by E. G. Foley
Peering down from his carriage, he saw the damage to the roof of the big Baroque palace. Corpses of Noxu and Order folk alike littered the grounds.
Why, Ramona could’ve been killed tonight, Zolond thought suddenly. And that meant that he, too, would’ve perished, because of the secret spell that bound their lives. His expression turned steely.
Then Zolond began his descent.
* * *
Meanwhile, through the mullioned windows of his bedchamber in Shadowedge Manor, Victor watched, amazed, as Grandfather’s two promised dragons flapped down slowly onto the lawn.
The wind from their powerful wing beats swayed the treetops, eddied the fallen leaves everywhere, and blew out the training ground torches.
Heart pounding, Victor left the window and dashed across his room.
Magpen ran after him. “Master, where are you going?”
Victor did not bother to answer, already out in the hallway and bounding halfway down the stairs. His little servant raced after him.
Finally, something interesting had happened around here!
Bursting out the front door, he ran over to the dragons. The mighty beasts stood perhaps twenty feet high and took up much of the flat, sprawling front lawn.
“That was fast!” Victor greeted them.
When both dragons bowed down to him—for Grandfather’s reptilians were most courteous creatures, exacting in protocol—they lowered their snouts almost to the ground and angled their wings back in abeyance.
It was a magnificent sight, though Victor barely came up to their scaly olive-green chests.
“Your Royal Highness,” the dragons greeted him with deep, rumbling voices.
It was rather thrilling. “Which ones are you?”
“I am Bhisk, if it please you, sire.”
“And I am Etah, oh great Son of Darkness.”
Victor grinned. “Well, it’s awfully good to meet both of you! Thanks for coming. Say, you don’t really think there’ll be a problem here, do you?”
“If so, we stand ready to defend you, Your Highness.” Bhisk’s voice rattled the windowpanes across the front of the rambling Tudor mansion. “We serve the Dark Master and his heir, the Black Prince.”
“I’m glad of that,” Victor said heartily. “I’d hate to have either of you as enemies.”
“We are honored, oh most terrible Scion of Doom.”
Victor was a little embarrassed by their compliments.
Just then, Nagai strode out from around the corner of the manor, still barking orders at his troop of Noxu.
Victor paused at the formidable sight of his sensei arrayed in his samurai armor. Nagai had not yet donned the expressionless black mask, but the horns that rose like a half-moon from the top of his helmet gave Victor chills. His katana gleamed at his hip.
Victor noticed the warrior had called up for service all two dozen of his Noxu guards. Some of the ugly blackguards looked groggy, but they were armored up as well, and hefted their double axe-headed spears, serrated blades, and spiked clubs.
As Victor’s head of security, not just his tutor and trainer, the Japanese man was dispatching the half-trolls off to various posts all around the manor, the roof, and the woods surrounding the compound.
With all these measures in place, Victor had no doubt that any sort of foe Wyvern might send to try to kill him stood no chance at all.
What a fool Wyvern is. Suppose hypothetically, he mused, that the earl succeeded in his coup against Grandfather and managed to assassinate them both. Then what? What’s he going to do for an heir, for starters—snatch someone off the street?
Amusement quirked Victor’s lips. He’d heard the rumors that the Nephilim could not father children because of his half-demon bloodlines.
It was one of the ways that the dreaded Almighty limited what their side could do.
Well, if that was the earl’s plan, A) it was absurd; B) It wasn’t going to work; and C) It didn’t even make sense.
One had to be born the Black Prince, loaded up from birth with generations of innate magical skills. Doesn’t everybody know that?
Unless…Wyvern knows something we don’t.
Victor’s smirk faded. Perhaps he ought to take this threat a bit more seriously. He tilted his head, studying the night-clad woods.
Nagai had taught him that the worst thing you could do was underestimate your opponent.
Grandfather was the sorcerer-king, but Wyvern was a formidable foe. Younger, stronger. And he had the favor of his father, the Horned One. It seemed almost unthinkable, but…
What if he wins? What if Zolond can’t beat him? What then?
Victor knew the answer at once. Well, then they’re going to come here and kill me, obviously.
As the possibility of his own death started sinking in, the prospect of it ever actually happening struck him as ridiculous.
He had a birthday coming up! He was only thirteen. Locked up here, he hadn’t even experienced a proper life yet.
But Grandfather? Victor’s frown deepened at the thought of his ancient, somewhat frail grandsire going up against a demon-born warlock.
Victor had seen Nathan, Lord Wyvern, a few times for himself. A well-dressed, powerfully built man in his prime, the earl stood some six and a half feet tall and might be considered handsome by some.
At first glance, Wyvern was certainly a striking figure, with short brown hair and cold gray eyes. But on closer inspection, his strangeness emerged.
The careful observer might note first the odd heaviness of his square jaw; that was because the Nephilim sported double rows of teeth in his mouth like a shark. At least, that was what Victor had heard. He had stared at the man when he’d seen him, trying to decide if the rumor was true.
He couldn’t tell. Either it was just a lie the earl put out to intimidate others or he’d learned how to hide it.
What the earl could not hide was his six-fingered hands. He was unique, all right.
Victor wondered uneasily how Grandfather had found out about Wyvern’s rebellion, then he saw Nagai approaching.
The warrior was just finishing up with the Noxu. “You four, watch the gates. Kill anything that approaches. You have your orders. Now, go.”
His mind made up that he would participate in his own protection, Victor strode toward the samurai. “What can I do, sensei? I want to help.”
“No. You will do nothing, Your Highness.”
“What?” Victor stopped in his tracks. “You can’t be serio—”
The armored samurai lifted his chin; his face was like stone. “Go back inside.”
Victor’s temper snapped. “What’s all my training for, then? Nagai, you know I am capable—”
Even the dragons’ eyes widened when Nagai suddenly roared at him, “Do as I say!”
Victor folded his arms across his chest and glared at his sensei, katana or not.
“I said go, Highness. Now.”
“But I can help.”
“Not this time.”
“Why don’t I ever get to do anything interesting?”
“You have a duty.”
“Yes. To crush all those who come against me,” he replied. “You know I can fight. You trained me yourself, both in magic and the martial arts of your homeland.”
“To fight now is not your task, Victor-kun,” Nagai said in a softer tone, using the Japanese honorific. “Your only task at this time is to survive into adulthood and become the Dark Master in turn—Your Highness,” he added, remembering courtesy.
After all, Victor outranked his mentor.
By a lot.
Still. The samurai’s refusal to budge here was plain.
Victor scowled, but realized they both had their orders.
Glancing around at the distant Noxu and the towering dragons nearby, he heaved a sigh. So be it. If these people (and creatures) were prepared to give their lives for him, the least he could do, he supposed, was cooperate.
His shoulders drooped, but he swallowed his pr
otests and trudged back inside.
Like a good boy.
He slammed the front door behind him, though, then slouched across the entrance hall while Magpen stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Master?” The imp followed, wringing his long-fingered hands. “What’s happening?”
Victor glanced darkly at his homely little servant. “Nagai wants me to stay inside, where I’ll be safe. He thinks I can’t do anything.”
“Oh, but you can, sir,” Magpen said.
Victor turned to him all of a sudden. “You’re right.”
There was a lot he could do—from the comfort of his own bedchamber.
“Come on!” In the next heartbeat, Victor was in motion once more, bounding up the stairs two at a time, the imp at his heels.
When he reached his chamber, he let Magpen in, then locked the door behind them. “Get me my crystals.”
At once, the imp hurried over to the towering, ornate wardrobe by the wall, pulled its double doors open, and took out a sleek wooden box engraved with the lunar phases.
Magpen brought the box over to Victor, who set it on his bed.
He did not bother with his wand. It was too dangerous. Not knowing what sort of ghastly spells the Dark Master might unleash against Wyvern tonight, he did not dare interfere with some juvenile effort of his own and risk accidentally mucking things up for the old man. He might cast a curse or send some spell that could warp or even cancel out what his grandsire was doing.
Victor could, however, lend the old man the considerable force of his concentrated will, and channel his strong, youthful energy into Zolond’s protection.
The Dark Master probably didn’t need it, in truth. But Victor had to do something.
This was his grandfather—the only blood kin that Victor had left. Zolond was about a million years old, and he was about to face off against the supernatural son of a demon.
With that, Victor opened the box containing his crystal collection and gazed down appreciatively at the twenty-four jewel-like stones.
Merely lifting the lid, he could feel their power at once.
They gleamed and sparkled in the mystical glow of the candles that Magpen was lighting around the chamber, setting up for Victor’s working.
With great fondness, Victor trailed his fingertip over the crystals and gemstones, feeling the energy that each exuded. They felt like old friends.
Well, he’d had the set since he turned seven—another birthday gift from Zolond. The sorcerer-king had spared no expense.
Each stone came from the best mines around the world for its type, and was larger than most mages could afford, about golf-ball-sized, but not round.
No, they were each raw and beautiful, left in their natural shapes and forms for the most part.
Victor considered his choices, then made his selections: black tourmaline, onyx, obsidian, hematite, quartz. The strongest stones for protection he possessed.
As Magpen hopped over and pulled the curtains to aid concentration, Victor arranged the crystals in a circle, marked out on the points of a star.
Magpen handed him a glass of water; Victor took a sip, then stepped into the middle of the circle and sat down, folding his legs as he did during the half-hour of meditation that Nagai made him do every day to focus his mind.
At once, he could feel the crystals’ power encircling him.
“Which candle, Your Highness?” Magpen was already standing on the footstool beneath the wall shelf lined with various magical candles.
Victor considered. “Dragonsblood.”
The imp lifted the crimson pillar candle off the shelf, carried it over to Victor, and set it atop the low iron candle stand in front of him.
Victor lit it with his wand, then dismissed the imp with a nod. Magpen bowed and withdrew.
When his servant was gone, Victor took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then cleared his mind.
Almost instantly, he could feel the protective energies gathering around him. He spoke a few informal words to himself to enhance his intention with greater clarity. The energies grew stronger with that and slowly began swirling within the bounds of his magic circle.
Victor let them churn faster, let them grow and intensify, until the room fairly vibrated with them.
Only then did he focus his thoughts on his grandsire, and cast all his passionate youthful energy forth through the ethers to shore up the old man’s defenses.
It did not occur to Victor to worry about his own.
He was evil like that.
CHAPTER 7
A Warlock’s Wrath
Wand-scepter in hand, the iron crown cold on his brow, the wind whipping through what was left of his hair, Zolond fixed his icy stare on the swiftly approaching Black Fortress below.
He braced for landing atop the ramparts of the spiky-towered castle as the dragons made their descent.
It was time to bring that upstart Nephilim to heel.
Assessing the situation as he approached, he saw the drawbridge still open. Aelfric the Long Man groaned on the green hillside beneath the weight of the castle on his chest.
In the next moment, the reptilians made a soft landing, quite expert at these maneuvers by now.
Indeed, their transformation back to their usual humanoid, crocodile-headed forms was almost instantaneous the moment their scaly green feet touched down on the wide ramparts.
Likewise, the sorcerer-king’s gilded state coach turned back into a modest sedan chair at once.
Grik hurried to open its door for him, and Zolond calmly stepped out.
“Fine work, my friends. You may go.”
“Go, sire?” Druk asked in alarm. “Leave you—at such a time?”
“This is between me and Wyvern.” Zolond smiled, touched by his loyal guard’s anxious stare. “Tut-tut, dear lizard, that miserable cur is no match for me, I assure you. Now go inside…and let me work.”
Zolond adjusted his war crown and twirled his wand in his fingers with a wry smile.
Druk did not look happy at the command. “As you wish, sire.”
The four reptilians obediently retreated, taking the sedan chair with them as they trudged into the nearest tower.
From below, on the front face of the castle just then, Zolond heard the giant drawbridge slam closed. The last Noxu must’ve returned.
In the next moment, the pumping, fiery core of the infernal engine that powered the Fortress’s jumps awoke with a grinding noise that quickly grew to a roar.
Why, he’d arrived just in time.
Down in the bailey between the castle’s outer walls, the metal cylinder swiveled up from its brick housing.
Clearly, the traitors had decided to flee before the Order had a chance to bring in some of their allies.
Somewhere inside, Zolond knew, the bridge crew were putting on dark glasses.
The boys were ready to go.
Good. That meant he had taken Wyvern completely by surprise. Let’s put this devil’s whelp in his place.
Zolond refused to worry about what Shemrazul would have to say about this. He would cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, he had cloaked himself as best he could from the demon’s penetrating awareness. But he realized full well that, after this fight, the Horned One he’d served for so long would deem him a traitor.
So be it. It would make his eternity in Hell even more horrible than he expected, but he was already doomed, so what did a little more pain really matter?
After all, Ramona was worth it.
Raising his scepter, Zolond started with an irresistible summoning spell, drawing Wyvern to him, molecule by molecule, against his will.
In moments, his overly tall second-in-command began materializing on the ramparts in front of him, his form translucent, ghostlike at first. The bewilderment on Wyvern’s face amused Zolond greatly.
The warlock earl glanced down at himself, as though he could not believe what was happening.
But Wyvern’s confused look turned to one of dread a
s the would-be usurper realized the Black Fortress was about to jump—while he was stuck outside.
For his part, Zolond didn’t care. An alchemist or magical scientist at heart, he’d invented the mechanisms that ran this blasted castle, after all. He knew it could be survived…probably.
But Wyvern looked terrified.
And that was the whole point.
The Nephilim wasn’t afraid of much.
For a few seconds, he could feel the younger warlock resisting with all of his will, but the Dark Master’s power was too great even for him. Also, the rebel was no doubt tired from his unauthorized raid on Merlin Hall.
“Are you mad, old man?” Wyvern shouted as soon as he was fully formed across from him.
“That is no way to address your king.”
Wyvern cast about, unable to escape Zolond’s hold on his person. “We’re about to jump!” he cried.
“Indeed,” Zolond said with a slight smile.
By now, the wind from the dynamo was blowing. The metal column spun around and around in its housing, ever faster, while the brilliant ball of glowing energy danced atop its pedestal.
The vibrational hum throbbed, deafening, around them.
Lightning began to crackle overhead. Its blinding brightness illuminated both warlocks in savage blue flashes.
Then the glaring arcs—white, cobalt, amethyst—shot forth from the energy ball, leaping out to each of the four pointy turrets. The lightning sped on, running now in between the four spires on the corners to form a magnificent circuit.
“We cannot be out here right now!” Wyvern yelled in a panic above the din.
“Are you frightened, Nathan?” Zolond asked with a mocking smile. “I hear you’ve been a naughty boy.”
As the dynamo pounded on, whirling and whirling, driving the lightning, the Fortress began to shimmer in and out of reality at its current location.
Wyvern glanced anxiously at the device.
They both knew it could not be shut off once the coordinates had been entered on the panel inside and the whole system had been activated.
“You’ll kill us both!” the earl shouted.
“We’ll see.” Obviously, it was safer inside. It wasn’t as though Zolond had ever tested this before on himself. He hadn’t the slightest idea what might actually happen.