The Shadow Dragons Read online

  The passage opened into a massive underground cavern that was literally riddled with passageways. It was a honeycomb reimagined for men, and it was a daunting thought to even consider entering one of the holes.

  “Did you build this, Flannery?” asked Charles. “Most impressive.”

  The boy shrugged. “I had help. It’s a lot like the place I used to live, so it don’t scare me none, neh?”

  Jack looked at him more closely. “I don’t think we’ve ever met, but you sound like some other children I know.”

  Flannery nodded and flashed a brilliant smile, which was missing a tooth on the bottom. “It’s nowhere near as big as Asterius’s labyrinth back on Centrum Terrae, but it suits me fine,” he said as he moved quickly to an opening near the left side of the cavern. “Follow me, but remember—keep turning left.”

  The passages were dimly lit by glowing moss embedded in the walls and a smattering of luminescent mushrooms, but Flannery was not moving so quickly that any of them ever lost sight of the flame.

  Abruptly the tunnel ended, with a sharp upturn and a ladder. Flannery climbed it and threw back the trapdoor at the top.

  “It’s about time you came back, MacDuff,” Archimedes squawked, hopping up and down on a crude wooden table. “These aren’t Einstein’s papers at all, just a bunch of Newtonian scribbles. And as to those mechanical mice you promised . . .”

  “No time, Archie,” Charles said as he and the others climbed out of the tunnel and up into the small storeroom. “There’s a chase afoot.”

  The storeroom, which was lit warmly by several candles, was cramped and low-ceilinged. It was carved out of the space underneath a massive oak tree, as evidenced by the roots framing the walls. There were boxes and other parcels scattered around the space, obviously items left in Flannery’s care. Higher up, in the trunk itself, were several windows disguised as knotholes. He scrambled up to one and peered outside.

  “No one’s about,” he called down. “They must all be inside tearing the inn apart.”

  Flannery looked again. “No, wait. I see something.” He motioned for the others to move to knotholes lower down. “Have a look, if you wish to see who your enemies are.”

  The companions clustered around the small openings and peered out into the dusky night air. The moon had come up, and it cast a wan glow over the woods. If they had not known otherwise, they would have been hard-pressed to believe that this place was not just another wood near Oxford.

  A clamor from the direction of the inn drew their attention, and off to the right, they saw the glow of firelight, followed by the shadowed forms of their pursuers.

  As Ransom had described, the Yoricks were both bird and man. They were seven feet tall, and their heads were the oversized skulls of birds. They had no eyes, only sockets that glowed red, and no feathers. They were garbed in Elizabethan-era clothing, including capes, and had long, skeletal arms that ended in poorly fitting gloves.

  Their legs were those of birds, and ended in four-toed avian feet with wicked-looking talons. When they were not shrieking, they communicated with one another in a series of clucks and whistles.

  There were nearly two dozen of them—which meant that they were prepared to overwhelm the companions by sheer numbers alone.

  Curiously, they seemed to be under the command of a man, who was shorter than they, but obviously in charge. He spoke to them in a brusque tone that was too low to hear, but he was not pleased. Lampwick was also among them, although he seemed more apologetic than anything else. He said something to the man, who responded by striking him brutally across the face. The innkeeper turned and went back the way he’d come.

  At the man’s direction, half of the Yoricks returned to the inn, and the rest followed him into the wood, on a path that took them startlingly close to Flannery’s tree.

  All the companions save for Jack dropped away from the knotholes and covered the candles. Jack watched until their pursuers had passed, then joined the others, his face gone gray with fear and, oddly, shock.

  “It’s all right,” Flannery reassured him. “The outside of my den is well concealed. They won’t find us easily, and certainly not quickly.”

  “I don’t think that’s what’s startled him,” John said, guiding Jack to a chair. “He’s seen and experienced quite a lot, so this has to be something else.”

  “I’m all right,” said Jack. “I’m just trying to rationalize what I saw.”

  Charles nodded. “I was a bit surprised myself,” he said. “Seven-foot-tall birds are not high on my list of expected enemies.”

  Jack shook his head. “That’s not it. We’ve seen and fought worse than these fellows. But that man who was with them . . .” His voice trailed off, and he rubbed his forehead.

  “You recognized him?” Ransom asked. “I couldn’t at all. I’ve never seen the Yoricks under a human’s direction before.”

  “I did recognize him,” answered Jack. “I may be mistaken, but I would swear on my life that it was Rudyard Kipling I saw leading the charge.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Pieces of Time

  “Kipling?” Ransom exclaimed. “That’s a fine how-do-you-do. He was Bert’s primary rival for the open Caretaker position after Verne took over. It’s bad form for such a talented man if he’s gone over to the other side.”

  “I never saw anything of him in the Histories, or in the Geographica,” said John. “Bert certainly never mentioned him.”

  “He wouldn’t have,” Ransom pointed out. “After the Houdini-Doyle incident, when they nearly exposed the Archipelago to the whole world, Verne has kept any information about non-Caretakers or former Caretakers very close to the vest.”

  “That’s just a bloody shame,” said Charles. “I wouldn’t ever consider putting Kipling and Magwich in the same class.”

  “You’ll have to,” Jack said, still a bit shaken. “I have no doubt that he’s working with our enemies—probably Burton.”

  “What makes you say that?” asked John.

  “You already know yourselves,” Jack replied. “Didn’t you see it in the papers? Rudyard Kipling died three months ago!”

  “That would explain why we didn’t recognize him at first,” John reasoned, running his hand over his hair. “That man was perhaps forty at most. Kipling was seventy.”

  . . . they saw the miniature image of an old friend.

  “That locks it,” said Charles, banging a fist against the table. “Richard Burton’s behind this. No one else would know how to manipulate things so as to recruit dead poets to their cause.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Ransom said. “His presence here cannot be accidental.”

  “But yours was,” said John pointedly. “If you hadn’t met us on the road, then we wouldn’t have ended up here, where our enemies now have us hiding under a tree. How do you explain that?”

  “I can’t,” Ransom answered, turning to Flannery. “How did you know someone would be looking for them?”

  Flannery shrugged. “I din’t know nothing,” he said. “Lampwick told me to get rid of the bird, so I hid him here. And on the way back up into the Flying Dragon, I saw those Un-Men gathering outside. That’s when I knew there’d be trouble.”

  Jack tilted his head, appraising the boy. “But how is it you were here, today, when we needed an ally?”

  “I’ve been here for two years,” Flannery replied. “There are Lost Boys posted at all the Soft Places—the ones we know of, anyways—just in case. We all report t’ the Valkyries.”

  “Well, God bless Laura Glue,” said Jack, rising. “What do we do now, Ransom? Do we go back to Oxford?”

  The philologist shook his head. “If they’re here, they’ll be there, too. Don’t worry,” he added, seeing Jack’s look of concern. “They won’t hurt your brother, or Mrs. Moore. They’re only after Rose.”

  He removed the book with the Trumps from his coat and fanned out the cards in his hand. “I think it’s time to consult someone with a bigge
r hammer,” he said.

  “Bigger hammer?” Charles asked.

  “When you’re stuck with a problem, sometimes the best solution is to hit it with a bigger hammer. I expect he’s going to try to contact Verne,” said John.

  John was close. Ransom held up a card that seemed to depict an ancient Egyptian village, but instead of Jules Verne, they saw the miniature image of an old friend.

  “Hank Morgan!” Jack exclaimed. “What a pleasure it is to see you again!”

  Hank’s face broke into a wide grin, and he waved. “John, Jack. And young Rose, also, I see! And . . .” He paused. “Ah, Chaz?”

  “Charles,” the third Caretaker replied. “We’ve not had the pleasure, but I’ve heard many good stories about you.”

  Hank raised a questioning eyebrow, then turned his attention back to Ransom. “I wish we had more time to reminisce, Alvin,” he said, “but there are too many events cascading together, and it’s all we can do to keep track of them.”

  “We’re at the Inn of the Flying Dragon,” Ransom reported, “but we’ve had a bit of a complication develop. Can we come through?”

  “You can’t,” said Hank, shaking his head for emphasis. “Not here, nor any of the Soft Places. I was here in Midian looking to acquire some manuscripts left by Saint Paul of Tarsus, and almost as soon as I arrived, I had to ask the Midians for protection. I’ve checked the other Trumps—every key Crossroads location is swarming with Un-Men.”

  “Yoricks?”

  Hank nodded. “Those, and worse. Any place you bring Rose will be equally dangerous. I think they’re looking for you.”

  “But how?” Ransom exclaimed. “I wasn’t even supposed to end up here! It isn’t even a zero point. I was aiming for—”

  “For 1943, we know,” Hank finished for him. “The best we can determine is that your arrival there, near Oxford in 1936, is what made it a zero point. And that changed the sequence of events, as well as their relative importance. Where we knew without doubt how crucial Rose was to the Wars of the Worlds, our enemies could only suspect.”

  “Until now,” said Ransom, groaning in realization. “Until I confirmed it for them.”

  “It isn’t your fault,” Hank told him. “None of us could know. At least,” he added with a conspiratorial look, “none of us who could share the information.”

  John looked askance at Jack and Charles. Was that comment in reference to Verne and his penchant for secrecy? They were the Caretakers of the Imaginarium Geographica, and although Verne knew everything they did, they had never so much as glimpsed the so-called Prime Caretaker.

  “Have you told them yet?” Hank was asking. “About the Prophecy?”

  Ransom swore under his breath and glanced sideways at the Caretakers. “I have not, but I was getting to it. I thought we had . . . well, more time.”

  “We don’t,” Hank stated. “Best get them to the Gatherum as quickly as possible.”

  “The Gatherum?” Ransom repeated. “But that’s only possible in—”

  “I know, believe me, I know,” said Hank. He stepped out of frame for a moment, and the companions could hear muffled shouts and a large crash.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, moving back into view. “I need to go—I think the locals are about to set fire to the place.”

  “Anything I can do?” asked Ransom.

  “I’ll be fine,” Hank replied. “Just whatever you do, don’t take Rose to any of the Crossroads. Elsewhere she may be safe—but not here. Once you’ve seen to her security, get the Caretakers to the Nameless Isles, with no delay. Everything may depend on it. Fare thee well, friends.”

  And with that, the surface of the card blurred and went dark.

  “That doesn’t sound very promising,” said Charles.

  “Where do we take her, Ransom?” Jack said as he peered out one of the knotholes. “If the Crossroads places are off-limits, and Oxford will be watched, can we take her back to Reading? Or London?”

  “I’m concerned that anywhere we go, we’ll be tracked,” Ransom answered. “I don’t think there’s anywhere in this world where she will be safe.”

  Jack snapped his fingers. “Then how about a place that’s out of this world?” he said excitedly. “Do you have any Trumps that lead to the Archipelago?”

  “I have just one,” Ransom replied. “I’ve been there a few times in the recent past—my recent past—but it might be the only option we have left.” He shuffled the cards and removed one, turning it around for the companions to see.

  On the card was a drawing, precise down to the details of the stonework, intertwined staircases, and windows, of the interior of a place the companions all knew very well.

  “The Keep of Time,” said John with visible relief. “That will be as good a place as any, and better than most.”

  “Maybe, and maybe not,” Ransom said with obvious discomfort. “Coming to the Inn of the Flying Dragon is one thing, because I’ve been here before, and often. But I haven’t been to the Keep of Time—not yet, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” John demanded. “You just said you’ve been there several times.”

  “Yes, I have,” Ransom replied, “but all after 1936. I made this card in 1943 the first time I was there, which was when I expected to meet you, anyway. I never expected that I’d end up using any of the other cards to transport you away from England to anywhere other than the Flying Dragon.”

  “Are you implying that if we use this Trump to escape these . . . these Un-Men,” said Jack, “we’ll risk going into our own future?”

  “Yes,” Ransom said, looking anxiously through the uppermost knothole. “That’s exactly what I’m worried will happen.”

  “I think we’ve already got a solution in hand, as it were,” John said, reaching into his pocket. “I have one of the watches too, remember? Once we’ve escaped these Yorick creatures, we can simply use it to return to our own time—as in, this time.”

  Ransom slumped in despair. “I keep forgetting—your watch isn’t activated as an Anabasis Machine until 1937.”

  “But I’m actually a Caretaker,” said John with a trace of indignation, “the Caretaker Principia, in fact, not an apprentice. Why wouldn’t mine have the same properties as yours?”

  “You are indeed a Caretaker,” Ransom replied, “but of the Imaginarium Geographica, not of . . . well, it’s not for me to say. To you, the watches represent badges of honor and a secret way to identify others of our creed—but long before that, they were being used by those of us chosen by Verne to help protect time itself. It was only later that he realized they could serve a dual purpose.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been easier to make all of them time-traveling devices to begin with?” said Jack.

  “Maybe on the surface,” said Ransom. “It’s only been recently that the scope of the Caretakers’ responsibilities seems to have expanded to time as well as space, so the watches you’d been given were inert. That appears to have been a miscalculation—but then again, if they’d all been fully functional, that would mean your friend Hugo Dyson would also have one. Do you really want him meddling in time?”

  “Good point,” said John. He suddenly snapped his fingers. “Can we use yours, then? If you can tell me how it works quickly enough, that is.”

  Ransom shook his head. “If I could, I’d gladly hand it over. But it would be more dangerous for you if I did. I’ve been trained in its use for years by Jules Verne himself, and I still can’t manage it with any degree of accuracy. If you were to miscalculate . . .”

  Jack groaned. “Never mind—I think we’ll take our chances with the Keep of Time. Otherwise, we might end up in the Winterland again, or worse.”

  “One of you might,” said Ransom. “At present, the Anabasis Machine is still a single-user device.”

  Jack slapped his forehead. “That’s right, that’s right. I’d forgotten. There’s also the problem of arriving naked wherever we’d go too.”

  Ransom snorted, then chuckled. “Hank
probably told you that, didn’t he? We actually worked out the mechanics of that particular problem a few years back—Verne and Mark Twain just made a special adjustment to Hank’s device as a joke.”

  “You let him hopscotch through time naked as a joke?” John said, incredulous.

  The philologist shrugged and chuckled again. “When you are trying to keep order in the entirety of creation, you have to take the opportunities for a moment’s levity when you can.”

  “It is pretty funny,” said Charles.

  “Gentlemen,” Flannery said, a tense pitch in his voice, “you’d best make a decision quickly. I think I may have overestimated the usefulness of our hiding place.”

  He gestured with his thumb for the others to look outside, and they did. About thirty yards away, Kipling and the Yoricks were standing in a clearing—and they were all looking toward Flannery’s tree.

  “That’s it,” said Jack. “Ransom, we need to use that Trump. Now. Whatever you feel the risk will be, we’ll just have to sort it out when we get there.”

  The philologist removed the Trump of the Keep from the other cards, then paused. “Remember what I said about the rules that cannot be broken? The rules regarding time and space?”

  “Uh-oh,” said John. “That sounds like a very bad preamble.”

  Ransom scowled at him. “All I’m saying is that we don’t know everything. Not yet, anyway. And there are rules that can’t be broken—but we’re discovering new rules all the time.”

  “What are you telling us, Ransom?” Jack asked.

  “Instinct counts. Intuition counts. Not everything can be broken down into formulas. There are no equations that can prove that I am in a place where I cannot possibly be. But if I am in that place, then it must be possible—and I think some things can become possible if you just believe that they are.”

  “‘Believing is seeing,’” said Charles.

  “Yes,” Ransom agreed, handing him the card. “So believe.” He turned to Flannery. “I’m betting you have a secret back door to this place, don’t you?”