Captured by the Dark Lord

by Jaide Fox

  Dark Lords 1:

  Captured by the Dark Lord

  By

  Jaide Fox

  (c) copyright Jaide Fox, reissued December 2012

  Cover art by Eliza Black, (c) copyright December 2012

  Valdosta, GA 31602

  www.jaidefoxbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

  Other titles by Jaide Fox:

  Shadowmere Book One: Marked by the Beast

  Dark Lords 1: Captured by the Dark Lord

  Dark Lords 2: Seized by the Vampire Lord

  Dark Lords 3: Ensnared by the Dream Lord

  Intergalactic Mayhem: Intergalactic Bad Boys

  Intergalactic Mayhem: Intergalactic Pain in the Ass

  Demon Huntress Book One: Sacrificed

  Summoner’s Captive

  Earth Girls Aren’t Easy

  His Forbidden Fruit

  Night Shade

  Sexdroids

  The Sky Fox

  Archangel

  Captured by Aliens: Alien Captive

  Chapter One

  For untold years you will wait upon death’s door.

  From the healer’s hand and love’s demand, you will live and love no more.

  Through the crumbling castle, the words whispered, hollow as death, black as the night they were--black as his soul. Damian Alessandro tightened his mailed fist, his fingers digging into the scarred wooden arm of his throne. Cold rage, barely leashed, fueled his body, clouded his mind. For centuries the necromancer’s words had taunted him, an enigma he had yet to solve. Through the years, he’d given up hope, and so he remained in Helmskeep, seeking the answer to a riddle ... seeking an end to the torment of living death.

  On a black throne he waited ... waited for an oblivion that would not come ... that would never come.

  Outside a storm rose, shattering the calm of night like crystal thrown upon a stone hearth, mirroring the ever present turmoil of his mind. Beyond darkened windows, their panes broken and leaking in the fury of the storm, lightning flashed like silver in the clouds, the gods beating their drums in the sky, harkening their ire. The air charged with each hush before the thunder, and distant, he heard a sound, of breath heaved into worn lungs; horses screaming in terror; the snap of a whip sharp in the air.

  He rose, dust sifting from blackened armor grayed by its obscurity. Long had it been since he’d left this throne, this hall. His movement was fluid, the stiffened joints of his knees and back instantly mobile the moment he stood.

  The wind tore through the abandoned hall, through the broken panes, whipping once lustrous banners, now rotting with age. Silvered threads, tarnished and black with antiquity, shaped his coat of arms: the spider and the rose ... unraveling as though the wind had teeth and devoured all. He raised an arm to block the noise, commanding the winds rioting through the hall to cease. A hush descended, and he listened.

  Again the noise came to him, voices so faint, and yet so powerful a draw ... life. The need to touch a living soul was near unbearable. An ache of desire descended in his heart and mind. Death and blackness had enshrouded him for an eternity. He had seen no creature in decades, but the power was unmistakable. He could practically taste their life’s essence.

  It had been a hundred years since men had dared walk his halls, a hundred years since his castle had last been seen by a mortal gaze. Damian lifted the cloak of darkness shielding Helmskeep from prying eyes. He had visitors. They must be welcomed.

  * * * *

  Frigid rain slashed down in slanted sheets with the stinging fury of a thousand bees, blinding Henry to the road ahead. His breath came in hard puffs, the cold air freezing his face and lungs. He shielded his head with one arm as the coach slowed to a halt before blackened gates that seemed to appear from the gloom almost before his very eyes. There could be no other chance for shelter if they were to seek it, not along this route, for he’d seen no sign of civilization since their attack. He turned in his raised seat and slid back the small door to speak to his master. “My lord,” Henry shouted above the din, “We cannot go on in this storm. The horses are nigh mad with fright. There are gates ahead. Should we stop until this storm abates?”

  Lord John Bordeaux leaned close to the window, squinting weathered eyes against the rain spattering inside the lattice work. “Do Henry. Surely they’ll not turn a gentleman away.”

  Henry nodded, slid the door closed, and dropped down to the ground. Thick mud sloshed over his boots as he landed, smacking his heels with each step, sucking at his boots as if to drag him down into its belly, as if the earth itself hungered for the sustenance of human flesh. Nearing the entrance, he could see the iron gates were wicked in the flashing light, barbed on the ends and looking more akin to some spider’s web than any creation of man. Peering through them left then right, he spotted an overturned stool and more distant, a squat house, but could not see if the gatekeeper’s house was manned or not.

  He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Hello?” He stopped and craned his head, listening for but hearing no response. “Is there any man about? My master begs shelter. Hello?” His voice cracked with the shouting, but he received no answer save the roar of thunder overhead. Likely a gent fallen on hard times who couldn’t afford extra staff, he thought, or else they’d taken shelter in the main house--from what he could see, the small building was shabby indeed.

  Henry pulled his coat higher on his neck, shivering, and tried the gate’s lock. The lever moved easily, and the gates pushed open, their creaking progress barely audible above the pounding thunder. His skin crawled. He stood unmoving, watching as the gates swung wide, looking for some sign of trickery, of life at all, something to ease the sense that evil dwelt here.

  “Henry?” Lord Bordeaux called from the carriage. “Is anything the matter?”

  Henry turned slightly and shouted over his shoulder, “No, my lord.”

  His imaginings were running away with him. Even if this land was abandoned, it was strange to leave the gates unlocked in this area--a border to Hellsing--den of any number of hellspawn. They themselves had been separated from heavy guard in a melee, which was why they were on this freakish pass--more’s the pity.

  The horse team stamped and whinnied in fright, acting as nervous as he felt.

  Ignoring the warning in his mind, he went back to the coach and guided the horses through the gates, then shut them once they’d passed through.

  He climbed back atop the driver’s seat and cracked the reins. The horses shied, but he kept them under firm control despite their terror, moving ever forward.

  The drive they traveled was overgrown with weeds near high as the wheels of the coach, hampering their speed, and large holes dotted the packed drive, chunks torn from the earth by heavy rains and roots. The pervasive feeling something was not quite as it should be persisted as they traveled down the drive, and an enormous dark shape loomed ever closer. Through the rain, he spied the great manor, its details clearer with their progress. More castle than anything else, its size was monstrous and imposing, making him wonder how such a giant of architecture could be missed in the countryside. He’d never seen the like before.

  This land was darker than their own and likely caused it to be overlooked. It could not be too distant from that place he called home, yet the atmosphere felt as alien and thick to him as he would feel trapped in the depths of a black mire. A pall hung about the land, perpetually ravaged by storm in his limited experience, and fog shrouded the castle’s heights like cobwebs. Turrets ravaged by time clung high to the castle’s walls like a cancer,
making the dwelling appear to defy gravity. The darkness before them was unbroken by the shine of life giving flame. No lights glowed from the broken windows, no man came to greet them as they pulled along the circular drive. Not that he’d expected it.

  It looked like no living creature called this place home, or had in many years.

  “Whoa,” Henry said, easing back on the reins as the team slogged to a halt at the manor’s entrance. He looped the reins on the break handle and dropped to the ground to assist Lord Bordeaux, eyeing the dark exterior with increasing foreboding.

  “It appears the place is abandoned, my lord,” Henry said as he opened the door and shielded Lord Bordeaux with his coat until they neared the overhang that formed a dark cave of an entrance.

  “Yes, it does.” Lord Bordeaux shook the rain from himself, looking up imposing doors that stood as tall as two men end to end. Henry knocked sharply on the door, but after several minutes, it appeared there would be no answer. Wondering if it was as secure as the gate had been, Henry pushed the rusted lever. As before with the front gate, he found the door unlocked, unprotected, almost as if it had been left so in invitation. Thoughts like that were foolish and often misguided. He’d been made a fool of many times for his superstitions, and he’d learned to quell imbecile thoughts, at least aloud, long ago.

  The door slowly creaked open.

  They peered cautiously inside, seeing naught but utter blackness and the slight shine of lightning reflecting off of water that had puddled on the floor.

  “I think you may be right, Henry. This land must border my own, yet to say truth, I’ve never heard of this place before, nor know to whom it belongs or who once owned it. Tend to the horses. I’ll go inside and see if I can find kindling for a fire.”

  Henry took one last look at the blackness and shivered. “I fear this land is accursed. There is a taint to the air that chills my bones.”

  “‘Tis naught but the cold and wet, Henry. I feel it too. We’ll soon have a fire to warm these old bones of ours. Go now, before the horses sicken.”

  Henry nodded reluctantly and left, guiding the team around the drive to the stables.

  Lord John stepped carefully over the threshold, keeping one hand on the stone wall so he wouldn’t get disoriented. A few steps inside, he found a wall sconce and lifted a beeswax candle from its holder. The wind repeatedly snuffed the spark from his flint, but he finally managed to light the wick, and weak light crept over his hand and spilled onto the floor.

  With the light, he could see he stood in a large antechamber. Behind him, dual, arched windows studded the wall, revealing little with night closed around the castle except in the brief flashes of nature’s light that proved more disorienting and unnerving than helpful. John tightened his coat about his middle against a sudden gust of wind and nearly lost the fragile flame to its snuffing fingers. Cupping his hand around the candle limited the extent of his vision, but it would have to do. As he looked ahead, he could see a black hole of a doorway break the smooth inner wall, and he moved toward it, glancing inside.

  A great hall opened before him, cavernous and black. The ceiling stretched beyond his sight in the dimness, saved only from infinity by broken windows casting meager light that couldn’t reach as far down as his own head.

  He shuffled forward, the pain in his knee flaring from the damp. He needed to find a hearth, and he was familiar enough with the architecture of olden days to know there should be a massive fireplace somewhere in the hall.

  “Hold your steps, old man. You have ventured where you don’t belong and would do best to take care.”

  The voice spoke from the dark ahead of him, as deep and cold as the grave. A fist squeezed his heart a brief moment before releasing him. Lord John gasped in pain and surprise, resisting the shiver crawling up his spine.

  “My apologies, Sir. I thought this place to be abandoned, else I would not have entered. Who is the master of this house, that I may ask shelter for a time, until the storm abates?”

  “I am lord of these lands.”

  Lord John feigned a pleasantry he did not feel. “I am Lord John Bordeaux of Raedan. To whom do I have the pleasure of meeting? I confess, my lord, I ... I cannot see you.”

  A flash of light lit the hall as torches flared along its length, and fire burst to life in two great hearths on either side of the hall, tall as any man. Blinded momentarily by the sudden brilliance, Lord John blinked rapidly to adjust to the brightness, taking a step backwards at the sudden onslaught of light and warmth.

  A flicker of fear flared deep in his soul. A darkness entered his blurred vision, growing rapidly, seizing his attention as surely as death on swift wings. He dropped the candle he held, his fingers nerveless as he saw the lord of the manor. Frozen to the spot, encompassed by an unnamable horror, he could do nothing as the man in blackened armor strode down the centerway toward him. Dust stirred from the floor, sifting through the air like a choking cloud.

  This was no man ... no man at all....

  The creature stopped before reaching Lord John. He could sense rather than see thin tendrils of ice reaching out from the black knight to steal his warmth. The man’s presence so near him made his chest ache with fear and the blood rush through his veins.

  John took a halting step back, then straightened, his will fighting the terror gripping him. “I’ll bid you goodnight then, my lord, if I am not welcome,” he spoke softly, his voice raspy despite an injection of false confidence.

  “I think not. You have trespassed here. There is a price to be paid. By you and your manservant....”

  “I came alone--” His jaw snapped shut as movement sounded behind him, a brief shuffle of noise quickly silenced before a gasp echoed through the hall. Henry had joined them. There could be no denying his presence now. Silence reigned for the span of two pulsing beats of his heart, and John realized the quiet extended beyond the reach of his ears save for his own pounding heart. The storm had abated, or else it could not be heard in this great tomb.

  “My lord,” Henry gasped, coming up behind him. His was a steadying presence, though his own fear was palpable even to John. What could two old men do against such a foe? He’d not wielded a sword in decades....

  “What do you ask of me, my lord? I will pay any price for our freedom--”

  “Would you?” The dark lord barked a laugh, mirthless and cold.

  “Gold, jewels. My daughters will pay any ransom you seek. Please, take pity on an old, foolish man.”

  The black knight turned then to cross to the hearth fire, his deep purple cape a black swirl around him. Light reflected off his armor like hellfire, deep and red as the blood of the innocents. “Tell me of these daughters you possess. What of the eldest? Is she fair and pure? If you lie, I shall know it,” he said with barely leashed menace.

  Lord John liked not this questioning but could say nothing more than the truth. She was safe. This monster could not harm her. “Sh--she is a healer ... renowned across the land for her beauty and her heart, a heart as white and pure as snow. She would pay any price to have her father back in her home. She is a good and loving daughter.”

  The knight faced him again, raising mesh covered fingers to his helm in thought, as though considering John’s words. “I will give you your freedom.”

  Lord John and Henry each breathed in a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you, my lor--”

  “In exchange for your eldest daughter, the healer.”

  * * * *

  “No. You cannot ask this of me.”

  The dark one chuckled. “I do not ask, old man. It is the price I demand ... for your life.”

  Lord John moistened his dry lips. “Might I speak with my manservant a moment? In private?”

  A grim smile still playing about his cruel mouth, the dark one nodded. “By all means.”

  Lord John bowed, and he and Henry moved a small measure away, far enough they felt they could not be overheard. Briefly, it occurred to Lord John that they might use the moment bes
t by attempting an escape, but reality was a cruel master. They were neither of them young, strong, spry as they had once been. They stood not a ghost’s chance in hell of escaping the castle, even with such a one as the dark lord on their heels to add fleetness to their steps. And, even supposing fear lent them wings, they could not recover the carriage and horses before he was upon them. Escaping on foot was not even to be considered as a possibility.

  “You must go, Henry, and return with men to aid in my release.”

  Henry blinked rapidly in surprise, holding his chest as if he feared his heart would break free and burst forth. “How can I, my lord, with that devil watching?”

  “He means to keep me alone here. He has said nothing of holding you prisoner, and one of us must go back to fetch Bianca. He intends to send you. I depend upon you, Henry, to gather men willing to come to my aid.”

  “Master, I fear they’ll not come. I would have to tell them who holds you captive, else the lot of them would balk and flee the moment they came within sight of this awful place. With their old superstition confirmed that a death knight roams these lands--”