The Kingdoms of Evil

by Daniel Bensen

  Chapter the Tenth

  In which the Ultimate Fiend regrets losing his Temper

  Freetrick staggered out of the Audience Pit, drunk on shock and delayed reaction.

  He had just told the government of an empire larger than all the coastal nations combined that everything they believed they knew about their job was actually wrong. And when logic hadn't worked, he had postured like a first-year drama student at a costume party.

  And he had threatened what were probably the world's most dangerous men with regime change. What have I done? Freetrick screamed silently. Now, whether they had believed his ridiculous show or not, the dark aristocracy of Skrea would all be out for his blood. Probably literally.

  It was the first rule of public speaking: never lose control, but in front of those arrayed madmen, his options had been either forget they were there or strangle on his fear. Maybe strangulation would have been better. Freetrick leaned against the wall, gasping.

  "Fiend!" Skystarke rushed forward from his place by the door, then pulled up just short of touching his dread master. "What is amiss?" The monster's lips writhed over his nasal cavities. "Has some fow-el deed taken place in the Audience Pit?"

  "You could say that. Oh" Freetrick rubbed his temples, quashing the impulse to run back into the Audience Pit screaming: 'I didn't mean it! Evil is great! Go team Evil! Please don't kill me!' But no. He might have broken the first rule of public speaking hard enough to scatter pieces of his reputation from here to Eldritch College, but he still had the second rule intact: don't back down.

  "Fiend?" said Skystarke, "shall we go?"

  "No," a hysterical giggle escaped from Freetrick's control. "I have to wait for the…quite a lot of paperwork…I made everyone write." So he couldn't back out from what he had just said, but he could damn well use it.

  He hauled himself upright as the great onyx doors behind him swung open and a caravan of slaves emerged, each one carrying a pile of skins. There hadn't been enough writing materials in the Audience Pits for all the dark aristocrats to write their staff registers. At least, not initially. Some of the skins were still dripping.

  Behind that grisly convoy came the dark lords, ignobles, and princes of the Kingdoms of Evil, looking variously shocked, angry, or murderous.

  "My lord!"

  Freetrick gathered his fraying shreds of self-composure and turned to see DeMacabre and Bloodbyrn making their way toward him through the exiting crowd. The Duke wore his usually concussed manic expression, while Bloodbyrn radiated wrath like a little, well-proportioned furnace. Even the armor-plated necromancers gave her space as they filed through the hallway.

  "My lord," she said, and Freetrick flinched as if scalded by steam, "what you have done goes so far beyond what is acceptable—"

  "Nonsense, my daughter." The Duke's voice rose over the hubbub of the dark lords. "Be not acrimonious, but instead rejoice in dark glee, for our lord has finally settled upon his persona. Absolute insanity!" DeMacabre was at Freetrick's side, one tarantula arm slung over his shoulder, ghastly smile turned upon the oncoming crowd. "King Feerborg the Irredeemably Mad. It has been done before, but, if the most recent demonstration was any suitable basis for judgment, never so well. And now," he turned to breathe in Freetrick's ear like the foreboding of death, "my lord, if you value your life, follow my lead."

  Freetrick ground his teeth and attempted to look suitably unhinged.

  "Good," whispered DeMacabre. "And now, my lord, we walk ahead of your subjects. Yes," he said in a louder voice. "It was an excellent demonstration of your wickedness, oh Punisher of the Righteous. A horrendous time was had by all. Yes, he is a terror, isn't he? It took him no time at all to assume his greatly feared father's stranglehold on the nation, may the blood never dry from his hands. A bloody purge of the Evil government? Aha! One can only hope! Just continue to move forward, my lord. Good. And soon this will all…" Freetrick heard his armor creak as DeMacabre's fingers tightened over his shoulder, "…be over."

  They had passed the skin-bearing servants on their way to his apartments. Now, except for the shambling ogres of Freetrick's bodyguard, the hall before them was empty. The hall behind them, however…

  "Are they going to follow us all the way to my office?" Freetrick asked.

  "They no doubt intend to intercept and alter the records you extracted from them," said DeMacabre. "Which they are welcome to do, since we are not going to my lord's apartments, but to the Wardrobe Dungeon, and thence to the Ceremonial Seraglio."

  "…why?"

  "Because you, my lord, are to be un-married." DeMacabre grinned like a suffocating clown. "Immediately. Won't that be splendid."

  "Woah, wait…" Freetrick tried to dig his heels in, but his boots slipped. He was only saved from falling by DeMacabre's hands, supporting and pushing him.

  Freetrick looked down, and saw the red shimmer of blood under his boots. When had DeMacabre had time to cut himself?

  Freetrick thought frantically as he was slid across the floor. Visions of anti-mugging spells flitted through his head…but of course even if Freetrick had his rune-stones or something to write with, no word-magic spell would work in the middle of Skrea. As Ultimate Fiend he must have some sort of special magical power, but Freetrick didn't know what that would be. That left temporal power.

  "Skystarke…" Freetrick began, and suddenly Bloodbyrn was beside him.

  "Does my lord truly wish to see me slaughter his bodyguard?" She inquired, sweetly, "I was planning to save that event for tonight, after the ceremonies."

  Freetrick remembered his fiancée's demonstration of her blood-magic. A single drop could enter the skin, stop the heart or clot in the brain…Freetrick tried desperately to think of a way out.

  "Look," he hissed at his Soon-to-be, Words help him, father-in-law, "I don't think this is at all necessary."

  "Oh, but I do, my lord," grinned DeMacabre.

  "My lord may prepare himself by reading this scenario," Bloodbyrn pressed a roll of parchment into his hand. "These are the centuries-old formulae by which the Fiends of Skrea have traditionally addressed their shuddering conquests, and I expect you to memorize them."

  "Ah, my black heart clenches at the unholy romance," DeMacabre sighed, sliding Freetrick forward.

  "Let us begin practicing," Bloodbyrn cleared her throat as Freetrick sought desperately for a means of escape. "'Fiend! Dastard! You will never get away with this!'"

  The other dark lords. Freetrick, Bloodbyrn, and DeMacabre hadn't yet turned any corners and the Evil aristocrats were still behind them. Surely some of them would help him to escape this horrible marriage.

  "And then you are supposed to say 'Why my dear, I already have.'" Bloodbyrn poked him in the ribs. "And now I say 'Do what you will with me, fiend. But I shall never surrender my heart to you, though you abuse me for a thousand nights.'"

  Freetrick opened his mouth to shout to the dark lords behind him.

  "Thou fiend!"

  And closed it. A figure stepped out of the gloom ahead of them. It drew an arm across its chest, and a dagger appeared, glowing and jewel-like, in the darkness of the corridor.

  "Preparing another helpless innocent for your harem, monster?" The man called to him, "What more could I expect from my father's murderer?"

  "Who the hell is that guy?" Freetrick dug in his heels, and, for a wonder, stopped.

  "My lord does not know him?" said DeMacabre, releasing him.

  "No. Is he one of your servants?"

  "Oh no, my lord." Both DeMacabres were backing away now.

  "Have at you, tyrant!" Cried the man.

  "He is one of your assassins."

  ***

  Dã digirrit qi Dã digirrit qi Dã …

  Zathara beat the gara step against the blade of her opponent. Attack, slide down the twisting blade, knock it aside, attack, slide…Dã digirrit qi

  Zathara imagined the beat in her mind. The rhythms of the sword-fighting steps Bleeryarr had taught her were very much like gar
a. Which is no coincidence, boys and girls. Gara evolved from dueling moves, translated into dance steps to stop Pranyapuran bravos from killing each other. She sped up the rhythm.

  Bleeryarr's brows rose and he shifted his weigh. The Skrean was moving to the beat she set. Attack, slide, knock it aside. Attack… digirrit qi…

  He moved up to parry. Then, as Zathara prepared to knock his blade aside, Bleeryarr flicked the sword out under her guard. Zathara felt the tip press against her upper belly.

  "You die." Her escort's Skrean accent gave the words a sardonic edge. "You become too predictable, Do-Gooder. For we are not dancing, but fighting for our lives. Again." He attacked, and she parried.

  Zathara built up the "Dã digirrit qi" beat again. Then, when Bleeryarr snorted and lunged in for an out-out-beat attack, Zathara switched to a "digit digit" beat and sent out two syncopated attacks that pushed Bleeryarr back across the forest clearing.

  Behind him, Bleeryarr's ogre began to clap in rhythm. Sarcastic beast.

  Zathara had learned enough gara in Freetrick's club not to completely embarrass herself training with Bleeryarr. But she had yet to score a touch on him.

  Zathara changed beats again. Predictable, am I, boys and girls? And she saw Bleeryarr's eyes widen and his mouth tense with admiration. His esteem---

  Then there was a moment of free-falling panic when Bleeryarr's esteem did not flow into her. Zathara stumbled. Another touch. This time to her collar, where her cleavage began.

  "Cute." Zathara said. She brushed the blade away, sliding it down the slope of her tightly-bound breasts. Bleeryarr's pupils dilated. Of course the failure of love-magic had nothing to do with her. They had just moved too far beyond the Love-wielder border for love-magic to work. "Again!"

  The next parry sent a bolt of pain up to Zathara's elbow. Skrean swords were longer and correspondingly heavier than those used in The Nation of Love. They were bludgeoning weapons unsuitable for fancy blade-play. Zathara had no love-magic to help her lift the blade. And so her style had to be spare and direct.

  At least in its basic forms. There was still room for dazzling, impressing, obfuscating. Zathara opened gaps in her guard only to block them. She brought her sword swinging in an arc that appeared to sweep in toward one target only to twist it down and attack another at the last moment. She shifted her stance into what looked like advance only to push off with her feet and retreated.

  "Stop your tempest-blasted Love-wielder posturing and hit me!" Bleeryarr snarled.

  "Posturing?" said Zathara, "that wasn't posturing." She backed a step away from him and gained enough space to do a different kind of dance step. "This is posturing."

  His attention distracted, Bleeryarr was easy enough to hit.

  "Splendid."

  Zathara turned at the voice and slow applause to see Queen Tinesmurk rise from her log and walk forward. From her graying dreadlocks and rawhide clothing, Freetrick's mother might have been any scrounging beggar from the alleys of Pranyapura, but her large, dark eyes held the arrogance and overwhelming certainty of an aristocrat. It is an expression I know well, boys and girls.

  "Dark Lady Zathara's first touch." The Skrean queen-in-exile placed a hand on Zathara's shoulder. "You learn quickly," she said.

  "I try, Malevolence."

  Zathara hadn't known what to expect from Freetrick's mother, but she now found she liked the woman a great deal. Tinesmurk had the same decisive nature as her son, but where Freetrick had a tendency to lose confidence and back away from power, Tinesmurk wielded command so well your weren't aware she had given an order until you found yourself obeying.

  "Yes. I think in the next few weeks you can learn to make an accounting of yourself." Tinesmurk turned to address Bleeryarr, "but for now the training is over. Commence again tomorrow at sunrise."

  Bleeryarr bowed. "As you say, Malevolence."

  Malevolence. The Skrean honorific reserved for the ruler of all the Kingdoms of Evil.

  "Walk with me now, Zathara, daughter of Nashtang." Tinesmurk commanded.

  Zathara handed her sword to Bleeryarr's ogre and bowed to the hinterland noble. Her escort from Pranyapura was only slightly taller than she was, but certainly well-built enough to be worthwhile, with the whippy muscles and narrow hips that seemed to characterize young Skrean men. His face was also classically Skrean in its prow-nosed, long-chinned way, close enough to Freetrick that the two men could be brothers rather than…what would that be… Bleeryarr was the son of Tinesmurk's half-brother, Sausyarr, the current the regional lord of the province north of them. That would make Bleeryarr Freetrick's first half-cousin.

  Zathara smiled when she straightened and saw his eyes on her cleavage. They shared a look that said: "tonight." Like Betweeners, a Skrean didn't respect a woman until he was confident she could kill him. These mountains bred dangerous people. Which is all to the good, boys and girls. These lessons will prove useful indeed if my life continues to be so…exiting.

  "I see you have been making yourself at home in the camp." Tinesmurk said as she led Zathara out of the practice clearing.

  Zathara watched as ogres and men bowed in their passing. Slightly shorter than Zathara, the queen projected an aura that made her seem to tower over the crowd. "Oh yes, Malevolence. The accommodations are most satisfactory."

  The camp was a semi permanent affair, a clearing made between the larger trees, with walls of woven sticks and mud surrounding the tents.

  To Zathara, who had been brought up on stories of the chaotic hordes of the Kingdoms of Evil, it was a little surprising to see the obvious organization of the place. People and monsters moved between tents and cookfires and the sharpened stakes of the camp's fortification with speed and purpose. Only occasionally would an ogre snarl or a wendigo reach out to shove a neighbor. And then Tinesmurk or Bleeryarr would step in, black mist blooming off their skin, and send combatants on their way.

  The queen raised her eyebrows and stared into the middle distance as she said. "My nephew is a satisfactory lover, I trust."

  Zathara smiled at her. The truth was that Bleeryarr was at best mediocre. Few non-Love-wielder men were any better. "He is cruel and domineering, Malevolence." Everything Zathara had learned about Skrean customs assured her that Tinesmurk would esteem her for the compliment about her nephew's prowess. Even outside the Nation of Love, it pays to remember these things, boys and girls.

  The queen nodded as if complimenting Zathara on her choice of tobacco to accompany dessert. But then her long face grew more serious. "I do hope you enjoy yourself, my dear. I will not tell you take care to avoid pregnancy." Zathara nodded. I am not an utter fool, Tinesmurk. Even if she did sometimes regret the lack of prophylactic magic here on the southern Bulwarks. But Zathara had lived away from The Nation of Love long enough to know how to avoid …unforeseen complications.

  "Simply take care, Zathara," Tinesmurk continued, "that you do not touch any of the wendigos."

  She meant the people who were not Betweeners or necromancers. They made up the majority of the camp's human population. And yet people called these men monsters. Zathara had come to the conclusion that, to a Skrean, a 'monster' was a slave or peasant, and might or might not actually have horns and scales.

  "Why?" Zathara asked, "Is there a taboo against sex with monsters?" Zathara remembered her first months in The RU. And I have the feeling that cultural missteps in Skrea, would be even more disastrous.

  Tinesmurk looked at her. "Do you know what wendigos are, girl?"

  "I don't, Malevolence." Zathara answered. "They look human, but…"

  "But indeed." Tinesmurk turned in place and looked up and eastward. It was late afternoon, the sky beyond the trees was mostly blue. Mostly blue but for the dark blotch that now threatened to swallow the sun. The Maelstrom.

  "We are on the border here in the mountains." Tinesmurk said. "Necromancy works...she held out her hand before her and Zathara saw black vapor rising off the skin. Just like Freetrick the day they took him. "…but the
power of the First God is not great here." Tinesmurk turned away from the Maelstrom and began walking again. "In Clouds-Gather we can make monstrosities limited only by our cruel imaginations, but out here, we must...economize."

  The queen turned from the camp's main thoroughfare and approached a man sitting before a cook fire to their right. He had, Zathara saw, a leather pouch filled with squirming mice. Which he was tossing into the fire, giggling.

  "Wendigos are field transformations," Tinesmurk said. "The Life-twisting required for them is small in both time and energy needed." She reached out and grasped the man's head in one hand. He immediately stiffened, his eyes glazing. "There are three areas in the brain," Tinesmurk placed her thumbs just in front of the man's ears, with one index finger against the slope above and behind the right ear, "and a particular bundle on the brainstem here." she moved one hand to the back of his neck. "Perturb the areas around the first three and enlarge the second, and you have a wendigo. Tell me, monster." She said to the man. "With what name were you born?"

  "Engineer Gerhanis, Malevolence," he murmured. "Now I am Wrongcringe."

  Tinesmurk's fingers scratched at the wendigo's hair. "And how long have you been Wrongcringe?"

  "A few weeks, Malevolence."

  "And, Wrongcringe?" Tinesmurk looked steadily at Zathara as she asked. "What is it you love to do more than anything."

  He shivered, "…hurt things."