The Dark Lord's Handbook Page 12

  “You should put the robe on,” said the old orc.

  The robe looked different now; it was an ordinary looking black robe, woven tightly from a strange material. Morden stretched his hand out to touch it again, somewhat apprehensively. He didn’t want another jolt like the last. He needn’t have worried.

  The material was thick but light, with a slight sheen. Morden stood to try it on. The fit wasn’t bad, and there were indeed inner pockets, one of which was perfectly sized for the Handbook. He was at first disappointed that the robe was about eight inches short of a full length and two inches short in the arm, but even as the thought occurred the hemline dropped and the sleeves lengthened.

  “Now that’s clever,” said Morden. “Where did you get this, Grimtooth?”

  Morden had no idea what magic was at work but there was no doubting it was not a normal robe. It felt absolutely perfect, as though it had been made for him.

  “This belonged to my previous Master,” replied the orc.

  Morden stopped examining the robe to look at the orc. “Your previous Master? You mean this was…”

  “Zoon the Reviled wore that robe. Yes. Now try the hood and let’s see the full effect.”

  Morden pulled the hood up over the back of his head and faced the orc, his hands plunged deep into opposite sleeves.

  “HOW DOES IT LOOK?” asked Morden, and almost jumped out of his skin at his own voice. The question boomed out with malevolent twists and turns to the syllables as he pronounced them. It sounded like he was uttering a death sentence rather than asking sartorial advice.

  The question knocked Grimtooth to his knees. “You look…you look…” Grimtooth sounded like he was in real pain. “You look scary,” he gasped. “The hood. Pull the hood back.”

  Morden snatched the hood back. “Is that better?”

  “Much,” gasped Grimtooth, getting slowly to his feet.

  “How did it do that?” said Morden, fingering the cloth. “It has to be magic.”

  “It is,” said Grimtooth. “Zoon had problems making himself heard.”

  “Really? You would have thought a Dark Lord wouldn’t have that problem.”

  “Well it’s all right for you, being half dragon, but Zoon was a Lich King and didn’t even have a larynx. Work it out.”

  “A lich? Wow. I had no idea he was undead.”

  “Undead?” asked Grimtooth. “No, he was definitely Very Dead. If anything he was More Dead.”

  “More Dead? How can you be More Dead.”

  “Believe me you can, and it’s not something I’d recommend,” said Grimtooth. “Why do you think he was Reviled? Not a pleasant smell I can tell you. Anyway, he put a lot into that robe. The voice thing for one and it’s also warm. He had chronic arthritis.”

  “That couldn’t have been pleasant.”

  “Being mostly skeletal, no it wasn’t. You really didn’t want to be around him on a cold damp day, and in his fortress it was often cold and damp.”

  As Grimtooth spoke, in his mind’s eye, Morden tried to imagine what Zoon’s fortress had been like. Surely it must have had dungeons, deadly traps and a throne room with the biggest throne in the world. With a throne like that Morden was sure that no one could withstand his Will, to say nothing of how good it must have been for sitting and brooding on conquests. Then another thought struck him.

  “Grimtooth, were you there when…”

  “When what?”

  “You know…at the end…when he became…dead dead.”

  Grimtooth bit his lip and quite possibly a tear came to the orc’s eyes. “Aye, I was there.”

  “Let’s sit down and you can tell me about it,” suggested Morden.

  Grimtooth seemed lost in thought but then snapped out of it. He sat across from Morden and warmed his hands on the fire pit. “We had high hopes that day. Zoon had risen well, never using too much of his power so that rumour was the most that the rest of the world had to go on. All the preparations had been made and we came forth. We were going to roll across the world and make it ours. Nothing could stand in our way. Nothing except the knights.” Grimtooth sighed and stared into the flickering flame.

  Morden was hesitant to interrupt but his curiosity was burning, “Knights? What knights?”

  “They called themselves the Righteous Knights. Some of the younger orcs called them the RKs.”

  “But who were they?”

  “Pompous, self-appointed arbiters of what was right and good,” said Grimtooth with evident bitterness. “They said they defended the common man but it was the common man and not them who died in the battles. They had impenetrable armour, and wielded steel that could fell trees, while the common man was lucky if he had much more than a loin cloth and sharpened twigs at his disposal. Sure, they rescued Ladies, but only if they were beautiful and slim. If you had a skin problem and a fondness for cake, or had been swept away by a troll, you had no chance. Good luck to the troll they’d say. They had a leader, Uther the Merciless, who had…”

  By now Morden was hanging off every word the orc had to say, “…no mercy?”

  Grimtooth looked at Morden in a sideways fashion. “No mercy. Indeed.”

  “And was it him that…” Morden made a slicing motion with one hand across his throat.

  “Yes. It was Uther who cut Zoon down. But it wasn’t a fair fight.”

  Grimtooth fell back into staring at the flames. Inside, Morden was screaming, go on, go on! But felt it wise to just wait for his old friend to continue at his own pace.

  “They came at us across the plain, a shining steel wedge of knights with a host of plebeians in tow, just as Zoon had anticipated. They broke upon us and the slaughter was terrible. But the knights were few, and we were a horde, the like of which the world had never seen, and we had the Black Dragon Flight. Zoon let his mercenaries take the initial brunt – if they were dead they wouldn’t need paying, he used to say – and they had little choice so great was their fear of the Reviled. When he called the dragons down it was over quickly. They herded the peasants and burned them, so that the air was rich with the smell of their well done flesh. They roasted the knights in their shells. Only Uther and a handful of knights remained and they were thrown down before Zoon, crying for mercy. Oh, the irony.”

  Grimtooth turned away from Morden and ran a hand over his face. “If only he’d killed them, shown them none of the mercy they had always denied others. But no, instead he berated them. He pulled that book from his robe and he read from it. He told them exactly where they had gone wrong and then he went on to how he was going to crush the rest of the world and his dominion would hold for a thousand years. What started off as a final word turned into a full blown monologue for us, his troops. I can hear him now, speaking as though it were yesterday. We were all going to have our own man-slaves, and a piece of land. ‘The world is ours!’ he said and he stretched his arms wide. None of us saw Uther pick up his sword. None of us saw him slide on his belly and then rise up and swing that damned sword. But we all saw Zoon cut down. We all saw his hand fly off. And that was that.”

  “But surely the army was there, and the dragons?” said Morden in disbelief.

  Grimtooth nodded, “Yes they were. But there was no Zoon. This is important Morden: the Dark Lord is all. No Dark Lord, no army. Everything goes to shit pretty quickly if the Dark Lord bites the big one.”

  Though Morden wanted to know more about Zoon and the old days, he could see that Grimtooth had sunk into a melancholy contemplation of the flames.

  “I’ll get Stonearm to organise us some food, and then perhaps we should rest,” suggested Morden. Grimtooth nodded without looking up.

  After they had eaten, and bedding had been found, Morden and Grimtooth settled down to sleep. Stonearm had hustled and bustled about them and insisted upon there being a guard, promising he would personally see to it that not a flea got close to them.

  As Grimtooth snored, Morden fidgeted, still wide awake and excited. His head was full of armies, conque
sts, terrible fortresses, fantastic wealth, and maybe even a not-so-good girl on his arm.

  Chapter 21 Fourth Lesson – Monologue

  Take care with what you say; you never know who might be listening.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  In his dream, and he was certain he was dreaming, Morden was standing on a massive stair that led up to the gargantuan doors of his fortress. Arranged around the bottom of the stair was his army. All the preparations were over and today the terrible host was going forth to conquest.

  They were chanting his name. He spread his arms to silence them so that he may speak immortal words to send them on their way.

  He opened his mouth but nothing came out. It felt like the time in Bindelburg he had dreamt about being in class with no clothes on. He was suddenly naked before a horde that was to ravage the world and he had no idea what to say.

  Then he remembered the Handbook. Grabbing it from the pocket where it nestled he flipped it open and began to read.

  Though there are various forms of speech making there is one form that is particular to the Dark Lord and must be mastered. I present to you the art of:

  Monologue

  There will be times, Morden, when you feel you may as well be talking to yourself. Sometimes you will be. Regardless of the presence or lack of an audience, the fine art of monologue is one that every Dark Lord of any consequence has mastered. It is the great vehicle for your genius and will carry your immortal words to generations, long after you have settled in a nice place by the sea.

  Though it may seem like a daunting prospect, monologue is an art that can and should be practised frequently. Being an inherently ironic form of communication, it is well suited to those of a bitter and twisted, and yet inspired, farseeing bent, most markedly Dark Lords; for a Dark Lord engages the full range of emotions. There is the bitter despair of having incompetent minions, and those awkward feelings you have around women. But nothing beats the glorious tirade against all that is wrong in the world and how it will be a better place once certain grand designs have come to pass.

  In approaching monologue, as a novice there are certain aspects of the art that need to be made clear. Monologue is fundamentally a melodramatic art. Everything about a great Dark Lord monologue will be big. There should be big ideas, big emotions and a big performance.

  Big ideas should be no problem. If you don’t have big ideas you should think about a change in career. A Dark Lord without big ideas is like a poet without a bleeding heart. Common big ideas are world dominion (a little tired but popular with your armies), challenging the gods (may defy instead of challenge), overthrowing oppressors (the irony fits the form well) and naming months of the year after yourself (Mordenuary?).

  The associated plans should both be grand and beyond the understanding of the audience. This lack of their understanding will frequently lead to a strong desire to elucidate. Herein lies one of the many pitfalls and traps of monologue.

  When playing an audience that is behind you – in the good, non-dagger wielding stab-in-the-back sense – then a Dark Lord is obliged to illuminate the world with his superior intellect and be overly expansive in detailing precisely how the big idea really is BIG.

  If, however, there happens to be hero within earshot, re-read the section on heroes. Pay attention to the bit about them escaping certain death and how difficult they are to kill. Gloating is fine, just don’t let it run away into a full blown monologue, and NEVER EVER turn your back on a hero. EVER.

  Emotionally the Dark Lord monologue should leave no doubt that you not only mean business but that to stand in your way, in any fashion, would at best be fatal and at worst lead to eternal torment. The emotions of a truly great monologue should not only engender terror, which renders well muscled heroes to piles of goo, but if done particularly well, a grudging respect, tinged with jealousy.

  Practice. And then practice more. Your delivery must be perfect. Dark Lords don’t stutter nor are they ever at a loss for words. This comes from hours in front of the mirror. Try speaking your thoughts out loud, it often helps.

  Oft neglected is the physical performance. You may think that words alone will be enough but image is everything. Looking the part is probably the easiest element of the performance. The black robe is clichéd these days, but it’s a cliché for a reason. It works. Menacing is good and size does matter. If there are height issues, a suitably long robe and heavy boots with a six inch sole will work wonders (though that late growth spurt you had seems to have filled you out).

  You must be dynamic. Stride around and make the ground shake and tremble as much as those who hear your words. Your gaze should shatter walls as well as will. A throw of your arm should level mountains and have all present ducking for cover. Your laugh should work in variations of derisive, arrogant and maniacal. Pound your fist. Raise your voice from quiet sibilant threats to deafening prophecies of doom for those who oppose you.

  Lastly, take pleasure in the monologue. You can’t fake it, so put everything you have into every word and gesture. It’s your big chance to enter folklore. A good monologue will be repeated the length and breadth of the land and make you legend. Be feared. Be admired. Be remembered. Be Morden.

  Chapter 22 Lawyers

  You never bluff. Ever.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  As was his custom, Chancellor Penbury took breakfast at seven and went over the pamphlets that were sent to him daily from every part of the world. The newer printed ones were the best quality, but the wood block pamphlets, though barely literate – one was even produced on bark – were far more entertaining. There was something about barbarian humour that hit a nerve with the Chancellor. He particularly liked the series on Bonehead the Barbarian and his adventures, many of which ended with graphic depictions of close encounters with evil seductresses followed by an inevitable beheading. It was coarse but he couldn’t help but chuckle.

  The real reason for reading so much was so that he could keep up with what was going on in the civilised world, but that was getting more difficult. The printed pamphlets these days spent less time exhorting the populace to overthrow a cruel baron, or worship this idol or that, and more on how Princess Sasha of Brudweldland had been seen going for long rides with her Champion without a suitable chaperone. The cartoons were becoming more graphic, and in some instances there was almost no news to be seen but for the proliferation of phalli and breasts. Setting the results of the last week’s Pig Ball League aside, the Chancellor indulged himself with a sigh.

  “Look at this, Chidwick,” said Penbury, indicating the pamphlets to his personal private secretary standing attentively to his right.

  “Sir?”

  “Tits and balls, Chidwick. It’s all tits and balls,” said Penbury. “What is the world coming to?”

  “That’s the gutter pamphlets for you, sir.”

  “What ever happened to the other ones, Chidwick? You know, the ones you had to fold out and had print on both sides? With a word puzzle?”

  “Market forces, sir. Those big old ones were only good for one thing, so they say.”

  Chidwick had a point and Penbury had to admit he’d been hoisted by his own petard. After all, market forces were his Big Thing. Though controversial at the time, once corporate heads had understood that market forces and free markets were two different things, and that free markets were not so much free as whatever-the-Chancellor-wanted markets, they had come around. “So what are they good for, Chidwick? Besides expanding the mind and communicating valuable information across populations?”

  Chidwick shuffled his feet. For some reason his PPS had never been comfortable with sarcasm. “They are quite big, and if you’re ever caught short, adequately durable.”

  “So we’re left with pamphlets that are little more than privy paper?” said Penbury, indicating once more the pile on the table, “Is that it?”

  “It would seem so, yes, sir,” said Chidwick.

  Penbury pushed his breakfast plat
e aside and made a mental note to remind his chef that although his physicians advised against too much salt, seasoning was the core of all good food, even if it was only scrambled eggs with a side of bacon.

  “Enough of that for now. What have we today, Chidwick?”

  His PPS pulled a sheaf from his tunic and examined it. “We have a petitioning group from the wheat guild.”

  “And what are they petitioning for?” The Chancellor raised a finger to stop his PPS speaking. “No, let me guess. They think that they have a better understanding of global economics than my good self and believe that I should increase the bushel price on the wheat markets with a well chosen word?”

  “Indeed,” said Chidwick, nodding his head in recognition of his master’s astute insight.

  “Well let’s send them packing and save an hour shall we? What’s next?”

  “There’s the lawyers you asked for, sir,” said Chidwick.

  “Excellent!” Now this was more like it. Penbury had almost forgotten about his little Dark Lord problem, what with increased piracy in the Southern Sea, the spat in Lower Kris that threatened the spice route and a blight of black fly in his garden. “Get them in.”

  “Hrmph.”

  The polite cough to the Chancellor’s left almost gave him a heart attack. Even Chidwick seemed startled.

  The man who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere and was now standing not two yards from Penbury was of medium height and build, and had brown eyes. Little else could be discerned due to the fact he was entirely wrapped in black leather and cloth. Black hilted swords remained sheathed in black lacquered scabbards. If he was an assassin then he was confident. The Chancellor wondered what had happened to the five or six men that watched him at all times.

  As if to answer the latter, his bodyguard came bundling into the room, swords drawn and shouting. One launched himself horizontally at the intruder in an attempt at a tackle but missed as the intruder twisted his body to one side and watched as the guard sailed past. The guard’s head met the wall with an unhealthy crack and he slumped to the ground.