The First Dragon (Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica, The) by James A. Owen Page B
Authors: James A. Owen
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felt the need for retribution.
“We have come a . . . very long way, to ask for your help,” said Edmund. “We have no desire to interfere with you, or your summit, or anything to do with the city. We simply want to ask you a question.”
Samaranth already seemed calmer, something that might have been due more to his curiosity about these strange visitors than to their soothing words. “All right,” he said, having decided that whatever these creatures were, they were no threat. “What do you want to ask of me?”
“The Keep of Time,” Rose began. “You say that you know how it works, and that you understand how important it is to both this world and the one out there. What we want to ask is if you have also discovered who built the keep.”
The angel immediately shook his head. “That is the one question we have never been able to answer,” he said, “although it is an answer I have sought myself, in secret, because unless that answer is discovered, nothing we do here will be of any value whatsoever.”
“Why is that?”
“Because it is damaged,” Samaranth answered, “and unless it isrepaired, it will someday vanish altogether, and the connection to this world will be destroyed. And when that occurs, there will be nothing to prevent the Un-Namers from sweeping over the face of the earth.”
♦ ♦ ♦
As Kipling expected, passing the line of Corinthian Giants was spectacularly easy. His state of being as a tulpa, a living thought-form that possessed the aiua, or soul, of Rudyard Kipling, apparently made him a different enough kind of creature that the living monoliths paid him no heed whatsoever. They remained impassive, and immobile as stone. He was still human enough, however, to attract the attention of several among the refugees encamped along the living wall—and several of them, seeing how he passed successfully, attempted to do the same.
He watched with a bemused expression on his face, wondering just what method the giants would resort to for repelling the invaders—but an instant later, the smile dropped off his face.
The first two refugees had just reached the narrow isthmus between two of the giants’ feet when a horrifyingly loud booming horn sounded in the sky, and one of the giants looked down. A beam of light erupted from the giant’s cowled face, incinerating the refugees to ash.
Sickened, and berating himself for not being more careful, Kipling fashioned a turban out of his jacket to protect his head from the hot sun and started the long trek to the distant city.
♦ ♦ ♦
“It stands to reason that he wouldn’t know,” Charles said to the others. “If he had known, surely Bert, or Verne, or someone back home would have discovered the identity of the Architect years ago.”
“Not necessarily,” said Rose. “He wasn’t tame when we knew him,you know. And there were times he did deliberately conceal information so that we’d have to discover the answers ourselves.”
“Also,” Edmund put in, “if he is the oldest of all his kind here, then it’s not very likely that anyone else in the entire city would know more than he does.”
“Age does not equal knowledge,” Samaranth said. He turned to Rose, scowling slightly. “Did you just call me ‘tame’?”
She blushed furiously and changed the subject. “I’m sorry we bothered you, Samaranth,” she said contritely. “I hope we haven’t interfered too much with your work.”
“You seem to know a great deal about who I am,” the angel said, giving them a look of appraisal, “and I still know nothing of you. Where did you say you hailed from?”
“There is only so much we can share,” Rose began in answer to Samaranth’s question, “without risking terrible damage to our own future. And yours,” she added quickly. “I can only ask that you trust us, and that you try to believe that our intentions are good.”
The angel considered her words and pursed his lips. “I don’t have to
“We have come a . . . very long way, to ask for your help,” said Edmund. “We have no desire to interfere with you, or your summit, or anything to do with the city. We simply want to ask you a question.”
Samaranth already seemed calmer, something that might have been due more to his curiosity about these strange visitors than to their soothing words. “All right,” he said, having decided that whatever these creatures were, they were no threat. “What do you want to ask of me?”
“The Keep of Time,” Rose began. “You say that you know how it works, and that you understand how important it is to both this world and the one out there. What we want to ask is if you have also discovered who built the keep.”
The angel immediately shook his head. “That is the one question we have never been able to answer,” he said, “although it is an answer I have sought myself, in secret, because unless that answer is discovered, nothing we do here will be of any value whatsoever.”
“Why is that?”
“Because it is damaged,” Samaranth answered, “and unless it isrepaired, it will someday vanish altogether, and the connection to this world will be destroyed. And when that occurs, there will be nothing to prevent the Un-Namers from sweeping over the face of the earth.”
♦ ♦ ♦
As Kipling expected, passing the line of Corinthian Giants was spectacularly easy. His state of being as a tulpa, a living thought-form that possessed the aiua, or soul, of Rudyard Kipling, apparently made him a different enough kind of creature that the living monoliths paid him no heed whatsoever. They remained impassive, and immobile as stone. He was still human enough, however, to attract the attention of several among the refugees encamped along the living wall—and several of them, seeing how he passed successfully, attempted to do the same.
He watched with a bemused expression on his face, wondering just what method the giants would resort to for repelling the invaders—but an instant later, the smile dropped off his face.
The first two refugees had just reached the narrow isthmus between two of the giants’ feet when a horrifyingly loud booming horn sounded in the sky, and one of the giants looked down. A beam of light erupted from the giant’s cowled face, incinerating the refugees to ash.
Sickened, and berating himself for not being more careful, Kipling fashioned a turban out of his jacket to protect his head from the hot sun and started the long trek to the distant city.
♦ ♦ ♦
“It stands to reason that he wouldn’t know,” Charles said to the others. “If he had known, surely Bert, or Verne, or someone back home would have discovered the identity of the Architect years ago.”
“Not necessarily,” said Rose. “He wasn’t tame when we knew him,you know. And there were times he did deliberately conceal information so that we’d have to discover the answers ourselves.”
“Also,” Edmund put in, “if he is the oldest of all his kind here, then it’s not very likely that anyone else in the entire city would know more than he does.”
“Age does not equal knowledge,” Samaranth said. He turned to Rose, scowling slightly. “Did you just call me ‘tame’?”
She blushed furiously and changed the subject. “I’m sorry we bothered you, Samaranth,” she said contritely. “I hope we haven’t interfered too much with your work.”
“You seem to know a great deal about who I am,” the angel said, giving them a look of appraisal, “and I still know nothing of you. Where did you say you hailed from?”
“There is only so much we can share,” Rose began in answer to Samaranth’s question, “without risking terrible damage to our own future. And yours,” she added quickly. “I can only ask that you trust us, and that you try to believe that our intentions are good.”
The angel considered her words and pursed his lips. “I don’t have to
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