Here, There Be Dragons

Prologue It was a very distinct sound, the quiet scraping of steel on stone, that first told him that his visitors had arrived, followed by a strange sort of tapping and the shuffling of feet. The tapping outside in the alleyway became more pronounced, and he suddenly realized it was less the sound of tapping than it was a soft cacophony of claws, snapping together in anticipation. He set aside his pen and notebook and settled back in his chair. There was no denying it. It was time. The strained amber light of an English afternoon streamed through the greasy windows of the door as it slowly opened into the study. He refilled his pipe with his special cinnamon tobacco mix and noted with passing interest that clouds were beginning to gather on the far horizon. A storm was coming. It didn't matter, he thought to himself with some satisfaction. He had said the things he needed to say to the person who needed to hear them. He had protected that precious stewardship that needed protecting, and passed it to those who would use it wisely and well. There was, he concluded, not much more that could be asked of an old scholar, in this world, in this lifetime. The silhouette in the doorway gestured to him, and he caught a glimpse of wickedly sharp steel, which curved to a point, as the visitor's arm rose and fell. The clicking noises in the alley grew louder. "Greetings, Professor," the shadowy figure said. "Might I have a word with you?" "It's not here," the professor said, lighting his pipe and drawing deeply on it. "You're too late." His visitor appraised him for a moment before concluding that the professor was speaking the truth. "I'm very sorry to hear that," he said. "That does not bode well for you." The professor shrugged. "What happens to me is no longer important. You may claim my life, but I've put an empire forever out of your reach -- and when all is said and done, which of the two matters more?" The visitor gestured again, and the tapping noises outside gave way to snarls and animal howling. There was a rush of bodies, and in seconds the small study was filled with ancient steel, and pain, and blood. When the noises again faded to silence, the visitors left the study as they had found it, with one exception. It would be several hours before the first raindrops from the approaching storm would begin to freckle the paving stones in the street, but the professor would not see them fall. Copyright 2006 by James A. Owen Chapter OneThe Adventure Begins The slim, cream-colored note may just as well have been inserted into a bottle and tossed into the ocean rather than sent by post, for by the time John received it, the professor was already dead. For perhaps the hundredth time, John took the note out of his pocket. My Dear John,Please make all haste to London. There is much, too much I'm afraid, that should have been explained to you well before now. I only pray that this letter finds you well enough to travel, and that you will bear me no ill will for what is to come. I do not know if you are ready, and that is my own burden to bear. But I believe you are able, and mayhap that is enough. I hope it is. Professor Sigurdsson The letter had been dated a week earlier, the ninth of March, 1917, and had reached him at the hospital in Great Haywood the day before. John cabled a reply to his mentor, requested a temporary leave, dispatched a note to his wife of less than a year at their home in Oxford, explaining that he would be absent for perhaps several days, and immediately arranged passage to London. It was the messenger who delivered the cable who found that a murder had occurred and notified the police. John knew without asking that the officer waiting at the platform in London was there to speak with him, and why. The traiOwen, James A. is the author of 'Here, There Be Dragons' with ISBN 9781416912279 and ISBN 1416912274.