If I Were an Evil Overlord

STRONGER THAN FATE by John Helfers

Deep within his Ebon Citadel, ensconced firmly if not altogether comfortably, on the Throne of Black Blades, Khazerai the Undying drummed his thin, ring-bedecked fingers on the cold arm of his chair, and wondered where it had all gone wrong.

How could it have come to this, when everything else has happened according to plan? he wondered. Granted, his rise to total dominion over the entire continent of Cauldera had not been without its set-backs, but overall things had worked out exactly as he had expected.

First, he had deposed the weak and ineffective ruler of the small kingdom of Yulen after quickly working his way up the royal chain of command to become the king’s personal adviser. A nip of poison in each of his twin sons’ drinking goblets to emotionally cripple the old man, and a series of successively larger glasses of wine before bedtime had ensured the old fool’s complete ignorance as Khazerai had slowly replaced the guards and staff with men loyal to him. When the coup happened in one swift stroke, the people were actually hailing him as their savior, which he was, he supposed, of a sort.

Next came the annexation of the surrounding lands, during which his agents sowed unrest among the peasants by promising them their own land in return for harsh but not totally crushing taxes to fund the monarchy, leading to an uprising when he invaded each country with his small but well-trained force. Soon Yulen was four times its original size, and its army was anything but small.

Khazerai then had his men trained and equipped with the best weapons and equipment that could be made or bought, and declared brutal war against the rest of the kingdoms. Often this announcement was initially met with derision, as several of the other lands had been unwilling to believe that Yulen, previously known only for producing exceptionally fine chicken eggs, was now on the warpath. Several swift victories ensued, with Khazerai’s trained men overwhelming the ill-prepared, unwieldy enemy armies in a series of swift tactical strikes.

Others thought themselves safe behind the ramparts of the Duchy of Tolera, which was twice the size of Yulen in both holdings and its military. But Khazerai’s spies had also brought that kingdom down from within, whispering to each of the three sons that he should be in charge when their father passed on. When the duke suddenly expired from an overdose of a sleeping draught in his nightly wine, each of the sons, thinking that both of the others had moved to kill their father and claim the throne, declared war on his siblings, dividing up the armies and navies and battling each other. All of which left the kingdom’s borders wide open. With such an invitation, how could Khazerai refuse?

Once again, the ruler of the Yulen Empire was hailed as a savior both behind and in front of the scenes. His men had brokered treaties with each of the three armies in turn, then destroyed each prince when the time was right; one vanquished on the battlefield, one assassination, and the third one by mob reprisal after it was learned about his (completely false, mind you) unnatural attraction to farm animals. Each prince’s death had been blamed on one of the other two, and Khazerai had gladly stepped in to stop the princes’ reign of battle and bloodshed, and replace it with a more moderate reign of fear and secrecy.

With Tolera’s rich farmland, ore-laden mountains, and healthy population under his control, the rest of the continent only needed to be mopped up, either by a show of diplomacy-usually by parking half of his army at a soon-to-be-subjugated land’s border while sending the other half around to flank. While his army was out consolidating his rule, Khazerai did not fear reprisal at home either. As soon as he had taken power in Yulen all those years ago, every able-bodied man and woman had been required to serve a two-year term in the military and spend one weekend a month and three weeks a year fulfilling their duties, making them more than able to fend off an invading army until he could return. But who would even dare try such a thing? No one, that’s who, he thought.

The churches? Hardly. As soon as Khazerai took over a kingdom he banned all religion, stating a policy of “Humans first, everyone else after.” Once he exposed the prelates, bishops, and priests of the local churches as “the hypocritical, greedy swine that they are, the fat, bloated ticks on the backside of the populace, sucking the hard-working men and women-you people-dry, and what do they give you in return? Nothing in this world, that’s for certain.” The commoners had eaten it up. And since the all deities in the pantheon of Cauldera were dependent on the unwavering faith of the masses to grant them their powers-well, in his infamous speech to ten thousand Tolerans, Khazerai had said, “Those who giveth can also taketh away.” The gods’ influence had disappeared almost overnight.

Regardless, with Khazerai standing in front of his seemingly endless Yulen legions and requesting to “parley,” swift acquiescence soon followed. And so, a mere quarter century after he had taken over the small country of Yulen, Khazerai now ruled the entire continent.

And it had all been so easy, he thought. Too easy? No, there had been a fair share of difficulty along the way. The attempted coup in the early days of his reign by a trusted lieutenant leading a small contingent of soldiers still loyal to the old Yulen king. They had been dispatched immediately and announced as traitors to the new regime, which they were. He could count half a dozen assassination attempts by other rulers, which had always ensured that their land moved up to the number one position on his “next to be conquered” list. There had been spies in his own camp to root out, laugh-ably underplanned and underequipped treason plots to uncover, tributes to collect, the usual business of running an all-powerful empire.

And yet it could all come tumbling down around my head if I do not stop what is happening, he thought. Now Khazerai heard the clamor of swords on steel outside the citadel as his troops engaged the invading enemy. The two immediate options were fight or flight, and yet he sat on his throne for a few more seconds, pondering the inexorable chain of events that had led to this.

It had all started about a year ago, when his lieutenant had come to him with a report on what the dictator had thought was a minor matter. “My Eminence, there has been a disturbance on the outskirts of the Western Marches. A family was in arrears for taxes, and the local magistrate had them executed and their pig farm confiscated as an example to the others of your far-reaching will. However, the youngest son of the assistant pig tender survived, and has vowed revenge on both you and the empire.”

“The orphaned son of an assistant pig tender is coming after me?” Khazerai was hard-pressed to contain his mirth. “Post a ten khaz reward for his head, and send the local patrols out with orders to kill him on sight.”

“It will be done, My Exaltedness.”

And Khazerai had thought that would be the end of the matter. However, a few weeks later, as he had been deciding whether to expand his empire to the east, where the Torlingan horsemen roamed the grassy plains, or to the west over the mountains, long rumored to be a land of untold wealth and strange, foreign races, his lieutenant strode up and bowed low before the Throne of Black Blades.

“Most Powerful One, I have news from the Western Marches.”

“Whatever about? Is the mud harvest especially good this year?” Khazerai asked, having long forgotten about the son of the assistant pig tender.

“Remember that orphaned boy who swore revenge against you?”

Khazerai looked up from his maps. “Orphan, orphan-something about swine, wasn’t it? What about him?”

“He has eluded or ambushed several patrols, claiming that they are a tool of the Evil Empire-”

Which they are, but calling my realm evil is a bit much, Khazerai thought.

“-and people in the area are already talking about him as a leader of the small group of rebels in the mountains there.”

Well, that won’t do at all, Khazerai thought. “Increase the bounty to fifty khaz and send a troop of my Night Guards down there to eliminate this local pestilence. Also, if he really wants to come after me, I expect he’ll need some weapons training. Instruct your men to find all of the weapons masters and either hire them or remove them.”

Khazerai was about to turn back to his maps when a thought struck him. “You know, not that I don’t trust our men’s abilities, but I do believe in being thorough. Hire a squad of Ladian assassins and send them there as well. Do not let either group know of the other’s mission. We’ll see who gets him first.”

“Immediately, Exalted One.”

With that Khazerai turned his mind back to more pressing matters. Two of his overbarons had been squabbling for weeks over a border dispute, and he decided to tour both holdings, to see for himself what the best way to handle the matter would be. During his month-long tour, he discovered malfeasance on both sides and promptly arrested both men and had them put to death, installing easily controlled puppet rulers in each one’s place.

But that had taken up an inordinate amount of his time, and he had scarcely returned to the gates of the Ebon Citadel when his lieutenant ran up, sweaty and disheveled.

“Forgive me, My Master, but this pig tender’s son-”

“Who?”

“The one who swore revenge on you a few months back when the local guards killed his family for nonpayment of taxes.”

“Ah, yes, been killed, has he?”

“No, I’m afraid not. In fact, there are several fiefdoms that are fomenting open revolt against the empire. They are led by this youth, who claims to have brought back the power of the gods to Cauldera.”

“What? What about the Night Guards that were sent over to kill him?”

“Lured into a trap in the mountains and crushed under an avalanche.”

“And the Ladians?”

“Um, well, that’s partially how he’s claiming to have brought the gods back, My Majesty. Apparently, while they were able to poison him, friends of his managed to find the leaves of the rare deusex plant, make the even rarer antidote, and save his life. He claims that during the time he was suffering from the poison’s effects, he spoke to the gods, and was charged with bringing their might back to your lands, and also eradicating the quote blight of evil unquote that hangs over Cauldera.”

“How melodramatic. Well, if it’s a fight he wants, then let’s give it to him. Assemble the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Dark Brigades and send them to the Western Marches. Scour the land and destroy this boy and anyone that stands with him. Do not take any prisoners, do not bring him back alive. Just kill him. Handle this yourself.” For a moment, Khazerai was seized by the mad impulse to add, “and you know the penalty for failure,” but with an effort, he restrained himself. However, in the back of his mind, he wondered where did that come from? Of course his soldiers knew the penalty for failure; demotion and, if they really screwed up, corporal punishment. He wouldn’t just kill them on a whim because they couldn’t complete one assignment. Good lieutenants were always hard to find, and killing the ones he had out of pique wouldn’t help morale at all. Perhaps this pig tender’s boy is bothering me more than I’d like to admit. However, I’m sure that this will be the end of the matter.

Unfortunately, that was not the case. Although Khazerai’s lieutenant did return with the charred remains of what he swore was the body of the rebel leader, along with a fairly stirring account of how the Dark Brigades had flushed the rebels out, encircled them, and burned almost all of them alive, reports over the next few months kept popping up about sightings of the leader of the rebels, the populace’s new messiah. Khazerai speculated that either the peasants were trying to keep his memory alive as a martyr, or the tenacious little bastard had somehow escaped the trap, and was running around sowing discontent throughout his empire. Neither option was acceptable to him, and so the chase was on.

“Dispatch a Shade Legion to every location where this assistant pig tender’s son has been sighted and track him down. I want his head-nothing else-delivered to me within the next month.”

But even that hadn’t worked. Oh, his legions had done their job well, wreaking fear and terror throughout the populace wherever they marched, but the assistant pig tender’s son, through some arcane legerdemain, managed to escape several dire predicaments, such as:

– When his legions had trapped the youth in a network of caves and then flooded the entire complex, drowning several dozen miners and their families.

– Another time when his Twilight Riders had harried him to the cliffs overlooking the Teglan Sea and one of them had even wounded him with a lucky shot from a crossbow (earning him an increase in rank; Khazerai always believed in promoting from within) and sent him plunging two hundred feet into the churning waters.

– And the time when one of his most trusted vassals had actually captured the youth alive and thrown him in jail. Apparently this lord had not gotten the “kill on sight” memo, for by the time a messenger had been sent informing Khazerai of the capture (he hadn’t even finished reading the message before sending a three-word message back-Kill him immediately), the boy had escaped, getting the vassal killed in the confusion.

And on it went, with the assistant pig keeper’s son escaping mortal situation after situation, sometimes sacrificing a trusted companion, but always popping up after Khazerai was sure he had been killed. And always along the way, he gathered followers to his cause like bees to honey.

Like vultures to a dead carcass, if I have my way, Khazerai thought. He couldn’t believe the boy’s luck, and a small part of him wondered if indeed this one was protected by the gods. Shaking his head, he dismissed the thought-the gods were no more, Khazerai himself had seen to that.

So then, what to do with this boy? Whatever he was going to do, it had better be quick, as Khazerai now heard the clang of sword on shield and the shouts of the victorious, and the screams of the dying right outside his main chamber. And I’m sure he’s there, leading the way, just like in the legends…

The thought gave Khazerai pause, just as he was also resisting an insane urge to go out there and to see if he could lend a hand. Direct confrontation had never been his style, he always preferred using the more subtle arts to achieve his goals and, failing that, following up with the army. But it would appear that my army is in the process of being routed, which doesn’t leave many options. Flight wasn’t an option, for even if he could make it out of the Ebon Citadel, his face was known throughout the empire, for in a moment of supreme egotism several years ago he had ordered his own face placed on all the coins-well, that, and to stop the rampant counterfeiting that had been happening. Regardless, he wouldn’t be able to go as far as the next county without being caught. Surrender? Not likely, as they no doubt would tear him limb from limb before he could even reach trial, assuming that they would even bother with such a formality, and not just try to burn him alive.

Khazerai tried to concentrate, as something about the legends of the people was niggling at his mind, something about the stories of the heroes who, no matter what the odds were against them, always managed to defeat evil at the end. Impossible odds, odds like-

– Exactly like what has been stacked against this boy from the very beginning, he thought. And he has come through all of it not without difficulty, but he has vanquished everything in his path to destroy me.

The thought rocked Khazerai. Could it be true, could they somehow be caught up in a cycle that was larger than the both of them, the endless struggle of good versus evil? Could there be a force beyond men, beyond the gods, beyond even his incredible comprehension, that somehow ensured that evil was defeated in every confrontation, no matter how long it took?

If this is true, that would certainly explain my odd impulses lately, he thought. But if that was the case here, how would he manage to salvage victory from what looked like certain defeat?

Before he could even begin to contemplate the answer to that question, the huge double doors burst open, and his trusted lieutenant backed into the room, valiantly fending off what could only be the assistant pig keeper’s son, now clad in gleaming chain mail and swinging a shining sword like a man possessed. The fighting pair was followed by several other men from both sides, all cursing and hacking at each other with crimson-streaked blades. Khazerai stood up as the approaching battle spilled toward him.

Although Khazerai’s lieutenant was a most capable warrior, he had also suffered several other wounds during the fighting, and was now hard pressed to defend against the crusader’s relentless assault. As Khazerai watched, the young man slashed his henchman across the wrist, disarming him, then beat down his shield with hammering blows, driving him to the ground. The lieutenant’s shield arm buckled, and his battered armor fell to the side, exposing his chest and head. The young warrior raised his sword to finish him off, and when his sword was just about to come down, Khazerai spoke.

“Don’t kill him, if you please. After all, it’s me you really want.”

At the sound of his voice, the young man started and looked up. When that happened, Khazerai’s lieutenant managed to draw a small blade from the back of his shield and glanced up at his liege’s face, waiting for the command to strike.

Khazerai shook his head just enough to negate his man’s intended action. He felt it more strongly now; the sense that theirs was a battle that had raged for centuries, millennia even, since before the dawn of time itself. He knew how this would play out, indeed, how it must play out for the cycle to continue. And strangely, he was content with this. After all, I had a good run, he thought. Perhaps it is time to pass the torch on.

What? Absolutely not! another part of his mind said. This is not how it will all end, accepting this fate like a mewling lamb to the slaughter.

But how am I to defeat him then? Khazerai thought. Everything is on his side, the army, the gods, momentum-

And in a trice Khazerai had the answer. He nodded to the young man, who was breathing hard with his exertions as he stood there in his armor the likes of which this world had not seen for hundreds of years. Seeing the glint of wildness in his enemy’s eye, he chose his next words carefully. “You have defeated my army, and destroyed all that have come against you. Now you have me at your mercy.” He spread his arms, palms up, out in a show of submission. “Congratulations, you have won.”

“Not yet I haven’t,” the young man snarled, raising his sword again. “Not until your foul stain is erased from this world!”

Before anyone could move, the young man bounded up the steps to the dais of the Throne of Black Blades and stabbed Khazerai in the chest, right through the heart. “With the Sword of Laighmon, granted to me by the gods themselves, I strike you down. And before you die, know that Ardon, son of Laot the pig tender, was the one that destroyed you.”

Even through his pain, Khazerai couldn’t help smiling at the boy’s theatrics. “So… be… it.”

The youth pulled his sword out, and with dazzling speed, whirled and beheaded Khazerai in one smooth, powerful stroke. The despot’s head bounced down the steps to land facing the young warrior, his eyes open in sightless accusation. The headless body fell back into the chair, the jet of blood from the neck already subsiding.

The young warrior turned to the assembled soldiers before him. “People of the Yulen Empire, your suffering is at an end. Your cruel overlord is no more, and today heralds a new dawn of peace and tranquility-”

He might have gone on like that for hours if Khazerai’s body hadn’t risen from the chair behind him, grabbed the young man’s sword out of his hand, and lopped off his golden-haired head in one stroke. As the young man’s cranium bounced to the ground, Khazerai’s body kicked the shaking torso off the dais and strode to where his head lay. Everyone watched, aghast, as the body dropped the sword of the gods, picked up its head and set it on top of his neck again. As the men in the room stared, the flesh of Khazerai’s neck knitted together, drawing the wound closed until there was just a thin red line marking the injury, and in a few seconds, that was gone as well. The hideous gash on his chest had already closed up as well, leaving no trace that he had ever been cut at all. The men all knelt down on the floor, first his own, then the soldiers of the former enemy army, each one prostrating themselves before him.

He walked over to his lieutenant and motioned him up with one hand, then addressed the rest of the men in the room. “Go forth and let the rest of your people know that your leader is dead, and if they lay down their arms right now, I will be merciful. However, this is not negotiable, and they have, oh, about five minutes to decide. Now get out of here.”

The vanquished men wasted no time in scrambling out of the throne room, Khazerai’s intense gaze following them the entire way. Swiveling his head back and forth, he tested the muscles in his neck, feeling them stretch and pop as he moved. He rubbed his jaw, which throbbed when he touched it. That’s going to bruise nicely, he thought. Picking up the once shining sword, he wasn’t surprised to see that it was just an ordinary weapon, with no magic about it at all. Dropping it, he glanced over at the quivering body of the young warrior, blood now staining his once-gleaming armor a blackish-red, and shook his head.

“What part of ‘Khazerai the Undying’ didn’t you understand?”