A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed!

Ryuici: Yeah, she's a bit ditzy. She could be called Dork Lady, as a metter of fact. But don't underestimate Malloricia... there's more to her than meets the eye!

hottgoddess: That was only the prologue. The style will be slightly different from now on.

Lost Chyld: Thanks! I hope you'll like this chapter, too!

CHAPTER ONE

To understand me better, you have to know that I wasn't born into a typical family. Typical for a Dark Lady, that is; otherwise, you can consider it as typical as they go. My grandfather was a pretty accomplished Evil Ruler, true, but usually the trade is passed on from generation to generation, and in my case...

Ah, I'll spit it out. Both my parents were vegetable farmers.

Shame.

I had seven siblings, no less. We lived together in a pretty little cottage in a pretty little village, just a few hours' walk from Grandpa's Fortress of Evil. On sunny days the great black walls could be seen far away on the horizon, like a menacing storm cloud. But the villagers didn't mind it overmuch, as far as I remember. They lived their lives as they always had, concerned mostly about the crops and the weather, the livestock, the children and the yearly summer festival. They were simple people, warm-hearted, generous and peaceful. As well they might be – Gramps had been mighty angry at his son's career choice, but he would never have risked harming me, so when his armies went a-pillaging, they always steered clear of our village.

Our house had white walls and a tiled brown roof. It was surrounded by a sizable vegetable garden, but Mother was also famous for her flowers, and we so could enjoy beautiful colours and aromas almost all year round. And there was a small cherry orchard, and two apple trees... Mm. Have you ever climbed a cherry tree first thing in the morning, and eaten sweet cherries still wet with dew? A quaint little paradise.

I suppose I should now say something on the lines of 'but I hated it there'. Thing is, I didn't. I love my family and we still keep in touch. I actually liked my neighbours. I thought our gingerbread village was a pleasurable little place. But, oh, it was so boring! You see, I had ambitions. I wanted my life to be interesting. And there are only so many interesting things one can do with a carrot.

Yuck! Mind out of the gutter, ya perv!

So, as I was saying, I wanted out. I looked out at Grandpa's castle and daydreamed of being like him – a ruler, a tyrant, someone who held the lives of other, lesser people in her hand. I thought of power and magic, of wild faraway places, of empires at my beck and call.

Then I usually had to go feed the chickens.

Grandpa knew of my ambition and applauded it. I was the only member of our family he would occasionally deign to see. It cheered me up immensely, as it was the only indication that I might not be destined to a farmwife's life after all. So I didn't ponder much over an invitation which came soon after I turned twenty, in the middle of July. I simply packed a few things, kissed my family goodbye – it was really more of a farewell, though we didn't know it at the time – and went on my way.

I was, as I say, twenty, though I didn't look it. A little wisp of a girl in simple clothes, I wore my hair long those days to make myself seem more mature, although it was a wasted effort, I admit. No, my hair is not naturally black. Some Evil Overladies are just lucky that way. I had to dye.

My greatest, most secret treasure was a small white rod which my grandfather had given me some two years previous. It was, to my knowledge, the only piece of magical equipment in our village. It shot out energy rays that could kill a man quickly and efficiently. (That's mostly how I know Grandpa approved of my plans). I called it the Magical Thingy Shooting Gizmo, and will henceforth refer to it as the Gizmo.

Grandpa's castle was tall and imposing. It was also black and decorated in a skull-and-bones motif. Grandpa was a traditionalist. To him, being a Dark Lord meant, among other things, that his fortress had to be literally dark: small windows, burnt-out stubs of candles, long, narrow and winding corridors... It was quite a change after all that cheery landscape, and I felt strangely at home. I was escorted to the inner gate, where Gramps would usually wait for me. But now there was only the huge, bald warden, who leered at me, showing blackened teeth. I didn't feel offended. It was a habit of his; he leered at the clouds in the sky, at the poisonous water-snakes in the moat. And I happened to know he had been quite happily married these past seventeen years. “Hi, Frederic,” I said. “I came to see Grandpa. He sent for me. Where is he?”

“Hullo, young miss Mallory. His Lordship is in his rooms. He asks that you run to him, an' swift.”

That was when I felt the first pang of anxiety – it was not quite conscious, but there nonetheless. Scolding myself for being silly, I said “OK!” and skipped off down familiar hallways.

That was lesson number one: never disregard your intuition.

Grandpa was sick. Dying, perhaps, I realized as I saw his gaunt face and hollow eyes. The darkness in his room was hot, dry and stuffy. It made my breath rattle in my breast. I immediately crossed over to the window and drew the curtains open.

“Leave it, Mallory,” wheezed Grandpa. “It hurts my eyes.”

I turned to him, tears stinging under my eyelids. How was this possible? When I had last seen my grandfather, he was a strong man, by no means the aged wreck I had now before me. What malady could strike that fast? And why had there been no words of it?

“What happened to you, Grandpa?” I asked weakly.

He patted his bedside. “Come, girl, sit with me. It's not contagious.” He waited until I did, and then continued. “What happened? A hero, what else.”

I clenched my fists. Heroes. The bane of Grandpa's life. How I hated them! They and their misplaced code of values, their arrogance, their self-righteousness! They called Gramps an evil despot, and, OK, he was, but at least he'd made the roads safe. At least he terrorized and tyrannized everyone fairly. At least he didn't steal... not too much. But they'd been trying to overthrow him since forever. And now one had finally got him.

“How?” was all I said.

“Poison. A slow-acting one, so that I had time to repent for my sins, I suppose.” Grandpa smirked.

My mouth curled upwards involuntarily. “And did you?”

“No. But it did give me time to capture him and introduce him to my dungeon staff. I intended him to live almost as long as me, but, alas, the torturer somewhat failed me in that respect. The assassin lasted only four days, I'm afraid. First thing after you succeed me, Mallory, get rid of that torturer and find a new one. Make sure he had good references.”

My head whirled. “How... Succeed you? How? I mean... An antidote... Gramps...”

“No antidote,” he shook his head. “I should know, I have used the same poison multiple times – and with good results, I must add. No, I'm dying, my girl. And who should succeed me, if not you? Your good-for-nothing father? Hah!” He looked agitated, so I made a comforting noise and helped him to a glass of water. My mind was still reeling, sadness at my grandfather's imminent passing and joy at hearing my dreams come true fighting for supremacy. I could think of nothing suitable to say.

Having calmed down somewhat, he continued, “Get killed, but train an avenger first. I've had that number pulled on me so many times that I've lost my count. Sometimes I've had whole families, nay, whole villages coming after me, all because of some wrinkly old geezer I did away with. Well, now I'm the wrinkly geezer and you're my little angel of vengeance, Mallory.” He laughed, but it wasn't a nice sound. I noticed that the wheeze was now stronger. “The bloody murderer knew I would get him, knew it was a suicide mission, but he did it anyway, to cleanse the world of my evil, as he declared. Well, I'm feeling contrary. I won't give him the pleasure.”

I decided to take it all in stride. That was the most I could do for Grandpa. “Agreed. I shall need a good name, though. Mallory just doesn't cut it. What do you think about... Malicia?”

“You'll find it's already been used, my girl. Mallory, Malicia... Hm. How about Malloricia?”

I wasn't terribly enthusiastic.

“It's good,” he maintained. “And suits you. Listen, Malloricia...” He started coughing. I waited for the fit to end, but it didn't. When I finally realized what was happening and run out, crying for help, it was already too late. He was dead.

I won't pretend that his death didn't touch me, or that I didn't cry. But, as it is not directly pertinent to our story, let's pass over my grief and Grandpa's funeral directly to the point when I gathered his six highest-ranking officers to have a talk with them.

One might think that it was such a talk as a lamb might have with a pack of wolves. I have no doubts the officers thought exactly that. They were all seasoned veterans, masters of all vices, rapists, murderers and destroyers. I was a young woman with experience only in feeding chickens. They thought they had me in their power.

They weren't all that right.

We met in Grandpa's old chamber. It was lighter now – I had got rid of the curtains and threw the window wide open. I had asked the men to come unarmed. Wonder of wonders, they did, which goes to show just how much of a danger they thought me to be. I smiled genially at their scarred, cynical faces, and spoke to Grandpa's former second-in-command, “Mr Craig, you were my grandfather's most trusted man. I hope to enjoy the same kind of loyalty from you.”

He gave a short bark of laughter. “Hah! Your grandfather was a man, and you're just a little whore. We can keep you as a figurehead, because the old guy told the army you were his successor, and soldiers are sentimental. But don't count on getting to lead us, Malloricia.”

“What a shame,” I said, still smiling. Then I whipped out the Gizmo and killed him dead.

The rest stared mutely on the smoking hole in his chest. My smile widened. I looked at the next officer. “Mr Bowden, you were my grandfather's second most trusted man,” I drawled, rolling the Gizmo between my fingers. “I hope...”

Bowden, a blond, horse-faced man, almost swallowed his tongue in his haste to answer. “Yes, of course! At your service, Mistress Malloricia! We all are!”

“Lady Malloricia,” I corrected. That was pushing it, to be honest, but Bowden was ready to accept anything just now.

“Lady Malloricia, of course,” he said, sweating. “Would you like to hear our reports?”

“Would be nice, yes,” I agreed lazily. I had the upper hand for now. I knew I would have to keep an eye on them all, non-stop if possible, but for now I was safe and they knew it. And later? The army would support me. I'd have to watch what I eat, but I'd been planning to do that anyway. This was my chance. My one chance for greatness.

As I listened to Bowden and the others speak – and I listened very attentively, I assure you – I spared a thought on the subject of my grandfather's death. Poison! And such a cruel poison, I ask you!

And such people think themselves any better than us!

Soon, I promised myself. Soon they would see what they have unleashed upon themselves.

Soon there would be revenge.