The Kingdoms of Evil

by Daniel Bensen

  "I…certainly can," said Freetrick, still eyeing Bloodbyrn. She was staring with horrified fascination at the cavorting kittens, shivering.

  "You see," Wrothgrinn was explaining, his back bent over the cage like a sinister question mark, "how large their eyes are in comparison to their faces? Doesn't it just make you want to… stroke them?" Wrothgrinn straightened from the kittens, eyes wild, "to HOLD them? Yes, and even, oh dare I SUGGEST?" Overcome with emotion, the Life-twister raised his hands above his head, cackling madly as lightning flashed across the machines above him. "…to SNUGGLE them?!" Thunder boomed.

  "Yeah," said Freetrick as the kitten batted at his hand with a tiny paw, "they're cute."

  " 'Cute,'" said Wrothgrinn, hunching back over the cage, "cute? I confess I am unfamiliar with my lord's technical jargon."

  "Cute," said Freetrick. "Like with big eyes and everything you were just talking about."

  "Ah," Wrothgrinn nodded. "Around the lab we call it the Perverse Neaten-Induced Response. Oh, thrilling it is to discuss the matter with such an obvious connoisseur in the field."

  "Perverse?" wondered Freetrick, "what would be the…uh, Appropriate Neotony-Induced Response?"

  "To kill it," whispered Bloodbyrn feverishly, "with fire, if possible."

  "Philistine," sniffed Wrothgrinn, "But, oh, I am so glad that YOU approve, my lord. Yes! I can feel it!" Up came the hands, "The blood of CREATIVITY!" and back down they came again, "pumping with renewed vigor through the coiled labyrinth of my viscera! To contemplate the new depths which my art may now plumb…" Wrothgrinn's neck twisted and his face was suddenly staring into Freetrick's "makes me quite mad with glee."

  "No…problem," said Freetrick. But then as he remembered he was in Skrea. "You're not planning to give them bat wings or tentacles or anything, right?"

  "Psh!" said Wrothgrinn dismissively. "Would I paint a mustache on a great portrait? No. Mark my words, my lord's finely-tuned avant-garde sensibilities will not be offended." Wrothgrinn looked back at his kittens, his eyes gleaming, his hands rubbing against each other. "I shall IMPROVE my creations! Their eyes shall be bigger, their fur fluffier, their little pink tongues..." He bent down to press his face against the grill lid of their cage, his voice hushed and intense, "…will be littler and pinker than you could possibly imagine."

  There was a strangled squeak from Bloodbyrn. "My lord! Did we not come to this wretched place with some manner of goal in mind?" Her voice shook, "please?"

  "Right," Freetrick extricated his hand from the kitten's attentions. "Wrothgrinn, can we see the assassin now?"

  "Oh of course, of course!" With his habitual creepy speed, Wrothgrinn shut the lid on the cage of kittens, whirled, and strode across the laboratory floor. As he walked, one of his white hands reached out to snatch an enormous, sharp-tipped iron poker from a rack against a wall. The pole whirred through the air as he brought it around and jabbed it through the bars of the nearest animal cage. There was a hideous squall from whatever was in the cage, and a brief lunatic guffaw from Wrothgrinn as he held his hands above the dying animal and absorbed its death. Then, in a swirl of stained smock and a clattering of boots, he was back across the room.

  "All is in readiness! Come, come! Into the meat locker." The Life-twister led them through a doorway in a canyon between the piles of cages and abstruse equipment. It opened onto a bare little room the size of a broom closet.

  Freetrick opened his mouth to ask, then saw the second door. It was set into the opposite wall of the closet, solidly-built and black, with necromancer's mist clotting around its frame.

  "Close the outer door!" Wrothgrinn snapped, "would you release all of my precious frigidity?" Bloodbyrn jumped and obeyed without so much as an ironically-raised eyebrow. Had those kittens really thrown her balance so far off kilter?

  The Life-twister grasped the handle of the second door, pulled, and Freetrick felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice-water on him. Coldness spilled out of the meat locker like a viscous fluid, turning the air pale with condensed water.

  "A most impressive kill," Wrothgrinn was saying as Freetrick and Bloodbyrn shivered, "And how daringly accomplished it. Impressive! Outré!" Wrothgrinn's long legs carried him to a wall of cabinets on one side of the cold room and began to run his hands over them.

  "I wonder if I did the same thing you do in this room," said Freetrick, puffing his cheeks. "It got really cold and there was fog everywhere."

  "Not entirely. A sudden drop of pressure would cool the room once, but my spells draw out the heat directly." Wrothgrinn's voice, Freetrick noticed, had lost most of its maniacal cackle. The Life-twister was all business now, his tone as frank and abrupt as a Rationalist physician's. Freetrick wondered which persona was the real man. "A Sangboise technique," he continued, "it works admirably as long as I keep the blood fresh…Aha!" Wrothgrinn's long fingers wrapped around the handle of a particular cabinet and pulled. A sort of bed slid out of the wall just below waist level. Freetrick recognized the Vainglorian assassin on the slab.

  They drew closer.

  "I took the liberty of repairing the gross damage," said Wrothgrinn. He was fussing with the corpse, rearranging its limbs, pressing on the chest, rubbing the skin on the forehead. "resurfacing of the trachea and cochleae, repairs to the skull." He flicked his fingers into the air and Freetrick could see black mist branching from their tips in infinitely diminishing tendrils. "My lord will note I did not waste time on the spinal injuries, or on the trauma to the occipital and parietal lobes. My understanding was my lord wanted a talking corpse, not, aha, a walking one."

  "That was...thoughtful of you…uh…" Freetrick said, staring downward uneasily. "Isn't the corpse actually…moving around right now?"

  "Hm?" Wrothgrinn ran a hand of over the body's twitching legs, "oh that. Just electrical stimulation, my lord. I run a current through all of my deceased pre-re-animation. It prevents cold shortening." He chuckled, "as we used to say in school, 'the only thing less useful than a revenant with rigor mortis is a lab assistant with a conscience.'"

  Freetrick, who had never heard of electrical currents or cold-shortening, simply nodded and smiled. "Okay."

  "Now, before we begin I must warn my lord that while it is my considered opinion that the injuries my lord so fiendishly dealt this Do-Gooder should not present this zombie with any speech impediments, occurring as they did to the back of the head, we must remember that every brain is different." He smiled gruesomely, "we should always be ready for surprises."

  "As long as he can answer questions," said Freetrick.

  "Let us begin," Bloodbyrn said, "I would be gone from this place, my lord."

  "Very well," Wrothgrinn nodded, "I shall now channel death energy into the maw of the First God and part the veil between this existence and the next. Please step back." As Freetrick did so, Wrothgrinn closed his eyes and folded his hands together before his belly. Black mist formed around the twitching corpse as a low hum rose from the throat of the Life-twister.

  Freetrick felt his organs lurch as Wrothgrinn…did something. The nimbus of necromancer's mist around the body on the table trembled, then began to contract. The blackness oozed through the corpse's mouth and nose, as if drawn by an enormous inward inhalation. Freetrick could feel that force pulling at his own energy. "It's like…" he search for descriptions, "death in reverse."

  "Obviously," said Bloodbyrn.

  The last trickles of black mist disappeared into the corpse's nostrils. For a moment, all was still. The body no longer twitched. It simply lay, lungs filled with necromancy.

  Wrothgrinn twisted the fingers of his left hand together, then snapped.

  The corpse exhaled.

  It opened its eyes, the bizarrely blue irises now glazed and unfocused. "It is dark." As it spoke, a tiny puff of dark vapor escaped between its pale lips.

  "You are blind, Do-Gooder," said Wrothgrinn. And then, as if remembering, "and also dead, of course."

  "Ahh," the ex-assassin sighed. It
s voice was a pale imitation of the enraged bellow Freetrick remembered from their first encounter. "So I have failed."

  "Sorry about that," said Freetrick.

  The corpse's head twitched in his direction, and its rubbery features contorted in anger and hate. "Thou fiend!"

  Freetrick sighed. "So they tell me."

  He shivered as the corpse's eyes tracked sightlessly over him. "Does it amuse you, to take from your enemies even the freedom of death? And yet back in this world, I may be free once again to wipe your stain from this good earth."

  "Aha," said Wrothgrinn, "another reason not to repair the spinal damage."

  "Yeah," said Freetrick. He bent closer to the body. "Look, you're not in a position to kill anyone. And if you were, I shouldn't be your first choice."

  "I shall kill you! I shall!" The corpse's voice cracked with the force of his conviction and more black gas escaped from its lungs. Its head wrenched back and forth against the surface of the table, "you stand at the pinnacle of a pyramid of death and destruction, and I will stop at nothing until I have beheaded that pyramid. And if not me, then my people. We shall resist you as long water flows in the Limped Pool."

  "It was foolish in the extreme, Do-Gooder," said Bloodbyrn, "to inform us of your rebellion's sacred center."

  "That would be the brain damage," said Wrothgrinn.

  "For now you know that, even after your consciousness is once again extinguished, all that you value above your own life is now in danger."

  Freetrick didn't like where this was going. "Bloodbyrn…"

  "My lord, I should be gone from this place. So allow me to apply this leverage to gain you the answers you seek. Corpse," she said, "tell us what we wish to know, or we shall fill your people's precious Pool to the very brim with their blood."

  Freetrick wondered if the alliteration was intentional. "And if you help me," he said, "I can help your people."

  Bloodbyrn, Wrothgrinn, and the corpse all snorted derisively.

  "No," said Freetrick, "really." Then, with rising anger. "Look, whether you believe me or not, the fact is that whatever goals you have, I'm the one who's most likely to fulfill them. I'm not…" not like the other Skreans, he could not say, not with Wrothgrinn and Bloodbyrn right here in the room with him. "Not going to do anything bad to your people. I'll help them. I'll free them. Whether or not you answer my questions."

  "Then my brothers and sisters will hound you to your death," spat the corpse. "Every moment you live you will fear the Vainglorians and the revenge we shall carry to you."

  "And that would be a change for me how?" Said Freetrick. "Tell me what you were doing in the corridor outside the Audience Pit."

  Shadows writhed across the corpse's face as it stretched in a sneer. "Preparing myself to rid this good world of the stain of your evil, Fiend."

  Freetrick rubbed a hand over his face, "I mean how did you get there? How did you escape from the dungeons? Did you fool the guards?" At very least, Freetrick might be able to plug a hole in his security.

  "Your destruction will bring tears of joy to thousands," spat the corpse. "Tyrant! Every hour of every day, the good men and women of the world work to hasten your destruction."

  "What the hell am I supposed to do with that?" Freetrick nearly stamped his foot in frustration. "The only thing you're doing is making me feel less guilty about killing you in the first place."

  "My lord!" Bloodbyrn said, shocked, "why would my lord feel this…guilt…at any time at all? Surely he does not."

  "Oh yes," said Freetrick. "I'm dangerously insane. Everyone in the Kingdoms of Evil has to be dangerously insane, of course!" Freetrick had begun to pace, "And you," he said the corpse, "are just as much a homicidal maniac as any of us Evil-Doers. No, I don't think it was a particularly bad thing I did, removing you. You know why?" He braced his hands on the table over the corpse and leaned down, staring into its sightless eyes. "Because you tried to kill me. Because there really are innocent people being slaughtered every day by the machinery of my government and I'm the only one who can stop that. You think if your little assassination succeeded it would have improved things for you? The last Ultimate Fiend---"

  "May the blood never wash from his hands."

  "Shut up," said Freetrick. "The Last Ultimate Fiend was assassinated, and how much did that death improve things for the average Kingdoms of Evil subject? I'm the only person who's likely to actually make life better for this miserable nation. Your people need me."

  "Exactly," hissed Bloodbyrn. "You may be dead, but remember what we may do to your people. Your surviving family rest in our clutches."

  "No," said Freetrick, "that's not what I meant at all."

  "What family?" came the voice from the body, "You killed my father!"

  "Well, no," said Freetrick, "actually I didn't. He was just sort of killed...for me…look it's complicated. But I definitely never wanted to kill your father. And you know he tried to kill me." Freetrick protested when the corpse looked at him, "with an axe!"

  A smile. "I did not know that."

  Freetrick sighed. "When did you escape into the castle?"

  "Not long after they came for the king my father. " Another black puff from the corpse's mouth. "For a week, I was king."

  "How did you escape?" Freetrick repeated. "Did you fool the guards?"

  "No. The necromancer released me," said the corpse.

  "A necromancer?"

  "Indeed. He hates you. For hate is the bitter fruit of the weed of evil. One day, you will choke and die on it."

  "No kidding," said Freetrick. "But you're not narrowing it down very much. What did he look like."

  The corpse's head rocked listlessly. "I cannot remember. I cannot see even my own memories."

  "My lord…" said Wrothgrinn.

  "I know, I know." Freetrick thought furiously. Necromancers, necromancers. It could have been any Skrean who released the exiled boy-king. Trying to make Freetrick's life that much more difficult. And yet something nagged at him. There was something important…something Wrothgrinn had said about… "A Sangboise technique," Freetrick said. "Wrothgrinn, you said you use a Sangboise technique to keep this room cool."

  The Life-twister blinked. "Oh, I do not use it, of course. I have a Sangboise catamite come up here every three rings of the Doom Gong."

  That was it. "Skreans can't do Sangboise magic."

  "Of course," said Bloodbyrn.

  Thank the holy words for his education in international relations. Most Rationalists would assume that everyone in the Kingdoms of Evil could do each-other's magic, just like people in the Rationalist Union could all do word-magic, the Blessing of Between, and, within reason, any other miracle of any other god they chose to pray to.

  But in most of the world magics didn't mix, they competed. "And non-Skreans, like this guy, can't do necromancy."

  "Never," agreed the prisoner, "for in my veins runs the blood of lost Vaingloria, the Lakes-Encompassing, and mine is the mantle of revenge for the fall of my people."

  "Uh huh," said Freetrick, "but what sort of magic do you do? Could that glowy dagger and water bottle attack a person's internal organs like necromancy?"

  The prisoner shook his head, confused. "What babblement is this? The mystic implements of the Limpet Pool are a balm to sooth the wounded world, not the tools of underhanded distortions of the mortal frame."

  "Oh, that that is quite apt," said Wrothgrinn. "Underhanded distortions. I shall have to remember that."

  "But what you're saying is you didn't attack me. Not magically. You couldn't have." Said Freetrick. "So who was it? Who released you from your dungeon."

  "I told you," the corpse's voice was a breathy whisper. "I cannot see my memories."

  Freetrick ground his teeth. "Wrothgrinn. Can you fix this guy's brain so he can help me?"

  "Very well, my lord. One moment." Wrothgrinn bowed and strode toward the door. "Assistant!" He called. "A-SIS-tant! I…require you!"

  "My lord," hissed Bloodbyrn
, "there is much we must do on this day and I should be gone from here. What further information could you possibly want? How much longer must we tarry here?"

  "I need to know what the guy looked like, Bloodbyrn," said Freetrick. Then "Ready?" as Wrothgrinn strode back into the cold room, his smock red with new blood."

  "I am, my lord. Just allow me to make use of this new death energy..." He spread his long-fingered hands over the corpse's face. Black streamers began to extend from his fingertips.

  "How are you---"

  "Silence, my lord, please." Said Wrothgrinn. "While I concentrate."

  The tendrils of necromancer's mist divided, then divided again, then again, until they formed a mesh that cupped the corpse's skull, delicate as fern fronds, strait-edged as crystals. Freetrick wondered if he could duplicate the technique; microsurgery wasn't anything Feerix had yet taught him.

  "Yes…yes…" Wrothgrinn crooned as the skin of the corpse's face twitched. Were its eyes moving more purposefully now? "Where is the memory? What did you see?"

  "Black stone," murmured the corpse. "Dripping blood. Glowing lava. The shambling monsters created by your vile arts. The necromancer. He stands over me. He is sneering."

  "What does he look like."

  The blue eyes flashed toward him. "Like you, fiend. Only he has not the doubt in his eyes that I see in yours. He is cruel. He is evil. And he loves it."

  "Oh burning libraries." Freetrick breathed. "You're talking about Feerix."

  "How ever did my lord guess so quickly?" asked Bloodbyrn.

  "Because I'm very intelligent," said Freetrick, smiling over his shoulder at her.

  "I was being sarcastic, my lord." Freetrick turned back to slab and rolled his eyes as she continued. "Feerix was not present at the Villainous Council, and given the nature of your relationship, he would be my first assumption for the hand behind any assassination attempt."