The Dragon Lord

by E. G. Foley

  Aunt Ramona paused in her hurried effort to heal Zolond, looking over in shock. Even Derek and Raige paused in their brawl. The dragon came to attention, seeing its master struck.

  “Oof!” The knife plunged into Wyvern’s chest up to the hilt.

  “Nathan!” shrieked Fionnula.

  Even Jake looked shocked that his knife had found its mark. He took a step backward as the sea-witch rushed to help her beau.

  Wyvern brushed her off angrily, glaring at Jake. The crowd stared in silence. Archie held his breath.

  With a wince, Wyvern slowly drew the bloody knife out from between his ribs.

  From the corner of his eye, Archie saw Dani watching Jake with her hand over her mouth.

  “That was…very naughty of you—son.” He sounded pained. But, still holding on to Jake’s dagger, Wyvern touched the bleeding hole in his chest with the tip of his wand.

  The wound started closing.

  Then the magical Norse weapon wriggled free from Wyvern’s grasp and started flying back, as usual, to its master.

  What happened next, not even Archie’s visions could have predicted.

  “That’s curious.” Wyvern looked intrigued as the bloody knife started gliding back toward Jake, handle-first.

  “Halt!” he suddenly bellowed. Lifting his arm, Wyvern slowed Risker with a summoning wave of his freakish fingers.

  The knife trembled in midair; it seemed to struggle to inch back toward Jake. But the half-demon lord somehow overpowered it.

  Instead of continuing back to its rightful owner, Risker stopped, hovered halfway between the two opponents for a moment, and then slowly turned, compelled by a force greater than whatever magic the old Norse gods had forged into it.

  Archie’s jaw dropped. So did his cousin’s.

  Wyvern flicked his fingers, summoning the weapon.

  “Hey!” Jake looked on, thunderstruck, as Risker glided back obediently toward the warlock. “You can’t do that!”

  “Oh?” When the knife stopped, floating before him, Wyvern reached up, plucked it out of the air, wiped his blood off the blade on the side of his trousers, and then…

  The kids gasped with horror as Wyvern tilted his head back, opened his mouth so wide that they glimpsed his infamous, sharklike double rows of teeth, and pushed Risker slowly down his throat like the sword swallower that used to entertain crowds at Elysian Springs.

  But instead of simply gulping it down, Wyvern chewed the metal, staring at Jake matter-of-factly all the while, his horrid teeth crunching and grinding the blade into bits.

  Archie barely breathed.

  Pausing then, as if he’d got a bone, Wyvern reached into his mouth with his finger and thumb and pulled out the blue gemstone from Risker’s handle.

  He wiped the stone off, then rolled it back to Jake across the grass like somebody’s lost eyeball. “Here you are; this part you can have.”

  Jake stopped the rock with his toe, then looked up slowly at his would-be father in shock.

  Wyvern swallowed his mouthful, daintily wiped the corners of his lips, then turned to the dragon and pointed at Jake.

  “Tazaroc: fetch.”

  The dragon roared, as though it had been waiting eagerly for any invitation to participate. Everyone screamed as the beast bounded across the lawn toward Jake.

  He stumbled backward, but the nine-foot monster was nearly in arm’s reach within seconds. There was no time to run.

  Jake used his telekinesis to try to fling Tazaroc back. Knocked sideways, the startled dragon caught its balance with its front feet. But as Jake turned and started to bolt, the orange beast flicked its long tail and swept his feet out from under him.

  Jake went sprawling on the grass, and the dragon was upon him with an almost playful leap.

  It thinks this is a game, Archie thought, aghast.

  Pandemonium broke out. Everyone reacted at once. Derek roared and fought to go to Jake’s aid, but Raige nearly knocked him out cold. Aunt Ramona left Zolond to his half-skeletal state to whack the dragon with a bolt of magic, but Fionnula blocked it.

  Wyvern was laughing. “Good boy! Take him inside, Taz. He’s our guest of honor!”

  Dani let out a deafening scream and tried to run out onto the square, but Brian grabbed her and held her back. Not even Nixie had a solution. Archie and Isabelle exchanged a resolute glance and started to run out, but Leopard-Helena leaped in front of them and roared.

  “Red! Red!” Dani shrieked. But the Gryphon was still on the roof of Westminster Palace, fending off poisonous stabs from the manticore’s tail.

  Jake was out there alone, doing his best to get away, but fear made him unusually clumsy. Jake had only just scrambled to his feet when the dragon captured him.

  Tazaroc grasped him by the arms, wrapping its talons beneath Jake’s armpits. In a heartbeat, the dragon shoved off the ground on its back feet, launching into the air with a flap of its leathery wings.

  It did not fly high, but it was fast, swirling around with its prize and banking toward the open drawbridge.

  Jake kicked and thrashed to no avail as he dangled helplessly from Tazaroc’s claws.

  “Jake!” Archie screamed as the dragon sailed gracefully into the Black Fortress and disappeared.

  CHAPTER 32

  Belly of the Beast

  “Put me down!” Jake fought the dragon’s grip for all he was worth.

  It was useless.

  The massive beast was unbelievably strong, its hold on him like wearing a pair of steel suspenders. Its hooked claws pinched the backs of his shoulders. The sound of its wingbeats filled the air, and the feel of its reptilian skin was tough, cool, and leathery as Jake strove to pry its talons off him, to no avail.

  Though he tried at all times to make light of calamity, Jake was pretty well horrified. He’d been captured!

  This can’t be happening.

  Still in shock at seeing Wyvern eat his magical Norse dagger like a pretzel stick, he could not believe he’d now been kidnapped by a bloody dragon.

  In truth, he could hardly believe the warlock even had a pet dragon. But he supposed it was no more bizarre than him having a pet Gryphon.

  Wherever that thankless beast had gone!

  Jake gave a mental harrumph. Claw the Courageous was off having a grand time battling the manticore—right when Jake needed him most.

  Figures.

  Once more, Jake was on his own, but so be it. Anything was better than bringing the whole gang with him into the stronghold of the Dark Druids.

  His friends’ screams faded behind him as Tazaroc banked toward the spiky-towered castle. When the dragon flapped its wings and spun its body sideways, Jake’s legs swung out helplessly to one side. Then the beast dipped, swooping beneath the pointed arch of the huge Gothic doorway. The next thing he knew, Tazaroc released him.

  Flung across the black stone floor, Jake crashed to earth—a hard fall onto his left hip and shoulder. He cursed with pain and kept rolling onward across the cold flagstones.

  His head was reeling when he finally managed to stop himself and looked up, dizzied, to see where the monster had gone.

  The dragon landed a few yards ahead of him, but it now turned around eagerly to examine him, all winding tail, rust-colored hide, and claws.

  Jake’s heart pounded as he faced the towering creature. He didn’t move, praying it didn’t eat him.

  Tazaroc crouched, watching him with an almost frisky air, as though ready to chase. Its golden eyes gleamed with intelligence. Its long tail snaked weightlessly behind it.

  Jake was no expert in dragons, but it seemed to be waiting to see what he would do.

  Since it did not look inclined to attack, he let his gaze dart about for a second to figure out where he was.

  The world was still spinning after all that rolling, but he beheld a vast, dim great hall with a vaulted ceiling and plain, round iron chandeliers.

  Blimey. Everything was black. There wasn’t a window in the place. The only
light came through the open drawbridge, or from wall sconces enclosing weird, low blue flames.

  Corridors, tall and wide, opened off the great hall in three directions—right and left and center, with the last directly across from the drawbridge.

  The vast chamber itself was more or less empty. Despite the gloom, Jake could make out an elevated dais on one end; on the other, a second-floor gallery with an iron banister looked down upon the vast, bare space.

  What little furniture there was had been pushed up against the walls. Maybe ten long medieval-style tables, twice as many benches, and a few throne-like chairs of dark wood.

  The dragon hissed at him impatiently, but Jake only spared the beast an uneasy glance before his gaze flicked back to those three dark hallways.

  He had no idea where they might lead, but the thought skimmed through his mind that if reports were correct, his parents were lying unconscious somewhere in the building even now.

  Maybe, just maybe, he could find them. Save them…

  Temptation gripped him.

  “May I be of assistance, Lord Griffon?” someone politely asked in an accent he’d never heard before.

  It had a dark, lyrical quality, edged with a slight hiss.

  He looked up sharply, ready to defend himself.

  One of Duradel’s eerie, white-haired bodyguards bent to offer him a hand up from the floor.

  Wary of these strangers, and certainly unwilling to let anyone touch him, Jake stalled for time as he sat on the floor, still panting. He had every intention of making a run for it, and his thieving days had taught him the usefulness of keeping his center of gravity low to the ground.

  The only question was whether to head for the open drawbridge and escape or chance his luck down one of those dark hallways and make a play to find his parents.

  Tex had said that all the captive Lightriders were being held somewhere in the bowels of the castle…

  The Drow warrior waited, his black-gauntleted hand outstretched.

  Jake waved him off. “Give me a minute,” he mumbled. “The room’s still spinning after all that.”

  “Of course, sir.” The warrior retreated half a step, bowing.

  It seemed the dark elves had retained their woodland cousins’ obsession with courteous manners. Humph. Jake still didn’t trust ’em.

  Then he covered his nose vaguely, noticing the smell of death that hung in the air. “Ugh, what is that stench?”

  The tall, stately Drow looked embarrassed. “Er, apologies, Your Highness…”

  Your Highness? Ugh. Apparently, they were in on this whole Black Prince delusion too.

  No wonder. The prophecy itself had come from Duradel, inspired by none other than Shemrazul, the Dark Druids’ demon-god. So Jake had heard.

  Charming.

  “We are still finding dead Noxu here and there throughout the Fortress,” the Drow chap said in chagrin. “They, er—how you say?—took ill recently and perished.”

  “What, all of them?” Jake asked, startled. “How?”

  “Zolond killed them,” the other pale bodyguard replied with a no-nonsense stare.

  “Really?” Jake’s eyebrows shot up. Guess that’s what they get for siding with Wyvern against the Dark Master.

  But those big half-trolls were vicious!

  “Aw, c’mon! You’re tellin’ me that decrepit old codger killed all of Wyvern’s Noxu?”

  “Correct.”

  “Blimey. And how’d he do that?”

  “Dark magic,” the second warrior said sternly.

  He had the same dark, singsong accent as the first, but different face markings.

  All three Drow sported various dots, bars, and flourishes around the hairline and cheekbones, but while the first chap, the polite one, had a crescent moon above one eye, the second, unsmiling fellow, had an upside down triangle in the center of his chin.

  Duradel, for his part, had impressive winglike tattoos fanning out from his eyes.

  Their face markings probably had a meaning, but Jake had no idea what it was. Interestingly, though, the ink used in their designs had a shimmering quality. It was blue-black, probably made of indigo, but it twinkled as if it had been mixed with crushed diamonds or pearls.

  Maybe it made their face paint easier to see in the darkness of their underground cities, especially against their stark white faces.

  At any rate, this second warrior—Triangle Chin, Jake dubbed him—seemed like more of a hard case. Planted by Duradel’s side, he cast a few wary glances at the restless dragon, but mainly stared at Jake, as though he fully expected him to run.

  Well, he was right about that. But, biding his time and waiting for the perfect moment, Jake still had not decided which way to go. Back down the drawbridge and out into the fray? Or deeper into the Fortress to try to find his missing parents?

  There was really no question. It was risky to the point of madness, perhaps, but the temptation to get his family back was too strong.

  All he needed was a chance to escape the great hall without getting eaten by a dragon or captured by these formidable Drow.

  Duradel had been listening to their exchange, smiling to himself the whole time. “Do not be afraid, Your Highness,” the oracle spoke up.

  Same accent: courteous, slightly evil.

  The Dark Druids’ high priest wore a necklace with a large jeweled spider for a pendant, secured by bats with outspread wings. “You are in no danger here, but, as Lord Wyvern said, our honored guest.”

  “Uh, thanks.”

  Duradel gestured vaguely with his carved wizard’s staff. “Allow my servants to show you to your chamber. I am sure you will find our accommodations to your liking.” Then the blind seer listened intently, waiting for Jake’s reply.

  Jake stifled a cynical snort. If Duradel were any good as a prophet, he should’ve predicted his next move.

  Gathering himself to escape, ready to draw on all his old thieving skills at eluding the bobbies, Jake eyed the distance between himself and the three dark hallways.

  The center one was out. It would require him to run straight at the dragon, and he wasn’t that dumb.

  The corridor to the right might work—taking him underneath the overhanging gallery.

  But for some reason, the left-hand corridor intrigued him. True, he’d have to cross much of the great hall and not get caught by the dragon, then exit down by the dais.

  From there, well, he’d just have to see. But something inside—instinct, maybe—told him that was the route he should go.

  Now: how to get past these warriors?

  Jake hid his smile. The trick, as he’d long since learned in escaping Constable Flanagan, was faking your pursuers out—making them expect you to head another way.

  “May I assist you, Your Highness?” The polite one with the crescent moon above his eyebrow returned and bent to offer Jake a hand once more.

  This time, however, his arctic-blue eyes were steely. “Come.” It was more an order than a request as he stretched out his hand again.

  “I don’t need any help,” Jake grumbled, brushing him off. He rose slowly to his feet, only pretending to cooperate.

  His pulse pounded, flooding him with newfound energy to bolt. His fingers tingled with readiness to slam these pasty-faced blokes with his telekinesis.

  Duradel seemed harmless, but his bodyguards were armed with some serious weapons. Each wore an elvish bow and a slim quiver of arrows on his back, as well as a long sword sheathed at one hip with a dagger on the other. But considering they deemed him some sort of royal personage, Jake already knew the imposing pair wouldn’t hurt him.

  Tazaroc, however, was another story.

  The dragon hissed, as though it could hear Jake’s heart pumping faster, smell the blood rushing into his muscles to fuel his sprint.

  It would not be easy outrunning this thing.

  But maybe, just maybe, there was a way he could slow the beast down. Jake eyed the iron chandelier hanging several feet over Tazaroc
’s head.

  Crescent Moon looked pleased that Jake had decided to come along peacefully. The Drow took a step back and gestured toward the center hallway. “If you’ll follow me, sir, the guest chambers are this way.”

  Jake nodded and turned slowly, pretending to obey…

  Then he struck without warning—hurled Crescent Moon backward ten feet with a blast of telekinetic force from his right hand, then pivoted, flung Triangle Chin to the ground with his left—and sprinted off across the great hall.

  Jake ran as fast as his legs would carry him; behind him, Duradel shouted with startled confusion.

  But Tazaroc was his main concern.

  Jake heard the dragon coming: a snarl and a rasp of claws on flagstone zooming up behind him, bounding strides propelled by that sinister luffing of leathery wings.

  Jake glanced over his shoulder and saw the dragon bearing down on him like a runaway train. He paused while he still had enough of a lead on the beast to stay out of the reach of those teeth. Lifting both hands with great concentration, Jake walloped the dragon with all of the focused energy he could summon.

  Tazaroc collided with an invisible wall and went tumbling sideways with an undignified yelp.

  Unsure what just happened, the confused dragon sprang to its feet again and shook its head, dazed.

  Jake did not give Wyvern’s oversized pet time to recover, levitating one of the tables leaning by the wall off the ground.

  With a wave of his hand, he sent it flying through the air, crashing into the beast. Jake immediately followed up with several benches and chairs, battering the dragon from a safe distance. Tazaroc roared, befuddled by the attacking furniture.

  The Drow warriors were not so easily dislodged. They, too, had regained their feet and now prowled toward him from both sides.

  Heart pounding, Jake cursed under his breath to see other men, in gray uniforms, hurrying into the great hall to see what was going on.

  Taking stock of the situation, they quickly arrayed themselves across the open drawbridge to keep Jake from getting out of the Black Fortress.

  That wasn’t his intent.

  The dragon shook off the splintered furniture with an angry grunt and glared at Jake, as if it sensed he had something to do with all this.