The Black Fortress

by E. G. Foley

  Blimey, other than the mischievous sparkle in her eyes, there was hardly a trace left of the tough little rookery lass who’d stuck by his side through thick and thin on the streets of London, her clothes threadbare, her face smudged with dirt, her wee dog Teddy in a satchel on her back.

  No, it seemed that Dani had finally got her ultimate wish: Isabelle’s governess, Miss Helena, had clearly succeeded at turning her “respec’able.”

  She bobbed on her toes with excitement, skirts swinging. With a glance over her shoulder at the party, she beamed at them.

  “Everything’s so pretty! I was on the decorating committee, you know. And just wait until you see the food. They have a whole roasted pheasant with his tail feathers on, and his head! Can you believe it? I don’t think I could eat it with the poor bird looking at me like that, to be honest, but it’s impressive, anyway. And, Jake—they have roly-poly pudding!”

  “Really?” he asked with a startled blink. He hadn’t had his favorite food in a hundred years.

  “Maybe that’ll whet your appetite,” she added, giving him a sympathetic smile. “Anyway—everyone’s been asking for you.”

  “Oh.” Jake’s enthusiasm ebbed as he remembered his quest again.

  He wasn’t here just to pal around with Dani and Archie and the rest of the gang. He had serious business to attend to.

  He glanced at Maddox, who also knew that time was of the essence.

  “I’d better go,” the older boy mumbled.

  “Go where?” Dani asked brightly.

  “Gonna say hello to Sapphira.” Maddox nodded toward the merfolk.

  “Oh.” Dani’s smile thinned a bit at that.

  She had never really taken to the mermaid princess after the older girl had tried to work her feminine wiles on Jake. Dani liked straightforward people, and the watery folk were known to be a bit shifty.

  “Well… Give Her Highness my best,” she said oh-so-politely.

  Miss Helena’s training at work.

  Jake regarded her in amusement as Maddox walked away. Then they were left standing together at the edge of the party.

  “Well, come on!” Dani swished over to his side and playfully grabbed hold of his arm. “Let’s go have some fun and cheer you up. You need it.”

  “Um… I can’t quite yet.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “I gotta talk to some people.”

  “Who?”

  “What are you, an owl? Different people. Adults.” He made a face.

  “Oh.” She furrowed her brow. “That’s odd. Want me to come with you?”

  “Nah, it’s Order stuff. I’ll get it over with, then I’ll come find you.”

  Now she was suspicious.

  “Who are you going to talk to? And why can’t I come?” She tilted her head. “Is it a girl?”

  “No! You widgeon, it’s not a girl.” Jake laughed at her.

  The mention of Sapphira must have brought back that little jealous streak Dani had shown regarding the mermaid princess. But she was as persistent as her Norwich terrier.

  Propping a hand on her hip, Dani narrowed her eyes, searching his face. “What are you up to now, blockhead?”

  He heaved a sigh. It was no use lying to Dani. She knew him too well.

  “I’m just going to do some askin’ around to see if any of these mumpers know where we can find the Black Fortress these days.”

  “Jake!” Her green eyes flared wide for a moment, but she kept her voice down. “Are you mad? You’ll get in trouble. You know you’re not supposed to interfere—”

  “But I have to.”

  “You promised to let the adults handle it this time!”

  “Oh, and a fine job they’re doing, aren’t they?” Frustration bubbled up inside him. “I mean, just look at how hard they’re trying to save my Gryphon!”

  He flung an angry gesture toward the party—and accidentally sent a stray bolt of his telekinesis zinging through the air.

  It knocked a tray of appetizers right out of an elven waiter’s hands as he circulated among the guests.

  Stuffed mushroom caps and little squares of cheese went flying up beneath the chandeliers. People cried out and ducked from the rain of hors d’oeuvres.

  “Oh blast it,” Jake muttered, humiliated by his blunder. He yanked his hand behind his back, bunching up his fist to contain the uncontrolled power. “Er, sorry!” he called, cringing.

  Dani’s lips twitched with stifled laughter when he looked at her.

  “It’s not funny,” he snapped.

  “You need to calm down.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down!” he huffed.

  “Aw, Jake, don’t be cross about the party.” She laid a comforting hand on his forearm. “You know the Order has been working nonstop on the situation for the past three months. Derek and Sir Peter and your aunt and Finnderool and nearly everybody else. They’re allowed to take a break for one night.

  “Besides,” she said, “the Harvest Home is a grand old tradition. If the Elders were to cancel it out of worry and fear, it would be like letting the Dark Druids win. Don’t you think?”

  Jake scowled, but he had to admit that she had a point.

  “Now stop being a stick and let’s go try some of that roly-poly pudding.”

  Jake shook his head. “You’re a right plum lass, Dani O’Dell, but I’ve got to do this.”

  “I’m going to eat it all!”

  “No, you’re not,” he said wryly.

  With a sigh, she let him go. “Have it your way, then. Let me know if you need any help. Or if you find anything. And don’t get in trouble.”

  He nodded. “See you soon.”

  Then they parted ways.

  Jake looked around, then began moving through the crowd, wondering where to start.

  Magical folk of all kinds clustered here and there throughout the ballroom, dressed in their richly colored autumn finery. They seemed engrossed in their own conversations: laughing, sipping drinks, eating hors d’oeuvres.

  God, this was going to be awkward.

  Then Jake spotted a few stately centaurs chatting with some leafy-headed Green Men. Centaurs were usually rather pompous and high-strung, in his experience, but the Greenfolk were always down to earth, notorious for being kind to children and other living things.

  Yes, he thought in relief. That group seemed approachable enough, at least to get warmed up.

  Insinuating himself into their conversation was still going to be fairly excruciating. He had no idea what to say. Would rather be fighting gargoyles, actually.

  Ah well. Anything for Red.

  He’d figure something out.

  Here goes nothing. Jake took a deep breath and headed toward them.

  CHAPTER 4

  A Momentous Announcement

  After his meeting with Shemrazul, Wyvern returned to the control room still slightly dazed by the news that he was about to become not just the sorcerer-king, but a family man. A warlock of his abilities was difficult to impress, let alone surprise, but that had done the trick.

  Lo and behold, just when he started feeling normal again, settling down after this exciting twist in his fate, he received his second summons of the night.

  This time from Zolond.

  One of the royal reptilians appeared in the doorway of the bridge. The impressive creature stood at attention, its crocodilian head held high.

  “Lord Wyvern,” it rasped, “His Majesty wishes to speak to you.”

  Wyvern’s pulse leaped as he turned to the creature in surprise. Already?

  Shemrazul had told him that Zolond would make an announcement, and that would be Wyvern’s cue to begin preparing to overthrow the old man.

  Quickly hiding his eagerness, Wyvern gave the reptilian a cool nod. “Of course. Take me to him.”

  The reptilian bowed, then left the bridge and led Wyvern down the same hallway he had traversed an hour ago. But, this time, the scaly royal bodyguard led him over to the closed double doors of
Zolond’s private chambers.

  The creature opened the door, and Wyvern drifted in, on his guard.

  He could not deny that he was just a little frightened, going up against the Dark Master, even though the old man had no idea of his intent.

  There was no way Zolond could’ve seen what he and the demon had been scheming—not with Shemrazul’s powers to keep matters hidden.

  Still, Wyvern was glad he had his wand tucked in its sheath by his side.

  Ugh, look at this place. No style at all, he thought as he glanced around at Zolond’s decor.

  All of the guest chambers and living quarters inside the Black Fortress were covered in magical mirrors, from which the occupant could materialize any sort of setting he or she preferred.

  Master Zolond had chosen a most ordinary-looking parlor, such as might have appeared in any comfortable middle-class home across Queen Victoria’s England. Persian rug. Lace doilies. Corner curio covered in knickknacks. Cherry-wood end tables, and a cozy wingchair across from a fireplace.

  The place reeked of old man.

  Wyvern hid his disdain as the reptilian trudged through the parlor and leaned its toothy head politely into the open door of the adjoining chamber. “Lord Wyvern is here, Your Darkness.”

  “Thank you, Druk,” came a frail, scratchy voice from within.

  A moment later, the unlikely leader of the Dark Druids ambled out of his bedchamber.

  During rituals and incantations, when he was up to his eyeballs in his alchemy work, the Dark Master bedecked himself in black hooded robes like those of a medieval monk. His bony white hands, so gnarled and frail, would clutch his wand and his dagger, and when the dark spirits merged with him, his eyes would glow almost red from the shadows of his hood.

  But in ordinary life or when he had business of some sort in the human world, the great sorcerer once known as Sir Geoffrey DeLacey appeared as the most harmless of tidy, well-mannered, little old Englishmen.

  Mostly bald and clean-shaven, with grayish eyes, the elderly fellow was short and trim and always dressed in impeccably tailored clothes.

  From his black bowler hat and starchy white cravat to his plain black frock coat, gray trousers, and simple leather shoes, he might have been an aged banker, or perhaps an ex-butler who had started his own enterprise in the City and grown prosperous.

  He would have appeared right at home feeding the pigeons on a bench somewhere in Hyde Park, with his black bowler hat resting atop his briefcase beside him.

  Other than the unusual ring on his finger, a ring of untold power—the Master’s ring—there was nothing unusual about him at all.

  People passing would’ve smiled at the sweet-looking old man, and Sir Geoffrey would no doubt have smiled back.

  No one by simply looking at him could tell he was quite possibly one of the most evil men upon the Earth, and the most powerful warlock in generations.

  Zolond adjusted his sleeves with a little tug, and then smoothed the scarlet silk handkerchief tucked into his jacket pocket.

  Wyvern bowed. “You wished to see me, Your Darkness?”

  “Yes.” Zolond craned his neck back to meet Wyvern’s gaze. “I am leaving for a while, commander.”

  “Leaving?” Wyvern blurted out, shocked by the pinpoint accuracy of the devil’s prediction, not the announcement itself, as Zolond must’ve assumed.

  The old man sighed. “I am taking a holiday, Wyvern. It’s been ages since I’ve taken time off. A century, at least.”

  Wyvern blinked. “Oh. Right. I see. Well then. Very good, sir.” A trio of reptilians filed past him, carrying the Dark Master’s luggage out of the bedchamber. “Are you quite well, sir?”

  “A bit tired these days. I am old, you know. So very old.”

  The tidy warlock slid his hands into his pockets and studied the floor thoughtfully. “That desert battle in June took it out of me, I’m afraid. Believe I’ll go to my mountain retreat for a few weeks and, you know, rest up before it’s time for the great rites of autumn and winter. I daresay Samhain will be here before you know it. Then winter solstice.”

  “Of course, sir.” Wyvern hid his glee.

  Zolond sent him a penetrating look. “I trust I can rely on you to look after the Fortress while I’m away?”

  “Always, Your Darkness. It would be an honor.”

  “Good.” Zolond gazed into the empty fireplace in a faraway mood. He seemed strangely distracted, but he came back from his musings abruptly.

  “I will bid you adieu, then, ol’ boy. Do keep in touch if anything comes up, won’t you?” He was already walking toward the door.

  Wyvern took a wide, quick step across the parlor and got the door for Zolond. “Of course, Your Majesty. I’m at your service, as always.”

  “There’s a good chap.” As Zolond walked past him, exiting the chamber, he only came halfway up Wyvern’s chest.

  Such a little man, like a goblin. It was hard to imagine that such a frail person could wreak so much havoc as Zolond had done in his day…

  But his day was passing.

  Wyvern hid any sign of what Shemrazul had promised him, politely escorting the chief warlock to the bridge, where the old man personally gave the officer of the watch his coordinates.

  “Set a course for the Balefire Mountains.”

  The whole bridge crew glanced at the Dark Master in surprise, but quickly lowered their gazes.

  “Aye-aye, sir,” the navigator responded.

  Zolond held on to the back of the nearest chair to steady himself as the navigator logged in the coordinates.

  One of the reptilians approached the frail old man. “Would you like a chair, sire?”

  “No need. I invented this thing, did I not?” Zolond smiled.

  “Your Majesty is indeed a genius,” the lieutenant said earnestly.

  Zolond arched a brow.

  The officer cleared his throat, then got back to business, flipping switches, adjusting controls. “Preparing to jump.” He picked up the communication transmitter and spoke into it, addressing the whole Black Fortress: “All stations, brace for transport, in ten, nine, eight…”

  Down in the barracks, the Noxu took heed, holding on to the hand loops. It could be a bumpy ride sometimes. Likewise, in Zolond’s potion room, racks securing the vials lowered into place, and in all the mirrored chambers, lights began to flash a polite warning that the Black Fortress was about to leap—never mind that all the guestrooms were empty at the moment.

  When all systems were ready, the lieutenant nodded to the chief officer of the watch, who then turned the key.

  With that, the infernal machine that powered their jumps roared to life. The entire Fortress began to vibrate and hum. Energy crackled from its four spiky towers.

  Familiar as it was, Wyvern still found the whole process thrilling. He accepted a pair of dark glasses that the engineer offered to him.

  The bridge had a view down into the large, open courtyard in the center of the castle, allowing the crew to monitor their progress. Presently, they watched the revolving metal shaft of the dynamo rise from its squat brick housing in the center of the courtyard.

  The thick metal column spiraled up to its full height, a little taller than the battlements. It locked into the upright position, spinning ever faster.

  The whole crew took care to protect their eyes from the dazzling ball of pure energy that formed atop the whirling mechanical pedestal.

  Blinding white and brilliant blue, the energy ball swelled and expanded as it danced atop the spinning dynamo.

  Lightning bolts now began to leap between the castle’s four corner towers.

  Great, vicious bolts of it zapped and sizzled back and forth in thick, jagged blue lines. Its intensity grew until, moments later, the four courses of lightning flew toward the middle.

  Wyvern had always thought the pedestal looked like some lost little lighthouse, but instead of giving off light, it attracted it, channeled it somehow—and used it to fly.

  Th
ere were a few mighty pulsations. The lieutenant continued counting down the seconds: “…three, two, one.”

  Then they leaped, winking out of the Karakum desert, to rematerialize on some desolate plateau in the Balefire Mountains.

  “We’re here,” Zolond quipped.

  So they were.

  The officers exchanged smiles, and Wyvern shook his head to clear it. It could be a little disorienting.

  Mere moments later, they lowered the drawbridge and the tiny head wizard strolled out of the castle with his bowler hat on, a black briefcase in one hand; in the other, he idly swung his walking stick.

  Only, Wyvern knew that it was not a walking stick at all, but the scepter of the sorcerer-king in disguise.

  The six reptilians marched out in formation around Zolond, all of them armed, most carrying luggage.

  Wyvern was happy to see the lot of them go.

  Zolond glanced at his fob watch, then waved idly over his shoulder. “Candle-call me if you need anythin’, Nathan.”

  “I will, sir. Enjoy your holiday!”

  “I’ll be back in time for the full moon at All Hallows’ Eve. Cheerio.”

  “You rest up now!” Wyvern called, lifting his hand in farewell, while the last two members of Zolond’s party marched down the drawbridge.

  Bringing up the rear, the two largest reptilians trudged out carrying Zolond’s sedan chair on its long poles.

  They set the old-fashioned vehicle down, and the old man stepped inside. He took his seat, made himself comfortable. Then the two largest lizard men lifted the sedan chair up by its poles, balancing them on their green, scaly shoulders.

  As idly as though he were taking a hansom cab through the streets of London, the elderly chap gazed out the window while the reptilians began carrying him up to his private retreat atop the mysterious Mount Woe, highest peak in the Balefires.

  The place was well known to the Dark Druids as a natural vortex where many flowing currents of powerful earth energies converged. One could do great magic there, or draw on deep healing energies. It was an excellent place to go when one was wounded, weary, or planning something big.