by M. K. Gibson
Well . . . go Randy. Granted, he missed the other three in the room, but points for noticing three of them. “So, what made you notice them?”
“Their boots, dude. Totally too fancy boots for this place.”
“That is right. Why did you notice that?”
“Same way I can tell based on clothes which chicks in the bar want to get freaky instead of the ones who just want to be noticed. Or which dudes will start a bar fight. Fancy shoes on a dude might mean dude’s a prima donna. But fancy shoes on a dude who doesn’t smile means he’s gonna throw down if you scuff his kicks. It pays to pay attention to feet.”
Huh. A lesson learned from the dude-bro culture. Hell hath frozen over.
“Those men and women are secret police who work for Baron Grimskull. He uses them in the same purpose we are here for, getting information.”
“Won’t they like, not talk to us if the cops are around?”
“Of course not, so we need to get rid of the cops.”
“How do we do that?”
“Easy,” I smiled. “Courtney.”
On cue, Courtney accidentally bumped into the first concealed secret police member that Randy had noted at the end of the bar. Courtney put on a drunken stumble and slur before he made his move. After the accident, he began apologizing profusely for spilling his drink on the covert cop’s tunic.
“Buffoon!” the disguised agent said as he pushed Courtney away and reached for his sword. Courtney, appearing drunk, stumbled again into the guard, and in the confusion, struck him with a palm strike to the throat and knee to the groin. The guard gasped and hit the ground, but not until Courtney had a firm hand on the agent’s cloak, tearing it off as the man fell.
The light of the lamps and the fire pit revealed, quite clearly (and by design), the heraldic sigil of a white laughing skull and a golden battleaxe on a field of purple. The banner symbol of Baron Grimskull.
“He works for Grimskull!” I stood and shouted, pointing at the man on the ground. “I bet he’s not alone!”
The crowd immediately went insane, searching for the other spies. My men moved among the crowd and helped expose the remaining members of the secret police.
I returned to my seat and watched the ensuing battle unfold. Amazing what a few words could do. The members of the secret police pulled their weapons and tried to defend themselves, but they were really no match for a room of angry, disenfranchised country folk.
“Dude, aren’t you going to get in there and fight?” Randy asked.
“Randy, sit down,” I said as I helped myself to a drink from one of the nearby empty tables, the patrons having left it behind to jump into the scuffle. I passed another cup of beer to Randy.
“You see all that?” I gestured with my cup. “That is the power of words. The power of being in control. The power of being a villain. You take any situation and turn it to your advantage.”
“Isn’t the skull-dude like, your client?”
“Yes Randy, he is. And the entire reason for this trip is to create a new empire for him. Look at this. Look how the people hate his men. How they are willing to throw themselves at men with swords just because they wear his colors. That, dear nephew, is the mark of a weak villain. A shortsighted one. One who cannot see the bigger picture and would rather be feared than loved. And it is exactly why we are here. I am going to fix that. When I am done, the people of these lands will offer free drinks to any who wear Grimskull’s colors.”
“That’s . . . cool.”
“Yeah, it is,” I said, agreeing with my nephew. “Now, go on, get in there. Kick a little ass and enjoy yourself.”
“Fuck yeah!” Randy yelled. He hopped up and jumped into the chaos, putting his boots to the heads of the downed agents.
I didn’t know what it was. Perhaps getting out from behind that desk and back into the field, into the job I once loved, allowed me to stop seeing and treating Randy as a worthless bag of crap. I mean, he still was, but he was at least listening a little more. I found myself taking him under my wing. And as revolting as that thought normally was, here in this rustic shithole, I couldn’t help but smile.
So, let the idiot have a little fun. In a very short amount of time, the people were going to stomp the agents into submission. I wasn’t sure if they would kill them. But they were definitely going to be in a world of hurt. And that was what I needed to see. What I needed to know. To what level the people would go to hurt Grimskull, even if it was only through his people.
By the look of things here, I had my work cut out for me.
Soon, the fight was over and what used to undercover agents were bloody heaps on the floor. The patrons picked up the bodies and moved them into the back kitchen. From the efficient way this happened, this was not the first time agents had gone missing in the town. And from Grimskull’s attitude, I doubted he would accept failure on his agents’ part.
Oh Baron, I am going to have to charge you double.
The inn returned to a surprisingly jovial state. The drinks flowed and the people talked. I did what I always did. I listened and stored the information to be used later. And I learned quite a bit that night.
One particular drunk in the bar was quite morose. After many, many rounds of drinks, he became chatty. And he told me a very interesting story, to which I paid keen attention.
When the drunk was done his tale, he got up and staggered out into the streets. I watched the young man leave and pondered the information he’d spouted.
Courtney came to sit next to me and also watched the man leave. “That him?” I asked.
“Yup.”
“Curious,” I said, considering the angles and the possibilities.
“Well, not much more we are going to learn tonight. Let us retire for the evening,” I said, and Courtney rounded up the men.
Tomorrow would bring us to Grimskull’s keep and a whole lot of work.
Chapter Seven
Where I Ponder My Time with He-Man and Encounter a Secret Servant
Let me just say this: Supervillains, regardless of their particular genre, have a need to create the most garish, gauche, and goddamn gaudy lairs possible. Hollowed-out volcanoes, for example. Underwater domes. Massive letter-shaped buildings in their initials. All of these serve as testaments to insecurity and expose deep underlying psychological weaknesses, or perhaps crotch-based shortcomings.
Baron Viktor Grimskull was clearly a devout subscriber to the belief that to rule over others, one’s power must be expressed through outlandish architecture. Let me paint you a picture.
The Eastern Empire’s capital city of Al’ Garrad was nestled in the Grey Spire mountains along Caledon’s eastern coast along the Nameless Sea. In the center of the city was the Bay of Barrak, which was fed by several rivers flowing from the mountain range. The bay itself then fed into the sea, which made the entire area perfect for imports and exports. The city was fairly impressive as fantasy realms went. Stone construction for the majority of the buildings within the city’s interior, cheap wood and mud huts for the poor section along the docks.
Nearly everywhere in the city, there were statues of Grimskull, all of them in various poses, depicting battles he claims to have won. Some in white marble, others in black. Some in gray stone and others still in precious metals. And if that wasn’t narcissistic enough, Grimskull’s castle was high atop the easternmost peak. The castle’s facade was carved to resemble his mask. The giant demonic skull face hung open as the main entrance to the castle, forcing those who entered the keep to be metaphorically consumed by the baron and reminded of his never-ending appetite for more.
Personally, I thought the entire thing moronic and self-serving. But I had to admit, seeing it in person did bring back pleasant memories of the He-Man Castle Greyskull action figure play set I had as a child. Oh, the battles I would create! The forces of darkness would mobilize and bring down the Eternians using their combined skill and raw ferocity.
Yes, even as a child, I knew the villains c
ould and should win if they had proper leadership. The heroes’ victories were not about their combined might and their righteous cause. They happened because Skeletor was a weak leader. His ego got in the way of using his people to the best of their abilities. So, episode after episode of that damned cartoon I watched as a child, and each time, I would spot the fatal flaw that would have turned the battle.
So when I called the shots, there was no moment of arrogance that ended the fight, forcing a retreat. No, I left ego out of it and meticulously brought down the champions to earn the victory and take the castle.
Now, as a man, I still think of those silly hunks of cheap plastic and the lessons they instilled. I control others as if they were my personal action figures. And it feels good.
My mother sold my Castle Greyskull in a yard sale and piece of my heart went with it. So when the time came, I made sure she was . . . taken care of.
No, you vicious asshole. I didn’t kill her. Did I not explain earlier that I abhor psychopaths?
I made sure both she and Father had the best medical assistance money could buy. She was comfortable right until the very end following the accident. I loved my mother. And her selling my toys was a kindness bestowed upon me. She saw my mind. Even then as a child, she knew. She helped me put away my childish things so that I could evolve into what I am now.
********
By late afternoon, we’d arrived at the castle. My party was greeted at the city’s main gate by one of the baron’s chamberlains and an entourage of fifty armed soldiers. Hmm . . . only fifty? Should I be offended?
After pleasantries were exchanged and proof of our identity given, the chamberlain and the armed cohort escorted us inside the castle. The chamberlain prattled on about something or other. I really wasn’t listening.
Not that I’m an aristocratic asshole or anything. Well, perhaps at times. No, I did not deem it necessary to listen to him because everything he was speaking was not meant for me; it was meant for the fifty soldiers. He had to give the appearance of his faithful employment.
Why do I know this? Because the chamberlain was actually a guy named Steve, and he worked for me. Surprised? Don’t be. As I’ve said, I have operatives everywhere. And in this case, Steve was one of the first people I placed in this empire with two purposes: the infiltration of Grimskull’s regime and the arranging of our initial meeting.
Spreading the legend of the Shadow Master across the realms was imperative for my business. And that required operatives in the field. During the time when I was doing this operation solo, I learned the ins and outs of manipulating my way through just about everything. I also learned it is a lot of hard work.
That guy on the HBO’s Game of Thrones—the one who plays Littlefinger and looks like a cross between Gary Oldman and a rabbit—he makes it look easy. Trust me, it isn’t. So as my power and legend grew, I began employing others. Like Steve.
Back in the real world, Steve was a former Marine who got out of the service to finish college. After graduating, the only job he could find was as a barista at a coffee shop.
Keep working on that liberal arts degree in anthro-poli-gender studies with a minor in theater, kids! Meanwhile, I’ll have that venti caramel macchiato to go. Oh, and a lid protector, please. I’d hate to spill a drop inside my luxury car on my way to my job, for which I’m grossly overpaid, and after which I will return to my amazing home and have incredible sex with my supermodel maid.
Sure, one might say money doesn’t buy happiness. But let’s be honest. That’s what poor people say. Being rich is awesome. I have everything I want. Every opportunity is afforded to me, and my job satisfaction is through the roof. Money might not buy happiness, but it damn sure lets me get there.
So I continued to ignore Steve, or rather the chamberlain, to continue the illusion. After we arrived inside, my men and I were shown to our accommodations in a private section of the castle.
“When the feast is ready, an escort will come and bring you and your men to the great hall,” the chamberlain said.
“Thank you, Chamberlain,” I said, escorting him back into the main hallway, outside the guest suite.
Both the chamberlain and I looked up and down the hallway, ensuring that we were alone. Once I was satisfied, I tapped the ring on my right hand’s ring finger and spoke the word of activation. A magical spell settled between him and me, masking all outgoing sound. To anyone eavesdropping, we were simply communicating about the state of the ride there.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Blackwell,” Steve said.
“Likewise, Steve,” I returned. “Report.”
“As you suspected, the baron sent agents of his secret police to all the inns along all the main roads leading to the capital.”
“It is what I would have done.”
“Six of the men have failed to return. They were dispatched to the Corolan Inn in Ashraven. I assume that was where you encountered them?”
Never admit anything is a rule I live by. One of many. Instead, I just smiled.
“I see,” Steve commented, thinking. “Baron Grimskull suspects you, naturally.”
“Naturally,” I agreed. “But he cannot pin it on me. Not without any witnesses. And let me guess—his attempts to scry the information came back with nothing.”
“Yes, sir, they did. How did you know?”
“Steven, I have been doing this a long time,” I said with a slight chuckle. “When I am away from my dimension, I am no longer a god. But as long as I bring something with me that is imbued with the power of my realm, I am essentially a wizard in any realm I am in. All my items were fully charged by me prior to leaving. His meager attempts to learn anything about me will always come back clouded and hazy.”
“Very good, sir,” Steven said with a slight bow. “That is why you are the Shadow Master.”
“Indeed. Now, has Grimskull given any legitimate thought to my plan to enhance his empire?”
“Yes sir, he has. Following the feast, the baron intends to invite you and your nephew back to his private chambers to discuss what he has already set into motion. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised with the amount of work he has put into this already.”
“I look forward to it,” I said, preparing to drop the spell.
“Perhaps he is not the idiot we pegged him for, sir?” Steven asked.
“Dear Steven, please, leave the thinking and planning to me. Grimskull, and all his ilk, are morons. They do not realize that they are bound to archetypal behavior. Like animals, they cannot think beyond themselves. That is why shepherds like us—well, me—guide their actions to a more beneficial outcome. Were it not for me, Grimskull would have been deposed by now. A casualty of his hubris and naïveté.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good lad, Steven. Please, run along and let the baron know I am ready for the feast. We have much to discuss and an empire to seize.”
“Yes sir,” Steven said once more, then turned and departed.
I returned to the room, ready for a night of feasting and song, women and alcohol. Tomorrow—well, tomorrow would bring a new dawn for the Eastern Empire and a new toy for the Shadow Master to play with.
Chapter Eight
Where I Eat the Contents of the Monster Manual and Get Betrayed
Feasting is a waste of food. It is decadent and sinful.
I loved it.
Say what you will about Baron Grimskull. Moronic? Yes. Blind to the obvious? Oh, for sure. Unable to satisfy a woman? Well, according to his ex-wife Countess Skullgrim and testimony from several of his mistresses, then the good Baron’s seven seconds of “lovemaking” set a new land-speed record while giving new meaning to the term “Two-Pump Chump.”
All that aside, he laid out one hell of a spread when it came to a feast. Fruits and vegetables from all across the realm. Flavor combinations that played a melody in my mouth. There were little pastries with savory meat and exotic cheeses baked inside. For my carnivorous side, the baron’s cooks presented nin
eteen different kinds of meats. Sure, you had your chicken, beef, pork, waterfowl, and mutton. But that was where the boring ended and culinary adventure began.
There was cockatrice and basilisk fillets. Roasted wyvern and brisket of minotaur. Sauteed chimera and barbeque dragon. spider legs, slow-cooked gorgon, haunch of hippogriff (mind the feathers), and bugbear stew. Hell, the cooks had managed to create their own version of a turducken by stuffing a phoenix inside an owlbear inside a roc!
And if that were not enough, the feast was topped off with baby unicorn chops.
Oh my gods above and below. The taste. Just perfect.
They say free-range unicorn is gamy, and you carry a blight upon your immortal soul for eating it. But the little ones, who are captured and forced to sit and eat so their meat is tender? Mmmwaaa! Perfect. You can truly taste the sadness. If you’re lucky, you can fight with your friends at the table and break the horn like a wishbone. And unlike those good-for-nothing turkeys, when you break the unicorn horn and get the bigger piece, the wishes tend to come true.
It was a fantasy Fogo de Chao. As the meal progressed, I felt like I had eaten my way across the Monster Manual, and eventually, I had to decline another bite. I sat back in my chair in the great hall and just took it all in.
Baron Grimskull was sitting at the head of the twenty-foot-long stone table. He wore his typical armor and skull helmet. It was funny to watch him try to eat and drink. He refused to take it off, trying to maintain his powerful visage. But the real comedy was watching half the food and drink slop down his chin and onto his eating bib. I did notice that the good baron was now wearing the Amulet of the Ember Soul.
Good. Perhaps he was willing to start listening to me.
To the baron’s right was his war general, a woman I had not met yet but had heard of. General Anders the Half-Giant. She was almost nine feet tall and beautiful (if half-giant women were your thing). She had flowing brown hair with flame-red tips to match her fiery red lips. Oh, she wasn’t wearing lipstick, by the way. She was part fire giant. That was her natural heat radiating outward. To contain the inner heat from her mixed heritage, special armor made from magically-crafted petrified ice was created. She was a study in contrasts, ice and fire.
