Author's Note: Inspiration for this fic came from The Evil Overlord List. Credit for some of it belongs to him. His linkage is right here: http://minievil.eviloverlord.com/lists/overlord.html And, as always, credit to Pterry for making the Disc. Also ------- means break for footnotes.
Dark Lords
Chapter 1
There have been many Dark Lords throughout the ages. Oddly enough, they all seem to eventually be destroyed, usually by some pathetic peasant who they could have killed when he was just a youth. They all seem to make the same mistakes too. You'd think they'd learn from one another.
But this Dark Lord, he's different. He doesn't plan to make the same mistakes.
The Dark Lord Eoltwamsmao walked through his brightly light, yet tastelessly decorated* stronghold, on the island of Heyyou'reonmyfoot. He flopped down in his easy chair and lit up his pipe. Life is good, he thought. He had just crushed a rebellion. Granted, it was simply a small group of people lead by a chicken farmer, but you can't take any chances.* You didn't get to be a Dark Lord by taking stupid risks, you never knew what the peasants would do. Yes sir, it was time to just kick up his feet, relax, and maybe destroy a small village. His thoughts of self congratulation were broken by the voice of his Trusted Lieutenant.*
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*Much like the modern bachelor pad, only worse.
*First rule of Dark Lording. Taking chances like this had brought about the end of Simon the Overly-Confident. He underestimated the power of the common chicken farmer.
*There are 3 levels of Lieutenant: Un-trusted, Trusted and Completely Trusted. The last is awarded posthumously.
*Most villains do this as a simple way of relaxing. It's responsible for the lack of very small villages.
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"Sir we've learned the approximate location of the artifact," said the Trusted Lieutenant.
"Excellent," said the Dark Lord. "I really wish it didn't have to be an artifact. That's horribly cliché. I mean, there are thousands of artifacts of ultimate power*, why aren't there any other ways of gaining power? I mean, sometime you should be able to, I don't know, play a round of golf, or shoot a crossbow really really far. Something different. I mean, after a few thousand artifacts, it gets boring," complained the Dark Lord bitterly.
The Trusted Lieutenant didn't know quite what to say, so he settled for, "I don't know sir."
"Well, if we must, let's start looking for it."
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*Quite true. Most people just never take the time to look for them, or learn how to work them. You might have an artifact of ultimate power on your desk right now.*
*Reminding us of the time a Pencil of Ultimate Power accidentally went off at a small newspaper, killing 3 and injuring 7.
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They say Heroes are made, not born. Well, they're wrong most of the time, but occasionally this is true. Sometimes you meet someone who could not be less of a hero, but still, he gets the Hero Job. Later on, we'll get into a description of our would-be hero. He is, at this moment asleep in the village of Bad Ass.* He will be awoken any minute now by a rather large woman, who happens to be his mother. As the young man still has a few minutes of sleeping time left, we'll take a moment to describe the woman. Large is probably the best word. Some people can be said to have "large eyes" or "large ears" but this woman is large in every sense of the word. She seems to project outward, giving the feeling that she is even larger than she really is. She is not exceptionally beautiful, nor exceptionally ugly. She is one of those people who would blend into a crowd quite easily, one of those people who make up a crowd.* She gently walks over to her son's bedroom, and prepares to open the door.
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*Residents of the Ramptops quite often have to explain this to outsiders. There was a donkey, who wadded out into the middle of the stream and refused to go backward or forward.
*You've seen people like this. You just can't remember it because they look so normal. Just think of anytime you've been in a huge crowd. Can you remember the face of anyone there? There have been many attempts to explain where these people come from, the common idea is that they hide in trees and such and pop out at the scene of any disaster.
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"I want you John," said the scantily clad women. "You are the most handsome man ever to exist."
"Yep," said John.
"And another thing John…"
"Yes?"
"You are so handsome, and wise and IT'S TIME TO GET UP!"
The voice of his mother broke into John Vernon's dreams. He rolled out of bed, considerably surprised, managing to bash his head on the bedpost. John was a young lad who had just turned 16 and was noticing a considerable hormone increase, in the form of often erotic dreams. These dreams are often used to add to his ego, as he is neither wise nor handsome.
"I'm up, I'm up," he said, grumbling and rubbing sleep dust out of his eyes.*
"Get yer lazy bottom down stairs, it's time fer breakfast," barked* Mother Vernon.
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*Sleep dust, that rather odd little stuff that seems to simply grow in your eyes overnight. The accepted theory for this on the Disc is that a tiny, primitive civillization has formed in one's eyes. Taking your hand and wiping out the gunk creates an apocolypse on that civillization. A sad reminder of survival of the fittest.
*Mother Vernon never spoke in a normal voice. She always spoke in an eerily quiet whisper or a loud, forceful bark
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"Mother! I'm not dressed!" responded John.
"So?"
"Well, can I at least put pants on before I go down stairs? It's very cold."
"Fine! But be down in five minutes!"
With that John was left alone to try to clothe himself within the allotted time limit. After a stirring fight with his shirt, and a valiant battle with his trousers he emerged from his room, fully clothed and ready to face the day.
After managing to get dressed, a Herculean task in itself for him, he left his room with his head held high, his chest out, turned the corner to begin his descent down stairs…and realized he had miscalculated the beginning of the stairs again, and fell end over end, hitting the ground with a large "thump".
"There's John," barked his mother from the kitchen. "Come fer breakfast John!"
"I'll be right there mum," he said, trying his best to talk around the foot that had become wedged in his mouth.
After untangling himself from, well, himself, he walked through the living room and entered the family's rather small kitchen. He pulled up a chair an unenthusiastically prodded his now cold sausage and eggs.
"About time John," said his sister.
"Shut up Jean," replied John.
"Both of you quite yer bickering," barked Mother Vernon. "If yer father was alive…"
"Sorry Mother," mumbled the children.
The rest of the morning passed uneventfully save for John accidentally swallowing a bit of sausage whole. When he came around, thanks to his sister's heighmleich maneuver, he noticed his mother sniffling over a piece of paper.
"Mum, what's wrong?"
"It's yer uncle. He died," said his mum, weeping over the piece of paper.
"When did that letter get here?"
"'Bout fifteen minutes ago. You were still knocked out."
"I'm okay by the way. Maybe a cracked skull, a few bruised ribs, nothing serious."
"Have some respect for yer uncle. You just hurt yer skull, he's dead. Did you hear? Deeeeaaaaad."
"I got the idea."
"You and yer sister gotta go to his funeral."
"Why?" John asked quizically. "A second ago you were bawling because of his death."
"I don't want to," replied his mother. "It's to long a trip, you gotta go to Ankh-Morpork."
John could think of a few things to say at this point, but none of them were appropriate to say to his mother.
"Fine then," he said. "I'll go and pack. Get Jean ready to."