The Dark Lord Bert 2

by Chris Fox

  “Done!” Bert leapt to his feet with a grin. So many intimidating monsters had shown up. The Eye of Soreness knew everyone!

  There were two problems remaining. Bert began chewing on his lip as he thought about dealing with them.

  Bert still only had one hit point. He needed to find a way to protect himself before adventurers started showing up.

  If he could deal with that…he still needed a source of gold.

  20

  The Armor of Plote

  The following morning Bert carefully crept through his newly populated labyrinth. Each of the monsters seemed to be settling into their own areas, and he hoped that they would be sufficiently scary to keep everyone away from the magical rock.

  Once Bert was certain that both Boberton and his new employees were sleeping he decided to approach the Eye of Soreness to confide in him, and to see if the eye might have some ideas on where Bert could come up with more coin.

  Being a dark lord was much harder than he’d assumed, and he believed that the eye had a good deal of experience in that area. Enough to teach Bert the basics, surely.

  Bert entered the volcano where the eye resided, and called up in a soft voice so as not to wake the rest of the monsters. “Hullo! eye person. Bert need help.”

  The eye blinked a few times, and then leaned down to peer at Bert. Its voice was also very quiet, and Bert rather liked that his new friend appeared to be considerate of others. “Oh, good evening. I thought everyone had gone to bed. Nights are terribly lonely, you see, being a lidless all-seeing eye. I don’t ever get to rest.”

  “Not sound like much fun.” Bert sat down, and withdrew an elf cookie from his pack. He offered it to the eye, but the eye shook back and forth so Bert plopped it into his mouth.

  “There are upsides. So what is your problem, my diminutive friend?” The eye leaned closer, which warmed Bert quite nicely, even though the eye was no longer on fire.

  “Bert not sure how to pay monsters.” He looked up at the eye, and poured out his feelings. “Bert also scared that adventurers will come. Bert not real dark lord. Only have one hit point. What if they kill Bert, and take rock?”

  “Mhm.” The eye nodded sagely. Bert tried to remember the gesture so he could mimic it later. “I understand completely. I got into the forging business because I felt inadequate, you see. I think every dark lord does, except the overconfident ones and they don’t last long. Now I can’t help you with the gold problem just yet, but I can help protect you. What you need is some armor. I know just the thing.”

  Bert leapt to his feet. Armor! He only had one hit point, but if he raised his armor class high enough then no one would be able to hurt him. Well, except with spells. Or area effect attacks.

  “Will armor protect Bert from magic?” Bert shifted from foot to foot while he waited to find out if the armor could work.

  “Definitely!” The eye bobbed up and down happily. “I’ll teach you to forge the ancient and powerful Armor of Plote. The e is silent, usually, but I think it sounds more fancy with the e.”

  “Plot armor?” Bert hopped up and down. “Sound great! How Bert make?”

  “It’s not very hard.” The eye leaned down to indicate a small anvil next to a forge, which Bert hadn’t really paid much attention to. “The materials are already there. But I want to warn you…plot armor works great right up until it doesn’t. By itself it won’t keep you alive. Why, talk to Isildor about plot armor. You can’t. He’s dead.”

  Bert bit his lip again. He dearly wanted plot armor, but he also needed to know about its limitations. “How Bert avoid dying like, ah, is-a-door?”

  “Hmm.” The eye moved higher and adopted a pensive sort of pose. “That’s a great question. I’m afraid I failed in that regard. I lost. But if I had it to do over, you know what I might have done? I might have prepared a scapegoat so that when the adventurers came to kill me they had another target.”

  Bert considered that. He believed he could acquire a goat after he finished working on the armor. There were goats all over the mountain, probably. Didn’t goats live on mountains? He would have to go and see.

  First he needed his new armor though. He glanced over his shoulder, up the stairs and into the maze. It was the middle of the night. “Will making plot armor be loud?”

  “I’m afraid so, though I suppose you could muffle it with a spell.” The eye lifted both corners in a shrug.

  Bert blinked several times. He had magic! He could make the entire process quiet. Bert raced down to the anvil, and grabbed the hammer with both hands. It might take two or three spells, but he had plenty of spell points.

  “Make hammer quiet,” Bert whispered. The magic left him in a whoosh, and spun around the hammer. That was a start. Now it would make no noise when it hit the anvil, or the armor. But Bert was still a tiny goblin, and big metal plates were heavy. He’d need another spell. “Make Bert strong!”

  Magic flowed through his entire body right down to his toes, and into his nose, and it tickled. When the feeling passed Bert noted that he now had muscles on his arms, legs, and chest. It wouldn’t last, but that was okay. He only needed it long enough to forge his plot armor.

  “Okay, so what Bert do?” Bert raised the hammer and glanced over his shoulder at the eye.

  “It’s super simple.” The eye drew up into a somber pose. “Repeat these words, and use a deep menacing voice, okay?”

  “Okay.” Bert nodded. The hammer was growing heavy even with the strength spell. He hoped there weren’t many words.

  “Deus Ex Machina!” The eye roared, loudly enough that some of the monsters probably woke up.

  Bert lowered his volume and hoped it would work anyway. “Doos ex makina!” He brought the hammer down on the anvil in a shower of sparks, and poof…a suit of menacing black armor appeared all over his body. It was warm to the touch, and even had a cup holder on the belt.

  For the first time Bert looked a proper dark lord! A bit short, perhaps, but very intimidating. He peeked at his character sheet and blinked when he realized he had a 997 armor class. The highest he’d ever seen had been 54, and that had been one of White’s characters. Most people had less than 20.

  “Okay!” Bert set the hammer down and turned toward the eye. “Bert will go get goat, then ready for adventurers to come!”

  If the adventurers showed up soon enough they might bring gold with them. Perhaps he could use that to pay the monsters.

  21

  Kit Goes Home

  Kit and Nutpuncher arrived in Humboldt County to find a terrible mess and an empty town. Every building and tree along the shore was deserted, and a chill wind blew off the lake and through the torn pavilions.

  “Where did all the elves get off to?” Nutpuncher trotted ahead, and leapt up to the top of a pine tree in three hops. “I don’t see anybody. Like, at all. Not a single elf moving in that town.”

  Icy fear gripped Kit’s heart. She had no idea what to expect, but Bert’s trail led through that town. It passed right by…was that a small wagon? Elves didn’t use wagons, as they were impractical in a forest. Kit approached it cautiously, but there were no traps, and no ambush. Where had all the elves gotten to?

  The wagon had been constructed from stray refuse, which meant it had almost certainly been made by Bert. Why would he have abandoned it? Bert was never wasteful, but if something had threatened the elves then perhaps he’d needed to flee in a hurry.

  Kit once again cast the Ghostly Trail spell, and the version of Boberton bounded off into the forest…directly toward a volcano in the distance. “Oh, no.”

  “What’s the matter?” Nutpuncher spun in a slow circle and scanned for threats.

  “It’s nothing. I think Bert is headed to Mount Dhuuum.” She started toward the tree line. “It will take days to catch him. I was just hoping he was here is all. Every day we delay is one more day White has to murder hobo his way through a kingdom I for one am very attached to.”

  The gnome seemed to buy the lie,
which was innocent enough. There was no reason he needed to know that walking toward the mountain meant passing right by her family’s tree. They’d be so close that there was no way she’d pass without being spotted. Her mother was remarkably perceptive for a high elf.

  Kit walked in nervous anticipation, knowing that sooner or later her mother would make her presence known. They’d gone several miles through the undergrowth when an arrow thudded into the tree directly over Nutpuncher’s head.

  Kit stepped from the undergrowth and raised her hands. “It’s just me, mom, and my friend. Please don’t shoot us.”

  A lithe elven woman with a bound ponytail as long as she was tall leapt from a branch high above, and swan dived toward the ground, then twisted in air, and landed in a crouch with her bow extended in one hand and an arrow in the other. She replaced the arrow in her quiver, then pulled a vape pen from her pouch and inhaled deeply as she peered at Kit with bloodshot eyes.

  “You look great, sweetie.” Her mom coughed once, then exhaled a cloud through her nose. Kit had always found getting high distasteful even if she couldn’t explain why. Some people didn’t like onions. She didn’t like feeling out of control. “Does your friend have a name?” Her mother turned toward the gnome, and squatted down with a smile as if speaking to a child. “And is he hungry? Our tree is right over there, little man, and I have loads of tacos. Like, so many tacos.”

  “I like tacos.” Nutpuncher perked up and followed her mother up the trail. He turned to hiss a conspiratorial whisper in her direction. “Your mother is awesome!”

  Mom led them to a thick redwood tree, where Kit had been born and spent her first two decades, and led them up the familiar rungs. They ascended to about the middle of the tree, with a fabulous view of the lake in the distance.

  “You can have your old room for the night, sweetie.” Her mother paused to draw from the vape pen again as she ducked through the doorway into the kitchen. “Your father went to combat a forest fire, but you know how he is. He won’t be home until he’s replanted an acorn for every tree. Such a hippie.”

  Her father was a druid, so that sort of thing was expected. One year he’d shifted into a bear, and forgotten he was a human. They hadn’t worried that he’d been gone so long, but she now had a pair of bear siblings which was incredibly awkward for a were-fox to explain at forest parties.

  They followed her mother into her childhood kitchen and Kit moved to sit at the table where she’d dutifully practiced spells every night. She’d been the first sorceress in the family, and both parents had been so proud of their only child. So many memories here.

  Her mother escorted Nutpuncher over to the far side of the table, and provided him with a tray full of pre-assembled tacos. The mouth-watering beef, special seasoning, and fresh tomatoes drew her attention, without a doubt. Even though she knew the fried shell would leave her high for hours.

  It would be rude not to eat her mother’s cooking. Kit snatched a taco from the tray, and nibbled on one end of it. Nutpuncher jammed half a taco in his mouth, which was quickly followed by the second half. A second taco followed.

  Kit took another nibble, and blinked a few times as sudden euphoria slowed time around her. Thoughts became boulders, and she seemed to shrink down in the chair, too small to deal with such weighty things.

  Man, this taco was good. She took a larger bite, and wolfed down cheese, and beef, and tortilla. Before she knew it the taco had vanished. She looked around to see if she’d set it down, but it was nowhere to be seen. Had she eaten it?

  Oh! There were more tacos. She picked up a second one, and noted that most of the rest had vanished down the gnome’s gullet. His eyes had gone bloodshot, and the pace of taco destruction gradually slowed.

  Kit took her time with the second taco, but she blinked, and someone stole it before she could eat. She peered around suspiciously, but her mother had her feet up near the fire, and Nutpuncher had slumped back in his chair and now stared up at the ceiling, a line of drool running down his chin.

  The reason became clear. The tray was empty. Nutpuncher had eaten all the tacos. He must have stolen hers too. For some reason Kit found that terribly amusing, and began to giggle.

  “It’s so good having you home, sweetie.” Her mother moved over to the corner where the kitty litter box was, and quickly replaced the contents. She set the box on the corner of the table, next to Kit. “Katty-Kit is out in the forest hunting birds. He’s too fat to catch them. I think they sometimes taunt the poor thing.”

  Kit nodded, but wording had become difficult. She picked up the box of granola, and shoved a handful in her mouth. “Mmm. Crunchy. Kind of dry? Do you have any milk for this?”

  “That’s kitty litter, dear. Please don’t eat that.” Her mother gently pried the box from between Kit’s fingers and took it away. “I’ll have more tacos ready in a bit.”

  Kit’s mind became foogy. Foggy? Froggy? Gooey. Yes that was definitely the right word. Her Brian wasn’t working right. Brain wasn’t working right.

  She looked around for more granola, but someone had stolen the box. Kit peered suspiciously at the unconscious gnome, and then at her mother, who merely smiled back.

  Perhaps someone else had taken the granola.

  “So where are you and your friend off to, dear?” Her mother’s words took a long time to reach Kit, and she fought to catch each one like a child grasping at bubbles. The words popped, one by one.

  What had her mother been saying? Oh, yes! What was she doing?

  “Nutpuncher and I are trying to find Bert. We’re going to kill another dark lord.” She smacked her lips and looked around the table. “Do you have any more of that granola?”

  Kit slumped over on the table and promptly fell asleep.

  22

  The Dark Lord White

  The Dark Lord White, version 2.0, sat atop his newly constructed plastic throne, built from thousands of sporks, taken from the villagers he’d slaughtered to construct his new empire. He’d have preferred to use swords to make a throne, but most average commoners couldn’t afford a real utensil, much less a weapon.

  So White accepted the indignity of plastic instead of iron. For now, at least. Who could he conquer who owned swords?

  “Sir Patrick, attend me!” White bellowed the words, and they echoed through his necropolis.

  A few moments later unhurried clanking sounded in the corridor outside the throne room, and then Sir Patrick strolled lazily into the room. He performed the most perfunctory of bows, and then settled his spectral gaze upon White. “Yes, my lord?”

  “What news from the swamps?” White knew it unlikely anything had changed, but he had nothing else to do while he waited for the tomb to finish upgrading to a Keep of Deadly Death.

  “The trolls have scattered, your lordship, as expected. Respectfully, this is a futile endeavor, as I warned it would be.” Sir Patrick planted the blade of his sword against the stone and leaned on it. “A troll cannot be permanently killed, as your lordship no doubt knows.”

  “I thought fire would kill a troll.” White’s eyes narrowed. Was the death knight having a go at him?

  “Indeed.” Sir Patrick gave a hollow laugh. “But a troll will merely regenerate. Trolls crave attention. It revives them. The only way to deal with a troll is to ignore them, or if you are powerful enough, to ban their IP.”

  “Are you implying I’m not powerful enough?” White raised an eyebrow, and considered disintegrating the death knight. Then he’d have no one to talk to, since Crushstuff was out leading the army, and he had no idea where Kit and Nutpuncher had vanished to.

  No doubt they were off trying to make up the experience gap, which would be all but impossible. As soon as his keep finished he would get an experience point every time his empire received a sacrifice. He planned to gain a lot of experience points in that manner.

  “I wouldn’t dream of implying such a thing, my lord.” Another perfunctory bow, too precise to be mocking, unless that itself was mo
ckery. “I have no doubt you could ban the trolls if you wished. Why, the Dark Lord Bert did so…more than once. I’ve rarely seen Bert take such rapid action. He did not like trolls. Or spam.”

  There it was. White couldn’t do it. Bert could. It was most definitely mockery. But White would not let the death knight see that he’d scored a point. He kept his face an impassive mask. “I will ban them myself. Return to your post.”

  The problem, of course, was that White wasn’t truly a dark lord. He didn’t possess the trope, and thus lacked the power to manipulate the game world. No matter how many powers he’d given himself, nor how powerful his Super Karen trope was, nor the fact that he had seven hundred hit points, none of it would allow him to do the things Bert could do.

  Unless he could find Bert and take the trope. That was the problem he must solve. Locate the dark lord, and take from him the source of his power.

  Accomplishing that would require sorcery he did not possess. Unfortunately White had only used the base rules for spells known, and had focused largely on necromancy. That meant he lacked spells like Greater Scry. Normally he would force Kit to perform such menial spells, but somehow she’d discovered a spine.

  That could be a real problem. Her increased intellect put her nearly at White’s level, and her experience as a gamer, combined with having seen all of White’s former plans, made her the single largest danger remaining in the world.

  He needed to find Bert, and he needed to find Kit. And he needed to kill them and animate them both. White hoped that Nutpuncher was with them. The gnome hadn’t proven as loyal as Crushstuff, but he had been a friend for a long time, and was useful in a fight.

  Once Kit was dead the gnome would be bored, and would likely come back to the fold. Then White would have a full adventuring party once more, and could properly enjoy subjugating the rest of the world.