Post by DiscipleofBob on Mar 4, 2016 14:03:34 GMT -5
Fantastic Four #12:
The Mask of Doom
By Adrini and DiscipleofBob
The Mask of Doom
By Adrini and DiscipleofBob
Victor Von Doom had been knocked unconscious in the midst of a peasant revolt, but when he awoke he was in the lap of medieval luxury. He sat at the head of an antique table inside the massive castle dining room. It had to be centuries old. He could only assume it was the same as the one he previously observed in the distance.
A fireplace, large enough to push someone into, Victor mentally noted, heated the room. The drafty old castle probably hadn't seen a single renovation since the nineteenth century at least. And yet, the red and black banners that hung around the walls and rafters. The glowering portraits of intimidating nobles, all looked out of place, like they were never supposed to fit where they hung.
Looking around the room, Victor realized just how crowded it was. There was a second floor balcony surrounding the entire room, lined with Dreadknights standing at attention, in case Victor needed assurance that he was still in danger. Victor vaguely recalled what he had somehow managed to disintegrate the Dreadknight in the square. He didn't know if he could reproduce the same result here, or if the last time had just been a lucky shot. He hoped he wouldn't have to find out.
Standing around the table so still they might as well be statues were a small army of servants, heads bowed down, their faces flush with despair. Most of them were thin to the point where skin was hanging loosely off of their cheekbones. These people weren't hoping to retire or be rescued. They were just waiting for death.
And of course, sitting across from Victor, at the other head of the table, feasting on a large medieval meal, was the master of the castle, of the Dreadknights, and of Latveria. His slicked back hair and trimmed goatee were shock white, matching his pale skin. A thin, bony hand with elongated fingernails reached out from the sleeve of his gold-trimmed robes for a nearby jeweled goblet. As he drank from it, a thin trail of blood-red wine trickled down his cheek. When finished, he snapped his fingers and the nearest servant rushed over to wipe the trickle from his mouth.
His blood red eyes met Victor's, and his mouth grew into a thin smile. "I see you're finally awake." Victor checked his own end of the table. There was no food or place setting of any kind, making it very clear that he was not here as a dinner guest. The only item in reach was the wooden mask he'd disguised his face with in the streets. "Feel free to cover your face if it suits you. If I had a visage as hideous as yours I would strive to hide it as well. Besides, it's not as if you can keep your identity from me hidden any longer, Victor Von Doom."
It was difficult for Victor to decide which would leave him in the weaker position, but he ended up taking the mask and fitting it over his face rather than leave himself any more exposed than he already was. "I suppose that makes you the local tyrant?"
"I am King Vladimir Fortunov, yes. I suppose I should be offended at being called a tyrant, but I have ignored the opinions of outcasts and criminals for this long, so why start now? Besides, I can hardly claim it is inaccurate. Better to be a feared ruler than a weak one," he said with an amused sneer. "And how very American of you to try and fruitlessly bluster your way to a false position of strength. But you needn't bother. Your capture was inevitable from the moment you set foot in my country. Tell me, how do your people think you will save them now?"
Over the course of his career, Victor had negotiated with politicians, world leaders, CEOs, generals, and all sorts of powerful people, some more blatantly corrupt than others. Under other circumstances, he might have tried to be diplomatic and negotiate for his life and some amnesty, perhaps even plead for his life if he thought it would have worked. But for the first time in his life, Victor was staring into the face of pure, actual evil. "I hate to break it to you, your highness, but I don't control the Resistance's supply lines, so I ending my life won't crush them as much as you think. Hell, they'll probably invoke my name as a martyr. Hell, I didn't even know about the whole operation. There are contingencies in place. My people will make sure of that."
The King looked confused for a moment at Victor's boasts, before erupting into thunderous laughter. "Resistance? Supply lines? You poor, deluded fool. You don't know a thing about what's going on, do you?" Victor tried to keep his composure but, as Fortunov said, he was completely ignorant. "Whether the self-titled Resistance lives or dies is of no real concern of mine. Sure, they are a nuisance, but they also provide my Dreadknights with amusement. I care as much about the petty machinations of disgruntled vermin as I do about rats in the cupboard. They hold no threat to my reign, even if they do house filthy gypsies and mutant scum."
In lieu of any other explanation, Victor had assumed the reason for his popularity was the regular supply runs Lucia had organized. He didn't want to appear weak or ignorant, but he had no response.
"Come. I wish to see your reaction when I tell you of these peasants' foolish beliefs," said Fortunov, bemused as he stood up from his chair, his servants immediately and frantically setting to work cleaning every speck meticulously, taking care that not a drop of wine was spilled or a crumb left behind. As much as Victor wanted nothing to do with this twisted man, he saw little hope in trying to refuse.
Fortunov led Victor through the halls of the castle. Through a few windows, Victor could see the faint lights of Hassenstadt in the valley below. He briefly considered the possibility of making a break for it, leaping out the window, and hoping for the best. More than likely though, instead of a snow bank he could safely land in, he would have tumbled down the side of the mountain like a rag doll, so he thought better of it.
"Behold, the history of Latveria," Fortunov said motioning to the tapestries around the hall. Unlike those in the dining hall, these seemed much older, like they had been hanging in the castle since its construction. The tapestries contained murals of crudely depicted figures, or people and other things, telling various stories. Fortunov was more than happy to narrate.
"Once, Latveria was a land of superstition. It was a cursed land where dark creatures would lurk in every shadow. Vampires would swoop in under guise of fog or bat to prey on unsuspecting victim. Werewolves decimated farmers' livestock, and if they weren't careful, the farmers themselves. Witches would make pact with dark beings and cast their hexes from deep within the woods. Demons wreaked havoc across the countryside." Victor studied mural after mural of gruesome horrific scenes. Men and women being slaughtered. Entire villages being burned. Monsters of every sort emerging from the forest to devour the citizens. Gradually, the tapestries slowly shifted scenes from the forests and villages to the mountains, at the top of which stood the castle.
"Ruling over this land was a powerful sorcerer, who traded the souls of the peasants for immortality and unimaginable arcane power. The people of Latveria were cursed to be the playthings of the dark ones. Meat for the monsters. Slaves for the demons. And should any of the peasants escape the country, they would be branded as gypsies, cursed to be treated as outcasts wherever they went. Should they ever find a place they could settle, the demonic minions of the sorcerer would track them down and drag them back to Latveria, one by one, kicking and screaming." Fortunov spoke of the mythological figures with admiration, smiling as he described the torture of the peasants. Victor noted that the tyrant spoke of this superstitious folklore as if it was reality, making him as insane as he was cruel. Victor had seen a lot of strange things in recent days, but his grip on reality hadn't quite loosened to the point where vampires, demons, and sorcery were considered plausible. All he took from Fortunov's story was that there was a cruel tyrant who practiced dark occult rituals, and a tortured populace forced to become roaming gypsies if they left. That much was consistent with what little he already knew of Latveria's history.
"But not all the peasants knew their place," Fortunov spat as they came to a new figure, a man in an iron suit. Judging by the sudden venomous displeasure in Fortunov's voice, Victor could only assume the new figure was going to be the hero of this story. "One man, one gypsy, instead of running away, or submitting to the rule of his betters, fought his masters. Oh he was not the first to try and instigate rebellion, but this one man was devious. He learned the weaknesses of his enemies and exploited them. He forged a suit of cold iron armor, an almost universal bane to the creatures of the night. He learned his own brand of sorcery through pilfered knowledge. And through foolish promises he won the support of the peasants." Victor started to follow the patterns of the murals to the point where he didn't need Fortunov's translations to continue the story. The man in the armor waged a guerilla war on the sorcerer and the demons of the land. He was some kind of local folk hero, like some Latverian combination of King Arthur and Robin Hood. Eventually the armored hero confronted the sorcerer tyrant and in a duel of magic vanquished him, sealing the sorcerer in the bowls of hell.
Even still, Victor couldn't believe that this folklore was much more than that. There were probably kernels of truth here and there, but were nothing more than a story for peasants the same way Robin Hood was a story for peasants in Saxon England. "He was named King of Latveria, and although he had the power to rule with an iron fist, he was too kind-hearted. Instead he gave in to every petty little demand of the lower class, feeding the poor, caring for the sick and feeble, distributing the wealth of the treasury. His line continued for generations." The murals ended as Fortunov led Victor into a large display room. "The murals end here. What they don't tell is how the most recent ruler was similarly weak-minded, and of how his much wiser advisor saw the perfect opportunity. The demons still resided in Latveria, though fewer in number, and it was no trouble for the adviser to summon one and make a pact. For although the royal family had erected wards against the creatures of the night, they had no such defenses against an assassin, one who already lived in the castle walls."
Victor's eyes finally fell to the center of the room, where a full body suit of iron armor was on display, including a mask not unlike the face depicted in the murals. "The adviser would take the throne for himself and bring forth a new age of darkness, fueled by an army of demons and dark powers long since thought lost to the land. No longer would royalty concern itself with the concerns of lowly peasants. After all, their only purpose is as collateral in return for power."
"Yes, I get it, you're an insane, occult-worshipping tyrant. If you think I'm going to find a bunch of fairy tales and superstitions impressive, think again! What does this even have to do with me?!" Victor yelled. He was probably going to be tortured and killed anyway. Indulging a brutal dictator seemed like a waste of his last moments.
Fortunov's thin smile widened. "Don't you get it? Haven't you been listening? I ascended to the throne by taking it from its weak, bleeding heart previous ruler, Werner Von Doom!" Only now did Victor see the name Von Doom engraved on the plaque in front of the armor. Only now did he realize it was the same armor from his nightmares. "You wished to know why the people of this country worship you so? It is because they remember the previous ruler, your father, Werner Von Doom, the man I murdered in his sleep before taking his throne and eliminating his surviving family members. One. By. One. The peasants think that the last surviving Von Doom will, just like his ancestors before him, doom the tyrant and the monsters he summons. Because THEY believe in these fairy tales."
It was too much to process at once. Forget the demons. Forget the monsters. Forget the sorcerers. Fortunov had just confessed... no, BRAGGED about murdering Victor's father. Who was apparently the rightful king of Latveria. Lucia had never mentioned anything of the sorts. Victor had always assumed his family in Latveria had some kind of nobility or prestige, or was at least wealthy enough to be able to afford Lucia to serve the family, and raise and Victor once he was in America. But Lucia had always been quiet on the actual subject of Latveria, save the most superficial and uninformative of trivia. The rest of the world was relatively uneducated on Latveria as well, but Victor never imagined he would share the name of a monarch and it could somehow pass unknown to the rest of the world, or in Lucia's case, deliberately uninformed.
Even without the superstitious, supernatural elements, Victor couldn't deny how the missing pieces fell into place. Von Doom was the name of the hero of the realm. Von Doom was the name of the presumably well-loved previous monarch. Von Doom was supposed to be the savior of the people. He'd spent his entire life building his legacy as an entrepreneur in America, and here he was a literal messianic figure. Or he would be, except the man before him, and the army at his command. The man who murdered his entire family, who drove him into hiding before he was old enough to understand what was going on.
"Come now, let me see the reaction on that ugly face of yours," Fortunov sneered as he yanked the wooden mask off Victor, who was too stunned to move. He tossed the mask in the fire. "You won't be needing that anymore." Victor barely registered losing the mask, trying to comprehend it all. "You know my one regret when I killed your father was that it was over far too quickly. I should have taken my time and enjoyed it. Before I even realized my predicament I had already killed all of his relatives too, save one brat who managed to be smuggled out of the country. Now I can kill the last Von Doom over and over again to my heart's content..."
Victor's rage welled up. As conflicted as he was about his apparent royal lineage, the fact that the people of Latveria saw him as some kind of savior, or Lucia's deception spreading over his entire life, one thing remained consistent. This man before him, the self-proclaimed king of Latveria, was a monster who had destroyed his family and country, and taken great pleasure in doing so. Even if he didn't make it out of there alive, something he'd realized was probably impossible, he could end the monster's reign right here and right now.
This time Victor recognized the buildup of energy in his arm. Just like the Dreadknight he could end this in one strike. Then even if he died here at least there would be some justice, if not for him than maybe for Latveria, the country he had barely known but always loved. "MONSTER!" Victor's arm lashed out in a burst of energy that dwarfed anything he'd seen from his new 'powers' before. The entire room was enveloped in a flash that should have incinerated his target and most of the room and ones adjacent to it. There was an explosion that could be seen all the way down in the village, though none of its residents had any idea what it could have been.
The blast took the wind out of Victor. His image blurred as the light faded and smoke cleared. Not only was the rest of the room intact, but Fortunov stood untouched, his arm outstretched as it filled the air in front of him with a strange glowing circle lined with runes of a long-forgotten language. Fortunov smiled as with his free hand he motioned to the iron statue, removing the mask and levitating it into his grasp. "You know you do look positively dreadful. I think perhaps a new mask for you is in order."
As Victor collapsed to the ground, his body and mind too exhausted to stay conscious, he only had the energy for one thought to form in his mind.
He had failed.
Victor awoke to the smell of dried blood and the sensation of cool air on every inch of his body. Barely regaining consciousness, he quickly realized he'd been stripped naked. His arms were stretched out and suspended to a rack. With only the faint torchlight he could see the ancient stonework veiled in shadows, the iron barred cages, and various torture devices, all used recently and often by the look of it.
Vladimir Fortunov was there, holding a pair of iron tongs in the fire, with two younger men flanking him. One was tall and thin with frayed red hair and a sadistic smile. The other was a portly man with slick black hair and an eyepatch over his right eye. "It appears he's coming around, Father," the red head spoke eagerly.
"Thank you, Rudolfo. And just in time. I was beginning to fear he would not be awake for this," Vladimir replied.
"Please, Father, let me do the honors!" the portly man begged.
"Quiet, Zorba! Since when do you have the fortitude for torture? Up until recently you seemed content to play with your peasant girls. Or are you just trying to suck up to Father?" Rudolfo sneered.
"Now, my boys, no fighting today. You will all get a turn to entertain young Victor here. But today, this honor is mine and mine alone. Wouldn't want to break him too quickly now, would we?" Vladimir chuckled, causing his two sons to join in. He withdrew the tongs and what they held, the iron mask, glowing red hot. "You're representing a legacy, Victor. In lieu of the rest of your family, we're going to take our time inflicting every type of agony you can imagine..."
"And some you've yet to imagine," Rudolfo chimed in.
"Maybe someday, years from now, we'll grow bored with you and allow you to die, offering up your soul to whichever demon wants it the most. Until then, you are our plaything. By the time we're done with you, you'll be begging to answer questions we won't even have thought to ask. I'm sure your Resistance friends will appreciate your candor. Until then, I will look at this mask and see every wretched member of your family line, as I find new ways to utterly destroy you. To that end, we need to make sure your new mask stays in place no matter what. Now, hold him still." Complying, the elder son Rudolfo took a leather bullwhip and wrapped it around Victor's head to keep him still as Vladimir lowered the red hot mask onto Victor's exposed face.
The Latverian night was filled with Victor's screams of agony as they echoed throughout the mountains.
Victor's first 'session' ended with just the mask. He was dressed in the same tattered rags afforded all the prisoners. His consciousness debatable, Victor was dragged down into the dungeon cells, past rows of other prisoners. The lucky ones were just dirty and miserable. Others were missing an eye or limb. Others were missing more.
Rudolfo threw Victor into the cell at the end of the hallway. He fell limp onto the floor and didn't move after that. "Make sure he no die. Otherwise father very cross. Sooner he ready next session, less likely me make time yours," Rudolfo commanded to the other cell's inhabitant.
When his torturer had left and Victor's mind began to somewhat clear even through the searing pain, he had barely noticed Rudolfo switch to broken English. He'd gotten used to speaking Latverian since he arrived in the country.
"Hey, hey look at me," came a voice in actual, unbroken English as two hands awkwardly cupped his head and gently turned it. Victor found himself looking into the face of a man about his age with dark, disheveled hair and beard that might have been well-trimmed once upon a time but now hadn't been shaved in days, perhaps weeks. "Wow, they sure did a number on you. Are you in any pain?"
"Less now. More earlier," Victor rasped out.
"You sound dehydrated. Here." The man pulled over a small wooden bucket and cupped some water to bring it to Victor's lips. "I'm sorry it's not champagne or anything, but you're going to need to drink if you want to live." Victor noticed the man's hands were roughly bandaged up. Between the bandages he could see the disfigured, broken fingers and black bruises.
"Hands?"
"Well, when the old man invited me to dinner, and by that I mean abduct me, I said some politically inappropriate things."
"Let me guess," Victor rasped again, this time in complete sentences. "He wanted you to be his personal piano player and you're actually a harpist."
"Sense of humor's intact. That's a good sign for you. Nah, he wanted me to be his personal physician. So I offered him a colonoscopy with a rusty spoon. He took exception to that."
"Heh. HA-Ow!" Victor couldn't help but chuckle even though doing so hurt pretty badly.
"Sorry about that. I really shouldn't be making jokes while you're in this condition," he said as he helped Victor to sit up against the stone wall. "Anyone who pisses off the Fortunovs gets whatever medical care I can offer. Dr. Stephen Strange, at your service."
To Be Continued...