The Kingdoms of Evil

by Daniel Bensen

  "Well, no" Freetrick's surprised sense of chivalry prodded him, "that is, I had no reason to expect…uh, you presence, but I am of course glad to see you, Lady…"

  "Blightbog," murmured Mr. Skree.

  "Blightbog," said Freetrick. "Uh. How are you?"

  "Much better now, my lord," she said, twirling a black tress and smiling. "We were just speaking of my lord's," she grinned wickedly, "new circumstances, and then he appears, as if by black magic! Surely the dark stars are in alignment with my destiny today. Now," she leaned closer, and Freetrick's eyes followed the way her breasts shifted against her chitinous armor, "come with me, my lord, and I shall give you what you are looking for."

  In his defense, Freetrick would later say that yes, he knew something was wrong about that comment, but the whole situation was too strange, too distracting, happening to striking quickly for him to get a grip on what was going on. His response to Bogblight, if he even made one, was scarcely coherent, but that didn't matter since dozens of nobles, most of them female, were now clustered around him like groupies surrounding a movie star. This was far worse than anything Freetrick had experienced before in Clouds-Gather. Only the presence of Skystarke and the four towering ogres stopped the crowd from picking him up and dragging him away. And if he had had a few moments to think, Freetrick's thoughts might have gotten farther than: why is everyone so surprised to see me?

  "I do not like this," grated Skystarke's voice in his ear. "If his Malevolence would release a fiendish ordah to have this crowd dispah-ssed, it would be my pleashah to carry it out!"

  Freetrick frowned and shook his head. Without any magic to shield them, these monsters were in no position to force the human nobles to do anything they did not want to. Having his bodyguards clear the crowd would be functionally the same as Freetrick simply waving his arms around and shouting, 'I am the king! Please go away!' And hoping everyone would agree. Come to think of it, despite Skystarke's bravado, what good would a monster bodyguard ever do in Clouds-Gather, unless—

  Bogblight opened her mouth to complain or—who knew—bite him, but was pushed aside by another woman---"The dark lady Squeezevein, daughter of Strakhblargle Despot Dewmnor,"---who began talking even before Bogblight had finished clawing at her.

  "…seem much more interesting, my lord." Freetrick recognized her from the Villainous Council, so he was not completely shocked when Squeezevein's tongue extended just a little too much before it licked her lips and retreated. "I was biding my time here for my father and Despot Hlirghor, but you, my lord, are much more interesting." Her hair blew up from her head, as if caught in a never ceasing updraft. Tiny metal rings marched around the perimeters of both her ears, and her lips, fingernails, and eyebrows were blood red. Resting between her upthrust breasts, a finger length human figure in bronze writhed in frozen agony. "How excited I was to hear your news this morning, my lord."

  Another woman, hair dyed magenta, with the skull of a mutated monster dripping off her head and a black eye patch that Freetrick hoped was only decorative, stepped toward him. A high-collared black cloak spread over her shoulders, then parted predictably over her breasts.

  "Dark Lady Gobreen, Wrathnag's daughter," announced Mr. Skree.

  "You, my lord, must leave with at least one of us."

  "Me, for example," said Bogblight, darting an envenomed glance at Gobreen.

  "I'm sorry ladies, but I…uh…" Well, here was one good aspect to being married to Bloodbyrn. "My concubine," said Freetrick with relief, "would kill me."

  There was a chorus of giggles, silvery and edged as a drawn dagger.

  "Fiend," whispered Skystarke, "everyone knows about you and Bloodbyrn."

  "Of course we do," said one of the sisters. They were wearing what looked like one large slug and nine pounds of gold jewelry between the two of them. Aside of course, from Freetrick himself, who was now also between the two of them.

  "What did she do that my lord did not enjoy? Whip you too softly?" Asked Squeezevein, "Would the Fiend care to sample my skills as a dominatrix?" She drew back a hand, crimson nails lined up like bloody fangs. "I always received higher marks in physical abuse than that foreign trollop."

  "Nonsense!" Firebolt shook her head, and dangly gold things jingled all the way down her body. "Lady Bloodbyrn's mistake was not to bite him hard enough. Is that not right, my lord?"

  "You may bite him, sister. I will strike him." Freetrick assumed that Deadbolt flexed her muscles in anticipation. He could not see anything under the slug-like membrane that covered her arms and legs, but her abdominal muscles were certainly impressive.

  "Or I could strike him." growled a fourth person. Freetrick looked up at that; the voice was disturbingly deep and masculine, but a huge and hideous headdress moved to block his view.

  "Skystarke," he said, "I think we should leave."

  "Oh fiend," cried Banebright, "take one of us with you!"

  "Or two!"

  "Or three!"

  "Yes, in front of everyone!"

  Skystarke hissed, "Fiend! Danger!"

  "No striking kidding," snarled Freetrick. What the hell was going on? It was like someone had grabbed the dial marked "Skrean insanity" and twisted it all the way up.

  "Do not worry, my lord." Whispered a silken voice in his ear, "I am sure it was all her fault."

  Spies in the walls. That screaming argument in the corridor. Freetrick's eyes widened as he finally, finally understood. "Oh no…"

  "RUN!" Skystarke leapt in front of Freetrick, and the women recoiled far enough from him to dash between them. Almost. Something sharp scratched across the armor over his shoulder and a slender hand darted toward his unprotected face, but Freetrick ducked out of the way and pounded across the floor, would-be seductresses and assassins both trailing behind.

  A tall, fur-shrouded figure loomed out of the crowd behind the women. A pale, furious face glared down at him. The owner of the masculine voice, no doubt. "The Fiend should not attempt to flee," the man said. "That will only cause the blood to heat, the hands to move." His dark eyes seemed to expand. "Stay, rather. Rest." The halls behind him darkened and blurred. "In peace."

  Freetrick's blood ran cold. The man, the Strakh's hands were moving beneath his furs, drawing a dagger? A poisoned needle?

  "If you were to die here, Fiend, who would lose and who would benefit?" The man leaned closer, eyes intense. "I urge you—"

  Freetrick lunged forward—

  —and was stopped by the knife scraping across his neck.

  "—urge you not to slay the Ultimate Fiend!" The man shouted.

  "We shall!" Shrieked the woman holding the knife, Firebolt or Deadbolt.

  "You shall not!" The fur-clad man seemed to grow, shadows spreading from him like ink dropped into water. "For that task is mine!" He leapt toward them, over the head of an extremely irate Dark Lady. Yes, Freetrick saw, the object under his fur cloak was indeed a sword. Excellent. So. He wasn't paranoid after all.

  Firebolt (or Deadbolt?) shrieked in fury, and brought up her free hand. Dark mist exploded into being and the tall man's fur clothing writhed into vicious un-death. The re-animated garment squeezed spasmodically over his body, turning the forward lunge into a sideways hop. So the one would-be assassin was forced to bring his sword around to cut at his own clothing as the other raised her hands in victory. And Skystarke tackled the second from behind.

  As the pressure of the blade on his neck tore away, Freetrick toppled backward, out of range. He bounced on his ass, then tried to hop back to his feet. Before he could get his balance, though, someone else lunged at him from out of the crowd and whirled around in a kick. Freetrick dodged, and a scantily-clad thigh scythed through the air in front of his face before his back slammed into the flagstones. His pince-nez finally tore from his nose. Somewhere overhead, the man in fur was howling.

  CRACK!

  Freetrick twisted his head aside as a boot slammed down against his eyeglasses, the space where his face had been a moment before. A
bove him, someone laughed, fiendish, crazed, cruel, and…familiar? Freetrick's eyes could not focus on the face grinning above him, but they could resolve the boot, spiky, black, ridiculously high-heeled boot…

  "Threatening the Ultimate Fiend, Baron Oozhass?" The harsh voice of Feerix cut through the rising chaos like a…well, like a sharpened thumb. "I thought you Fearmongers were supposed to be good at scaring people." His voice rose, apparently addressing the crowd, "If you seek to kill my darling half-brother, you shall have to wait until I have re-animated him. You see, his death is mine." Dark clouds formed over Feerix's head and he lifted the other man off his feet and threw him into Freetrick's face.

  But Freetrick had managed to get his legs back under himself. He dodged as the other man tumbled through the air above him, and had barely enough time to scuttle sideways away from Feerix's swinging fist.

  So everyone knew that he and Bloodbyrn hadn't had sex. Therefore Freetrick was…up for grabs? Or maybe he had just proved his uselessness to DeMacabre's faction. Which meant no one was protecting him. Except his powerless monsters. And maybe…Feerix?

  Freetrick tried to back away from his brother, but his way was blocked. Skystarke and the ogres could do nothing. Necromancers boxed them in. "Feerix," he gasped, "where's Bloodbyrn?"

  "With her father, of course." Feerix edged closer, "The fortunes of the Duke DeMacabre have taken a blow today, indeed. Is it any wonder that every dark noble who sees you attempts to twist the situation to their advantage? Now as for myself, you will remember I was trying to kill you before it became fashionable."

  Freetrick hurled himself backwards as the sharp edge of his half-brother's gauntlet swung toward him. He reached for the necromantic energy to strike back.

  And the Ultimate Fiend realized he had forgotten to kill anything today.

  He had no defenses. Freetrick, terrified, looked up into the face of his brother.

  Who smiled. "But not today." He said. "I shall kill you, Feerborg son of Wrothborg, but not before you are an opponent worthy of me. Until then, he is mine!"

  He leapt.

  Freetrick ducked, and his half brother shot through the air over his head, slamming into the scantily-clad crowd behind him, and breaking the circle.

  Freetrick dashed out from between the surprised women.

  Fortunately, the door he, Skystarke, and Mr. Skree had come through was not far away. Freetrick's hand scrabbled at the rough stonework of the doorway as he swung himself through. Behind him, a sound like sheets being ripped apart in a blizzard indicated Mr. Skree following. And behind that, the shrieking, hungry and feminine.

  ***

  "Strike it out, Skrea is dull."

  "Well, what did you expect, Istain?"

  For once, with the black and depressing Skrean desert unspooling below him, Istain was glad to hear Madene using his voice. "I don't know," he answered. "I knew that I wouldn't see plants or anything, but I thought I'd see…well, something. Monsters. Armies of ogres. Black castles. You know."

  "What would the monsters eat, Istain? The darkness under the Maelstrom stops the food chain at its lowest link. If plants can't grow, animals can't survive."

  "I guess so." Istain's eyes tracked over the rocks and dust below them. No wonder they called it the Bleaklands.

  "Which was why there were so many monsters around the border," Madene continued.

  "There were?"

  "Yeah," one of his eyebrows rose, "didn't you see them?"

  "No," said Istain, "and how did you? We're using the same eyes."

  Madene shrugged his shoulders. "I guess I was paying more attention."

  Istain grunted. The fact that Madene was more observant than he was, even though the same pair of eyes, was not a good sign. It wouldn't be easy to trick her into allowing him to bring down the Warrior Maiden government. With Freetrick's help, though, it might work.

  "…under the Shadow," Madene was saying, "I wouldn't expect to see any animals except around those glowing crystals or maybe the lava pools." She moved Istain's eyes toward a one of the patches of dim red light that dotted the landscape. It said something about the place that pools and canals of lava were its most interesting feature. "Or carrion. Huh. You know, in a way, this is a lot like the benthic ecosystems in the Rationalist sub-marine canyon. Similar energy sources, darkness, except without the crushing pressure."

  "Speak for yourself."

  "Funny."

  "I thought so." Istain angled toward the nearest lava canal. The glider lurched as hot air rising from the magma struck its fabric, and they began to spiral upward.

  "Tenured Proctor Toloman was right," said Istain, "it isn't hard to stay up in the air. No rain, no wind to speak of, lots of hot air for lift."

  As long as you didn't look down. Istain had seen something moving around the lava pit. Swarming. He was very glad he had decided not to crash their glider. He might only break a leg and then survive long enough for one of those swarming things to find him.

  "That's good. We should stay in the air as long as we can. How much longer do we have?"

  "How should I know?" said Istain, "it's not like any word-magic instrumentation will work here. I'd have to guess."

  "So guess." She sounded nervous. Maybe Madene knew something about the things down by the lava that he didn't.

  "Well, Toloman told me that the Skrean capital is about four hundred miles from the border, which, by the way, is just a little less distance than the current record for a one-way trip."

  "Oh," she said faintly.

  "And he said our top speed would be something like 40 miles an hour, which means the whole trip should take about half a day."

  "Ten hours."

  "Which is close to twelve hours, which is half a day, Madene."

  She sniffed.

  "On the other hand," Istain had to swallow before he could continue. "I'd never seen a hang-glider before last week, and I've been on a grand total to two practice flights." When, still coping with losing Selene and gaining Madene's voice in his head, Istain had been a less than perfect student.

  The Bleaklands moved under them, but the black mound on the southern horizon, their destination, seemed to grow no closer.

  Eventually, Istain's mouth moved, "maybe you can rest, while I take over?"

  "They're still my arms, Madene," said Istain, "they'll be tired no matter who's controlling them."

  "I am trying to be helpful."

  "Fine." Istain let his arms go limp. There was a truly terrifying moment when nobody was controlling them and their grip on the handlebar loosened. Then Madene took over and his fingers tightened again.

  "Hm." Madene said. Of course, she had found that it didn't matter who was controlling the arms. "I suppose lactic acid is lactic acid. The arms really just need a break. But. Well." Which meant that she was too stubborn to admit her mistake and give him back control. Istain fought for patience.

  "What about this?" said Istain. "You keep control of the right one, and I'll take the left one and stretch it?"

  There was a bit of mental shoving—something like two people switching places in a canoe—then Istain had his left arm back. Carefully, he relaxed his grip on the control bar, then stretched the limb's aching muscles.

  "Better," said Istain.

  "We're going to be all right until we land," said Madene. "We're not going to be too tired to fly, Istain. Right?"

  Istain blinked. Or maybe it was Madene who blinked his eyes for him. Was the Silver Princess Madene a'Leagh actually looking to him for reassurance?

  "If we fall out of the sky," said Istain, "you'll be first to know."

  Air huffed out of his lungs in a her nervous chuckle.

  "Well anyway," Istain looked out at the boring, boring desert before them. "at least we won't get lost." The clouds overhead and before him had arranged themselves into neat concentric rings, and the Skrean capital would be at the center, at the place on the horizon where red light flickered like bloody lightning over a conical mounta
in.

  The air over the desert was warm and still, with only the occasional puff of hot air coming off lava on the ground. All they had to do was stay patient and fly toward the scariest-looking part of the sky.

  Chapter the Fourteenth

  In which the Ultimate Fiend thinks seriously

  Freetrick strode through the corridors of Castle Clouds-Gather, his murderous brother behind him. As Freetrick approached, lords and ladies, dark, vicious, and flamboyantly horrible, tried to stop him, to involve him in their stupid games. He swept past them.

  Freetrick Feend knew what he must do.

  He had to make himself indispensible.

  He had to arrange things so that at least one group of people needed him alive more than dead. It had to be a group that was strong. Or at least one that was very, very large.