Og-Grim-Dog and the Dark Lord

by Jamie Edmundson

  ‘Right,’ said Og, gesturing at the dead menial with a sigh. ‘You know, if you keep using the word evil, this kind of thing is going to happen.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said the Dark Lord reluctantly. ‘Evil is more of a style thing, maybe. You know, I want to conquer the world in an evil fashion.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Og grumbled under his breath.

  ‘Now he’s dead,’ said Dog, gesturing at the menial, ‘and I’m sorry and all that, are you alright with me just chucking him in the sea?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t. I think he deserves a funeral of some kind. And I’m sure we can recycle his clothes. Not sure about the helmet, that’s pretty banged up.’

  ‘Well,’ said Grim, ‘we’ll mention it needs doing to a menial. Meanwhile, we’d better get off and do our deed properly.’

  ‘Look,’ said the Dark Lord. ‘Don’t worry about it. It was partly my fault for not being clear. And even if you didn’t do what I wanted—not remotely what I wanted—at all—it did demonstrate a certain level of commitment. Not to mention, you look really fucking evil. You’re hired.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Dog enthusiastically.

  ‘Really. Come, let me give you a little tour of Fell Towers. Then we can talk business.’

  Grim followed the Dark Lord back along the cliff. Once more, they passed through the postern gate. The Dark Lord paused at the ground floor of his stronghold and Og-Grim-Dog, his new henchman, waited politely at his side. The Dark Lord ordered a group of menials to deal with their dead colleague and then turned to the ogre.

  ‘You’ve been to the refectory?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dog. ‘Really good.’

  ‘Lesson one: I like to look after my staff. The healthier and happier they are, the harder they work to achieve my goals. Free food. Free healthcare. I even pay into a pension for them. It means I have the most loyal and dedicated followers in all of Gal’azu. We win as a team, you understand?’

  ‘Win as a team,’ Dog repeated. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Well, let’s head down to the basement, then. It’s the most exciting part of the stronghold.’

  The Dark Lord took them to a trapdoor in the floor. Two menials were on hand to lift it up for them. One of them hurried ahead down the stone steps and began to light the wall lanterns. Flickering shadows appeared as they began to descend into the murky bowels of Fell Towers. Their footsteps echoed around the basement—it was draughty, dank and chilly.

  ‘Oh, it’s lovely down here,’ Dog enthused.

  Even Og had to nod in agreement.

  ‘Of course, ogres like it underground, don’t you,’ said the Dark Lord. ‘Well, let’s see if we can organise a little room for you down here.’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ said Dog.

  ‘Naturally,’ began the Dark Lord, once they had descended to the rocky floor of his basement, ‘I have given over much of the basement to dungeon cells.’ He began to stroll along, past the iron bars of the first cell. It was large, big enough to hold twenty or more prisoners, but no-one was in there now.

  Grim followed, keeping a respectable distance behind him, as all good henchmen do.

  They passed a second cell, just as large and just as empty. ‘Now,’ said the Dark Lord, ‘one of my favourite rooms.’

  He stopped at a door. No simple bars here, it was a thick-looking slab of metal, with bolts pulled across it. The Dark Lord produced a set of keys and, squinting to find the correct one, unlocked the door.

  ‘If you would do the honours?’ he asked, stepping back.

  Og and Dog slid aside the heavy bolts and opened the door. Grim followed the Dark Lord into the cell.

  Inside was a single prisoner. He was chained by the ankles to one of the walls of his small cell. He was tall, which somehow made his gaunt appearance look even worse. He raised his head, squinting at the introduction of light into his cell.

  ‘Is that you, Jonty?’ the prisoner demanded.

  The Dark Lord emitted an odd sounding giggle. ‘Yes. I’m just showing you to one of my new henchmen.’

  ‘Jonty?’ Dog repeated.

  ‘Yes. But make sure you never call me that. Refer to me as ‘lord’.’

  ‘Jonty, you sad little loser, let me out of here!’ demanded the prisoner, with an exhausted kind of anger.

  There was an unpleasant smell in the room. Grim felt sorry for the man. He had lank, long brown hair and a grimy looking beard. He looked to be in a bad way, with red sores on his skin, as well as his generally emaciated condition. But his pale blue eyes fixed on the Dark Lord with an intensity that contrasted with his physical condition.

  ‘You’re the one chained up in my cell, Fraser, so that makes you the loser,’ retorted the Dark Lord with a giggle. ‘Come on,’ he said to Og-Grim-Dog. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  They left the cell, the Dark Lord locking the door and Og and Dog sliding back the bolts.

  ‘My stupid older brother,’ said the Dark Lord by way of explanation. ‘Always such a precious goody-goody. Well, look at him now.’

  ‘How long has he been in there?’ Grim asked.

  ‘A few years. At first, I thought I might have him killed, but actually it’s much more fun just keeping him alive. Come on, there’s something else down here I need to show you.’

  Grim followed on. Dog didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the Dark Lord’s revelation, but he could tell that Og hadn’t liked it one bit. A dark frown was fixed on his brother’s face.

  ‘I designed the pit myself,’ said the Dark Lord, as they approached a wooden barrier that stopped as high as Grim’s thighs. The barrier continued round in a roughly circular shape, surrounding the Dark Lord’s pit. Peering over it, Og-Grim-Dog could tell that it was deep, but it was too dark to see the bottom.

  The menial who had walked on ahead was busy lighting torches that were attached to the barrier.

  ‘By the twenty-three circles of fiery Gehenna,’ let out Dog. ‘There’s something down there. Something very large.’

  Grim took a look. The torches did enough to illuminate a huge creature, wrapped about itself at the bottom of the pit.

  ‘It’s a Giant Worm from the Deserts of Karak-Tar,’ said Og. ‘How did you get it here?’

  ‘Watch this!’ said the Dark Lord. He grabbed a roughly forged length of metal, too crude to be called a sword, even by an ogre. He banged it against the barrier, the sound echoing around the basement. ‘Come on Evie!’ he called.

  The worm began to move, uncoiling itself at the bottom of the pit and rising up towards the sound. It was fat as well as long—it looked far better fed than the Dark Lord’s brother. Its head came into view, a giant maw of sharp teeth. As it reached them, Grim heard a strange, whistling noise coming from its mouth.

  ‘Evie!’ encouraged the Dark Lord. His pet came towards him. He then let loose with his length of metal, smashing it into the worm, once then twice, laughing as he did so. The worm’s whistling became more high-pitched, before it changed course, returning to the bottom of its pit.

  The Dark Lord dropped his tool to the floor as his laughter echoed around the basement—he doubled over as he tried to suck in air amid his hysterics. ‘She always falls for that one,’ he said, as if it was the funniest thing in the world. Tears streamed down his face. ‘I told you it was exciting down here. Come on, we’ll finish off the tour on the top floor.’

  The Dark Lord strode off and Grim followed behind.

  ‘This guy is a real jerk,’ Og whispered into Grim’s ear.

  ‘I know,’ Grim agreed. ‘But Dog really likes it here.’

  Og-Grim-Dog followed the Dark Lord to the top floor of his keep; the place that Simba the dark elf had described as the nexus of his empire.

  ‘We’ll end our tour with Lilith,’ the Dark Lord said. ‘But first, I have one final room to show you.’

  They took one of the exits from the landing. Grim found himself walking down a richly decorated corridor: tapestries, paintings, silver candelabra, porce
lain from the Kuthenian Empire. They passed doors on either side of the corridor, but the Dark Lord was heading for the room at the end, guarded by two of his menials. They saluted at his approach, and then stepped aside. Once again, the Dark Lord produced his set of keys, selecting the correct one for this door. Unlocking it, he strode in, Grim following behind.

  This was a strange room. It was completely empty, save for a stand in the centre, made from figured maple wood. Grim walked over to take a look. On the stand rested a sword. Not very large, certainly by ogre standards. What made it distinctive was the material it was made from.

  ‘Glass?’ asked Dog.

  ‘Not quite,’ said the Dark Lord. ‘It is made from crystal. The Sword of Samir Durg. My bane.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Grim asked.

  ‘The Oracle of Britrona has foretold that I cannot be killed—save by this weapon. My first instinct, once I had it in my possession, was to destroy it; bury it; send it far away. But far safer to have it here, in my possession. Under my control.’

  ‘Is it wise to tell people about it?’

  ‘You are my henchman now. You have my full trust. And, oughtn’t you to know about the one thing that can kill me, so as to prevent my death?’

  ‘I suppose so. You are the only one with a key to this room?’

  ‘Indeed. Now you know the secrets of Fell Towers, it is time to put you to good use. Let us speak with Lilith. She tends to know best about which jobs best suit which individual. It liberates me—allows me to formulate my plans and ideas, without worrying about the details.’

  The Dark Lord made sure that he locked the room behind them, before heading to the open plan office, where Lilith ruled over the administrators of his evil empire. Wordlessly, she led them into her private office.

  ‘I agree with your assessment,’ the Dark Lord told her. ‘I have taken our newest recruit on a tour of Fell Towers.’

  Lilith made a face, as if she would rather he hadn’t. But she said nothing.

  ‘Perhaps you would be able to set them up with some work? Oh, and I did offer them a room in the basement, if you can find a space?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lilith.

  ‘Wonderful. Well, I must be getting on.’

  Lilith and Og-Grim-Dog said their farewells as the Dark Lord exited the office. The woman then stared at Og-Grim-Dog, for a long time. Grim got the impression that it was Lilith who really directed the henchmen. He wasn’t sure that the Dark Lord had learned their name, or that he would remember them a couple of hours from now.

  ‘I think it may suit you best,’ she said at last, ‘to spend a few days here at Fell Towers. The menials could certainly benefit from some training. That’s an understatement, to be honest. When you’ve settled in, I will give you a proper assignment out in Gal’azu. What do you think of that?’

  It sounded fine to Grim. It clearly sounded more than fine to Dog, who had the widest smile on his face that Grim had ever seen him with.

  ‘How often are we allowed to visit the refectory?’ his brother asked.

  Lilith shrugged. ‘As often as you like.’

  An audible crack emanated from Dog’s face. Grim looked at his brother. His smile had now got so wide that his jaw had locked in place. It had quickly gone from a pleasant enough sight to a rather disturbing one. Saliva began to dribble from his mouth.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ Grim said to Lilith quickly. ‘I think we had better be on our way.’

  She nodded absently, unable to take her eyes away from Dog’s manic looking smile.

  Training Precis

  Now then,’ said the Landlord’s third head, ‘we were thinking you might want to try something different here.’

  The Recorder paused the scratching of his quill on parchment and raised a suspicious eyebrow. ‘Like what?’

  ‘A montage,’ replied the third head enthusiastically.

  ‘What’s a montage?’

  ‘Remember, he won’t have seen any movies,’ the first head hissed.

  The customers of The Flayed Testicles muttered uneasily to one another. If there was one thing the good people of Magidu didn’t like, it was folks using words they had never heard of.

  ‘The thing is,’ began the Landlord’s middle head, trying to rescue the situation, ‘for the next week or so, we stayed at Fell Towers, training the Dark Lord’s menials. We were hoping you would be able to write a brief account of that time, without spending too long on it.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the Recorder. ‘You mean a precis.’

  The ogre’s three heads looked at the Recorder for a while, their expressions all furrowed brows and pursed lips. Finally, the third head responded with a sage nod.

  ‘Yes. A pray see.’

  ‘I agree. That should mean we can get on with it.’

  The third head narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you mean, ‘get on with it’?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that you did introduce this as a dark tale.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And so far, all you’ve really told us about is the buffet at the refectory.’

  The third head spluttered indignantly. ‘Oh, it gets dark, don’t worry about that.’

  ‘Fine. Then please proceed.’

  ‘Simba soon left on some unnamed errand for the Dark Lord, and we were the only henchman at Fell Towers during that time,’ began the middle head. ‘There were thousands of menials living in the barracks. They manned the keep and the walls of the stronghold. They brought in food, water, timber and other supplies. At any one time, hundreds were assigned to the Dark Lord’s building projects. But even though they were kept busy, the Dark Lord ensured that they also had free time reserved for them. It was in these blocks of free time that we held our training sessions. First, there was archery training.’ The middle head sighed. ‘We couldn’t get those menials to shoot straight for love or money.’

  The Recorder was bent over his parchment, busy writing his precis.

  ‘And you have to mention guard duty,’ the first head took up. ‘We ran daily tests, where we would approach the gates and demand entry under a variety of pretences. One day we claimed to be a repairman; another time we said we were the milkman.’

  ‘One day we claimed to be the Dark Lord’s grandmother,’ recalled the third head.

  Head one nodded. ‘Whatever we said, no matter how many times we told them not to, they would just open the gates and let us in.’

  ‘Then there was what I called ‘pebble training’,’ said the third head. ‘We would drop a coin or small stone or some such, a few feet away from a menial. They would instantly follow the noise around a corner, or down a dark stairwell, where we could neutralise them. We tried getting them to go in pairs, or to shout a warning to their colleagues. But nothing seemed to work.’

  The Recorder finished his scratching. ‘So, did any of your training with the menials actually make a difference?’

  ‘Let’s just say,’ said the middle head, ‘that when we were called into Lilith’s office, we were only too ready to be given our new assignment.’

  An Ogre in Varena

  This is a common task given to henchmen,’ Lilith explained, ‘and relatively simple. Seek and destroy. Find any threats to the Dark Lord and kill them. Any children with a prophecy attached to them must be removed. Be suspicious of all orphans. Anyone with a royal heritage, bastards included. No, especially bastards. Our motto is ‘if in doubt, wipe them out’. Do you understand?’

  Og-Grim-Dog nodded. She had left them in little doubt.

  ‘I’m giving you the north-western region of Gal’azu: Varena. Our influence is already strong there. No great kingdoms to interfere with your work. Sparsely populated: most settlements are isolated. In other words, this should be a success. Your assignment is finished when you have eliminated all threats. When that is done, report back here.’

  Og-Grim-Dog was back in The Great Outside. They missed their little room in the basement of the keep at Fell Towers. Most of all, they missed the refecto
ry. But they had been given a mission, and they were determined to fulfil it.

  In his wisdom, the Dark Lord had built a road leading from Fell Towers to the region of Varena. It meant that even though the terrain about them was hard, dry and desolate, Grim was able to make good progress to the west. They made their camp by the road, feeling perfectly safe. The only people likely to be using the road as well as the ogre were the other henchmen of the Dark Lord. Grim had no real idea how many henchmen there were altogether. Neither the Dark Lord nor Lilith were willing to reveal the identities of their followers, and so the only ones he knew about were Brother Kane and Simba. Even so, he had the impression that there were not very many.

  The Dark Lord’s road suddenly ended, in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘Rather odd,’ said Grim.

  ‘Maybe they ran out of materials?’ Dog suggested.

  ‘Maybe the Dark Lord is a bit clueless,’ said Og. ‘Who builds a road to nowhere?’

  ‘Shut up, Og,’ said Dog angrily. ‘How many roads have you built?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘From now on,’ said Grim, ‘I think you two had better put your sacks on.’

  Without the road, Grim found the going much slower. Streams heading north to the sea had to be traversed, and Varena was a land of hills, valleys and woods.

  They were making for the Temple of Britrona. It was something of a spiritual centre for the people of Varena, since it was the home of the Oracle. Varenians of all backgrounds would visit the Temple at least once in their lifetime, with questions about their health, wealth, loved ones, or a myriad of other topics. Even simply to witness the Oracle at work. As they neared their destination, they found tracks leading to the Temple, and then the tracks became a road. It was well maintained, with other travellers making use of it, coming back and forth in equal numbers.

  No doubt their precaution of wearing sacks helped them to walk through Varena without drawing too much unwanted attention. But Grim also got the impression that in the tough, rugged landscape of this region, few folks were actively looking for trouble. Beyond some stares and comments, he found that other travellers were happy to mind their own business.