"Bloodbyrn, don't worry about it," said Freetrick, as if he had any idea what he was talking about, "I'll be in charge of the necromantic reforms, and I will leave it up to you all," he indicated the monsters, "to take advantage of them."
The monsters looked at each other. Then they looked back at him.
The truth was that Freetrick barely understood how to use the magic of Skrea, let alone manipulate it at its very foundations. But what did it matter now if he promised something he could never deliver? It was enough to shake things up, and that he had definitely accomplished.
"All right. I propose a break," he said. "Then we can talk details."
"A…a break?" General Blaarg's eyes seemed to refocus. "Oh, that would be most splendid idea, Fiend. If I may?"
Freetrick frowned. "May what?"
"Call for our refreshments," said the monster as he stood. He nodded his massive head at Bloodbyrn and the bloody haze around them sank out of the air. Then his voice rose in a bellow that shook dust from the rocky ceiling: "BRING IN THE VIRGINS!"
Freetrick's good feelings vanished. "What virgins?"
They came in on a sort of tiered platform, a wooden pyramid carried by four ogre bearers. Young women lay upon the steps of the pyramid, wearing a very small amount of wispy cloth, and a very large amount of heavy, metal chain. Even from across the pit, Freetrick could see their oiled skins shining in the light from glowing crystals. Their hair, too, was heavily greased and shaped into artistic swirls, towers, and spikes. The whole confection resembled nothing so much as a display of canapés.
"Sumptuous," said Razanel, his bat wings fluttering out over his shoulders, "what generous refreshments!"
General Blaarg seemed to have regained some of his composure. "Compliments of the Homicidiary, Malevolence."
"The Homicidiary is too kind," burbled Scwelsch, oozing out of his bucket.
The ogres stopped and bent, lowering their cargo. Chains jingled as the virgin snack-tray settled into the sand.
"You know," said General Blaarg, "I found that some sniveling idiot in the fiend's staff had cancelled the entertainment for this meeting? Even after his malevolence very clearly told everyone that he had invited us here to watch us devour tender maidens for his entertainment! Heads will roll, I am sure!"
"Strike it out, you can bet they striking well will!" Freetrick shoved himself out of his chair. The women were all looking at him.
"Indeed!" General Blaarg said proudly, "And the fiend will notice that the maidens I have chosen are of the plumpest stock available."
"They look delectable!" Chortled Unctual. "The Master of the Volcano is excessively generous as well as wicked." He gave a malicious little giggle as he slid off his high chair. "I confess I was afraid all of that was just a cover story, and I wouldn't get to devour any maidens at all." He rubbed his furred hands together, purple tongue sliding over sharp white teeth.
"It was a cover story!" Shouted Freetrick. "This was all to get some time alone with you guys. I didn't order any actual virgins...Chitinous, you fold that thing back into your carapace right now!"
"Now is not the time for one of my lord's displays of histrionics," hissed Bloodbyrn
"I don't believe this!" Said Freetrick, "if you think I'm going to---"
"My lord," Bloodbyrn hissed at him from her seat, "you are the Ultimate Fiend! Show some dignity for Blood's sake."
"I am the Ultimate Fiend." Resonate off the forehead, Freetrick. "Minions!" His voice rumbled like an avalanche. "One more twitch and I shall tear your limbs from their sockets!" Blackness boiled into existence at the edges of his vision as Freetrick shoved through the crowd of suddenly still monsters and stood in front of the women. "You are not to eat these women. You are not to harm them. You are not to touch them."
The monsters looked at him. They looked at the quivering girls. They looked back at him, and they sank to the ground in genuflection.
"Good," rumbled Freetrick, "I will not allow these girls to be harmed—"
The only warning he had was a soprano cry from behind him, then something hard cracked against the armor over his spine and a violent force shoved him forward.
Freetrick nearly managed to do a somersault; his hands hit the sandy floor and he ducked his head to take the fall on his shoulders, but the bulky armor on his back, the armor that had saved him from the knife-thrust, struck the ground off-center and twisted him sideways. Sand blew upward. The Ultimate Fiend uncoiled mid-tumble and flopped onto his back.
"Ah, tyrant, but what if they harm you?" said the Monster Killer.
***
Istain coughed, swallowed, groaned, wiped the vomit from his chin, and slid off the side of the chogorrenyth like a sack of rocks.
"Gibber," he said weakly, staring at the black sky above him, "gibber me into nonsense."
"Horrible, wasn't it?" A silhouetted figure interposed itself between Istain and the Maelstrom. "Ah, my chogorrenyth." The man's voice was aged, but strong, and currently warm with pride. He was not Freetrick. "I own one of the two left in existence, you know. They do not reproduce, and there are no Life-twisters left with the skill to make new ones. You there!" the man's head turned, "stay away from the head! I've used too many resources training your worthless, monstrous hide to feed you to my conveyance!"
"Who are you?" Istain asked, weakly.
The figure above him settled, as if seating itself in a tall chair. "Mr. Banethorne, the prisoner wants to know who I am."
"The prisonah!"
Istain found the strength to raise his torso off the ground and saw a second person, tall and thin, silhouetted against the storm.
"Will trem-ble in fee-ah at knowledge of his tyrannical captor!" This person screeched. "The Chairman of the Order of Dark Machinations, Dread General of the Homicidiary, Senior Undersecretary of Death for the Deep Synod, his Fiendishness the Jaded Tyrant the Despot Noggor, Teirchoke."
The first person, presumably Teirchoke, loomed over Istain. The black stones of the floor seemed to sway and rush forward. Istain almost vomited again.
"Well, what manner of thing is he?" Istain heard Teirchoke call over his head.
"We, your humble servants, found him whilst patrolling the skies of Dewmna Despotate, Fiendishness." Insect limbs clattered over the rock floor and Istain heard the voice of the maggot-man, Chrittle. "He was flying, villainousness, in an artificial conveyance, a flat tent that hung in the air like a gliding bat. He also possessed a weapon, which we have removed, and which you may later inspect, villain. He was beset by torns, and the weapon struck down three of them with thunder."
Istain raised his head to see Teirchoke, seated in a sort of nightmare modern sculpture, a twisted nest of wood and gleaming metal. "And this was over Dewmna, you say? Are you sure it was not over the border in Allmen country?" The Despot eyed Istain, "not Virgin Soil, surely."
"With all due terror, villainousness, this man was nearly in Ngiff Despotate."
"Ah. A Rationalist, then. Universal Science. Keep his thunder-weapon. I will make study of its workings in due time. Kill everyone who saw it. Then yourself. Banethorne, you will task some lurkers with ensuring the maggot-man Chrittle carries out my orders." The Despot's smile turned his face into a network of sagging and wicked wrinkles as, shockingly, the little monster bowed and wheeled his mount around. Chrittle didn't even protest the summary execution. Summary self-execution.
"We are truly under the Shadow," Madene said.
"Indeed you are," said Teirchoke. The tangle of ironmongery and lumber under him shivered, then flexed, and the old man swung closer. "But I must ask why? For what purpose do you invade our country, Rationalist?"
Istain tried to stand up straight. And rid his mind of the image of Chrittle killing himself. Would he at least get his duel with jabber?
"I am a friend of your Ultimate Fiend." He felt his mouth say. "I demand to…see him?"
Confidence drained from Madene's voice as Teirchoke's smile broadened.
"Oh…truly
? Could you perhaps tell me his name?"
Istain found he could not take his eyes off that horrible smile. "Freetrick?"
"Wrong!" Istain almost fell back onto the flagstones as he saw the fangs. "That is not the name of the Ultimate Fiend! You day-ah to lie to the Despot Noggor?! For your lies, scum, you shall die. Die for days!"
But Teirchoke's smile only widened. "No, no, Banethorne. The Rationalist is quite right. My spies tell me that the name by which our new and greatly feared Ultimate Fiend calls himself, and presumably the name by which his friends would know him, is not Feerborg, but Freetrick. You, young man, are either a spy who has done his homework, or you are what you say you are. But how shall I find out?" The sorcerous chair under the old man shifted on four iron spikes, raising a screech that made Madene clench Istain's teeth. "Banethorne, ready torture chamber thirty-seven."
"I am Freetrick's friend!" Istain shouted, "just…just freaking tell him about me! Tell him I'm—"
The servant Banethorne whipped out a sword Istain hadn't even seen, and slammed the flat of its blade against his shoulder. Istain screamed in pain and tumbled to the flagstones.
The sword flipped 45 degrees and the edge pressed into his throat. "Do you pre-sume to give ordahs, slave?" The servant's upper lip was drawn back like a hood, turning its face into a thing of gnashing teeth and huge, glaring eyes.
"I'm, um…" Istain started to say, then his tongue went numb. His eyebrows drew down in fury, and his fists clenched. No, Madene, you'll get us striking killed, he tried to say, but she had seized control of his mouth and larynx.
All Istain could do was pray as Madene slowly reached up, grasped the sword close to the base, and forced it away from his neck, all the while staring at the mad yellow eyes of Banethorne. Strike her out as gibberish, she was trying to intimidate the lord of evil and his flay-faced monster! Istain would have screamed, but Madene had clamped down on his muscles, and all he could was twitch.
"Do not strike me," said Madene through his mouth. Istain weighed the pros and cons of causing a seizure. He might break their head open on the stones, or get skewered by Banethorne, but at least it would shut her up. "Or I will tell…Feerborg all about you and your operation out here."
"Will you?" said Teirchoke. His face had become flat and hard as the stones of his castle. "Banethorne. Hit him again. Harder this time."
The blow brought Madene to Istain's knees, gasping through Istain's mouth with pain that Istain, himself, did not feel. Until he took control of his body back, anyway, at which point his cheek and shoulder flared up like a bonfire. True Words!
"Gibber!" Istain swore at Madene. "You striking idiot!"
"An idiot am I?" came the voice of the dark lord from above him. "Young man, you should send prayers to your weakling word-god every night for the rest of your miserable life, giving thanks that I am not an idiot. If you had fallen captive to any one of my peers, you would be in a million tiny pieces now." He chuckled, "Or wishing you were. But instead, you have come to me. Mr. Banethorne, help our young prisoner to his feet."
Rough, long-fingered hands closed around Istain's elbow and hauled him up. Istain gritted his teeth and clamped down on Madene. Her furious impulse to strike out at the monster became a non-provoking twitch.
"I assume you thought that attempt at rebellion would impress me?" said Teirchoke, "I cannot imagine you thought the logic of your argument would sway me."
"Because if I threaten to tell Freetrick about you mistreating me, you can simply kill me or throw me in a dungeon, and Freetrick will never know I was even here," said Istain, furiously, to his captor and his meddlesome psychosis, both. "And without my weapons or any magic in this nation, I can't striking intimidate you."
This actually brought a smile to the old man's face. "Ah, it seems you have a better grasp on the situation than I had supposed. Clearly the stories about The Rationalist Union are true, and you are a nation of thinkers, not fighters. I wonder if your logical prowess can lead you to your one hope for survival at my hands."
"Can I be useful—?" Istain's mouth snapped closed as Madene realized what he was saying. "Madene," he subvocalized, mouth still closed "you will get us killed if you don't shut up now."
Banethorne hissed at him, but fortunately his master did not seem to notice Istain's internal dialogue. "Well, perhaps you can tell me whether or not you can be useful." The elderly dark lord stroked the armrest of his chair, and the whole mess rose up and swung about with another screech of stone and metal. "Banethorne, escort our prisoner behind me. I wish to show him something of my castle."
"Istain, what are you doing? You can't offer this guy help! He's a dark lord of the Shadow!"
"Right," Istain subvocalized as he kneeled on the floor of a room somewhere in Teirchoke Despot Noggor's cavernous, badly-lit fortress, "so he'll have no compunctions about killing us."
"Better to die than serve the Shadow, Istain."
"Yeah well, I don't agree," not any more, anyway, "and this is my body, so I have a say over whether it stays alive."
"Well, I—" A sword prodded him in the back.
"Cease your mumbling!" Hissed Banethorne, "or you will serve my mastah with one limb few-ah!"
"I'm sorry," said Istain. He forced down panic and tried to think. If he was going to save Selene, he needed the power of Skrea behind him. That meant he needed Freetrick's help. Or someone's help, anyway. Imagine this as a program tree. If A then B or C, if not A, then…"Um…my dark lord?"
"The correct term of address is Fiendishness," said Teirchoke. He had settled his mobile easy-chair between Istain and the room's huge fireplace. He stood out as an angular black shadow against the flames, the room's only source of illumination.
"Villainousness," Istain corrected, "how can we…I mean, I help you?"
"What makes you think you could help me?"
"Well…" Istain temporized, "it seems to me that we all need help sometimes."
The old man chuckled. "A very Rationalist sentiment. Here we would say we all have our dark desires."
"Istain…" his throat buzzed.
Istain coughed. "Well, maybe I can help…fulfill them?"
Teirchoke's smile gleamed in the firelight. "Mr. Banethorne," he said, "tell the Rationalist about the child who is no longer my son."
"Truly, Fiendishness?"
"Do not make me ask twice, Mr. Banethorne." Teirchoke lifted his right hand and grasped at the air in a gesture that was, for some reason, extremely threatening.
"Of course, Fiendishness. Ahem. His Fiendishness Teirchoke Despot Noggor," the servant said, his harsh voice oddly soft and sympathetic, "has been unlucky in his progeny. His son, whom we now must call…Thorchoke the…kind, was banished for his scandalous behavior from the nation of Skrea and all the Kingdoms of Evil."
"It took all of my acumen and ruthlessness not to join him in banishment," growled the dark lord. "I retain my name and some honors and privileges," his listless eyes flicked around the ostentatious castle, and his mouth quirked in self-conscious irony, "but with me will die my line's aristocratic perquisites. So unless the Choke line be relegated to Outer Dark Lordship, someone must restore our evil name. As my grandson is an idiot and my daughter is a woman, that task falls on my shoulders. Be glad you will never live to be so disappointed by your progeny, lad."
Istain nodded. He had only a vague notion of how aristocracy worked—if only he had Zathara in his head instead of Madene—but he understood the basic idea. Disgrace, banishment, loss of face. Which meant…
"Uh…" he said, "Villainousness, Freetrick and I have been best friends since we were children. If you gave me to him, you could name your reward."
"Who? Ah, the new king? Pfah!" Teirchoke waved his hand dismissively. "No. Predicting the death of Feerborg would be redundant, since all Ultimate Fiends are assassinated sooner or later, but let us say that I belong to the school of thought that believes in the sooner half of the equation. DeMacabre might think he can keep the idealistic fool
alive until his bloody little bitch spawns a whelp of her own. I disagree."
"DeMacabre?" subvocalized Madene in confusion, "Bloody little bitch?"
"Bloodbyrn." Istain remembered the femme fatal who had come to collect Freetrick. If she was one of the good guys…
"Well," blustered Istain, "Freetrick is pretty resourceful. He was always good at getting his way." In dance practices, anyway. "I would reconsider my, uh, estimation of him if I was you."
"Oh yes." Teirchoke smiled thinly. "I know all about his grand schemes. I was at his first council meeting, after all, and I have had reports of his subsequent behavior from my daughter. Why do you think I came all the way back here, with so much going on in Clouds-Gather? Because there is a chance, however small, that that your friend's meddling will tear down the Skrean government before he is killed. No." Teirchoke leaned forward. "DeMacabre and his faction are fools for believing they can use that nincompoop to their advantage. I choose another champion." He leaned back again, a smile on his wicked, wrinkled face. "Yes…Prince Feerix will pay handsomely for you."
Chapter the Sixteenth
In which the Ultimate Fiend redecorates his Room
"Wild snacks!" General Blaarg bellowed. "Ogres! Seal the doors!"
Freetrick scrambled to get his limbs back under him as the sand juddered with the concussions of running ogre footsteps. Freetrick stood to see one of the ogres on the ground, another clawing at a chain around his neck. Two more were trying to fend off a leaping maelstrom of scantily-clad female assassins. Then his eyes focused on the person directly in front of him, and Freetrick felt cold sweat prickle under his armor.
She was rising from her crouch, joints slowly straitening, long limbs stretching, light scattering off her large silver eyes.
Freetrick swallowed. "You."
The Monster Killer smiled. She took a slow step forward, and then the step became an arc that swung almost lazily through the horizontal before her foot swept into Freetrick's side. Then she hit him in the face.
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