it were changing ink.
“Thank you,” said the tattooed man, and promptly went to sleep.
“Just a word of advice,” Charles began.
“Oh, the names?” said Fred. “Don’t worry—I didn’t use ours. That might get us into trouble.”
“Very perceptive!” Charles said, surprised. “Whose names did you write?”
“Harry Houdini and Arthur Conan Doyle,” said Fred.
“This is already a great partnership,” Charles said as they entered the town.
It was a pastiche of a town that seemed to have been assembled from a dozen cultures. There were gabled roofs topped with elaborate weather vanes sitting side by side with Turkish domes. The overarching theme was vaguely eastern European, but that might have been an impression generated by the age of some of the structures. The very air was ancient here. And although it was dressed up in familiar garb, that was just the wool covering the wolf underneath.
“There are stories,” Charles whispered, “of a German village called Germelshausen, which fell under an evil spell cast by a witch. I’ve also heard of a similar tale from Scotland, about the Brig o’ Doon, in Bobby Burns country, where Tam O’ Shanter