The Dark Lord's Handbook: Conquest Page 11

  He was swinging his telescope back to the attackers when he caught movement away to one side. It looked like a skiff was moving swiftly in from seaward. There was a large cloud of smoke hanging over the water from all the firing, making it increasingly hard to see.

  “What’s that, Chidwick?” asked Penbury. “A hundred yards seaward of the uppermost ship in the line.”

  Chidwick pointed his telescope in the indicated direction but made no reply. Penbury wondered whether he had been mistaken.

  “I see it, sir. A skiff …”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought. What’s it doing?”

  Chidwick adjusted his scope. “It seems to be attacking, sir. I see bowmen, and flame. And a second skiff.”

  Penbury wrestled with his telescope to get a better sight of this new development. It hadn’t been part of the briefing they had received in regards to the day’s events. Finally, he managed to twist something correctly and three skiffs came into sharp relief. There was no doubt they were getting close to the top ship in the line and that there were orcs in them with bows, the arrows of which were clearly alight.

  “I say, Chidwick, this could get interesting.”

  “Indeed, sir. I’m not sure they’ve been spotted yet.”

  As they watched, the procession of firing ships continued. Everyone’s attention seemed to be on the puffs of smoke and the carnage they were inflicting at what was now seventy-five yards or so from their targets. The skiffs had chosen their approach well, being masked by the smoke that rolled over the sea. At seemingly the last moment, the orcs fired a volley of flaming arrows that arced over to the nearest ship, easily hitting from so close.

  “I can’t see that doing much harm,” said Penbury. So few arrows would hardly worry anyone. Any flame that caught would be easily doused.

  An eruption of wood and smoke blew a hundred yards into the air, followed by a blast of sound that made Penbury drop his telescope and cover his ears. As the reverberation of the explosion rolled around the bay, a cry of dismay went up from the crowds. Women screamed and a stampede away from the dock started, even though there was no immediate danger. A darker cloud of smoke rose into the air, mushrooming out as it did. Beneath it, the ship that had been hit had vanished.

  “Good grief, Chidwick. What the hell was in those arrows?”

  Chidwick retrieved Penbury’s telescope and handed it back to his master. “I think they must have hit a powder keg on deck, sir.”

  Penbury brought his telescope up to get a closer look at the aftermath. Of course, Chidwick was correct. They must have hit a store of black powder. It was why those who made festive rockets were banned from doing so inside city limits. They were forever blowing themselves, and those around them, into little pieces. There was nothing left of the ship that had been hit except a burning hull in the water. The top section was gone completely. The next ship in line was in a bad state as well. Penbury could see men furiously trying to put fires out, and others throwing barrels over the side into the water—black powder without doubt, the ship’s captain astute enough to try to avoid the same fate as his unfortunate colleague.

  Of the skiffs nothing remained. It was hard to tell whether they had been caught in the blast, being as close as they had been, or made good their escape. With the thick smoke, it was hard to tell. They could easily have reversed their course and rowed away unseen.

  “Very careless to get blown up like that, wouldn’t you say, Chidwick?” He couldn’t help but feel amused with what had happened. The destruction and loss of life was terrible, but those orcs had some balls on them. A risky but well-executed plan that had got extremely lucky.

  “I don’t imagine they expected to be attacked, sir,” said Chidwick.

  All around was chaos. King Telem was surrounded by his guard and being ushered away. Women in fine silk were in equal measure screaming and fainting, while orders were barked left and right by every nobleman who saw an opportunity to take control and impress the king, which only made matters worse as soldiers and servants ran from one order to the next like panicked sheep. Penbury swept his telescope once more over the bay and the shattered ships. This was the result of a demonstration. He shuddered to think what would happen in a full-scale battle. He swung his view down to the docks. Things looked like they were getting organised as boats headed out to the fleet. As he swung the telescope to the upper part of the city, his view was suddenly engulfed by a massive black bird. A raven. It was sitting on a balustrade, its eyes twitching rapidly around, taking everything in. For an instant, it seemed to look right down the telescope at Penbury. It winked. Or so it seemed. Did ravens blink? They must do. It bobbed its head and took off, quickly lost to view.

  “Chidwick.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Time to go home, I think. I’ve seen enough here.”

  Chapter 13 A Dark Lord Planning

  The future is in things that go BOOM.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Now that Morden potentially had dragons at his disposal, there was planning to be done. He gathered his generals in the war room. In the centre of the room a map of the known world was painted on a table. It was a big table. In the east was Morden’s fortress and his army, represented by an orc figurine carrying a banner whose device had replaced Stonearm’s white hand: a black-cowled figure above which was a dragon, wings spread. The banner’s field was ash grey, which was appropriate given recent events. The banner may have lacked the humour of Stonearm’s flag, and he was happy for orcs to carry it as well as his own¸ but he thought the new one more appropriate for a Dark Lord.

  With the fortress in the east and the rest of the world spread out to the west, it brought home how far he still had to go. The eastern lands, up to the ocean and Deathcropolis, were effectively his. Smaller orc figures dotted the eastern orc cities to denote his control over them. They had required no conquest as such. When he had assumed his mantle at Deathcropolis, the rulers of the other cities had lined up to swear their fealty. The east was therefore not the problem. The tricky bit was getting across the ocean with a huge army so he could begin his conquests. His coming forth was proving harder to plan than he had first thought. It turned out that, left to themselves, orcs were more than happy to eat, sleep, gamble, fight, laze around and scratch their arses, and do just about anything other than what they were told. When he had first brooded seriously about the whole military side of matters, he had come to the conclusion that one of Zoon’s great failings was the lack of military prowess. Not that he had any himself, but he hoped with the help of the more able generals he had found amongst the orcs in the east, combined with the thousands that had fled the west, he might manage something better than an unrestrained horde.

  This need for a plan had been made clearer by the latest news from Xanthos and the demonstration of their new weapons. He had known they too had been dabbling with black powder but was surprised to see their plan was to put these dangerous weapons on ships. Their intent was obvious: catch his army at sea, where its numbers counted for little, and engage in battle across open water. They could win the war by stopping him from landing. It was a simple but effective idea. He had superior land forces; they had centuries of seamanship and a new super weapon. Morden had to admit to himself, if not to the assembled generals, some concern.

  “They have a fleet of a thousand ships and black powder cannon,” said Morden, summarising the news out loud. “That makes things tricky.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Admiral Haijun. “I would not suggest we move our troops without first having secured the seas.”

  Morden wondered how he would have ever got by without an orc general, or in this case, admiral, being on hand to state the obvious. He was perhaps being harsh. Then again, he was a Dark Lord and they weren’t known for being kind. Admiral Haijun was an eastern orc of fine pedigree. His fleet was smaller than the one they faced but had been well-trained in the last three years. The orc had spent thirty years at sea, as reflected in his we
athered features and darker-than-most tan. He had served his time and knew his job. He wasn’t to blame; Morden knew it was his own oversight that was at fault here. He had assumed a land campaign, not appreciating he first had to get to land. Huang’s research may have borne fruit for that land campaign but it would have taken many more years for them to match Telem’s fleet. It was surprising King Telem was able to construct such an impressive force. Morden sensed Penbury’s touch here. Only he had the financial muscle to make something like this happen. He had underestimated Penbury far too often. He was not just a fat, rich man, with a taste for fine food and wine, but a cunning adversary who had blindsided him.

  “We could use fire,” suggested General Gangdong. “Dragon fire, maybe?”

  General Gangdong was almost as big as Stonearm, and almost as smart. He was also right. The only problem there was Morden could no longer turn into a dragon and he expected his father would go missing if there was a hint of a battle. The news from Xanthos about the successful attack on the fleet, and the resultant explosion, certainly highlighted a weakness, but one Morden expected would be rectified. They had not expected an attack and so had almost certainly not taken care with their black powder. Surely, they would learn their lesson. Fire arrows would probably not cut it next time. Even the small trebuchet some of the larger ships carried, which could hurl burning missiles, were notoriously inaccurate. Dragon fire, though, would certainly burn the ships, and take care of the black powder cannon. His father’s recent revelations were perhaps the serendipity he needed. Lady Deathwing was the missing element. There seemed little option, other than to wait even longer and engage in an arms race; one which, given Penbury’s resources, he was not sure he could win, especially given the recent setback with Huang. There had been no volunteers to continue black powder research, and it was an activity not worth coercing orcs into performing. They would only blow up more of his fortress.

  “You may go,” said Morden, by way of dismissal. He needed to read the Handbook and do some serious brooding. It was not a problem that was going to be solved easily.

  The generals and admirals left, leaving two of his Dark Guard on the door to the war room. Left alone, Morden started to play with the soldiers on the map. His mistake in overlooking the issue of a sea battle was highlighted by the absence of ships on either side. It was an oversight he would have to rectify. In the meantime, he formed up an army and plonked it down on Xanthos, knocking over the enemy piece standing there. He formed up a number of small blocks of orc pieces and shoved them over the western part of the map, cities falling as they went. In no time, his armies covered the known world, his enemies toppled on the map. He picked up the figure that represented himself from his fortress to take a closer look. It was simple enough: a black-cowled figure, one arm outstretched with a bony finger pointing, the other bent and holding the Handbook. Morden put a hand to his robe to feel the Handbook snuggled in its inner pocket. It had become part of him. And a powerful symbol. It spoke of the past and Zoon, making Morden his natural successor. Without doubt, it had been a great help, and yet remained a great mystery. It was almost sentient. There were times Morden felt it was alive. Morden sensed its frustration when things were not going well, or Morden was struggling with the finer points of being a Dark Lord, like how to walk properly. Apparently he had been doing it wrong. The Handbook had always been clear that image was important. He was not like any other man, a fact which was more than obvious since his descent into undeath, and had to conform to certain Dark Lord ideals. The world had a definite idea of what a Dark Lord was and if he did not match up, then his credibility would suffer.

  Morden had learnt early on that being a Dark Lord was no easy thing. What he hadn’t appreciated was how precise a discipline it was. There were so many fine details that required endless practice to perfect. When it came to walking, he could not just put one foot in front of the other. That was far too pedestrian. He could not mince, or shuffle, or stagger. He could not hobble, drag, glide, lope, bounce, or skip. He needed to learn the art of stalking. Not in the sneaking-up-on-a-deer sense of the word, or creepily-follow-someone-around, but the form that suggested power and dignity with a hint of dislike for the ground that was being trod upon. Every step was to give the impression that it was with purpose, so those seeing him stalk the corridors of his fortress, or into a room, would know everything he did was significant, even the mundane act of placing one foot in front of the other. A Dark Lord who stalked could engender fear at his approach. His silent and purposeful egress from a room could leave terror in its wake.

  Morden took the time to stalk around the room and threw in some brooding for good measure.

  “Queen Griselda,” announced one of the guards, bashing the foot of his halberd on the ground as if there was a need to dramatise her entrance any more than normal.

  Morden had been getting to grips with stalking but Griselda had already mastered many forms of entrance and exit. She breezed into the room with an air that said everyone should stop what they were doing and pay attention to her. Even knowing this, Morden couldn’t help but stop mid-stalk next to his war table. He picked up one of his soldiers from the table and began to fiddle with it. The die-cast lead was heavy in his hand.

  “Playing soldiers?” she asked.

  “Honing strategy,” he riposted.

  Griselda advanced to the table and picked up a figurine. “Looks like … a toy,” she said.

  “I’m very busy, Griselda,” said Morden, attempting to disengage before the fight could escalate.

  She played with the figure and put it down. Her eyes narrowed and Morden prepared himself for an attack.

  “What have you been saying to my father?”

  She flicked the accusation at him and he had to think quickly to deflect. “I’m told they managed to rescue much of your belongings from the wreckage,” he said. “They even found some of your writing. Some of it is lost, but most is merely singed.”

  “He only wants to go and find his son,” she continued.

  His beloved queen was nothing if not direct. His derobement had better be good or she would be under his guard. “His psychopathic son, who tried to kill me.”

  “Still his son, Morden.”

  “And who did worse to you.”

  Her extension had been weak and he could see his counterattack had hit home. Score one for the Dark Lord. Her normal counter at this point was an expletive, and his response: condescension. She would rally with scorn and derision. He would ride that with aloof nonchalance. Fury would be the sign she was losing, followed by tearful collapse and defeat. He would comfort and offer compromise, which she would meekly accept, requesting the smallest of additional boons, to which he would comply and she would leave. At which point, he would realise she had left with exactly what she had come for and he had, in fact, lost.

  “What do you want?” he asked, deciding he didn’t have time for all that; he had plans to make.

  “You undead fu—”

  “I said, what do you want?”

  Griselda paused, mouth open. She looked puzzled. Her mouth closed, finishing the expletive with a silent ‘ck’. She pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose. He could see her mind working the angles furiously, looking for a trap.

  “Where’s the catch?” she asked.

  “No catch. I’m tired of our bickering and I have far more important things to worry about.”

  Immediately, he knew he’d made a mistake as fury returned.

  “So you think our relationship is a waste of time? Is that it? Well, fuck you.”

  Morden could feel the release of tension in her as the obscenity was finally voiced, its pent-up energy released. His instinct was to placate, but maybe she was right. Maybe this whole Dark Queen thing was a waste of his time. He was still attracted to her—he still wanted her around him—but it was true, he had greater worries, conquering the world being top of the list.

  “You know I don’t think that,” he said, taking an instan
t decision to put off relationship thoughts for now. They were unbecoming a Dark Lord when a war needed planning. “What would you like me to do for your father?”

  He could see she was struggling with her anger and no reply was forthcoming as she brought it under control.

  “Talk to him,” she said finally, her tone a few degrees warmer than icy. “If you won’t let him go and find his son, then maybe send someone to find Edwin instead. Anything that will give him peace of mind.”

  Morden was surprised. It was not a bad idea. A genuine compromise. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “You might let him go himself, if he had an escort. Someone to look after him. Keep him from harm.”

  And there it was. The cherry on top of the cake she had carefully iced. Well, he was more a savoury man.

  “I’ll talk to him. Is that all right?”

  A twitch of her lip, almost turning into a smile of triumph, suggested she thought it another battle won. That was fine. He didn’t mind losing the odd skirmish. He always had an eye for the wider conflict.

  “Thank you, Mordy.”

  He hated that endearment. Once, when whispered in his ear in the passion of their first months together, it had been bearable. Now though, it was sickening and sentimental.

  She stepped closer and leaned up to kiss his illusionary cheek. If she could see the decay there, she would be repulsed. A whiff of the ever-growing decomposition about his body would recoil her. But she could neither see nor smell anything that his will hid from her mind. The touch of her lips on his cheek went unfelt on his lifeless skin, not that he didn’t appreciate it. She was in every way an infuriating person and his Dark Queen. It was still his greatest desire, when his shadow darkened the world, she would be there to pen a suitably morbid verse to enshrine his triumph.

  As for her request. He would talk to Kristoff, but not to give him permission to search for his son. Or even to send someone else to look for the lunatic. Wherever Edwin had lost himself, he could remain lost as far as he was concerned. It had been a close call the first time round and Morden was not one to tempt fate. The Handbook was very clear on fate tempting and its inevitable consequences. No. He would talk to Kristoff, and afterwards his father-in-law would have lost all desire to do anything other than write crap poetry about distant mountains and wide oceans, or whatever it was that inspired his turgid imagination.