The Dark Lord's Handbook: Conquest Page 15

  “It’s an evil plan.”

  “I knew you’d like it.”

  “Diabolic.”

  “I can see you’re coming round.”

  “Ruthless, heartless, scheming, low down, backstabbing, bastard of a plan.”

  “So, you’re agreed.”

  “Yes.”

  Morden could hardly believe he was going to do this but, as he voiced his assent, he could feel a sense of relief wash over him. There would be no going back. His relationship with Griselda would be over. It was probably for the best. He was going to be extremely busy in the coming year, what with coming forth, laying waste, and holding dominion over the world. He would be far too busy to satisfy Griselda’s ever-demanding needs. As it was, he could barely satisfy her physically. If bits of him kept decaying the way they were, it would take all his will to stop her seeing him as the monster he was becoming, let alone continue as a lover.

  “Good,” said Lord Deathwing. “Now, we’d better not be found here. You should leave that note behind. Suicide is better than murder, like I had originally planned. I was going to make it look like a fight but the suicide angle seemed cleaner.”

  Morden put the note back on the desk. “I don’t want to see her again. Get her away from here today. As soon as you have Lady Deathwing, get back here immediately.”

  “Well, not immediately.”

  Morden rounded on his father. “Immediately.”

  “Yes. But. Straight after I’ve … you know … consummated.”

  Morden shook his head in disbelief. “After that then. Now let’s piss off before Griselda turns up and kills us both.”

  Morden left his father and stormed back to his temporary throne room, scattering minions before him as he made his way. Once there, he threw himself onto his new makeshift throne (visually unimpressive but more comfortable that the old one) and began to brood on what had happened. He hated being outmanoeuvred by his father and he would have revenge. He would play along for now, but he could not tolerate being manipulated as he had been. The most annoying thing was that he knew his father was probably right. It made him question his love for Griselda. He was sure he’d read once that to love someone you had to let them go. He wondered if they had this in mind. Morden dug into his robe and took out the Handbook to see what it had to say on the subject.

  Chapter 18 Handbook: Love

  All you need is love? Good luck with that.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  One thing should be clear from the outset: there is no room for love in a Dark Lord’s heart. Though some Dark Lords do have an actual heart, all Dark Lords should be heartless. A hero never confronts a Dark Lord and denounces them as evil, despicable, loathsome, but with a good heart. It never happens. And don’t get confused with lust. Love is but lust in a romantic guise. That’s a lesson all Dark Lords should understand. For most, it is not an issue, but for you, Morden, I see that it has become one. In your lust, at first sated and now a daily frustration due to your necrosis, I sense you are in danger of transforming this feeling into a fanciful notion of love. This is a mistake.

  At its most selfish, co-dependent worst, love can twist the mind and distract in a way that serves no purpose when there are more important things to be concerned with, like your next great soliloquy, the march of your army in its inexorable conquests, and the humiliation of your enemies. You should be focused on heroes and gloating over their ineptitude. Think on the riches of victory, the adoration of your minions, the fear of your enemies, the magnificence of your fortress, the cut of your robe, the torment and suffering of those who oppose you. Any of these things and more, but not love. Love is an indulgence ill-afforded by a busy Dark Lord and of no merit.

  Love weakens and debilitates. It eats away at you. Love promises much and delivers nothing. Love will not sustain you. It will not ultimately satisfy. Love devours and consumes, and craps out the waste when all is done. You are not love’s excrement, Morden. You are a Dark Lord. Love has no place in your life. Let others love you but cast all notions of loving others aside. It will never serve you well.

  Ask yourself this: do you think your father loves his wife? Are the Deathwings in love? Clearly not. Your father is nothing but a dragon driven by lust, Lady Deathwing a dragon driven by power. Theirs is a marriage of convenience. Do you imagine they have pet names for each other, or feed each other strawberries from a fork? They use each other for their own purposes. At best, they have mutual respect, and even that is unlikely. They are both selfish, focused entirely on their own needs and wants. They are a fine example of how a good marriage works.

  Do you really love Griselda? Is she that special? She may possess the looks that wake lustful thoughts, and she may have a savage wit and a strong will, but does she even love you? She seeks to control you. She needs you to make her feel good. Her ego rivals your own in that she wants the greatest being in the world to lie down and roll over at her feet and have his tummy tickled like a playful puppy. She wants what you have: power. While that is commendable—you too want power, but over the world and not a single person—it’s not love. Do not be fooled.

  Griselda has served her purpose and can serve you more if she can be used as a bargaining chip. If she can be an imagined hostage to your feelings for her then your enemies will have false security. She is merely another piece on the board. If she is your queen on this board then it is time for a sacrifice. Let your enemies take her and think they have the advantage. Let them exchange pieces and believe they are stronger for it. Then, when the time comes, show them the error of their ways. You may even like to gloat about it and point out where they went wrong.

  More than anything, empty yourself of love. It is false and best suited for the weak and needy. You are neither of those things. You are the Dark Lord, Morden Deathwing, not a lovesick puppy.

  Chapter 19 Book of the Dead

  Those who seek death should be shown the way.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  The white bearskin that shielded Edwin from the freezing wind had cost him his sword at the last trading post he had stopped at a week ago. The traders had wondered why he wanted it, given his stated intent to go north; his suicide would be quicker without the skin’s warmth. No one went north. The wooden post in the centre of the small community had signs affixed that pointed south to varying degrees. Five hundred leagues to Firena. Eight hundred to Xanthos. None pointed north. There was nothing there. Wastes in the main, and rumoured mountains beyond. Nobody knew for sure as none had been and returned. The only reason the trading post existed was to service the hardiest of hunters, who trapped and skinned the highly valued critters that lived on the edge of the northern wilderness, before trees gave out completely, and where there was still some day. To the north, even the sun would not go for much of the year.

  Edwin was determined to go to the edge of the world and beyond. There was nowhere in the south he could live in peace. The company of men had become intolerable. Not to mention the substantial bounty he had on his head, which caught up with him wherever he went. Murder, they had said. Woman-killer. That she had spawned the evil that threatened the world seemed to have been overlooked. Edwin felt no remorse for what he had done. Evil begot evil and he would not tolerate evil. Her death had been just. When it was clear those who had held him for his crime would see him dangle, he had no recourse but to escape. That some had died in that escape was unfortunate. Death came easily to those who stood in his way and they should have heeded the signs.

  The traders had laughed when he had asked of the fabled northern kingdom, hidden away in a great valley. A myth, they had said. A story for the children when the days were short and all with sense stayed as warm as they could inside, burning precious winter fuel and chewing on the dried salted meat which saw them through the darkest days. They were probably right. It had been a week and he had seen no sign of man in that time. The sun gave light, but no warmth, for a scant few hours each day, and it grew less as he went farther north.
If death was going to take him then it would be now, in these cold wastes. He would not yield to any man, or answer to any lord, for supposed crimes. He would continue north and find what he sought, legend though it may be, or die and become a frozen corpse to be covered in snow and ice, forgotten by the world. Sir Edwin, the Hero of Bostokov, the scourge of orc and evil, would pass forgotten and unknown. So be it.

  He didn’t think it would be today he would die, though it was colder than it had ever been, and in just one week his strength had been sapped by his struggle north. That all he had to eat was dried meat, whose salt gave him a seemingly unquenchable thirst, did not help. But he would struggle on. One foot in front of the other. One pace at a time. He kept the sun behind him in the day, such as it was, and the northern star ahead at night. He was fortunate there was a moon that gave him sufficient light to travel by, else he would have made no progress in the few hours of light he had. But even that would not last. It was waning quickly past the full.

  He continued north. The cold burnt his lungs and sapped the strength in his legs. When he came to a low wall, he stopped, lacking the strength even to step over the crumbled rocks. Looking each way, the wall stretched as far as he could see in the swirling snow. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would build a wall here. It wasn’t a particularly big wall, only a few stones high. Perhaps once it had been more impressive. With no other choice, he clambered over the stones, taking care not to get his foot trapped, or to twist an ankle. He was sure he was going to die if he kept heading north, but if he was going to die then he didn’t want it to be from a sprain.

  He continued north of the wall. Always north. When he felt exhaustion would soon halt him, Edwin stopped and pitched the flimsy shelter he had. The crude tent did little more than keep the worst of the wind off, providing him a shelter in which he could crawl into the skin bag he had been given by one of the more caring traders. The shelter was sufficient for him to light a small oil lamp, whose supply was also dropping low, not for warmth but to melt snow. He rationed himself carefully, taking only what he thought he needed before snuffing the flame, drawing the top of his cocoon about his face, and getting what sleep he could.

  He woke in darkness and into another day. He made short work of ablutions before setting off northward as the meagre sunlight crept up behind. One foot in front of the other. One pace at a time. North.

  Days passed. He wasn’t sure how many. He’d lost count of the total as he had ventured north. He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter though. He knew he had little time left. Soon he would be in the ice’s grip. Soon he would stumble and fall, and not push himself back to his feet as he had done countless times in the last days. Soon he would listen to that part of him that wanted to lie there, close his eyes, and sleep, welcoming the cold. For now, he would continue.

  His progress was made harder by the ground rising. At least one part of the legend was true; there were mountains ahead. But perhaps they were an illusion. He was seeing things now. Bands of light cut ribbons across the sky, all hues of green and yellow, with hints of blue, red and purple. The bands twisted and rippled across the heavens. Impossibly huge, they filled the sky. His mind must be going. At times he thought he saw shapes in the lights. Once he saw trails that reminded him of Griselda’s hair. Another time, he thought he saw a huge, hooded shape cast in shadow beyond the lights and above the mountains that rose before him. It was mystifying and wondrous. He was a mere speck before this beauty and grandeur that played out in the sky above him. If only he could write it down so others may get the smallest glimpse of what he saw and what he felt in seeing it. He may be about to die, alone and forgotten, but that he had witnessed this marvel before his death was some small recompense for all the evil and torment that had brought him here. He was blessed among men to lay eyes on what must be the wings of the divine beating in the heavens.

  It was the last thing he saw before he passed out on his feet, aware only of the snow rushing to his face.

  *****

  Edwin was pleased there was an afterlife. There had been times when he doubted it, but now that he had died in the frozen wastes and ascended into warmth and comfort, his doubts were gone. Surely now he could enjoy an eternity of bliss as reward for all his mortal efforts to do right in the world he had left behind. It was the least he could expect. He was owed for the torment and suffering. He would not miss the world he had departed. There were none there who cared for him, even if he cared for them. He had tried his best to do good and, although he had failed to defeat evil, this afterlife would be his reward.

  It was an afterlife that began in the softest bed he had ever lain in. The pillows must be stuffed with the down from angel wings, they were so soft. He opened his eyes tentatively, unsure what wonders may await them for, without doubt, the afterlife must be the most wondrous of sights any could lay their eyes on. It was to his shame that his first feelings when he risked gazing upon heaven, though unbidden, were of slight disappointment. He had imagined heaven to be more spacious, and perhaps better adorned. The small room in which his bed lay looked like it had been hewn from rock rather than built by the divine. The simple furniture, though of a design he had never seen, and which was marvellous to the eye, was in no way what he considered angelic. The clothes laid across a bench cut from the rock looked well-made but they were burgundy and mustard, not the gleaming white he had assumed he would be wearing as a denizen of the immortal realm. Almost as an afterthought, he realised the colours were exactly those Nuriel had been wearing. Strange.

  It was time to get up and explore. While he had eternity to do so, there was no time like the present. Edwin was keen to meet the countless host and bask in the radiant glory of the creator as he welcomed Edwin into his bosom. He wasn’t going to do it naked, though, so he cast the bedclothes aside and got dressed, which proved more challenging than he had anticipated. There were no trousers, or shirt. He had just about managed to arrange an under-cloth around himself for decency, when a section of the wall slid silently aside and an old man entered.

  “Having trouble?” asked the man.

  Edwin thought it was Nuriel, as the clothing was much the same, but realised immediately this man was shorter, fatter, and spoke with an accent Nuriel had lacked. Like Nuriel, he had the demeanour of an old man, and eyes that spoke of great wisdom, but his skin was not wrinkled with age, though laughter lines did break out when he smiled.

  “You are confused,” said the man, his smile widening. “Only to be expected. I am Kezef. Here, let me help you with your robes.”

  Kezef took the robe and wrapped it around Edwin in series of folds and tucks that were hard to follow, leaving him feeling like a babe in swaddling clothes. The robe was both light and warm. He moved his arms around and above his head, then took a few steps. He had perfect freedom of movement.

  “There. That’s better,” Kezef said. “You must be hungry. Let’s go and see what we can get you to eat. Come.”

  Edwin was too confused to argue and followed the old man. Clearly he was not dead, and this was not the afterlife. He was more than relieved as, had it been the afterlife, he would have been severely disappointed. While pleasant enough, this was not what he had in mind when it came to spending an eternity in bliss. He was reminded of what Nuriel had said and Edwin could see, even after a few minutes, there was something smothering and dull about this place. It was all very nice. Kezef led Edwin down a corridor whose smooth walls—as though the rock had been polished by hand—curved in a soothingly gentle fashion. There were doors set into the walls, and he surmised there must be rooms much like his behind them, making this the sleeping quarters for whatever this place turned out to be. Light was provided by guarded sconces, which gave a diffuse, gentle light like sunshine on a misty summer’s morning. The corridor ended in a larger door. Kezef reached over his shoulder and tugged a fold in his robe, which turned out to be a hood, and brought it over his head.

  “It’s going to be a little chilly out, I imagine,” said
Kezef. “You may want to cover up.”

  Edwin reached over his own shoulder and found a similar fold. He followed Kezef’s example and brought it up and over his head.

  Kezef glanced back in a quick appraisal and nodded. “Good.”

  Kezef opened the door and Edwin braced himself for a chilling blast, but there was another short corridor before it came to a much larger, heavy door, upon which was nailed a note. ‘Please close the door behind you.’ Kezef ushered Edwin in to the short corridor, pulling the first door closed. Kezef indicated the note.

  “Af gets so antsy if you let the cold in,” said Kezef. “And he does like his reminders. Woe betide the person who leaves an unwashed bowl in the sink. A tip: don’t.”

  The door looked heavy but Kezef pulled it inward with ease. Cold air hit Edwin with a shock that took him back to his struggle north.

  He remembered the lights in the sky. He remembered looming mountains. And cold. He had lost all feeling in his extremities. At the trade post, they had said a man could lose hands and feet to frostbite and not know it. Yet here he was, all extremities present and accounted for. He remembered getting to the point where he could not get back to his feet, having sunk to his knees in the snow. All he had wanted to do was sleep. He had at last decided it was time to welcome death and collapsed forward, arms spread in supplication that the end would come quickly. As he had sunk into sleep, he remembered, with a pang, thinking of Griselda. He was sorry for what had happened. He had realised she may have become an evil harlot and queen to a Dark Lord, but she was still his sister. He had felt a surge of love unlike his previous shameful feelings. She was his sister.