The Dragon Lord

by E. G. Foley

  “Right. Yes.” Wyvern nodded and sighed, remembering his duties. “Tell him to candle-call their leader. I want to know once it’s done.”

  Fionnula toyed with a ribbon on her skirt, avoiding his gaze. “So, you’re sure you still want Prince Victor dead, then?” She peeked up at him from beneath her lashes.

  “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

  She shrugged. “Well, we just thought perhaps you’d change your mind about the Black Prince, since Jake…”

  “No,” Wyvern said firmly. “Zolond’s heir has to die. I don’t want factions rallying around him. Tell Raige to make the call. It’s time. Anything else?”

  “Well…” She tilted her head prettily and clasped her hands behind her, twisting to make her skirts swish back and forth.

  I think I make her nervous.

  “What?” Wyvern demanded.

  “Dear, I realize this might not be the best time—I know you’re upset—but some of us feel it would be prudent to discuss the other members of the Council without delay. Those whose positions on your rise to power are not yet clear.”

  “Like Deathhand.”

  “Yes, and the swamp witch,” Fionnula said. “Both are old friends of Zolond’s. Word of his death is bound to travel fast.”

  “Hmm. Well, I haven’t been able to track down the necromancer. He’s always been elusive. But Mother Octavia told me she wouldn’t interfere.”

  “And no Dark Druid would ever lie,” Fionnula teased.

  He smiled faintly in spite of himself. “I suppose you are right to be concerned. They are both formidable foes and must be treated with respect. The rest will fall in line, but those two… It would be best to have them on our side.”

  “It would look better,” she agreed.

  “Well then, we need Prince Victor dead—now. We can’t afford to have them organize around Zolond’s heir as a symbol.”

  Fionnula nodded. “I don’t like the notion of them getting control of that boy, either, if what I’ve heard about him is true.”

  “It’s all true,” Wyvern said grimly. “He is impressive. Highly trained, multiple gifts. Shame to have to kill him, frankly. He’d have been useful. But…Father knows best.” A twinge of bitterness crept into his voice. “I have my orders. Jake’s to be the one. Like it or not.” His gaze dropped back to the unconscious Griffons.

  “Hmm.” Fionnula nodded, studied him, and bit her lip.

  “What?” he demanded.

  She forced a cautious smile. “I know you’re angry, my love, but…what exactly are you planning here?” She flicked a glance down at the Lightriders. “I mean, is this a good idea?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be rid of them? Duradel said this is the first place he ran to. He could’ve tried to escape, but no! Instead, he came here to try to save them. How do you think that makes me feel? All I wanted was to be the boy’s father.”

  “I know. Still. You might need them.”

  “I can catch more,” he growled. “I’ll hire an army of Drow mercenaries if I have to.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sure the Order’s very much on guard now after you trounced them so thoroughly.”

  Her unfailing flattery left him cynically amused, transparent as it was. She’d probably say anything to make him do what she wanted.

  “Nathan, I’m no expert on children, but if you do this, you might just drive Jake to fulfill the reverse side of Duradel’s prophecy. Instead of becoming our future, this could be the thing that turns him into our nemesis. At best, you’ll never get him to cooperate.”

  “Cooperate?” Wyvern scoffed. “He lost his chance to do that when he killed my Darter. No, my lady. I’m done trying to win him over. Now I mean simply to break his will.” He looked at the parents. “Just like you do with a wild young dragon.”

  “Aha.” Fionnula nodded, pursed her lips, then drummed her nails briefly on the mother’s coffin. “I wonder…”

  “What?” Wyvern prompted as she coyly let her words trail off. He knew she was up to something, but the mischievous gleam in her eyes intrigued him.

  “Well, I was just thinking,” Fionnula said with an innocent air, leaving her post and rounding Elizabeth’s coffin. “If you really want to punish our son, use these two for the project first, and then, once you have Jake under your thumb…” She sauntered up behind Wyvern, draped her arms around his shoulders, and whispered, “Make him do it.”

  Wyvern glanced at her in surprise. “You mean…?”

  She gave him a peck on the cheek. “Mm-hmm.”

  “Make the boy kill his own parents, eh?” A dark laugh escaped him. “My lady, I like how you think.”

  Fionnula giggled then turned Wyvern away from Lord and Lady Griffon, clinging to him with her arms around his waist. “Now come back to the party!” she said playfully, wielding all of her siren’s charm. “We’re having champagne in the bridge room, and Raige has saved you a cigar.”

  Wyvern grimaced. “Those things are disgusting.”

  “I agree.” She laughed. “Oh, come, don’t be sad, my love. We’ll get you a new dragon, I promise.”

  “I don’t want a new dragon,” he answered sulkily.

  “You will, in due time. It’ll make you feel better. Now, come along, dear. I’m not going to let you do something that could jeopardize your master plan just because you’re grumpy. Put them away,” she ordered the doctor, nodding at the inert Lightriders.

  He hurried to obey the future queen with a look of relief.

  Wyvern harrumphed, well aware she was up to something, but maybe she was right. He had just won the bloody Black Crown and would soon become the new sorcerer-king.

  “We have to plan your coronation! Oh, darling, we’re going to make it the most awe-inspiring night the dark realms have ever seen! And you, my dreadful Nathan, you are going to be the most terrifying Dark Master who ever lived…”

  She prattled on about his greatness as they stepped out of the Lightrider cavern and passed through the lobby, where burn marks still marred the ceiling and walls. The area had been blood-soaked when they had first returned to the Black Fortress, but Fionnula must’ve cleaned it up with a spell. His future wife knew he could not abide a mess.

  “Oh, try to smile, Nathan. It’s your big night, and you’re so handsome when you smile. Don’t worry, there’ll be other dragons, all in good time.”

  She patted his arm as she led him up the stairwell, past the mangled banister. Wyvern looked at it morosely as they passed. It bore a dent shaped like Tazaroc’s tail.

  How he’d miss him.

  Then she continued raving about the coronation.

  “We’ll have a long red carpet and torches lining the way. Black flags everywhere, and scarlet banners! There’ll be fearsome songs, and then fireworks—right after the sacrifices! Won’t that be nice? And just think of it, Nathan, everyone will bow down to you, as far as the eye can see…”

  She continued petting him and heaping praise on him as she led him back to the party, and even though Wyvern didn’t trust her for a second, somehow it helped.

  * * *

  The swamp creatures were restless that night.

  All day, Mother Octavia Fouldon had felt unsettled. Clear across the Atlantic in the wilds of the Atchafalaya Swamp, she had seen the rupture tear across the sky and couldn’t believe Shem’s son had gone so far.

  “Aw, this ain’t good,” the old Cajun witch mumbled to herself, then spat tobacco juice into a big, rusty can and stared up at the ominous line of clouds across the Louisiana sky. “This ain’t good a’tall.”

  Nothing much had come of it—yet. The dark clouds eventually faded, and that seemed to be that for the day.

  But something in the air had shifted. The whole swamp sensed it.

  All the critters were tense.

  Oh, the flies buzzed, same as always, and the humid air sat heavy among the tupelo trees. But the gators was restless, and the frogs had gone quiet.

  Hardly any catfish
was bitin’. The water bugs skated over the algae-covered surface of the blackwater below her front porch, and the old Cajun witch read portents in the trails they made.

  Yup. She lifted a weather eye to the overcast sky. Trouble comin’ like a hurricane.

  And then, just a little later that afternoon, about half past three, the anxious cry of a loon warned her for certain that something else had happened.

  That was a bad sign. The loon’s cry meant death.

  She needed to find out what was going on. So, naturally, she took out her meat cleaver and gutted one of the chickens she kept in the coop behind her shack.

  Near the goats.

  The entrails ought to have somethin’ to say.

  She had a mighty bad feeling it had to do with ol’ Z, as she affectionately called the Dark Master. They went way back.

  Wyvern, that young upstart, had come here a few days ago, tellin’ her his big plans to take his place, asking her if she was in.

  Under normal circumstances, Tavey would’ve told him where to go and warned her friend about the threat, but this was different.

  This was coming from Shemrazul’s own little boy.

  The will-o-wisps, them pretty blue glowin’ balls of swamp gas, well, they served the chief witch of the Americas as signals from the Horned One himself. They had told her before Wyvern arrived that the wind, it was a-changin’.

  So old Tavey kept her mouth shut when the Nephilim came calling and told that devil’s son to go do what he had to do. She wouldn’t get in his way.

  “Just leave me out of it,” she’d grumbled. “But do me one favor. Make it quick ’n’ painless on the man. It’s the least he deserves.”

  The truth was, Tavey had taken a shine to ol’ Z when she was just a girl, but that dang highfalutin’ miss priss, Ramona Bradford, well, any other filly might as well not even exist, as far as Zolond was concerned.

  Anyway, the strange day passed.

  Ultimately, Mother Octavia received the confirmation of Zolond’s death that evening from her familiar, the swamp hawk she had named Bandit.

  Like any osprey, the big, pretty falcon was strong, smart, and fast. He had a snowy-white chest and brownish-gray feathers on his back and his wings, but the handsome black stripe around his eyes made him look like he was wearing a highwayman’s mask.

  Bandit was a good bird, sensible, and he always found out the gossip before the rest of the critters in these parts.

  Tavey sat down hard when he told her the news.

  She might’ve even shed a tear or two for Zolond. Nah, not really. She was a Dark Druid, after all, hardhearted, and her mind was already churning on the next thing.

  Still, the death of her old friend left the swamp witch a little low.

  Wandering out to the porch around her cottage, built on stilts over the water, Tavey leaned her elbows on the wooden railing for a while.

  She listened to the bats screeching as they flapped by, snatching moths out of the air, and gazed at the will-o-wisps dancing in the dark.

  All of a sudden, Mother Octavia narrowed her eyes. What about the grandkid?

  What was his name again? She searched her memory. Victor. That’s it. That boy had meant a lot to Zolond. Tavey frowned at the gators. Surely Wyvern wouldn’t stoop to killin’ the young’un, too.

  Would he?

  CHAPTER 39

  Farewell

  Victor was determined to find out what in Hades had happened to the sky this afternoon. The bizarre cloud formation. The boom of thunder ripping past overhead, as though the atmosphere itself had exploded.

  Master Nagai suspected it was something called a rupture, but Victor had never heard of that, and the rugged samurai had no idea yet what it was all going to mean. The wizened warrior tried contacting Grandfather to ask, but there had been no reply.

  Humph, thought Victor. I’m always the last one to know. He was the bloody Black Prince, but they loved treating him like a child. Getting his elders to share information with him could be like pulling the eyeteeth out of a troll.

  Whatever it was, the rupture made Nagai step up security around Shadowedge Manor even higher.

  While his sensei was preoccupied piping still more lethal traps into being around the grounds with his traditional Japanese flute, Victor went out to ask the two dragons on the lawn if they knew anything.

  Not really. The transformed reptilians were as shocked as everyone else, but they told him not to worry; His Majesty would soon have everything under control.

  Well, Victor wanted answers.

  As darkness fell, bringing the early twilight of autumn, Nagai refused (of course) to let him pick up a weapon and help in his own defense. Told him to do his homework.

  Fine, thought Victor, gritting his teeth. He’d see to his studies, but tomorrow’s assignments could wait.

  Instead, he strode into the manor’s sprawling library and took out every supernatural reference book he could find. Shadowedge Manor housed a splendid collection of grimoires and spell books, occult histories, bestiaries, and arcane scrolls, potion recipe cookbooks, astral traveler’s guides, illustrated instruction manuals on the use of different magical weapons—in short, fantastical tomes of all kinds had been curated over the centuries for the education of each Black Prince in succession.

  Victor was certain there had to be something in one of these texts about what ruptures were and what they meant.

  He loaded Magpen up with a pile of research books that weighed as much as the imp did, failing to notice that the little fellow could no longer see over the stack.

  Satisfied, Victor nodded and pivoted. “Let’s go,” he ordered.

  The imp zigzagged back and forth under his burden, but Victor had already marched back out into the hallway, his determined gaze fixed on the staircase ahead.

  As he swung around the newel post, heading back to his bedchamber, he suddenly saw that his servant wasn’t behind him. “Magpen, quit dawdling! I need those!”

  “Yes, master!” The imp staggered out of the library. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir. Perhaps Your Greatness wouldn’t mind levitating a few of these—in the interests of time?”

  Victor looked back, then his lips twisted. He could not deny that it was funny watching his little pointy-eared footman struggle under the tower of books.

  But this was no time to amuse himself. Impatient to get to work, Victor waved his hand and used his telekinesis to lift the huge stack of books out of Magpen’s arms and send them gently up the side of the staircase.

  As the heavy tomes began floating up the stairs and then down the hallway toward Victor’s room, Magpen leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees and panting. “Oh, thank you, noble master!”

  “Sure,” Victor drawled, then bounded up the steps after the floating stream of books.

  Magpen scrambled to catch up.

  Soon, Victor had laid out all of his research materials on his large canopied bed. He stood back and surveyed them, hands on hips. “Doesn’t look like I’m going to be getting much sleep tonight.”

  “At least eat your dinner, Highness.” Magpen carried in a tray with his meal.

  Victor had refused to go down to the dining room. He could eat while he worked, as he often did. It was depressing sitting at that long, formal table by himself, anyway, with the servitor footmen standing silently by the walls. They were always ready to pass the salt, refill his goblet, or whisk his empty plate away, but were not designed to sustain a conversation. Nagai rarely ate with him; it was not proper. There was no one to talk to. Victor hated it. Might as well work.

  Thrusting aside the constant, haunting presence of his loneliness, Victor picked up the next book from his selection and skimmed the table of contents.

  “Victor,” came a raspy whisper into the room.

  He didn’t look up from the grimoire. “What is it, Magpen?”

  “Huh?”

  Victor frowned and looked over at the imp.

  It was then, to his astonishment, th
at he noticed the Dark Master standing on the far end of his chamber, by the wall.

  “Grandfather!” A startled smile broke across his face, and he snapped the book shut. “Just the man I was hoping to see!” he said brightly.

  Magpen looked around in confusion. “Er, who are you talking to, sire?”

  “Where are your manners, slave?” Victor gave his servant a look, casting a meaningful nod toward the projected image of the sorcerer-king. “Bow to His Majesty.” Victor did so himself, but Magpen looked around the room, then turned to him in confusion.

  “Where?”

  “There!” Victor gestured toward Zolond, rather intrigued to see that Grandfather had appeared to him in full-body form instead of just his head. I didn’t know calling candles could do that. Must be some new kind.

  Whoever had made it must still be working out the kinks, though, because Zolond’s grayish, semi-transparent image looked all floaty and unfocused. No wonder I barely heard him.

  “Sir, I don’t think your calling candle is working very well. You’re a bit blurry, and your feet missed the floor.”

  The sorcerer-king was floating about eight inches over the carpet. Then Victor’s voice faded to nothing when he looked down at his grandfather’s feet and saw the shackles around his ankles, with great gray chains floating out behind them…

  His gaze climbed back up to Zolond’s face as shock slammed him like an icy fist to the stomach.

  “Grandfather?” His heart started to pound.

  “Run,” the ghost moaned.

  Victor just stood there in disbelief. “You’re dead?”

  Magpen looked at him in alarm.

  “Go,” the warlock moaned. Zolond’s deep, distinctive voice sounded bizarre—like a reverse echo. It was thin, as though coming from a vast distance.

  Victor felt nauseated. This was no drill.

  “I-I don’t understand. How could this happen?”

  “No…time.”

  “What is it, master?” Magpen cried.

  “Grandfather’s dead, Magpen.” Victor stared at the apparition, his mind still refusing to grasp it. “Wyvern—killed him.”