by E. G. Foley
No wonder Zolond had established his private hermitage in a cave somewhere on that mountain ages ago, as a mere sorcerer’s apprentice.
After all, the crest of Mount Woe was also the sacred spot where the Black Brotherhood crowned their sorcerer-kings. Wyvern could hardly wait till it was his turn, but, for now, he lingered on the open drawbridge, watching the unlikely royal procession head up the slope.
A holiday, eh? Shemrazul was right. The old fox was up to something. No doubt this supposed vacation was tied to the disloyalty Shemrazul had hinted at.
But Wyvern shrugged off the question. One thing at a time. Zolond’s exit was clearly the signal the demon had told him to watch for. Now was his chance to start working on his coup.
He strode back inside. “Raise the drawbridge,” he ordered, then returned to the bridge.
“Commander, is Master Zolond all right?” the engineer asked timidly.
Wyvern shrugged. “He says he’s tired.”
He made sure to speak this news loud enough for the whole bridge to hear.
All the men and the nearby Noxu guards on duty looked shocked not just that Zolond was tired, but that he would admit it, for all committed evildoers knew better than to admit to such weakness.
Frankly, Wyvern was shocked by it, too. Perhaps it was a lie, a trap, a deception. Wyvern didn’t think so, but, either way, the old man was definitely up to something.
What it might be, he had no idea, and, at the moment, really didn’t care.
Perhaps, after three hundred years of his unnatural, long life, the old codger was merely losing his marbles.
All the more reason to remove him from power.
The officer of the watch turned to Wyvern. “Your orders, commander? Where shall I put her down next?”
Wyvern thought it over. Another mountain range came to mind…
Yes, yes, Shemrazul had instructed him to start his to-do list by securing some allies right away.
But Wyvern chafed at the assignment. The prospect of finally having a family of his own proved too hard to resist.
Too bad! he decided. The other bit could wait.
Well, the demon shouldn’t have shown him that glorious vision of himself as the sorcerer-king with his cruelly beautiful queen by his side, and his magnificent son at his right hand.
That was what he desired most. Freeing the sea-witch would be easy; his way of doing things was to do the hard part first and get it over with.
The hard part was obviously the boy.
Having had some time to let the news of his destiny sink in, Wyvern had fully embraced the command to take that little hellion for his son.
Oh, the boy was a handful—as he should be, considering—and they’d had their conflicts in the past, even though they had not yet met face to face.
But even Wyvern could admit that, as vexing as the bold lad was, by his own deeds, Jake had already proven himself worthy to become the Black Prince.
Winning him over would be tricky, though.
Especially after Wyvern had tried to have him killed. Not that it had done him any good. He grinned at the thought.
Now he felt almost proud of the lad, looking back on it. Why, the young rogue had, first, destroyed the rock golems he had conjured. Turned them to dust with a wave of his telekinetic hands.
Next, Wyvern had sent three Nightstalkers to snuff the boy out while he was on holiday in Italy, enjoying a Grand Tour with his cousins.
The children had been escorted on their travels by Jake’s formidable great-aunt, the Elder witch, Ramona, Lady Bradford.
Wyvern had warned his three phantom assassins not to try going after the lad when the old witch was there. “Don’t worry, he’s a wayward young rascal. He’ll sneak away at some point. That’s what boys do. That’s when you finish him.”
The Nightstalkers surely would have obeyed these simple orders, yet, somehow, all three had ended up dead—or whatever form of dead could befall phantom wraiths.
Wyvern beamed with pride in Jake now, in hindsight.
Still, no boy of thirteen, not even Wyvern’s future son, could defeat even one Nightstalker on his own without a darkling blade, and only one kind of folk in the magical world carried those.
Vampires.
Wyvern snorted and shook his head. Oh, yes, he knew exactly who’d helped Jake survive the attack.
That maddening Prince Janos.
Once upon a time, Janos had been a knightly Guardian of the Order. But that was years ago. Before the rebel’s fall from grace.
Be that as it may, Jake and Janos seemed to share some sort of bond.
Not that Wyvern was jealous.
But perhaps that smart-aleck vampire could give him some insight into his future son. Explain what made the boy tick. After all, if Jake had not yet responded to the capture of his Gryphon, what on earth was it going to take to lure him?
Janos knew Jake fairly well. He might just have some advice.
Not that the vampire could be trusted. The ex-Guardian was a known spy and a double agent.
But Wyvern had ways of forcing compliance, so he decided to risk it. That smarmy bloodsucker owed him a very large favor, anyway. Wyvern’s mind was made up. Never mind what Shemrazul said about his to-do list. Gathering allies could wait.
It was just too exciting to think that he, a Nephilim, would finally acquire a son of his own. So he gave in to temptation.
“Set a course for the Carpathians,” he ordered the bridge crew. “Land as close as you can to the stronghold of Prince Janos Gregorian. It’s rough ground there, but no matter. Get us in range, and I’ll take my chariot the rest of the way.”
“Aye-aye, sir.” The navigator checked the maps, and then began dialing in the coordinates.
When the lightning started flying once more from the towers, Wyvern put the dark glasses on, a cold smile curving his lips.
CHAPTER 5
The Sorcerer-King
What are you up to, Wyvern? Where will you go next, I wonder?
Zolond stared out the window of his gently rocking sedan chair as the solemn reptilians carried him up the steep, winding grade. His bowler hat resting on his lap, the old warlock watched night deepen over the ominous peaks of the Balefire Mountains.
They spanned out in all directions in this desolate place. Its emptiness comforted him. Nothing but forests and stars. A few night birds warbled in the brush, and their lonely trills let his questions about the Nephilim fade away.
Did he trust his second-in-command?
Of course not. But he was tired of it all, glad to be gone. For the truth was, the Dark Master had more important matters on his mind of late. Ever since that battle three months ago, the past beckoned to him…
At last, the reptilians reached the top of the treacherous path that wound up to Zolond’s hidden refuge near the crest of the legendary Mount Woe.
The air was thin on the sacred mountaintop. Even the reptilians were winded as they set the sedan chair down on the stretch of flat, dusty ground outside of what appeared to be nothing more than an ordinary cave.
It was overgrown with weeds so thick that they almost obscured the rough-hewn steps Zolond used to take from his hermitage up to the stone altar on the mountaintop. But a smile tugged at his lips.
Ah, this place brought back memories. He had not been here in an age. But he had spent his youth here, discovering his power, learning how to use it.
With a nod to his trusty guards, Zolond stepped out of the sedan chair and stretched his weary old bones. Then he placed his bowler hat on his head, gripped his walking stick, and walked into the mouth of the cave.
A few little creatures flapped out, frightened—birds, bats. They were welcome to stay; he didn’t care. The outer portion of the cave was only the vestibule of his former dwelling place.
As he moved deeper into the darkness, the womb of earth and stone surrounded him and seemed to shield him. Already he could feel the mountain’s enormous power.
Cobwebs
tickled his face as he ventured deeper into the cave’s mouth. He smelled soil and vegetation, heard water dripping down the rocks. Advancing confidently to the cave’s back wall, he tapped the living rock with his scepter.
With a rumble and a puff of dust from disuse, the stone portal slid back, revealing the hidden great hall of his mountain refuge.
He stared into his long-abandoned hideaway.
The place where he had ceased to be Geoffrey de Lacey, oh so long ago, and had become the warlock the magical world would eventually know and fear as the favored servant of Shemrazul.
He flicked away a thought of the demon who had given him so much—and who would soon want payment, no doubt.
Taking a deep breath, Zolond strolled into his old bachelor residence. Of course, he’d never married. He’d never had the stomach for it. Funny, that.
After all the terrible things he’d done, that was the one betrayal he could not bring himself to commit.
There was only one woman who ever could have ruled by his side, but she had refused. She hated what he had become more than anyone else on the Earth did.
Even Zolond himself.
Brushing off these unsettling thoughts, he took a wry look around at the cavernous chamber, stone-floored and broad beneath its soaring limestone vault. He remembered the cool, welcoming gloom of this place, and yet how the light angled in through the cracks where it could.
“Welcome back, Geoff,” he whispered to himself.
It had everything he had needed for his studies. All of the ingredients in his large wooden cabinet of magical supplies would’ve long since lost their power, but it made him smile. I ought to replenish them.
Of course, his magic had moved far beyond mere potions and spells by now. Indeed, his favorite challenge in recent decades was creating living creatures from his own twisted imagination. Crossing things that ought not to be crossed. Men and lizards, like his servants. Men and insects…
Abominations, admittedly, but it made him happy to mock the Creator with his monstrosities.
His restless gaze moved on to his old scuffed worktable. Ah, my old seeing bowl… Various grimoires. I ought to give them away to some deserving young warlock or witch, he thought, for he’d long since memorized their spells.
Yet it comforted him, seeing his old books.
In truth, Zolond barely knew what was wrong with him these days. He had not been the same ever since she had joined that battle three months ago in astral form.
He had trounced her, of course. He had always been just a little stronger than her. Filled with hatred when he’d sensed her there, he had nearly strangled her on the astral plane in their clash, and yet…
Being with her again after their paths had split so long ago—one light, one dark—somehow still invigorated him. That brief tussle with her felt like it had shaved a hundred years off his age.
Most unsettling.
And if that one encounter wasn’t bad enough, he was ashamed to admit that he had contacted her again, about a month after the battle.
Why? To mock her? Or to see if she was all right? If he had hurt her very much? He had no idea. All he knew was that he could not resist.
Who else could ever understand him but that blasted witch?
Three hundred years was a very long time to be so alone.
Zolond ambled across the stone floor and went to the arched opening in the cave that served as a balcony. He stood there for a long moment contemplating the valley so far below. Then he lifted his gaze to the indigo sky.
When the September moon appeared briefly through the clouds like an old friend, even that reminded him of her. How they used to sneak away from their training masters to meet in the moonlight…
What were they then—she, seventeen? He, nineteen, twenty?
He closed his eyes and cast about inwardly for the chunk of ice where his heart had once been, but he couldn’t quite find it. The heart had begun to thaw.
Blast you, Ramona.
How he wished he had not encountered her again in that battle over the burning crater of Karakum this past June. They were too old for such antics, both of them. He sighed.
Where had the time gone? Why, it had stopped on that day so long ago when they’d parted ways. He winced at the memory of her twenty-something self staring at him in horror. “Geoffrey! What have you done?”
If she had been outraged when he’d sacrificed his first goat to gain favors from the darker powers of this world, it was after he had sliced the first man open in exchange for still more strength that he and his beloved witch had parted ways.
His true love had banished him from her presence forever. He could still see her shaking her head with tears in her eyes. “Oh, Geoffrey, you’ve chosen magic over me.”
That was not his intention, but it was too late, and to this day, her words haunted him like a whole graveyard of ghosts.
Zolond bristled with disgust at himself for even caring.
Stepping away from the stone balcony, he handed his walking stick to his most loyal servant, Druk, the captain of the elite reptilian squad.
Zolond then turned to let Druk take his coat for him, as well.
Druk slipped the black jacket off Zolond’s frail shoulders, smoothed it over his arm, bowed, and withdrew.
Zolond sighed, feeling more comfortable, then he slowly walked over to the small round table across from the foot of the moldering canopy bed.
On the table sat a black crystal ball.
He lowered himself wearily into the chair at the table and just stared at it for a moment.
This was what he and Ramona had been using to communicate in secret now and then ever since the battle.
For it was not just the one time that Zolond had contacted his old flame to see if she was injured.
No. Because, after that, the Elder witch of the Order had reached out to him, as well. Of course, it was only to ask him for a favor. He shook his head. Outrageous, that woman.
She said that the Order was aware the Dark Druids were planning a war, and she was right.
Ramona had contacted him in secret to ask if he was willing to open a back channel of negotiations with her. Her side wanted peace—as usual. She wanted to open talks between them to explore whether there was any suitable way their two sides might avoid all-out war before that calamity drew any closer.
Zolond had wanted to refuse her, but found that he could not. He wasn’t taking it seriously, in truth, but at least her silly peace negotiations gave him an excuse to talk to her again.
“If nothing else, have mercy on our future generations, Zolond,” she’d implored him in their first conversation on the matter some eight weeks ago.
Mercy? he thought with a scoff as dry as desert bones. Foolish old woman, you know I gave that up long ago.
But deep in the heart of his black crystal ball, a faint flame still flickered, it would seem.
Blast the woman—just like always, he couldn’t resist her. Ah, back when they were young in Shakespeare’s day, that sharp, feisty little witch had known just how to twist him ’round her little finger.
Now that they were old, so very old, she still knew how to reach him when he’d had long since concluded there was nothing left in him to reach.
And so, knowing her power over him, the Elder witch of the Order had been conversing with him in secret, suing for peace, and asking for favors that only he, the sorcerer-king, had the power to grant.
Of course, he was only leading her along, he told himself, unsure how much he dared concede. After all, Ramona knew as well as he did that if either of their organizations found out about these secret talks, their own sides would turn on them viciously as a couple of traitors.
How much Shemrazul knew at this point, Zolond did not care to contemplate.
On the outside, the Dark Master was still complying with the Horned One’s orders, but, deep down, Zolond was in no great hurry for this long-promised war to begin. Shemrazul wanted it, not him.
Fortunately, he could afford to be patient for a while longer. After all, the hidden army he was gestating in the desert sands needed time yet to hatch. But Ramona didn’t know that.
So he let her plead her case and told himself he was only toying with her, enjoying letting his former sweetheart try to persuade him.
It was true; he liked her attention. It made him feel…strange.
But Ramona had a point about keeping the balance between the Order and the Brotherhood. The truce that the two of them had managed to keep between their opposing sides for so long had become unstable of late, partly because of Wyvern’s outsize ambitions, and partly because of that blasted nephew of hers.
Jake.
The boy was trouble, a walking earthquake, made for shaking things up. Unpredictable, smart, and just a little cocky.
Jake had not technically killed Garnock, but he had blocked the warlock ghost’s attempt to bring himself back to life. By doing so, Ramona’s nephew had gained the wrath of the whole Brotherhood.
At least, until Duradel had received his shocking prophecy about the boy.
Now the Dark Druids hardly knew what to think. But they had captured his Gryphon as a means of drawing the little hellion to them, and, one way or the other, getting him under control.
Gazing across the room and beyond the balcony at the night sky full of stars, Zolond pondered the prophecy for a moment. What did it mean? Might the dark and light come together in one young man?
Ah, but he was too weary for solving such snarls tonight. That was not why he’d come, anyway.
She was.
Zolond dismissed his reptilians. When they had gone, he laid his gnarled hands on the dark crystal ball, closed his eyes, then called to her in the silence from across the vast emptiness between them.
Ramonaaaa…!
Ramona? Come and speak with me.
By the gods, he was eager to contend with her again, though her effort to pull him back toward the light was quite futile.
More likely, he would pull her into darkness, finally gain his proper queen.
Or perhaps they’d reach a stalemate and turn the whole world a bleak shade of gray between them. At least then neither of them need be so alone.