The Indigo King by James A. Owen Page B

who ever lived who was fit to judge me, and he—”
    Mordred stopped, almost violently, as if he had spoken too openly. “All that is important to a ruler,” he continued, “is strength, and mine has been more than sufficient for a very, very long time.”
    “Bold words, given the odds,” said Jack. “I count four to one.”
    “Five, if you stack the badgers,” said John.
    “I count far fewer than that,” said Mordred. “The Far Traveler—Bert, is it?—really only counts for half, don’t you think? And the animals are even less to me. So that makes it even, doesn’t it, Chaz?”
    Uncas and Fred let out small howls of dismay, and Bert’s head dropped farther to his chest.
    John looked at Chaz, astonished. “Don’t tell me you’re taking his side.”
    Chaz refused to respond—which was response enough.
    “Of course,” Jack spat, clenching his fists. “He’s like the Wicker Men—a lackey and a traitor. He was going to sell us out to the Winter King all along.”
    It was Bert’s turn to be surprised. “Chaz!” he exclaimed in shock. “Why? Why would you do that?”
    “You’ve always known how I gets by,” Chaz shot back. “It never bothered y’ before.”
    “It always bothered me, Chaz,” said Bert. “I know you’re better than this. I always have.”
    “That wasn’t me you knowed,” said Chaz. “That was some other bloke called Charles. Not me.”
    “But … but …,” Bert sputtered, “you knew I was looking for them. Why would you sell them out to Mordred, only to bring them …” His voice trailed off, and he let out a despairing breath. “You gave him my name too, didn’t you, Chaz?”
    “Actually,” put in Mordred, “a little bird told me. Hugin. Or Munin. I forget which. Ravens all look alike to me.”
    “What’s in a name?” Jack said, breaking through the pall that had settled over the room. “Calling Chaz ‘Charles’ wouldn’t make him less of a traitor, so why does it matter whether or not Mordred knows your name?”
    “True names are imbued with power—and knowing someone’s true name gives you some of that power yourself,” Mordred said in response. “Enough, at least, to do what must be done. Am I correct, Far Traveler Bert?”
    “That’s what you did,” John said to his old mentor. “You told him Verne’s name, and somehow Mordred used it against him.”
    Bert seemed caught somewhere between lashing out in anger and bursting into tears. He sat, trembling, and glared at Mordred and Chaz.
    Mordred chuckled and turned around, his hands clasped behind his back. “That was it, and that was all, and it was enough … ah, what did you say your name was again, child?”
    “That be Scowler John y’ be addressin’!” Uncas exclaimed.
    “Uncas, no!” Jack shouted before realizing he’d just made the same unwitting mistake by blurting out the badger’s name. “Oh, damnation,” he muttered. “Sorry, John, Uncas.”
    Mordred chuckled again and raised his left hand to his mouth. He bit into his thumb, hard. Blood welled into the torn flesh and he turned around, eyes glittering.
    “Don’t apologize t’ me,” said Uncas, who clearly was the only one in the room who did not realize what was transpiring. “A king might talk t’ Fred an’ I like that, but he should respect men like you, Scowler Jack.”
    John slapped his forehead in resignation. The Winter King now had all their names. And the hapless Caretaker already anticipated what was coming next.
    Before any of them could react, Mordred moved, almost faster than they could follow, first to Jack, then, surprisingly, to Chaz, then John, then the others. He marked them each on the forehead with the blood from his thumb, and as he did so, he called them by name: “Jack and Chaz, John and Bert, Uncas and Fred—I am Mordred the First, thy king.”
    Then, he began to recite words John did not realize Mordred knew:
    By right and rule
    For need of might
    I thus bind thee
    I thus bind thee
    By blood