The First Dragon(28)

Quixote had already removed his helmet and breastplate. In the heat, the armor would be almost unbearable. He wiped his brow and looked to the horizon. “There,” he said, pointing. “I think we’ve found the city.”

Indeed, off in the distance the companions could see the magnificent outlines of the City of Jade, but the view was obscured by something so much more massive that at first, what it was failed to register with any of them. It was Madoc who understood it before the rest of them.

“The giants,” he breathed, shading his eyes to look as high into the sky as he could manage. “The Corinthian Giants have formed a living wall between us and the city.”

It was true—the great giants of legend, who had once saved the Caretakers from an aspect of Mordred called the King of Crickets, were standing shoulder to shoulder from the western edge of the desert that met the ocean, to so far to the east that they faded from view in the distance.

All along the perimeter formed by the giants’ feet were encampments of people. Thousands upon thousands of tents, and caravans, and wagons, and what might have been a million people of every creed and color. Every culture of the young world seemed to be represented, and none of the encampments seemed to be temporary. Flocks of sheep and woolly cattle were corralled at spots along the line, as well as flocks of fowl, and animals of labor of every stripe: camel-like creatures with great humps, small horses covered in fur, and great catlike creatures that were large enough to be ridden by three men.

“It looks as if generations of people have lived here, waiting for something,” said Quixote.

“Or being kept from something,” said Kipling.

“Or waiting for something t’ happen,” said Uncas. “Turn around.”

In the other direction, to the north of the Zanzibar Gate, was a sight equally as stunning—not because it was as overwhelming as the sight of the massive giants and enormous encampments at their feet, but because each of them intuitively knew what they were looking at.

Not half a mile behind the gate was a gigantic ship. It was perpendicular to their position, so they had no way of judging just how broad it might be, because it was so long they could barely see the ends.

Kipling let out a low whistle. “That has to be . . .”

“Several miles long, end to end,” said Madoc. “I can’t see how wide, though.”

“I’ll take a look,” Laura Glue said, unfurling her Valkyrie’s wings and leaping into the air.

“Laura Glue, no!” Kipling yelled, just a moment too late. She rose sharply into the air before she understood her mistake and dropped back down to the Indigo Dragon.

“Uh-oh,” said Fred. “I think we’re about to have some company.”

A group of people had indeed seen Laura Glue’s brief, ill-advised flight and were making their way over to the Zanzibar Gate to investigate—but not from the encampments. The procession was coming from the huge boat.

An elderly man, dressed in desert garb, with a long gray beard streaked through with white, led the procession of women, children, and, the companions were surprised to see, a large contingent of animals.

He raised a hand in greeting as he peered curiously at Laura Glue and Madoc in turn, taking particular care to look over their wings. In response, and perhaps as a bit of a challenge, Madoc flexed his shoulders and opened his wings to their full, impressive glory.

Kipling stepped forward, expecting to address the old man, but Fred and Uncas beat him to it, throwing themselves to the sand at the man’s feet. “We greet you, oh Ancient of Days,” they said in unison. “Now and forever, we serve thee, Ordo Maas.”

The old man chuckled and helped them both to their feet. “That’s all well and good,” he said, a cheerful expression on his face that bespoke earnest affection for everyone in their group, “but there’s no point getting sand in your clothes, now, is there?”

“Ordo Maas?” Madoc said, dumbfounded. “You are Ordo Maas?”

The old man nodded. “The Children of the Earth—the animals—named me thus back in the days when all of them spoke as these two fine badgers do,” he said, scratching at Uncas’s head, which the badger would have hated anyone else doing, but which he seemed to love in the moment. “In my old kingdom, back in the Empty Quarter, I was known as Utnapishtim. But here, among the people of this great exodus, I am simply known as Deucalion.”

“Deucalion, the son of Prometheus,” said Madoc, “who built a great ark and saved all the creatures of the earth from a deluge that covered the world.”

“You’re mostly right,” Deucalion said. “My father was Prometheus, and I have built a ship. But it hasn’t rained here in decades. Water is growing scarce. And my reputation is more that of a fool than a king or savior of animals.”