The Kingdoms of Evil

by Daniel Bensen

"There," said Bloodbyrn. She rose from her seat across from Freetrick and slid into place on top of the cocooned Freetrick, her uncomfortable underwear sinking into the quivering surface of the monster.

  "Now my lord will remain where he is safe. Safe," Bloodbyrn repeated, brushing her metal-tipped fingers through Freetrick's hair, "from the soldiers of Good." She tapped Freetrick's forehead with a metal-coated fingernail. "For, though political expediency might dictate that they escort us from their god's lands, I, for one, am not confident that these so-called 'Proctors' can be depended upon to ignore their Do-Gooder imperative and fall upon us to destroy the Despot and Soon-to-be Ultimate Fiend, Feerborg, himself."

  "Who?" Freetrick tried to wrench himself out from under from the terrible woman. The elastic folds of the Futon tugged him relentlessly back.

  She turned sideways on his lap, looking at him with a puzzled expression. "The Rationalists, my lord?"

  "No," said Freetrick, "the other guy. King…Feerborg?" The name sounded familiar; Freetrick was sure he had heard it recently. But so much of the past day was confused.

  "Feerborg?" Bloodbyrn repeated, her expression puzzled, "Why, that is you, my lord."

  "Huh?"

  "If his Malevolence would excuse the interruption," Freetrick's head jerked sideways at Mr. Skree's chill wheeze. There was a blurry latticework carved into the wall of the carriage behind him. Behind it, light shone past the dangling silhouette of the monster. "'Feerborg' is the name to which the cowering masses of our enemies may refer as they describe the source of their manifold torments."

  "No I'm not! Wait," Freetrick paused a moment to decode the sentence, "I mean, no it isn't! I mean my name isn't Feerborg, I'm Freetrick. Freetrick Feend!" He turned his eyes up to Bloodbyrn. Hope sprung wild in his heart. "You guys want someone named Feerborg? Well that isn't me. You've got the wrong guy! Now let me go while there's still time to sort out this mess!"

  Bloodbyrn sighed and leaned back across his lap, resting her back against the side of the carriage, still playing with his hair. "And amongst the Rationalists, too," she said, "who put such stock in the true names of things. My lord, have you never examined your own name, so-called Freetrick Feend?"

  "This is all a mistake." Freetrick whispered desperately.

  "Nonsense," said Bloodbyrn.

  "...forgive the contraction, fiend," came Mr. Skree's murmur from behind them.

  "Did not the Power of the First God find you? Is my lord's skin not as white as a corpse's, his eyes as black as the void between the foolish stars?" Bloodbyrn's finger brushed Freetrick's face, and his skin prickled. "Oh no, my lord. There has been no mistake."

  "…a thousand pardons…"

  "Now," Bloodbyrn's eyes narrowed. "I am aware that you have lived long amongst the Do-Gooders, but you are free now, safe with like-minded villains." She tapped his forehead again. It was like being struck between the eyes with a tiny fireplace poker. "And honestly I grow tired of your apparent timidity."

  "…Again we beg the Ruler of Nightmare to forgive the criticism."

  "In conclusion, the time has come to abandon your old persona and don your new role as Despot of Evil." Bloodbyrn clapped her hands together and nodded at him. "So. Speak now."

  "Eeeeh…eeeh…eeeh," said the carriage under them.

  "Speak, I say!"

  Freetrick swallowed. For the first time he thought how small his chances of escape might actually be, and the realization yawned below him, as sweaty and suffocating as the Futon. He tried to control his breathing and squinted up at Bloodbyrn's face, now less than a handbreadth from his own. Set above wide cheekbones in a dainty face, her kohl-lined eyes seemed huge. Huge and strange: light-irised like a Warrior Maiden's, but…orange. And all that would have been off-putting enough without the multiple, painful-looking piercings, as well as an expression that did nothing to sooth his fear. And the two handfuls of creamy breast her posture thrust at his chin.

  A barbed hook rose with one of her eyebrows and her teeth flashed. "Does my lord see something he desires? What would he do to…take what he wants?"

  Freetrick blinked. Could she possibly be saying what he thought she was saying?

  Her smile disappeared. "Would my lord stare so at a Dark Lady?" Bloodbyrn drew her hand back, and for the last time in his life, the movement did not put Freetrick in mind of a rearing rattle-snake: a warning of intense and imminent pain. "It is unbefitting."

  "What? Oh, I'm sorr---," stammered Freetrick automatically.

  Then her hand slammed into his cheek with the force of a pistol shot.

  Freetrick could do nothing but stare at her in shock as Bloodbyrn smiled and then reached down to slide a metal claw up the angle of the jaw she had just tried to dislocate. Her fingers tightened over his jaw, and Bloodbyrn yanked his head downward. Freetrick got another view of her heaving, pale bosom. "You admire them now," her voice was as smooth and deadly as a scorpion's stinger, "but soon I will teach you to fear them."

  Freetrick screamed silently.

  Bloodbyrn shoved his head back up. "Well?" her smile grew eager, "what do you have to say to that, my lord?"

  "I…" What did she expect from him? Freetrick could think of absolutely no way to respond to her. "I…"

  "Yes? You what?" She demanded, voice rising, "You cannot defend yourself? You are a spineless worm, writhing under my boot-heel? You are squinting at me in an entirely unbefitting manner? Out with it!"

  Freetrick swallowed, trying to figure out what response would make her go away. He couldn't think fast enough.

  Bloodbyrn's tined fingers closed over Freetrick's earlobe. "Defend yourself, Tempest take you! Oh, exsanguination." Bloodbyrn flung herself back into her own seat, vanishing into the blurry shadows. "Oh, forgive my asperity, my lord, Mr. Skree, but the situation leaves me at a loss."

  Not at a loss for words, obviously. Freetrick wished he could rub his throbbing ear.

  Mr. Skree made a sort of lisped death rattle that was probably meant to be a soothing hush. "My lady. We must not fault the Soon-to-be Ultimate Fiend. Yet the mind of the Dark Lord remains ignorant of the mighty and terrible heritage bequeathed him by the twisted tree of his genealogy."

  "Well, we must begin at some point to instruct our lord on the basics of proper behavior." Lace slithered over leather and Bloodbyrn was suddenly across from him, leaning forward. "So. I shall strike you again the next time you gaze upon me inappropriately, my lord, then I await my lord's response, and we shall continue the game from there."

  Freetrick tried to wriggle away from her, but Bloodbyrn only leaned further toward him.

  The carriage rocked and screamed under them. The red light-globe swung on its chain. Freetrick's face stung where she had slapped him, and his body sweltered under the sweaty folds of the Futon.

  "Or," said Bloodbyrn, "we can, of course, talk."

  Freetrick swallowed. "Bloodbyrn," he said. "Make this monster release me."

  "All right, my lord." The direct command seemed to work. Bloodbyrn pursed her lips, then nodded. "Only down to the hips, I think," she patted the Futon.

  Freetrick grimaced as the boneless monster squirmed down his torso, until Freetrick could pull his hands free.

  Freetrick sighed in pleasure as the air hit his sweaty forearms, then said "guh?" in consternation as he looked down at his body. "Did you people dress me while I was unconscious?"

  "Of course we did," Bloodbyrn said as Freetrick examined the thumb-width strips of cloth that now bound him, mummy-like, from waist to elbows, "We could hardly allow my lord to remain in his rotting Do-Gooder clothing, could we? My lord's current accoutrement is made of viler stuff, indeed."

  There was a moan from Mr. Skree outside. "This worthless and unworthy laborer fully expects to be strangled with his own intestines for failing to anticipate the need for formal attire that could be worn while in the grip of the Futon."

  "I shall order you flogged later, worry not," Bloodbyrn said. "Now," her voice took on a businesslike detach
ment "I am sure my lord will wish to be informed of the current tactical situation in Clouds-Gather."

  "What? What are you talking about?" His cheek and ear were still throbbing. Whatever else his education might have prepared him for, he had no idea how to deal with an abusive spouse.

  "Clouds-Gather, my lord. Your castle. In the Necropolis. At the center of the Bleaklands," Bloodbyrn's voice grew more strained as Freetrick's expression of absolute ignorance remained in place. "In Skrea."

  Freetrick blinked. "You're taking me into Skrea."

  "Of course we are taking you into Skrea, my lord, for you are its king."

  Freetrick took a breath to protest, but Bloodbyrn cut him off. "We have made no mistake, my lord."

  She leaned forward again. "And I, personally, did not come all this way to...would you stare so at a Dark Lady, my lord ?"

  Her hand caught his cheek, and Freetrick was sure he saw drops of blood fly through the air on the follow-through.

  "Oh do not whimper so," she said, disgusted. "Tempest above, but you are a spineless thing. And do not squint at me, or I shall discipline you again."

  "I can't see, you bitch," Freetrick snarled before he could catch himself. He shut his eyes against the next blow and jerked inside his cocoon of warm monster when he felt instead the pressure of one of Bloodbyrn's hands caressing the gash she had made. "Do not show your teeth to me, my lord," Bloodbyrn murmured, "for we are soon to be un-wed. Now, why is it you cannot see?"

  Freetrick struggled to regain his ability to speak.

  "Hhhem." Mr. Skree's throat clearing noise would have made a mummy sound vivacious. "Excuse this pitiably beseeching worm, Malevolence. If it pleases the mightiest of villains, this woeful excrescence has dared to formulate a theory as to the nature of his Master and Tormentor's current inconvenience, as well as a humble suggestion as to the most opportune and efficacious method of resolving this difficulty."

  There was an accordion-like wheeze as Mr. Skree inhaled, "Though it may be suggested only under the direst of penalties that the mighty corpus of the Soon-to-be Ultimate Fiend is anything but perfection made flesh, it is the humble opinion of this lowly servant that a congenital inclination of the eyes prevents the Scourge of Virtue from exercising his full powers of perception over great distances."

  "Oh I see," said Bloodbyrn, "Thank you Mr. Skree."

  "What?" Freetrick was still grappling with 'the mighty corpus of the Soon-to-be Ultimate Fiend.' "What did he just say?"

  Bloodbyrn ignored him, "We can certainly have spectacles made at the Castle."

  "Just so, Dark Lady."

  "Well, my lord," Bloodbyrn turned to face him again, "you shall simply have to remain patient until we arrive at Castle Clouds-Gather."

  "What are you talking…" Freetrick stopped as his mind finally finished sifting through Mr. Skree's nested clauses. "Yes. I'm nearsighted. I got the problem fixed, word-magically, back in school."

  "And of course the un-holy body of the Ultimate Fiend is anathema to the works of the Do-Gooder gods." Bloodbyrn sounded bored.

  Freetrick remembered the black distillate of evil vaporizing from his pores and jerked in his monster cocoon. Wait, no. That was a good thing. He could burn a hole in this thing, dissolve the carriage, and escape! Wait, no. He couldn't help excreting the corrosive ooze. Bloodbyrn would think he was trying to escape even if he wasn't. Wait, no. None of that was actually happening.

  "Wait," said Freetrick. "No. Why aren't I leaking evil black goo all over the place?"

  Bloodbyrn raised her eyebrows, then looked down in the direction of Freetrick's crotch. She leaned back from him slightly.

  "Allow this hollow vessel to disentangle the dark and twisted utterances of the Black Oracle, lest the Dark Lady find her entirely justified fear and trepidation focus on incorrect assumptions and thus distract her from the true dangers of the nuptial bed of the Soon-to-be-Ultimate Fiend."

  "Thanks, Mr. Skree," muttered Freetrick.

  "He Who would Snuff all Light and Happiness refers only to the necromancer's mist, which, in the natural course of his assumption to his dark power, began to waft from the enchanted skin of the Lord of Monsters after his assumption to his true and terrible form. Of course," Was that the hint of a smile in that pickled voice? "It reacted badly in conjunction with the foul Do-Gooder word-magic."

  "Ohhh." Non-compatible magical systems would explain why no Rationalist spells would work around him. He really was anathema to the RU, its god, and all His works. Wonderful.

  Freetrick wondered what the normal reaction was to this sort of thing. Well, obviously not exactly this sort of thing. Trading insults with an heiress on the way to the Kingdoms of Evil while being slowly digested by animate furniture was, he was sure, not common for college students. But in general.

  Denial was always a good option, but Freetrick hadn't had much luck with that so far. Then there was panic. Yes. Check. He'd done that too. What was left? Acceptance? How about manipulation?

  Freetrick looked across at Bloodbyrn. He had the distinct impression that if he planned to try manipulating his kidnappers, he'd better plan pretty striking well. He would only get one chance.

  "So…" Freetrick tried, "where, uh, exactly are we headed? Castle…what was it?"

  "Castle Clouds-Gather," said Bloodbyrn, "in the center of the Skrean Bleaklands."

  "The what?"

  "The Bleaklands, they stretch from Sangboire in the east---"

  "Where?"

  "Mr. Skree!" Bloodbyrn called.

  "Ah…Perhaps the Soul of Darkness would appreciate a lesson in the geography of the nations that have so recently fallen into the Soon-to-be-fiend's clutches," Mr. Skree said.

  Freetrick winced. They would be half way across the mountains by the time the monster was done with paragraph one. "Actually…" he began, but his voice was drowned out by Mr. Skree's wheezing in-breath.

  "Those domains of infinite villainy the world rightly fears as the Kingdoms of Evil squat upon the central plain of the continent like a toad upon the corpse of a unicorn," he began, and the lesson went downhill from there.

  Freetrick had to concentrate hard to pull information out of the disquieting similes and labyrinthine clauses. Rationalist maps more or less stopped east of the Bulwarks, but according to Mr. Skree, there was a huge expanse of land there, much wider than the area between the mountains and the coast.

  First, there was Skrea, the nation of the god of death, which occupied and possibly created the vast desert east of the Bulwarks, the Bleaklands. In the north, the Bleaklands gave way to the cold, hilly prairie of the Allmans, and in the south the !Quatl had built a huge wall along the border. Freetrick knew about the horse-riding barbarians and the industrious pyramid-builders, of course, but, "Sang-what and who-now?"

  "Sangboire of the God of Blood and St'tdrakh of the God of Fear, oh He Whose very Name is a Curse in a Dozen Languages," Mr. Skree answered. "With Skrea of the First God, the God of Death, these three form the Kingdoms of Evil, that mighty force against whom none on the continent may stand."

  Death, blood, and fear. Delightful.

  "Skrea rules the Kingdoms of Evil, my lord," Bloodbyrn said. "Be assured that the fear-barons of St'tdrakh and we Sangboise are but my lord's humble subjects."

  Appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, apparently.

  "Which is why," Bloodbyrn continued, "I may confidently pledge to you the combined forces of the god of Blood and our faction among the necromancers when we resist your half-brother's attack."

  "My whose attack?"

  Bloodbyrn sighed and rubbed her fingers over the bridge of her nose. "My lord's half-brother. Dark Prince Feerix of the Sharpened Thumb."

  "This guy," said Freetrick, "Feerix. He's my brother?"

  "My lord's half-brother," said Bloodbyrn.

  "...to excuse the correction," whispered Mr. Skree. "Spawn of the Ignoble Lady Batclaw, now murdered, and of the previous Ultimate Fiend Wrothborg, may the blood never dry from his ha
nds."

  "A brother," said Freetrick, "a family." He was surprised how much the idea affected him. He had grown up in a succession of exclusive boarding schools, and never seen much difference between the resident teachers, who after all gave him care and attention every day, and the distant voices on the magic mirror that the other students called their parents.

  Yes, he had wondered what kind of people his parents had been, and how they might have died, but the thoughts had been abstract, un-specific, and mostly confined to times when he was being punished by his guardians. Now, Freetrick realized the question he should have been asking himself all those years in school: where had his tuition come from?

  Freetrick imagined payments arriving at the desk of the bursar in the form of pirate's chests filled with bloody golden coins. Or letters written in blood on a parchment of human skin arriving at the desk of his high school principal: "How's our boy doing? Tell him the monsters are all doing well, and Mr. Skree misses him. Bloodbyrn sends her love, and says she could give you a vicious slap to the face. See you at the Black Rite of Winter Solstice!"

  "My lord?" Bloodbyrn said, in a tone of voice that jerked Freetrick violently back into reality.

  "Sorry. I was just thinking," he said. "If I really am who you think I am, which I'm not admitting, then that would mean…I'm not an orphan."

  "Not until last month, Cruel One." Said Mr. Skree.

  "Oh. Right." That was actually probably for the best. While it was nice to know he had not actually been fatherless his whole life, it was probably a good thing he hadn't grown up with the Ultimate Fiend of the Kingdoms of Evil for a daddy. That raised other questions, though. "What about the rest of my family?"

  "My lord," began Bloodbyrn, but Mr. Skree cleared his throat and she fell silent. Freetrick was fairly sure she ranked above him in the Skrean hierarchy, but it would have taken an even stronger will than hers to hold ground against that noise. 'Sepulchral' would only begin a very long and unsettling description.

  "The Despot Feerborg has no family of the First Degree apart from his half brother, the dark lord and prince Feerix, he of the Sharpened Thumb," said the vampire, "but of the Second to Seventh Degrees there are twice thirteen less one."