The Dark Lord's Handbook Page 10

  Ahead the merchant who owned the wagon had produced a whip and was applying it to the backs of his mules. A group of orcs pulled at the sides of the wagon.

  “Heave you lazy, good for nothing slackers!” shouted the merchant, who ignored the murderous looks he received from the orcs as they pushed.

  Morden could feel Stonearm bristle as the merchant’s whip strayed and caught an orc across the shoulder. There was strength in the muscle of the orcs though, and the wagon lurched forward out of its muddy clamp. The merchant tossed a few coins from his purse into the mud on either side and whipped his mules on.

  From what Morden could gather, this was a choke point, and any wagon that wanted to get into the city had to make it through the quagmire. The orcs added their muscle for a fee to get each cart through.

  “It’s a scam,” said Stonearm as their turn approached. He nodded to the roadside where there was an orc who was organising the other orcs. “He makes sure the mud is always fresh.”

  Morden considered what he was being told. It was ingenious. Then he considered that he had no money.

  “But don’t worry,” said Stonearm, as though he could read Morden’s mind.

  Their wagon faced the muddy quagmire and the orc that Stonearm had pointed out came over.

  “I’m Murgoh. It’s ten flounders to cross the mud,” he said with no pretence at preamble.

  Morden noticed the orc’s teeth were flat like Stonearm’s.

  “Krch ung klop nigh,” said Stonearm.

  The orc picked at his nose and then shook his head.

  “Nine is the best I can do, orc or not,” said the orc.

  “You realise I don’t even have that,” hissed Morden to his sergeant.

  “I’ll get the lads,” said Stonearm, and before Morden could say a word, the big orc jumped down off the wagon and disappeared round the side.

  “Okay, boys, let’s be having you!” ordered Stonearm.

  There was a clatter of bodies from the rear and Morden’s little army made an appearance. It hadn’t occurred to them to take off any of the armour, or leave their weapons in the back, and there was instant commotion.

  “Who the hell are they?” said Murgoh.

  Stonearm was marshalling his men along either side of the wagon.

  “Ready when you are, sir,” said Stonearm.

  “No, no. You can’t do that,” said Murgoh, waving his arms. “This is our mud. You can’t heave your wagon through yourself.”

  “Why not?” said Morden.

  Murgoh looked perplexed. His brow furrowed. “Demarcation! That’s why not.”

  It was Morden’s turn to feel out of sorts. “Huh?”

  “An assertion of working rights,” said Murgoh smoothly. “It’s clear your lads are soldiers and mine are cart handlers. You do your job and let us do ours.”

  This made no sense at all. What was he on about? “But my soldiers can do your job,” said Morden.

  Murgoh pursed his lips. “Right you are, indeed they could.” The orc smiled. “But you wouldn’t want my lads doing your lads’ job, now would you?”

  Murgoh looked over to where his men were bunched and nodded. It was obvious they were prepared for the odd reluctant payee. Clubs, knives and assorted weapons of the bone breaking type slid into view in the hands of Murgoh’s men. It was not lost on Stonearm.

  “You don’t want to be doing that,” said the big orc, squaring up to Murgoh. “We are much better armed that you lot.”

  Murgoh had to lean back to meet Stonearm’s eyes. “Maybe, but there are a lot more of us.”

  From his seat on the wagon Morden could see other orcs appearing from among the hovels, either side and behind. Murgoh was right, there were a lot more of them. A street fight was the last thing he needed. He just wanted to find Grimtooth and work out what to do next. He stood on his seat and spread his arms.

  “Kznk d’lak!” he roared.

  Much like when he spoken those words before in Grimtooth’s tent, they had power that Morden now recognised as his dragon voice. They also had a similar effect on the orcs who froze as one, even Stonearm.

  “You,” said Morden, pointing at Murgoh. “Get your men and move this wagon through that mud now.”

  Murgoh seemed incapable of movement.

  “NOW!” roared Morden at the unfortunate orc.

  Murgoh staggered backwards and then threw himself into the mud face down. Clearly Murgoh was going to be no use.

  “Stonearm.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” said the orc, snapping to attention.

  “Get the men to move us through.” He looked over to Murgoh’s assembled men. “We’re not going to have a problem here, are we?” he enquired of them loudly.

  Weapons dropped, heads shook and bodies spirited away among the hovels that lined the road. Where there had been fifty orcs a second ago there were now none.

  Stonearm ordered his men along the sides of the cart and then went to the front to lead the mules through. The mud barely made it half way up the huge orc’s calf muscles as he heaved the reluctant beasts across. Morden was sure that Stonearm could have lifted wagon, mules and men as one and carried them over balanced on one shoulder. Still, he let his new sergeant have his fun.

  It didn’t take long for the wagon to get across and they were soon on their way again. There was still plenty of traffic and Morden still had to work out exactly where they were going. Entering the city proper probably was not the best idea as not only would they stand out and there were likely to be guards, but more importantly it was unlikely that Grimtooth would be in there.

  For now though, they crawled through the outer city. Along the roadside were stalls selling all manner of goods, but trade was hardly brisk. The buildings, or more accurately huts thrown together from odds and ends of wood and canvas, were in a terrible state. Morden shuddered at the thought of what the place was like when it rained.

  There was no lack of people though and Morden couldn’t help wonder how they survived or what they did. After a while, he noticed orcs huddled in small groups, sitting in the mud, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings with vacant expressions.

  “What’s the matter with those orcs?” Morden asked Stonearm when they had passed the fifth or sixth such group.

  Stonearm looked over to where Morden had indicated and shook his head. “Bad news, boss,” said Stonearm sadly.

  “Bad news?”

  “Headfucker,” said the big orc, snapping at the reigns and urging the mules on.

  Morden had heard of the drug but he’d never seen anyone, or any orc, under the influence.

  “They aren’t here any more,” said Stonearm by way of further explanation. “They are lost.”

  Morden looked at the stoned orcs and brooded. Such a waste. What they needed was something to live for, or maybe die for; they needed motivation.

  The city walls were getting closer now. They came to a crossroads. There was an outer road that circled the city, and ahead Morden could see the gate into the city. The walls were tall and imposing. The gate was well built and well guarded. Steel shone in the late afternoon sun. There was less traffic heading into the city, much of it turning left and right. Only the wealthier looking were going straight on.

  Decision time.

  Morden looked left and the road was much like the one they were on, flanked with hovels and a stinking pile of refuse of every kind; animal, vegetable and orc.

  He looked to the right expecting much the same, and was not surprised bar one small detail that made his heart leap. Standing at the corner, arms folded, looking directly at Morden was an orc that he hadn’t seen for months.

  Grimtooth!

  When Morden caught Grimtooth’s eye, the orc swung round and marched off.

  “Turn right,” said Morden.

  Chapter 18 Weeding the Flowerbed

  Your ambition should have no limits.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  The Count was wondering if he had the right day. W
hen he had arrived at the tower there was no evidence of the other conspirators. He didn’t feel the need for an entourage, but the others normally had personal servants and guards. At the foot of the tower, to one side, was a small but ornate out building that served as servant quarters. He could have expected to see a certain amount of bustle, maybe smoke from a fire, or tied up mounts. But all was strangely quiet.

  He left his horse loose to graze the short grass. It was well trained and would not wander. With his ridiculous disguise on, he proceeded into the tower, a legacy of past glories, a folly perhaps, but tall and well built. The stairs spiralled up the inner side of the tower wall, with rooms off landings filling the centre. The marble of the stair had been worn smooth over millennia of footfalls. For a man less fit than the Count the steps would have been tiring.

  Eventually the stairs opened out between two pillars into the circular room that covered the top of the tower. The worst of winter was over since his last visit and through the arched windows the Count could see the forest had a full canopy of green. Across the room was the archway that led to a final small stair that went onto the roof itself from which Black Orchid normally made her entrance.

  The Count half expected to see his fellow ‘flowers’ arranged around – he was late after all – but did not expect to see Black Orchid standing alone, waiting.

  “Ah, Count,” said Black Orchid in a frighteningly genial manner. “Glad you could make it.”

  The Count was unsure what to do. A bow seemed appropriate.

  “I am most sorry for my tardiness, my Lady,” he said as he dipped his head and flourished his arm in what he thought was a courtly manner.

  “How sweet,” said Black Orchid. “Less of the formalities, Count.”

  The Count straightened and walked to his prescribed position in what should have been a circle of co-conspirators. This brought a peel of disturbing laughter from Black Orchid. Then it registered. She had called him Count. Twice. Not Hemlock. He tugged the hood from his head.

  “Bravo, Count. Bravo. I see you understand,” said Black Orchid.

  “There has been…” started the Count.

  “Some weeding in the flowerbed,” finished Black Orchid. “They served their purpose.”

  Indeed, the Count had heard of the unfortunate demise of the Countess of Umbria. It had been covered up, of course. They had circulated the story that Edwin had indeed slain an ancient evil that had risen from the lake, which served a secondary purpose of bolstering his status as a hero. Unfortunately, Edwin had not followed through and had stayed put in Wellow, in love with some young strumpet. The Count had assumed that the meeting was to discuss how best to direct him, preferably in a way that would not be fatal.

  These thoughts were interrupted by Black Orchid pulling back her own hood.

  The Count had seen beautiful women of all shapes, colours, sizes and dress sense. Black Orchid was not one of these women. Those women had been human. Black Orchid was most definitely not human. She was also not beautiful, she was riveting. Her skin was smooth, almost translucent, and black, like polished obsidian. She had a thin face, with high cheeks and eyes that were yellow slits. She had no hair, but what looked like a crest that ran back over the top of her head.

  She smiled to reveal a set of teeth that looked like a rows of ivory needles.

  “Do you know who I am, Count?” asked Black Orchid.

  The Count felt a lump form in his throat. He had no inkling at all who this woman (for that sake of a better description) was at all. No myth, nor legend, suggested itself.

  “In truth, my Lady, I have no idea,” managed the Count.

  Black Orchid held his eyes for a moment, as though she were trying to read his mind, perhaps for truth? She didn’t blink. The Count began to wonder whether he was going to be the last flower to be deadheaded in Black Orchid’s garden. Again she smiled, and it didn’t help matters.

  “I am Lady Deathwing,” she said. “You may have heard of us? The Deathwings?”

  Until this moment, the Count had never understood the expression: paralysed by fear. At least not in men. Men who were afraid tended to drop everything and run in exactly the opposite direction to what they were afraid of and hide. Now he understood. When there was no possibility of escape, when there was nowhere to run to, or any place to hide, when the fate you faced was as terrible as your highly imaginative mind could conjure – and the Count had seen many a bad end to understand how bad they could be – then indeed being paralysed by fear was very real. The Count was sure that if he wanted to he could not even twitch his itching nose, let alone raise a hand to scratch it.

  “I see that you have,” continued Lady Deathwing. “I’m so glad there’s no need for any kind of lesson or demonstration.”

  The Deathwings: the legendary leaders of Zoon the Reviled’s Black Dragon Flight. They had so scarred the world that the fear of them was inbred. The Count had seen strong men cry and piss themselves with fear and never quite understood. He had been fearful but not as close to losing all control as he was now. With a terrible realisation he knew that this conspiracy was not some cunning plan to start a war of convenience but the beginnings of something that could lay ruin across the world.

  Lady Deathwing was standing there, enjoying his terror. But then she would. She was an evil, black-hearted dragon. This womanly guise was merely a convenient form.

  “I thought you were…” started the Count.

  “All dead?”

  The Count nodded.

  “Guess who thought wrong?” said Lady Deathwing with a smile that if it was intended to relax the Count failed miserably. “Let’s say it has been convenient for us to let the world think that we had all fallen, and in truth there aren’t many of us left.”

  Though truth and anything Lady Deathwing said were likely only loosely acquainted, the Count hoped that this was the case. Then an odd thought occurred, one of those thoughts that ought to best be left to rattle around and not be voiced, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

  “Forgive me for asking but…” The Count swallowed. He felt like he was standing on the edge of cliff and vertigo was whispering in his ear to jump. “…aren’t you on the wrong side?”

  “The wrong side?”

  “What I mean is, my Lady, with no disrespect, aren’t you meant to be on the Other Side?”

  “The Other Side?” asked Lady Deathwing, taking a step towards the Count.

  It took all of the Count’s will not to turn and leap from one of the many windows. A short fall and splat, it would be all over.

  “The Evil Side?”

  Lady Deathwing stopped and let her head fall back laughing. If there had been glass in the arches, it surely would have shattered. As it was, the Count was convinced his ears were bleeding.

  “My dear Count, what a darling you are. There is no Good Side or Evil Side.”

  “There isn’t?”

  “There is the Winning Side and the Losing Side. And I’m on the first.”

  “The Winning Side?”

  “There, you’ve got it. Now that’s settled, I have a job for you. My idiot husband has dipped his wick once too often and we have his mess to clean up.”

  So there are at least two of them, thought the Count. This was not good.

  “It seems our hero…what’s his name?”

  “Edwin.”

  “Yes, Edwin. It seems our hero, Edwin, has his sword – thanks to the Countess – and has at last got himself a cause. The love of his life has absconded with a middle aged poet undergoing a mid-life crisis and Edwin is in hot pursuit.” Lady Deathwing sighed. “Men are such fools.”

  “But if it’s the woman he loves?” said the Count. He knew he would have raised mountains if anyone had stolen his beloved wife.

  “No, not Edwin, my dear Count. The poet. The poet is an idiot. If it’s not some young girl it’s a fast stallion. Fortunately, Edwin believes her to be abducted by a great evil and not some thirty something fool trying desperately t
o be young again. What I need you to do is to go and slow Edwin down. We don’t want him getting Griselda back too quickly. He’ll need an army, and that will take some arranging.”

  The Count was trying his hardest to keep up but now he completely lost. “An army? To defeat a poet?”

  “You should hear his poetry,” said Lady Deathwing, and she winced theatrically.

  The Count forced a laugh.

  “No, not the poet, Count. The great evil. That’s where my idiot husband comes in. Word from Bostokov is that an overzealous commander on a sting operation to catch woodland bandits instead got himself a black dragon. Needless to say, it was not I, nor my husband, so that left only one possible answer.”

  Lady Deathwing paused. The Count was unsure what he was meant to say and just shrugged.

  “A bastard, Count. A bastard. And we can’t have a bastard Deathwing running around now can we? But he could be useful. We need a great evil, a Dark Lord, and this bastard fits the bill.”

  The Count shook his head. The thought that were two Deathwings running around was bad enough. Any number above two was incrementally worse.

  “We need this other dragon – I think his name is Morden – to do his thing. We can’t save the world from the ravages of a Dark Lord unless he does some ravaging first, now can we?”

  “I suppose not,” agreed the Count.

  “Good. Good. I see you’ve got it. Now you’ll need to spend a lot of money so borrow as much as you can. But don’t worry, Count. I can see what you’re thinking. It’s not as though we are going to pay any of it back. If all goes well those filthy money grubbing middle class merchants and money lenders will all be dead, and if they are not, well, we’re called Deathwing for a good reason. And don’t worry about the poet and the girl, I’ll have my husband take care of them. He needs something useful to do. Now, run along.”