The Dark Lord's Handbook: Empire Read online

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Empire

  Paul Dale

  Copyright © 2017 by Paul Dale

  1st Edition

  Paul Dale has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without prior permission in writing of the author, not to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being impressed upon the subsequent purchaser.

  Dedication

  For Oscar, Mark, and Sir Terry.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the following people for their help and support along the way: Bodhiketu, Jon Spence, Jim Grimmett, Louise Dower, Andrew Dale, my parents, Kate Frost, Judith van Dijkhuizen, Tamsin Reeves, Lucy English and the Bath Spa University Creative writing staff, Amethyst Biggs, and Kath Middleton.

  Also, special thanks to my editor, Brenda Pierson.

  Cover art by Jaka Prawira.

  Edited by Incandescent Phoenix Books

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 Good and Evil

  Chapter 2 Empire

  Chapter 3 Theme Tune

  Chapter 4 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Empire

  Chapter 5 Coronation

  Chapter 6 Rebellion

  Chapter 7 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Oppression and Rebellion

  Chapter 8 Dark Chancellor

  Chapter 9 Hal Headcracker

  Chapter 10 Zoon's Journal

  Chapter 11 Gathering Allies

  Chapter 12 Balam

  Chapter 13 Last Will

  Chapter 14 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Bad News

  Chapter 15 Hand of Adal

  Chapter 16 True Name

  Chapter 17 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Spymaster

  Chapter 18 Coming Home

  Chapter 19 Rescue

  Chapter 20 Stonearm

  Chapter 21 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Death

  Chapter 22 Battle with Death

  Chapter 23 Flight

  Chapter 24 Afternoon Tea

  Chapter 25 The Dark Lord’s Handbook: Assassins

  Chapter 26 Hal's Destiny

  Chapter 27 Nightmares

  Chapter 28 Elvish Conspiracy

  Chapter 29 Senate

  Chapter 30 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Politics

  Chapter 31 Dark Stranger

  Chapter 32 Hedonism

  Chapter 33 Casing the Joint

  Chapter 34 Discovered

  Chapter 35 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Children

  Chapter 36 Thieves in the Night

  Chapter 37 Dragon Attacks

  Chapter 38 An Elf in the Bedroom

  Chapter 39 Escape

  Chapter 40 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Guards

  Chapter 41 Mind Games

  Chapter 42 Trial

  Chapter 43 Solitude

  Chapter 44 Into the Shadows

  Chapter 45 It's a Trap

  Chapter 46 Raising the Dead

  Chapter 47 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Undead

  Chapter 48 Hal's Terror

  Chapter 49 Dead Rising

  Chapter 50 The Beginning of the End

  Chapter 51 Dawn of the Dead

  Chapter 52 Dragon Slaying

  Chapter 53 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Winning

  Chapter 54 A Dark Lord Waits

  Chapter 55 Showdown

  Chapter 56 Dark Lords

  Chapter 57 Choosing Sides

  Chapter 58 Namu's Choice

  Chapter 59 Aftermath

  Epilogue Good and Evil

  Epilogue Hal

  Epilogue Morden

  Chapter 1 Good and Evil

  The game is always rigged.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  In the eternal conflict between Good and Evil, turmoil gripped the city below, with proceedings being played out with an air of inevitability. Sections of the city were reduced to rubble and fires raged everywhere. A desperate regiment fought a rearguard action around the palace grounds. Men and orcs scurried around the narrow streets and in and out of wrecked buildings, taking what opportunities presented themselves to murder their foe. The air was thick with smoke.

  A particularly large explosion caught Evil’s attention. The noose was tightening and soon a Dark Lord would be hanging from it.

  Evil despaired. It should not have come to this. His melancholy was in stark contrast to his companion’s mood. Over the countless centuries, Evil had never been so close to punching his opponent square on the nose. Smug was too small a word, infuriating too weak, to encapsulate the way Good’s lip curled into a smirk.

  Ten years.

  It was a long time for a Dark Lord to rule. Longer than most, but far from the eternal darkness of a Dark Lord’s supposed reign. His shadow had smothered the world, his victory seemingly total, but a spark of hope for Good had survived, albeit barely at times. Now it burned brightly to force back the darkness and bring light once more to the world. Evil could hardly believe it was happening. He had won. Morden had conquered all. His reach extended across oceans and continents. After his initial victories, none had stood before his might.

  And yet here they were, on the cusp of his downfall. Another failed Dark Lord. Evil turned his attention back to the battle. Even though he had no chance of winning, he couldn’t help but watch the final act play out.

  “Do you know, I can’t be bothered anymore,” said Evil. “I’ve had enough.”

  “Don’t say that,” said Good, with insincerity in his eye. “There’s always the next time. This was so close.”

  “Not close enough. It never is, is it? I don’t know why I try. Well, no more. You can have your stupid victory. I hope you choke on it.”

  “Come, come. There’s no need to take it so personally.”

  “How else am I meant to take it? I did everything right this time. A perfect start—well, almost—a great mid-game, and a killer finish. Then you had to cheat, didn’t you? And I still did well. You should have conceded. I had won. Why didn’t you concede?”

  “Well. You know. While there is hope left in the world and all that…. Look, I’m sorry. But can’t you see? It’s been rigged from the start. You think we’re the only ones in this game?”

  Evil dragged himself away from the devastation below. “What do you mean, not the only ones?”

  “Don’t be dense. You know who I mean. Him. It. Whatever.” Good pointed his index finger skyward. “Upstairs.”

  Evil couldn’t help but raise his eyes to a metaphorical heaven. “You’re joking. Since when has He cared about anything? And as for them,” Evil pointed down to the city, “they’ve cared even less for a long time. You can’t tell me it’s about Him and them.”

  “Who’s won every contest since time immemorial?”

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Like I said, I’m sorry.” Good came to Evil’s side and put his arm around him. “Anyway. It’s not over yet, brother. You never know what might happen. Morden is not dead yet.”

  Chapter 2 Empire

  Who, me?

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Morden glided in the night, a shadow that passed across the stars. With a waxing moon and his dragon sight, he could see men far below scurrying around the battlefield. They thought th
ey were being clever, preparing a surprise for his army, which slept peacefully three miles to the east. But he had fought many battles and was not stupid. Ten years conquering the known world and beyond was experience none could match. He’d fought battles of all kinds against all kinds of enemies. So while every battle was unique, there was plenty he had learnt which made winning increasingly easy.

  Looking down at their futile efforts, he couldn’t blame them. This was their last hurrah. If they lost this, they lost everything. The Assanid Empire was ancient, the biggest empire the world had known until Morden had come along. The only reason it had been relatively unknown in the Reaches was because few ships had ever managed to sail across the oceans to the south to reach it, and the Assanids didn’t like the cold so didn’t venture north.

  The Assanid Empire was impressive in scale and scope. It reached across deserts, mountains, and an inland sea to stretch a thousand leagues across and half as many from top to bottom. The rulers managed to bind the nations within its borders with a rule of law which, though strict, was fair to all peoples, setting none above the other. Morden had taken note. It kept things orderly. The only ones to sit above all this were the Assanid ruling class, with their emperor ruling above all. It was an empire which had lasted a thousand years and more. In many ways, it was a shame it would soon be lost to them. But Morden was a Dark Lord, and if he saw something he liked, he took it. And he really liked the Assanid Empire. Its buildings alone were a marvel. His lot would learn so much from his soon-to-be subjects.

  Word was the Assanid Emperor, PendeKut II, was present for the last-ditch battle. Quite how they thought they could win was beyond Morden. While they did have the most fearsome, best-trained heavy cavalry he had ever seen, an Imperial Guard whose reputation routed armies just by turning up and presenting their plumed helmets, as well as guns which put Morden’s to shame—they could actually hit things—they didn’t have dragons led by a Dark Lord.

  To Morden’s left and right, two of his half-siblings flew in perfect formation, a few yards from his wingtip. As he banked and turned, they followed. He could sense their excitement. Even after ten years of constant conquest, they had not lost the thirst for battle. Unlike Morden. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he’d grown bored of battles but it had been at least three years ago. This would be the last one though. After today, there would be nothing left to conquer.

  Time to end the battle before it had a chance to begin.

  Morden did a wing-over and went into a steep dive, gulping air as he did, feeding his inner fire. His nostrils picked up the smell of oil. Why they thought he would ever have fallen for such an old trick was beyond him. He guessed it was because they thought they were fighting uneducated barbarians from the north who only had one tactic, the frontal assault—which, to be fair, was about all orcs could normally manage. The Assanid plan may have fooled a warlord, but it didn’t come close to troubling Morden. The Handbook had proven inexhaustible in detailing ways in which Dark Lords could screw up battles, and Morden had no intention of falling for the same ruses. Unlike his predecessors, he’d established quaint new customs like scouting. Knowledge was as valuable as a hundred thousand bloodthirsty orcs and a dozen dragons. Well, maybe not as useful as the dragons, but certainly the orcs who, though fearsome fighters and absolutely loyal, weren’t too bright when their bloodlust was up.

  At a hundred feet they were noticed by the men on the ground, but it was too late. The soldiers didn’t have time to worry about impending doom before the fire they had planned for Morden’s army took them and their best-laid plans. The three dragons made several passes over the field, incinerating everything with their breath before climbing to a height where they could check whether they’d missed anything. Morden spotted the odd survivor struggling back towards the low hills upon which the Assanid army was camped. It was a huge army, bigger even than Morden’s. The bulk of it was ill-equipped slave rabble, chained together and driven into battle with whips. They were fodder to soak up the opposition’s energy before the chariots, cavalry, and regular troops came in, supported by cannon. It was a good army, which had been beaten twice already as it had been pushed back towards the capital. Capitulation was their only option after tonight. Once more, Morden had shown none could stand before him and his Black Dragon Flight.

  ***

  As it turned out, to Morden’s surprise, there was a battle. It could have been pride, desperation, or fear that brought the Assanids to the field, but for whichever reason, they came. For once his host faced a seemingly endless foe, stretching as it did out of sight. Shame about the quality. While slaves were urged forward by their masters, Morden’s battle hardened orcs stood their ground and waited while his cannon wrought ruin on the advancing ranks. Despite the carnage Morden’s army inflicted, it ended up taking most of the day to break the Assanids. Morden found it annoying. It was such a waste. He left his generals to clean up and retired to his tent. He would deal with the aftermath when he was rested.

  The following morning, he followed his Guard Captain, Ironfist, into his command tent to find Stonearm and his general staff waiting for him. Chatter filled the tent with a light-hearted air. The General’s small talk fell away when Morden entered the tent.

  Morden let his hood drop—it was far too hot to have it up all the time—and smiled. His generals winced and took a step backwards, reminding Morden his appearance hadn’t improved with time. He ought to make more effort to cloud their minds and spare them his grisly undead features, presenting instead the dark, smouldering good looks of his youth.

  “As you were, gentlemen,” said Morden. It was an odd order but one he had been told was traditionally given by a ranking officer entering a room (or tent) with subordinates to set them at ease. Given he was a Dark Lord, and easily the most terrifying thing in the world, he thought it an ineffectual command. The one exception was Stonearm. His Field Marshal had spent so much time around his Dark Lord master he barely flinched when Morden displayed his considerable power. “I assume the battle ended to our satisfaction?”

  “Yes, boss…my lord,” said Stonearm. “We have prisoners. Lots of prisoners. About fifty thousand or so.”

  Morden raised an eyebrow. That was a shitload by any standard, and unusual given orcs weren’t known for leaving enemies alive. Perhaps they had got tired. “And PendeKut?”

  Stonearm pulled the face he made when he had less good news to give. Not quite bad news, but not good news. It was an odd combination of scrunched-up nose and toothy grimace. It was a bit like he’d been hit in the face, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to be annoying.

  “We rounded up all the surviving nobles but none of them has owned up to being PendeKut. They’ve closed ranks.”

  “Can’t we just pick him out? Surely we have a picture.”

  “I’m afraid not, my lord. All we have to go on are these coins and the odd painted relief on buildings we’ve come across. I had an artist make a copy.” Stonearm indicated a small pile of coins and parchment.

  Morden stalked over and picked up one of the bigger coins. The stamped face was PendeKut but could have been anyone. The profile on the parchment likewise was no help. Assanid art was stylised. It also followed all art when it came to depicting rulers by flattering them in the extreme. He could think of only one way to uncover PendeKut, and he’d have to do it himself.

  “Take me to the nobles,” ordered Morden, pulling up his hood. It was time the Assanids met their new ruler.

  The Assanid nobility had been corralled together and left to sit in the dirt. Morden was surprised there were so many. Probably a few thousand. Some were carrying a nick here and there, others looked singed, but otherwise they didn’t look like they’d been in the largest battle the world had seen. Morden was impressed to see defiance in many of their eyes. For now, he kept his power in check.

  “My name is Morden Deathwing. I only have one question for you today. Which one of you is PendeKut?”

  He spoke in their
native tongue—compared to the contortions his larynx performed speaking Orcish, the Assanid tongue had proven easy to master. There was a ripple through the squatting prisoners as the full force of his Dark Will washed over them, staggering them on their haunches. Those nearest him grabbed their faces and screamed as their flesh puckered. For a second, other than the cowering and screams, there was no reaction. Perhaps PendeKut had been killed. It seemed improbable. Unlike the rulers of some nations he had conquered, the Assanids had no recent history of leading from the front.

  Then, twenty yards away, a man jumped to his feet. His robe was dusty, lined with gold, and his coiffure was impressive.

  “Are you PendeKut?” asked Morden, this time without the force of his will. He didn’t want to kill the man.

  The man looked panicked, as if regretting getting to his feet. He looked wildly around. “No, I’m not PendeKut. He is!” The man shot out a finger at another noble some yards away.

  The accused noble’s eyes widened and he jumped to his feet. “I’m not PendeKut! He is!”

  Again, a finger picked out a smaller man whose demeanour seemed somehow different. The man rose slowly to his feet and looked to each side. Those around him averted their gaze. The man took a deep breath and puffed out his chest. “I am…not PendeKut!” he declared solemnly. “He is!”

  He gestured with a limp finger off to one side. A man jumped up from the area. “I’m not PendeKut. He is!”

  Within seconds men were jumping up all over, declaring they were not PendeKut but the bloke over there was.

  Even this early in the day, the sun was fierce and Morden was losing his literal and figurative cool. “If the real PendeKut doesn’t stand up right now, I’m going to be extremely pissed off and crucify the lot of you.”

  The several dozen or so on their feet fell to earth as if they’d been punched. Then a voice came from the centre of the huddled nobility.

  “Enough.”