The Dark Lord's Handbook: Conquest Page 10
Chapter 11 Poetic Suicide
Genius is too easily credited, except to a Dark Lord, whose balance is full.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
Lord Deathwing’s plan to get his wife back was, even if he thought so himself, genius. That Penbury was involved was without dispute. What he needed was to pay the chancellor a visit, but he couldn’t go empty-handed. He needed collateral to deal with a man of finance. He needed leverage. Then it came to him. He could solve two problems with one stroke if that leverage was Morden’s queen. He could get his wife back and rid Morden of Griselda. It would be for his son’s own good. What he needed was a means to get to Griselda, and her father was the answer. Kristoff was her weakness.
As he approached Kristoff’s room, he heard the familiar raised voice of his son’s queen.
“He said what? Right, that’s it. Let me sort him out.”
Lord Deathwing managed to dodge into an alcove before Griselda went storming past. It looked like Morden was in for a roasting, which was of no concern other than she would be out of the way.
He found Kristoff in his room. It had survived the volcanic bombardment by virtue of being well below Morden’s quarters. It was a drab, dungeon-like room, with a single window that looked northeast to the mountains and through which the smouldering Firerock Mountain could be seen. The room was scant of decoration and had the scent of an abattoir, thanks to the muddy brown tallow candles that lined the mantelpiece, with a hint of piss pot (it having not been emptied in a while). The smoky candles lit the room with misery. A grubby cot covered in unwashed linen was pushed against one wall, above which was a crude painting of Griselda. She wasn’t smiling.
The desk was against another wall, littered with scraps of paper, crumbs, a half-empty cup, an inkwell, and black feathered quills. Kristoff was sitting at the table, his chin in one hand, elbow resting on the table. The other hand grasped the cup loosely. His body sagged like a badly stuffed pillow.
The entire tableau was so depressing Lord Deathwing considered leaving and letting nature take its course. Kristoff was bound to kill himself sooner rather than later. But no, he couldn’t let the whim of time and a depressed poet upset his plans. He needed the poet dead now, and seemingly by his own hand.
“Kristoff!” said Deathwing, trying hard to sound upbeat despite his surroundings. “How are you, my old friend? You look well.”
It was a lie. Kristoff looked marginally better than the stale piss in his pot. Every time Deathwing saw him, he seemed to have aged disproportionately. Though white hair could be distinguished on some, Kristoff was not lucky enough to have gone prematurely white, but ash grey. The colour was only part of the problem. What straggly bits of hair he had left clung to his mottled scalp like moss to a stone.
Kristoff turned from the window to greet his guest. “Are you here to torment me? I wouldn’t bother if I were you. The desolation outside is merely a mirror of my soul and the torment I already suffer. Even you cannot increase the pain I feel in the nail of one finger more than that which burdens me. I am without hope, without future, and … without love.”
He was also without doubt the most pathetic creature Lord Deathwing had ever had the misfortune to come across. Now that Deathwing was fully into the room, and close enough to smell him above the room’s stench, it was clear Kristoff was also without any sense of personal hygiene; his stink was stale and choking. Deathwing had to wonder what it was that kept Kristoff from ending it all.
“Torment you? If I have in the past been less than delicate with you, I apologise. I am not here to torment you,” said Deathwing with what he hoped was sincere reproach. “I am a friend to you now. Are we not related with your daughter married to my son? Do not despair. You have Griselda, and your poetry. How rich you are compared to many! And it is your poetry I am concerned with. I was wondering if you might pen something for me. A few lines would suffice. Perhaps your misery may be lessened if expressed in metre and verse?”
Kristoff stared at him, then reached out for a quill, dipped it, and scratched on a scrap of paper he had to hand. He gave it to Deathwing.
Fuck off, it read.
Now he knew from whom Griselda got her language. The urge to coerce the miserable wretch into doing what he wanted was strong, but he couldn’t take the risk. He needed a few authentic lines of depressingly crap poetry. Griselda would know if the words were not her father’s. It took skill to be so bad.
“Come, come, Kristoff. You can do better than that,” said Deathwing, tossing the paper onto the table. He walked over to the window, more for the fresh air than the view, which was indeed desolate. “I don’t suppose you have heard from your son? I understand you want to go and find him.”
There was a scrape of chair on stone as Kristoff spun round in his seat. “What do you know of Edwin? Where is he? Tell me.”
Deathwing continued to stare out the window, withholding immediate reply.
There was another jarring scrape as Kristoff stood. “Tell me, damn you. If you know anything of my son then I must know.”
“Morden has forbidden you to go and find him, hasn’t he?” asked Deathwing. “I know nothing of your son, except his madness and that he remains lost. He’s probably wandering unknown to any across distant lands. He would take a lot of finding. At least for someone like you.”
“But not you,” said Kristoff. “Not for someone like you.”
“Like me?”
“A dragon. You can fly. You can cover continents and see everything. I’ve heard the talk. I know how you hunt. You could hunt for him. You found him once before, so I’m told.”
“I did?” It was true he had found Edwin out on the steppes and brought him with haste to Deathcropolis for his showdown with Zoon, but he thought only he, Morden, and his wife knew the details. Except if Morden had said anything to Griselda, and she had told her father. He would have to have a chat with Morden about loose talk on the marital pillow. It could get people in trouble.
“Griselda told me how you found him and brought him to that cursed temple,” said Kristoff, confirming Deathwing’s suspicions.
“That time. Yes. Well. I had no idea he was related. I thought he was only a hero. I did that to rescue Morden. And you, as it turns out. You have me to thank for your life.”
“Life? What life? The grave would have been a mercy. I have you to thank for my continued anguish. And for making me prisoner in a Dark Lord’s fortress. I can thank you for bewitching my daughter and being father to a monster who is going to bring ruin and misery to the world. That’s what I can thank you for, Deathwing.”
All true, thought Deathwing. He’d done well so far. Now if only he could get this poet to write him some suicidal verse, he could be on his way.
“There. That’s it. That’s what I’m talking about,” said Deathwing.
“What?” said Kristoff.
“Your insight. Your poet’s eye. Most fear death, but you see it for what it is: a release from suffering. Life is suffering. Death is freedom from it. I see it now.”
“Life is suffering … death the escape …” Kristoff suddenly seemed to be elsewhere. He was staring at nothing, his lips moving wordlessly.
Deathwing moved to Kristoff’s side and gently pushed him into his chair. He took a quill and put it into the poet’s hand. He flattened out a crumpled piece of paper and laid it on the table.
“Write,” whispered Deathwing into Kristoff’s ear. “Life is suffering … death the escape … and don’t forget Morden.”
Trance-like, Kristoff started to scribble. Deathwing left him to it. He went back to the window and peered over the sill. Even though Kristoff’s room was in the lower part of what remained of the tower, and most of it was intact, it was still a long way down to the courtyard below. There was plenty of activity now that the eruption had stopped spitting out orc-crushing rocks. In the courtyard, there were piles of ash where teams of orcs had swept it. A large pile was directly below the window. He’d have to make s
ure Kristoff’s body cleared it. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t cushion his fall, but why risk it?
Behind him, the scribbling had stopped. Kristoff was holding the piece of paper and reading, seemingly oblivious to his guest. Lord Deathwing went over and took the poem from the man’s loose grip. The writing was surprisingly elegant, with well-formed letters and no blots. It was so distinctive as to be almost impossible to forge. This suited Deathwing well. That Kristoff had written it would not be in dispute. Now, for the poem itself. Had the planted seed borne fruit?
‘What is life but suffering,
Under a Dark Lord’s shadow?
No hope.
No peace.
Only in death,
Can be found release.’
Indeed it had. Perfect. He’d never been one for poetry himself, so could not vouch for its quality as a piece of art, but it was more than adequate for his purposes.
“Kristoff,” said Deathwing, trying to gain the poet’s attention.
Kristoff turned his head dreamily.
“Excellent work, my friend. You have managed to express the essence of all that we have spoken of in a short, but bitingly accurate, few lines of verse. Well done. Really, well done. Come, let me read it to you in the light of the window as you stare out over the desolation that mirrors the work and your very being.”
Deathwing took Kristoff’s limp hand and pulled him gently to his feet and over to the window. In a daze, Kristoff stood and stared over the fortress and beyond, to the ash-covered mountains. Dark clouds hung over the peaks, lightning splitting the darkness with flashes, the echo of their passing rumbling in the air. Deathwing placed one hand on the small of the poet’s back and started to read the lines he held in the other hand.
“What is life but suffering,” he started, “Under a Dark Lord’s shadow? No hope. No peace. Only in death …” Deathwing grasped the back of Kristoff’s trousers and heaved him up and out of the window. The poet arced gracefully out. Deathwing was disappointed Kristoff did not scream. Perhaps the poet realised the futility of it. There was a crack as skull hit stone below. “… can be found release,” finished Deathwing.
Deathwing leaned out to see Kristoff’s body in a broken heap, blood pooling around his head, and the first orcs coming over to look at the mess. Deathwing ducked back in before any of them looked up, which they were bound to do. He looked around the room. There was nothing else to be done but to replace the poem on the desk next to the still-wet quill and leave. His job was done. Now all he had to do was find Griselda and break the tragic news.
Chapter 12 Fleet
A show of force is not nearly as credible as the application of force.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
For Penbury, dinner the previous evening had been a disappointment. The starter had been a predictable, and rather dull, feta cheese salad with pine nuts, wilted baby spinach, and an uninspiring dressing. It had not boded well for the rest of dinner. A bistro-quality starter was not what he had been expecting. The manner in which the other dinner guests had tucked it away, with appreciative grunts, suggested that the standard of gastronomy was low in this distant corner of civilisation. From the comments that had been made, the chef had performed wonders in combining average ingredients in a casually thoughtless manner resulting in a dish whose only real quality had lain in the craftsmanship of the platter on which it was served, which was a beautifully decorated bone porcelain—easily identified as such by the thinness of the plate and its translucence.
Breakfast that morning had been equally lacking. As a result, the Chancellor found himself on a balcony overlooking the bay with King Telem and other dignitaries with his thoughts more on lunch, and how it represented a last best hope for some good food before he passed on from a malcontent stomach, rather than on the display of revolutionary military power that was about to take place.
“What are those boats there, Chidwick?” asked Penbury of his aide, indicating a line of scruffy-looking vessels that had been parked on the downwind side of the bay in a ragged line, anchors holding them in place.
“Those ships, sir, are the enemy. For the purposes of this demonstration.”
“That’s what I thought. So who’s on those boats? I’m sure I can see crew members.”
“They would be the ships’ crews, sir.”
Penbury squinted in the sunlight and indicated to a nearby servant to bring the shade to cover him more so he could see better. There was something odd about the crew. Not only were they static, they were all of a common frame and tan. If he was not mistaken, they were all orcs, and it looked like they were lashed to the various parts of the vessel.
“I’m confused, Chidwick. Why do these boats need crew? I thought the idea was that they were going to be destroyed by that lot.” Penbury pointed at the gleaming new ships arranged in a line upwind. (The wind placement was not too relevant, as their sails were furled and they were being manoeuvred into final positions by more traditional means for warships, the oar.)
Chidwick looked perplexed. “I’m not sure, sir. I’ll ask.”
Penbury’s secretary sidled over to one of the naval dignitaries, resplendent in his feathered hat, and muttered his question before sidling back.
“They wanted as realistic as possible a measure of the effect these new ships will have on the enemy and so provided crew from captured orc insurgents,” said Chidwick.
“Get me a telescope, Chidwick,” said Penbury. It had been an oversight. He should have had one from the start. His eyes were not getting any better as the years passed and he had not appreciated how far from the action they would be. With custom efficiency, Chidwick returned with two telescopes. Penbury examined both and picked the larger one, allowing Chidwick to use the smaller. He took a closer look at the so-called enemy. He could clearly see the ‘enemy’ crew were indeed orcs, and bound in place. They were a mixture of young and old, some small enough to be children, and others that looked like women, though it was hard to tell with orcs sometimes. None of them looked in good shape. Many had passed out in the heat.
“I’m a man of detail, Chidwick, but this seems a touch unnecessary.”
“Excuse me, Chancellor, I couldn’t help but overhear.” With an immaculate coiffure and clothing to match, a man with more teeth in a smile than Penbury had seen in a while, proffered a hand. “Delegate Antonio Amerigo Raimonto Giuliano Giovanni Flaviano Taddeo Pepe, at your service. My friends call me Pepe.” Penbury shook the offered hand. The grip was loose. “I can explain, if you like?”
“By all means,” said Penbury. He could feel Chidwick tensing at his side. His aide didn’t like any intrusion on the chancellor that did not go through him.
“Your assistant was quite correct. Every detail must be observed if we are to succeed in this enterprise, and so it was I who suggested these enemy vessels should be crewed, in a manner, so our crews could see as closely as possible the enemy they would be facing when they are in battle for real.”
Penbury remained unconvinced and let his face say so with a frown.
“They are all, each one, enemies of the state,” continued Delegate Pepe. “They were scheduled for execution for insurgency anyway. This way makes some use of their forfeit lives.”
“So instead of being beheaded, or hanged, they are to be used for target practice?”
“I see you understand,” said Pepe, his smile widening. “I am confident you will be impressed.”
“Chidwick, I need a drink,” said Penbury.
The new ships were in line now, side on to the enemy. Through his telescope, Penbury could see the cannon that had been developed lined along the decks. Three men stood behind each. Officers strode up and down the lines behind their men, barking orders that, at this distance, could not be heard but the effect of which had the men bustling around the new weapons. Each cannon was not particularly big, perhaps a man’s length. Into each, a shot, comfortably held in two hands by one man, was rolled in one end after the charge—charge being
the word for the black powder parcel that fired the weapon, if Penbury remembered correctly.
Chidwick returned with a glass of red wine and a small plate with an assortment of canapés. Penbury took one, a red grape and soft cheese cracker, and washed it down with the wine, which was good. The food in these parts was nothing exceptional but the wine made up for it.
The men on the boats had resumed their positions behind their weapons. The line of ships was a hundred and fifty yards away from the ‘enemy’ ships. To Penbury’s left, King Telem rose from his chair and produced a small white kerchief. He let it drop and a man with a flag, bearing the king’s crest, waved a signal to the fleet.
“How exciting,” said Delegate Pepe, clapping his hands.
Others around joined Pepe’s applause. From the populace gathered around the rest of the docks and shore front, a cheer went up. Despite this up-welling of excitement and anticipation, Penbury could not bring himself to join the general enthusiasm. He had a bad taste in his mouth that he tried in vain to dispel with another slug of the fine wine Chidwick had found him.
Puffs of smoke shot out along one side of the lead ship and a second later came the boom from the cannon. Penbury swung his telescope across to the ship opposite to see the impact. Of the ten or so shots, few reached their mark, but where they had found flesh the result was terrible. While the hulls looked intact, there was evidence of some damage to the upper parts of the vessel and it looked like more wounds had been caused by splintering than by direct hits. The second ship came in closer, to perhaps a hundred yards, and fired. The effect this time was more pronounced. The third in line came closer still, the captains learning quickly what seemed to be optimal range. As each attacking ship came along the line and fired at the anchored targets, the level of bloodshed and destruction increased. None of the targets were in any danger of sinking, but Penbury didn’t have to stretch his imagination too far to understand what the result of these new weapons would be on the packed decks of warships.