James A. Owen - Here, There Be Dragons (Chronicles of the Imaginarium Geographica)

Here, There Be Dragons began its life as an uncompleted ten-page outline, which was my last presentation to the last producer I met on an interminably long trip to Hollywood. It was that producer who worked with me to shape the story over the next few months, and who, in November of 2004, suggested that we begin approaching publishers. The book you are holding would not exist if it were not for the interest, advice, and encouragement of Marc Rosen, and the support of David Heyman.

My home team at the Coppervale Studio, Jeremy, Lon, and Mary, were invaluable in assisting me with layouts, backgrounds, commentary, and various forms of moral and medicinal support as I worked on the illustrations. Theyre all better at their jobs than they know they are.

Craig Emanuel, my rock of an attorney, gave me to Ellen, Julie, and Lindsay, my managers at the Gotham Group, who took all of a second to get the story, not much longer to sell it, and a great deal much longer holding me up while I finished writing it.

My editors at Simon & Schuster, David and Alexandra, taught me what editors are for, and made me look good, and smarter than I am. My art director, Lizzy, reminded me how fun collaborating can be and made the book look wonderful. And my publisher, Rick, made a publishing deal feel more like an invitation to a family reunion.

Kai Meyer, who as a fan of my comics work was the first to ask if Id like to write something in prose, along with his colleagues Frank, Hannes, and Sara, are the reasons I had the experience and confidence to write this book. My mother Sharon and wife Cindy are the ones who offered understanding, support, and sympathy when I decided to illustrate it, too.

And finally, in the most unlikely pairing I can think of, I want to thank my daughter Sophie and my friend Dave Sim, the former with drawings and the latter with twenty-year-old essays, for reminding me that I love what I do.

You all have my gratitude and sincere thanks.

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 didnt 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 visitors 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?

Its not here, the professor said, lighting his pipe and drawing deeply on it. Youre too late.

His visitor appraised him for a moment before concluding that the professor was speaking the truth. Im 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 Ive put an empire forever out of your reachand 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.