This short story was originally published in Tales From the Boiler Room (an anthology by Mighty Quill books.) The genre? Not horror. It’s dark comedic fantasy. Enjoy!
Wanted: Alive.
That’s what the posters said in a bold twenty-point Times New Roman font. How much plainer could the message be? If Evil Overlord Crii Ba’al Kreios had wanted the young orphan dead, he would have killed him himself. But why someone so young? It hardly seemed fair.
Aragroan was just entering into his manhood when Wham! he received a deathblow karate chop to his bare head. Perhaps it had been vanity that kept the young farmhand from wearing his helmet that fateful day. Or perhaps he had been allergic to iron. Who could know?
“Certainly not MCSI,” Crii said.
The Medieval Crime Scene Investigators had brought Aragroan’s body into the tallest of the Doom Towers. After seventeen straight hours of sketching the evidence, you’d think they would have given more information than: “A Pilates instructor could have taken this kid out.” It was enough to make one lose faith in one’s own minions.
Crii shuddered at the memory. “Good help is so hard to find these days.”
As if on cue, Bob, the Great Conveyor of Doom and Doubt, arrived. “Master,” he said, then bowed to the floor. “I sensed a disturbance in your energy field.” The wizard rose to his full height and looked his master in the eye.
“Yes, Bob, what do you want?”
Bob’s teeth glittered. “It’s all over the kingdom. Is it true that you slew you-know-whom?”
“What on Naeber’s seventh sun are you talking about?”
“Why, the orphan, the one raised by woodland creatures, the son of your sister’s husband, the blacksmith. He was on a quest to kill you and restore peace and balance to this land.”
“Who? Polonius? I killed him nearly two decades ago.”
Bob shook his head. “Nay, m’lord, nay! The one they were calling ‘The Chosen One.’ The one with the Magical Artifact that could destroy you. The one who the prophets foretold. Him.”
“Beowere?”
“Aragroan! Aragroan! Hast thou slain so many that thou hast forgotten so soon? Aragroan Celestialsson.”
Crii growled like a cornered wolf. “Ah, yes; him.”
Clapping his hands, Bob bounced up and down and danced around. “Hooray! You have defied Prophecy yet again! Oh, Master, you are wonderful. May I kiss the seventh circlet on your seventh finger?”
“Well, I suppose one quick smooch wouldn’t hurt—if you brushed your teeth. And no tonguing allowed!”
“Yes, Master.” As Bob leaned over to kiss the giant ruby, the eastern doors groaned open and a guard announced a page, who brought a message written by Crii’s press secretary.
“Your Evilness, my sincerest and deepest apologies regarding the Chosen One. All of the boys down here wish you could have fulfilled your promise to destroy the little urchin yourself. But, there’s no reason to weep over spilt mead. What’s done is done. My question to you is this: how do we break the news to the rest of The Dark Lands without weakening your position? Please see me ASAP regarding your plans so that I may draw up an appropriate speech for your impending press conference. Yours truly, Sanguine Serpent.” The little demon messenger then bowed himself out of the room.
“So,” said Bob, “you, er, didn’t slay the Chosen One?”
Crii yanked his hand away. “No, not exactly.” Was it his imagination, or did Bob look ready to burst with glee?
“Oh, master, how terrible! How dreadful. What will the minions say?”
“They’ll just have to—”
“They’ll dethrone you! They’ll make a mockery of your evil reign. Heck, they’ll probably even call your evilness into question. ‘Tut tut, letting some everyday peasant carry out his plans,’ they’ll say. ‘It’s all rather embarrassing.’”
“Yes, yes, I got it. I—”
“And the press.” Bob gasped. “The press will have a field day. Imagine the kind things they’ll say about you in The Chronicles”
“Well—”
“Oh, Master, this is quite tragic.”
“Are you finished yet?” Crii asked.
“Mostly.”
“Good.” Crii stalked over to his high throne, took a seat and drummed his fingers on the armrests. After a moment of rhythmic beating, the evil overlord looked at his advisor and said, “What is your advice?”
“Well, I, er, um—”
“For crying out loud, you’re my advisor, Bob. My best one, at that.” Ooh, scary thought. Crii shuddered. “You must have a plan or—Wait! I have it. Listen well and mark my words, Bob: I shall find Aragroan’s murderer—”
“Or murderess.”
“Yes, yes, or that. I shall find him—or her—and before all mine people, I shall torture him—or her—to madness before delivering a deathblow karate chop of my own. What do you think?”
Bob stood there, blinking. “You’re going to avenge the hero’s death?”
Crii shook his head. “No, you misunderstand me. I shall be enforcing the law.”
“It still sounds like avenging.”
Crii ignored him. “From this day forward, all my minions shall learn what happens if they dare go against orders. This traitor in our midst shall rue the day he tried to make a fool out of me.” Lightning rippled across the sky, and thunder cracked in the far corners of the land.
Timidly Bob took a step forward. “As your most trusted advisor, I must warn you of the dangers you will be facing.”
“Dangers? What possibly could be dangerous for me?”
“Master, though you are feared by many, you are loved by none. If you go out among your people, assassins might try to, you know.” The wizard drew a line across his throat with a finger, gagged and fell onto the floor.
“Hmm. True. Many are looking to wear this crown, especially now that my position has been compromised. But I doubt there’s that much danger.”
“You are determined, then, to undertake this quest?” Bob asked.
“Sure, why not. If little, wimpy farmhands are always undertaking them, how hard can it be?”
#
After assembling sixty-six of his most ruthless men, Crii set out on his quest. It was a little late starting, however, as some of the younger minions needed to use the outhouse. The fifteen-minute delay was nothing, however, compared to the two hours they waited for Bob to find and fetch his outdoor walking stick. The two hours wouldn’t have been so long, though, if Crii’s press secretary hadn’t stopped them to ask questions.
“Is it true you are on a quest to avenge the latest Chosen One’s death?”
“Sanguine, I already told you, it’s a matter of principle, not avenging. Now, haven’t you anything better to do?”
“Well, what am I going to tell the press? Don’t you want to make a statement of some kind?”
With a sigh, Crii stopped and faced his press secretary. “Tell them this: yes, I am still evil. No, I did not kill the Chosen One. And yes, I am going to deal terribly and swiftly with this meddler.”
“And what is your position on—”
“Sanguine, baby, listen: I’ve got some serious questing to do. Why don’t you be a good little minion and make up what you’d think I’d do, ‘k?”
“Will do, Your Evilness.”
“Good.” Crii mounted his black steed and moved into the middle of his guard. “Farewell, Doom Town. I shall return to you shortly. Ride on!”
According to numerous informants, Aragroan had been travelling with a witless bard for the first half of his journey. Crii’s first objective was to find out what had become of the bard, locate him and interrogate.
But with so many bards strewn across the land, this would be some task. The best place to start, it would seem, would be the annual Medieval Idol festival. This would take them to a small village on the outskirts of Doom Town called “Pit’s Burg.”
#
“Thank you, Philonius, for that arousing rendition of Greensleeves,” said the vampire innkeeper of the Weary Gnome. “Let’s give him a shape of applause.”
A purple possum named Slick sat in the corner, looking on in mild interest as the crowd applauded in different shape formations. “Peasants,” he belched.
Pembe, his pink-cloaked companion, sucked down turtle stew and wondered how long the barbarity would continue. “Should we head out, Slick, old friend?” He looked over to find said friend passed out in a plate of vodka and stewed crawdads. “I am so not carrying your marsupial backside the rest of the way to Demon Drive. Seriously.”
As if in response, Slick gurgled foam out of his mouth, rolled over and played dead. “Urgh.”
“Baby.”
“Ladies and gentlefolk,” the innkeeper said from the front of the room, “if I could have your attention for but a moment. A burgundy, two-passenger barouche is triple-parked out front. If the owner could kindly move it, I will not have it towed.
“And now, would anyone care to step forward and partake in our euphonious festivities? Anyone? Anyone at all? How about you, sir?”
“Me?” Pembe asked as the man pointed at him. “Do I look like a witless bard to you?” He cocked an eyebrow and looked around the room, daring anyone to laugh.
“Pink,” Slick grunted between snores. “Pretty, pretty pink.”
The innkeeper stepped forward. “Nay, good sir. ‘Tis not what I meant. Do pardon me.”
Pembe leapt to his feet, sword drawn and nostrils flaring. “You dare, sir! What, do you think me some priest?” He spat at the last word, soiling his brand-new stalker boots. For that is what Pembe was: A stalker. Some men were mercenaries with their loyalties on the market; others were nomads with their short staffs and wandering. A stalker, however, was the worst of both.
Hapless as the innkeeper obviously was, it was hard forgiving him. To be first compared to a bard and then to a priest? Pembe had no such morals for either. Yet something in this peasant’s face wore on him. Perhaps it was his brooding eyes or his razor-sharp teeth that got to him. Almost got to him. Fortunately, there was a clove of garlic among Slick’s crawdads, with which he was able to ward off the creature.
“Creepy old vampire man,” Pembe said, “there is no need for that. Put those teeth away and I’ll sing, because you’re kind of scaring me right now and I’d like to get out of here alive.”
The vampire innkeeper smiled, popped his teeth out and put them in a glass of ale. “Sing on, good fellow,” he lisped.
#
Bob needed to die. That was the only solution to this horrible fiasco. Bob had the map. Did Bob check the map? No. Would Bob stop and ask for directions? No. Therefore, Bob needed to die.
It wasn’t that Crii wouldn’t miss his most trusted advisor and his forecasts of doom. He relied on those reports daily. Would he miss the bug-eyed staring or the lurking in stairwells? Not so much.
It was lucky for Bob that a sign then appeared to them.
“Welcome to Pit’s Burg,” Bob read carefully. He let out a whoop of relief. “See, I told you I’d get us there.” So, Bob must have sensed his own impending doom.
As the hour was getting late, Crii thought it was important to give the minions a rest. “My faithful servants!” he shouted above the creaking of armor and the whining of pageboys. “We shall rejoin forces at the first crow of the cock, and then scour the city for the witless bard we seek.”
“Sire,” said Bob, “don’t you think you should at least keep one trusted man with you at all times? Just to be safe.”
It was too late, however. No sooner had the words been said than the troops disbanded, leaving Crii alone with his advisor. “Well, I’ll just be—er…I bid thee good night, Dark Lord.” And with that said, Bob also ran away from his master.
Crii did not normally swear colorfully. He swore in shades of black and gray, but never in pinks or oranges. Too frilly. Too sunny. Too…pretty. But now, as he was forced to pull up the hood of his cloak and make his way into the tavern by himself, he let out a veritable rainbow of curses. This drew more notice to him than he would have liked.
The apparent sound of a cat being strangled to death died off—Crii hated all music that was not a dirge or march—and the whole room stopped and stared, including the man dressed from head to heel in pink.
“Carry on,” Crii said with authority.
The man in pink, however, glared at him. “Who do you think you are, ordering me about?”
“Yeah,” said a purple possum from near the bar. “Who do you think—Oi! Who snarfed my crawdads?”
“I am not the Dark Lord,” said Crii. He gave everyone a stern looking-at from beneath his hood. “You are not to worship me, for I am definitely not he—the Dark Lord, that is—looking for a witless bard. I mean, I am looking for a witless bard, but I am not a lord. Or dark, even.”
The room had long ceased listening, much to Crii’s aggravation. He was about to assert himself, something Bob had warned him about on the way here—but where was Bob? Huh? Where was that weasely worm with a death wish when Crii actually wanted to kill him? How dare he abandon his Lord of Darkness in this hour of need!
“You look lost,” said the Possum as Crii approached the bar. Only it sounded like, “We’re expecting frost” through the mouthful of crawdads.
“I expect so,” said Crii, which serviced as an answer to either statement.
“Said you was looking for a witless bard, eh? Oi, Pembe! Come tell this man what you saw.”
Pembe turned out to be the cross man clad entirely in pink, the illegal color. “Why should I tell this man anything? He could be working for Crybaby Cretan.”
The possum, who would later have the nerve to introduce himself as Slick, laughed a sloppy, spitty laugh and covered Crii Ba’al Kreios in half-masticated crawdads. “Naw. Cry would never leave himself vulnerable like dis guy. Why, dis guy we could kill on the spot. No muss no fuss.”
Crii scowled a dark scowl and bit back a retort. “Tell me what you know of the bard of Aragroan.”
“Aragroan?” said Pembe, his frown melting. “You mean the one fated to kill the Dark, Evil Lord?”
Crii nodded once with feeling.
The possum and the pink man looked at each other…before bursting out laughing. “Got killed during karate practice with his master, Ob-Jin-Bar-Boo-Noo-Fa.”
If true, this was disturbing news. What kind of heroes was Crii attracting? His credibility was going down the outhouse, that was for certain. “What makes you say that it was an accident?”
“Oh, it wasn’t an accident.” The possum gave Crii a wicked smile. “Pembe, explain.”
Pembe grinned from ear to ear, something that disturbed Crii more than he would like to admit. “All right, but it will cost you.”
The Dark Lord pulled out a sack of coins, which he tossed at the despicable duo. “Tell me.”
Pembe examined the coins, biting one and chipping a tooth. After swearing a dark oath, he continued the tale, stopping to groan every now and again as blood foamed from his mouth. “‘Twas his bard, so tired of singing and giving witless yet useful advice. Snuck up behind Aragroan and—Hiii-yaaah!”
Crii flinched as the young man karate-chopped the bar, breaking it in two. “The bard did it?”
The purple possum, whose name Crii refused to use, shrugged. “No one liked crybaby Aragroan. We’re happier with ye Olde Evil Lord.”
“Yeah,” the Pembe agreed.
“But…why?” Crii was bewildered. His reputation of being tough and impossibly dark was fading fast. When he returned to Doom Town, he would show everyone just how much “happier” he could make them.
“Well, it’s good for the economy.”
Pembe chimed in. “So many heroes, so many quests. Quests take money.” He rubbed his fingers together. “Why, I sold a hunk of cheese for three times its worth to a hero the other day.”
The possum laughed. “These are the days.”
Both their fists collided in the air, and the two roared with laughter.
Crii must regain control of his reputation and this situation, and he must do so at once. “Where is the bard who killed the hero who was to kill Crybaby—I mean, Crii Ba’al Kreios?”
Pembe pointed a casual finger at the other end of the bar, where Bob had just materialized. “That’s him.”
“Bob?” Crii shouted. “Is this true?”
Pembe and the purple possum looked away with disinterest. They’d done their part, and this man was getting rather loud for their partially-hungover ears to take him.
“Is what true, Master?” asked Bob, his eyes darting to and fro.
“Did you kill the hero who was to kill me?”
Bob did a very un-Bob-like thing: he shrugged. “No one told me not to.”
“You know what this means, don’t you?” roared the Dark Lord. A long, pregnant pause ensued.
Bob sighed. “I suppose you’ll have to kill—”
“If word gets out that my advisor did my dirty work for me, I’ll be the laughing stock from Doom Town to Hero’s Hill. What am I going to do with you?”
Crii thought for a minute, a dark plan forming in his mind. If Bob was a traitor and a liar, then perhaps the people loved him, Crii, after all, just as the Pink Man and the Purple Possum had said. This called for a whole new level of evil….
Crii grinned. “Bob, I have a new calling for you.”
#
Wanted: Have you seen this hero?
The posters were plastered onto anything that would stand still…or wouldn’t. Slick pried one from his tail and belched. “Oi. Hey, looky, Pembe.”
“What?”
“Have we seen this hero?”
Pembe studied the crafty-looking hero on the paper. “Huh. ‘Tax breaks for whoever can find this man.’ Hey, wasn’t this the witless bard who killed Aragroan?”
“Yeah, that Bob guy. Huh. Guess the Dark Lord has a new hero to deal with.” Slick shuddered at the mention of such a stupid occupation. “Who’d want that job?”
“Yeah. Heroes are the worst.”
“Least the conflict keeps the economy going.”
“And now we could be in for possible tax breaks.”
The two studied the paper for a quick minute before going back to repairing the bar. “Huh,” said Slick. “Great man, that Crybaby Lord Creole.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“Cheers.”
__
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Beth Overmyer 