The Dark Lord's Handbook Read online

  Chapter 19 Unpleasant History

  Knowledge is power but it is swords that kill people.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  The Chancellor’s archive was old. It had been gathered by a line of chancellors over the centuries, each one adding his particular field of expertise. It had been moved several times, mainly for reasons of security and size. The current housing was beneath the cellar of the Chancellor’s Firena residence, and was reached by a hidden stair behind the fake façade of a cask of Firena sherry.

  Penbury ran his hand over the smooth wall as he wound his way down the spiral into the musty depths of the archive. After an unfortunate, but entirely predictable, accident with a candle many years ago, no flame was allowed in the archive, naked or covered. Instead he held a staff in his left hand that served the dual purpose of steadying his bulk on the steep stair and lighting his way by the means of the Azina gem clasped at the top of the staff.

  It was one of the few items that some still thought magic. Though he was in no doubt that magic existed in the world, and all manner of strange creatures to boot, he was not as certain that the gem was magic but more likely it happened to have qualities that made it radiate light. It was probably as magical as a firefly. Nevertheless, its radiance was more than sufficient to guide him and allowed him to read without straining his eyes.

  The foot of the stair opened immediately into the reading room, in which there was a large desk covered in writing materials, blank papers and an amusing puzzle ball that once disassembled was a bugger to put back together.

  The Chancellor set the staff in a floor mounting where, by a cunning arrangement of mirrors and prisms, it illuminated the lines of shelves that stretched away into the rock.

  The majority of the early writing was on scrolls, and kept safe from ageing by being secured within sealed earthenware tubes. The scroll contents were etched on the scroll casing and stacked on shelving carved into the bedrock. There were no wooden shelves to cut down on the potential flammables. The shelves themselves had dates chiselled into them to help searching. It was still hard work to find anything. Penbury thought that had he the time he should devise a system that would allow faster retrieval of vital information.

  The information he sought would be among the oldest scrolls, going back five hundred years to the time of Zoon the Reviled, the last true Dark Lord. Fortunately, some two hundred years ago, the Chancellor of the time had re-housed the library and put all the materials in good cases. What concerned Penbury was that the scroll he sought was so old that it may well have perished regardless.

  The shelves for that time had been subdivided into author and subject which helped a little. Most of the scrolls were political histories, religious rants, mediocre poetry and satire that had lost its bite. There were no books; they only started appearing a century or so later.

  He was surprised that there was only one scroll on Zoon, apparently written by Krug Sharptooth. His heart sank. It was an orcish name which meant that whatever the scroll case contained was bound to be written in ancient Blood Rune, a language he had done miserably at in ancient studies at college. It was going to be a long day.

  Luckily, he had had the foresight to deposit a small cask of sherry next to the reading desk for such occasions. He set the scroll case aside, poured himself a tipple and then recovered a snack pouch from one of his many pockets. One horseradish and beef sandwich later and he was ready for the runes.

  The case was in reasonable condition, and its seal was intact. Using a letter opener, the Chancellor gently broke the wax seal around the lid before popping it off. A stale smell escaped the case. Using a set of tweezers, he pulled the scroll clear.

  He needn’t have worried about the condition of it because it was evidently not paper. The small hairs on the dried, once pink material had him hoping it was pig skin and not from something bipedal. The writing itself had been tattooed into the skin and was in the familiar, but not instantly translatable, orcish Blood Rune.

  There seemed little to do but start at the beginning and so, with a sigh, Penbury ran his finger to the first rune and dredged up long forgotten lessons.

  Six hours later he sat back in his chair. A half eaten sandwich of mature cheese and pickle was long forgotten to one side on the desk. Never being one to waste food, and despite it being well past its best, his hunger was enough for him to finish it off while he went over in his mind what he had just read.

  It was an eye witness account of the Rise and Fall of Zoon the Reviled. It detailed his fortress, his armies and his plans. It also made several mentions of a book, unusual for a time when books were rare. Zoon read from it often but when Krug had tried to catch a glimpse of what it said over his master’s shoulder the pages were always blank. Zoon had never let the book leave his person and Krug had been observant enough to note that many of Zoon’s big decisions had been made after reading it.

  The account of the last battle was graphic and mention of black dragons was disturbing. Could Morden be an ancestor of one of these dragons?

  Then there was the way in which Zoon had fallen, and in particular the sword that Uther had used to carve up Zoon. It had howled as Uther went about his work.

  A book with no writing and a sword that howled.

  Though he preferred natural explanations wherever possible, and even allowing for authorial license, it seemed to Penbury that there was magic here and that was not good. Something told him there were long forgotten forces at work in his world and he didn’t like it. He would have to look into it further, but after supper. He had after all, for all intents and purposes, skipped lunch and it must be well past sundown.

  He replaced the scroll in its case, resealed it with wax he heated using the staff head, and climbed slowly back up the stairs.

  Chancellor Penbury did not sleep well that night.

  Chapter 20 Emancipation Prophecy

  Keep healthy. Cream cakes are for the weak.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  They didn’t have far to go before Morden could see Grimtooth waiting for them. After all that had happened, Morden was pleased to see the old orc. As they got closer, he was shocked to see how Grimtooth had changed. There was still the imposing physical presence but age had crept into his features. His skin was lined and his hair streaked white.

  Morden jumped from the cart to greet his friend but Grimtooth dropped to one knee and bowed his head before Morden could grasp him.

  “My Lord,” said Grimtooth.

  What is this? thought Morden. He looked around for Stonearm only to find him and the rest of his men similarly bent on one knee. Looking further, the curious inhabitants of the Bostokov slum were gathering. As his gaze passed over them and he met their eyes, some remained standing but those that were orcs sank to a knee in the mud.

  “Command me,” hissed Grimtooth between his teeth. “My knee is killing me.”

  Quite taken aback by what was happening, Morden spread his arms in what he hoped was a commanding fashion and spoke: “You can all get up.”

  There was no movement.

  Morden coughed and deepened his voice. “I command you to rise,” he ordered.

  Grimtooth was first up and the others followed his lead.

  “If my Lord would care to follow his humble servant,” said Grimtooth, indicating a path between the hovels.

  There didn’t seem to be a choice in the matter so Morden trudged off after Grimtooth. Behind him there was a ripple of chatter.

  “All right you lot. Enough of that. Fall in, on the double!” ordered Stonearm from behind him.

  Grimtooth led them deeper into the slum. The conditions were worse than Morden had ever seen. The houses didn’t deserve the name, but were more assemblies of sticks and bark. Sanitation was a running open sewer.

  As they passed through, they gathered quite a procession. Morden glanced back and could see upwards of one hundred slum dwellers in tow behind Stonearm and his men. Most were dressed in little more than ra
gs and had a hungry and desperate look to them. And something else. Was it hope?

  At last they reached a hovel that was not only bigger than the surrounding ones, but looked like it wouldn’t collapse in a stiff breeze or flood in a passing shower. The hovel reminded Morden of the place in Bindelburg where Grimtooth had first taken him. Grimtooth swung a leather awning aside and swept an arm to indicate that Morden should enter, which he was happy to do. Perhaps now he would get some answers.

  “No one else enters,” said Grimtooth from behind him as he ducked into the hut, presumably to Stonearm.

  The big orc’s orders, organising his men into a cordon, were muffled by the leather doorway as Grimtooth let it fall.

  Much like Bindelburg, they were in a circular room with tight weave straw matting on the floor and painted leathers adorning the walls. The fire pit in the centre of the room held a smouldering and smoky fire that did little to warm the place. The smoke rose to leave by a hole in the middle of the roof.

  “Sit,” ordered Grimtooth and pointed at a spot on the floor.

  “Sit?” asked Morden. “What happened to ‘My Lord’?”

  The orc went to the side of the room where there was tinder and a poker. “You may be a Dark Lord and my Master, but don’t get too cocky, young man,” said the orc. Grimtooth picked up some of the wood and proceeded to bring the fire back to life.

  Morden sat and left the orc to it. There was something nagging at his mind. The squalor of the slum had repelled him but that wasn’t it. There was something he was missing. Perhaps the Handbook would tell him. It would have to wait though as Grimtooth had finished his chore and sat himself down next to Morden. The fire brought welcome warmth to Morden’s tired body and made him feel drowsy.

  “No time to sleep now,” said Grimtooth. He clapped his hands and an orc entered with a tray carrying two large mugs. Morden wondered if the mugs were full of the beer he had had in Bindelburg. Right now that would send him straight to sleep.

  Grimtooth took the mugs and handed one to Morden. To Morden’s surprise the mug was warm. The orc that had served them beat a hasty retreat. Whatever was in the mug smelled pretty potent, and beefy.

  “What is it?” asked Morden apprehensively.

  Grimtooth was already chugging away at his mug. “Hot blood, herbs, vegetable stock, sweet meats, and a drop of beer,” said the orc, wiping his mouth and letting out a burp.

  Morden gave the brew a second sniff and then took a mouthful. Not only did it taste good, but it reminded him he hadn’t eaten properly for a while. He emptied the mug in no time and let rip a satisfying belch to match Grimtooth’s.

  “Good, now to business,” said Grimtooth. He took Morden’s mug and set it aside.

  Morden was unsure what business Grimtooth had in mind. Though in the past weeks and months a lot had happened, for every answer a new question had taken its place. He was meant to be a Dark Lord, and be Rising, but apart from a general idea of it involving fortresses and armies, he had no idea how it was all going to happen. He felt more like a fugitive than a terror about to unleash itself upon an unsuspecting world. Morden opened his mouth to tell Grimtooth exactly these things but the orc interrupted:

  “I have been travelling far and wide, my Lord, spreading the word that a Dark Lord is rising and that the prophecy would be at last fulfilled.”

  Morden was taken aback. “The prophecy? And exactly what prophecy would that be, Grimtooth?” In his reading of the Handbook, no mention had been made of any prophecy concerning him.

  “Ah yes. The prophecy.”

  If Morden hadn’t thought it impossible, he would have said Grimtooth looked embarrassed.

  “Well?” prompted Morden.

  Grimtooth took a deep breath. “You know, it’s pretty tough to motivate orcs that have been under the heel for so long. And so I took the liberty…well that is to say, I thought it best, so to speak…that perhaps a prophecy might help.”

  “And where did this prophecy come from?” asked Morden, though a suspicion was dawning.

  “I made it up,” said the orc.

  Morden’s suspicion stopped dawning and rose like a blazing sun. “So you told them that there was a prophecy, which presumably involves me saving them and setting the world to rights?”

  “Something like that,” admitted Grimtooth. “There was a fair bit of pillaging and laying waste involved as well.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, wouldn’t you want to burn and pillage if you’d been downtrodden for centuries, forced to file your teeth flat and do all the shitty jobs while being looked down on? Just look outside. It’s the same all over you know. There’s not a city that doesn’t have a slum with orcs in it. They are the forgotten. And they need you.”

  There was fire in Grimtooth’s words and Morden could see it burning in his eyes. This orc was old, and for five hundred years he’d seen his people humbled and domesticated like cattle.

  “Well, yes,” said Morden, nodding in what he hoped was in a sympathetic manner. “I suppose I would. And you’ve been telling them that I’m going to somehow change all that?”

  Grimtooth looked Morden dead in the eye and smiled. “Yes. You are.”

  Grimtooth may have been old, and Morden was fairly sure that if push came to shove he could probably turn into a dragon form and deal with it, but there was something still quite terrifying about the orc’s four inch incisors.

  “Just one thing,” said Morden.

  “Yes?”

  “How exactly am I going to do this? And without seeming greedy, what’s in it for me? You see, I was rather set upon the idea of ruining Chancellor Penbury.”

  “Spoken like a true Dark Lord,” said Grimtooth. “Revenge and greed are good, and in this case, our goals are side by side. It is Chancellor Penbury and his free market economy that is crushing my people. They have become slaves to the merchant classes. And these so called democratic city states are a sham. What use is a vote when anyone who ever gets elected only panders to the middle class? The working orc is uncared for and unheard. Even the free dental turned out to be a conspiracy, to remove the one thing that makes an orc an orc, and that’s his teeth.”

  Morden let Grimtooth’s words sink in. There was real potential here. A large population of pissed off, downtrodden orcs out for revenge was exactly what he was going to need if he was going to raise an army.

  “I’m going to need somewhere to gather this army,” said Morden. “And weapons, and supplies, and…” Morden’s mind was suddenly alight with ideas. “There’s a lot to do, my friend.”

  “Indeed there is, my Lord,” said Grimtooth. “We must leave soon and you must start to gather your forces.”

  “But where? We can’t just have them tag along. We’ve no money. No food. How can we possibly support an army?”

  “We will tell them not to follow us, but to go east, across the sea, beyond the Great Marsh, beyond the Quite High Peaks, beyond even the Dust Bowl.”

  As the orc spoke, Morden’s mind’s eye was travelling east across the map he had studied at the Bindelburg school. It moved across the Quite High Peaks, skidded over the great nothing that was the Dust Bowl and arrived at, “The Dreadful Peaks…”

  Grimtooth was nodding. “Yes. The Dreadful Peaks.”

  “Isn’t that where…?”

  “Yes. I have travelled back to the beginning and it is still there. The Dark Fortress may have been broken, its walls thrown down, but the foundations were left, and the depths never fully made clean. There are…things…still there.” The orc shuddered. “That is where we will send them and where we too will go.”

  Morden felt a tingle at the back of his neck. A voice that was not his own whispered in his mind. Was it the book? It spoke of destiny. This path was set for him.

  “I’m going to need a robe,” said Morden. “A black one, with a hood. And some inside pockets would be handy.”

  “If I may, my Lord,” said Grimtooth. “I did not come back empty handed.”
>
  Grimtooth got up and disappeared for a minute before returning with an oilskin wrapped bundle. He set it down before Morden and bowed low.

  “This is yours, my Lord,” said Grimtooth.

  Morden looked at the bundle. It didn’t look much but it smelled old, and of death. An aura of evil emanated from it.

  Morden peeled the oilskin away and drew a sharp breath.

  It was a robe. But not woollen and comfortable looking like his old one. This robe was quite different. The material was black and seemed to be alive, as though it were breathing. It was a cloth that Morden had never seen before, if it was cloth at all. Morden reached a hand out to touch it and sparks leapt from his fingers to the robe. Every hair on his body was standing on end and when his fingers touched the material a shock jerked up his arm.

  A vision came, like a far off picture that swiftly grew and consumed him. He was riding a black horse at the head of a vast horde. Above him a black dragon soared. The horde was arranged across a vast dry plain and a huge cloud rose as they moved. The sun was behind them, and ahead another cloud of dust approached. From within it Morden caught bright glimpses of sun reflected from steel. He could feel the anticipation around him like a living hunger. A word from him and it would be unleashed. But not yet.

  A man astride a white stallion emerged from the approaching cloud, and he was resplendent in plate and held a sword aloft. Morden could feel the Righteousness of this Knight as he approached. Either side of him, other knights could now be seen. They formed a wedge that Morden knew would break upon him and his army. And for the first time in his life, Morden knew the meaning of real fear.

  As quickly as the vision had come, it was gone. A sound like a sigh came from the air around Morden. For a second, Morden thought there was someone else there with them. The fire in the pit flared and whatever had been there was gone.

  “That was strange,” said Morden. Whatever had happened didn’t seem to have bothered Grimtooth.