The Kingdoms of Evil (36 page)

Claws flashed darkly through the air, but the girl was not where she had been a moment before. The girl landed, crouched in the dust of the pit on the monster's opposite side. Then she was up from her crouch, her whip flickering out to score a gash across the face of the second monster.

The crowd roared.

"I mean," Freetrick gritted his teeth, "why is she in the Audience Pit."

"I assume the guards dragged her there."

"If you cannot decide which color you prefer your bruises," Bloodbyrn pressed, "I shall tell the decorator to improvise, but I
must
know your plans, my lords, as they pertain to the blood-letting."

The first monster leaped, and the girl could barely drop and roll away before its many legs struck the ground.

Freetrick's ridiculous crown shook as he tried to clear his head. "But why…I don't want to watch this."

There was a hollow clatter as Bloodbyrn knocked on the skulls over Freetrick's head. "Then turn round, my lord, and speak to
me."

"I can't," said Freetrick. "DeMacabre, stop this."

"Indeed, fiend?" DeMacabre had settled back into his chair, but now he turned and looked up at Freetrick, "shall I give the order for her to be killed then?"

A monstrous claw, larger across than the girl's face, thrust toward her. She spun on a heel, caught the limb under her arm, and flung herself down to crack it against the ground. Before she could let go, the leg twitched and flung her through the air, into the stone wall of the pit.

"Kill her?" said Freetrick, "True Words! Why would I want to see
that
?"

"Fiend?" DeMacabre was looking at him with an expression of honest-seeming confusion.

"I have no desire," said Freetrick as two sets of slavering jaws swung open in the pit below, "to see a pretty girl torn apart in front of me."

DeMacabre looked blank for a moment, then smiled, "Ah. Of course. How thoughtless of me for not inquiring as to the new king's tastes before this entertainment was arranged." He raised an eyebrow, then winked over Freetrick's head at Bloodbyrn. "in what state should the corpse be brought before you two, fiend and daughter?"

There was a thin, despairing wail from below.

Freetrick gritted his teeth. "Alive, please."

Another blank look. "My lord?"

"I don't want you to kill the girl at all." Freetrick's voice was calm, but the claws of his gloves scored deep grooves into the craniums under his hands, "We'll run out of them entirely at this rate. DeMacabre, have her life spared."

"
Spare
a life?" An eyebrow rose as DeMacabre scratched his beard. "My lord is perverse indeed."

"
See to it
, DeMacabre."

"Oh, very well." DeMacabre clapped twice and another messenger-bat alighted on his hand. He whispered to the little animal, "the petitioner will be spared, sayeth the Ultimate Fiend."

"And delivered to me," said Freetrick, "so I can decide what to do with her."

Bloodbyrn gave a snort of ladylike derision.

"Of
course
," DeMacabre smiled wickedly. "That I did not doubt for a moment, my lord. So his Malevolence sayeth, so be it done."

The crowd booed as two ogres rushed into the pit to save the girl. Several threw food at the monsters. A couple threw their own servants.

"My lord," said Bloodbyrn again, "I should like to
speak
with you now about our un-wedding."

"Bloodbyrn, please," Freetrick twisted around in his throne to look up at her fluted torso, rising up over his left shoulder, "I am not in the mood---stop kicking me!"

"Daughter," came DeMacabre's voice from below. "Be easy. If the Ultimate Fiend is not eager to discuss his upcoming un-hallowed un-matrimony, who are we to gainsay him?"

"But
father
---" His Bloodbyrn.

"Daughter, be easy, I say."

Freetrick looked around to see DeMacabre standing again, arms resting on the back of his chair as he looked up at them. The Duke's eyes seeming to glow with pumpkin glee from the shadow under his hat. "For I believe that which approaches will change his fiendish mind."

"What...?"

Demacabre's voice slid into a deep and slimy murmur. "The Dark Ladies, my lord."

Freetrick's fingers tightened over a cranial dome, his clawed formal gloves scraping grooves in the bone of his armrest. Slowly, carefully, he leaned forward to look below the foot of his throne.

There, climbing the stadium seats toward his platform, the horde of women advanced.

Freetrick crashed back against the back of the throne, but there was nowhere to hide. Within moments, the advance runners had mounted the steps to his platform, a tide of nubile flesh and disturbing leather underwear.

For a moment, Freetrick hoped that the women might fight each other for him, and he could somehow escape in the confusion. The tactic had worked in the Vile Halls the previous week, but as soon as Freetrick formed the hope, he knew this time it would be futile. For the ladies of Skrea had been planning. They formed a line.

Bloodbyrn made a disapproving noise.

"Oh my lord!" came the cry from below Freetrick's throne, "What bounty you enjoy!"

"DeMacabre, you are
not
helping!" Freetrick tried to press himself into his throne, away from those hungry smiles.

"Oh yes!" DeMacabre said, "excuse me, my lord. How thoughtless of me not to render aid to my indomitable liege. Ahem. May I present the Dark Princess Deadbolt, daughter of—"

"DeMacabre!"

"Father!"

"Tra la!" The Duke sang, and then proceeded to introduce each of the eligible young ladies—or at least optimistic female beings—in turn as they filed past.

"The Dark Princess Firebolt, daughter of his fiendishness the Dark Prince Wrothug Despot Hlirghor—"

"I look forward to feeling your tender flesh between my teeth, my lord."

Freetrick crossed his legs.

"Ingnoble Lady Squeezevein, daughter of his wickedness the Dark Ignoble Thorchoke—"

"May I sit on your lap, my lord?"

Freetrick uncrossed his legs, eyes on the world's most frightening bustle. "Words, no!"

"Ignoble Lady Banedark, daughter of his wickedness the Dark Ignoble Strakhblargle despot Dewmnor."

"How about you sit in
my
lap, my lord?"

She wore a skirt of what looked like strung eagle talons, which did not conceal a pair of thighs that could probably crack Freetrick's skull. He glared at DeMacabre, still rattling off names.

What was the old reprobate doing introducing his prospective future son in law and boss to all these nubile young rivals? The purpose, Freetrick suspected, was to show the girls that Freetrick was taken. Bloodbyrn's smirking, cold-eyed stares were clearly as unnerving to some of the women as they were to him. But the other point being made here was very likely directed at him, Freetrick: if you think
Bloodbyrn
is scary...

"Now now," DeMacabre paused in his recitation, "the Ultimate Fiend is a very busy man. What would become of all the other ladies if you took up all his valuable time?"

"I'm sure they would figure out something." Ignoble Lady Banedark smiled and licked her lips. Her tongue was unnaturally long, red, and pointed.

"Maybe some other time," DeMacabre insisted, "Next! Ignoble Lady Blightbog, daughter of his wickedness the Dark Ignoble Wrathnath despot Nghakhor—"

"Snarl!"

"Dark Princess Slugslime, daughter of his Fiendishness the Dark Prince Wrothnyth Despot Nghiffor—"

"Squee!"

"And Dark Princess Toadslime, also daughter of his Fiendishness Wrothnyth Nghiffor-"

"Gwee!"

"And who? Aw, how precious. My Lord, may I present Curlsquirm, daughter of his Wickedness the Ignoble Bleeryarr Despot South Ftaghor."

"Hello, my lord."

Freetrick looked down.

"Oh. Um. Hello there, um, little girl."

She was maybe six years old, in a red and purple dressed stitched with silver skulls and winged toads.

"Hello," she said, "I have new teefies."

"Yes," said Freetrick, "I can…uh…see that you do." Someday, he hoped, her face would grow up around them.

"Feel my hair!" she said, "it's spiky."

It was. "Very nice," said Freetrick. "You um…are you here to un-marry me?"

"Maybe," said the little girl. She stared at the Ultimate Fiend with enormous dark eyes, then seemed to remember something. "Daddy says I get to bite you."

"Uh…you do?" said Freetrick as he patted her spiky hair. "Now, that isn't very—ow! Strike it out that hurts." Freetrick fought the urge to snatch his hand back. The girl would probably hang on like a snapping turtle. "DeMacabre? How do I—ow! Make her let go?"

"Now Curlsquirm, you
obey
the Ultimate Fiend and
stop
biting, or he will have to
impale
you on a
stick
, there's a darling." DeMacabre called up from below.

"Teefies!" Curlsquirm mumbled around Freetrick's hand, then let go with a pop.

"I am pleased to see my lord has such facility with children."

It was impossible for Freetrick to tell whether Bloodbyrn was being sarcastic or not

"Adorable!" Gushed DeMacabre. "Now, move along, my dear. Who is next? Ah yes, lady Gobreen, daughter of…"

And so it continued.

Freetrick settled miserably into his chair, tried to rub the tooth marks out of his hand, and let the women file seductively, erotically, or as the case may be, horrifyingly past him.

Freetrick wondered if he ought to be enjoying this more. He could almost hear Istain, 'a parade of willing, provocatively-dressed females and you wish they would go away? What the hell is wrong with you?' The problem was that the operative word here was not "parade" but "horde." They just kept coming, as relentless as any horizon-spanning nomad invasion. With nothing on mind but rape and pillage. And when they were finished Bloodbyrn would swoop down and devour the survivors.

And then there was Skrean fashion, which was basically impossible to look at. Half of the women's outfit seemed to consist of spines, barbs, and live animals, but what was worse was the other half, which didn't consist of much at all. Freetrick tried not to wince as someone, "…daughter of his Fiendishness the Dark Prince Teirchoke the Jaded Despot Noggor," displayed herself in a way that Freetrick did not want to see. She was at least forty and reminded him far too much of his 5th grade chemistry teacher. As Freetrick tried to wish the woman a good day while at the same time not actually looking at her, he reflected that, like much of life in the Kingdoms of Evil, Skrean fashion was cruel to those who weren't built for it.

Or for the women who
were
built for it, apparently.

"Lady Ashwing, daughter of his Wickedness the Dark Lord Blogrog," announced DeMacabre, as Freetrick, terrified, dropped his eyes to the ground.

Ashwing was short, the same height as Bloodbyrn, but—and there was no other way to describe her---she had very large breasts. She was better endowed even than Zathara, and she would have been very nice to look at indeed if her clothing hadn't been made entirely out of living spiders.

"Feerborg, the Ultimate Fiend," she purred, "long have I waited for this day."

"Uh," said Freetrick. He knew he ought to look up at her face, but his eyes were currently on her feet, and he didn't think they would survive the journey. "Why is that?"

The spiders held on for dear life as Ashwing swayed forward. "Long have I waited to test the mettle of the Ultimate Fiend. To know him. As a man."

Freetrick looked up, stricken. Ashwing was right in front of him, and she looked great under all those bugs.