The Kingdoms of Evil

by Daniel Bensen

"Nope!" Istain said immediately. "I see now what a stupid idea it was to rush out at you like that."

  Madene felt the need to defend herself. "I thought you were Teirchoke."

  For her trouble, she received a pinch and a subvocalized shut up! From Istain, and a raised eyebrow from Freetrick. The black eyes made the expression look more threatening than sarcastic. "If it had been," he said, "you'd be dead dow. Bloodbyrd," he turned to address the dominatrix beside him, "let hib stad up, I said."

  "Freetrick, I am so sorry," Istain babbled as Madene stood them up.

  "It's okay.. I suppose I should have beed expectig it. Strike it out, Istaid, I had no idea you could pudch like that." Freetrick's nose made a liquid gurgle as he inhaled. "Strike it, I think you really did break by dose."

  Madene shifted Istain's eyes over to look at Freetrick. He had been transformed nearly as completely as she had been in the past weeks, and it wasn't just the white skin, or the black eyes behind their archaic spectacles, or even the fearsome armor he wore as casually as if it were a student's tunic and hose. His face seemed harder, fiercer, more ruthlessly controlled. And if there was fear in his bearing, there was also power. The Ultimate Fiend might be attacked at any moment, but looked as if he also expected to be able to rip his attacker in two.

  "If my lo-ad would allow me!"

  The screech from behind made both Madene and Istain twitch—a strange sensation. She turned to see a monster, generally humanoid, but with a face-like mask of skin everted over the large eyes and grasping fangs of a nocturnal predator. The same design as Teirchoke's servant, Banethorne.

  "I believe I can reset it, my lord," said Bloodbyrn as the monster stepped forward. Its mask slurped down over its fangs, its large, humanoid hands extended as if to rip Freetrick's face off, and still Madene would have preferred its ministrations to the woman's.

  For a moment, a wince turned him back into the boy she had known in college. "Thags, Skystarke, but I guess I'd better let Bloodbyrd do it. You doh…"

  The monster nodded, and its ghastly countenance split in a…smile?

  "Be gentle?" Freetrick asked Bloodbyrn.

  "I shall not." The evil little smirk Bloodbyrn gave as she swayed toward Freetrick scared Madene more than anything she had seen so far in Skrea.

  "Whoah!" Istain must have figured out the situation, as well.

  Freetrick shot them an expression that was equal parts pride and embarrassment. "A lot's been happening."

  A lot must have been happening, to make Freetrick want to crawl into bed with that. Was it just a combination of low-cut necklines and Stockholm Syndrome, or had Freetrick…turned? Madene supposed it would make her job simpler, if he had.

  Madene watched with sick shock as the scantily-clad woman withdrew a wicked little dagger from one filmy sleeve and calmly slit her own wrist.

  "Disgusting," she muttered.

  "What was that?" Freetrick said, standing completely unfazed as the tentacle of blood flowed through the air toward his face.

  "Freetrick," Istain said, "I don't know what this lady's told you, but we've seen her in action. She's striking dangerous."

  "Only to our enemies," said Freetrick chillingly, then more familiar ironic smile crossed his features. "There's a lot you don't know, Istain, but I'll fill you in after I—ow!"

  The tip of the tentacle touched his nose, then burst into a nest of writhing branches and engulfed his face.

  "Ow," said Freetrick again, "ow ow—striking gibber—ow!" Cartilage popped and Freetrick stumbled back from Bloodbyrn's disgusting medical appendage. Then the blood on Freetrick's face retreated back into his nostrils as she watched, as if falling in reverse. In a moment, his face was clean, and his voice was clear and unclogged when he spoke.

  "Thanks, Bloodbyrn."

  Then Freetrick turned his menacing monochrome face back toward them. "All right, Istain. We need to go now."

  Freetrick made a military about-face and strode out of their prison with Istain hurrying after him.

  "Great," Istain's feelings echoed her own, "you have some kind of safe-house here? Or a panic room?"

  "I would have you stay in my suites, but there's no one I trust that could get you there safely. You'll have to stay with me." Freetrick spoke without turning, as if he had better things to do than look after their safety.

  Istain apparently didn't seem to get the insult. Instead he gave Madene a headache by flicking glances at Bloodbyrn and the monster, Skystarke, as they kept pace. "What've you gotten yourself into, Free?"

  This time Freetrick did glance back over one spiny shoulder, smiling. "If we're very, very lucky, a tense conversation followed by a purge." Had his teeth always been so pointy? "If we're unlucky, a duel to the death followed by a violent coup."

  "And where are we going now?"

  "Istain, we can't really talk in the halls, okay? Just…stay out of the way and try not to get yourself kidnapped again."

  Madene couldn't tell if that quip pissed Istain off as much as it did her. Maybe so, because he didn't try to stop her when she spoke. "Freetrick, in case you couldn't tell, we were almost killed just trying to come and help you!"

  "Good." Freetrick stopped, turned, and Madene was shocked to see two lines of white light in his eyes, like tiny lightning bolts. "Because I have a job for you. Skystarke? Where are our targets?"

  The monster put its ear from the wall. Its knuckles, entirely human, from what Madene had been able to tell, wrapped twice on the stone. She fancied she could hear something, dry and slithering, from behind that apparently solid surface, but when she listened more closely, the sound was gone.

  "Prince Feerix approaches," said Freetrick's servant, "accompanied by The Duke DeMacabre."

  "My father?" Bloodbyrn looked anxiously at Freetrick.

  "Feerix?" said Istain, "that would be your brother? The guy who wants to kill you?"

  "Yes," said Freetrick, "and if I can't convince him to revoke his challenge, well…"

  "Well…well what?" Istain said when Freetrick's voice trailed off. "You'll speak to his lawyer, or he'll whip out his giant spiky necromancy knob and bludgeon you to death with it?"

  Freetrick raised an eyebrow. "Which do you think is more likely, given your experience with Skrea so far?"

  "Well, so, I hope you have a big spiky knob of your own."

  "That was something we thought you might be able to help us with."

  They looked at each other for a moment, then both boys burst out laughing.

  Thankfully, Bloodbyrn put a stop to their stupid joke before Madene strangled Istain from the inside out.

  "If I might redirect your virile energies to more immediate matters?" She withdrew a rolled sheet of parchment from her sleeve. "If you are the mage my lord claims you are, it would be wise to solicit your advice in our scheme."

  "Uh…" Istain looked down at Bloodbyrn's outstretched hand, then up to her cleavage, then further up to her face, then down her cleavage again. Madene bit down on their tongue and he jumped.

  "What?" Bloodbyrn snapped. "Are all Rationalist boys so timid? You react to me as to a viper tied about your manhood, and that was not my intention. It is aggravating."

  "The last time we met, you tried to kill me," said Istain.

  "Oh, that." Bloodbyrn pressed the parchment into Istain's hand and swayed back to Freetrick. "Circumstances have changed since then." She looked up at Freetrick with an expression Madene recognized. From his intake of breath, Istain recognized it too. He should, since that was the way Selene had looked at him.

  Bloodbyrn murmured something to Freetrick, standing much too close to him, and he confirmed Madene's suspicions by reaching out to hold her shoulders. Truth, Istain. These two have been sleeping together.

  You think? He subvocalized back. Does that mean she's one of the good guys, or that he's one of the bad guys?

  "Excuse me," Bloodbyrn was saying, "I meant that there is something we must do before you go into battle, if battle it is to be."

 
; Freetrick grinned over at Istain and Madene, "With Istain watching?"

  "Oh, Freetrick, gross!" She said, automatically.

  "You sound like Madene, Istain," Freetrick said, still looking at Bloodbyrn. "I thought you were more worldly."

  "I am," Istain bit their tongue and then replied. Stop striking talking to them, Madene! "I'm just not a big fan of sado-masochist snuff porn."

  "Your friend is even more degenerate in his speech than are you," said Bloodbyrn.

  "Right," muttered Istain, "degenerate." Madene couldn't stop Istain from moving her gaze down to the parchment in her hands. Even she could tell the instructions on the page made no sense.

  "I don't get it," Istain said, "You're going to kill him with…" he ran a finger around a particularly odd series of commands "…fractal topology?"

  "That's the plan."

  "Free, you've written this all wrong." Stink Istain out. He had gotten so wound up in his stupid programming problem, he wasn't letting her see anything of whatever Freetrick and Bloodbyrn were doing. "You can't get a…I assume this is supposed to be a fluid? You can't get a fluid to flow up with no input of energy. And even if you had energy, where are the definitions for that flow? You just sort of assume this stuff will move around by itself."

  "Assume it will."

  "Well okay," said Istain, finally looking up, "but still, wait a second," he looked up, "how are you planning to get word-magic to work in Skrea anyw—"

  There was suddenly a large, strong hand over their mouth, and foul, ketone-laced breath wafting from behind them. "You will be silent," Skystarke said.

  Madene?

  She ignored him, and nodded their head for the benefit of the monster.

  "Yeah, Istain," said Freetrick, seeming not at all upset that his bodyguard was about to chew off his best friend's face. " The walls have ears."

  "Okay," said Istain as Skystarke released them. "I'll just stand here and try to look pretty then."

  "A worthwhile Endeavour." Bloodbyrn gave them a bitchy little smile, then turned back to Freetrick. "I would ask as to the status of my lord's death energy."

  What is it with all this 'my lord' stuff? Istain's whisper buzzed in their throat. Madene shook her head to silence him.

  Bloodbyrn seemed to be interrogating Freetrick about his own magic, her tone a bizarre mixture of concerned girlfriend and drill sergeant. The conversation became even more disturbing when Madene made the connection between the questions and what she knew of necromancy.

  "My lord, I beg you to take a life."

  Madene waited for Bloodbyrn to look over at them when she said that, but her creepy orange eyes stayed fixed on Freetrick. Crafty.

  "Yeah?" retorted Freetrick, "And whose life should that be? Skystarke's? Istain's?" Madene noticed that he didn't mention taking Bloodbyrn's life, even rhetorically.

  "A suitable slave can be brought from anywhere in the castle—"

  "A slave with their own life and their own problems? And a monster to boot, contravening everything I'm trying to do here? No."

  "My lord—"

  "I said no!" Freetrick sighed, then held out his hands. "Look, when we do…what we're going to do, we might not even need death energy to do it."

  "My lord, I do not advise---"

  But Freetrick had already turned and begun to walk down the hall. The rest of them could do nothing but pursue.

  Chapter the Twenty-Second

  In which the Ultimate Fiend engages in Climactic Battle

  Milielan DeMacabre felt himself teetering on the lip of hell.

  Not any hell a Do-Gooder would recognize, of course. For Milielan, a man who had trouble sleeping too far from burning sulfur and enjoyed a good scourge at the weekend, hell was not a place. Hell was a king who would not take orders. Hell was a prince who worked for an enemy. Hell was the inability to simply slit the throats of both young idiots and take the bloody skull throne for himself.

  And most of all, hell was the prudence that demanded he wait, and scheme, and manipulate.

  "Ah my lord, the Ultimate Fiend!" Milielan clasped his hands together and grinned his most dental grin. "It is positively phantasmagorical to see you." And if the expression might display a little of that hidden desire to bury his canines in the fool's jugular, what of it? "Doubly so, since our chance meeting can also bring together so many people who, I do not think I overstep myself in saying so, have much to discuss. Is it not so?"

  So, Feerborg had somehow gained possession of Teirborg's hostage. Surprising. "Why, here, for example, if I am not very much mistaken and I do not," he winked at Feerborg, happy to see the king's grimace deepen, "believe that I am…here is the much sought-after hostage from beyond the mountains."

  Certainly the man, tall boy rather, wore that peculiarly Rationalist expression of shocked dullness, as if he had just been woken from pleasant dreams by a brick to the forehead.

  "Here we have your hostage, Feerix, I believe?" If he could capture the boy for himself…well, a little aneurism and some help from a cooperative necromancer would make the boy, and the situation, far more controllable. It was a pity the same could be done to Feerborg, himself.

  "Stop staring at me," the future meat-puppet said.

  "Oh, I beg your pardon." Milielan leaned toward the boy, this so-called Istain. "It was not my intention to alarm you. Not at all." He allowed a delicately calculated amount of spittle to collect at the corners of his mouth.

  "Well?" snarled Feerix from behind Milielan, "what are we waiting for? Tempest above, I grow tired of all this talk!"

  "Come now, surely you see it would be better to drop this silly duel business." Milielan swung around to focus on Feerix.

  "Exactly," said Feerborg. "That was just what I wanted to talk about."

  What an astonishingly obvious statement. "Well then, my lord, some dark destiny must indeed be guiding all out actions on this day." The Duke packed into that statement every ounce of enthusiasm he could manufacture. "For what have we now but the opportunity to discuss that very issue with your half-brother here? Yes, I know!" He clapped his hands, enjoying the winces of the two Rationalists. "If you discuss terms with prince Feerix, I shall be at liberty, and all too rare that liberty has been of late, to share," he brought his teeth together with a click, "a few bites of conversation with my daughter."

  Milielan did not wait for any of the gathered cretins to respond. They could discuss the deadly political situation or pick each other's noses for all the difference it made to him, as long as they did not, yet, kill each other.

  "An excellent move on your part, daughter," he spoke in Sangboise to Bloodbyrn, nodding at the Istain boy, "disemboweling Feerix's counter-plot and gaining an invaluable hostage, at one stroke. And you kept the boy close, where he can be used to coerce the Ultimate Fiend and prevent him from fouling these delicate negotiations. Clever."

  She nodded at the praise, but her hand came up in negation of it. "In truth, father, all this has been the work of my lord, himself."

  Now that was truly surprising information. "Feerborg is attempting to make it appear as if he is concerned for the life of this…acquaintance?" Milielan stroked his trim beard in thought. "The Compassionate Feint. A most eccentric gambit. Almost praiseworthy. If it works, of course."

  "My father," Bloodbyrn said, "I feel compelled to tell you that, to the best of what my reason and instincts are able to ascertain, Despot Feerborg is not pursuing this line of action as corollary to a more subtle manipulation of events, but out of genuine feelings of responsibility for the safety of this man, Istain."

  "Inconceivable!" the Duke ejaculated.

  The despot and the prince, locked together in what appeared to be a schoolyard shoving match, looked up. Were they fighting? Again? Well, and what if Feerix did finally kill Feerborg? The prince could hardly be more difficult to manage than his older half-brother.

  "Excuse me, my lords, please go back to your game," Milielan said, casting a curious glance at the Ultimate Fiend and
his…friend? How outré. The Duke shuddered and turned back to Bloodbyrn. "No, no, I cannot believe it. Even the Ultimate Fiend could not hope to survive here if he let it be known that he harbors sentiment for any creature."

  "He does," his daughter said. "Only consider what you know of Despot Feerborg, father, and you will find yourself forced to agree that this maneuver, far from unbelievable as you say is, in fact," she smiled, "just like the man."

  "Just like the man." The admiration in that phrase, that small smile, those upturned eyes.

  Milielan felt the hairs rise on his neck. No. No, it could not be. A memory of Bloodbyrn's mother cut through Milielan's intended speech like a sabre's slice to his larynx.

  "Father? What ails you?" She asked.

  "Yes," Milielan growled to keep his voice from trembling. "Indeed this plan is just like the man, as you say, my daughter. It is rampant and suicidal lunacy!" He smote the wall beside them with his fist.

  His daughter actually allowed herself to gasp, a reaction far greater than words justified. That, too, was too much like her mother. As her mother had been, there at the end.

  Milielan struggled to separate past from present. Bloodbyrn was not the lady Basorrie DeMacabre, and Despot Feerborg, by all that was bloody, could never be mistaken for Milielan DeMacabre, himself. No. The tragic history of the old generation need not be repeated by the new.

  It would not be, by his blood and dripping teeth, that DeMacabre swore.

  "My daughter," said Milielan, in a more modulated voice, "this situation cannot continue. The hostage is an advantage only with his neck between our fangs. Therefore I direct you: peel that boy off of the Ultimate Fiend, and by all that is bloody inform me if you have reason to believe we cannot continue with our previous plan. It is true I grow weary of lord Feerix straining at his leash. I would be glad to know if the time has come for me to release," he spread his hands before her, "my grip."