The Kingdoms of Evil (71 page)

"Aim for the wendigos!" He shouted to Erinor and Naoblof. They were concentrated in the forward center of the monsters' formation. Because the newly-made wendigos were cheap cannon-fodder? Or because Maulrag had been at work?

They came. He blessed them.

The light of Naobel caught a trio of wendigos full in the face. Two stumbled, and were trampled by the monsters behind them. But the third whirled around midstride to slice its sword across the throat of its…
his
former comrade. Kendrick saw the tears flowing down the face of the new man as he flung himself onto the next monster.

"Extra wheel-stones!" That was Erinor. Monsters running at him glowed with the Blessing, became men again, grabbed the extra talismans he tossed them, turned around, and attacked in their turn.

But there weren't enough on their side. The forces of light were still out-numbered, even with the men that Phinneas had brought through the gate.

Kendrick aimed his Blessing at an ax-swinging lizard-man. He wrenched the weapon from its softening fingers as it stumbled and wept into man-hood. Still screaming the name of his god, he whirled, and buried the head of the ax in the chest of an ogre. It fell, giving Kendrick a view of another man, black-clad, bellowing orders at the monsters scrambling around him.

The other necromancer. Bleeryarr.

As if he felt Kendrick's gaze upon him, the man's head whipped around. "Do-Gooder!" He shouted over the sounds of battle. "Fight me and feed me the energy of your death!"

This last, Kendrick realized, was not aimed at him, but at a goblin standing beside the necromancer. The monster threw itself onto its master's blade, Kendrick had time to bring his axe up, and then the evil wizard was rushing toward him through the air on the crest of a black hurricane.

The fell winds slapped Kendrick backward, blew the name of his god from his lips. The black blade of his enemy struck like lightning from the sorcerous cloud, and it was all Kendrick could do to hold it back. For he knew that if that cold metal touched his skin, the skin would be his no more.

With a mighty effort, Kendrick heaved upward, forcing the blade back, then swung around in a sideways slash that should have shattered the man's knees. But the necromancer wasn't there anymore. Pushed by his cloud of magic, he slid to the left, rocked out of range of the axe-blade, then darted forward again like a huge dark wasp. Kendrick's axe was in the wrong place, with too much momentum in the wrong direction, to block the impossible attack.

But he had his voice. "Naobel!"

The name of his god blew the black cloud apart, and, unsupported, the necromancer's forward rush became a headlong fall.

Kendrick let the momentum of his axe swing him around, out of the way of his stumbling enemy. Then he planted his feet and let the arc continue, continue, until the heavy blade came crashing into the necromancer's chest.

Kendrick expected some kind of spectacular result. A blast of black lightning, or the rush of released souls, freed from their imprisonment as his vile heart burst. Instead there was only the familiar crunch of breaking ribs, and look on the man's face of great and wide-eyed surprise.

"Oh, my lord, that was
glorious
," she said, "you were so villainous, so…masterful."

"Really?" His hands were on her waist. When had that happened?

"Indeed," she said. "I confess the events of this evening have…excited me far more than I would have anticipated."

Freetrick's grip tightened. "Me too," he said.

She raised her face towards him. "We should do this more often."

"Almost get killed?" Chuckled Freetrick. He lowered his face toward hers. "Somehow I don't think that…will be…a problem."

"Now," he said, grinning back, "I think it's time for you and me to…ah…make the political situation a little simpler?"

"And infinitely more enjoyable!" Bloodbyrn turned around. "Undo my clasps, if you would, my lord."

Freetrick's hands hardly trembled as he laid them on the silver clasps. They were, of course, Fiendishly complicated, but he had survived worse things than ladies' underwear! He was the Ultimate Fiend, strike it out, and what the Ultimate Fiend wanted…

The leather of Bloodbyrn's corset tore apart like spider-webs in a burst of black mist.

"Careful, my lord!" She giggled as he spun her around to face him, then effortlessly lifted her by the waist until their eyes were level. Then he lifted her higher. "You are—oh my!" He settled her chest onto his face and started kissing. "To use your power this way—!"

"I have plenty." Freetrick mumbled.

"True," her voice vibrated the soft skin under his lips. "And if you run out, we can always call one of those virgins up here from the dungeons."

"Uhh…" Freetrick stopped and looked up at her, "Why would we do that?"

"Oh, my lord, I do not think you will need the help, of course," Bloodbyrn writhed in his arms. "But, my lord clearly enjoyed it so much the first time…"

"Enjoyed…?" Freetrick blinked.

"Killing those virgins. Hmmm." She rested her chin on top of his head. "Or was it seeing them killed? You must tell me, my lord, for then
I
will be able to…"

"It
wasn't
!" Freetrick's head jerked up in horror.

"Ow! Careful, my lord."

"Strike me out, is
that
why you think I'm so…Bloodbyrn I'm happy because I'm alive!" Freetrick lowered her back to eye level. "Not because I…oh strike me out…" his hands around her waist trembled. "I killed all those girls."

The black cloud around them winked out and Freetrick was abruptly sagging under Bloodbyrn's weight. She slid out from between his slack arms, frowning.

"Yeah, but it didn't…Burning Libraries! I didn't
get off
on it, Bloodbyrn! Gibberish! I
had
to!" Hadn't he? "Oh Truth, what if I could have stopped them? I could have prevented that entire fiasco if I hadn't been so striking
stupid
!"

"My lord," she stepped back, squinting at Freetrick, "what has come over you?"

Freetrick stumbled backward, put his hand on a wall. "Bloodbyrn, I did something terrible today. And I was
happy
about it!"

"As you should have been, my lord. As you should be now!" She smiled at him, and clasped her arms under her breasts. "Will my lord not be…happy…with me now?"

"Don't be disgusting!" Freetrick shouted, "I'm a good person! I don't…striking go have sex with my mistress after I've slaughtered a bunch of virgins."

"Why not?" said Bloodbyrn, pierced brows drawing down, "why do you not? You are the Ultimate Fiend, Feerborg!"

"I'm
not
" Freetrick shouted again. "I am not the Ultimate Fiend! I am not the king of evil! I am not a
monster
!" He slammed his fist into the wall, hard enough to hurt, and Bloodbyrn took an involuntary step back. "And you can't turn me into one."

Her expression hardened. "You are the Ultimate Fiend," she said. "The Ultimate Fiend kills. If he cannot, then what good is he? If you cannot learn to enjoy killing, then I hope, my lord, that you learn to enjoy dying."

Freetrick remembered the animated letter, the pillar of black power, the way his touch had poisoned the artifacts of The Rationalist Union. "I'm the embodiment of the First God," he said. "The people of Skrea worship the First God through me, but
I
worship the God of True Words."

"My lord—"

"I am a Rationalist!" Freetrick shouted, "I am a Scholar of the True Words of my God. I order of the forces of the world."

Bloodbyrn was staring at him, mouth open in shock, or perhaps it was just the blood loss catching up with her.

"My identity will be written in the Book of Names," Freetrick continued, " and my soul will browse forever between the infinite stacks of the library of the God of Words! I am Rationalist, and this…" Freetrick looked past Bloodbyrn at his dank office. The scuttling movement across the walls, the moldering parchments, the dully-glowing red crystals. The stuffed monsters. The striking struck out gibbering skeleton desk!

"No," said the Ultimate Fiend. "this will not do at all."

The black nimbus over his head writhed and boiled, twisting in unfelt winds blowing from impossible dimensions. Freetrick's lips moved with a True Word. His hand traced runes across the wall. "There is nothing that cannot be known," he prayed," nothing that cannot be explained." He traced the last rune, pressed his hand onto the hard surface. His voice rose. "I name these walls..." his breath smoked with a word of the True Speech, and Freetrick completed the word-magic spell.

There was no moment of doubt, no hesitation. Rivulets of white light spread outward from Freetrick's hand in a pale filigree. Grime and blood-stains cracked and dissolved into pale scrollwork climbing up the walls like vines.

And a horrible grin stretched across the face of the Ultimate Fiend.

"Yes…" he hissed, lightning flashing in his eyes. "And now light. Light!" he bellowed. "
LIGHT!"

A brilliance burst from the glowing crystals like a clutch miniature novas, blowing apart the shadows and gloom.

Under full illumination, the room looked dreadful. Was that a problem for the Ultimate Fiend? Never! Freetrick's mouth babbled True Words as his chambers twisted and writhed under his fiendish manipulation.

His skeletal desk and chair receded into impossible distances as their basic existence was rewritten. The stuffed monsters unspooled themselves. Spies squealed in the walls. High above, and far below, eldritch power juddered and roiled.

As the delicate scent of jasmine filled his clean, tasteful, and softly-lit study, the Ultimate Fiend of the Kingdoms of Evil raised his hands over his head and shrieked his maniacal laughter.

In which the Ultimate Fiend has several Important Encounters

The Ultimate Fiend rolled over in his huge, four-poster bed, blinked at the towering blackness over him, and extended his mind to
will
into being the dim and bloody illumination of the wall crystals. Clear, cool light flared up around him.

Freetrick shoved aside his silk blankets, rolled over, and peered blearily at the light crystals, so bright they were almost hard to look at.

"The hell?" mumbled the Ultimate Fiend, as he pressed his pince-nez over his nose, slid off his bed, and stumbled toward his bathroom. But memories were surfacing from last night, and the Despot of Skrea's half-conscious shuffle soon transformed into a stumble, then a fevered dash into his study.

It looked as if a word-magic grimoire had exploded in there. The walls were a-spiderweb with symbols, runes, hieroglyphs, and sigils. They crisscrossed the floor and dripped from the walls. Literally, because a lot of them were drawn in blood.

Freetrick struggled to recall exactly what had happened the previous night. He remembered that boiling feeling in his chest as everything he hated about Skrea had come at him all at once. And he had been full of death energy, and then he had drawn a word-magic signal on the wall…

Freetrick ran his hand over the wall closest to him. Under the blood and ink that smeared under his fingers, Freetrick saw its surface was smooth and light gray, as if the basalt had been polished, or coated in mother-of-pearl. Looking up, he saw that the outgrowths of light crystals, formerly scattered randomly across the high walls, seemed to have multiplied and rearranged themselves into rather tasteful lighting fixtures. The hexagonal filing niches along one wall now looked more like cabinetry than the work of giant, evil bees. Even his chair and desk had changed. And, he was glad to note, nothing remained of that disgusting statuary.

"Strike me out." Freetrick's knees felt weak. "What did I striking
do
in here?"

He looked at the wall, and the answer seemed clear. "I did word-magic. In…
Skrea
. Oh God of Words!" Freetrick's fingers tingled. "Oh God of Words!" He repeated, "Hear the prayers of Freetrick your servant!" Legs trembling, Freetrick stumbled to his newly organized book wall and stuck his hands into the niches. Shockingly, nothing tried to bite him.

"I am a Scholar of the True Words," Freetrick's voice fell to a fervent whisper. He pulled forth scrolls from the wall, scribbled with eldritch symbols, unholy diagrams, and Fiendish flowcharts. These he tossed onto the floor. "I know the true names that command of the forces of the world. My identity…my identity will be written in…" he pulled out another parchment…"Aha!" Finally, a blank one! "My soul shall be Written in the Book of Names." Clutching the parchment, Freetrick lurched over to his desk, "and my soul…a pen, strike it!" he lurched back to the wall, fumbled with trembling fingers for a pen, "My soul will browse forever between the infinite stacks of your holy library. Yes!" He jabbed the pen into the meat at the base of his thumb, and slammed his hands onto the parchment. Blood oozed out from under his slashed hand. Freetrick pressed the nib of the pen against the parchment and closed his eyes.