The Dark Lord's Handbook Read online

  In the meantime, the remaining guards had dragged Penbury from his chair and sat on him. Two others had their blades at the assassin’s throat.

  “Stop!” Chidwick’s command held the blades.

  “Let go of me,” said Penbury, shaking off his bodyguard. He dusted himself off. “Who is this, Chidwick?”

  “Allow me,” said the assassin. “Josef Snort, of Snort and Snort.”

  “Never heard of you,” said the Chancellor. He straightened his robe and tried to regain some of his substantial dignity. “Chidwick, is this the lawyer I asked for?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Chidwick.

  “He said Snort and Snort. Where’s the other one then?”

  “That would be me,” said a voice to the Chancellor’s right.

  When Penbury turned to see which impudent guard had spoken he almost died of fright for the second time in a minute. He had to immediately look back to his left to check that the assassin calling himself Josef Snort was still under his men’s blades. The two men looked identical.

  “And you are?” enquired Penbury of the second assassin.

  “Franz Snort, of Snort and Snort,” said the assassin, bowing, and offering a card.

  “Get over there with your, your whatever,” ordered Penbury, ensuring a guard remained between himself and the two assassins.

  “Of course,” said Franz.

  Penbury didn’t see Franz move. One second he was where he had been, and the next he was standing next to his partner. The Chancellor suddenly realised he was holding something. He lifted the card in his right hand to read it.

  Snort and Snort

  Lawyers and Executors of Estates

  “I assure you, Chancellor, we are not here to harm you in any way,” said Josef. “If we intended to execute your estate, we would have done so by now.”

  Penbury was sharp enough to realise that in this case the execution of his estate would have had a terminal precursor for himself. There was such surety in the words that he was in no doubt that Josef Snort was telling him the truth. He still wasn’t sure how Franz had both managed to place the card in his hand and move across to the other side of the room, but if he could do that then giving him a bloody grin from ear to ear would present no problem.

  “They had better know what an injunction is Chidwick, or you are fired.”

  “I can assure you, Chancellor, we do.” It was Franz who spoke this time. Though hard to tell them apart, Franz was maybe an inch taller and had a slight lisp to his speech. “You must forgive us our little demonstration, but it is not often we are called upon for our night jobs. Perhaps if we were disarmed?”

  Penbury nodded at his men, who gingerly slid the men’s swords from their scabbards. Being a collector of fine arts and merchandise from all over the globe, he immediately recognised finely tempered steel. “Nichi-on blades?”

  The two lawyers nodded.

  Penbury was impressed. The blades were worth more than several of his larger estates. If they were half as good at law as they were at assassination, judging by their tools, then Chidwick had found him the right men.

  “And I take it you can handle unusual cases?”

  Snort and Snort nodded. “Whatever you need.”

  Penbury had the room cleared and his breakfast dishes replaced with sherry glasses. It may have been early but he needed something to fortify himself. The two lawyers sat opposite him patiently. They neither spoke, nor moved, nor scratched a nose or tugged an ear lobe. Being used to picking up on the smallest of mannerisms, this stillness was itself informative. These men were in complete control. They felt no need to speak unless spoken to and had the ability to sit perfectly still. It was hard to do. Penbury had tried when he was convinced he had a physical tell in his monthly three card brag session and failed miserably.

  The room was clear, except for Snort and Snort, and Chidwick, who had his writing materials out to take minutes.

  “I think best this go unrecorded, Chidwick,” said Penbury.

  “Very well, sir,” said Chidwick, and he got up to leave.

  “Set the writing materials aside and stay, Chidwick. There are instructions for you as well.” Penbury sipped his sherry. Where to start? “Gentlemen. We live in strange times. There are forces at work which threaten the very fabric of our civilisation and we can’t have that, now can we? In securing us from this peril I have a couple of estates I need executing, and two items retrieving to ensure that this threat never appears again. Here’s what I want you to do.”

  Chapter 23 Love Snatched Away

  Love is your strongest weapon, as long as there is none in your heart.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  It had been raining for three days. In the last two hours it had slackened and was now that annoying kind of rain that barely deserved the name but was heavier than mist. It was the kind of rain that dampened spirits but Edwin was not downcast. The fact that he had eaten sparingly for a week, and that he was soaked through and a long way from home, not to mention he missed his grandpa, did nothing to lessen his determination.

  He was close now, maybe half a day behind, maybe less. He had tracked Griselda and her wily captor to this road over the high moors. Being so close, it was tempting to push on harder, but he restrained himself from whipping his horse forward; he had already killed one mount. It had died under him mid-gallop and he still nursed the bruised ribs from that fall. No. He would be patient. The nag between his legs was tired and he was alternating between leading it and riding to give it some chance to regain strength.

  Judging it about that time again, Edwin dismounted and cast his eye around. He had learnt that treachery was often close by and he had to keep his wits about him and sword to hand. There seemed little threat though. The moor was as bleak as the weather. It was covered in lumpy gorse with granite outcroppings along ridge tops. While it might provide cover for grouse, he couldn’t imagine bandits lying in wait.

  He tugged his mount forward.

  There was a desolate and wild beauty about the moor that was deepened by the miserable grey clouds that hung low over it. A cold wind gusted across it. Deep down inside him something stirred and, for the briefest moment, he thought how he might capture this depressing vista in well chosen lines that would bring tears to the eyes of any who read it. He thought of Griselda reading his stanzas and, overcome with emotion, running wildly across the moor to throw herself from a granite boulder onto rocks below. It would be tragic but beautiful. He could mourn her passing and use the pain for inspiration. He could hear her crying. Her suffering was terrible.

  The next big gust of wind brought a cry that was not in his imagination. Surely that was no grouse but a woman in distress? Perhaps even Griselda being tormented by her kidnapper. The wind gusted once more and this time there was no mistaking a scream.

  The nag whinnied in protest when Edwin leapt onto the mount and spurred it forward. Despite its protestations, they were soon at a gallop. The path followed a contour along the hillside and then plunged downwards. The sounds of a woman in distress were clear now, along with the sound of men laughing and shouting.

  Brigands, thought Edwin. Holding the reins tightly with his left hand, he drew his sword. It sang as it came from the scabbard and Edwin felt the thrill of impending battle. Today was a good day to die, but he had no intention of it being him who died. These brigands would pay.

  He rounded the side of the hill. Ahead he could see that the hill ended abruptly in a gorge that was spanned by a decidedly ropey looking bridge. On this side of the bridge was a ramshackle hut and outside it a group of men, maybe six in all, surrounding two figures on the ground, a woman and a man.

  The woman’s hair was down and straggled around her head, and her peasant dress was torn. She was clasping her front as the men goaded and pulled at her. The man lay curled on the ground, trying his best to protect his head from the loose kicks that were being thrown his way.

  A fire ignited within Edwin, fuelled by righteousness
and lit by anger.

  The wind meant they didn’t hear him coming until it was too late. The first swing of his sword separated a cowardly head from its miserable body. The corpse toppled forward, a fountain of blood pumping from the neck. The head rolled to the feet of the woman. She clutched her face and screamed as she was sprayed with her tormentor’s blood.

  When the smell of blood reached his horse’s nose, it reared and he was thrown backwards off it. He hit the ground hard and the wind was knocked from him. Fortunately his chest armour spread the shock of the landing, though there was a sharp stab of pain in his ribs from where he had hurt himself before.

  His being dismounted gave the brigands time to get over the shock of his attack. The woman was forgotten now, shoved to one side, and weapons had been drawn. They weren’t the weapons of war but peasantry. Hooks, spikes and scythe blades, designed to grab and slash and puncture. Without knowing how he knew, Edwin recognised the combination of weaponry and hungry looks of anticipation as something that many a knight had underestimated. There was real danger here.

  The remaining five brigands spread themselves around him. They wouldn’t be so stupid as to rush in, but would bate him like they would a bear. They would tire him until he could stand no longer and then finish him. He knew he had one chance.

  He got to his feet slowly and assumed a weak guard position, holding his sword one handed at arms length, waving it pathetically as though to keep them at bay, while grasping at his side.

  “Let’s do him slowly, boys,” said one. “For Jenk’s sake.”

  “Aye. We’ll make him bleed, and feed him his guts,” said another.

  Edwin arced his sword around. He made weak lunges and they shied away. They weren’t brave enough yet to risk him striking. Not only were they cowards but they were an ugly bunch. Lank hair, rotten teeth and patchwork clothing showed them for the desperate band they were. The world would be a better place without them and all their kind.

  “He’s tiring,” observed one when Edwin dropped to a knee.

  That was good. Let them think he was growing tired.

  A bill hook thrust in at him and he parried it away, and had to spin sharply to avoid a thrust from behind from a pole arm. They were closing in.

  On the next attack he parried, but instead of crouching backwards, as he had been doing, he suddenly released all the hate and anger that he had been storing and leapt forward.

  “Eleonir va rindir!” The words came from him as a battle cry. He had no idea what they meant but the sword sang in response and a blue fire ran along its length.

  His sword swung and cut right through the haft of the weapon that was raised to stop it and into the skull of the brigand. Without a pause, he spun and thrust the sword backwards underneath his left arm to impale the attacker who thought to get him from behind. He didn’t have to see to know that he had pierced the man’s heart.

  Blood ran on his blade as he tugged it loose and finished his dance of death. He moved so fast and so surely that surprise was the expression he saw on their faces as he served up justice.

  It was over as swiftly as it had begun and six brigands would be troubling the world no longer, at least not after he had hewn the head off the one that was groaning and trying to hold his guts into his stomach. It was a mercy, the temptation being to let him die a slow excruciating death.

  His work done he turned his attention to the living. The woman was kneeling, her head held in her hands, rocking backwards and forward. She was covered in blood. The man lay in a foetal position, his hands still protecting his head from blows that would not be coming.

  “It’s over, you’re safe now,” said Edwin. He wiped his sword on a corpse and sheathed it. His hopes that the woman was his Griselda were somewhat diminished because, although he had not yet seen her face clearly, this woman was much slimmer than he remembered his love.

  Not that it changed matters. She had been in distress and he had rescued her. From what he could see, her comely form was not unattractive if a little on the skinny side. If she had a favour to give to her hero then she would not find him ungrateful. It had been a while after all and if Griselda were to be kept from him then his manly needs could find other outlets.

  The man on the ground raised his head to look around while the woman kept up her weeping. There was fear written all over his face. It passed briefly into what looked like hope as he saw the dead but returned when his eyes fell on Edwin. There was age in those eyes. They had the look of experience about them.

  Realising he must look quite a sight, covered in the gore of battle and dressed in armour, Edwin tried to reassure him: “You are safe; your tormentors have met their just end. Please. Get up and tell me who you are and how you came to find yourselves thus?” Then a dreadful thought occurred: What if Griselda and her captor had come this way and been waylaid as well? What if he had been too late for them? “Quick now. Answer me. Have you seen another couple pass this way?”

  “We have not,” said the man, getting to his feet and moving over to the woman. “Griselda, it’s all right. We are safe now.”

  Edwin’s heart leapt. Had he heard correctly? It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  The man had reached the woman and knelt before her. He stopped her rocking and gently put a hand under her chin to raise her face.

  Now Edwin could see clearly it was indeed the love of his life. Her hair was straggled and dirty, so was not the sunshine blonde he knew, and she had lost a lot of weight. Her face was thinner. Her cheekbones were more pronounced and her face was less rounded. But that did not matter; hearty eating would set her right. The important thing was that he had found her.

  And he had found her abductor.

  The blade sang once more as he drew it from its scabbard. Its work this day was not yet done after all. At the sound, the man looked over to Edwin and his eyes widened in shock.

  “Step away from Griselda,” ordered Edwin.

  “Wait! What is this?” said the man, stumbling backwards as Edwin advanced on him.

  “Edwin!” Griselda’s voice stopped him his tracks. Just to hear her voice made his heart sing.

  “Edwin! Stop! What are you doing?” said Griselda. She got to her feet and stepped in front of the man.

  “Get out of my way, Griselda, and let me dispatch this cur. He deserves to die for your abduction and torture.”

  Griselda’s spread her arms wide. “Abduction? Torture?”

  “Aye, it’s plain to see he has starved you. Look how that dress hugs your once full frame like damp cloth on a stick. I can see it in your face.”

  “Edwin? This is Kristoff. He’s a poet. And I like being slim.”

  Edwin was not sure what Griselda was talking about. How could this man be a poet? Then it dawned on him. He had heard of such cases, when someone had been abducted and brainwashed into caring for their abductor.

  “It’s all right, my love. You are safe now. You don’t need to protect him. Step aside and let me send him on his way. You can eat all you want. You need not starve yourself for me.” Edwin took another step forward and raised his sword. The two of them shrank before him.

  Edwin was stretching an arm out to pull Griselda aside when there was a tremendous beat of wind. It was so strong it made him stagger backwards. A huge shape came out of the cloud above.

  It was a dragon.

  He had only ever seen engravings of creatures like this. It was entirely black, no hint of colour except for blazing eyes. It had white teeth as long as his hand in a maw that gaped and shrieked. The sound made him drop his sword to put his hands to his ears. Its massive wings continued to beat and he struggled to hold his ground.

  “Griselda!” he shouted above the terrible noise. “Griselda!”

  The dragon came lower and stretched out massive talons to snatch at Griselda and her abductor. With further powerful strokes of its wings, the dragon rose, clasping the pair beneath it. So he had been right. This man was in league with the foulest creatures in the
world and had somehow summoned this beast to his rescue.

  Edwin’s heart filled with anguish. He had found his love, Griselda, and been so close. So close. Only to have her snatched from him once more. How could one man bear such torment? He could hear the gorge calling at him. End it all, it said. Plunge into me and your pain will be gone, it whispered in his mind.

  No. He would not buckle.

  Getting to his feet, he retrieved his sword and held it up. It sang as he cried, “Griselda! Fear not. I will find you my love. Griselda!”

  Chapter 24 Sacrifice

  Dead people are of little use, but they are less annoying.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Not having slept well, Morden’s thoughts were as grim as the breakfast he was being served; it was no more than gritty bread and pasty gruel. He could have murdered bacon, eggs, blood sausage and thick slabs of white bread but instead had been served slops. The fact that this was the best that all the orcs around him ever had didn’t make him feel ungrateful; he was just in a black mood.

  Grimtooth seemed happy enough with the fare. He held his bowl up close to his mouth and scooped the gruel in with his hand.

  “I’m going for a walk,” said Morden.

  Grimtooth nodded and kept shovelling.

  Outside the weather was equally grim. The rain that fell from the low cloud had turned the street into a quagmire. Morden raised his hood and stepped out expecting to sink knee deep in mud. He was pleasantly surprised. The robe had an aversion to getting dirty; instead of sinking he glided across the surface of the mud. It was also clear that the robe was not so much waterproof as water repellent. The rain fell to within an inch or so of the robe and then seemed to decide that getting the robe wet would be a bad idea. The effect of all this was that as he walked Morden skated over the mud with a cloud of mist at his feet and he left no mark.