Unidentified Funny Objects 7, page 5
“I’m expecting you dead!” the hero replied. “For the Rebellion! For Korin’s Fields!”
So. A rebel of some sort. But from Korin’s Fields? A flea-speck tributary on the very edge of my domain. Not that it was an unusual place to birth a hero—flea-speck tributaries are fertile breeding grounds for that sort of thing.
In the meantime, he wasn’t a bad swordsman, and I was in my nightgown. Inconvenient. I settled for flinging spells at him, which slowed him down even if his magickal armor warded off the truly unpleasant effects. Still, it gave me the chance to think, which I did as we battled up twisting staircases and down corridors, past a terrified chambermaid, stepping over the bodies of my slain minions. Winding our way higher and higher up the tower that served as my private sanctum.
This was no ordinary Monday. This was the Day of Reckoning. The day I would be Overthrown.
Fate had sent me a reminder card about it just last month—but she never bothered to specify the exact day.
Typical.
Fate and I go way back. She first visited me when I was a child, saying I was “chosen” and that I was “destined for great things.” When I told her I wasn’t supposed to accept gifts from strangers, she laughed and said I had no choice.
I’ve been working to prove her wrong ever since.
The hero stabbed. I moved to the side, feeling the wind of the blade as it passed by.
“If I may—” I said.
The hero slashed at my throat.
“Now, really—”
The hero kicked my hip, sending me hurtling into the wall of my observatory.
It was all terribly upsetting. This was the man Fate had chosen to replace me? A hack-and-slash brute? Truly, no one assassinates with panache anymore.
“Now you die,” the hero said. He raised his sword, but I was quicker. I lifted my hand and cried out a single word.
A blinding light exploded between us, forcing both of us to rub our eyes. By the time we recovered, I saw to my satisfaction that a curtain of magick separated us. The bloody red shimmer was impenetrable, even for magick swords. A little trick borrowed from my predecessor.
“This won’t hold forever!” the hero snarled.
“Of course not,” I said, “but it gives us a chance to talk.”
“Pleading for mercy already, Highness? It won’t work. Not after all you’ve done.”
“And what, pray tell, have I done?” I asked mildly.
The hero stared at me in disbelief, as if my crimes were so obvious, even other overlords would look aghast at them. “The pillage of Edsel Town, for one.”
“Oh, come,” I said. “Using deliberately inflammatory words is a cheap way to state your case. You call it pillaging; I call it the leveling of condemned buildings.”
Having no counter to my rebuttal, he pressed on with other charges. “You forcibly disbanded the Council of Nobles!”
“I dismissed a body of corrupt and venal bureaucrats more concerned with lining their own pockets than representing their constituents,” I responded, “in favor of a far more efficient and streamlined policymaking process. Many of our most industrious citizens have responded positively to the change.”
“You flooded the realm with your inhuman minions!”
“I ended centuries of military conscription by eliminating the need for human soldiers.”
“You levied unfair taxes!”
“Minions don’t pay for themselves.”
“You murdered the true king!”
I had to laugh. “In this very tower. Of course, we called him the dark lord back then. But let us not debate politics. Tell me about the friends you’ve lost. You had a lover, yes? Or perhaps a cherished mentor? Come, don’t be shy, you’ll find me a sympathetic listener. Tell me why you really came.”
The hero removed his hood. “Look me in the eye as I kill you, Highness,” he said, “and when you do, you will see the faces of all those who fell opposing you. You will see your crimes reflected back at you, and know why you must die.”
I inspected my fingernails. “Fate’s putting words in your mouth. I must die, fine . . . but must you be the one to kill me?”
The hero’s eyes glinted with purpose. “I must.”
“No,” I snapped. “You only think you must. And that’s because you’ve never stopped to consider your options. Because you don’t know the truth.”
This was the key moment. I had prevented anything remotely like anger from entering my voice until now, so that my abrupt shift in tone would leave him curious. Also, by implying I had information to share with him, some hidden truth he’d earned the right to hear, I could finally get him to listen. No hero can resist a secret. It’s in their blood.
“And what is the truth?” he asked, in a would-be casual tone that fooled no one.
“The truth is that killing me would bring about your greatest fear.”
“Which is?”
“Becoming me,” I hissed.
I don’t want to leave home, I once told Fate. I want to stay and work on the farm.
No, you don’t, she said. When the time comes, your hormones will get the best of you.
I refuse to study under Q Fortier, I insisted less than two years later. He’s a crazy old wizard who farts a lot.
You must. You crave a father figure since yours was murdered.
I won’t let my teacher go with me on this quest, I said. He’ll surely die, and I’ve grown fond of him. I will sneak away in the night so he can live out his days in peace.
I’m afraid Fortier hasn’t saved enough for retirement, Fate explained. I did warn him about outliving his money.
I will not slay the dark lord. I will bring him to trial.
You won’t, Fate said. You hunger for revenge. He is the one who murdered your mentor, after all.
I won’t become seduced by power and proclaim myself overlord. Politics disgust me.
Which is exactly what you’ll say when you seize the throne, Fate said. Right before you promise to abdicate once the current crisis is over.
I won’t be overthrown like the last nine overlords. I won’t let overconfidence be my downfall.
He says, confidently, Fate replied. Besides, you have no choice. The Great Cycle in the Sky demands it.
Ever since I took the throne, people have called me tyrant.
The way I see it, I’m the victim.
The hero glared at me through the shield-spell. I took a deep breath. For thirty-nine years, Fate had made me her servant. This, I knew, would be my last chance to even the score. Prevail here, or never see another sunrise.
It was time to put my plan into action.
Step one, I thought. Laugh maniacally.
The hero’s eyes widened. “You’re insane.”
“Very likely,” I said, wiping a pretend tear from my eye. “Nevertheless, I speak from personal experience. You’ve been told it’s your destiny to destroy me, no? Furthermore, you imagine that after killing me, you will lay down your sword and return home to a life of idyllic simplicity. Perhaps you will even take up a long-neglected hobby.”
The surprise in his face was all the confirmation I needed.
“It won’t happen,” I said. “I’m afraid your journey has been far more than cartographic. Are you the same person you were in Korin’s Fields? Would people even recognize you there? Will they ever understand what you’ve gone through, or appreciate the sacrifices you’ve made?”
The hero said nothing, exactly as I had hoped.
Step two: Make him think I have whatever it is he’s been searching for.
“Most importantly,” I said, “do they have the answers you so desperately seek?”
The hero narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “What answers?”
“To your question, of course.”
“What question?”
“The one you can’t stop asking yourself.”
The hero looked down at his sword. “You mean why the Mind Blade came to me?”
“Yes,” I said. “The Mind Blade. Exactly.”
Inwardly, I snorted. Mind Blade? The naming of weapons is a lost art.
“What do you know about it?” the hero asked.
“Why else do you think I brought you here?” I gestured at the telescope perched in front of the window. “Why else do you think I let you sneak up on me whilst still in my nightgown?”
I was taking a risk, here, but I trusted that in his haste to murder me, he hadn’t noticed the carafe I’d thrown at him was empty and smelled of wine.
The hero scrunched his face as if he smelled something foul. “You want me to look at the stars?”
“What I want,” I said, “is for you to see your destiny. Your real destiny. The destiny Fate won’t show you—until it’s too late. Go on, look. I built it just for you.”
The hero lowered his sword slightly, casting a wary glance at the telescope. “This is a trick.”
Step three, I thought. Make him think he’s in control.
“Damn!” I said. “You got me. My plan was to throttle you while you were otherwise distracted. How clever of you to see that. So, now that that’s out of the way, would you like to look?”
The hero bit his lip. “Lower your shield.”
“Done,” I said, promptly, and the red curtain vanished.
“Stand by the scope.”
I did so.
The hero smiled. He took two long strides forward, then placed the edge of his sword against my neck.
“This blade has a mind of its own,” he said. “If you move, if you try to cast a spell, if you attempt any trick in the slightest, it will slit your evil throat without waiting. Already it hungers for your blood.”
I sniffed. “I am familiar with magick swords.”
“Then you know I’m telling the truth.” He stooped, holding the sword with one hand while grasping the scope’s eyepiece with the other. Then, closing one eye, he looked.
And gasped.
“Yes,” I said, knowing what he saw. “Your village. But it’s not quite the same, is it? Caller after caller, petitioner after petitioner. A thousand requests to come out of retirement for one last mission to save the world. After all, you’ll soon be the hero who slew the overlord. Everyone will know you, which means you can never truly rest. No one will ever think, ‘He is tired, hurting, in love, he would really rather be fishing.’ They will only think, ‘Why doesn’t he do something about this?’ Fate won’t just let you go after you kill me. She would prefer to keep you on. You already have training.”
“Still, that doesn’t mean I’ll become—”
“Keep looking. You’re drinking now, yes? All those nights brooding over old wounds and old slights, to say nothing of future quests that aren’t so black-and-white as this one. Have you come to the part where a minor disagreement with an erstwhile comrade turns into a civil war? My, my, all that collateral damage.”
“Shut up,” the hero hissed.
I watched as the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightened. “Ah, yes. Your lover is leaving you now, isn’t she? She hasn’t said anything yet, but you can see the fear in her eyes, the disappointment. You are becoming what you sought to destroy.”
“Lies,” the hero said. “Lies!” But he kept looking.
“Hardly!” I spat. “I was born in a cottage near Thistledown. I herded sheep. I watched from the woods as the dark lord’s soldiers burned my father alive. My anger consumed me. The dark lord must pay for his crimes! So I trained. I acquired my own magick sword. I ventured into lightless places where no man should go. And, at last, through sheer force of will, I stole into the dark lord’s fortress. This very fortress, in fact, though it was smaller then and not so tastefully furnished. I slew him. And now look at me.”
“Even if what you say is true,” said the hero, “what happened to you will never happen to me.”
“Oh, my dear boy,” I said. “It is already happening. You want so badly to make the world a better place. But will it, if you kill me? Will murder cease? Will the dead come back to life? Will people stop being greedy, or cruel? Of course not. This is why we have governments in the first place. To ensure we all don’t eat each other alive.”
The hero’s sword slid down my neck to rest on my shoulder. It left a slight bead of blood in its wake, but no more. I had the distinct impression the sword itself was listening.
“Unfortunately, the only person you can rely on to govern is yourself,” I said. “Because deposing me will leave a void, and into that void will pour all sorts of unscrupulous fellows with ulterior motives. Corruption will reign in the form of a thousand miniature dark lords until a new one inevitably rises to the top. You’ll either be forced to kill them all, which will be exhausting, or resign yourself to growing old on the sidelines, wondering where it all went wrong. And if that future doesn’t sound so promising, replacing me is your only option.”
“That doesn’t mean I’ll become another overlord,” said the hero.
“Of course it does! What is an overlord but someone who crushes all resistance, rules by fear, has no checks on his power, and isn’t above using any means to achieve his ends? We’ve already proven you can overcome your enemies. The many dead minions you’ve left in your wake are proof of that. And there’s no question you’ll rule by fear—you have a magick sword, for heaven’s sake. As for means and ends, well . . . weren’t you just trying to murder me in my sleep?”
“It’s not true,” the hero whispered. He stepped away from the telescope, white-faced and horror-stricken.
“It is,” I said. “At least, it was for me.” I paused for a moment. “If I may make a suggestion? You’ll be tempted to rip up the carpet once you come to power. I implore you to resist the impulse. Stone floors seem imposing, but they can be frightfully cold in winter.”
“Carpet?” the hero repeated. “Winter?”
“Just a little trade secret, from one fallen hero to another. Fortress décor seems trivial, I know, but one must take opportunities for self-determination where one finds them.”
The hero’s mouth hung open. Then, he dropped his sword, balled his fists, and whirled around.
“Is it true?” he screamed. “Am I fated to be the next overlord? I won’t slay him until you answer!”
There was no response.
Again and again the hero screamed. At the ceiling, at the walls, at me.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
“No,” the hero whispered. “It can’t be true.” He sank to the floor, head in his hands.
Blubbering.
Vulnerable.
I could see the curvature of his neck, unprotected by any magickal breastplate. His sword lay next to him. It was as if Fate itself had switched sides, gifting me with the kind of opening most overlords can only dream of.
Step four, I thought. Don’t fall for the bait.
I reached into the pocket of my nightgown and pulled out a handkerchief. Truth was, I understood his pain. “There, there,” I said, dabbing. “No one ever said Fate was a loyal mistress.”
“But what am I to do now?” the hero said. “You don’t know half the things I’ve done to get here. If I return home empty-handed, it will all be for nothing.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “You’ve gained valuable life experiences and made some promising connections. Personally, I would go into the mentoring business. It brings all the benefits of knowing you are doing the right thing without ever getting your hands dirty. And who knows? One of your protégés may well overthrow me some day.”
The hero sniffed and wiped his eyes. “You really think so?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “It’s your destiny.”
After the boy from Korin’s Fields left, I poured myself a drink, waiting for the inevitable sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.
It was the chambermaid I had passed earlier.
“That was the hero you picked to overthrow me?” I asked. “That naïve buffoon?”
Fate shrugged. “Actually, he rather reminded me of you.”
I grunted. “Well, he failed. And so did you.”
Fate’s smile was slight as a crescent moon, and equally mysterious. “Did I?”
“You expected me to finish him once he started weeping, no doubt, only for him to produce another, even more magickal blade at the last second and pierce me through the heart.”
“No.”
I choked on my drink. “No?”
“No,” Fate said. “I always knew you would spare him.”
“Rubbish. This was to be the day of my downfall. That’s what you said, remember?”
“What I said,” Fate replied, “was this day would mark the end of your reign. And so it has. For this is the day you rediscovered pity.”
I stared. “No, no, no. I like being overlord. If you think I’ll give up the comforts of my station for some insipid shot at redemption—”
Fate reached out and cupped my chin. “The Great Cycle in the Sky demands it.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, just as a single tear slid unbidden down my cheek. It was all so damnably unfair. “Do I ever get a say in my own destiny?”
“Of course you do,” Fate said. “And by the way, I love what you’ve done with the carpet.”
When Matthew Bailey was seven years old, Fate told him he would be a writer. Fate was right.
A ghostwriter by trade, Bailey spends his free time huffing, puffing, and plinking on five different instruments, the saxophone first and foremost. He lives in Salt Lake City with his wife and three sons. (His wife chose the carpet.) His short fiction has appeared in Lightspeed, Daily Science Fiction, and other places.
