by Gregory Heal
After waiting a few seconds, Cindergray politely repeated, “We should get you inside, my dear. It’s still dangerous to be exposed like this.”
Jen’s muscles were so taut that they were beginning to feel sore, but as Victor tried placing his hands on her shoulders again, she instinctively relaxed and let him turn her toward the Elder’s chamber. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Skycap pull Blake’s spear from the ground, wrapping it into the Dark Watcher’s cape after retracting it like an old handheld telescope.
“Skarmor,” Victor whispered back at his trusty griffin, “let us know if any activity crops up out here while we’re inside.”
At first, Skarmor was jealous that he couldn’t follow them inside, but he must have realized that keeping guard outside meant protecting Jen, because he stood to his full height and started scanning the skies.
Victor patted him on the neck and led Jen inside, followed by everyone else.
Chapter Sixteen
Malcolm’s ears still rang from the loud slam of his door. Lord Draconex had left, allowing him time to get prepared for his first instruction on the following day.
After his perceived near-death experience at the hands of his master, Malcolm could feel his strength returning little by little. After some time he slowly stood up, dusted off his robes, and steadied himself on the bookshelf.
Malcolm hadn’t felt this kind of rejection before; not only had Draconex benched him from pursuing Jen, but he’d also assigned other Dark Watchers to the mission—his mission. Fear suddenly struck Malcolm as he realized that the other Watchers could potentially outshine him, sealing his fate as an incompetent, ineffective sorcerer.
Draconex wants to instruct me, he reminded himself. He wants me to grow stronger. That must mean something promising, right?
His dark master had never been so adamant that he instruct him before. He would always push off Malcolm’s requests, eventually getting around to showing him something new; but more often than not, he would simply not even bother.
Malcolm should have seen this coming, though. He did return empty-handed—twice—all the while promising an easy capture of the heir of Lancaster.
Jen . . . She bubbled up in his thoughts again, and he couldn’t suppress the way she made him feel.
He knew she was just a target—a means to an end—but something inside him stirred every time he thought of Jen. He berated himself for feeling something that had grown stronger within him for the three months he was pretending to be her boyfriend. He begged it to leave—but, like an old injury, it lingered. Every time Malcolm felt this way toward Jen, he would stuff it deep inside him and try to forget about it.
He did so now. He couldn’t afford to let it resurface, especially now since Draconex was making arrangements to instruct him. The stakes had just gotten higher, and Malcolm was even more determined to receive Draconex’s approval. If not, he wouldn’t be alive to witness the resurrection of Lord Ferox.
Feeling as if Atlas had just placed the weight of the world on his shoulders, Malcolm walked over to the door and inspected the lock that Draconex had broken, exhaling loudly.
I want to start training now! he thought.
But after contemplation, he realized that Draconex needed to take the night off too, probably to calm himself, before any spells were to be taught; Malcolm surely didn’t want Draconex to maim him—intentionally or unintentionally—out of pure frustration. Maybe it was a good idea that they both took the night to regroup, even though Malcolm knew he would not be able to sleep a wink.
He kicked the door, frustrated at how quickly this had turned sour. Shuffling over to his cot, he kicked off his boots, let his cloak fall to the ground, and fell face first onto the prickly sheets, ready to accept that no sleep would come to him this night.
The following morning, after limited sleep, Malcolm walked Feralot’s empty corridors, nervous like a kid on the first day at a new school, but determined nonetheless. He was about to embark on a new path; a path that would make him stronger and more respected.
The next time I see you, Jen . . . he thought with bated breath.
His hands, bedecked with his rings—one that he had forged as a tenderfoot of Victor Huxley’s, the other under Draconex—held an old book filled with spells and the history of dark magic and a vial of fresh griffin blood. The latter was Draconex’s favorite snack.
Malcolm had to win points with his instructor, after all.
Draconex’s chambers were on the opposite end of the labyrinthine lair of Feralot on the highest and darkest level . . . even darker than the prison bay.
Malcolm made his way down the corridor that overlooked the prison bay, not bothering to look inside the cells or stop to hear the mournful wails echoing out of the dark abyss. Walking that route for years had desensitized him to the horrid conditions afforded to their prisoners.
He certainly didn’t envy the Watchers who were stuck on guard duty, either; they did nothing except watch the inmates wither before their eyes, thanks to their night-vision guard helmets. Some guard who’d obviously had too much time on his hands had once affectionately dubbed the prison “The Lair of Despair,” and it just stuck.
The prisoners, whom Malcolm was sure were mostly wrongfully condemned, had given up hope and relinquished themselves to the fate of dying cold, blind, and alone in the Stygian darkness. They were captured one of two ways: either by being at the wrong place at the wrong time—often by merely witnessing an atrocious act committed by a Dark Watcher, thus landing themselves a life sentence at Feralot—or by posing what Draconex deemed to be a true threat to the Dark Watchers. What made Draconex decide to keep them breathing, Malcolm didn’t know.
All he did know was that Lord Draconex was judge, jury, and executioner. No one questioned his decisions—not even his mistress, Madame Diaema.
No prisoner had ever escaped; there were many attempts, but all who tried had met a grisly end. Every time the Watchers caught an escapee, Draconex had them dragged alive through the prison bay by their fingernails, with nothing covering their bodies except hordes of zombie leeches burning their skin and eating their way to their host’s vital organs.
And the screams . . . in the Lair of Despair, prisoners and guards alike were used to hearing hopeless wails from current inmates, but the sound made by someone being eaten alive by zombie leeches hit an inhuman frequency, one that vibrated through your teeth and bones and stood your hair on edge.
There hadn’t been thoughts of escape since the attempt by Old Man Percy Grumblebee. At sixty-five years old, Percy feigned a heart attack, and when a guard went in to check on him the old man knocked him unconscious with his food tray and stole the keys to his entire row of cells.
Percy unlocked his neighbor’s cell, which held a friend he had made during his imprisonment, and once free, the two managed to evade capture and make their way to the surface before they were captured and beaten nearly to death. Per usual, Lord Draconex then paraded them through the prison bay, their skin nearly entirely eclipsed by hordes of zombie leeches.
The next day, the whole row of inmates was gone without a trace.
Draconex had warned everyone else, “Whosoever wishes to escape now will know that you will be responsible for the death of your entire row!”
Since then, no escapes were attempted . . . or even thought of.
Malcolm grimaced as he neared the end of the prison bay’s corridor, thinking of Jen’s adoptive parents languishing down there, probably scared out of their skulls.
He had only met Jen’s parents twice while he was dating her. They were the kind of parents that Malcolm had wished he’d had while growing up . . . he wasn’t particularly proud of kidnapping them, but he knew that if he had returned to Feralot without anything—or anyone—to show for himself, Draconex would have skewered him alive.
She’ll come to save them. When that happens, I’ll be ready, Malcolm promised himself as he turned down another long corridor.
By the time
he reached its end, he became more anxious about his first lesson with Lord Draconex. What if he couldn’t prove himself a worthy pupil? Would that be the end of Malcolm Powell? Surely Draconex would dispose of him if it came to that—and for the first time, Malcolm started to believe that his time might just run out.
Before he knew it, he had walked the remaining distance and was standing outside of Draconex’s den. Malcolm shook his self-despair from his thoughts and looked down at the book and vial he carried. His ears pricked up as the door’s latches unlocked, and his heart rate shot to a dangerous level. He looked back up to see a dark, tall figure propping the heavy door open.
“Well, look what we have here,” said the figure. “And he brought us presents.”
The figure stepped forward into the light cast by the corridor’s torches just enough for Malcolm to see the beautiful but haunting face of Madame Diaema.
Her face was teardrop in shape, which accentuated her high cheekbones even further. The middle half of her slender frame was covered in a skin-tight leather dress the color of the blackest night. Contrarily, her hair was sterile-white, flowing over her bony shoulders like a waterfall. Her chalk-white skin looked even whiter as Malcolm watched her lick her blood-red lips as she saw—or did she smell?—his blood vial.
“It’s fresh griffin’s blood,” Malcolm indicated.
“I assure you I could smell it a mile away,” said Madame Diaema, reaching for the vial. “You have no idea how long it’s been since I’ve had”—she took in a deep, shuddering breath—“griffin blood.” Her piercing red eyes remained glued to the vial.
Malcolm took a step back, tightening his grip on the vial. “Lord Draconex is expecting me.”
“Of course.” Diaema winked and leaned closer to him, caressing the underside of Malcolm’s chin with one of her long, pointy nails, and he suppressed a shudder. “He’s expecting you, all right.”
“Great.”
Malcolm started to sweat as he tried to squeeze his way around the albino vampire, but she only playfully blocked his path.
“Is that blood only for Draconex?” She pouted her full lips and batted her eyes.
Malcolm swallowed hard. “Um . . . I’m sure he’ll share with you?” He smiled uncomfortably as she got closer, so close that he could feel her cold breath upon his cheek.
“Di, as much as it pleases me to watch Malcolm sweat, you’ve tortured the boy long enough,” said Draconex.
Malcolm couldn’t see Draconex as he peered over Diaema’s shoulder, but he was relieved that he had called off his insatiable mistress.
“Trust me, dear, this isn’t torture.” She whispered in Malcolm’s ear, “Let me know if you change your mind.”
Before Malcolm could even think of a response, she morphed into an albino vampire bat, plucked the blood vial from his hand with her teeth, and swooped deeper into Draconex’s den, swallowed by the foreboding darkness.
With an audible gulp, Malcolm waited for Draconex’s permission to enter. Seconds turned into minutes, and Malcolm began to wonder if he had been forgotten, but then he heard his lord say, “Enter.”
On shaky legs, Malcolm slowly entered for the third time in the ten years he had lived in Feralot. The first was the night he betrayed Victor in the Pit, and the second was when he forged his Dark Watcher ring. He looked back on those memories with fondness—pivotal milestones in his journey. Now back for a third time, he was more full of dread than nostalgia as he continued to slowly shuffle toward Draconex.
As he tentatively stepped fully into the antechamber of Draconex’s den, he felt a breeze hit the nape of his neck. Just as he looked behind his shoulder, the door slammed shut, cutting off the faint light from the corridor’s torches. Immediately he shuffled farther inside, instinctively putting his hands out so he wouldn’t run into anything. Without warning, small torches on the walls sparked to life, giving Malcolm enough light to see his path—and, eventually, Draconex—straight ahead. Malcolm’s nostrils picked up a slight stench of something burning as he made his way closer and discovered the origin of the odor.
In his den, Lord Draconex was sitting upon the fabled Throne of Dragons, where he commanded his Dark Watcher army. Built on bloodshed, conquest, and subterfuge since the time of Lord Ferox, that throne was said to have mystical powers of its own. Its seat was sculpted from black volcanic rock that glistened in the den’s torchlight. Its backrest was a pair of taxidermized dragon wings, which gave the illusion that Draconex had his own pair of leathery wings sprouting out of his back. The armrests were sculpted into heads of dragons with mouths agape as if preparing to shoot fire at any moment and scorch unexpected visitors.
Draconex’s head was arched back as he emptied the vial of griffin blood into his mouth. Next to him was a brittle-looking, ashen tree on which hung Madame Diaema, who was still in bat form. She wriggled, watching with agonizing desperation as the blood disappeared drop by drop.
Draconex must have caught Diaema’s attempt at attention, for after a while he stopped; he’d saved a few drops of the griffin blood, and held out the vial to her then.
Wings flapped, Diaema floated in midair to swallow the remaining drops as Draconex tipped the vial upside down. Once Diaema’s thirst was quenched, she glided back to her branch and swung there, upside down, staring at Malcolm as he stopped a few yards before the Throne of Dragons.
Draconex threw the vial aside, letting it crash onto the cobblestone floor, and said, “You had a good donor, my boy. Where did you come across such rich blood?”
“Skarmor,” Malcolm replied, affecting a mischievous smirk on his lips.
Draconex sat up straighter, suddenly more interested. He squinted his blood-red eyes as he searched Malcolm’s face for a bluff. “I should have savored each drop even more, then. But alas. You are off to a good start, boy.”
Malcolm resented it whenever Draconex called him “boy.” It was demeaning; he was twenty-six years old—a fully developed man! One day Draconex would stop insulting him like that—though Malcolm would never say that directly to his lord’s face. Aside from the demeaning nickname, Malcolm did mentally pat himself on the back for deciding to bring the griffin blood.
“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Draconex continued, threading his comment with a hint of a threat.
Malcolm stiffly bowed his head. “Of course, My Lord.”
Draconex made a nasal sound expressing agreement—or was it a scoff? Malcolm wasn’t sure. He looked up in time to see the lord looking at the rings on Malcolm’s fingers with a sneer. “After all these years, you still hang on to the ring you forged with Victor Huxley. Why?”
“I still use it to channel my terramancy, My Lord.”
“I wonder if that ring—and its associated memories—are keeping you from reaching your full potential . . .” Draconex tapped his chin with a bony finger as if in deep thought. “Destroy it!” he yelled.
The leather-bound book in Malcolm’s hand struck the ground with a thud. He was speechless. His master’s command shocked him, but not as much as the way he felt about destroying his first totem ring. Up until then, he had believed that he had fully denounced Victor as his mystra; but now, when faced with destroying his only remaining connection to his past, he hesitated. With shallow breaths, Malcolm slid the ring off his finger and cupped it in his hands. He was hit by a sudden realization just then: no matter how hard he tried, he could not—would not—get rid of his first ring.
Draconex’s eyes burned bright with hot anger. “You weakling!”
He pointed at Malcolm, and Diaema swooped down, plucked the ring from Malcolm’s hands, and dropped it in Draconex’s outstretched palm before shapeshifting back into a devastatingly seductive woman. Diaema leaned on one of Draconex’s armrests and placed a hand on his shoulder.
He lifted Malcolm’s ring to the light as if to inspect it, but then tossed it in the air. Draconex opened his slitted mouth, which spewed dripping flames that engulfed the ring. Malcolm covered his unprotected face
with his arms to block the swell of heat that slammed into him. Through slits in his fingers, he watched as his most prized possession was melted down and burned to a crisp.
It was over in a second; the damage had been done. A part of Malcolm died when he saw his charred and melted ring shatter as it hit the hard, stone floor.
“Now you will not be rooted in the past,” Draconex said.
Malcolm shot Draconex a furious look that could have melted his dead skin from his face.
In response, Draconex laughed and slowly clapped. “There’s that fire! I was wondering if you still had it in you at all, after dating that Lancaster girl.”
Malcolm did not find this the least bit funny, but he couldn’t anger the dark sorcerer who sat in front of him any more. He just took a deep breath and swallowed the first response that came to his mind, instead saying, “If you think that is necessary.”
“You do not realize the power that ring had over you. It tethered you to your past, to the Sorcery Guild, to Victor,” the lord spat. “It was what failed you in capturing Jennifer Lancaster . . . twice.”
Malcolm, with limp arms and legs, dropped to his knees on the unforgiving floor, but didn’t look away from Draconex.
“That was the first act of my instruction. You will not find that it gets easier from here,” Draconex said unmercifully.
“But how will you be able to teach me? You’re an animancer and I’m a terramancer . . .”
Draconex rubbed his forehead. “I now realize my selfish mistake of not teaching you enough in your decade of serving me. Dark magic is a fickle mistress, but if properly honed, it can expand your powers—not only in one Mancy plane, but also in every other.”
Malcolm’s ears pricked up as chills ran down his spine.
“Yessssss . . . that’s right . . .” Draconex played with Diaema’s silky white hair. “Dark magic can give you the power to manipulate every Mancy plane, essentially making you an omnimancer. Years ago, when I realized this truth and approached the Elder Synod, they forbade me to even think about tapping into the dark magic necessary for such a glorious achievement. ‘It’s too volatile,’ they said.” He ground his teeth in repressed annoyance. “I quickly realized they were being cowards, scared of its potential—and my potential with it.” Draconex brushed the vertical scar on his face with two bony fingers. “I had to escape their narrow focus and pathetic, fearsome mindset.”
