84Disclaimer : I do not own any of these, except this fanfic storyline.
As much as I wish to write faster, I am kinda busy looking for a permanent work, and doing odd jobs on the side.
And so without further ado…
Chapter 9– Ah! You Can't Teach Old Dogs New Tricks?!
／人◕ .◕人＼
Where in this episode : we get to be introduced with another potential guy to mess around in the story.
／人◕ .◕人＼
Dark gray clouds scudded against the moon. It was totally overcast when Thor started out, but the sky partially cleared, and when the twin bright moons came out, they illuminated the obviously named Fortress of Doom for obvious reasons, and striped it with black-and-gray shadows. The fortress is situated in a dimension where gods and goddesses cannot influence.
The tenth realm, known as the realm of the Titans. Though at this period, the said beings are extinct. This part of the abandoned universe is sealed to all living beings, well almost all…
Like most realms, there are beings came to thrive here to eke out a sort of living, though only the foolhardy, the stupid, the outcasts, or sometimes the occasional evil beings on the hiding from Divine retribution.
Thor stayed motionless in one such shadow, thrown by a chimney, with his feet braced against the steep slope of the slate roof. Voices wafted from below, from the heavily guarded doorways. More guards, armed and armored, could be seen pacing across the gates, leaning out the windows, or standing at the parapets. Thor waited. To pass the time he pulled a grip-strengthening thingamabob he received from Urd from his pouch and practiced grip-strengthening exercises. He flexed the muscles in his forearms and wondered what bar in Valhalla to go for a drink after this mission is over. Then decided with a shrug, "Why not go to all of them?" and planned to take the dark skinned goddess Urd for a date of sorts.
When the twin moons darkened once again he allowed himself a derisive smile. For a god of his skill and experience, the seemingly impregnable fortress had posed little challenge. Soldiers walked the streets of the nearby village, but they had taken little notice of him. He did not find anything odd in this, despite the fact that a tall man with massive shoulders, dressed in Barbarian leather, red cape and furs, with a helmet with wings on the sides, finishing with carrying a huge short handled hammer engraved with cryptic runes, usually attracts at least a second glance. The trail up to the Fortress was also guarded of course; but he had bypassed that, using his expert climbing ability to go directly up the cliff. He wasn't surprised that the cliff edge was unguarded. No doubt they considered the sheer face unscalable. There remained the smooth stone walls of the Fortress itself, and a skilfully thrown rope had solved that problem. Then from atop the wall, a convenient cast-iron drainpipe provided access to the roof. An easy job. Not much of a challenge to a god like Thor.
Unfortunately, in this world he is cut off from his godly might. Despite the obvious handicap, he forged on.
Now he removed an iron grating that provided access to a ventilation shaft. The grate wasn't even bolted down but just slid into a groove in the shaft housing. It was amazing how often the fools who built these castles forgot to secure the ventilation shafts. Anyone would think they'd know better by now.
Once inside he replaced the grating and sat back, listening. All was silent on the roof. Reassured, he slid back the cover of his green lantern. The shaft, wide enough for even the broad-shouldered god (though at this moment, he's just a badass normal, musclebound dude), dropped away into darkness.
Something, however, obstructed his view. He lowered the lantern into the hole. A faint thin odor of burning lamp oil filled the shaft. Four broad steel bars stretched across the opening. But not all the way across, and at one end they were set into a rotating cylinder. It looked for all the world like a turnstile.
Thor leaned forward for a closer look. It was a turnstile. Neat letters had been painted above a narrow slot. "Ventilation Shaft Entrance: 2p." Puzzled, Thor reached into his pouch and extracted a two-pence. He dropped the coin into the slot, then drew his hammer, Mjolnir. Too bad, the power of being a god is unknowingly cut off here.
Carefully, he touched the Mjolnir to the bars. The cylinder rotated. The bars swung down against the wall of the shaft. He shrugged, replaced his weapon in his belt, and slipped through the open gate.
He left the lantern at the turnstile, braced his feet against one side of the shaft and his back against the other, and carefully and quietly worked his way down. His hammer dangled from his belt, the point swinging gently. It was an easy descent, for he'd had plenty of practice at this sort of thing. Thor had lost count of the number of impregnable fortresses he had penetrated by climbing through a ventilation shaft. True, Thor would also be the first to admit that counting was not one of his strong points, but it was still a lot of shafts.
The opening above him grew smaller, the light from the lantern grew fainter, but presently Thor could make out a dim glow beneath him. He had dropped nearly sixty feet and was well into the interior of the castle. A few feet later he reached the bottom of the shaft, which ran horizontally in four directions. The glow came from a square of glass set into the side of the shaft. Behind it was a candle. Below the glass was a small metal plaque. Thor lay down in the shaft and put his nose nearly against it, barely able to make out the etching. It showed a vertical shaft descending against a black background and branching out into four horizontal shafts. At the intersection was a small dot, with an arrow pointing to it. The arrow was labeled "You Are Here."
Thor had plenty in the way of physical courage and a good deal of native cunning, but not much of a sense of humor. Not since he got dressed like a drag queen in a ploy to get back his damned, currently near useless weapon…
He grunted and drew his hammer, keeping it ready in front of him. It was obvious now that he had descended into a trap. A trap set by someone who did have a sense of humor. Not a clever sense of humor, but some wise guy had made the attempt. Thor looked at the entrances to the four shafts and debated which one to take. All of them, he suspected, would turn out badly. He considered climbing back up the shaft and forcing his way through the turnstile. Then he looked at the glass plate and the lamp.
Someone had to light the candle. Someone had to replace it when it burned down. There must be a door in back of it, one that led into the castle. He peered through the glass. Yes, in the back of the alcove he could see the edges of an access panel. The now-brought to normal god of thunder hesitated not a moment before smashing the hammer into the glass plate.
Immediately the shaft began to fill with gas.
Thor's instinctive reaction was to draw a deep breath and hold it. But it was already too late to avoid getting a lungful of gas. His nostrils filled with a faint, opium-like scent, his ears filled with the hissing of a gas valve. And just before he lost consciousness he heard something else. It was far away and very faint, barely audible under the gas noise. But he was sure he heard the sound of evil laughter.
／人◕ .◕人＼
The problem, as Lord Cowl saw it, was that he had plenty of evil but not enough stuff to lord. Dressed in all encompassing black robe covering his entire tall form, with the robe's hood drawn to hide his features, adding to the mystery of his true face, hence he was simply known as The Cowl, and later promotion to Lord Cowl (self-proclaimed). He wouldn't want it any other way. It keeps the potential enemies second guessing on his true identity, and what he can really do.
And no, he's not trying to imitate that certain politician a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.
True, he had an honest right to be called Lord. He'd purchased the title years before. It came with a decaying manor house and some boggy salt marsh on the coast of the Titan realm. Centuries ago it had been adequate grazing land for upright walking bovines that served as cows in this realm, but the area had subsided and now grew little more than mosquitoes. Cowl visited it once, to check the names on the tombstones against the title search. You couldn't be too careful about something like that. Lots of beings vying for power and all that.
The upgrade from Lord to Overlord was justified also. There were plenty of lords who knuckled under to Cowl, either because of blackmail, debts, threats, or a combination of all three. His dimensional mercenary army was the largest and deadliest private force in the realms, albeit in secret, you can't be too careful with the Heavenly Horde on the hunt for potential terrorists. While doing so, his evil minions had infiltrated every seat of the heavenly management. His criminal activities kept the wealth and power rolling in, while leaving a grisly trail throughout the realms. His competitors were mostly dead. But none of it leads back to him. But they know, but they can never prove it, until it's too late.
And the Evil part of the title went without saying. Yes, Cowl was hated and feared throughout the tenth realm, and some. But it wasn't enough.
Cowl finished signing the papers on his desk and waited until his Chief Minion left his office. Then he threw open a pair of shutters. Thick gray mist swirled around the Fortress of Doom, and a cold rain pattered on the sill. A handful of forlorn birds huddled under the eaves. Lamplight spilled onto the ramparts below his window, where his mercenary guards, clad in oilskins, scary swords at their waists, patrolled in the wet and fog. Maybe he's still thinking he's still in the Middle-Ages (Earthwise), or probably he's just a Middle-Age junkie, unfortunately most people who pointed this particular thing out, got their limbs quartered, their desiccated remains were thrown to the shadow demons which he kept under the moats. The light gleamed on his black silk shirt and reflected off his gold pinkie ring. His Lordship ignored the rain and sat on the sill, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
His goal was legitimate rule. He wanted to go beyond stealing, killing, and extorting. He wanted to be given tribute. That was the ticket. Brutal, repressive tributes that could crush your subjects far worse than any simple theft.
And he'd had enough of secretly torturing his enemies to death, deep in some private dungeon. He wanted to flog them publicly, and then hang them by the balls. Better still, haul them into court on phony, trumped-up charges until they were bankrupt and disgraced, then release them to live out their shattered lives.
And hiring a regiment of criminals and cutthroats, no matter how brutal, just didn't compare with riding into a city before your own army, a real army, with banners and horse-drawn artillery and full-dress uniforms, parading before a sullen, conquered people who had been forced to come out and wave flags. That was power. The way Cowl saw it, anyway. He didn't want to be a Lord. He wanted beings to lord over. Just like how certain government officials ruled in a certain South East Asian "Democratic Government". The poor suckers.
A short knock sounded on the door. Cowl started from his reverie. "Yes, Valerie?"
A slim young woman slipped inside. She had long black hair, bloodied lipstick, and fingernails that were sharp enough to field dress an elk. Her heels were high and her clothes were tight and she walked with a sway to her hips that was almost snakelike. There was the usual hesitation, a brief imbalance, as she came under the Overlord's spell, but she was used to it and recovered immediately.
"Excuse me, my lord."
Her voice had a husky sound, as though she had spent too many evenings in smoke-filled taverns and burned her throat too many times with cheap liquor.
"The dungeon is getting rather full. S'tan suggests it is time for another round of executions."
"Ah. Whom did we get in the ventilation shaft this week? Anyone good?"
"Just the usual, my lord. A couple of traveling salesmen, a Jehovah's Witness, and a pair of children selling cookies."
"Buy two boxes of Thin Mints and kill them all."
"Yes, my lord."
The girl swivelled out. Cowl watched her leave with appreciation. Being a Dimensional Evil Overlord (slightly self proclaimed) had its advantages, not the least of which was that you had hot, kinky babes like Valerie working for you.
"Wait," he realized something and asked himself.
"Who the heck are Jehova's Witnesses?"
Then shook his head to put away that unanswered question till later musing.
Now where was he? Cowl tried to pick up his previous train of thought.
Ah, yes.
Acquiring power.
At the moment, heavens would end up being run by a decent, compassionate god who abhorred war and violence. The kind of being who thought that conflicts could be solved by "kindness and compassion". At first glance, it might seem that beings like these would be pushovers for an Evil Overlord. But no. Nice guys invariably had the sense to install brutal killers—men like Thor—to head up their armies. Their defenses were often well organized. So there was no easy answer there either. Overthrowing a celestial kingdom was a long, bloody, and expensive process.
Or rather, it had been.
Cowl smacked one fist into his palm and gave a short laugh. It was a harsh laugh, an unpleasant and chilling sound, and the men on the ramparts looked up and gripped their weapons more tightly. The Overlord pulled the shutters closed. He stood in the center of the room, his head thrown back in silent laughter, his arms raised above his head, his fists clenched in that famous, overly dramatic gesture known to theatre students everywhere as "milking the giant cow."
Yes, it was hokey and clichéd, and Cowl knew it, but he loved doing that gesture anyway, the quintessential stance of a being mad with power. He practiced it several times a week.
In private, of course. He wasn't ready to do it in throughout the realms, yet. But he had the Ancient Artifact. An item which suspiciously looks like smooth black tablet of unknown material. Soon his army would be ready. Soon they would be invincible. Soon he will acquire the power to bring down the Heavens and Hell. He would break out from this dingyfortress in this isolated dimension, they would conquer realm after realm, and Cowl would be there at their head. Eventually he would subjugate the entire Creation. He would show them what the words "Evil Overlord" really meant.
Then he would milk the giant cow.
／人◕ .◕人＼
TBC…
Sorry for making this one so short, again… I'm still trying to think up of what happens to the next episode.
Stay tuned…PM for suggestions…XD
XD
Thanks for reading.
"Whatever you think you are doing wrong, that's the one thing you're doing right!"
-_- Leslie Nielsen