The Black Fortress

by E. G. Foley

  Even before his momentary disorientation cleared, Janos could smell the distant scent of smoke. It was probably just some peasant’s hearth fire, but it made his stomach clench.

  Too late, his heart told him, but he refused to heed it.

  “Come on,” he said to the others while they were still trying to clear their heads.

  He started running down a deer path through the woods, heading south for the castle over rough, hilly terrain.

  The others were right behind him, Finnderool still punching buttons on the implant in his arm.

  With every step, Janos’s sense of foreboding increased.

  The few short miles they had to traverse seemed interminable. The team pressed on, sticking together, climbing rock-strewn slopes and scrabbling down dales, through thorny brush and over babbling streams.

  The way was harder than Janos remembered.

  Sir Peter was no warrior—not in the physical sense. Understandably, the bookish wizard lagged behind a bit, and even Derek, softened up by his ordeal as a captive of the Dark Druids, could be heard huffing and puffing a little.

  Janos almost teased him, but the jest he might’ve made stuck in his throat. He pushed himself onward.

  Only Finderool easily kept pace with him, bounding lightly over large stones and mossy logs. But while it was elven grace propelling the pale-haired Lightrider forward, for Janos, his speed came from pure dread.

  The sensation of impending disaster rose higher every minute.

  Something was very wrong, starting with the smoke smell. Instead of fading behind them, the scent was only growing stronger, and it held an acrid, unfamiliar tinge.

  The woods around them seemed especially dark. And empty, Janos realized. Where were all the night birds? Where were all the bats?

  It was too bloody quiet.

  Then, beyond the ridge ahead, they could see an orange glow against the black sky.

  They all paused. His companions panted. Janos suddenly felt sick.

  Henry moved up beside him, grasped his arm, and gave him a meaningful stare. “Stay here. I’ll go scout ahead.”

  The shapeshifter took his wolf form and galloped ahead, racing up the dark rise that waited for them.

  The others kept going. There was no way Janos could hang back. But not even a vampire could keep up with a wolf.

  Moments later, wolf-Henry reached the top of the rise and started barking a vicious alarm.

  Janos understood and ran faster.

  “Janos, wait!” Derek shouted, trying to stop him from seeing what awaited.

  Even before he arrived beside Henry, Janos had a feeling he knew what he would find.

  And he was right.

  “Noooo!”

  The castle was burning. His hatchlings, his children…

  His brides!

  Too late.

  The unnatural blue intensity of the flames reminded him at once of Wyvern’s cruelty to the peasants.

  He raced forward with a war cry, barreling up as close to the castle as he dared. But Wyvern had been thorough.

  The towers were torches, the keep a billowing inferno. Its very stone glowed, melting.

  Janos threw his head back and roared, his fangs tearing forth.

  Sir Peter lifted his wand, chanting as he strove to catch his breath; he summoned a torrent of rainfall from the skies to begin dousing the castle, but Janos already knew there was no point.

  Nothing could survive such a blaze.

  Derek set a hand on his shoulder, half to comfort, half to hold him back from throwing himself into the flames. But the Guardian instincts in both men registered no signs of life from within.

  Janos tore away from Derek’s hold and took a few steps to the side, at a loss, blind with rage, his hands on his head.

  “I failed them,” he gasped out. “I told them I’d protect them and I failed.”

  He dropped to his knees in the rich soil of the woods. Lowering his hands to his sides, he curled them into fists and unleashed a howl of futile agony under the moon.

  The wolves of the forest howled back from their hidden places throughout the mountains of his kingdom.

  Now they and the shadows were all he had left.

  * * *

  In the distance behind his dragon chariot, Wyvern caught only a wild echo of the clamorous howls coming from the forest.

  A cold smile curved his lips as he glanced over his shoulder at the burning castle. Betray me? I warned you.

  That blasted vampire had added insult to injury by wounding Thanatos in addition to freeing two highly valuable prisoners.

  Wyvern had found his pet manticore bleeding from a stab wound in his hip and locked up in the same cell where the Gryphon had been caged. The poor beast would have died if Wyvern had not returned in time with his wand to work a healing spell.

  Treacherous vampire. Well, now they were even, he supposed. He whipped his Orange Darter onward across the black sky.

  Beside him, all the while, his voluptuous new passenger held on tight to the handrail of the dragon chariot. She gazed down, cooing with amazement at the ground so far below, her long, dark, wavy hair billowing wildly all around her, her red lips curved in a smile.

  She was enjoying herself immensely, his future wife, but Wyvern didn’t really care if she was or not.

  All that mattered was that she paid him back for the favor he had done her tonight, springing her from her watery prison deep in the North Sea.

  Transformed back into the beauty she once had been—thanks to his magic—the famed enchantress let out a laugh and lifted one hand in the air, glorying in her freedom as the dragon chariot flew onward to their next destination of the night.

  They were heading into dragon country.

  For while Janos might’ve betrayed him, there was still someone else Wyvern could turn to and recruit for his cause. Someone with an even closer tie to his future son.

  Indeed, one of Jake’s own bloodline. For who could possibly know more about the boy than his own dear Uncle Waldrick?

  CHAPTER 25

  The Prisoner

  Waldrick Everton, formerly known as the sixth Earl of Griffon, had served but a year and a half of the cruel life sentence the Elders of the Order had handed down to him for kidnapping his nephew, Jake, and the fairy, Gladwin, and for harboring a known fugitive from justice, his beautiful (sometimes) accomplice, the sea-witch, Fionnula Coralbroom.

  But what he was really guilty of—what they knew, but couldn’t prove—was that Waldrick had murdered his elder brother, Jacob, and that vexing Elizabeth woman, his wife. That was why they had locked him up and all but thrown away the key.

  At first, he had raged continually in his dismal dungeon cell, trying to shake loose the bars.

  As if no one had ever tried that before.

  Or ramming the dank stone walls with his shoulder like he’d break them down.

  Absurd, of course. All he’d done was nearly dislocate his own shoulder.

  When his fury had spent itself in futility, he had fallen back on his wits, plotting endless escapes.

  They all had come to nothing.

  After a dozen such failures, he had fallen into a miserable depression at the unfairness of it all, which lasted approximately four months by his reckoning, though time had lost its meaning here in this place, where he had been forgotten by the world.

  Finally—indeed, not too long ago—Waldrick had begun to make his peace with his fate. His life was ruined and that was that. No use crying about it forever.

  Much to the surprise of his guards, he had become something of a model prisoner after this epiphany.

  That very night, lying on his cot and gazing through the bars at a starry September sky over the forest, he was musing without hostility on the good times he used to have with his pet spider, Malwort, before even his trusty arachno-sapiens had abandoned him.

  Yes, even Malwort had run away from him.

  Alas, in hindsight, Waldrick wasn’t quite sure he blamed him.
I never really appreciated the little fellow as he deserved…

  All the while, Waldrick twanged a slow, melancholy tune on the mouth harp he’d fashioned from a twig and a piece of twine.

  Did he regret killing his brother and his sister-in-law?

  Sometimes.

  Not enough to convince the Order that he deserved extra privileges yet, but he was making his way by slow, plodding steps toward an almost human sense of responsibility for his own actions.

  He did not like the way that it made him feel.

  He still dreamed of the days when he used to be a rich, admired lord in London. Ah, that was the life. Swanning about Town with the beautiful diva, Fionnula, on his arm—toast of the royal opera house.

  But she too had gone to prison for her role as Waldrick’s accomplice, and for that little matter of trying to overthrow the entire government of King Oceanus of the North Sea. In her true form, of course, Fionnula Coralbroom was a powerful sea-witch, a siren, whose wickedest magic was in her song.

  None of her adoring London audiences had ever suspected this fact. They could not explain why the opera house was always packed when she was scheduled to take the stage. But there was enchantment in her voice—a gift she could use for good or ill.

  It was no mystery which direction she’d gone. But, Lord, she had been a stunner back in those days. At least in her human form. Waldrick had relished squiring her about Town. He had loved feeling the envy of all the other rich and titled gents in London when he’d arrive at some party or restaurant with the ravishing star of the stage by his side.

  Of course, he would never be seen with her in her sea-hag form.

  Not even he liked a lady with tentacles. But with a little help from the magic in those Gryphon feathers, the sea-witch could turn herself into quite the prime article…

  All of a sudden, a reptilian roar from the dragon-infested forests surrounding the Order’s prison broke into Waldrick’s reverie.

  He shot upright on his cot. The formidable lizards roaming those woods out there terrified him. The ultimate deterrent against prisoners breaking out and running away.

  At least watching the dragons from the safety of his cell could be interesting. Especially when one of the big ones caught a deer or devoured a luckless peasant who happened to take a shortcut through the woods, not realizing where he was.

  More dragon roars answered the first, echoing from all around the valley. It was downright unnerving!

  What’s got them so riled up?

  Waldrick swung his dirty bare feet over the edge of his cot and walked in his tattered clothes over to the window of his cell. He grasped the iron bars carefully and peered out.

  Sure enough, huge reptilian shapes shook the trees below. A burst of fire in the darkness lit up their location. Leathery wings fanned the sky as a few more dragons alighted, drawn to one particular gathering point.

  What on earth has got into them?

  He’d never seen them act like this before, dozens of them swarming into the valley just below the prison.

  Waldrick barely dared blink as he stared down the hill from his cell. A plume of flame curled into the sky as a long-necked beast lifted its head high and breathed fire.

  But then Waldrick tensed. His shoulders bunched up with fear as he saw a tall, man-shaped silhouette striding right through the midst of the beasts.

  Oh, they’ve found themselves a midnight snack, he thought, riveted.

  But as he watched in morbid fascination, the dragons did not devour the man.

  A massive green one with horns snapped at him, but the man held up his hand and bellowed at them in a language that Waldrick did not possess.

  He knew magical words when he heard them, however. He could feel the power in the man’s incantation resonating through the valley.

  Then Waldrick’s eyes widened as the dragons bowed down to the man.

  He’d never seen such a thing.

  “What’s this?” he breathed.

  The mighty dragons almost seemed to genuflect, tamely letting the man pass between them.

  A dragon lord. He stared until his eyes stung. Why, he’d thought they’d gone extinct.

  Against the glow of the fire one of the dragons had started in the underbrush with its blast of breath, Waldrick stared at the black silhouette of the man striding now up the hill toward the dungeon.

  Instinctively, he moved away from the window with the uncanny sense that the dragon lord had been looking straight up at his cell.

  He had no idea what was going on.

  But he could feel the approach of a great evil. Nervous and unsettled, Waldrick hurried back to his cot and sat down, lifting his feet off the cold stone floor and tucking his bare toes under the edge of his rough blanket.

  He was wide awake now, though, listening for all he was worth, unsure of what would happen next. Who was that person and why was he heading this way?

  A few minutes later, Waldrick heard the prison guards scream somewhere below. He drew in his breath, yanking the blanket up to his chest and cowering a little.

  Their screams were quickly cut short.

  Through the thick walls of the prison, Waldrick could have sworn he heard a distant trill of feminine laughter. There was something oddly familiar about it, but his heart was pounding too hard for his brain to make sense of it.

  Only one thing was certain: Waldrick knew trouble when he sensed it. And trouble was headed his way.

  In the darkness, his eyes bulging with fear, he slid his gaze toward the corridor from whence he heard heavy, implacable footfalls coming closer…closer.

  Dread overwhelmed him—then the man from outside stepped into view.

  He looked like a gentleman, well dressed in Bond Street tailoring. He was unfashionably tall, though—clearly not a giant, just a bit too large for a normal human man. He had brown hair, a powerful build…

  And the coldest eyes Waldrick had ever seen.

  The dragon lord smiled blandly at him through the bars. “Are you Waldrick Everton?”

  Waldrick was afraid to answer the question. “Who are you?” he forced out.

  His visitor sketched a bow. “Nathan, Lord Wyvern, at your service. You may have heard of me.”

  Oh, but he had.

  Rumor had it he was Nephilim. Well, that would explain his height. Waldrick flicked a glance toward the stranger’s hands wrapped around the bars of his cell.

  Egads. Six fingers.

  So it’s true.

  “Ahem. Yes. I-I am Waldrick Everton,” he admitted, lifting his chin.

  “Good. Just the man I’ve come to see.”

  Waldrick rose cautiously from his cot and hoped the Dark Druid could not hear his knees knocking together.

  “And why is that?” he inquired, trying to seem as composed as his former lordly self.

  “I have a proposition for you,” Wyvern said. “How’d you like me to get you out of that cell?”

  His first thought was that he was perfectly comfortable in his cell, thank you very much. Not for the world would he want to be indebted to any Nephilim. Even he wasn’t that stupid.

  “Well, you’re very kind to offer, but even if you did, I wouldn’t get very far out there.” He nodded toward the window. “You’ve noticed the dragons?”

  “Leave them to me,” Wyvern said with the smile of an alligator.

  Waldrick raked his fingers through his hair, trying to straighten his appearance in the presence of a fellow gentleman. “I, er, take it you are a dragon lord of some kind?”

  “You guess aright, my lord.”

  I’m not actually a lord anymore, he started to say. But it was so nice to be addressed once again by his old honorific.

  “I’m sorry,” Waldrick said abruptly, “have we met?” He was sure he would’ve remembered the imposing fellow if he had; his visit here seemed inexplicable.

  “No,” said Wyvern, “but I am familiar with your case. Most unjust.”

  “Oh really?” Waldrick could not res
ist taking a wary step closer. “Well, I am touched by your interest in my legal troubles, but you are…?”

  “The future leader of the Dark Druids,” Wyvern finally supplied in answer to his open-ended question.

  “Ohhh. Oh, I see.” Waldrick paused, weighing this dire information with the utmost caution. “Is Master Zolond unwell?”

  The Nephilim’s eyes flickered, the pupils going longwise briefly, like a reptile’s. “Something like that.”

  “Ah. Pity. Well—he’s very old.” Waldrick smoothed his disgustingly filthy shirt merely out of habit, a vague memory of his once-fine wardrobe dancing through his mind. “And, um, what exactly do you want with me, Lord Wyvern?”

  “I am in a position to help you, if you will help me.”

  “Oh? How?” Waldrick asked, on his guard. He knew a liar when he met one.

  After all, it took one to know one.

  “I am interested in your nephew, young Jake, Lord Griffon. I understand he is the reason you are sitting in this cell.”

  Waldrick gave a noncommittal snort. Time had helped him start to see that his being here was his own fault, but just hearing the name of that little troublemaker gave him a headache.

  The boy was the bane of his existence.

  “I take it he’s been wreaking havoc again.” Waldrick sighed. “Very well. What’s he done now?”

  “Never mind that. I need to get him under control. That’s all I am at liberty to say for now, Everton. I need an angle for how to get to him. I thought you might be of use. You are his kin, after all.”

  Waldrick flicked a flea off his arm. “Oh, I could help you, I’m sure. It’s just, if you get me out of here and I should get caught again, it would be the gallows next time. You see my predicament.” He really would prefer to stay in jail than go anywhere with the infamous warlock.

  “Hmm,” Wyvern said thoughtfully, as though sensing his reluctance. “Then let me sweeten the deal. What if I promised you your old talent back? A man with pyrokinesis could be a very useful ally to me when I head up the Council.”

  Waldrick froze at the offer. He was actually a little afraid of his fire-throwing talent. It had been too much for him as a boy.