The Kingdoms of Evil (68 page)

"If
I
may be allowed to do the duties that have been thrust on me?" Bloodbyrn said.

"Oh Right. Sorry." Freetrick motioned Bloodbyrn to translate for him.

"
Silence
!" Bloodbyrn screeched at the grumbling monsters. "How
dare
you question your Ultimate Fiend? With but a thought in his twisted mind he can rip the very ligaments from your bones. So cease your protestations and bend to his orders or be destroyed utterly!

"However insane those orders might be." Bloodbyrn growled as she sank back into her seat.

Freetrick sighed. There went any hope of a considered dialogue. Oh the monsters would obey. When he was watching them, anyway. At all other times, they would go about business exactly as they had been. Well, this was a start, anyway. And maybe by throwing the Skrean government off-balance, he might gain some time to establish a
real
power base.

Well then, chaos-ho. "So, yes. Next up is the creation of a tax office." And on and on. Civil reforms, legal reforms, tax reforms, land and farming…

"My lord!"

Freetrick looked up from his notes at Bloodbyrn's hiss.

"What in the name of everything bloody are you
doing
? You can't expect these monsters to…to
farm
."

"I think," said Freetrick, gesturing grandly, "that
these
monsters are capable of anything."

"…in perpetual darkness?"

Freetrick smiled dizzily. "Please turn to page two of your agendas."

" '
Get rid of the Maelstrom
?!'" The red-noise dome screeched with her consternation as Bloodbyrn read aloud. "That is…completely impossible."

"I thought I was the Ultimate Fiend," said Freetrick, grinning, "maybe your puny mind simply cannot encompass my fiendish machinations."

"But…the basis of all necromancy…" Bloodbyrn spluttered as the monsters stared.

"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.

"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."