Dark Lord

by Jamie Thomson

  He glared at the two paramedics balefully. They just smiled back at him inanely, every now and then muttering platitudes like “There, there,” or “Everything will be okay,” or “We really ought to tell your parents—can you remember who they are?” (Fools! If only they knew how close they had come to total subjugation in the Slave Pits of Never-Ending Toil!)

  The ambulance hurtled along at quite a high speed. Dirk began to realize it was actually some kind of machine. Possibly not even powered by magic at all. A remarkable feat of engineering. He vowed to have a look into this technology when he had a chance. Extraordinary sights greeted him as he looked out the windows. Stone buildings, paved roads, hundreds of these chariot machines rushing around everywhere like gigantic buzzing steel beetles, tall poles with what looked like magical lanterns hanging from them, and people—people all over the place. This world was awash with humans, like some kind of plague. He’d have to do something to reduce their numbers. Yes, that would be fun!

  Still, he’d have to be careful. It wasn’t going to be as easy to conquer this land as he’d thought. These humans had learned to harness the powers of nature in ways he’d never imagined. This city was huge, a sprawling warren of rock and iron, and so many … what did they call them? Stores! That was it! Stores. And also what looked like signs. All over the place, with strange red or black symbols on them, some with just numbers. What did it all mean? He began to feel very tired, and he dozed off. He dreamed of world domination.

  Meanwhile, back in the car parking space the boy had fallen into, a black blob of mucus spread out slowly to form a dark patch on the ground, like a small oil slick.

  The Hospital Lockup

  He woke to find himself in a bed, inside a small square room. He looked down at himself. He was still in the body of a human child. It hadn’t been a dream, then. It was all real.

  There was a large window on one side of the room with a view over the city. It was even bigger than he’d imagined when he was in the chariot of Ambew Lance. So much glass, and steel and stone. The sight actually awed him for a moment. He was going to need a horde of Orcs to conquer it all. A big horde.

  He realized he was feeling a little better. He was able to sit up in bed. Next to him on a tray that he could swing over his lap was a meal of what looked like bread, placed on either side of some kind of meat, and a selection of odd-looking fruit. He was hungry, so he devoured it all without thinking, though it wasn’t something he’d usually eat.

  When he’d finished, he tried to get up. He managed a few steps toward what looked like a water basin. And then he saw it—the mirror. He looked into it and saw the face of a brown-haired, unremarkable, somewhat tubby human child of about twelve years of age. He couldn’t bear the sight—where were his majestic horns, great canine fangs, and bony skull ridges? Where was the mottled skin like thousand-year-old parchment stretched across the warped and twisted skull of one who had mastered death millennia ago? No taloned, skeletal hands. No black robes and bone-encrusted helms. None of the accoutrements of an Evil One. It was too much to bear!

  “Nooooo!” he cried, and he drove his fist into the mirror. The mirror cracked, but did not shatter. And suddenly Dirk felt pain in his hand. He wasn’t used to that. He looked down—there was no blood, luckily, but it was the shock of realizing how pitifully weak he was that really upset him. Human children were puny.

  He looked up—the cracked mirror distorted his features in a rather pleasing way: discordant, disturbed, and twisted. That was better!

  The door swung open, and several adult humans entered the room. One of them, a youngish female of the species, said, “Hello, Dirk—”

  Before she got any further, he interrupted, saying, “Dark, it’s Dark Lo—Oh, what’s the use?” and he fell silent.

  The humans exchanged “told you so” looks, and the woman continued, “I’m Miss Cloy, from social services. And these gentlemen are Dr. Wings and Professor Randle, specialists from the Child Psychology Unit. We’re here to make an assessment.”

  Dirk scowled. Social services? Could that be some kind of legion or military service unit for cleaning out social undesirables, like humans and Elves and other pointless do-gooders? And a unit of psycho specialists! That sounded useful. Why hadn’t he thought of that? A legion of insane, psychotic, berserk Orcs for instance—what a thought! There was much to be learned here. Assuming he survived this next encounter with humankind.

  “Don’t worry, we’re here to help,” said Wings.

  “Of course you are,” said Dirk. “Now, listen, puny humans. First, you will tell me where I am. Then you shall bring me some clothes, and my cloak, and then take me to your leader. I will accept his sworn statement of fealty immediately and take command of this city forthwith. If you disobey me, I will destroy you all.”

  They stared at him, dumbfounded for a moment. Wings actually giggled, until Randle glared at him and he fell silent. Dirk took this to mean that they were finally beginning to recognize the deference and respect owed to him. Or maybe not …

  “You’re in the hospital, Dirk,” said Miss Cloy, “and they’ll be keeping you overnight for observation. Nobody can find anything physically wrong with you, but something must have … umm, happened to you.”

  “And that’s what we’d like to find out, so we can help you,” said Randle.

  “I warned you,” said Dirk, and he raised his hands, calling forth all of the power invested in his Great Ring, intent on engulfing them in torment with the spell of Agonizing Obedience. Normally, he’d just kill them outright, but he needed some slaves to do his bidding, and the quickest way to crush them into complete submission was by the use of extreme pain.

  But nothing happened. His Ring of Power was still dull and lifeless. He ran through several spells in his mind, spells of Empowerment, spells of Transmutation, of Death, Domination, and Destruction, but nothing worked. He really had lost his powers! A wave of nausea and despair washed over him. Weakly, he climbed back onto the bed.

  Dr. Wings noticed the broken mirror and said, “Look, Randle, he smashed the mirror!”

  “Hmm, interesting,” said Randle, stroking his chin ruminatively.

  Who are these idiots? Dirk thought to himself.

  Miss Cloy sat on the end of his bed. Wings and Randle pulled up chairs. Wings popped what looked like some kind of brightly colored pill into his mouth. Dirk’s brow furrowed at that. Was that some kind of magic pill that would enhance his strength or give him protection against the powers of darkness? Noting Dirk’s interest, Wings pulled out a package of these odd pills and offered them to Dirk.

  “Chewing gum?” he said innocently.

  “Ha, you won’t drug me so easily, you foolish human!” Dirk replied, waving the chewing gum away dismissively. Wings and Randle exchanged an enigmatic look. Perhaps they were beginning to realize who they were really dealing with, thought Dirk.

  What followed was several hours of what Dirk called “his interrogation.” It was long and drawn out because they were too weak-minded and squeamish to use torture. Well, that was their problem. They asked him seemingly useless questions: Who were his parents? What had happened to him? Where did he go to school? And so on. He told them he was from another world—and tried to prove it, but they just wouldn’t believe him. Nothing he tried convinced them. They ran what they called “tests.” They said his intelligence was exceptionally high. Well, of course it was. They also said he trailed behind in other areas, such as empathy, socialization, and morality. Well, of course he did! What did they expect? Such things were useless to a Dark Lord.

  Then they asked him to write down exactly what had happened to him, just before he was found in the Savemart parking lot—which was, in fact, another one of their “stores,” rather than the citadel of a local warlord, as he had first thought. This is what he wrote, using one of their remarkable pens (so much more effective than the old quills back home). He told the tale of the last thing he remembered before his fall to earth.


  Gargon had unleashed the new war

  catapults I’d designed, and that so many

  Orcs had worked on and died building.

  Their taut cords made the ground shake

  as the skies darkened with roiling,

  smoke-trailing, spark-splashing balls of

  blue fire. I watched the faces of the

  elite knights, the White Shields, too

  closely packed to turn their horses before

  the barrage rained upon them. Under the

  steel visors, those grim-set mouths went

  slack. They knew that death was flying to

  consume them.

  Ah, such a glorious day! It was all

  going so well.

  I see the battlefield as in a mist, a

  blood-red mist. We were beating them

  back. Those impudent fools who had

  marched to the very heart of my kingdom,

  there in the shadow of Mount Dread, in

  the wan light cast by the Dark Moon of

  Sorrows, they saw the powers at my

  command and their hearts were icy with

  fear.

  But then I caught sight of that

  meddler, the White Wizard, Hasdruban

  the Pure. Across a sea of battling

  troops our eyes locked. I began the

  Incantation of the Ninth Demise. I saw

  that he held something—a crystal. It

  shone with power. I had spoken the sixth

  of the nine syllables that would crack his

  old veins and spill his blood like dust upon

  the wind.

  Hasdruban said one word. The crystal

  blazed with light. And I was falling …

  After they’d read this, Wings said to Randle that he’d noticed something significant—the White Shields.

  “The elite knights of Hasdruban the Pure. Yes, what of them?” said Dirk.

  “Do you know the name of the town we’re in, Dirk?” asked Miss Cloy.

  Town! If this was a town, what must their cities be like? thought Dirk. Orcs weren’t going to be enough to conquer this land, no matter how many he bred. He’d need to enslave or persuade some humans to serve him as well or he’d have no chance.

  “It’s called Whiteshields,” said Randle.

  “And I work for the Whiteshields District,” said Miss Cloy.

  The blood drained from Dirk’s face. This was serious. He was a prisoner of the White Shields, his most dedicated enemies, an order of hereditary paladins sworn to one thing and one thing only—his utter destruction. For millennia they had striven against him, thwarting many of his plans and stratagems, until at last they had achieved this, their final victory. And this Miss Cloy, seemingly harmless, was in fact part of the High District of the White Shields! She’d just admitted it freely. And this social services legion must be a super elite crack unit in the service of his enemy.

  But why were they telling him this? Could it be that they knew his powers were so weak that they had no fear of him at all? If so, they were right. What could he do against them? All he had at hand were the powers of a twelve-year-old human boy. Still, he must not despair. Despair was for lesser creatures, not for the Lord of Darkness. He would never give up.

  What he couldn’t understand was why they hadn’t just killed him outright, or put him on trial, as the White Wizard before Hasdruban had tried to do—up until he’d thrown the meddling old fool into a vat of superheated lava, that is.

  Eventually, Cloy, Wings, and Randle were through with him. Dirk was exhausted. As they left, Miss Cloy said something about how they’d be finding him a home to go to, and that he’d be back to school in no time. His heart sank. A home. Surely she couldn’t mean a home complete with parents and all that. What a ghastly thought! And he held onto that thought as he fell into a deep sleep.

  Mrs. Fenton set off in her car to go shopping as she did nearly every day. Today the parking lot was full—except for a single space. The same space that no one had parked in for days and days, the one with the strange little black oil slick that wouldn’t go away, even when it rained, the one where they’d found that boy with amnesia. She reversed into the space but the car next to hers had parked rather badly, making it really hard for her to get out. And for some reason that made her mad. Really mad. So she slammed her door open, denting the other car, before stomping off to do her shopping in an angry rage. Which was unusual, for Mrs. Fenton was one of the nicest, most placid people you were ever likely to meet.

  The Dream

  Dirk dreamed of a pair of golden eyes staring at him hungrily through a white fog. The eyes glowed balefully, looking for him, seeking him, hunting him. Dirk knew he had to get away, to escape those terrible, pitiless eyes, for they were coming for him and him alone. That thought filled him with terror, a dreadful fear that gripped his dark soul in a vice of horror, a fear he wasn’t used to experiencing. He was vulnerable here, trapped in the body of a little human boy. He had lost his powers. This thing, this monster with its awful eyes of yellow doom—it was coming for him, and it would destroy him forever!

  He woke with a start. It was just a dream. He’d been woken by one of the human females they called a “nurse.” She placed something they called “breakfast” in front of him—eggs, bacon, toast. He realized he was ravenously hungry and dug in with a will, images of nightmarish yellow eyes already fading. He was used to the roasted flesh of his slain enemies, but for some reason the thought of that turned his stomach. He guessed that his food requirements were now governed by the needs of a twelve-year-old human juvenile. Rather dull, he thought.

  Later, Miss Cloy, the local commander of the Social Services Legion, came in to see him. By then he was up and about, feeling pretty good, all things considered. He could walk, talk, and generally do everything a young human could do without feeling nauseous. If only they weren’t so pathetically feeble. Why couldn’t he have the body of an ogre infant or a dragon hatchling? They could tear a human in half at this age.

  Miss Cloy spoke, breaking in on his musings. “Good morning, Dirk! Good news—we’ve been hard at work, and we managed to get a judge to sort things out last night. You have been made a ward of the court, and we’ll be placing you with a foster family by the end of the day.”

  “Mornings are never good, Miss Cloy. And are you saying that you have somehow managed to find some kind of magical ward against my dark powers? We shall see, puny human female!” said Dirk, and he raised his hands high above his head, readying a blast of Spectral Sorcery with which to wither her utterly. But of course, nothing happened. Dirk sat back on the bed despondently.

  “Yes, very funny, Dirk. Now try not to make any jokes for a while, and listen. We’re putting you with the Purejoies, a nice young couple who have one child of their own. A boy your age, called Christopher. That’s nice, isn’t it? Hopefully you’ll be able to make friends with him.”

  Perhaps they have indeed managed to put in place some kind of magical warding, Dirk thought, trying to block out the inane twitterings of Miss Cloy. A ward of the court … The Celestial Court of the Holy Ones perhaps? That would be a very hard ward to break indeed. But he’d have to find a way.

  Miss Cloy went on, “Mrs. Purejoie is a minister at the local church, and Mr. Purejoie is a doctor. Very nice people. They’ve got a room all ready for you. Everything’s been taken care of.”

  “Minister? What ministry?” said Dirk. “And what arcana is he a doctor of? Sorcery? Ritual magic? What kind of thing?”

  Miss Cloy looked at him oddly, unsure if he was being serious. “Er, well, he’s a doctor of medicine, actually. And a minister is a priest. You know, of the church.”

  Dirk stared at her as he took this in. Doctor of medicine—a healer, eh? What a waste of intellect. Such a man should be easy to manipulate. But churches—that was interesting. If they have churches that means they have gods! Perhaps he could find a powerful enough god, make an appropriate sacrifice—hum
an of course—and maybe the god would return him to his own plane, perhaps even put him back in his original body. The news was encouraging.

  “Tell me about Mrs. Purejoie’s temple of which she is a priestess. What kind of god does she serve?” asked Dirk. “What sacrifices does he accept? First-born sons? The hearts of those who are blameless and free of sin?”

  Miss Cloy had already decided to ignore anything Dirk said that was too out there, so she simply answered the first part of his question. “Well, you’ll have to ask her. First of all, it’s not a temple; it’s a regular church. Mrs. Purejoie will be able to tell you all about it.” She gave him that look again. “Have you really never heard of church before?”

  “Of course not,” Dirk replied. “I was propelled here against my will from another plane, where I was a powerful and dreaded lord of many lands, as I told you, and …”

  Miss Cloy interrupted, “Yes, dear, yes, of course. Well, right now you’re a little boy, and it’s time to get out of those hospital robes and into these clothes we’ve got you.”

  She dropped some dull-colored raiments on the bed. Jeans, sneakers, T-shirt, and a jacket—all new. “You’ll like them.”

  Dirk stared in disbelief at the curious clothes. Rough blue trousers, absurd white lace-up shoes, and a cheap piece of some kind of dyed cotton. The jacket was red and looked like something worn by the court jesters of Old Mylorn—well, up until his Orcish Legions had burned the place to the ground, that is.

  “I will not wear such tawdry clothes,” said Dirk. “Where is my Cloak of Endless Night? Bring it to me now, human female!” he ordered.

  Miss Cloy glared at him. “Don’t talk to me like that, young man!” she snapped. “My name is Miss Cloy. You can call me Jane if you like, but I won’t put up with being called a ‘human female’! Your wizard’s robe is hanging up in your room at the Purejoies’, your foster parents.”