The Dragon Lord

by E. G. Foley

  Still, was it wise to go up against the rest of the insurgents in this depleted state? When he thought of the Drow prophet, Duradel and his mystical mind tricks, Raige’s deadly skill at arms, the Red Queen’s bloodthirsty cunning, and, of course, the newcomer, Fionnula Coralbroom, the treacherous sea-witch who had nearly overthrown King Oceanus of the North Sea’s mer-clans, Zolond decided there was no need to rush these confrontations.

  They could wait until he had regained his full strength. His mind made up, he stalked to the bridge.

  The crew backed away from him. Lantz was weeping. He tried to beg for mercy through gestures, dropping to his knees.

  Zolond scowled. “Oh, dry your eyes, or I’ll close those too.” Seeing Lantz’s terror, he took a whit of pity on the man. “Relax. It’ll wear off in a few hours.” Then he brushed off the anxious navigator and went over to the instrument panel that controlled all the guestrooms.

  His solution was easy and efficient. With the flick of a switch, Zolond simply locked all the guestrooms, diverting power from the dynamo in order to contain his powerful prisoners.

  Shushing the bridge crew, he then closed his eyes and added a sealing spell around each guestroom door to prevent his captives from using transport spells to escape.

  Without this final layer of security, the vampire queen could’ve easily turned herself into a puff of black smoke and slipped out through the crack beneath the door. Raige might’ve managed to blast his way out of his chamber with one of his many artful weapons. And Hades only knew what tricks Coralbroom had up her sleeve.

  But a sealing spell from the Dark Master himself would make sure that all the turncoats stayed put until he was good and ready to deal with them.

  If they gave him any trouble, why, he’d use the ventilation system to fill their chambers with fumes to knock them out.

  He could’ve simply killed them that way, but he wanted to know how far this had gone. For that, he’d have to question them. Then they could die. For now, he would spare them.

  With these measures in place, Zolond was satisfied that it was safe now to go and catch his breath in his private quarters.

  Leaving Itro to stand guard in the bridge room, lest any of the crew members succumb to one of Duradel’s mind tricks or an Oebedire Spell from the sea-witch, Zolond ordered the reptilian to kill anyone who tried to get past him.

  None of the bridge crew looked remotely inclined to try. Not after what had happened to the navigator.

  “Now, then.” When Zolond turned to the lieutenant, sweat poured down the man’s pasty face.

  “Y-yes, Your Darkness?”

  “Set a course for Antarctica,” Zolond said.

  The reptilians glanced at him in surprise.

  Escher blanched. “The, er, the spot you’ve directed us to before, sire?”

  “Yes. Near the Feldspar Chasm.” Zolond smiled. “I know just the perfect ice cave to contain that sneaky son of perdition.”

  The underworld would learn what happened to those who tried to cross Dark Master Zolond.

  Escher swallowed hard. “Aye-aye, sir.”

  As the lieutenant began giving his men orders, Zolond left the bridge, his head held high.

  Only one thought filled his mind now, and it was not the coming wrath of Shemrazul, but how soon he could claim his reward from the Elder witch.

  Ramona had promised to meet him in the real world if he got rid of Wyvern, and he’d done just that. Well, now she owed him. A deal was a deal.

  And he intended to collect.

  CHAPTER 8

  Shifting Loyalties

  In badger form, shapeshifter Boris, Lord Badgerton, limped through the shadows of the Black Fortress on his wounded front paws, his weaselly little heart pounding in utter panic at this unexpected turn of events.

  Zolond was back? Egads, he had been horrified when that dragon got out, but this was a far worse calamity!

  What the return of the Dark Master might mean for him, an ex-Elder who had joined forces with Wyvern, Badgerton dreaded to contemplate. Indeed, the past several hours had been so overwhelming that it was all a bit of a blur.

  With Peter and Ramona catching on to the fact that the traitor in their midst was none other than himself, Badgerton had spent half the night finishing the massive tunnel that Wyvern had ordered him to dig so that his Noxu forces could invade by an underground route, bypassing the magical dome protecting Merlin Hall.

  Badgerton had done it, his betrayal of the Order complete.

  He refused to feel sorry as he hurried on, scurrying as fast as he could go down one of the black, polished corridors of the guest wing. Those self-righteous prigs back at the palace had never shown him the proper respect.

  Besides, Wyvern had promised him a vial of the Proteus Power, which would allow Badgerton to change into any shape he pleased, not just a specific species of mammal.

  It was all very well being a badger, of course. They were brave, and vicious when provoked. Loyal to their own clan. Excellent diggers, as well—the engineers of the animal kingdom.

  But it was rather limiting, as magical gifts went, and all his life, others with wider-ranging powers tended to look down on him, even poke fun.

  Boris Badgerton could not abide people making fun of him.

  Which was why he despised that rotten brat, Jake, who poked fun at everyone—even the skunkies, Badgerton’s adorable niece and nephews. (Oh, how he hoped the triplets were safe! The battle had grown rather more dangerous than Badgerton had anticipated back there.)

  In any case, it was seeing how Ramona Bradford so often used her position to protect her unruly young nephew from the punishment he richly deserved that had helped drive Badgerton over to the dark side.

  So, no. He wasn’t a whit sorry for betraying the Order.

  In his mind, it was over anyway, and the best thing to do now was move on.

  If only he could get the images of the invasion out of his mind, along with the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  In his ordinary human form, he had watched the battle from the ramparts of the Black Fortress for as long as he could bear, then retreated to the guest chamber he’d been assigned inside the spiky black castle.

  They were very clever, those magical guestrooms the Dark Druids had devised. You could turn the mirrored walls into any sort of setting you wished.

  Anxious as he was over the night’s events, it had comforted Badgerton greatly to be able to transform his chamber into the familiar likeness of a cozy underground den.

  There, he had waited, trying not to listen to Aelfric’s groans or the explosions from above as The Dream Wraith’s guns battered Merlin Hall.

  Instead, he focused on cleaning himself up after all his labors. Though he’d washed away all the dirt from digging the final stretch of his treacherous tunnel and had changed into clean clothes, his hands were bloody, his fingers killing him.

  He winced even to move them. The skin was raw and blistered, the nails ragged and torn. Even his palms were scratched and inflamed.

  So, when Wyvern and the others returned—and the dragon was back under control—Badgerton had ventured out of his chamber to go and ask Lady Fionnula to fix his injured hands with a healing spell. It would be easy for her, if she was anything like the witches of the Order.

  Unfortunately, the voluptuous, black-haired sea-witch had marched right past him, stomping off to her room after a short but loud argument with General Raige.

  Badgerton had heard a bit of their exchange echoing up the corridor from the great hall moments after Wyvern had led his orange beast away.

  It seemed Raige wanted to stay and press a second wave of attacks, while Fionnula insisted it was too dangerous, it was not in the plan, and they should leave at once.

  Having missed his chance for a magical healing, Badgerton had no choice but to wait for the temperamental sorceress to get over her snit and come out of her room. Then he would simply try again to ask for the favor.

  But what h
ad unfolded while he waited in the hallway outside her chamber had shocked and horrified him.

  The other Dark Druids remained in their rooms, apparently unaware of what was happening. Raige, Badgerton surmised, was busy binding his many wounds.

  The Red Queen could be heard inside her chambers, singing dirges for her courtiers, who’d apparently had their heads lopped off by Janos during the fight. Fionnula, meanwhile, was in a mood as dangerous as the sea after getting trounced by old Ramona Bradford, and blind Duradel was meditating, searching the ethers for insight into their next move.

  As for Wyvern, after returning his escaped dragon to its quarters, the Nephilim earl must’ve gone down to the basement to brag to his demon father about his victory, for he did not return.

  In order to visit Shemrazul in person (though Badgerton did not know why anyone would want to), the Dark Druids had to go down to the bottom level of the Black Fortress and enter a mysterious ceremonial chamber called the Throne Room.

  Supposedly, it had a bottomless pit in the floor from which Shemrazul would rise to give the Dark Druid Council their instructions for what mayhem to cause next.

  Apparently, that was as far into the mortal world as the demon could venture in physical form. Great adamantine shackles around his ankles held him chained to the bottom of the Ninth Pit.

  Badgerton supposed that was probably for the best.

  At any rate, that was Badgerton’s best guess for where Wyvern had gone, but he had not been able to confirm the earl’s whereabouts until the jump a short while ago, when things had started to go so very wrong.

  Still pacing in the hallway outside Fionnula’s door, Badgerton had been waiting for the sea-witch to get over her pouting and heal his torn-up hands when he realized the Black Fortress was getting ready to jump.

  There wasn’t time to rush back to his room, so Badgerton had braced against the wall during the castle’s unnerving leap through time and space.

  It made one confuzzled in the head, warping in and out of reality like that, only to blast into being again someplace far away. It reminded him of Lightrider travel, which Badgerton had tried once and refused to subject himself to ever again. What a nauseating experience! He didn’t care how long it took to get to his destination; he was a carriage man.

  But once the jump was completed and he’d shaken off his dizziness, Badgerton noticed some sort of commotion coming from the direction of the control bridge.

  He’d headed warily in that direction, his animal instincts sensing trouble.

  The next thing he knew, he’d watched an impossible sight pass by the intersection of the hallways ahead, and he’d frozen in his tracks.

  A little old man with snow-white hair around the edges of his mostly bald head had calmly strolled past, surrounded by a troop of tall, green lizard men who looked like they had just stepped off the wall of some pharaoh’s tomb.

  But worse—far worse—the elderly gent was floating the unconscious and chained Lord Wyvern down the hallway with his wand.

  Badgerton had flung himself backward into the shadows and nearly had an apoplectic fit. He had never seen Dark Master Zolond in person before, but who else could it be?

  He had pressed himself against the wall, heart pounding in terror. Sweet Proteus, we’re doomed, he had thought.

  Once Badgerton was sure the sorcerer-king was out of earshot, he tried knocking quietly on the doors of his allies’ chambers to warn them, but the four Dark Druids had either barked at him to go away or ignored him altogether—just like the top Magick-folk at the Order always had!

  It infuriated him. Did no one anywhere respect a shapeshifter?

  But, considering that each of his new allies had at least twenty ways that they could kill him, Badgerton had huffed off, offended, and decided to leave the thankless blackguards to their fates.

  None of his efforts would be worth anything to him if he ended up dead. Whatever the Dark Master did to them at this point was on their own heads.

  Abandoning his efforts, he had changed into his much smaller animal form and, from that moment on, done his best to stay the bloody blazes out of sight.

  For a few minutes, he had crept around the onyx hallways, trying to figure out what to do. Then he spied the weird tendrils of red smoke weaving through the corridors like loosed snakes.

  And the half-trolls started dropping dead.

  Next, massive outer doors had slammed down over the ordinary doors of all the guest chambers. This was followed by the spontaneous creation of gleaming magical barriers around each room, sealing the occupants inside.

  It was astonishing.

  Badgerton could hardly wrap his mind around what he had just seen—or believe how quickly the triumph of this night had turned to abject defeat.

  They were supposed to be celebrating right now, but instead, Wyvern was under arrest, and all of his most powerful co-conspirators were caged like dogs in their rooms.

  And they didn’t even know it yet, the fools!

  Somehow, he, the lowly shapeshifter, was the only one who had managed to stay free! Ha. Well, now what?

  Unfortunately, hiding in his room was not an option, for while the others had been locked in their chambers, Badgerton found himself locked out.

  The same sort of hulking iron door that had slammed down over the others’ guest rooms had also covered his, he saw; the same magical glow that shimmered around their doors had likewise cut him off from his safe haven.

  He shuddered in dread, feeling quite alone all of a sudden.

  Up until the moment he had seen the Dark Master ambling down the hallway with his floating captive, Badgerton had been feeling merely anxious over his betrayal of the Order.

  The sight of the mightiest warlock on earth swiftly reordered his priorities, however. Pure terror took over. His survival was at stake, but badgers fought best when they were cornered.

  There was no telling what the Dark Master might do to him if or when he found him in the castle. Why, the old maniac had killed his own Noxu troops with some sort of poison—to say nothing of that unfortunate fellow who had gone rushing by without a mouth.

  Ugh, dark magic had always made him queasy, but Badgerton scraped his wits together as best he could.

  Think.

  Obviously, his best chance of survival lay with finding a way to free his powerful caged allies. Let those four take on Zolond together, if Badgerton could just get them out.

  He had no idea how to accomplish this yet, but one thing was clear: he had better figure it out quick if he ever wanted to see dear little Prue, Charlie, and Welton again.

  * * *

  Prue Badgerton crouched down with her brothers, Charlie and Welton, and countless other civilians in the cavernous basement of Merlin Hall’s ancient library, where they’d been ordered to shelter from the moment they’d heard the opening salvos of the Dark Druids’ attack.

  Most of the people huddled in the sprawling, dimly lit stone space were school-aged children, but there were a few non-magical adults, like prissy Miz Jillian, Sir Peter Quince’s wife. She was the one in charge down here, more or less.

  Everyone else with any sort of useful powers was out on the palace lawn, fighting the Dark Druids. Even the knee-high gnome servants of Merlin Hall were out there doing their part.

  But Prue and her brothers were stuck down here with all the useless ones, because that was exactly what they were, she thought bitterly.

  Never had she despised her own disappointing magical ability more than now. What on earth good was it being able to turn into a skunk? All you could do was stink on people, and that wasn’t very impressive in the grand scheme of things. Though it was sometimes amusing.

  Like the time she and her brothers had gotten that horrid Dani O’Dell and Archie Bradford point-blank in the woods at Merlin Hall. Ha!

  Unfortunately, the memory did not cheer Prue up the way it used to, because, since then, Jake had still picked that irritating little Irish nobody over her for his girlfriend
.

  Prue really wanted a beau—and it had to be a good one. Someone important. With powers. And cute. And with a title, obviously.

  If Jake or someone else who met her criteria had picked her, then maybe she wouldn’t be huddled down in this cold, dark basement right now, trying to figure out how to save her own life, and that of her brothers, because those two were basically useless. Well, at least they both did what she said at all times. They trusted that, as firstborn, she’d figure something out.

  And she jolly well better, thought Prue. Because there was no dashing young rescuer coming for her, a mere skunk-girl.

  As usual, her survival and her brothers’ was on her shoulders.

  At the moment, she wasn’t sure if anyone in this vast, dank space was going to live out the night.

  Stupid Elders. Prue fumed. If they’re so smart, why did they put us down here, where there’s no way out?

  If the Guardians and wizards did not repel this attack soon, and the invaders broke into the library, everyone down here was going to be trapped; they were probably dead.

  Everyone in the basement had heard the warlocks buffeting the library with relentless bolts of magic. Weapons, too. The cathedral-like building had shuddered at each blow, but its stone walls held.

  The stained-glass windows must have broken, though, for although the thunder of the magical blows had stopped, the faint smell of smoke had begun seeping into the basement from under the cracks of the three sealed stone doors. They’d be lucky if they didn’t suffocate. I hope they let us out of here soon.

  For now, the chancellor’s prim wife was doing her best to comfort the half-hysterical brownie librarian, Mr. Penwick Calavast, who was pacing back and forth in agitation by the foot of the stone stairs.

  Prue could just make him out by the light of the few lanterns people had brought along as they fled.

  An eccentric little fellow, about four feet tall, with round spectacles and a paisley waistcoat, the fuzzy-toed brownie was beside himself with fear that some of the books in the vast collection upstairs might be damaged in the fray—or worse, stolen by the Dark Druids.