by Gregory Heal
“Oh, the best,” Jen agreed. It killed Jen to lie to Tyler, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him what had truly happened to their parents.
After wishing him a fun sleepover, she and Victor stood outside of the house underneath a street lamp. The wind started to pick up and the branches were silently swaying in a nightly dance. Crossing her arms to stay warm, Jen looked straight into Victor’s steel blue eyes.
“Teach me.”
Chapter Nine
Malcolm returned to Feralot, the Dark Watcher lair named in honor of Lord Ferox, with a blasting headache and an undelivered promise. Powered by dark magic, this nomadic fortress chewed up the barren landscape of the planet Ocuul, far away from the prying eyes of the League of Light.
Donning a prison guard helmet, Malcolm brought his two newest trophies—Richard and Beth Smith, his former fake girlfriend’s adoptive parents—into Feralot’s cold and impossibly dark prison bay. Activating the helmet’s night vision sensors, he found an open cell next to one occupied by a dingy, gaunt prisoner. Disgust clear on his face, Malcolm opened the rusty door and tossed them inside.
Richard and Beth, still completely paralyzed, bounced around like stiff plastic toys until they settled on the damp prison floor. The hinges creaked like nails on a chalkboard as Malcolm slammed the cell door shut behind them.
Malcolm dropped his hands to his sides as his rings’ lights faded. He groaned from frustration and fatigue as he haphazardly threw the prison guard helmet back on its hanger.
What is wrong with me? I wasn’t expecting to let Jen affect me this much. I—
As Malcolm left the prison bay and stepped into a dimly lit corridor, he was jerked out of his thoughts when he heard a deep voice echo from all around him, vibrating deep into his bone marrow.
“I see that you’ve returned with a different catch than promised.”
“It’s all part of my plan, don’t worry,” Malcolm said testily.
“You promised you could bring the Lancaster girl to us quicker than any other Watcher. What made me believe you and grant you this task, I will never understand.”
“Don’t worry,” Malcolm said again, more forcefully, through clenched teeth, letting frustration slip into his tone. “I have her right where I want her.”
“I want her here, in front of me. That’s the only place that matters, boy.” The voice rose in volume, emanating from a sunken face that materialized from the shadows.
Malcolm swallowed as he saw the full shrouded form of Lord Draconex tower over him. Draped in a flowing dark maroon cloak, Lord Draconex stood close to seven feet tall and filled the air—and anyone unlucky enough to be in the same room as him—with fear. Malcolm could only see the tip of Draconex’s nose, the only part of his face that was not enveloped in a shadow-filled abyss from the hood resting upon his head.
Malcolm tried to maintain eye contact, but couldn’t, and sheepishly looked away. His heart rate skyrocketed as if he had just ran a marathon.
“And do not talk back to me”—Draconex leaned down, getting uncomfortably closer to Malcolm’s face—“boy.”
“Y-yes, sir,” he stammered, his mouth now cotton-dry.
A hand shot forth from the thick robes like lightning and bony fingers clamped around Malcolm’s throat like steel vices. “Did I tell you to speak? You are impetuous in both your words and actions.” He finally released Malcolm, dropping him to the floor. Without knowing it, Draconex had lifted him two feet off the ground.
The boy grabbed his throat, hoarsely gulping in air. Tears made his vision shimmer as he looked up at Draconex, who looked even more menacing through tear-stained eyes.
Standing as still as a statue, but as commanding as a ruthless warrior, the dark sorcerer continued, “The next time you cross paths with your old lover, make sure you capture her alive . . . or your fate will be far worse than that of a prisoner behind these cell walls.” Draconex pointed into the cold darkness of the prison bay.
Malcolm nodded silently, feeling cold sweat erupt from every pore on his body. The skin around his throat was tender, burned from Draconex’s touch.
“Get out of my sight,” Draconex commanded.
Malcolm didn’t wait another second before picking himself up off the ground and speeding off to his chamber, head down all the while. Once inside, he closed the door, locked it, and stood in the dark, stifling sobs that only grew in frequency and volume as his adrenaline wore off, leaving him with frayed nerves that were on the brink of collapse.
Chapter Ten
For Jen, it was a solemn but determined journey back to Eternal Flame Falls and the gateway portal that led back to Azumar. There was nothing in her life that she wanted more than to rescue her parents, but she began to come to the realization that first, she would need Victor to train her.
Train her in sorcery.
She, Victor, and Skarmor entered the dark cave nestled deep in Chestnut Ridge Park and exited the opposite side in Azumar almost immediately, staying silent for the duration of the short trip. Daylight had come once again, the sun beaming high in the azure sky. A soft wind played across Jen’s curly black hair, but she didn’t notice it; she was too focused on what needed to be done.
Reading her body language, Victor hazarded a question to Jen before they took off on Skarmor, who was now back to normal as a griffin: “How are you doing, Jen?”
She massaged her neck with her hand. “I’ll be fine once we start training.”
Victor gave her a long look and exhaled. “I know that you want to do everything possible to rescue your parents, but what lies ahead is as treacherous as it is difficult. I want to make sure you’re ready for anything that might come your way.”
“All the doubts I had died when I helplessly watched Malcolm take my parents.” Jen bit her cheek as that painful memory resurfaced. Looking Victor squarely in the eye, she said, “I understand and am more ready than ever.”
Accepting her answer and how she felt, he nodded while patting Skarmor on the neck. “We need to get you enrolled as a tenderfoot of the Sorcery Guild, then.” He deftly mounted his griffin and reached out to Jen with an open palm. “Hop on,” he said.
“Where do we need to go for that?” She took his outstretched hand and jumped onto Skarmor.
“The institution where I spent my formative years: Watercress Castle.”
Despite her tired and frail state, Jen’s spirits brightened a touch when she heard the word castle. “I guess we can go there,” Jen said, playing down her excitement as she propped her head on Victor’s shoulder and looked back into the cave at the floating flame.
“Trust me . . . you’ll love it.” He turned Skarmor to the west and commanded him to take off.
With ten bounding steps and two flaps of his mighty wings, they were soon airborne, gliding above the rolling, lush hills of a faraway land. Victor was scanning the landscape ahead when he noticed Jen’s arms had become loose around his waist. He peered over his right shoulder and felt Jen’s head resting on his back, her eyelids closed in sleep.
She clearly needed to rest, so Victor commanded Skarmor to change course to his cottage; they would embark on their journey to Watercress Castle, the school of sorcery, the following day.
Partly relieved, Victor decided he would take this extra time to better prepare himself for a return to the place that had banished him ten years before.
Chapter Eleven
Help! HELP! yelled Jen—
But no sound came from her lips. She felt her veins pulsing in her neck, but she still didn’t make a peep. Horror-stricken, she saw her parents imprisoned in a dark, dingy cell. She tried to move, but it was as if she were made of stone. Her eyes strained in the darkness, trying to find a way to reach her family.
A dark figure concealed in a hooded cloak floated into the room and snapped his bony fingers. Her parents disappeared in a plume of smoke and she was left feeling like her heart had been ripped out with those same bony fingers. The figure whipped his head around
to look at Jen, revealing his face.
A long, jagged scar ran through his glazed-white left eye. The pupil of his other eye was so contracted that it looked to be as small as the tip of a finely-sharpened pencil. His grin spoke of unspeakable evil as he let out a hoarse yet powerful laugh that chilled Jen to her core.
Finally, she broke her gaze with him and noticed a third presence, immediately feeling more at ease. She couldn’t explain it, but she was suddenly filled with trust that everything would be all right.
That was when the tall, evil figure rushed Jen, swallowing her in his cape like a black hole.
The next thing Jen knew she was back in Victor’s cottage.
She shot up from the bed she was laying on, drenched in sweat. Breathing heavily, she put her hands to her cold forehead. The ring on her necklace was glowing a bright purple. As she calmed down, the glowing faded until it was completely gone.
Mom . . . Dad . . .
She laid back down, staring at the fan above her. She followed one of its blades as it made its lazy revolution around and around, calming her as she became lost in her thoughts. She couldn’t fall back asleep; her mind was too active.
When will I begin my training?
How long will it take before I’m ready?
Where did Malcolm take my parents?
Every permutation of those questions and a thousand others floated around in her head until she finally drifted off into a dreamless sleep—a sleep that wasn’t broken until a ray of morning sunshine hit her face.
Not wanting to get out of bed, Jen reluctantly sat up. There—something familiar on the nightstand. Upon further inspection, Jen realized that it was the diary her parents had given her as a birthday present two days before. Smiling, Jen picked it up and held it to her chest. That diary was the only tangible thing that connected Jen to her parents in this realm. Not her biological parents—her real parents. Richard and Beth Smith.
But how did my diary get here?
After praying for their safety, Jen put the diary back on the nightstand, took a deep breath, and walked to the bedroom door. She turned the knob slowly and pushed the door open as quietly as she could.
The first thing she saw was a stack of freshly-made pancakes and a pot of oatmeal. The smells reminded her of waking up on a sunny Sunday morning, the sounds of her mom making breakfast in the kitchen. That memory, paired with these current smells, made her happier—and instantly hungry.
Victor turned from the stove, hearing her, and said: “Looks like someone picked the perfect time to wake up. Just finished making breakfast—I hope you’re hungry.” He waved her over as he picked up a frying pan and flipped another pancake onto the stack.
With everything that had happened in Jen’s life over the past couple days, she had nearly forgotten to eat. Now her hunger was finally at a level that she could no longer ignore. Victor handed her a plate on which she slid three pancakes.
“Thank you,” Jen said.
“You need your strength for today.” Victor handed her a cup of juice.
Jen took the closest seat at the kitchen table. “Thank you for bringing my diary here.”
“My pleasure,” Victor said as he stirred the simmering oatmeal. “I wanted you to feel at home while you’re with me.”
“My parents gave it to me as a gift. For my twenty-first. You have no idea how much it means to me . . . especially now.” Jen felt tears form in her eyes, so she stared out the nearest window to collect herself and saw the profile of Skarmor bathing in the sunlight.
“All the more reason why I did it.”
Jen sniffled, looking back inside. “I can’t wait until I have time to write in it. Some of the things that have happened to me so far . . .” She shook her head.
“There will be more. Trust me.” Victor poured some oatmeal into a bowl.
“I don’t doubt it,” Jen agreed, then suddenly wished to change the subject. “I’m glad you and Skarmor are all right.” She began eating her breakfast.
“You and me both.” Victor sat down with his bowl of oatmeal and cup of orange juice. “I’m impressed that you were able to hold off Malcolm as long as you did, Jen.” He saluted her with a raise of his cup.
She took another sip before stabbing another piece of pancake with her fork. “You never told me why Malcolm left the Guild.”
He stopped eating and swirled his cup around, staring at it for what seemed like ages before he cleared his throat and said solemnly, “There’s still good in him . . . I can feel it. I first met him when he was eight years old. He was being sent to face the Elder Synod for his rebellious behavior and attitude toward his former mystras, of which he’d already had three by the time I met him.” Victor played with his oatmeal, folding it over on itself in his bowl. “My tenderfoot at the time had just passed the Sorcery Trials, so I was searching for another student to instruct. Malcolm seemed like he could excel if put on the right path, so I accepted the challenge.” He smiled sadly. “I quickly realized why he had bounced around to so many mystras: his powers were acutely strong for his age, but his temper and need for control made him insubordinate. Lucky for him, I had time. I worked with him day and night, never giving up. As the years passed, he started to mature and develop his powers and skills in a more constructive manner, but it seemed that he was attracted to anything that was forbidden. I would often catch him in underground duels at a place called the Pit.”
“What’s the Pit?” Jen asked.
“It’s an underground dueling club. Sorcery is only allowed on school grounds as an instrument for instruction, which makes the duels in the Pit illegal. As a result, the magic used down there was unchecked and far too dangerous. Many students who dueled in the Pit either left mortally wounded or didn’t make it out at all. One night I found Malcolm in the Pit.”
Victor placed his left middle finger on the orb atop his silver staff and began to methodically rub it counter-clockwise. A cloud materialized in front of them and in it was a younger Victor. Jen realized he was playing a memory for her, like a home video. She stopped eating and intently watched.
In the memory, Victor was walking quickly down a dimly lit tunnel. His lips were pursed and brow furrowed as he passed flaming torches fastened to the tunnel’s walls. Flames flickered as he rushed past them and his footsteps echoed off stone walls, which alerted the sentries standing guard by the Pit’s door.
With leveled spears, the guards tried to scare Victor, but he didn’t slow down. He simply pointed his gleaming staff at the guard on the left, then the one on the right. Both slammed against the wall, knocked unconscious and slumping to the floor. Without slowing, Victor pointed his staff at the door, busting it open with a powerful gust of wind.
The door’s deadbolt shattered as it forcefully flung open into the Pit. Inside, Victor found Malcolm battling another student in the center of a caged ring. Victor was just in time to see his tenderfoot throw a spell that picked up his opponent and tossed him across the ring into a wall of smudged Plexiglas, which cracked but did not break.
The ring was in the shape of a crude hexagon, reaching thirty-five feet in diameter. A dense crowd formed around its edges, stopping only in front of the Plexiglas barriers. Spectators around the perimeter were pounding on it, shouting different spells at Malcolm, hoping he would use one of their suggestions to finish off his defeated opponent.
Those closest to Victor immediately recognized him and parted until there was a clear path straight to the ring. He walked to the railing, ashamed at what he was witnessing.
Watching this, Jen was reminded of ancient Roman Colosseum battles. Back then, gladiators would be pitted against each other to fight to the death for sport. The warrior who gained the upper hand would gauge the crowd’s desire for either mercy—shown by a thumbs-down—or death—a thumbs-up. The ruling emperor would make the final decision; except in this case, the Pit’s mob-like crowd would just yell their desires, followed by more pounding on the Plexiglas walls.
Victor
watched in horror as the defenseless boy, battered and bruised, raised his hands to protect his face from Malcolm’s finishing blow. Fire roared in Malcolm’s eyes and an eager smile flicked across his face—a smile Victor had seen often—and he raised his hand, which wore his totem ring. It pulsated with orange flares as he started walking toward the other boy.
The crowd’s cheering and jeering rose to an unbearable volume just as Victor slammed the butt-end of his staff on the floor and bellowed, “MALCOLM!” A ripple of energy emanated from his staff, cracking the Plexiglas walls and shaking the solid ground in the deep depths of the Pit.
The mob’s raucous noise abruptly stopped. Malcolm lost his balance and fell to the ground. The Pit became eerily quiet. Malcolm turned to flash Victor a look full of surprise that quickly morphed into disdain.
“I thought I taught you better,” Victor said, stepping into the ring. “ ‘Never attack the defenseless,’ and ‘Only use sorcery for noble purposes.’ I’m disappointed.”
“Don’t judge me, Mystra,” Malcolm shot back, still sprawled on the ground. “He told me you’re holding me back from my true potential.”
Victor stared in confusion as his tenderfoot stood back up. “Who is this ‘he’?”
Malcolm dusted off his robes and chuckled. “You know.”
Victor paused. “Say his name.”
“Lord Draconex.”
Victor’s eyes went wide with shock. “Malcolm, you cannot trust that man.”
“He’s already shown me things that you refuse to teach me. That’s why I’m here: to practice what he’s taught me.”
As this unintended conversation unfolded, Malcolm’s opponent scrambled for the ring’s exit. Malcolm saw him move out of the corner of his eye.
Victor reached out. “Let him go, Malcolm. This is between you and me now.”
The boy fumbled with the iron latch. After finally lifting it off, he was swallowed up by the crowd, which had stayed quiet and unmoving, riveted at what might soon take place in the Pit.
