Dark Lord, School's Out

by Jamie Thomson

“Oh yes, there is hope.”

  Foletto the Skirrit King

  Not long after, a strange golden barge appeared in the distance—the Skirrits called them Sky Boats. The Skirrits had taken Christopher and Dirk to their city, home to thousands and thousands of Skirrits. It was called Wispwillow and it was built on a large floating island not far from where Chris and Dirk had landed. Skirrits were short, thin little creatures with spindly limbs and spiky hair, a bit like the gnomes and fairies of earth legend but more … well, more real for a start. Wispwillow was a wondrous sight. It was made up of one huge artificially constructed crystal tree from which hung multicolored houses and buildings like Christmas tree decorations. Traveling around the city was done with little cable cars that were slung below every crystal branch.

  So it was that Christopher and Dirk found themselves standing before the Skirrit throne, upon which sat a little spritelike fellow, with arms and legs that were long and thin, and a crest of spiky white hair, peppered with black. Hanging off his head was a gold cap, lined with red velvet, the Royal Cap of the Skirrits. He wore a loose-fitting robe, also of gold, covered with little shiny gems of many colors.

  “Greetings, Foletto, King of the Skirrits!” said Dirk as imperiously as he could.

  “Greetings, your Imperial Darkness,” said Foletto in a squeaky high-pitched tone. “I see that little has changed since I spoke with you last—you are still trapped in the body of a human child. How disgusting!”

  Dirk remembered the last time only too well. Foletto had found him back on earth, and they’d made a deal. Foletto had performed various useful tasks for him—but he’d had to give the Skirrit King the deal of a lifetime. A deal he didn’t really want to bring to Foletto’s attention.

  “Indeed, but soon I shall return to the Darklands, there to take back my Iron Tower, restore myself to my original form, and take my vengeance on that thrice-cursed meddler, Hasdruban the Pure!” replied Dirk, trying to sound as confident as he could.

  Foletto put a hand to his long, warty chin and raised a spiky eyebrow.

  “Yet it seems you are lost between the worlds and have ended up here, in our realm, all alone and trapped in the body of a weak, defenseless human child,” he said silkily.

  “I, the Dark Lord, Master of the Shadow Magics and Sorcerer Supreme—lost and weak? Never! We have deliberately traveled here, on our way home,” blustered Dirk.

  Foletto frowned, not quite sure what to believe. To him, they just looked like two typical earth children, lost in the abyss between the worlds. On the other hand, he may be trapped in the body of a human child, but he was still the Dark Lord; Foletto could sense that, just like last time. And Dark Lords were powerful and cunning, oh yes, oh so cunning! He had to be careful, just in case. But still, maybe there was some advantage to be gained here.

  Foletto said, “And who is this with you? Have you taken to frequenting the company of other human children?”

  “Ah … well … this is Christopher,” said Dirk. “He too is a great sorcerer—though not in my league, of course—who has been similarly cursed!”

  Chris looked over at Dirk quizzically. Dirk nodded at him encouragingly, as if to say, “Come on, Chris, play along now!”

  “Christopher? Doesn’t sound like the name of a great sorcerer,” said Foletto.

  “Umm … Christopher is my alias while I am trapped in this … er, this foul form! Bah, humans! Revolting!” said Chris, making a face and spitting in disgust, doing his best to play along.

  Foletto frowned. Boy spit, yuk! He signaled with one hand—two Skirrits leaped forth and began to clear up Chris’s spit with little white cloths.

  “Ah … umm … Sorry about that,” said Chris.

  Dirk glared at Chris. “Nitwit!” he said without thinking, using the word Chris had called him back on earth at the church fair. It seemed like years ago now!

  “Nitwit? What is Nitwit? Or is that his real name?” said Foletto.

  Dirk blinked for a moment, nonplussed. But then he had an idea … Revenge! “Oh yes. It is a term of high status. Nitwit,” said Dirk sarcastically, glaring at Christopher. “Or so it says in my dictionary.”

  Christopher’s face fell as he realized what Dirk was saying. He had no choice but to play along. “Yes, Your Majesty, yes. Umm … I am Nitwit. Er … Nitwit the Wizard!” he said.

  Dirk put a hand to his mouth, stifling the uncontrollable giggling that threatened to consume him at any moment.

  “And where do you hail from, Nitwit?” asked Foletto.

  “Whiteshields, Your Majesty,” he said without a thought.

  “White Shields? No! You are one of the White Shields? The elite Paladins of Hasdruban the Pure? But you are sworn to destroy the Dark Lord—surely you cannot have betrayed your oath, it is not possible!” said an astonished Foletto.

  “Ah, well …,” said Dirk, trying to cover things up with another lie but Foletto interrupted him, pointing at Christopher with a thin, spiky finger.

  “Ah, wait, I’ve got it! That is why you were exiled and regressed into the body of a boy, just like the Dark One! Ha, you are a traitor and you have been punished for it!” he said. “Who would have thought it? A Paladin of the Order of the White Shields betraying everything like that!”

  “Indeed, indeed,” said Dirk, going with the flow. “You have guessed the truth with admirable insight, Foletto!”

  It was rather improbable, thought Dirk to himself, but it was better than the truth—that he did indeed “frequent the company of human children” and that basically, yes, they were lost, and worst of all, neither of them had any magical powers to speak of and were completely vulnerable to whatever Foletto wanted to do with them. It was vital Foletto didn’t realize that.

  Foletto nodded, pleased with himself.

  Dirk began to address him, “Now, my friend, we have need of—” but Foletto put up his hand to silence him.

  Dirk’s jaw dropped. “How dare you, Foletto,” he said. “How dare you!”

  Foletto gazed at him for a moment, as if considering ignoring him or having him arrested or something but at the last minute he relented, afraid to take the risk.

  “Forgive me, your Imperial Darkness, forgive me!” he said. “Please, give me a moment, I beg you.”

  Dirk, playing the mighty Dark Lord to the hilt, nodded regally and said, “I shall be magnanimous! I accept your apology. As you wish, Foletto, take your moment.”

  The Skirrit King stared at Dirk for a second or two, thinking about what he was going to say, and what the Dark Lord’s reaction might be. He adjusted his cap nervously, and then said, “Didn’t you give me a promise last time we met, Dark One?”

  Dirk shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. “Yes, yes, I did. How could I forget?” he said.

  “What was it now? Oh yes, my heart’s desire! In return for … umm, let me think, some trivial thing. Oh yes, the rebuilding of that ugly wooden earthling pavilion. Ha! So easy!” said Foletto.

  “Yes, that is true, a rather uneven agreement, as you yourself have recognized,” said Dirk.

  “Nevertheless, it was agreed,” said Foletto.

  “Yes, it was agreed,” nodded Dirk, resignedly.

  “Well, I think I know what I want now,” said Foletto.

  “Oh yes, and what will it be?” said Dirk jauntily, although inside he could feel his stomach lurching. Why had he agreed to such a stupid deal? He’d been desperate, really desperate, but even so, he should have thought it through, taken his time.

  Foletto smiled. “One of our Gods … Well, I say a God. Others say he is some kind of super-powerful being that inhabits the Gulf, just like us. Anyway, either way, we are forced to treat him like a God. In any case, what else is a deity but a super-powerful being who—”

  “Yes, yes, enough of your meandering philosophy. What’s your point?” said Dirk impatiently.

  “Well … the God in question is called Nephthos, the Eater of Sins, and he is an angry, vengeful God. Often we have to appease him
with sacrifices. The sacrifices must be those who are full of sin and evil. And there is nothing he likes more than the taste of a traitor, and the worse the betrayal the better the taste!”

  Dirk gasped in horror. Christopher frowned—he hadn’t caught on yet.

  “So, what I want is Nitwit the Paladin. Or ex-paladin I should say. What a perfect sacrifice he would make to Nephthos! A paladin who has turned to the Dark? Oh, how perfect!”

  Christopher’s face fell. He was getting it now!

  “Bah,” said Dirk. “Never!” Christopher looked over at Dirk gratefully. Dirk did not look back.

  “What, you would refuse me? You cannot!” said Foletto.

  Dirk stared for a moment, thinking furiously. “Well, if I agree, will you give me safe passage to the Darklands?” he said.

  “What?” said Christopher. “You said you wouldn’t do this, that you wouldn’t sacrifice me, even if it was to save yourself, and here you are, literally sacrificing me! I can’t believe it!”

  “I lied,” said Dirk, staring at the Skirrit King. He wouldn’t even look at Christopher.

  “Ha,” said Foletto, slapping a thin, bony thigh with pleasure. “This is excellent. Excellent! Yes, your Darkness, I guarantee your safety, even though technically that’s an extra clause in the contract I don’t have to agree to, but yes, done!”

  “All right, so be it,” said Dirk. “I agree!”

  “No!” wailed Christopher. “You can’t do this to me, Dirk, you can’t!”

  “Take him away, and prepare him for the ritual,” said the Skirrit King, grinning insanely from ear to ear like a deranged sock puppet.

  A rush of little Skirrit guards swept toward Christopher, leaping and dancing, giggling and snickering. “No,” said Chris, as the Skirrits swarmed all over him. “Wait, you can’t do this! Help, Dirk, help me! Nooooo, help meeee!” wailed Chris as he was dragged out of the Throne room to whatever fate awaited him.

  “Good-bye, Nitwit. It was nice knowing you,” said Foletto. He was staring at Dirk all the while. Dirk looked up at him. “So, what does the preparation for sacrifice consist of?” he said airily.

  “The Chosen One is—” began Foletto before Dirk interrupted him.

  “The victim, you mean,” he said.

  Foletto grinned. “Yes, the victim. The victim is stripped naked, except for a pink loincloth covered in little crimson hearts—”

  “Pink underpants!” interrupted Dirk, a little smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.

  “Indeed, pink underpants. Pink is sacred to Nephthos apparently and the hearts represent the love we have for him, though actually we’re just terrified of him, but that’s all part of the game. Anyway, then the Chosen … the victim I mean, is covered from head to foot in Goonut butter, and—” continued Foletto, only to be interrupted once more.

  “Goonut butter! What is that?” said Dirk.

  “The Goonut grows on certain trees on certain floating islands in the Abyssal Gulf. It is said to be the favorite delicacy of Nephthos the Sin Eater, though to us it smells sort of like dung, so we don’t touch it,” said Foletto.

  Dirk smiled broadly—he couldn’t help himself, and he chuckled. Foletto frowned. That wasn’t the reaction he’d been hoping for.

  Foletto leaned forward, annoyed at Dirk’s cavalier attitude, and said, “And then the victim is strapped down on the Altar of Nephthos and his throat is cut by the High Priestess with the Sinblade, a jagged, obsidian dagger that really, really hurts!”

  “Nice,” said Dirk. “Can I watch?”

  Foletto’s jaw dropped. “You want to … Ha!” He slapped his thigh again, and grinned. “You are truly the Evil One, aren’t you?”

  Dirk took a bow. “Indeed, so I am. What did you expect?” said Dirk.

  Foletto’s face fell at that. Here was proof positive of the boy’s true nature. He may be trapped in the body of a human child, but it was the Dark Lord himself, here in his Throne room, face-to-face with him … As evil and as cunning as he’d ever been. Foletto shifted uncomfortably.

  “And afterward, you will take me to the Darklands, yes?” said Dirk.

  “Oh yes, absolutely. Right away!” said Foletto, stepping down from his Throne. “Shall we go to the Temple of Nephthos then? They’ll be doing the sacrifice soon,” he added, eager to get this Dread Lord out of his hair.

  Dirk nodded, and followed the Skirrit King through the halls of the palace to take one of the cable cars that ran up and down the branches of the great crystal tree of Wispwillow.

  The view from the cable car was magnificent but all too brief. Soon they arrived at the Temple of Nephthos, a pyramidal building that hung from the tip of a long crystal branch. Foletto, Dirk, and several Skirrit priests and worshipers made their way to the Great Hall of Sacrifice, a chamber in the Temple that was almost completely bare except for a bloodstained black-rock altar in the middle of the room. Leering over the altar was a statue of Nephthos the Sin Eater. He looked like a huge, tall, spindly Skirrit, but with the head of some kind of vulture, with a taloned beak, and bright beady eyes of ruby.

  Christopher was strapped to the altar. He was wearing pink underpants and was covered in a dirty brown paste. He was gagged so he couldn’t speak, but he was glaring at Dirk, sometimes angrily, sometimes imploringly.

  The Skirrit High Priestess, dressed in long, pink robes, walked slowly up to the altar, a crystal ball in one hand, and a nasty-looking obsidian dagger in the other.

  She leaned over the altar. Christopher was staring at her in fascinated horror. She placed the crystal ball on his chest, passed her hand over it in an arcane gesture, and said, “Nitwit! You have been chosen. Now you shall be tested,” and she began to mumble some kind of prayer or spell over him.

  Dirk leaned forward, frowning intently. Foletto glanced over at him. Slowly the crystal ball began to fill up with a pinkish, whitish light. Dirk sat back with a sigh of relief. Foletto looked over at him once more. It was his turn to frown.

  Suddenly, the High Priestess snatched the ball away.

  “This one won’t do!” she said in a reedy voice. “This one won’t do at all!”

  “What do you mean it won’t do?” said Foletto, confused.

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” said the High Priestess, “but there is hardly any sin in this one at all. In fact, it’s almost totally innocent!”

  “What?!” said Foletto. “But he’s Nitwit the Wizard, an ex-Paladin of the White Shields who has forsworn his oath! He’s turned to the Dark side and everything! I can’t think of anyone who’d be more full of sin—well, except … But he’s …” Foletto glanced nervously over at Dirk as he finished his sentence.

  “No, Foletto, this one is not,” said the High Priestess. “He’s just a boy, a simple human child. More innocent than most, in fact.”

  “But … but …,” spluttered Foletto. He turned to Dirk, who was standing there, looking up at the temple roof and whistling to himself, as if nothing was amiss.

  Foletto’s eyes narrowed. “Well, can’t you sacrifice him anyway?” he said. “Got to be worth something, even if he is blameless!”

  “No! Definitely not! Such an offering would enrage Nephthos. It’d be like feeding him dirt or worse. He’d likely go on a rampage, start destroying our city, like the last time!”

  “Oh dear,” said Foletto. “We can’t have that!”

  “No, we can’t!” said the Priestess. “We’ll have to release him.” With that, she leaned forward and used the obsidian dagger to cut Chris’s bonds. Christopher sat up, rubbing his wrists, staring around wildly as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

  Foletto glared at Dirk. Dirk smiled back at him, hands behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels, whistling.

  “Wait,” said Foletto, still staring at Dirk angrily. “What if we just killed the boy, you know, just for fun, no rituals or anything. Or threw him into space or marooned him on one of the floating islands!”

  “No, no, you can�
�t do that,” said the High Priestess. “He’s been consecrated now, anointed for sacrifice. If we kill him, it’ll still count as a sacrifice. No, the best thing we can do is get him off this plane as soon as possible—if he dies here in the Abyssal Gulf, Nephthos will take him, and we’ll get the blame!”

  Foletto blinked as he digested this. Christopher, listening avidly, stood up and removed the gag in his mouth.

  Foletto put his hands on his hips. Then he raised them to his head. And then folded them. Then put them back on his hips. And then back to his head. “Arrrgh!” he cried.

  Dirk chuckled.

  “Arrrgh!” he said again. “I can’t believe it! You have outwitted me!”

  “Indeed,” said Dirk. “I am the Dark Lord after all, the Master of Cunning.”

  “But wait, don’t think that I shall be taking you to the Darklands!” said Foletto.

  “Yes, you will! You must, as agreed!” said Dirk, grinning.

  “But the boy!” said Foletto.

  “I gave him to you, as agreed. It is hardly my fault that you must now release him, is it?” said Dirk, smiling.

  Foletto spat. “Bah,” was all that he could say. Two little Skirrits ran forward to clean up the spit. Foletto kicked one spitefully.

  Then he sighed. “Ah well, I suppose so. I guess we have not lost much really; it’s no big deal to transport you to the Darklands, and you might as well take the boy with you. We can’t keep him here anyway!”

  Foletto signaled, “Take these two … guests … to the Portal to the Darklands. Take them wherever they want to go,” he said.

  “What about my clothes and stuff?” said Christopher.

  “Ha, don’t push your luck, Nitwit! Don’t push your luck!”

  “My name’s not Nitwit, it’s Christopher, and I want my stuff, especially my boots!” said Christopher angrily.

  “Forget it, Nitwit. I’ve had enough. Any more trouble from you, and I’ll send the Dark One to the Darklands, and you to the Holothurian Deeps! Remember, I have no agreement with you! Now, get out of my sight.”

  “Holothurian Deeps, what are they?” said Christopher, turning to Dirk.