The Kingdoms of Evil

by Daniel Bensen

  Freetrick tried not to shudder. "I would prefer it if we...just sort of got to the point."

  "Indeed, my lord," DeMacabre raised an eyebrow. "Then I shall hasten to send the Master of Slaves and Entertainment a missive to that effect." He stretched his hands above his head and clapped twice. "Messenger bat!"

  "Ahem." Freetrick jerked at the cough from his left shoulder. A be-ruffled leg folded itself against his side as Bloodbyrn turned toward him. "In the spirit of moving forward efficiently and precipitately with plans, and on the subject of sending messages…" She kicked him in the hip with a tiny high-heeled shoe, "I would speak to my lord with regard to our un-wedding of tomorrow night. Has my lord made his decisions concerning the decorations?"

  "Uh…" said Freetrick.

  "I ask," Bloodbyrn continued, "because I really must have the cauldron samples and bruise swatches I sent returned to me."

  Was that what those had been? "Bloodbyrn." Freetrick cleared his throat. "I'd…boy, I'd love to talk with you about this, but um, well…" he looked down, and nearly cried out in relief, "but they're bringing the first petitioner into the Audience Pit! I've got to see what she has to say," the woman stumbled across the sand below him. "And then help her solve her…why are the monsters still there?"

  "My lord," chuckled DeMacabre, "why ever not?"

  "My lord," said Bloodbyrn, "to the matter at hand…"

  "But they're looking at her like they're going to…sweet words!" Freetrick stared down at the scene unfolding below him, "where the hell did she get that enormous whip?"

  "She?" DeMacabre looked down. "Aha. May I assume my lord refers to the human meat on the area floor? Why, it is but for your entertainment, my lord."

  "My lord, focus," Bloodbyrn kicked him again.

  "DeMacabre, what is that petitioner doing down there?"

  "Fighting monsters. And rather well, it seems. Oh. Excellent. Took its eye right out."

  Claws flashed darkly through the air, but the girl was not where she had been a moment before. The girl landed, crouched in the dust of the pit on the monster's opposite side. Then she was up from her crouch, her whip flickering out to score a gash across the face of the second monster.

  The crowd roared.

  "I mean," Freetrick gritted his teeth, "why is she in the Audience Pit."

  "I assume the guards dragged her there."

  "If you cannot decide which color you prefer your bruises," Bloodbyrn pressed, "I shall tell the decorator to improvise, but I must know your plans, my lords, as they pertain to the blood-letting."

  The first monster leaped, and the girl could barely drop and roll away before its many legs struck the ground.

  Freetrick's ridiculous crown shook as he tried to clear his head. "But why…I don't want to watch this."

  There was a hollow clatter as Bloodbyrn knocked on the skulls over Freetrick's head. "Then turn round, my lord, and speak to me."

  "I can't," said Freetrick. "DeMacabre, stop this."

  "Indeed, fiend?" DeMacabre had settled back into his chair, but now he turned and looked up at Freetrick, "shall I give the order for her to be killed then?"

  A monstrous claw, larger across than the girl's face, thrust toward her. She spun on a heel, caught the limb under her arm, and flung herself down to crack it against the ground. Before she could let go, the leg twitched and flung her through the air, into the stone wall of the pit.

  "Kill her?" said Freetrick, "True Words! Why would I want to see that?"

  "Fiend?" DeMacabre was looking at him with an expression of honest-seeming confusion.

  "I have no desire," said Freetrick as two sets of slavering jaws swung open in the pit below, "to see a pretty girl torn apart in front of me."

  DeMacabre looked blank for a moment, then smiled, "Ah. Of course. How thoughtless of me for not inquiring as to the new king's tastes before this entertainment was arranged." He raised an eyebrow, then winked over Freetrick's head at Bloodbyrn. "in what state should the corpse be brought before you two, fiend and daughter?"

  There was a thin, despairing wail from below.

  Freetrick gritted his teeth. "Alive, please."

  Another blank look. "My lord?"

  "I don't want you to kill the girl at all." Freetrick's voice was calm, but the claws of his gloves scored deep grooves into the craniums under his hands, "We'll run out of them entirely at this rate. DeMacabre, have her life spared."

  "Spare a life?" An eyebrow rose as DeMacabre scratched his beard. "My lord is perverse indeed."

  "See to it, DeMacabre."

  "Oh, very well." DeMacabre clapped twice and another messenger-bat alighted on his hand. He whispered to the little animal, "the petitioner will be spared, sayeth the Ultimate Fiend."

  "And delivered to me," said Freetrick, "so I can decide what to do with her."

  Bloodbyrn gave a snort of ladylike derision.

  "Of course," DeMacabre smiled wickedly. "That I did not doubt for a moment, my lord. So his Malevolence sayeth, so be it done."

  The crowd booed as two ogres rushed into the pit to save the girl. Several threw food at the monsters. A couple threw their own servants.

  "My lord," said Bloodbyrn again, "I should like to speak with you now about our un-wedding."

  "Bloodbyrn, please," Freetrick twisted around in his throne to look up at her fluted torso, rising up over his left shoulder, "I am not in the mood---stop kicking me!"

  "Daughter," came DeMacabre's voice from below. "Be easy. If the Ultimate Fiend is not eager to discuss his upcoming un-hallowed un-matrimony, who are we to gainsay him?"

  "But father---" His Bloodbyrn.

  "Daughter, be easy, I say."

  Freetrick looked around to see DeMacabre standing again, arms resting on the back of his chair as he looked up at them. The Duke's eyes seeming to glow with pumpkin glee from the shadow under his hat. "For I believe that which approaches will change his fiendish mind."

  "What...?"

  Demacabre's voice slid into a deep and slimy murmur. "The Dark Ladies, my lord."

  Freetrick's fingers tightened over a cranial dome, his clawed formal gloves scraping grooves in the bone of his armrest. Slowly, carefully, he leaned forward to look below the foot of his throne.

  There, climbing the stadium seats toward his platform, the horde of women advanced.

  Freetrick crashed back against the back of the throne, but there was nowhere to hide. Within moments, the advance runners had mounted the steps to his platform, a tide of nubile flesh and disturbing leather underwear.

  For a moment, Freetrick hoped that the women might fight each other for him, and he could somehow escape in the confusion. The tactic had worked in the Vile Halls the previous week, but as soon as Freetrick formed the hope, he knew this time it would be futile. For the ladies of Skrea had been planning. They formed a line.

  Bloodbyrn made a disapproving noise.

  "Oh my lord!" came the cry from below Freetrick's throne, "What bounty you enjoy!"

  "DeMacabre, you are not helping!" Freetrick tried to press himself into his throne, away from those hungry smiles.

  "Oh yes!" DeMacabre said, "excuse me, my lord. How thoughtless of me not to render aid to my indomitable liege. Ahem. May I present the Dark Princess Deadbolt, daughter of—"

  "DeMacabre!"

  "Father!"

  "Tra la!" The Duke sang, and then proceeded to introduce each of the eligible young ladies—or at least optimistic female beings—in turn as they filed past.

  "The Dark Princess Firebolt, daughter of his fiendishness the Dark Prince Wrothug Despot Hlirghor—"

  "I look forward to feeling your tender flesh between my teeth, my lord."

  Freetrick crossed his legs.

  "Ingnoble Lady Squeezevein, daughter of his wickedness the Dark Ignoble Thorchoke—"

  "May I sit on your lap, my lord?"

  Freetrick uncrossed his legs, eyes on the world's most frightening bustle. "Words, no!"

  "Ignoble Lady Banedark, dau
ghter of his wickedness the Dark Ignoble Strakhblargle despot Dewmnor."

  "How about you sit in my lap, my lord?"

  She wore a skirt of what looked like strung eagle talons, which did not conceal a pair of thighs that could probably crack Freetrick's skull. He glared at DeMacabre, still rattling off names.

  What was the old reprobate doing introducing his prospective future son in law and boss to all these nubile young rivals? The purpose, Freetrick suspected, was to show the girls that Freetrick was taken. Bloodbyrn's smirking, cold-eyed stares were clearly as unnerving to some of the women as they were to him. But the other point being made here was very likely directed at him, Freetrick: if you think Bloodbyrn is scary...

  "Now now," DeMacabre paused in his recitation, "the Ultimate Fiend is a very busy man. What would become of all the other ladies if you took up all his valuable time?"

  "I'm sure they would figure out something." Ignoble Lady Banedark smiled and licked her lips. Her tongue was unnaturally long, red, and pointed.

  "Maybe some other time," DeMacabre insisted, "Next! Ignoble Lady Blightbog, daughter of his wickedness the Dark Ignoble Wrathnath despot Nghakhor—"

  "Snarl!"

  "Dark Princess Slugslime, daughter of his Fiendishness the Dark Prince Wrothnyth Despot Nghiffor—"

  "Squee!"

  "And Dark Princess Toadslime, also daughter of his Fiendishness Wrothnyth Nghiffor-"

  "Gwee!"

  "And who? Aw, how precious. My Lord, may I present Curlsquirm, daughter of his Wickedness the Ignoble Bleeryarr Despot South Ftaghor."

  "Hello, my lord."

  Freetrick looked down.

  "Oh. Um. Hello there, um, little girl."

  She was maybe six years old, in a red and purple dressed stitched with silver skulls and winged toads.

  "Hello," she said, "I have new teefies."

  "Yes," said Freetrick, "I can…uh…see that you do." Someday, he hoped, her face would grow up around them.

  "Feel my hair!" she said, "it's spiky."

  It was. "Very nice," said Freetrick. "You um…are you here to un-marry me?"

  "Maybe," said the little girl. She stared at the Ultimate Fiend with enormous dark eyes, then seemed to remember something. "Daddy says I get to bite you."

  "Uh…you do?" said Freetrick as he patted her spiky hair. "Now, that isn't very—ow! Strike it out that hurts." Freetrick fought the urge to snatch his hand back. The girl would probably hang on like a snapping turtle. "DeMacabre? How do I—ow! Make her let go?"

  "Now Curlsquirm, you obey the Ultimate Fiend and stop biting, or he will have to impale you on a stick, there's a darling." DeMacabre called up from below.

  "Teefies!" Curlsquirm mumbled around Freetrick's hand, then let go with a pop.

  "I am pleased to see my lord has such facility with children."

  It was impossible for Freetrick to tell whether Bloodbyrn was being sarcastic or not

  "Adorable!" Gushed DeMacabre. "Now, move along, my dear. Who is next? Ah yes, lady Gobreen, daughter of…"

  And so it continued.

  Freetrick settled miserably into his chair, tried to rub the tooth marks out of his hand, and let the women file seductively, erotically, or as the case may be, horrifyingly past him.

  Freetrick wondered if he ought to be enjoying this more. He could almost hear Istain, 'a parade of willing, provocatively-dressed females and you wish they would go away? What the hell is wrong with you?' The problem was that the operative word here was not "parade" but "horde." They just kept coming, as relentless as any horizon-spanning nomad invasion. With nothing on mind but rape and pillage. And when they were finished Bloodbyrn would swoop down and devour the survivors.

  And then there was Skrean fashion, which was basically impossible to look at. Half of the women's outfit seemed to consist of spines, barbs, and live animals, but what was worse was the other half, which didn't consist of much at all. Freetrick tried not to wince as someone, "…daughter of his Fiendishness the Dark Prince Teirchoke the Jaded Despot Noggor," displayed herself in a way that Freetrick did not want to see. She was at least forty and reminded him far too much of his 5th grade chemistry teacher. As Freetrick tried to wish the woman a good day while at the same time not actually looking at her, he reflected that, like much of life in the Kingdoms of Evil, Skrean fashion was cruel to those who weren't built for it.

  Or for the women who were built for it, apparently.

  "Lady Ashwing, daughter of his Wickedness the Dark Lord Blogrog," announced DeMacabre, as Freetrick, terrified, dropped his eyes to the ground.

  Ashwing was short, the same height as Bloodbyrn, but—and there was no other way to describe her---she had very large breasts. She was better endowed even than Zathara, and she would have been very nice to look at indeed if her clothing hadn't been made entirely out of living spiders.

  "Feerborg, the Ultimate Fiend," she purred, "long have I waited for this day."

  "Uh," said Freetrick. He knew he ought to look up at her face, but his eyes were currently on her feet, and he didn't think they would survive the journey. "Why is that?"

  The spiders held on for dear life as Ashwing swayed forward. "Long have I waited to test the mettle of the Ultimate Fiend. To know him. As a man."

  Freetrick looked up, stricken. Ashwing was right in front of him, and she looked great under all those bugs.

  "Well? What has my lord to say?"

  Freetrick quailed. And then realized that here was a situation for which he was actually prepared. Prepared, hell! Minus the spiders, he had dreamed about this. For once in his life he would have the upper hand in when talking to a hot girl.

  "Ashwing," he said, "I think you're really nice, but I'm just not interested in that kind of relationship right now." Ashwing's mouth pursed and her brows drew together. Spiders boiled, but Freetrick brought his eyes to her face, with force of will kept them there, and struck a blow for men everywhere. "I think we could make great friends!"

  "Hmm… great friends indeed." Ashwing brushed her hand through hair the color of dried blood. The spiders jiggled. "A better friend, I trust, than those who already surround you." And before Freetrick could react, "My lord, I apologize we could not meet sooner, but I was in the second carriage."

  "Honestly Ashwing," said Bloodbyrn. "Do you think that you can stand before me and say such things?"

  Ashwing did not break eye contact with Freetrick. "I am not standing before you, my dear, but the Ultimate Fiend."

  "Modulate your sentiments or face my lord's displeasure." She kicked him. "My lord?"

  "Wait a second," said Freetrick, brain activated by the pain in his side, "what second carriage?"

  "I left Clouds-Gather as soon as I received intelligence as to my lord's whereabouts," said Ashwing, "but I was not in time to collect you from your…fascinating former home. A school where word-magicians learn to write new spells. And where one may meet fellow students from across west coast. I believe my lord taught Love-wielder dances to a Betweener, a Virgin Soil refugee, and a Love-wielder princess. Fascinating." Ashwing pursed her black-painted lips at Bloodbyrn. "I have heard that…your current company does not appreciate my lord's exotic origins at all. A shame." She looked back at him, and Freetrick sighed involuntarily. "I look forward to learning…a great deal from you about your home nation, my lord."

  "How do you…" Freetrick shook his head, "know all this stuff about me?"

  "'Stuff,'" said Ashwing. "What a charming turn of phrase you have, my lord. You must teach me more of your western dialect."

  "You've been spying on me, haven't you?"

  "From every shadow."

  "Oh…good?" Freetrick swallowed.

  "You believe you have no allies, my lord," she said, "that you must depend on the aid of these Leeches. You do not." Ashwing spread her hands to indicate Bloodbyrn and DeMacabre. The tidal pull on Freetrick's eyes increased. "You are now crowned despot of Skrea and this imposter would have no recourse if you were to bind yourself to me." Sh
e stopped and looked at him. "Hmmm…how would my lord say 'bind your body to mine' in Rationalist?"

  "B…buh?" Freetrick stammered.

  Ashwing continued to smile, but now there was a hint of tooth behind the promise of her lips. "Here. Now." She took another step closer and now with Freetrick's throne on its raised platform she was nearly between his knees. "Before witnesses."

  Freetrick clamped his legs together. Truth help him. How could he get rid of her? Istain's voice: just be yourself.

  "Wait a second." Freetrick said.

  "I shall not wait a single second, my lord." The topheavy Skrean aristocrat advanced on him, the light of purpose in her eyes.

  "Oh by all my blood, enough."

  Light flashed, intense and bright and slightly pinkish. In the sudden illumination, Freetrick saw Ashwing's expression of steamy seduction turn into annoyance and squint. She stumbled backward, arm coming up to cover her face.

  "Really," Freetrick turned in his chair to see Bloodbyrn wiping dried blood from her glowing athame. "That was a touch overdone, dear Ashwing."

  "Bloodbyrn!" Freetrick sat up straight, trying to look monogamous. "What are you…uh…"

  His fiancée's expression told him, more eloquently than even Bloodbyrn's vocabulary could express, that he, Freetrick, was an idiot. Then her eyes slid back to the Skrean noblewoman, who was snarling and sublimating black necromantic haze.

  "Points for audacity, dear," Bloodbyrn said to her rival. "Nothing for style, or for forethought, but I am impressed that you would dare try to seduce my betrothed so openly." Her voice curdled with sweetness. "And by the way, father, thank you for your timely intervention."

  "I saw no need to interfere," called the jolly voice of DeMacabre from below. "What use is the prize won without effort, daughter? What use a demonstration interrupted? Besides, I find that, in the right sort of mood, I quite enjoy the company of the Ingnoble Lady Ashwing. And how is your father, my dear?"

  Lady Ashwing was apparently uninterested in social niceties. The shadows that limed her body deepened, the air snapped with malign chill "Yes, I dare, Bloodbyrn." Her black aura pulsed, pushing out insubstantial black tentacles that climbed over the skulls on Freetrick's right side. "I dare, for I am Ashwing, daughter of Blogrog! My rank is higher than yours, Lady Bloodbyrn, and the terror I inspire is far in excess!"