The Kingdoms of Evil (42 page)

Madene slapped her hands over her mouth to stop the verbal diarrhea. Or she tried to. Her hands moved much faster than she meant them to, and they reached father up, so instead of pressing her mouth closed, Madene smacked herself across the forehead. That just caused another stream of invective, some of it words she didn't even
know
.

Help me!
She tried to cry, but her voice stumbled over the other words already in her mouth, and what came out was a hopeless, horrifying garble.

God of Words and Deusca Maw help her, was she going mad?

"
Modeuichegh?
"
said another voice,
"
Cho é loese dó? Cho a dénna simb chun Istain?
"
My Maiden, what is wrong with him? What did you do with Istain?

Madene caught her breath. That was her own voice, that was her bad Maidenspeak, but she had not said those words. It was the copy, the strange miniature Madene the High Maiden had created, who spoke now.

Madene looked pleadingly over the little Madene's head at the High Maiden, who was gazing coolly back at her. Back
up
at her. Why was everyone so small?

She said something Madene didn't understand, but that didn't matter, for Madene had finally looked down at herself.

Madene looked down at her long, flat torso, wrapped in Rationalist jerkin and hose. She ran a too-large hand through her too-short hair. She felt her muscles tremble as…
someone else
tried to move her body.

The High Maiden spoke again to Selene, there on the floor. When she did not respond, the High Maiden said something else, sharp and fast.

Selene coughed, spoke through clenched teeth, "She said, yes Istain will go to the Kingdoms of Evil, like he wants to, like his nation wants to. Madene if she…proves herself loyal, will stay here, like she wants," her voice shook with pain, or perhaps it was fury. Madene, shocked, allowed her new, towering body teeter a step on its long legs. Her mouth moved, "Selene…" The voice was deep, resonant, utterly wrong.

Selene continued, "…and the new Madene, the High Maiden says she will…she says she will
ride
Istain to the Kingdoms of Evil." She sighed, closed her eyes. "So the High Maiden's will is done. I'm sorry, Istain, you should have run."

"We can run now." The words vibrated in her chest as Madene felt herself lunge forward, her too-long arms reaching, her too-long legs flexing.

Madene panicked. Her limbs jerked, the muscles trying to simultaneously clench and extend. Nausea swelled in her gut, and the ground slid out from under her. Madene could not even use her hands to catch herself, and her head hit the ground hard enough to bring sparks to her vision.

Madene lay, stretched on the ground, her too-big hands scrabbling at the dirt, her too-wide mouth trying to form words.

"Madene, if you would kindly
shut up
and relax, we can at least get my face out of the dirt."

Madene nodded, and tried to relax as her gangly limbs sorted themselves out. It was like magic, all the wrists, elbows, knees and ankles working to untwist themselves, find their positions, and work together to bring her upright.

Slowly, carefully, Madene's new body stood itself up, until she towered over the High Maiden.

"Istain!" the little Madene said to her, "what are you doing?"

"What she wants," Madene said. Then her head turned away from the little Madene, and her eyes swung to glare at High Maiden Kadene.

Madene felt her lungs inflate, her mouth twist. This time, she did nothing to stop them, because she understood what High Maiden Kadene had done.

"You bitch." Istain said.

The High Maiden inclined her head, and smiled a serene smile.

In which the Ultimate Fiend regrets losing his Temper

Freetrick staggered out of the Audience Pit, drunk on shock and delayed reaction.

He had just told the government of an empire larger than all the coastal nations combined that everything they believed they knew about their job was actually wrong. And when logic hadn't worked, he had postured like a first-year drama student at a costume party.

And he had threatened what were probably the world's most dangerous men with regime change.
What have I done?
Freetrick screamed silently. Now, whether they had believed his ridiculous show or not, the dark aristocracy of Skrea would all be out for his blood. Probably literally.

It was the first rule of public speaking: never lose control, but in front of those arrayed madmen, his options had been either forget they were there or strangle on his fear. Maybe strangulation would have been better. Freetrick leaned against the wall, gasping.

"Fiend!" Skystarke rushed forward from his place by the door, then pulled up just short of touching his dread master. "What is amiss?" The monster's lips writhed over his nasal cavities. "Has some
fow
-el deed taken place in the Audience Pit?"

"You could say that. Oh" Freetrick rubbed his temples, quashing the impulse to run back into the Audience Pit screaming: 'I didn't mean it! Evil is great! Go team Evil! Please don't kill me!' But no. He might have broken the first rule of public speaking hard enough to scatter pieces of his reputation from here to Eldritch College, but he still had the second rule intact: don't back down.

"Fiend?" said Skystarke, "shall we go?"

"No," a hysterical giggle escaped from Freetrick's control. "I have to wait for the…quite a lot of paperwork…I made everyone write." So he couldn't back out from what he had just said, but he could damn well use it.

He hauled himself upright as the great onyx doors behind him swung open and a caravan of slaves emerged, each one carrying a pile of skins. There hadn't been enough writing materials in the Audience Pits for all the dark aristocrats to write their staff registers. At least, not initially. Some of the skins were still dripping.

Behind that grisly convoy came the dark lords, ignobles, and princes of the Kingdoms of Evil, looking variously shocked, angry, or murderous.

"My lord!"

Freetrick gathered his fraying shreds of self-composure and turned to see DeMacabre and Bloodbyrn making their way toward him through the exiting crowd. The Duke wore his usually concussed manic expression, while Bloodbyrn radiated wrath like a little, well-proportioned furnace. Even the armor-plated necromancers gave her space as they filed through the hallway.

"My lord," she said, and Freetrick flinched as if scalded by steam, "what you have done goes so far beyond what is acceptable—"

"Nonsense, my daughter." The Duke's voice rose over the hubbub of the dark lords. "Be not acrimonious, but instead rejoice in dark glee, for our lord has finally settled upon his persona.
Absolute insanity!"
DeMacabre was at Freetrick's side, one tarantula arm slung over his shoulder, ghastly smile turned upon the oncoming crowd. "King Feerborg the Irredeemably Mad. It has been done before, but, if the most recent demonstration was any suitable basis for judgment, never so well. And now," he turned to breathe in Freetrick's ear like the foreboding of death, "my lord, if you value your life, follow my lead."

Freetrick ground his teeth and attempted to look suitably unhinged.

"Good," whispered DeMacabre. "And now, my lord, we walk
ahead
of your subjects. Yes," he said in a louder voice. "It was an excellent demonstration of your wickedness, oh Punisher of the Righteous. A horrendous time was had by all. Yes, he is a terror, isn't he? It took him no time at all to assume his greatly feared father's stranglehold on the nation, may the blood never dry from his hands. A bloody purge of the Evil government? Aha! One can only hope! Just continue to move forward, my lord. Good. And soon this will all…" Freetrick heard his armor creak as DeMacabre's fingers tightened over his shoulder, "…be over."

They had passed the skin-bearing servants on their way to his apartments. Now, except for the shambling ogres of Freetrick's bodyguard, the hall before them was empty. The hall behind them, however…

"Are they going to follow us all the way to my office?" Freetrick asked.

"They no doubt intend to intercept and alter the records you extracted from them," said DeMacabre. "Which they are welcome to do, since we are not going to my lord's apartments, but to the Wardrobe Dungeon, and thence to the Ceremonial Seraglio."

"…why?"

"Because you, my lord, are to be un-married." DeMacabre grinned like a suffocating clown. "Immediately. Won't that be
splendid
."

"Woah, wait…" Freetrick tried to dig his heels in, but his boots slipped. He was only saved from falling by DeMacabre's hands, supporting and pushing him.

Freetrick looked down, and saw the red shimmer of blood under his boots. When had DeMacabre had time to cut himself?

Freetrick thought frantically as he was slid across the floor. Visions of anti-mugging spells flitted through his head…but of course even if Freetrick had his rune-stones or something to write with, no word-magic spell would work in the middle of Skrea. As Ultimate Fiend he must have some sort of special magical power, but Freetrick didn't know what that would be. That left temporal power.

"Skystarke…" Freetrick began, and suddenly Bloodbyrn was beside him.

"Does my lord truly wish to see me slaughter his bodyguard?" She inquired, sweetly, "I was planning to save that event for tonight, after the ceremonies."

Freetrick remembered his fiancée's demonstration of her blood-magic. A single drop could enter the skin, stop the heart or clot in the brain…Freetrick tried desperately to think of a way out.

"Look," he hissed at his Soon-to-be, Words help him, father-in-law, "I don't think this is at all necessary."

"Oh, but I do, my lord," grinned DeMacabre.

"My lord may prepare himself by reading this scenario," Bloodbyrn pressed a roll of parchment into his hand. "These are the centuries-old formulae by which the Fiends of Skrea have traditionally addressed their shuddering conquests, and I expect you to memorize them."

"Ah, my black heart clenches at the unholy romance," DeMacabre sighed, sliding Freetrick forward.

"Let us begin practicing," Bloodbyrn cleared her throat as Freetrick sought desperately for a means of escape. "'Fiend! Dastard! You will never get away with this!'"

The other dark lords. Freetrick, Bloodbyrn, and DeMacabre hadn't yet turned any corners and the Evil aristocrats were still behind them. Surely some of them would help him to escape this horrible marriage.

"And then you are supposed to say 'Why my dear, I already have.'" Bloodbyrn poked him in the ribs. "And now I say 'Do what you
will
with me, fiend. But I shall
never
surrender my heart to you, though you abuse me for a thousand nights.'"

Freetrick opened his mouth to shout to the dark lords behind him.

"Thou fiend!"

And closed it. A figure stepped out of the gloom ahead of them. It drew an arm across its chest, and a dagger appeared, glowing and jewel-like, in the darkness of the corridor.

"Preparing another helpless innocent for your harem, monster?" The man called to him, "What more could I expect from my father's murderer?"

Dã
digirrit qi
Dã
digirrit qi
Dã
…

Zathara beat the gara step against the blade of her opponent. Attack, slide down the twisting blade, knock it aside, attack, slide…
Dã
digirrit qi

Zathara imagined the beat in her mind. The rhythms of the sword-fighting steps Bleeryarr had taught her were very much like gara.
Which is no coincidence, boys and girls. Gara evolved from dueling moves, translated into dance steps to stop Pranyapuran bravos from killing each other.
She sped up the rhythm.

Bleeryarr's brows rose and he shifted his weigh. The Skrean was moving to the beat she set. Attack, slide, knock it aside. Attack… digirrit qi…

He moved up to parry. Then, as Zathara prepared to knock his blade aside, Bleeryarr flicked the sword out under her guard. Zathara felt the tip press against her upper belly.

"You die." Her escort's Skrean accent gave the words a sardonic edge. "You become too
predictable
, Do-Gooder. For we are not dancing, but fighting for our lives. Again." He attacked, and she parried.