The Dragon Lord

by E. G. Foley

  Golden sunshine glinted off the brass fittings of the well-polished carriages clip-clopping past her up and down the street. Despite the sun’s warmth, there was just enough of a chill in the air to bring some color to her cheeks—she hoped. Because, other than that, there was so little left of the girl she used to be that Geoffrey might not even recognize her.

  Soon, the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Bridge with the sparkling river beneath it came into view ahead.

  On her right, she passed the broad green open space of Parliament Square Garden, with Westminster Abbey beyond it. She noticed the cathedral doors propped wide open, though Sunday services were long over. Perhaps someone was getting married.

  Or buried, she thought wryly. Lucky them.

  All seemed peaceful in the flat green park. Picnickers sat here and there dressed in Sunday finery. Families together enjoyed a pleasant stroll.

  A passing bobby tipped his hat; Ramona bowed her head in answer.

  Hm, he looked familiar, she thought, but only after the constable had passed. She dismissed the brief question; she had a meeting to get to, and she had better focus.

  The Dark Master was no one to be trifled with.

  Still, she always found it peculiar to think of all these ordinary mortals going about their lives with no inkling of the whole world of magic playing out right beneath their noses. Oh, a few still believed in fairies. And dragons, perhaps—especially after all the recent excavations of what the archaeologists fancied “dinosaur” bones.

  There were occasional sightings of various creatures in diverse places. Plenty of ghosts raised questions in castles and haunted pubs across the land.

  Indeed, most children, like the ones she spotted running amuck just now in Parliament Square, still suspected that monsters were real. But, alas, in this Age of Progress and science, most adults had lost the second sight altogether, which Ramona thought a shame.

  Ah well, perhaps they were better off not knowing the truth. Because look at what magic had done to Geoffrey…

  Sadness filled her. But she shoved it away, laying hold of her usual, businesslike manner—and just in the nick of time. For ahead, Big Ben towered against the blue sky, warning her it was already ten minutes till three.

  No time to waste.

  Upon reaching the corner, she paused and stole a furtive glance around. The sense of being followed persisted, but she saw no sign of danger.

  Nor did she see Zolond anywhere. He, too, should be walking into their meeting any minute now. Perhaps he had beaten her here. He had always been prompt as a suitor. Maybe he’d made himself invisible for security’s sake, she thought.

  Or maybe he isn’t coming at all. The thought made her desolate, which, in turn, vexed her immensely. You cakehead! You are the leader of the Order now. Stifle your heart, you hen-witted female.

  Of course he was coming. This whole thing had been his idea! He was hardly going to lose his nerve and fail to appear. The Dark Master might be many things, but a coward wasn’t one of them. He’ll be here, she told herself grimly. Now, focus.

  With that, she hurried across the street and strode right up to the wrought-iron gates outside Parliament, where two bored-looking policemen stood guard.

  When she showed one of them the short note from her old friend, Victoria—and when he, in turn, saw Her Majesty’s royal seal in a circle of red wax at the bottom—he gave her a startled bow.

  “At your service, my lady. You require access to the Clock Tower?”

  Ramona lifted her chin. “Correct.”

  “Right away, ma’am. If you’ll come with me.” He gestured toward the nearest palace entrance, and Ramona followed him across the courtyard and through a richly carved stone archway, ignoring all the stone gargoyles leering down at her amid the Neo-Gothic splendor of the place.

  In moments, the guard had led her through a smaller arch at the base of the Clock Tower, bringing her to a most ordinary-looking wooden door reinforced with a few iron bars. Across the middle of it in plain gold letters was written Clock Tower.

  He took out a key, unlocked the door, opened it for her, and stepped aside politely. “Is there anything else you require, Lady Bradford?”

  “No. Thank you. You’ve been most helpful. You may go,” she added as she stepped into the cramped, square space.

  “As you wish, ma’am.”

  She nodded; he bowed to her, but sent a skeptical glance toward the staircase that started behind her and ascended some two hundred feet up into the tower.

  The good fellow apparently doubted that an old lady of her advanced years could make it up to the top of Big Ben. It was quite a hike.

  Oh, but she’d manage somehow. The Elder witch hid her amusement as the earnest young policeman pushed the door shut behind him. She heard the lock click, then he walked off to return to his post.

  Ramona tilted her head back and looked up at the endless spiral staircase that wrapped around and around the square tower leading up to Big Ben.

  Their meeting place today.

  Certain spots in all manner of unlikely places around the world had been designated over the years as neutral ground between the Order and the Dark Druids.

  Since Time ruled as master over all men, good and bad alike in equal measure, it seemed fitting that one such location should be home to the most accurate clock in the world. To be sure, it was convenient enough, located right here in London.

  But, of course, Ramona had no intention of surmounting the tower’s three hundred and thirty-four stairs on foot. She was spry, but not that spry, by Jove.

  Instead, she slipped her wand out of its special compartment in her black silk handbag. After glancing out the door’s window to make sure no one was coming, she uttered a spell, waved her wand at her feet, and then began levitating herself up the open center of the spiral staircase. She traveled straight upward with ease, ascending at a sedate vertical glide, wand in hand.

  She was about a third of the way up, however, when she had to pause to let Big Ben have his say.

  With a wince at the first deafening note of its familiar hourly song, she floated over the black wrought-iron banister, alighted on the stairs, and covered her ears with both hands.

  The chimes were so loud here that she could feel them vibrating in her belly; after the Westminster chimes ended, then Big Ben tolled the hour of three.

  Each mighty bong filled the whole tower with sound.

  As soon as the third deafening note had faded away, Ramona resumed her journey, rising at a swifter pace now to avoid being late. Her heart beat faster as she reached the top of the stairs and set her feet back down on solid ground.

  Wand at the ready, still unsure if this might turn out to be an ambush, the Elder witch opened the door to the plain square chamber that housed the clock’s mechanical inner workings.

  Zolond wasn’t there.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  There was nothing to see in the austere room but the giant clockworks: a fifteen-foot tangle of spiky metal flywheels and rotating gears. Archie would be in raptures. Ramona smiled fondly at the thought of the young inventor, then withdrew from the chamber. Next, she went to check the narrow passages behind each of the four huge faces of the most famous clock in the world.

  From this side, the faces of Big Ben looked like stained-glass windows, but only in creamy white. Ramona walked slowly from passage to passage surrounding the clockworks chamber in the middle.

  She looped the strap of her handbag nervously over her forearm, but held on to her wand in case the Dark Master misbehaved.

  He should be here any—

  Suddenly, Zolond arrived in a puff of black smoke, transporting himself into the passage a few feet ahead of her before she could even finish the thought.

  Ramona clutched at her chest. “Sweet Hecate, man! You startled me.”

  He chuckled as he materialized fully at the end of the narrow corridor just a few feet away.

  “
Greetings, Lady Bradford.” The old man swept off his bowler hat and bowed politely, a faint smile—or was it a smirk?—playing about his lips.

  Much to her dismay, Ramona’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of her former love.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock…

  The way his gray eyes shone, why, he was just as she remembered him from their last parley between their two sides, about a hundred and fifty years ago.

  She didn’t even remember what their business that day had been, but she remembered him. She ignored the fluttering of her pulse and told herself it was merely amusing to see how he looked in the changing fashions of the centuries.

  On that last occasion, she and her Renaissance-born counterpart had been dressed in the style of the Ancien Régime: white wigs, white-powdered faces.

  He had worn a pastel silk frock coat and breeches, white silk stockings, and those big, ridiculous buckle shoes the gentlemen of fashion used to flaunt.

  Her own getup had been almost as bad, with Marie Antoinette-sized hoop skirts that made it difficult to fit through doorways. The pair of them had looked like aged courtiers of Versailles, rotting together in luxury.

  Now Zolond was arrayed in a tidy black suit with a gray silk waistcoat, walking stick in hand, like some eminently respectable butler enjoying his day off. She could not help smiling ever so slightly at the walking stick, well aware it must be the latest incarnation of his wand, the magical scepter of the sorcerer-king.

  A hundred and fifty years ago, he had preferred to let a shiny silver dress sword serve in that capacity. He had always been so good about adapting to the times, whereas she so often felt like a relic of a bygone era, out of place and time.

  “Well. Here we are again. Ramona,” he greeted her, his tone raspy with age, but infused with warmth.

  “Geoffrey,” she replied, hoping he did not notice the slight catch in her voice.

  He gazed at her in silence for a long moment. “You haven’t changed a bit. Still the same stunner I always knew.”

  “Poppycock!” she muttered with a modest flush of pleasure.

  “’Tis true. You are more yourself than ever before. And that, to my eye, is a good thing.”

  She gazed at him with far less severity than he deserved. “We are not here to socialize, Zolond, may I remind you.”

  “Yes, yes.” He sighed, and his shoulders slumped. Then he drifted a few steps closer and stared up at the clock face. “I say. Impressive, isn’t it? What will they think of next? The inventions these mortals come up with these days.”

  “They’re calling it the Age of Progress. Quaint, no?”

  They both laughed quietly, sharing the joke.

  “So many brilliant men cluttering the world today,” he said in a philosophical tone. He watched the shadow of the giant minute hand inching forward on its rounds, then nudged her. “But we all know how badly brilliant men can err, don’t we?”

  Ramona nodded at his regret-filled words. “I trust you’ve dealt with Wyvern?”

  “He is at the bottom of an ice cave at the moment. Upside down, I wager,” he added with a wily little smile.

  She arched a brow.

  “You were right. Wyvern was trying to overthrow me, with several members of my own Council assisting him. All those who participated in the raid on Merlin Hall are now in custody except for Captain Dread, but I’ll track him down shortly. They all will be dealt with; I promise you that. On behalf of the Dark Druids, please allow me to assure the Order that last night’s attack does not reflect the current disposition of the Brotherhood toward your side.”

  Searching his face, Ramona detected no lies.

  “This was Wyvern’s doing, not mine,” Zolond added. “I hereby formally request that we return to the terms of our former truce.”

  She frowned but sensed opportunity. “The truce has been broken by your side, Zolond. If you wish to sue for peace, you will have to make additional concessions, as I’m sure you are aware.”

  He regarded her in amusement. “Tough old bird. I figured you’d say as much.” He let out a large sigh. “Very well, milady. What sort of concessions did you have in mind?”

  Ramona gave him a hard look, having none of his attempt to charm her. “I want our Lightriders back. All of them.”

  “Oh, dear,” he said with mild surprise, his snowy eyebrows arched high. Then he pivoted and began drifting down the passageway. “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”

  Ramona scowled at his back and followed. “Don’t play games with me, Geoffrey. I am the head of the Order now, and I will not be trifled wi—”

  “What happened to us, Ramona?” he asked, turning suddenly to face her.

  She bristled, offended at the question. “You chose evil over love, Geoffrey. Over me. That is what happened.”

  “And now I cannot un-choose it,” he said in a low tone. “The Horned One himself has turned against me.” He grimaced. “The afterlife I face now is— Oh, never mind. No use whining.” With that, he pivoted and strolled on.

  Ramona stared at him, a chill of fear creeping down her spine.

  “Wyvern would not have attempted this coup without his father’s help,” Zolond continued. “Now that I’ve punished his son, the Beast is sure to take revenge on me.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t understand. Why would Shemrazul help Wyvern overthrow you? You are the Dark Master.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve fallen out of his favor.”

  “Yes, but how? Why?”

  “Because of you, my dear.”

  Ramona was difficult to surprise, but she could not deny that she was shocked by his answer. “Me…?”

  “I was to have no further contact with you. Part of the terms of our agreement, you see. I disobeyed that order, especially of late. To meet you in battle was one thing. That could be excused. But to chat with you like we’ve been doing on the astral plane, that was something else again.”

  She stared at him in dread, her voice falling to a whisper. “He knows?”

  “Mmm.” Zolond nodded with admirable nonchalance.

  Frightened for him, Ramona could not contain her temper. “Blast it, Geoffrey! I told you from the start that this would happen. The wicked always eat their own in the end. But your pride made you so sure that you would be the exception—” She swallowed her tirade when she saw the weary look of pain on his face.

  She lowered her head and looked away, striving for patience. She felt so powerless! Truly, it was easier to suffer oneself than to watch an old friend face so terrible a fate.

  Ramona looked at him again with welling distress. “Is there nothing that can be done, Geoffrey? Surely there must be some way to outwit the Beast.”

  “I don’t see how,” he said calmly. “And, in truth, my dear, I’m not sure I deserve to escape it. I’ve collected my rewards, done whatever I pleased my entire life. We all must pay the piper in time.”

  “You can’t just give up! If we work together—” She huffed with frustration. “Geoffrey, I am the head of the Order now! If I rally all of the resources under my command—”

  “You’ll be the next one with a coup on your hands, if you try telling your agents that you want to risk helping me.”

  “But you saved the Order last night by getting rid of Wyvern! Besides, things would be different with you in the future. I feel sure that if you changed your ways, renounced evil, and did a complete about-face from this moment forward—”

  He laughed, to her indignation. “No one would believe it, dear. They’d say I merely duped you somehow.”

  “No, because you’d provide proof!”

  He arched a brow.

  “If you gave us back our Lightriders and destroyed whatever monsters you’ve created; if you made amends to the families of all those you’ve hurt, then perhaps…” But Ramona’s words trailed off.

  Deflated, not even she knew whether what she was saying was possible.

  Geoffrey shook his head. “No, ol’ girl. What’s done is d
one. There is too much blood on my hands. I am trapped. No one can help me now. Not even you.”

  Without warning, the quarter chime erupted from the bells overhead. Zolond quickly cast some spell that formed a bubble around them both, instantly muffling the deafening clamor.

  Inside, the sphere was the soft, dark blue of a summer night twinkling with stars. It was as though he’d turned back the clock and brought them back into their own little world, before everything had gone wrong.

  Then Geoffrey did something remarkable. He reached over and took Ramona’s bony old hand in his own.

  She gripped his fingers. Tears sprang into her eyes at the remembered feel of his hand in hers.

  He was real. Flesh and blood.

  Like a stab in the heart, she could not help thinking of all they had lost.

  All that evil had taken from them both.

  A normal life. Children. Grandchildren.

  Death.

  “Ah, where does the time go, Ramona?” he murmured as the Westminster chimes shook the passage around them, and the hands of the giant clock ticked on, incessant as a metronome.

  She let out a sudden girlish cry of surprise as Geoffrey whisked her into his arms and danced her around the sphere a few steps.

  She laughed in sheer joy, but as the chimes faded, so did their brief bubble of carefully contained happiness.

  He released her and gazed into her eyes with a grateful smile. “I love you all the more for wishing you could save me, Ramona. It means a great deal.”

  “You love me? Still?” Though her heart quaked at his declaration, his words inspired her with a possible way out.

  He shrugged. “Guilty as charged.”

  “Geoffrey, listen to me.” She grasped his shoulders. “If there is love in your heart for me—for anyone—then I know you can be saved.”

  “Poppycock,” came his sardonic echo of her own favorite word.

  “Geoffrey!”

  “Alas, no, my dear witch. ’Twould be a comfort to think so. But after all I’ve done, we both know there is no hope for me.”