Chapter Nine –
Inner Sanctum of a Dark Lord
The residents of Sytherria's huge, sprawling capital city – Dranthiris-Ankhar, otherwise known in the common tongues of Evyrworld as the Lair of Shadows – were warned of their lord's return by the ragged, echoing shriek of the black dragon that suddenly swooped down out of the nearly colourless sky, wings spread and talons outstretched, coming to land with terrifying speed and ease in a courtyard somewhere in the midst of the imposing, darkly magnificent palace.
Clearly, he had given some sort of prior warning to his closest attendants and officials, for, the instant that the dragon touched down to the ground, a black- and red-robed figure came down the steps that led into the courtyard.
This one approached the great beast with profound reverence.
"My lord," said the figure: a tall, muscular, and stern man with a rugged but comely face, who was swarthy and tan of complexion, with a dark, trim moustache and goatee, and curls of dark unruly hair that he wore long to his shoulders, and piercing, intelligent eyes that resembled black diamonds in their impassiveness. A pair of carefully etched, swirling tattoos crowned his cheekbones, just below his eyes, and upon his breast he wore a silvery chain and huge pendant, with a blood-red stone at its center. His sword: a long, broad weapon with a blade that curved imposingly, hung at rest at his side, nearly hidden by his ample black robes. He stood before the dragon and waited.
The hulking beast that towered above him spent a moment carefully folding its wings; then, in its voice that was like hundreds of boulders sliding in an avalanche down a mountainside, it replied to the sally, "I return to find the Lair of Shadows oddly at unawares—"
Suddenly, a beam of light erupted from the dragon's broad, muscle-ripped chest, and a great whirlwind was caught up around the both of them: huge black wings folding around the dragon's bulk. Within a moment, the sand had settled again, and the air became clear.
Then, a slender form that was even taller and infinitely more sinister than the first man materialized from the haze, assuming a lethally elegant, sinuously relaxed pose: one long black-gloved hand extending from within the depths of the robes that it wore to gesture, palm up, towards the other man. Its voice, a thousand times more elegant and refined than that of the dragon, essayed forth from the hood it wore over its head.
"Now might I ask for an explanation of this, Rákkhed?"
Rákkhed Dahk-Marr, the Dark Lord's personal assassin – the best in all Sytherria – and chief of his elite guard force, the dreaded Antari, smiled in his detached, grim way, and bowed to his master, the fingertips of his left hand moving to briefly touch themselves to his forehead, in a show of the most profound and ancient respect. When he straightened, he looked into the blank, soulless eyes of the Sytherrian burial mask that his lord had been forced to don upon his return to his body, giving neither a pause or flinching reaction as he gazed upon it.
"The people fear their lord, my liege," he replied.
What could only have been described as the most heart chilling, sinister, and deep-throated of laughs then rippled out of the black figure, who then turned and began to walk towards the wide black onyx steps that led up into the interior of the palace, the head of the Antari following reverently in his wake.
The two passed through the gigantic, square doorway that crowned the portico heading the steps, moving into the cool, tomb-like darkness beyond: the shadows of which seemed to slither around them. At the approach of the Dark Lord, the torches in their sconces high up on the enormous, thick pillars of alabaster that lined the walls of the pathway began to light, one by one, setting the air on fire with their flames and the perfume of incense. Down the pattern-inscribed floor they went, the inky figures of other inhabitants of the palace turning to pay homage to their Lord, who passed them by without a glance.
Dranthiris-Ankhar had been his chief citadel, and Sytherria his undisputed dominion, since the beginning of his supremacy as a lord of the Dark Realm. The former residents of that land had resisted the advances of the figure who had named himself 'Ríth-Anstarinaor' when he and his army of grim, black-robed warriors had first come into their land, across the vast, arid deserts, through the waterless wastes and scorching sands.
However, they had very quickly learned that allowing themselves to be subdued and then rendering the greatest respect to that invading army was the best thing to do, for Ríth-Anstarinaor was simply too crafty, too powerful, too merciless and brutal a warlord to let a petty seven hundred thousand-man defense force deter him from achieving what he wanted…
And keeping what he had gotten.
Since then, over the hundreds of thousands of years that had passed – years in which were included that initial invasion, Ríth-Anstarinaor's dominance and rule over Sytherria, and then his terrible defeat at the hands of those who had united against him during the Battle for Avalennon of the White Realm – the mortal residents of the desert land had learnt well to make themselves as invisible as possible, and do exactly as their Lord wished, bending to his slightest whim.
Convenient, that he would no longer have to deal with the tedium of putting down a ragtag, ill-organized revolt or two every hundred years or so.
Rákkhed trailing him with the cultivated silence and respect of a well-trained first-captain, he passed through the outer courts of his Lair of Shadows, going further on into it until he reached a gigantic, sprawling wing of uninhibited black.
This shadow-ridden place was the Dark Lord's own most personal domain, and few entered it, and then only at his exclusive whim – which happened rarely enough. Even at that, more people walked in through its doors than left through them. Wordless, he gestured that the doors be shut behind them, and strode across the gleaming floor, upon which had been laid out the pattern of a black and white star: huge, glowing rubies set in each of its many points.
In the very center of the star was a slightly raised dais and pedestal, of pure white granite. Through a skylight in the domed ceiling, a ray of light – sharp and clear amid the shadows – pierced down to meet its top. It was to this that the Dark Lord walked, turning his back on Rákkhed for a moment before speaking again.
"Has there been any word from the Ebony City?" was the calm and even inquiry.
Rákkhed shook his head negatively, a flicker of dissatisfaction going through his black eyes as he did so.
"None, my lord – only that she wishes you to contact her as soon as is possible."
There was a ripple of something that went through the air at that moment: disappointment, perhaps, on the Dark Lord's part, and just a hint of defiance and arrogance as well.
Then, from he who ruled the land in a powerful grip of steel: "So – she dares demand that I avail myself for her to dispense with as she pleases, and before she deigns to bestir herself from that great fortress of hers in her well-guarded city, in order to hold up her end of our bargain?"
His words were spoken with unveiled disgust, but it was hardly shocking or disconcerting for Rákkhed to hear his master speak of the Queen, his lady, in such a manner. His lord had been pet-servant and weapon for the powerful sorceress – or whatever she was, in reality; for no one truly knew but her, and, perhaps, the Dark Lord – for hundreds of thousands of years, almost too long for many to remember.
Respect was something that the Dark Lord rendered to the Queen, but his was such a spirit of arrogance and self-assurance, and unrestrained willfulness, that at times, it surfaced in his dealings with his lady, who was either amused or slightly disapproving of his insolence. In those times, Rákkhed had noted, it seemed as if the Dark Lord was no more than a rebellious adolescent, and the Queen his indulgent parent.
But only the Dark Lord himself knew just how close this came to the truth.
The moment of displeasure was less substantial than a wisp of smoke, and it quickly dissolved. The figure in black at the pedestal looked as if his gaze had gone to root itself fixatedly on something far out in the horizon, beyond the windows of the room, the palace, and Dranthiris-Ankhar itself. Rákkhed stood and waited.
Finally, "I will contact her when I may."
The figure then gestured for the assassin to come forward and take the heavy black cloak that he had just slung off from his shoulders, revealing the full-cut, long black robes he wore beneath: detailed with embroidery of jet, and belted with black leather that matched his knee-length boots. Now, the Sytherrian burial mask was at last allowed to be seen fully, in all its stark coldness. As he had let the faery princess see, it was iron, and black-silver in colour, with blank, emotionless features and only a thin slit in the mouth to allow him breath. The rest of the mask completely covered his face, and his head as a whole—
Which was a fortunate thing indeed, as Elowyn might have seen now, when he at last removed it.
After his horrible defeat on the battlefields outside of the faery fortress of Avalennon, the Dark Lord had only been able to summon up just enough power to ghost himself away, back to the camp of the fleeing armies that the Dark Realm had once called its own. Of course, his ever-faithful guardsmen, the Antari, had at once rallied around him, ready to defend their mortally wounded Lord – although he would not admit how greatly he had been hurt by the blast of faery-powers that had hit him, head-on, in the chest, that day – to the death.
Then, finally, the Ebony Queen had at last made her appearance.
With the aid of her powers, she brought them all to the Black City, her chief citadel, and brought forward this ultimatum to her fallen servant: "You have but one choice now, Jaedin Ríth-Anstarinaor," she told him, without a flicker of emotion on her cold, beautiful face. "Either embrace the chill form of Death, and leave this world forever, before you have yet begun to live, or seek instead the living death that I will give you."
And when he had asked, through the agonizing pain that he was suffering, what this 'living death' would be, she told him.
"You must remove your life-force, your living soul, from your body, sundering what link was once there, and betake yourself into the form of a wraith: powerful as you formerly were, but invisible to any eye, and unable to leave your own city. Your body will lie in wait, until there is enough power regenerated for you to return into it."
He had almost no choice: there were precious few moments of life and strength remaining for him, and so great was his need for revenge against the White Realm, even through the mind-breaking pain that was then assailing him, that he was blinded to all else. It was unhappily that he made his choice, however, for what lord of great strength would surrender himself willingly into several hundred thousand years of going about in the world as a wraith, and skulking in the shadows, when he might have continued on in the battle of darkness against the light, and eventually dominated the world?
Even so, he endured the spell-casting that would sunder the link between his outward body and the spirit that lay within it, and the Dark Lord of Sytherria became no more: instead, it was a wraith that haunted the vast black halls of the great palace, Dranthiris-Ankhar.
He had waited for so long…and now this.
The reason why he wore the burial mask was because – to all intents and purposes – he was exactly the kind of creature that such things were reserved for: a corpse. The customs of the Dark Realm differed from those of the White Realm in the arena of burial and body preservation, as it did in almost everything else, and whereas the faeries and others like them preferred to send their dead to the heavens as ashes scattered to the wind, the inhabitants of the Dark Realm most often opted for a more interesting and difficult procedure: mummification.
He had been too angry over his defeat still to know anything about what went on during his body's embalming, and had spent the time fuming in his fortress, while his Queen oversaw the event – and after hundreds of thousands of years, when he was at last restored to his ancient form, it had been quite different than he remembered it. The powers that had gone into once more forming the link between body and soul had only been enough to do just that – not to give him the appearance he once had. That was up to him.
It was a long, slow process: dragging the power that would allow him to completely restore his body to what it had been out of wherever it had been resting, and then absorbing it into himself. But it was, again, his only choice.
He was getting quite tired of having only one choice.
The burial mask removed, he strode across the room to stand in front of the large, full-length mirror of reflective black adamant. For reasons that he and a precious few others knew, everyday mirrors would not show his image, and so he had created this one specifically for his own use, utilizing his dark powers. Even so, its surface was cracked.
As he looked into the black depths, he saw the exact same visage that looked out at him every time that he gazed into the mirror: a discoloured, rough, and rather scaly face and neck, looking as if it had just come out of the grave. Which wasn't far from the truth, he knew – still, having the form of a mummy was better than being undead, he had long ago decided. He then smirked: a painful, twisted sneer at both his ruined face and form, and at the thought of what the little faery bratling that he held captive in his tower would have done, had he shown her his face. As it was, he was fully aware that his looks were mind-breaking enough, and quite hideous.
He turned around.
His captain of the guard was still standing there, awaiting his master's next command. Rákkhed had long accustomed himself to the Dark Lord's wraith form, and then to his burial mask, but the sight of his living dead face still unnerved, so graphic was it in its hideousness. It was with admirable calm, however, that he then spoke.
"I trust that my lord found everything well at the Tower of Adamant?" he inquired, naming the place where Elowyn was being held.
The Dark Lord scoffed: the endless depths of his amber eyes rolling, as a willful young adolescent boy's might.
"Just as well as one might expect things to go in this particular nurse-maiding endeavor," he replied, scornfully; then, recalling something of the moment in which he had used his most dire force to subdue the defiant young faery princess, he put the fingertips of one hand up to his mouth, gently probing the area with his tongue.
He frowned, scowling slightly.
"She bit me," he muttered.
Rákkhed's dark, curving eyebrows shot up a bit upon hearing this, but otherwise, he made no reaction. The things that his master said and did, but neglected to give an explanation for, were his affair alone, and no one – especially the Antari, whose mission was to live and die for Ríth-Anstarinaor of Sytherria – would dare cross him.
Sensing slight disapproval in his servant's air, the tall, black figure of the Dark Lord of old whirled about, rounding on him, and this time, there was a flicker of dangerous fire in those deep amber eyes, which warned the one who looked upon him to tread carefully – the least dreadful death that those who displeased the Dark Lord could fear was being blasted into any number of pieces by a surge of power from his fingertips.
"Leave me now," he ordered, coldly, brooking no outlet for further conversation; but then, almost as an afterthought, "Unless you have anything else to inform me of, Captain Dahk-Marr."
Rákkhed did in fact have something else to inform him of, although he regretted it. Stepping forward with a reluctant air about him, he answered, "There is one other thing, my lord."
The figure in black had already turned away from him, returning from the mirror back across the room to a set of huge black doors which showed, upon being opened, a truly crypt-like bedchamber, lit with thick crimson candles that dripped their wax onto the gleaming floor, where it pooled like blood. At length, then, "And what of it?"
"On this very morn, prior to your return, there was a winged stallion of the East flown to the gates of our city, my lord – one of the famed Pegasus of the Elves." A pause. "It is an enraged and wild creature, untamable by any hand."
His master gathered together the facts that he did not include, processing them coolly and quickly through his dark mind, as if he were calculating battle strategies or famine losses.
"Come to fetch his young mistress, no doubt," was the reply. "Well then – what people hold the creature in delay?"
Rákkhed, if he was surprised by his master's reaction, did not show it.
"A detachment of my men, my liege."
Evidently satisfied, "Indeed. Give the poor brute a place in the wing with my mounts, and let him be taken care of. I shall, perhaps, pay a visit to this noble animal of the sea-loving Elves – apparently, our lady Queen has not yet seen the need to hasten herself to this place in order to advance this diabolical plot of ours any further, and so I see that I must needs find a way to make some entertainment for myself, for us, whilst we await her. You have my leave to go."
The captain of the Antari bowed and left the room, the huge black doors sliding shut behind him with the grating of stone upon stone, leaving Jaedin, the Dark Lord of Sytherria, in the darkness that so well mirrored the depths of his own heart.
But it was known by every living creature who inhabited the palace of Dranthiris-Ankhar that the darkness did not mean that all was quiet and still – no indeed, the darkness was anything but the herald of silence and sleep…and in the crypt where the Dark Lord made his deepest, most personal lair, the shadows that night saw the beginnings of yet another act that would chill even the bravest of hearts…
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A/N: Scary thought – we've now journeyed inside of what is quite possibly the darkest lair in all of Evyrworld: the castle of the Dark Lord himself. Who knows what lies within the deepest shadows here? We shall soon find out! And forgive the awful cliff-hangers; I don't write them that way to be mean *winks*, it's just how the story goes… R&r!