Dark Lord

by Jamie Thomson

Chris sat on the bed, shoulders slumped in despair. It hadn’t really mattered to him, or the rest of the Dark Lord’s Court in Exile, whether it was really true or not. What really mattered was that Dirk believed it was true. He made it feel real. His belief made it worth playing along with. Without that the whole thing became meaningless, just another game.

  Chris still couldn’t quite believe Dirk was serious. “But what about Hasdruban the Pure—don’t you still want revenge?” he asked.

  “Ha! What of him? I am defeated. Utterly defeated. Hasdruban has won. Though, of course, there never was a Hasdruban in the first place!” retorted Dirk.

  They sat in despairing silence for a while. Then Dirk said, “How is Sooz, by the way?”

  “Not good,” said Chris. “In fact, I wanted to talk to you about that. She’s taken the rap, you know, so you’re off the hook. Grousammer’s threatened to hand her over to the police. He could be bluffing, but if he does she might be charged or something, which will give her a criminal record. And she’s been suspended from school.”

  Dirk was appalled. “I had no idea … ,” he said. “By the Nine Netherworlds, what have I done?” He put his head in his hands and rocked back and forth.

  Chris went on. “She could be expelled. Maybe even sent away to one of those special schools, or something. We might not see her ever again.” Chris’s voice cracked and he turned away.

  Dirk looked up, shocked. “Never see her again …?”

  “It’s possible,” said Chris. “It’s up to Grousammer, really. Depends how far he wants to go with it.”

  Dirk thought for a moment and said, “I don’t really care what happens to me anymore. I could go and say I burned down the pavilion. Get her off the hook. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know, Dirk. Maybe. But that would make them suspicious. They’d want to know why she said she did it. It could just end up with both of you getting in trouble, and what’s the point of that? She wouldn’t want that either. Actually, when I spoke to her, she was more upset about the fact that you hadn’t gone to see her, or even called her.”

  Dirk looked away guiltily. “I don’t think I can look her in the face at the moment, I feel so terrible.”

  “Well, you should go and see her. You owe her that much, at least!” said Chris.

  “Anyway, why did she ‘take the rap’ as you humans say? Or we humans, I mean,” asked Dirk.

  “Don’t you know?” said Christopher angrily. He couldn’t keep the jealousy out of his voice as he said, “I think she’s got a thing for you. God knows why!” Then he got ahold of himself and went on. “Also, actually, she thought you’d pull something out of the bag to rescue her, to get her off the hook. We all thought that—the Lloyd of Dirkness, he’ll save her. Cast a spell or pull off some trick or scam or whip up a campaign to free her. The Child of the Night is innocent! Free her now! That kind of thing.”

  Dirk looked away in embarrassment. “There is nothing I can do. I am powerless. I’m just a kid, for goodness’ sake!”

  “Don’t you mean for evil’s sake?” said Chris attempting to raise a smile, to try and get back something of the old Dirk.

  “No, I mean for goodness’ sake,” said Dirk emphatically. “Look, I’ll think about turning myself in to save her, but that’s about all I can do. But, as you say, what’s the point if that just means we’ll both go down? In fact, what’s the point of anything? Might as well just give up …” He turned to stare out the window, making it obvious that he wanted to be alone.

  Chris sighed. He couldn’t think of anything else to say anyway, so he left, leaving Dirk to his despair.

  As he left, he heard Dirk muttering under his breath, “Maybe the White Beast will find me and end it all … Or is that too just a dream?” Chris frowned. Dirk didn’t sound good. And it was really annoying Chris. His parents could see something was wrong with Dirk and they were all over him—and ignoring Chris completely. Should he start moping around and staring into space all day? Would they pay more attention to him then?

  And Dirk wasn’t treating Sooz right either—first he asked Chris to steal from her, and now he was leaving her in the lurch. In fact, the more Chris thought about it, the more he thought about how the only reason he put up with Dirk (well, actually liked Dirk, in fact, but right now he wasn’t prepared to admit that) was because he was fun to be around and made him laugh. Right now Dirk wasn’t much fun to be around.

  Akram Malik, Sal’s father, reversed his car into the parking spot, listening to a ball game on the radio. He didn’t wonder why the only spaces that were empty in the entire parking lot were this one and the two spaces on either side of it, almost as if people were deliberately avoiding this area. Nor did he notice the cardboard sign someone had hastily propped up against the edge of the pavement. They’d scrawled on it the words BEWARE THE CURSED PARKING SPOT OF DOOM! He was too wrapped up in the game.

  He noticed a blind man with a guide dog walking past the front of his car. He felt an inexplicable urge to slam his foot down on the accelerator and run the poor man down. He tittered at the thought. He couldn’t understand it—his own father had been blind, and Akram was a volunteer at the local charity for the blind. Why would he want to run one of them over? Hurriedly he turned the ignition off, and got out of the car. The feeling of evil malice that seemed to have come over him faded after a few minutes, and he began to feel a lot better.

  But on his return, he found the back bumper of his car had fallen off. On closer inspection, he could see that most of it had literally rusted away. In half an hour.

  Akram frowned. Nearby, an old woman, gray-haired, stooped, and shriveled, sat on a bench, feeding the birds bread crumbs.

  “It’s cursed! That parking spot. Cursed I tell you!” she screeched.

  Breakfast at Purejoies

  The next day was a school holiday and Dirk was woken in the usual way.

  “Good morning, Dirk. Get up, sweetheart!” said Mrs. Purejoie, as she did every morning, drawing the curtains and flooding the room with light.

  “Mornings are never good, and don’t call me … ,” Dirk began, in the usual way, but then he sighed, remembering. Today was his first day as a human child, a normal kid. It was going to be difficult to adjust. To get back to normal. He gave up on his usual greetings and simply said, “Good morning, Mrs. Purejoie …”

  “Call me Hilary,” she said, as she did every morning.

  “Good morning, Hilary,” said Dirk without thinking.

  At this, Mrs. Purejoie rushed over and gave him a big hug. Dirk cringed under this onslaught of love like a kid who wanted to be feared as a terrible Dark Lord rather than hugged by a kind and loving mother. For a moment, Dirk thought she would crush all the life out of him but soon she relented and said, “Does this mean you don’t want to be Darth Vader anymore, Dirk, dear?”

  Dirk made a face. He didn’t really want to talk about it, but he said in a barely audible mumble, “Not Darth Vader, you fool, more like the Emperor Palpatine …” Then he trailed off—what was the point? So he said more loudly, “Sort of, Mrs. … er, Hilary.”

  “That’s just wonderful, dear, just wonderful!” She gave him another suffocating hug. Dirk groaned inwardly. He wasn’t sure if he could manage trying to be normal. It seemed so … odd. She leaned back a bit, and looked at him. She smiled.

  “Well done, Dirk, well done,” she said. “It’ll take time, but you’re going to get better and better, really you are. Dr. Wings and Professor Randle said this would be a sign of healing, of getting better! How right they were.”

  Dirk smiled insincerely at her, and then looked out the window. All this patting on the back, the hugging and stuff, it made him feel rather uncomfortable. As for Wings and Randle—how did those two idiots ever qualify for anything, let alone make it to doctor and professor?

  Mrs. Purejoie returned to the attack and hugged him again, saying, “You’re such a sweet little boy, Dirk, I could eat you up! You’re such a … cutie pie!” With that,
she gave him a tickle in the ribs.

  That was too much for Dirk. “Oh, please!” he said. “Give it a rest. I may be delusional, but I’m still a boy! Enough already!” Dirk groaned inside. If only he really was a Dark Lord. He wouldn’t have to put up with this for long!

  Mrs. Purejoie backed off. She knew what boys were like. Too much love could embarrass them. In fact, it was much the same with grown men, who often pretended not to like being called cutie pies too.

  “Well, what would you like for breakfast, my darling?” said Mrs. Purejoie, changing the subject.

  “Whatever … ,” muttered Dirk ungraciously.

  Instead of snapping at him for being rude, Mrs. Purejoie smiled even more. After all, from her point of view this was the typical response of your average teenage boy, so it was good to hear. Normally, she might have gotten something like “I demand the roasted hearts of my vanquished foe!” or “Souls! I will drink Souls for breakfast,” so it was nice to have something normal for once, even if it was a little curt.

  “Well, have a shower, brush your teeth, and get dressed. I’ll make you some eggs. Your favorite!”

  With that she gave him a kiss on the forehead, which Dirk endured with a grimace, and then left the room.

  Eggs his favorite? He had said that once, Dirk thought to himself, but he’d meant the Egg of Life of course, that first egg out of which the universe itself was born. Eating of its shell would give you power beyond the comprehension of mortal and immortal alike! He’d never found the Egg of Life, but if he ever did … But that was all in his mind. There was no Egg of Life. Only fried eggs on toast, a la Purejoie. Dirk brightened at that. Actually, fried eggs on toast with some bacon … yum! He got out of bed, threw off his Grim Reaper pajamas (he’d had to get those custom made—you couldn’t just buy them, and it’d taken a lot of persuasion to get permission) and got into the shower.

  A short while later, he was sitting at the breakfast table opposite Christopher. In front of him was a plate of fried eggs on toast with bacon on the side. The smell of it made his mouth water. But he couldn’t eat it yet. He had to wait for Mrs. Purejoie. They always had to wait for Mrs. Purejoie, so she could say grace. Dirk began to drum his fingers on the table, as he did every time they ate. Chris raised his eyes heavenward. He knew Dirk hated the blessing and the waiting but the same old finger drumming was getting a bit tedious these days. At last, Mrs. Purejoie came in. Dirk rubbed his hands together with impatient anticipation.

  “Come along, Mrs…. er, Hilary, let’s get going, shall we?” said Dirk briskly as if he was in charge, and she was some kind of servant.

  Mrs. Purejoie smiled at Dirk indulgently. She sat down and said, “Holy Father bless this food. For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.” With that she made the sign of the cross and indicated that they could all start.

  The first time this had happened, all those months ago, Dirk had freaked out. After all, if a Dark Lord were to eat food that was blessed it would burn his mouth like bright sunlight on the pale, vulnerable skin of the Vampire. Blessed food was holy food. A Dark Lord couldn’t eat that! But he was used to it now. In any case, he wasn’t really a Dark Lord so it didn’t matter. He dug in, crushing the egg yolks as if they were the eyes of Hasdruban the Pure and mashing them up with the toast and bacon, until it was a goopy mass. He always imagined eggs on toast were a kind of Blood Porridge, made from the eyes of the White Wizard, toasted Halfling-flesh, and the blood of a Brown Elf.

  He began shoveling it into his mouth. He talked through the munching, saying, “How sweet are the eyes of the Wizard!” and “Hmm, crunchy Halfling.” He always made comments like this at breakfast, which usually set Christopher off giggling. But today Christopher didn’t seem in the mood.

  Dirk looked over at Mrs. Purejoie. She was doing what she usually did—ignoring him. She’d long ago given up trying to change this behavior at the table, and she’d become pretty accomplished at just tuning him out when it was time to eat. That used to make Dirk feel like he’d “won,” that he’d put something over on the Pure Guardians, but today it didn’t seem right. The running commentary he usually kept up while eating began to trail off.

  Mrs. Purejoie looked over at him. “Good boy,” she said, as if he were a dog. Dirk raised his eyes. He wasn’t a dog, and he didn’t want to be a boy. He didn’t even want to be good. But he was a boy. And maybe it was time to think about being “good.” He needed to fit in, to be normal, just like any other boy. So he just smiled, and thanked Mrs. Purejoie for the excellent eggs on toast.

  After breakfast, Mrs. Purejoie left to preach a sermon at her church. Dr. Jack had suggested a day trip somewhere, but neither Christopher nor Dirk were in the mood. In any case, it was a gray, drizzly day, not the best for a trip. Dr. Jack made some suggestions, but Dirk and Chris said they wanted to play a computer game, much to Jack’s annoyance. He tried to persuade them otherwise, but in the end he gave up and took himself off to the living room with a book leaving Chris and Dirk to their own devices.

  They went upstairs to Chris’s computer, but when it came down to it neither of them could be bothered. The whole pavilion/Sooz/fire thing was really getting them down. They just sat on the bed in Chris’s room, not saying a word.

  Eventually Chris spoke. “I’ve got to talk to you about something.”

  Dirk waved a hand imperiously. “Speak.”

  “You have to talk to Sooz,” said Christopher.

  Dirk looked sick at the prospect. “But what do I say? ‘Sorry’? What difference is that going to make?” he said despondently.

  “You’ve got to talk to her—she’s taking the blame. And she’s your friend. She deserves better,” insisted Christopher.

  Dirk looked miserable. He’d fought endless wars, commanded vast armies of fearsome monsters, burned cities, built Black Towers of Doom, battled mighty Paladins in hand-to-hand combat, cast terrible spells that darkened the skies, and so much more, but talking to a teenage Goth girl seemed to terrify the life out of him. And she was one of his minions—he shouldn’t be scared of her. But none of that Evil Overlord stuff was real of course. It was all in his mind. And she was a friend, not a minion. Dirk sighed. Maybe this is what it meant to feel “guilt.” Christopher was right; he had to talk to her.

  “Okay—I’ll call her or something,” he said unconvincingly.

  “No, man, that’s not good enough. You have to go and see her, talk to her face-to-face. After all, it ought to be you taking the blame, not her!” shouted Christopher angrily. Dirk was beginning to annoy him again. He wasn’t treating Sooz right.

  Dirk tutted in irritation, but he had to admit Christopher had a point. “Oh, all right, I’ll go over and see her.”

  That surprised Chris. He’d regretted immediately losing his temper and raising his voice—that was guaranteed not to work with Dirk as it was virtually impossible to persuade Dirk to do something he didn’t want to do. In fact, it was incredible that he was even considering what Christopher had to say. Nor had he gone into a Dark Lord rant about how nobody should tell him what to do.

  Christopher pushed a bit more. “You might as well go this morning. Nothing else to do today. And there’s one more thing—Sooz told me to tell you that she found something in Grousammer’s office. Something he’d written in his diary. She wants to talk to you about it.”

  Dirk shrugged. “Okay,” he said. With that, he got up and left.

  Christopher could hardly believe it. That had been a lot easier than he’d expected. But he knew it was for the best. One of the worst things about the whole situation for Sooz was that Dirk hadn’t even been in touch with her. He owed her that at least.

  Dirk went into his room and put on his jacket. Then he had a thought. He opened the wardrobe to look for his Cloak of Endless Night. It had been carefully hung up by Mrs. Purejoie. It smelled clean and fresh. She’d washed it using one of those sickeningly fragrant fabric softeners called Summer Breeze or Spring Delight or s
ome other absurdly trite name. Why couldn’t she bathe it in blood or something? Not only that—Dirk realized that it’d been ironed. Probably by Dr. Jack, who had to do the ironing in the Purejoie household.

  Dirk scowled. Dark Lords didn’t wear ironed cloaks that smelled of fabric softener, for evil’s sake! How could they do this to him? Also, he wondered whether being washed and ironed would affect the power of the magic Blood Glyphs. Could they have been damaged in some way? But then he caught himself. It wasn’t a real Cloak of Endless Night, and the Purejoies were only doing what a million parents did every day, all over the world. He bundled the Cloak under his arm, and set off for Sooz’s.

  He decided to take a detour past the school. It hadn’t been long since the fire, and he wanted to check out the garden. He wanted to get rid of his Cloak, and the garden might be the best place to do that. The Cloak just reminded him of his past madness, his sickness. No, it was time to dispose of it once and for all, along with the whole Dark Lord delusion. He’d also take a look at the pavilion. Revisit the scene of the crime as it were.

  The Cloak

  The pavilion had been completely burned down. Nothing much remained. He could see a couple of figures picking their way through the blackened wreckage. Fire investigators, no doubt, trying to establish the cause of the fire. That got Dirk thinking. Surely they would find Sooz’s gas cooker? And people didn’t deliberately start fires using a gas cooker. Maybe that was something worth mentioning to Sooz. Might work in her favor. He owed her that much at least! It was also very odd, the way the pavilion had gone up so quickly. Humans were obsessed with health and safety—didn’t they normally fireproof structures like this?

  Dirk sighed and turned away. Well, it was all in the hands of the “adults” now. They’d decide what was what.

  He walked toward the garden. Up ahead, he spotted what he’d been looking for. Another fire. A small fire though—a bonfire of weeds and branches from some recently cleared garden. He glanced around. Nobody was nearby so he walked over and threw his Cloak on the flames. It was time to burn away all the nonsense, all that Dark Lord madness. Cleanse his mind with fire! The black Cloak began to sputter, and then burst into flames, crackling angrily. The red Blood Glyphs of Power began to glow brightly. Dirk reached for his Ring. That could go on the flames as well. But then he gaped in astonishment …