Sargasso Skies by Allan Jones

tired to the bone and far too sleepy to know what to make of what he was seeing.
    â€œI hate those lizards,” he grumbled, shutting the window and firmly turning the latch. Half asleep on his feet, he stumbled across the room and was snoring almost before he hit the mattress.
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    He awoke early the next morning and for a moment wondered where he was. Then he remembered.
    â€œTwilight of the Dogs!” he muttered to himself, sitting up and knuckling his eyes. “And today I’m going to try and make some sense of the story . . . if it has any sense to it!”
    Truth be told, Trundle was almost enjoying himself among the count’s teeming papers. There was something oddly satisfying about creating order out of all that chaos, and he had even discovered in the desk a pen and an inkpot and some sheets of blank paper on which he made notes in his large, round handwriting.
    He had lost track of how long he had been working when he heard a soft rustling sound at his back. He turned and saw that a silent albino rabbit had slipped in through the door, carrying a tray that held a steaming cup of tea and a plate of glazed buns.
    He blinked uneasily at the red-eyed creature as it glided forward and placed the tray on the corner of the desk.
    â€œThank you very much,” Trundle said.
    With a slight nod, the albino rabbit turned to leave.
    â€œI say,” Trundle added. “How are things going downstairs? Esmeralda’s got them all jumping, I bet!”
    The white face remained blank, but the red eyes widened as the rabbit moved to the door and slipped through quickly.
    Trundle frowned after the pale creature. “You know something?” he said out loud to himself. “I sometimes get the impression that those animals are more frightened of us than we are of them.”
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    Trundle spent another entire day up in the tower room. But he had the feeling that his labors had not been in vain. Lighting candles as the evening darkened, he walked slowly around the desk. The seventeen original piles of paper had been reduced to three; the discarded writings heaped like a snowdrift against the wall.
    Twilight of the Dogs was starting at last to work as a story. And Trundle found that it wasn’t such a bad story, after all. There was plenty of action, with swordfights and fearsome dragons and kings and queens and evil monsters and dastardly schemes and handsome imperiled heroes and beautiful gallant princesses who rode about on unicorns to save them.
    He stretched and yawned. “I must be the only silly soul awake in this entire place!” He sighed, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes.
    Yawning, he opened the window, remembering the drums and the lizards from the night before. Would they be there again? he wondered. And if so, what were they up to? Nothing good, he felt sure of that.
    He heard the faint boom of the drums. Maybe it was some kind of communication system among the lizards?
    â€œLike someone banging a gong to let you know it’s dinnertime,” he said with a shudder. “And there they are again!”
    Sure enough, a band of lizards was bounding along clutching wrapped-up bundles—moving in the same weird way as they had the previous night.
    But then something else took his attention. A large hatch opened among the debris, close to the back of one of the hulks. The heads of several dogs appeared. They scrambled out, and Trundle saw that they were all dressed in military uniforms.
    â€œIt’s some of those Hernswick Hounds,” Trundle mused aloud. “I suppose the commander has his soldiers patrol the perimeters, just to be on the safe side!” He frowned. “Those lizards are in for a bit of a surprise! There’ll be a big punch-up now, and no mistake!”
    As Trundle watched, the lizards bounded closer to where the dogs were gathered. There were about as many hounds as there were lizards. Trundle bit his lip—this was going to be nasty!

    But