Martin Greenberg: If I Were an Evil Overlord

“Oh, me poor master!” Gudge wailed. “An’ him so young! A mere slip o’ a lad what ain’t seen more’n two thousand eight hunnert an’ fifteen summers, aye. An’ what’s t’ become o’ poor loyal ol’ Gudge after that evil hussy’s gone an’ killed ’im deader’n dog droppin’s? Oh, woe’s me an’ alack the day, wurra-wurra, lawks an’-”

“Shut up, Gudge!” This time the troll joined sentiment with the elf prince. It was a pretty impressive display of interspecies cooperation. Clearly Gudge had missed his calling in the Diplomatic Corps.

“Aye, shut yer toad-pie-hole, ye big baby,” the troll continued. “Izzums scared t’ be left all alone after Lord Belg’s daughter sees t’ yer fluffy-haired elfikin master? No worries: She’ll be sure t’ take care o’ ye, too!”

Somewhere in Castle Bonecrack, a great iron-tongued bell cleaved the air with a doleful knell. The troll snapped his pad shut and stuffed it back into his pouch. “Noseweed break time! See you folks later, an’ by ’later’ I mean ’dead.’ Mwahaha!” With that, he swaggered off up the dungeon stairs and slammed the heavy door behind him. His exit was immediately followed by a litany of locks, bolts, and chains securing said portal, then by the sound of his flabby feet retreating in the distance, and last of all a deep and funereal silence.

It did not last. In less time than it would take a man to draw two breaths, the tomb-worthy stillness was shattered by the sound of loud, exultant laughter.

“M’lud?” Gudge cocked his shaggy head in Prince Lorimel’s direction. The maniacal hilarity was tumbling from the elf prince’s rosy lips. “M’lud, are ye feelin’ quite, y’know, that thing what’s th’ opposite o’ slap-assed crazy?”

Prince Lorimel shook his head and regained his self-control, gasping for air between slowly abating gusts of chortles. “I am not insane, Gudge. I am merely mad with joy. Did you not hear what that troll said? A daughter! Lord Belg of Castle Bonecrack, scourge of a thousand kingdoms, menace of a thousand more, and evil overlord for all seasons, has got a daughter . And she is coming here, to this very dungeon, to take care of me. Do you realize what that means?”

Gudge thought about this long and hard. At last his brows unknit and he replied, “No.”

The elf prince uttered a heartfelt cry of utter exasperation, then drew himself up to as full a height as his manacles permitted and looked down his nose at his companion with supreme scorn.

The tales men tell by firelight of the elves recount how some tribes possess certain powers that mortals cannot hope to master. Some cause plants to thrive and fruits to mature out of season. Some can make such lovely music that fish of the sea and birds of the air are ensorcelled by the sound and whole deer leap into the waiting frying pan if the song so bids them. Still others have the gift of healing wounds at a touch, which is a talent frequently called for after one of those ill-thought-out whole-deer-in-the-frying-pan incidents.

As for the Lofty Elves, their talent was neither song nor growth nor healing. Their talent was contempt. Indeed, in all the realms that might claim elf infestation, the Lofty Elves’ powers of condescension were famed in song and story. They could break treaties between nations with a simple lift of the lip. A raised eyebrow had toppled empires. It was even claimed that once upon a time, one of their kings rode forth alone to face an army, gave it a cool glance, clicked his tongue in derision and remarked, “Bitch, please .” And while his faithful hunting bitch, Lady Liza, looked on, the entire army went into spasms and died of mortification.

This was all very well and good, but either the talent had grown wobbly with the ages, or else Prince Lorimel’s condescending gaze didn’t have quite enough oomph, or-most likely-it just didn’t work on Gudge.

“Beggin’ yer Gracious Glory’s pardon, but why ’ee be starin’ at me like a cat what’s got bowel troubles?” he asked.

Prince Lorimel sighed and sagged in his chains. “Gudge, if we can ever find a wizard capable of analyzing and reproducing the stuff your skull-bone’s made of, we’ll be able to create armor that nothing can pierce; not even common sense. Listen to me: Even the densest dunce knows that there are certain rules that govern the lives and behavior of all evil overlords ever spawned. You may have the same faith in these rules as you might put into universal truths such as Elves are always beautiful, The sun always rises in the east, Elves are always graceful beyond the power of speech to convey, Water always flows downhill, Elves are always sexually irresistible to young women who are still living with their parents, The South always votes for -”

“Aye, m’lud, aye, ’tis just as ’ee says, elves allus flows downhill, right enough,” Gudge interrupted. “But what’s that got t’ do wi’ our predictament?”

“Merely this, my fine bean-brain: An evil overlord’s daughter will always be as wicked as she is beautiful, but she will also invariably fall passionately in love with her father’s handsome, heroic captive. The girl can’t help it. In fact, given how handsome I am, I’m rather surprised that she hasn’t fallen in love with me already.”

“She ain’t even seen ’ee yet, m’lud,” Gudge pointed out.

Prince Lorimel dismissed this quibble with a wave of his dainty fingertips. “Bah. You know nothing about these matters. It is now only a matter of time before the foredoomed damsel comes into this dungeon, sees me, and betrays her own father before you can say snap . She’ll free me from my shackles, fetch me a sword, lead me straight to Lord Belg’s chambers via a secret passageway known only to herself, stand by cheering my name while I skewer her father like a bunny on a roasting spit, and provide me with a high-spirited steed, a casket filled with priceless jewels, and a picnic lunch before I go galloping back to the lands of the Lofty Elves, mission accomplished.”

Prince Lorimel smiled blissfully over his own words. Gudge, however, drew his bushy brows together and chewed over his master’s lesson like a dog with a mouthful of nougat.

“ ’Tain’t me place t’ be pointin’ out things ’ee says as are misspoke, m’lud, nay, but hasn’t ’ee made a boner er two wi’ yer Exaltation’s pronouns?”

“My pronouns ?” Up until now, Prince Lorimel hadn’t suspected that Gudge would know a pronoun if it bit him on the dangling participle.

Gudge nodded. “Aye: I . Instead o’ we, y’know? Now th’ way ’ee tells things, ’tis only yer Altitude as’ll be gallopin’ away from Castle Bonecrack, back t’ th’ fair elfin kingdom what yer pa rules. ’Struth, ’tis only yer Superiorness as’ll be freed from these here chains, leavin’ me behind t’ rot in durance vile. I don’t so much mind that, seein’ as it come wi’ th’ job description, but after all that the evil overlord’s beauteous daughter’s gonna do for ’ee, like ’ee says, shouldn’t ’ee at least be ridin’ back t’ yer pa’s kingdom wi’ her along fer th’ ride?”

The elf prince chuckled and shook his head slowly. “Oh, Gudge,” he said. “Gudge, Gudge, Gudge, will your gentle and good-hearted stupidity never cease to astonish me? Me, run off with the evil overlord’s beautiful daughter? Me, bring her home to meet my parents, just as if she were worthy of that inexpressibly high honor? As if she were worthy of me ? Please. ”

“Then what’s t’ be th’ poor lass’s fate after ’ee’ve gone off an’ left her wi’ nowt but her pa’s body t’ bury an’ a dirty great castle t’ run all by her lonesome?”