by E. G. Foley
He’d been a fool to try to ignore it this long, he supposed, for he knew full well that evil was always at its most dangerous when it went unseen, silently creeping through the shadows, like a spider, a snake.
That was usually when it was preparing to strike. Evil was far too clever to advertise its plans.
Thus, the longer the Horned One gave his longtime servant the cold shoulder, the more fearfully Zolond wondered what torment was being prepared for him.
But he had done this to himself, of course. He was no victim. Hardened souls like him did not pity others, and Zolond had no intention of pitying himself.
Resolved to keep up the charade as long as he could—he scarcely knew why—he beckoned to one of the reptilians stationed by the door. “Bring me the black candle and some matches.”
Druk bowed and crossed to fetch them from his old wooden worktable on the opposite wall.
With that, Zolond set his sickening fears aside and focused his mind on the question at hand. Why had Wyvern gone after Jake?
He must’ve really taken Duradel’s prophecy to heart.
No matter.
Zolond might be falling out of favor with the Lord of the Ninth Pit, but, for now, he was still the Dark Master, and when he gave an order, he expected to be obeyed.
“Shall I light it for you, sire?” Druk asked as he set the black pillar candle down on the table before him.
“Please.” Zolond pushed aside his obsidian ball and gathered his thoughts about what to say to his wayward second-in-command.
In such situations, it was important to make a strong impression.
The obliging reptilian struck a match, then lit the candle. As the flame grew on the wick, Druk bowed and withdrew to his post beside the door to Zolond’s cave.
Zolond closed his eyes for a moment, mentally brushed off a flickering image of Ramona tapping her foot with impatience and glaring at him. She still amused him to no end, that girl.
She was just as feisty as she’d been at nineteen.
Then he focused his thoughts on the situation at hand, his expression growing stern. He murmured his usual incantations, then projected his mind forward, zooming out over the ethers.
He homed in on the Black Fortress, concentrating his will there, until, suddenly, the large black calling candle that was kept at all times waiting on the bridge flamed into life.
The giant calling candle was about two feet high and a foot across. As the smoke from the wick rose, the sorcerer-king cast a large projection of his face into the smoke.
Staring at the bridge crew through the calling candle’s smoke, he could see the officers on duty attending to their usual tasks.
No one had noticed him yet.
“May I have your attention?” he boomed in a godlike voice with no warning, and half of them nearly jumped out of their skins.
It was most amusing.
The bridge officers whirled around in surprise to find the head of the Dark Master peering at them from the smoke.
“Sire!” the lieutenant said, his eyes widening.
“Your Majesty!” The others quickly bowed.
Zolond exerted himself to make his appearance as imposing as possible, forcing the smoky image of his head to swell to some three feet across.
That ought to get their attention. Remind them all of who was really in charge around here. The whole crew hurried to bow to him; the pair of Noxu warriors posted by the door grunted and lowered their heads, too.
Satisfied, Zolond stared coldly at them, as though everything was normal. “I wish to speak to Wyvern.”
“Y-yes, master, right away. I-I will fetch him for you at once,” said the lieutenant.
“No. Bring me to him, wherever he is.” Let me take him unawares. “I would speak with him privately.”
The lieutenant nodded anxiously. “As you wish, sire. H-he is in his chambers, I believe.” Then he gestured to the navigator, who had the steadiest hands.
The navigator approached, bowed to Zolond’s image in the smoke, and then carefully picked up the sterling silver platter on which the big candle sat.
He carried it with great care out of the bridge and through the halls of the Black Fortress; an entourage of other crew members and Noxu guards went with him out of respect, and in case he needed assistance.
As the solemn procession moved down the wide central corridor, Zolond stared forward: a giant head perched atop the candle, formed from shifting smoke.
He took the opportunity to glance around, right and left, as the navigator carried him with great dignity toward Wyvern’s private apartments.
Hmm. Everything appeared to be in order.
But, as Zolond knew all too well, appearances could be deceiving.
* * *
Wyvern, meanwhile, was in the middle of a secret candle call of his own inside his chambers. “Why did you not tell me the boy was at Griffon Castle?” he demanded, still furious over how that debacle had ended this afternoon.
“But I-I didn’t know!” Boris Badgerton stammered. “They’ve all been keeping mum on any information concerning that boy.”
Wyvern glared out at him from the ball of smoke atop a normal-sized black candle. “You’re an Elder. That’s why we chose you.”
“Well, he’s back now,” the shapeshifter snapped. “However…I believe they’ll be moving him again.”
“Where to this time?”
Badgerton shook his bushy head, his side whiskers twitching. “I believe his relatives are taking him along on a diplomatic mission, but I don’t yet know their route.”
Wyvern absorbed this with a growl. They can’t hide you forever from me, son. “Very well,” he grumbled. “How is the tunnel coming?”
“Almost done. It’ll be ready whenever you are. But, um, I have a bit of a concern, my lord.”
“What’s that?” Wyvern asked with a frown.
Badgerton glanced around nervously. He was alone in his chamber in Merlin Hall, but he seemed nervous, nonetheless. “I think they know that someone’s passing information to your side. Some of the Elders have been acting…strangely. I confess, I’m a bit worried.”
“Hmm. When did this begin?”
“I first noticed it about a fortnight ago. It’s that Bradford witch. Sir Peter, as well. He hasn’t been as unbearably cheerful as usual.”
“I see. Well then, you’d better be careful.”
“Oh, I will, but I was thinking… If trouble should arise, it would certainly help if you let me take the Proteus power now. That way, I could—”
“Out of the question,” Wyvern said, turning his eyes to snakelike slits as a warning. “First finish the tunnel. Then you’ll receive your reward.”
Badgerton scowled but backed down with a huff. “It was just an idea.”
“You have to earn your place on the Council, Boris. You have yet to prove yourself.”
When a knock sounded on Wyvern’s door, he glanced over, then turned back to Badgerton. “I have to go. If anything else arises, contact me at once. And remember, be discreet.”
The beady-eyed shapeshifter gave an eager nod, then Wyvern cut short their communication, blowing out the flame. Another knock hammered at his door.
“Lord Wyvern?” came a muffled voice. “It’s urgent!” It sounded like one of the bridge crew.
“Coming!” With a hurried motion, Wyvern waved away the small smoke cloud lingering over the black candle.
Annoyed but ever dutiful, he marched across his quarters, whose magical mirrors he had conjured today to resemble the ancient catacombs full of skulls and old bones that he enjoyed visiting beneath the streets of Paris.
The macabre setting suited his current mood after his humiliating defeat today at the hands of a few children.
And unicorns. Why was it always unicorns? Horrifying creatures.
But as Wyvern learned in the next moment, his already bad day was about to get worse.
When he opened the door, he nearly jumped to find half the bridge c
rew standing there, and Zolond’s giant head staring coolly at him from atop the large calling candle from the control room.
“Wyvern,” the Dark Master said sternly.
“Your Excellency!” Wyvern opened the door all the way. “W-would you care to come in?”
The sorcerer-king didn’t answer, but that was clearly his intent. The navigator entered Wyvern’s illusory crypt and carried the big black candle over solemnly to the table in the center of the room.
Wyvern hoped no one noticed the small puff of smoke still dissipating around the smaller black candle over on his writing desk.
Then he stood at attention before the giant head, doing his best to clear any trace of treachery off his countenance. “You wished to speak to me, sire?”
“Yes. Alone.” The head rotated to nod the dismissal of the bridge crew. They respectfully withdrew.
When the door had closed, Zolond’s big, smoky head swiveled around again to stare down at Wyvern. “Now then, commander. How have things been going aboard the ship?”
“Oh, everything’s running smoothly.” Wyvern forced a smile. “Nothing to report.”
He should’ve known better.
“Funny you should say that, for the strangest reports have reached my ears about your recent activities.”
“Oh?” Wyvern rocked on his toes and tried to look innocent.
“Word has it you raided Griffon Castle.” Zolond leaned down toward Wyvern a bit. “Now, why would you do such a thing?”
“Well…” Wyvern said slowly, choosing every word with care. “In light of the prophecy about the Griffon lad, I thought it would be…prudent to collect a few helpful individuals who might know more about the boy than we do. He has had dealings in the past with the sea-witch, F-Fionnula Coralbroom. The boy’s uncle, Waldrick Everton, also knows him very well.”
“I see.” Zolond scoured Wyvern’s face with a knowing stare. “And?”
“Well, they were both imprisoned, so I…I decided to free them. Especially Lady Fionnula. She has been of great use to us in the past. And I know you are no great admirer of the merfolk.”
“Hmm. Go on.”
“Well, sire, it just seemed to me that any information Waldrick Everton could provide will be of use to us in dealing with the boy. I figured you’d approve, given that the lad is at the heart of Duradel’s prophecy.”
Wyvern prayed to Shemrazul that the old man was buying his falsehoods.
“I-I took Waldrick to Griffon Castle, you see, because of course he had his price. He demanded certain valuables from the family vault there in exchange for his cooperation. I had no idea the boy himself was at home,” Wyvern said truthfully. “I had assumed he was still under guard at Merlin Hall. It is important, however, that we keep tabs on him, don’t you agree, sire?”
Zolond let out a snort. “Keeping up to date on Jake’s whereabouts is one thing, Wyvern, but I will not have you trying to abduct the lad, especially in front of witnesses. While attempting to lure him to us with the Gryphon is a solid plan, outright kidnapping will start more trouble than we are prepared to deal with right now.” The Dark Master paused. “We must keep to our agreed-upon timetable. Our army needs several more weeks of gestation.”
To Wyvern’s relief, it seemed Zolond had not caught wind of the whole debacle with that insufferable vampire and the escape of the Gryphon.
Best not to break the news about either of those now. It might be bad for his health.
Wyvern swallowed his frustration with the old man’s caution, then sought to placate him.
“I assure you, sire, I have no further intentions of kidnapping Jake.”
Zolond’s scowl said he didn’t believe him.
“Well,” Wyvern amended, “at least not until Duradel gives us word that the time has come to act.”
The sorcerer-king scrutinized him. “Should the time come when Duradel presents us with a new oracle to guide us on the timing, then we can act. Not a moment sooner. Do you understand?” Zolond made his eyes turn to flame as he stared down at Wyvern.
Wyvern lowered his head, resentment stewing. “Of course, Your Majesty. Your word is my command.”
“Good.”
“And, um…” Wyvern looked up again. “Are you enjoying your holiday?”
“I am thinking perhaps I should return—”
“No, no, take all the time you need. We are perfectly fine here. Nothing else to report.” Wyvern bared his teeth in another awkward smile.
“I will not be trifled with, Nathan,” Zolond warned quietly, and for a moment, Wyvern trembled in his shoes.
Shemrazul might be incalculably more powerful than the Dark Master, but right now, Wyvern was facing him alone. Clearly, the sorcerer-king was not happy with him.
Wyvern hid his gulp. “I understand.”
“Good,” Zolond said in his low, chilling rasp. “For if you disobey me, the consequences for you would be…most unpleasant.”
Wyvern nodded stiffly and lifted his head, his six-fingered hands clasped behind his back. “Will there be anything else, sire?”
“Dismissed,” Zolond replied. Then his face vanished from the smoke cloud and the flame winked out.
Slowly, Wyvern exhaled.
It took a moment, but then fury rose in him like the ocean tide coming in. How the devil had the old snake found out?
Well, talk must be spreading through the magical world.
Wyvern supposed he should probably just count himself lucky that Zolond had not yet heard that Janos had betrayed him and freed the blasted Gryphon, not to mention one of the Lightrider captives. By Beelzebub’s hoof, that little matter would be a good deal more difficult to explain.
In any case, if Wyvern thought he was in the clear for the rest of the evening, he was sadly mistaken.
For as he went to pick up the big candle to return it to the bridge, another voice summoned him. The one inside his head. The one that, even more than Zolond’s, could not be ignored.
Nathan, Shemrazul spoke into his mind. Get down here. Now.
Wyvern blanched. Egads, the Horned One sounded grumpy, even for a demon.
Yes, Father, Wyvern answered. Right away.
At once, he left his chamber. In the hallway, he called for one of the Noxu to come and take the big calling candle back to the bridge. He waited until the half-troll had carried it out of his room, then he pulled the door shut and locked it with a tap of his wand.
Pivoting, Wyvern proceeded down the corridor toward the nearest staircase.
As he stalked toward the intersection of two hallways ahead, he saw Fionnula and Waldrick peering curiously around the corner.
“Nathan, darling!” the sea-witch greeted him in a breathy voice. She sidled out from behind the corner, arrayed in a luxurious scarlet gown. “What is going on? We saw—”
“None of your business. Go back to your rooms, both of you.”
“But Nathan!” Fionnula said with a pout.
“You heard me. I am in no mood.”
She humphed as he strode right past her on his way, but behind him, Wyvern heard Waldrick Everton snicker at her offended reaction.
He ignored them both. Instead, he strove to prepare himself mentally for what he feared was going to be another scolding.
Two in a row!
Ugh, first unicorns, now this. He scoffed and shook his head, but, in truth, the double-barreled dose of disapproval from both of his superiors, the human and the immortal, made him a little queasy.
It was no small thing, disregarding orders from the Dark Master, but, in point of fact, Wyvern knew he had not exactly followed Shemrazul’s directions either.
With good reason, his legs felt a little shaky with fear as he jogged down the black staircase. He knew he’d better brace himself for whatever his infernal father had to say.
When he reached the throne room, he nodded, as usual, at the two Noxu warriors stationed there. “He wants to see me.”
Better you than me, said the looks on their
tusked faces as they uncrossed their spears and opened the door.
The last thing Wyvern wanted to do was go in there at the moment. But he had no choice. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and marched in, same as always.
Shemrazul was already waiting for him there in a column of flame. The demon had his arms folded across his huge chest and was swaying back and forth as though pacing.
There was only so far he could move, however, with the adamantine chains around his ankles; he was hemmed in, as well, by the ring of arcane symbols engraved in the floor.
Wyvern hurried down the black granite platform to join him, passing in between two of the tall, empty thrones. He bowed at the border of the outer protective ring of floor carvings, his heart thumping.
“You wished to see me, Father?”
Shemrazul fixed him with a deadly stare. The smoke of the pit swirled around his horns as he scowled. “Tell me. Have I been speaking English to you, Wyvern?”
His deep voice rumbled through the room like distant thunder.
“Er, yes, sir.” Sweat beaded on his brow from his nearness to the blazing heat as he stood at attention before the fearsome Lord of the Ninth Pit.
“And did I not make myself quite clear as to your instructions? I have been incredibly patient with you for three weeks now,” Shemrazul interrupted before Wyvern could answer, “and yet you continue to defy my specific instructions! Such insolence from Zolond is one thing, but from my own son—”
“Father, forgive me!” Wyvern dropped to his knees and prostrated himself on the floor before Shemrazul. It was better than getting flayed alive.
“What have you been doing?” the demon boomed. “I told you, your first priority was to gather allies and consolidate support from among the members of the Council, did I not?” He did not wait for an answer. “I was patient. I waited to see how long you would turn a blind eye to my orders. Three weeks?!”
Shemrazul threw up his hands. “Do you think I’m telling you this because I like to hear myself talk? Is it just for my own health? No! These are your orders! This is what you must do. Not just if you feel like it! Don’t you understand that?”