The Recorder walked along the underground tunnel with trepidation. Darkness crowded him; made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up; made his guts wrench with anxiety. More than once, he had almost turned back. What are you doing here? he berated himself.
For the realm of the Dark Elves of Cly’ath Denori’Kilith Tu’an was not a place that non-drow entered willingly. Even the drow themselves thought twice about it.
But the Recorder had a problem: an irresistible compulsion to sift the facts from the fabrications, to peel back the layers of myth-making, the exaggeration and the misrepresentation; to record for posterity, what really happened. That obsession had led him here.
He began to pass the grey-skinned, white-haired citizens of this subterranean realm. They stared at him, no attempt to hide the malevolence from their expressions. Their eyes bored into his. Imagining ways to kill me, the Recorder decided. Pull my insides to the outside. Feed me to their monsters. Or maybe they’d keep me alive with their devilish magic and ensure I suffered for aeons.
Then he came to the aspen wood door—almost white in colour, it shone in the darkness with a kind of luminosity.
The Recorder raised a hand to knock.
‘You’re not going in there, are you?’
The Recorder turned to see a dark elf staring at him with a horrified look.
‘Do you know who lives there?’ the dark elf demanded.
‘I believe this is the abode of the nefarious Wro’Kuburni’-Dy-Hrath’Simbowa, guilty of countless crimes during his time in Gal’azu, dread servant of Lilith the succubus.’
‘Then why, in Gehenna, are you about to request entry?’
‘I am here to interview him,’ the Recorder replied.
‘Part of the reason I am here,’ the Recorder explained, ‘is to do with a series I am publishing, concerning the life of the three-headed ogre, Og-Grim-Dog.’
Wro’Kuburni’-Dy-Hrath’Simbowa’s mouth twisted in disgust at the mention of the ogre. The Dark Elf stood by the fireplace of his private room, in which hot coals smouldered. The Recorder himself was seated at a writing desk, his quill, ink and parchment set before him. There was an unmistakeable power dynamic at play in the arrangement—the Recorder looking much like a schoolboy receiving a lesson from his authoritarian but brilliant teacher.
‘I have read these books,’ said the Dark Elf, making the word ‘books’ sound as welcome as dog faeces. ‘There are copies in our library here.’
‘Oh, they’ve made their way here, have they?’ said the Recorder, attempting nonchalance. But a professional’s pride in their work is not easy to disguise.
‘Yes. They’re in the Shit Books Written by Foreigners section.’
‘Oh,’ said the Recorder, crestfallen.
‘Think yourself lucky,’ said the Dark Elf, ‘that they’re not in the Books Written by Foreigners that are so Terrible that the Authors must be Tracked Down and Mutilated section.’
‘I do count myself lucky,’ the Recorder hastened to say. ‘I’m most grateful.’
‘One of the things that angered me about your second book, was your insistence on calling me ‘Simba’. It was most offensive.’ The Dark Elf stared at the opposite wall of his room, where two crossed swords hung on display. The Recorder made a nervous gulping sound.
‘Well, that was because that’s the name Og-Grim-Dog used when discussing you. Also, your full name is a little—’
‘Awe inspiring?’
‘Quite so.’
The Dark Elf looked slightly mollified with that response.
‘Since you’ve read the book, I was wondering if you’d be so kind as to fact-check something for me. It concerns the test of loyalty when the ogre became the Dark Lord’s henchman. Rumours abound of the crimes he demanded of fresh recruits, to prove their commitment to his cause. And yet, when it came to Og-Grim-Dog, the Dark Lord simply—’
‘—accepted the killing of a solitary menial as payment,’ the Dark Elf finished for him. ‘One of the more ridiculous passages in the book.’
‘Yes, well, I did challenge the ogre on that one. But they were quite insistent.’
‘So, you want to know what Og-Grim-Dog really did to win the Dark Lord’s approval?’ asked the Dark Elf.
The Recorder nodded eagerly.
‘Then let me tell you.’
Five minutes later and Wro’Kuburni’-Dy-Hrath’Simbowa was finishing up recounting the list of Og-Grim-Dog’s crimes.
‘…which they proceeded to chop up and feed to his pet worm, Evie. Anyway, after that, the Dark Lord accepted them as a henchman.’
The Recorder had gone pale and clammy. He had a hand clasped over his mouth in an effort to keep the contents of his stomach from making an appearance.
‘I see,’ he said weakly. ‘That would do it. Now I understand why they didn’t want to tell me.’
‘Quite,’ said the Dark Elf. ‘I hope the truth will be making an appearance in your upcoming books.’
‘Of course!’ said the Recorder. ‘The truth is my mistress!’
The Dark Elf rolled his eyes. ‘Anyway. I am sick of talking about that three-headed ogre. I can only presume that the real reason you are here is to record my own life story—superior in every respect to that ogre’s, I might add.’
‘Yes,’ said the Recorder. ‘It would be a great honour to be given access to your story. I am sure it would make a wonderful novel.’
‘Stop stating the obvious,’ the Dark Elf commanded. ‘What payment might I expect from this enterprise.’
‘Payment?’ asked the Recorder nervously. ‘It’s just that we writers make so very little money,’ he simpered.
‘Not in coin,’ came the dismissive response. ‘Information. Tell me where you found the ogre.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said the Recorder nervously. ‘Well, I’m sure that can’t do any harm...’
The Nefarious Exploits of Wro’Kuburni’-Dy-Hrath’Simbowa: Dark Elf, Henchman and Arch-Villain: An Extract