The darkest lord, p.1
The Darkest Lord, page 1
Dedication
To Carleigh, Heather, Isaac and Taba, our ultimate natural twenties
Epigraph
“Hush, my dear,” he said. “Don’t speak so loud, or you will be overheard—and I should be ruined. I’m supposed to be a Great Wizard.”
“And aren’t you?” she asked.
“Not a bit of it, my dear; I’m just a common man.”
—L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1: Good Morning, Tomb of Terrors!
Chapter 2: Baby Makes Three
Chapter 3: The Darker Lord
Chapter 4: You May Be Wondering Why I Brought You Here
Chapter 5: You May Be Wondering Why I Also Brought You Here
Chapter 6: I Am the Keymaster!
Chapter 7: You Can’t Make an Omelet . . .
Chapter 8: So . . . About That Pattern . . .
Chapter 9: Losing, Loser, Lost
Chapter 10: Get Rook!!!
Chapter 11: A Dwarven Wasteland
Chapter 12: Axing for It!
Chapter 14: A Venti Reunion
Chapter 15: Dark Times at the Dark Tower
Chapter 16: An Undisclosed Location of My Own
Chapter 17: Going Around the Underground
Chapter 18: Out of the Fire and into the Filing Room
Chapter 19: Down Doobie Do Down Down
Chapter 20: Bitter Dregs
Chapter 21: A Closet Full of Dark Lord
Chapter 22: Wasted
Chapter 23: The Land of More Doors
Chapter 24: The Darkest Lord
Chapter 25: What This Multiverse Needs Is an Editor
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Jack Heckel
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Good Morning, Tomb of Terrors!
My name is Avery, and I wish I weren’t the Dark Lord.
It was a fervent wish. One that I repeated daily, but with no effect, because I was the Dark Lord, and the fact that I was—alongside a number of other regrettable life choices—probably explains why I was lying in a coffin listening to a voice, dry as death, calmly reciting my latest crimes against the multiverse.
“It was meant to be an easy assignment for the Twenty-Second Sealer Division, a Mysterian regiment new to the fighting in Trelari and detailed with guarding the Western Bore, a small supply gateway carved between Mysterium and Trelari, over the past three weeks. The quiet ended in a terrible battle in the Valley Deep at the foot of the Impassable Mountains that saw two regiments of Sealers and allied alchemic golems and undead smashed, then torn apart and completely obliterated.”
The voice belonged to Aldric, the semi-lich, my once tormentor who had, of late, turned into a reluctant roommate. I had retreated to his subterranean stronghold about a week ago to recuperate from the last in a long string of battles I’d waged against Moregoth in the never-ending and ever-expanding war between Trelari and Mysterium. It was close to a year now since Valdara had reopened Trelari to the rest of the multiverse and challenged the Mysterium to come and get us. Unfortunately, they had responded with regrettable enthusiasm, and what had begun as a little private struggle with Moregoth had turned into a true Worlds War.
While Valdara’s rallying call to the subworlds had not resulted in the mass uprising we might have hoped for, it had been heard and answered by a few. She now led a ragtag group of subworlds against the combined forces of Mysterium and most of the innerworlds. In theory I was under her command, one of her generals, but the truth was she resented needing me, or at least needing to use the means I represented. Not that I blamed her—the Dark Lord was a pretty loathsome guy.
Of course, none of this explains why I was hiding in the semi-lich’s tomb, lying in his coffin, listening to him read me the morning paper. Although, based on the news article, I suspect the first two questions will be answered to your satisfaction before the end of this chapter. As for why the semi-lich had taken it on himself to become my very own twenty-four-hour news network, that is a bit trickier to answer.
This little ritual had begun two days earlier. Every morning, Aldric marched into the crypt I’d been using as a bedchamber to read me articles about the ever-widening war. At least, I assumed it was morning—it was difficult to know time as the semi-lich’s tomb had no windows and was buried several hundred feet belowground. He claimed his motivation was purely selfless, that he felt duty bound to keep me informed. You can judge for yourself whether a half vampire, half lich spawn of hell would feel duty bound to do anything, but personally I suspected a more mundane motive. He wanted his coffin back.
The semi-lich cleared his throat and continued his recital. “Over two days, Magus General Moregoth’s army was broken by the overwhelming might of the combined forces of Queen Valdara’s Paladins of Light and the Army of Shadow, led by the Dark Lord himself. Despite the chaos of the onslaught and the ensuing retreat, the mages of the Twenty-Second “Crimson Claw” Sealer Division made a series of gallant delaying stands before the Western Bore, allowing the remaining forces to escape from the battlefield. The vanguard paid the price though, as only a handful from those brave regiments—fewer than fifty—made it back through the gateway to Mysterium.”
There was a pause and a shuffling of paper, which gave me plenty of time to feel truly sick about the growing number of dead on my ledger. Aldric remarked, “There’s a section here on casualty numbers and the number of Sealers presumed to have been taken prisoner . . .”
In the dark of the coffin, my heart sank even further. “There were no prisoners,” I whispered in a voice low enough to ensure that Aldric could not hear. I wished he would stop, but I was not yet cowardly enough, or maybe I was too masochistic, to make him.
After a few more rustles of paper, a dry cough announced that there was more. “The story of the Twenty-Second’s disaster started in the foggy dawn several days ago as the men and golems occupied positions . . . I see there is no mention here of the ranks of the undead,” he grumbled. “Typical. They don’t really count. They’re already dead. Well, they’re not! They are undead! That’s the entire point! It is literally in our name!”
“If the story is making you angry, you don’t have to read it on my account,” I said through the velvet-lined lid of the coffin. I sent a prayer to as many deities as I could recall that he would stop. As usual, none of them were listening.
“No, no. It’s important for you to know what’s being written. Particularly given your extended absence from the field.”
He stretched out the word extended beyond all need and then paused, probably hoping for a response. I gave him none. There was a bit more muttering, and then a sharp crack as the parchment paper was reopened with a great deal more violence than was warranted.
“Now, where was I . . . men and golems . . . positions . . . ahh . . . occupied positions in and around the foothills of the Impassable Mountains at the head of the Valley Deep along a rocky, wooded ridge twelve miles long and a little over a mile wide that fronted the landing zone for the Western Bore. The division was spread pitifully thin along a twenty-mile front.” There was pause and then the voice drawled, “Is that a little jab at our favorite field marshal? I think I like this correspondent.”
I had been thinking the same thing, and so asked, “What’s the byline?”
“It just says, ‘By the Mysterium Press, embedded with the Twenty-Second Sealer Division in Trelari.’”
For those of you not familiar with magus media, the Mysterium Press is Mysterium’s answer to Earth’s AP.
For those of you not from Earth, the AP stands for the Associated Press, which is a news service.
For those of you in realities that are still in a pre-mass media phase of development, first, my congratulations, and second, it’s like an official form of the exchanges that newspapers use to fill up their columns when they have nothing original to say.
For those of you in preliterate worlds, how exactly are you reading this?
The point being, the Mysterium Press was as mainstream as it got. Everything that went out over its multiversal wire was checked and rechecked by a dozen editors and censors before it was allowed for release. And using its power over the pen, the Administration had done an excellent job controlling the narrative about the war, even going so far as to plant articles in nonmagical publications in neutral innerworlds like Earth to try to dissuade any wavering diasporic mages from joining Trelari’s cause.
If you are from Earth, and don’t yet get all your news in 140 or 280 characters, or whatever it is now, you may be saying, “Hey, I don’t remember reading anything about a magical war between two alien worlds.” You probably have and didn’t know it. They are usually cleverly disguised in things no one ever reads: wedding announcements, Family Circus cartoons, and your parents’ Facebook posts. Still, if you are a magus, the message is unmistakable: oppose us at your peril.
If the Administration’s hold on the Mysterium Press was beginning to waver even in the slightest, it might be a sign that an internal resistance to the war was beginning to emerge.
“Interesting,” I murmured. There was a sudden, sharp rap on the side of the coffin. I sat up with a start and banged my head against the lid. “Ow! What?”
“Don’t mumble. I can’t hear a word you’re saying in there.”
“Had you ever thought that might be the point?” I asked, rubbing at the lump on the top of my head.
“No,” he answered with a sharp hack. Although I couldn’t see him, I could picture the semi-lich staring crossly at the closed coffin, the fires of hell literally burning in his eyes. And he wondered why I preferred to keep the lid closed.
“Oh, now this is interesting,” he said, his voice perking up from dry as death to merely dry as the grave. “There is an article below the fold on the Mysterium’s use of skulls, animated cloaks, and chains as a way of conserving necromantic energies. ‘For further details, see Necromantic, scroll 5, col. 2.’”
“I really have no interest in knowing this,” I said with a groan.
My complaint was drowned out by a lot of muttering and papers being shuffled and discarded. “Where is that fifth scroll? Is this it? Ahh . . . maybe here. Here it is!” he shouted in triumph. He cleared his throat with a vile hacking. “‘The Economics of Skulls.’ What a great title! ‘As everyone who has ever studied magic or economics knows—’”
“That’s enough!” I shouted. “It is one thing to have to relive the horrors of the battlefield, but it is quite another to have to sit through an essay on economics and necromancy, particularly when you haven’t had your morning coffee. I admit the two subjects are inextricably intertwined—I mean, in my own world, Roosevelt effectively accused Hoover of being an economic necromancer during the presidential campaign of 1932. Nevertheless, they are also subjects so mind-numbing and horrible in both theory and application that several innerworlds have labeled their study as a form of indecency—particularly economics.”
“Are you quite done?” Aldric asked with a soul-rattling sigh.
“Yes.”
“Good. I don’t know these liches you’re referring to . . . Horror and Roast Evil?”
“Hoover and Roosevelt,” I muttered.
“I don’t think so,” he replied with a polite rasp. “No true lich would ever allow themselves to be called Hoover, much less Roosevelt. It simply isn’t dignified. Anyway, whatever their names, I’m sure they never faced the daunting costs of today’s necromancy. Inflation is killing the undead,” he said with no hint of intended irony. “Now, if you will kindly let me continue.”
I carefully said none of the things that I wanted to say and let him read the article, which was every bit as horrible as I thought it would be. I was drifting back to sleep when he finished. There was a long pause, during which he probably hoped I would say something. I very deliberately held my tongue. I was simply not a good enough liar to remark on the article without pointing out that in many worlds his reading that to me would be considered a violation of my fundamental human rights.
When I had said nothing for long enough to consume his patience, there was more irritated shuffling of paper, and Aldric read, “‘The attack started shortly after dawn . . .’ Surprising. I didn’t think the Dark Lord rose before noon,” he added in an undertone just loud enough to carry through the mahogany and velvet walls of my coffin bed.
“At this rate your retelling of the battle will take longer than the actual battle,” I complained. “Either read it or don’t read it.”
“Fine.” He rustled the paper even more vigorously before beginning again. “The attack started shortly after dawn with a charge by the Paladins of Light. Led by Queen Valdara, the heavily armored division descended in a sudden and inconceivable rush from the eastern heights of the Impassable Mountains, catching the Mysterium forces not only by surprise but totally unarmed. The paladins’ charge swept through the first ranks of alchemic golems and into the heart of Magus General Moregoth’s main Sealer force. The ferocity of the initial attack appeared to have broken Moregoth’s army, but by early evening they had regrouped and were pushing back, aided by reinforcements from the Fourteenth Elemental Group, which had arrived through the Western Bore during the afternoon. That is when the Trelarian second assault caught the Twenty-Second’s right flank, as hordes of blood orcs burst forth from a series of caves concealed in the sheer southern faces of the Impassable Mountains . . .”
There was another pause, and I could visualize the semi-lich tilting his head to one side as he said, “You know, I think these mountains are misnamed. They seem eminently passable.”
“The name was Vivian’s idea.” I felt my pulse race as I said her name. “To discourage Moregoth’s armies from exploring them.”
“Clever,” he replied dryly, and then went back to his paper. “By night the Trelarians had thrown two divisions of blood orcs into the battle and . . .”
I stopped listening. This news was old—almost a week old—and my mind was on Vivian now. Aldric had called her clever, but she was more than that. Drake called her a military savant, while Rook said she had a natural gift for carnage. I think he meant it as a compliment. Whatever you called her, the fact was the Army of Shadow—its discipline, tactics, and strategy—reflected her mind. But sometimes she was loath to commit them to a fight. Unlike me she still felt keenly the loss of every man, orc, demon, or gibberling that died under her command.
How was she doing without me? We had agreed that I needed this break, and for good reason, which I will come to shortly, but I was feeling more and more guilty about leaving her behind. It wasn’t that I was that worried about her safety. Not really. She had Drake and Rook with her, and Valdara was very careful never to let the Army of Shadow roam too far from her own reach, but anything could happen in war.
My mind began spinning out ever-more dreadful and implausible scenarios, and I was well on my way to a full-blown panic attack when I realized Aldric was asking me a question. “What?” I replied.
He hissed his irritation, a noise that I can only describe as the sound a teakettle of the damned would make, if such a thing existed. “I asked how long you think Valdara will be able to convince her paladins to continue to work with your Army of Shadow. All it is going to take is one berserk blood orc at the wrong place and the wrong time and . . .” He snapped his fingers—dry and dreadful.
“It won’t matter,” I answered wearily. “All of Trelari, the good and bad, are bound together in this fight. My pattern demands it.”
Despite my easy dismissal, the question was a good one, and one that Valdara’s War Council had argued vigorously for months. It turned out to be a moot point. We had a few disastrous encounters in the early days as we tried to integrate Valdara’s army and the Army of Shadow: orcs going on rampages through human villages, humans massacring orc encampments, etc. None of that ultimately mattered. When Moregoth arrived, they banded together as though they had always been allies. In fact, when questioned, most of them couldn’t recall ever having been enemies.
That was the most depressing part of the whole exercise, this feeling that everything was predestined. Trelari was under threat and my pattern was trying to stabilize according to its design, by mobilizing all of the world’s powers—the dark, me, and the light, Valdara. I suppose I should have been able to predict that reopening Trelari would reactivate my pattern. Perhaps I could have warned Valdara before she cleaved that hole in her world with Justice Cleaver, but at the time I was so relieved that we weren’t going to be killed by Moregoth that I didn’t give the matter as much thought as I might. Now it was too late. Trelari’s position as a central power in the multiverse meant its reality was beyond my, or anyone else’s, control.
It struck me that maybe the rise of Trelari was what Vivian had seen all those years ago when we met, when she was looking for a way to break Mysterium’s hold over the subworlds. Because of my pattern, Trelari was beyond Mysterium’s reach, and the secret that Mysterium had maintained its dominance only by draining and destroying other worlds had been revealed. The multiverse knew now that Mysterium was nothing but a loathsome parasite.
It was my own knowledge of this truth that kept me bound to my hated alter ego. There was only one path forward. The Mysterium had to be stopped and the subworlds liberated at any cost. To do that, I had to be the Dark Lord. At least that was what I kept telling myself, but it sounded painfully hollow when the consequences were printed in black and white in the morning paper and read back to me by an undead sorcerer.
