by Mike Ashley
Minuriel’s expression was unreadable as her handmaidens led her into the great hall and her eyes first lit upon her future husband’s decorating efforts.
“This is going to serve him right,” she gritted.
The Grim Lord stood awaiting her upon the platform. He offered her a hand to help her climb the stairs, which were made entirely of the prone bodies of troll cadets who had proved themselves unable to master the making of hospital corners on their cots. There was a brief pause when one of the cadets tried to sneak a peek up the elf-maiden’s wedding gown and needed to be beheaded and replaced. At last the princess stood upon the dais, facing the Grim Lord in the shadow of the paper wedding bell.
Due to religious differences, the ceremony could be performed by neither a Singer of the Light (bride’s side, Orthodox) nor a Howling Priest of Slaughter (Groom’s side, Reformed). As a compromise, the Grim Lord’s minions trundled a heavy pulpit onto the platform, set upon it the Great Book of Intonations for All Occasions, and placed on the open pages the Grim Lord’s pet chipmunk, Skully. Being the Grim Lord’s pet chipmunk had transformed the simple forest creature into a green, slavering, one-eyed killing machine, as many a foolhardy servant had learned who crossed paths with the mad rodent in the castle’s endless corridors. And yet, being a chipmunk, Skully still managed to retain that quality which the elves prized above all others:
“Oooooooh! He’s sooooo cuuuuuuute!” cried Shiksael. She tried to pet the beast. It snapped off one of her fingers.
“Bad Skully!” said the Grim Lord severely. “No eating the attendants until after the wedding.”
The chipmunk stuffed the severed digit into his cheek pouch and tried to look remorseful.
“And now,” the Grim Lord announced to the massed congregation – his own warriors to an orc, the bride’s family not having been notified of the impending ceremony – “Skully will scamper back and forth over the text, chittering after the fashion of his kind. When he pauses, the fair Princess Minuriel will give her spoken consent before you all to be my submissive, obedient, totally subservient spouse and I will say more or less the same thing, excluding adjectives.”
“I don’t understand this,” Shikagoel whispered in her mistress’s ear. “How can a chipmunk perform the holy ceremony of marriage?”
“In my father’s court, when the Singers of the Light offer up their paeans in the High Tongue of the Somewhat Misplaced Elves, do you understand what they’re saying?”
“Not a word. I don’t speak High Tongue.”
“Do you understand fluent Mutant Chipmunk?”
“Not a chitter.”
“Then by the rule of mutual ignorance – very big in most marriage ceremonies – the Grim Lord’s pet is just as qualified to unite us as any cleric in the land.”
“Do you mind?” The Grim Lord glowered at the elfin maidens. “We are trying to conduct a wedding here. There’ll be lots of time for gossiping with your girlfriends on the honeymoon.”
“So I suspected,” Minuriel muttered. Aloud, in a voice that carried to the farthest reaches of the great hall, she cried, “Halt! Grim Lord, I charge thee, stay thy chipmunk!”
“What’s this?” The Grim Lord frowned. “Are you trying to back out of our agreement? Do so and you shall be condemned by the highest bonds of magic that rule our realms! I understand it hurts.”
“I am backing out of nothing, my lord,” the princess returned smoothly. “But by those same bonds of magic, whose power not even you dare to challenge, I call to mind the fact that we cannot be wed until you have satisfied the one condition of a royal elfmaid’s marriage.”
“I had the blood test,” the Grim Lord snarled.
“Not that. I mean . . . the Gift!”
There came a slowly swelling murmur of expository affirmation from the assembled throng below the dais:
“Ah, yes, the Gift!”
“The Gift, of course, the Gift!”
“Well, naturally, the Gift.”
“How could we have forgotten about the Gift?”
“Does this mean we’ve got to return the steak knives? Me an’ t’other orcs in Company C chipped in an’—”
“Shut up, bonehead, we’re talking about the Gift.”
“Oh. I gets yer,” said the young orc, who didn’t.
“The Gift,” the Grim Lord hissed – no easy task when uttering words devoid of sibilants. “You speak the truth, my lady, for which I thank you. Verily it is written in volumes as old as time and monstrously overdue at the library that unless all conditions governing the marriage of royal elf-maidens are met, grievous are then the ills which shall befall he who did not heed them. Name what it is you would have! I swear by all the dark and awesome powers at my command, it shall be done!” He thrust his mail-sheathed fists heavenward and an earthshaking peal of thunder shook the castle to its very foundations. Orcs trembled and trolls fled. Wraiths paled to mere specters of their former selves, and the Grim Lord’s mortal servants left the hall to change their underwear.
And when the last reverberations of that unholy thunderclap had faded from the hall, the Princess Minuriel spoke:
“I want to redecorate.”
“What?”
Acting as if she had just heard the most eloquent of blessings (as opposed to the monosyllable of blankest confusion) Minuriel flung her arms around the Grim Lord’s neck and exclaimed, “Oh, thank you, darling! You won’t regret this. And it’ll be no trouble to you, absolutely no trouble at all. All I need from you is your cooperation; I’ll handle everything else. Just wait, you’ll be so pleased with the results, you won’t know what to think!”
With a light laugh on her lips, she danced a few steps away from her intended spouse and began to wave her slim hands sinuously before her face, weaving invisible patterns on the air. At the same time, she recited an eldritch elfin chant of great power and antiquity.
In the front ranks, one wraith nudged another in the intangible short ribs and inquired, “What means this ‘Eeny meeny chili beenee’?”
The second wraith shrugged misty shoulders. “Elves. Go figure.”
As Minuriel’s chant rose in intensity, a lozenge of dappled golden light took shape between her and the Grim Lord. It grew until it was man-high, then the watery curtains of brilliance parted and a tall, masterful, mighty-limbed, keen-eyed specimen stepped forth. His chin was cleft, his shoulders monumental, his hair a froth of gold, his eyes of a blue lambence to dim the great sapphire of the wedding bower with shame. He wore naught save a loincloth, a cape, and sandals laced to the knee. They were very attractive knees. Needless to add, his thews were of steel, and his very presence seemed to proclaim that he possessed the brilliance of mind to know what thews meant without having to go look it up in the dictionary.
His cool gaze swept the room, coming at last to rest upon the Grim Lord who, despite himself, felt distinctly uneasy under that silent evaluation. One perfectly arched eyebrow raised in inquiry. The stranger spoke:
“You are the owner of these premises?” His voice caused Shiksael to collapse in an ecstatic faint (or maybe it was just the loss of blood from where Skully had bitten off her finger) and sent Shikagoel staggering under an assault of suddenly unleashed elfin hormones.
The Grim Lord moistened the edges of his mouth. “Uh, why, yes. Yes, I am.”
“Then take this!” cried the stranger. His hand dropped to his belt. A slender shape flashed straight for the Grim Lord’s heart. Instinctively the Grim Lord launched the spell for shattering dagger blades, but to no avail. He reeled backward as the object struck him full in the chest.
“That’s my standard contract,” the stranger said, still holding one end of the scroll. “Go on, read it; you’ll find it entirely reasonable.”
Wordlessly, trying to beat back all outward signs of the heebie-jeebies, the Grim Lord accepted the scroll. As he unrolled it, the stranger turned his back to him and contemplated the great hall. “You didn’t summon me a moment too soon,” he pronounced. �
��This is all wrong, wrong, wrong. Whatever were you thinking of? I mean, did you decorate in the dark? Black. Oh, dear, why does it always have to be black? It’s sooooo depressing.” The stranger strolled across the dais, making frequent tsk-tsk sounds. From time to time he would give the trolls in the front row a sideways glance that sent them into a self-conscious frenzy, running their paws through their greasy thatches and sucking telltale bits of bone marrow out from under their yellowed fingernails.
The Grim Lord made a heroic effort and wrenched back his self-possession. “It’s supposed to be depressing,” he boomed. “It’s a stronghold of evil. The stronghold of evil!”
“Do tell.” The stranger pivoted on tiptoe to confront his employer. “And where is it carved in stone that evil has got to be done in black? I mean, evil is supposed to be an attitude, not a color scheme. Why can’t evil be, oh, que voulez-vous . . . green? I don’t know about you, but when it comes to evil incarnate, creamed spinach gets my vote.”
“Who in the nineteen netherworlds are you, you lizard-hipped blatherer?” the Grim Lord bellowed. “And what’s all this prattle of evil and spinach and voting?”
The stranger took a single, small step backward and waggled a reproving finger at him. “Temper, temper,” he said. “It’s all there in the contract. I am Selvagio Napp of the Borders, whom the dwarf-folk call Dado and the eleven races name Velour. I’m from the Interior Decorators’ Guild, and I’m here to help you.”
“I’ll help you to your death, you threadbare remnant of a—” The Grim Lord’s stream of invective was abruptly dammed by a gentle tap on his shoulder.
“You promised,” Princess Minuriel reminded him.
The Grim Lord put his head down on his desk and screamed.
“Beg pardon, m’lud?” his living-dead manservant inquired. “I didn’t quite hear that. All this racket, donchaknow.”
He was right: the sound of saws, drills, and hammers reverberating through the castle made a ruckus over which not even the Grim Lord’s loudest shriek might be heard. There was also the slop-slip-slap of an army of glue- and paintbrush-wielding dwarves to add to the cacophony.
The Grim Lord raised his head slowly from the desktop. “I think I shall go mad,” he told the world.
“Very good, m’lud,” said the zombie. “Will you be wanting to change your shirt first?”
From somewhere in the castle’s innumerable suites of rooms came the sound of Selvagio bullying trolls. “No, no, no! Much too dark, much too gloomy! I tell you, that dungeon simply screams for pastels!”
And the hapless troll’s meek reply came creeping to the Grim Lord’s ear: “Surr, ’tis a dungeon. O’ course it screams.”
The Grim Lord’s hand reached out to seize a statuette that stood upon his desktop. It was not a very attractive object – no doubt Selvagio would banish it to the nethermost recesses of the castle basement once he got a look at it. It might pass for the bust of a man, although such a lantern-jawed, pop-eyed, unnaturally elongated physiognomy made this a difficult call. No matter. The Grim Lord crushed it in his fist as readily as though it had been the very acme of artistic beauty. “Barkwell, bar the door,” he gritted.
“Yes, m’lud,” said the zombie, doing so with his own gray-green arm. “Will there be anything else, m’lud?”
“Yes, Barkwell. Stand brave. Maintain your post. No pasaran. That— that creature has been prowling my castle for months, mucking up an interior scheme it took me aeons to perfect. When the folk of these realms speak of my stronghold, they speak in tones of awe and mortal terror. The mere mention of Dire Garde is enough to make strong men faint and send lovely women into a tizzy. But now—!” He shuddered. “Now he is afoot. He has thrown away all the nice, thick, blocky uncomfortable furniture which I accumulated by unbending force of will and attending many, many garage sales. Cushions, Barkwell! There are now comfy cushions within the precincts of Dire Garde! Is there no end to the fellow’s degeneracies?”
“No, m’lud,” said Barkwell from his post at the door. “It would appear not.”
“Have you seen what he has done with the barracks?” the Dark Lord demanded in piteous tones. “Floral wallpaper. Pleated blinds. Ferns, Barkwell!”
“Yes, m’lud. Ferns, as you say.”
The Dark Lord let his head sink to the desktop once more, where he cradled it in his arms. His words emerged badly muffled, but still audible: “You know, Barkwell, I used to be a happy fellow. And do you know why I was happy?” Barkwell allowed that he was unaware of the cause. “I had orcs. It’s a point that’s been proven time and time again: unhappiness is practically an impossibility if a fellow’s got enough orcs on hand. When it comes to following orders for pillage and rapine, nothing beats an orc, that’s what I always say.” He looked up, and his Eye held a suspicious moisture. “Barkwell, do you know why I am no longer a happy fellow?”
“No, m’lud. That is not my place to say.”
“Guess.”
“Very well, m’lud, in that case I should venture to surmise that your present unhappiness stems from the fact that you no longer have orcs.”
“Gone!” the Grim Lord wailed. “Expelled from my sanctuary, evicted under my very Eye! And do you know why? Because he said they didn’t go with the drapes in the great hall!”
Barkwell knit his rotting brow. “Begging your ludship’s pardon for the liberty of an unsolicited observation, but there are no drapes in the great hall.”
“There are now.” The Grim Lord’s fingers dug trenches an inch deep in the desktop. “Pink ones. He says the color’s something called Shire Sunset, but I know pink when I see it and those drapes are damn well pink!”
“Aye, m’lud,” Barkwell agreed. “Pink, as you say.” The zombie sighed loudly, launching a squadron of maggots into free fall from his ashy lips. As one of the Grim Lord’s living-dead servants, there were many things he wanted very badly to remark which were Not His Place To Say. Given the choice this very moment of bringing up just one of those verboten topics – with instant, permanent death to follow, naturally – he knew precisely which one he’d choose: “Goddamit, m’lud, if you can’t stand the way that crepe-kisser’s screwing up your castle, why don’t you just drop the silly bugger off the Tower Ruthless and be done with it?”
There was a moment of silence as Barkwell realized that he had inadvertently spoken his thoughts aloud. “Oh, poop,” he commented. With another sigh he disengaged his arm from the door and said, “My apologies, m’lud. I forgot myself. I’ll just be toddling down to the Executioner’s office to have myself burned at the stake. Might I bring you a nice cup of tea before I perish utterly?”
“Sit down,” the Grim Lord directed, motioning the zombie into a hardbacked chair near the desk. Barkwell sat. “I don’t blame you for this uncharacteristic outburst, Barkwell,” the Grim Lord said. “None of us can be held responsible for our actions while our dear, familiar little world of torture and mayhem and elvish harassment is being set on ear by that— that—”
“Teacup twiddler?” Barkwell suggested.
“Oooooh, that’s a good one! “The Grim Lord gave his servant a thumbs-up. Four times. All at once. “Now Barkwell, you’ve been a good and loyal servant. You posed a fair question and you’re entitled to a straight answer without fear of reprisal or incineration. The reason I don’t just boot Selvagio into the moat – and don’t think the image doesn’t taunt me damply in my dreams – is that I can’t.”
“Can’t, m’lud?” It was not a word frequently heard from the Grim Lord, unless one counted the number of times he’d said: No, honestly, I just can’t eat another bite of stewed halfling!
“Not if I ever want to make the Princess Minuriel my own. And her father’s kingdom with her. If I evict her chosen champion – I mean, interior decorator – then not only do I forfeit all claim to the maiden’s hand, but by the bonds of magic that invest this realm, I will be cast down from my position of power and reduced to the status of a— a— a common archetype of evil
!” The strain was too much. The Grim Lord broke down in tears. Those corrosive drops shed by his Eye had the expected effect on the desk, which disintegrated into chunks of acid-washed wood.
The Grim Lord staunched his tears and regarded their handiwork. “Damn. And I really liked that desk,” he said.
“Very true, m’lud,” said Barkwell. “However, perhaps it is better thus. You have no guarantee that Selvagio would have liked it, nor that he would have allowed you to keep it.”
“Allowed me to keep it?” The Grim Lord’s words crackled through the air, leaving little puffs of ozone in their wake. “Allowed, say you? This is my private study! This is my refuge from the demands of absolute sorcerous omnipotence! This, Barkwell, is my thinking corner! I like it the way it is. Dust bunnies are our friends. Would the rascal dare to take liberties with even this, my most personal space?”
“Begging your pardon, m’lud, but you seemed to be under that impression not too long ago. When you instructed me to bar the door against him, m’lud,” Barkwell elucidated.
“Oh, that.” The Grim Lord waved away the zombie’s words with a nervous laugh. “I just didn’t want to be bothered by any of my underlings bursting in upon me with yet another complaint against that awful man. Since I’m not in a position to do anything to stop him, I’d only have to kill all the complainers. I’ve lost enough of my fighting force as it is.”
“Ah, yes.” Barkwell nodded. “Orcs. Drapes. Quite so.”
“Do you think I enjoy feeling this helpless, Barkwell?” the Grim Lord implored. “It’s not something I’m accustomed to, believe me. I tell you, lord-to-lich, that if someone can come up with a way for me to be rid of this meddlesome beast, I will— I will— well, I’ll do my level best to keep from killing him in an offhanded manner in future.”
“An offer both magnanimous and tempting, m’lud,” said Barkwell. “Who could ask for anything more?” The zombie lapsed into a profound and significant silence.
