The Dark Lord's Handbook Page 15

  “Baron Pierre de Fanfaron,” announced Sergei.

  The Count groaned inside. He needed men who would strip pine trees with their teeth and here was a fop whose only acquaintance with pine would have been its scent in a privy.

  The Baron performed a complex bow. “At your pleasure, Count.”

  “I’m sure,” said the Count.

  The Baron reached inside his vest and produced a parchment and laid it on the table in front of the Count. “I present you my credentials, sir. You will be finding my certificates of fencing from the King of Pointelle’s own tutor and a word of recommendation from the King himself.”

  The Count knew he was only going through the motions so he picked up the parchment and ran an eye over it. If he had needed a man to duel an army to death then this was his lucky day; the Baron had a kill record in matters of honour second to none. Additionally, the hand written note from the King of Pointelle assured the Count that the Baron of Fanfaron was an excellent raconteur and good company. Perfect.

  “And what else, besides a useful rapier and a good story, might you offer me?” said the Count, setting the document down.

  “Why, my company of chefs,” said the Baron with a faint smile.

  The Count though he had misheard. For a second he thought the Baron had said chefs. It must have been his accent. “A company, excellent.” It wasn’t many but one hundred men were not to be sniffed at.

  “You would like to see them, yes?” said the Baron.

  “Certainly, Baron. Shall we?” said the Count, getting to his feet.

  Outside the sun has risen high enough to take the chill out of the morning. The Count led the way towards his parade ground with his aide fallen in behind. The sound of an army under training filled the air; the clash of sword on sword, sergeants barking orders, drums beating.

  “So tell me, Baron, how was your journey?” asked the Count, feeling the need to make small talk. It was something he was not generally good at and avoided where possible.

  The Baron waved his kerchief as if dismissing some trifle. “It was adequate, but I am glad I have brought my men. Your sausage that I have been forced to eat is, excuse me for saying, but it is peasant fair. Lucky for you that I have come and that will change.”

  Again, the Baron seemed to be talking in riddles and once again the Count dismissed it as cultural misunderstanding.

  They arrived at the parade ground where the Baron’s men were drawn up in four neat rows of twenty five. It was not quite what the Count had been expecting. He had imagined a company made up of battle hardened veterans; the kind of veteran that had a hint of grey in his bushy moustache, scars across his face, a tattoo on his arm, and a slight limp from an old wound that he complained about when it was cold.

  Unless he was very much mistaken what was standing rigidly to attention in front of him, spoons snapped upright in a salute, stiff blue and white striped aprons catching the breeze, were one hundred kitchen hardened cooks. Apart from a good number of impressive moustaches, there was little to suggest they had ever been in battle.

  “Mon Bataillons des Chefs,” said the Baron proudly.

  The Count was at a loss for words. Was the man insane? He didn’t need haute cuisine, he needed killers; preferably mounted and covered in half inch plate.

  “They are impressive, non?” said the Baron, striding along the row.

  The Count felt like he was in a bad dream as he trailed behind.

  “Indeed,” said the Count, hoping the despair he felt was hidden in his voice.

  The Baron stopped at one chef and exchanged words in his native tongue. The man positively bristled with pride.

  He’s complimenting the man’s pastries, thought the Count.

  “I don’t suppose they can fight?” asked the Count when they reached the end of the first line.

  The Baron looked at the Count with open bewilderment.

  “Forgive me,” said the Count. Obviously the only thing they could fight was an urge to over season sauce.

  The Baron had stopped and was continuing to frown at the Count. Then a smile broke on the Baron’s face and he slapped the Count heartily around the shoulder and laughed.

  “Very good, my Count. Très drôle. Very funny. You have some wit, no?”

  The Baron continued his inspection down the second line of men. There was a strange air about them that the Count decided must be garlic.

  “I’m sorry, Baron, it was impolite of me to ask. I’m sure they are most excellent cooks.”

  The Baron came to a sudden halt and spun to face the Count, outrage burning in his eyes.

  “Cooks? You think these men are cooks?” The Baron cast his eye back beyond the Count. “That man there, you see? That man has served a regiment of men the freshest hot croissant you have ever tasted before the Battle of Perigourd. You have heard of that battle, monsieur?”

  The Count had. While there had been few wars in recent history, the civil war for the throne of Pointelle five years ago had been one of the larger and bloodier affairs. The Battle of Perigourd had been the deciding engagement, when the King’s army had crushed a peasant army that sought to install a common man as head of state.

  “Cook? Merde. These men here, my Count, are the best chefs de bataillon the world has ever seen. Do you know what happened at that battle?”

  The Count shrugged. One lesson he had learnt in life was that when someone was in mid tirade any questions asked were generally of the rhetorical kind.

  “Very well, I shall tell you. Our army was small but well fed. The peasants, they were starving. We engaged them and victory looked certain but we had underestimated these peasants and their hunger. They had caught wind of these men’s efforts.” The Baron waved his arm expansively. “And it drove them crazy. They fought like wild men. There were so many. Some broke through and went straight for our camp. You know what that means, yes?”

  Indeed the Count did. Many an army had broken with its camp threatened. Maintaining a line of retreat and supply was all important to an army’s morale. Knowledge that your belongings were being had away behind you resulted often in trying to leave whatever battle you were in as swiftly as possible to try and catch the thieving bugger who was about your stuff.

  “These men, these few heroes, were all that stood between this ferocious horde and the lunch that was cooking. It was an exquisite casserole de boeuf.” A Baron wiped a tear from his eye. “Pardon me. Just to remember the gallant deeds of these men fills me with pride. They fought like lions, these cooks as you like to call them.”

  The Count was rapidly sifting through what he knew of the battle. It was in many of the texts as an example of how to be careful with one’s supply line. The King had been lucky in that he had not quite committed all his reserves. If he remembered correctly, a small company had held the peasants who broke through long enough for the rear elements to peel back and help. It had been a massacre. Then a name came to mind and with it a realisation.

  “These are the Butchers of Perigourd!”

  The Baron sniffed. “That name was given, but these men are chefs. They will kill for their entrées and die for their casserole.”

  “You must forgive me, Baron,” said the Count bowing. “I am honoured that you have come. I would be indebted if your company of chefs would join this army.”

  The Baron raised his nose. “We may join you, but there are conditions. We are masters in the field kitchen. We must have absolute control. I insist.”

  “Most assuredly, Baron.”

  “We shall need dish washers.”

  “You shall have them.”

  “And fresh vegetables.”

  “Of course.”

  “Very well, then we will cook.”

  “Sergei, show the Baron to his quarters and see that his men are given full control of the field kitchen.”

  The Count’s aide snapped a salute. “Sir, yes, sir.”

  The Baron’s nose lowered two inches and he smiled. “You like, how you say
, coq au vin? Chicken with wine?”

  The Count had no idea what that was but nodded seriously, “Absolutely, Baron. My favourite.”

  The Baron’s smile widened. “Very well, we shall dine on that tonight.” The Baron turned and addressed one of the men with a volley of words. The man barked a reply and saluted with his spoon. “That is done. Shall we retire?”

  The Count was about to explain that, much as he would love to spend the rest of the morning in the company the Baron, the fact was he had his own men to inspect when from the far side of the field a commotion arose. To the Count’s battle trained ear it sounded as though they were under attack. But how could that be? The only hostile force in the area was his wife when he came home late from work.

  “Some trouble?” enquired the Baron.

  Among the ranks of chefs, heads turned in the direction of the noise. Fillet knives appeared surreptitiously.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. I suggest you stay here, and attend your men, Baron, and I shall attend mine and see what the matter is. My horse, Sergei.” He turned to see where his aide was but he was not to be seen. “I shall return momentarily, Baron.”

  The Count set off across the parade square. On the far side he could see a growing knot of men. As he approached, men parted and casualties were helped away with what looked like sword wounds. One screaming man was clutching a bloody stump where his hand was missing.

  The Count broke into a trot and barked orders at the men around him. “You, take the wounded to the rear. Sergeant, take twenty men and form them up here in case the enemy breaks through. You, give me your sword and then find another. You, you and you, form up on me and get me through that.” He pointed at the scrum ahead of them.

  The detail formed a wedge in front of the Count and pressed their way through the men. As they got closer to the front, the Count’s initial concerns began to dampen. It was obvious that whomever were being fought were few in number. He could see a semicircle of men around a large tree that was on the edge of the parade ground next to the wood that stretched off to the south.

  His escort finally barged their way through. The scene that greeted Count Vladovitch was not what he had been expecting. Rather than some small group of bandits that perhaps had been caught stealing, he was faced with a single man, dressed in half-plate, his back to the tree, waving a massive two handed sword like it was a plaything. The blade dripped blood and there was a severed hand on the ground. His armour looked highly functional in a way that hearkened back to the old days when it was intended for battle rather than to impress the peasantry. There was a wild look about the man’s eyes as he held the soldiers at bay. He needn’t have worried as the Count’s men were less than inclined to get within sword reach. To the Count’s left, a group of archers muscled through and raised their bows.

  “Hold!” commanded the Count.

  The archers held their bows raised, strings half cocked.

  “Some one tell me what is going on here,” continued the Count. In true military fashion every set of eyes had somewhere else to look in an attempt to not have to answer that question. The Count was familiar with the ploy. “You, that man,” he said. He knew the command was irresistible and sure enough, a bearded veteran that the Count knew well turned to look. “Petor, explain.”

  The man looked embarrassed.

  “Speak up, sergeant.”

  “Well, Count,” began the man. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “We found this man, see, him there, on the edge of the wood, and he was out cold, and we thought he was a knight and been set upon so we tried to lift him and get him back but he woke up and started shouting and screaming and got all violent and he broke free and his sword was out and men got chopped and before you know it there was blood and mess and commotion and that’s it really.” The sergeant sucked in a breath.

  “Griselda!” Whoever the man was, he had started to stagger forward, his sword raised in a guard. “Where is she? What have you done with her? Come on. Cowards! I’ll take you all on. She’s mine, I tell you. Mine.”

  As he came forward, men stepped back. An archer glanced over to the Count, looking for an order. The Count looked at the man, at the sword, and quickly calculated that disarming him would cost blood that none present were anxious to spill, and he was buggered if it was going to be his. He tapped a hand on his thigh and nodded at the archer.

  An arrow took the man in the leg and he went down.

  “Cowards! Face me like men. Scum! Griselda!”

  The man was on his knees, blood seeping from the arrow in his leg. His eyes met the Count’s. The Count had seen the look before. In it was madness and blood lust. The Count thought he was going to have to kill him and was about to raise his arm to command a volley when the man’s eyes widened, his head turned as though listening to something, and then he fell forward flat on his face into the mud.

  “Take him,” commanded the Count. “Take him to the hospital tent.”

  It took four soldiers to lift the man and haul him off. His sword was left lying on the ground and studiously ignored by the Count’s men. The Count walked over to retrieve it himself. As he got closer, a growing recognition blossomed in his mind, along with a sense of something else, something not quite right, a wrongness. Standing over the sword, he was sure he had indeed seen the weapon before, when the ill-fated Countess of Umbria had brought it forth. This time, however, rather than just being a well crafted piece of steel honed to perfection for killing, there was something else. If the Count didn’t know better, he would have said there was whispering at the edge of his hearing. As he grasped to hear what was being said the words would slip away leaving him with nothing more than the suggestion that the sword wanted blood.

  “You, give me your tunic,” said the Count to a loitering soldier.

  The soldier, having looked to his left and right and realising the Count was addressing him directly, swiftly de-robed. The Count threw the tunic over the sword and only then lifted it, wrapped. Even so, as he carried it back to his tent, he could hear it clearly now. It spoke of his younger days when he had revelled in battle. It spoke of glory and power and blood. All he had to do was take it and he would be a hero.

  Twenty years ago the Count may have succumbed but he was far too old for that now. He loved soldiering and, despite his growing misgivings as to the rightness of what was unfolding, he would leave the right and wrong of it to others, along with the being a hero. He would do his job, which was to win battles and make sure his side was more alive than the other. He was good at that and, as he passed through the camp and men greeted him with respectful salutes, he was as determined as ever to keep as many of his men, and himself, as alive as possible.

  Without doubt, this sword was not meant for him. If it was a hero the sword wanted, and Lady Deathwing wanted, then the crazed knight in his hospital tent would be it.

  Chapter 26 Fifth Lesson – Pillaging

  A little pillaging goes a long way.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Morden sat in the hut alone. He had sent everyone else away so that he could think on what needed to be done. Now that he had made the decision to plunder Bostokov, Morden felt like he had finally accepted what he was, and that was a Dark Lord. At least, what he was professionally. He was still mystified as to what he was physically. After all, he had become a large black dragon and breathed fire. There were so many unanswered questions. Could he fly? Who were his parents? It seemed unlikely that Harold and Jesobel Thrumpty of Little Wassop were his real parents. What did the pendant around his neck have to do with anything?

  What he couldn’t deny, like it or not, was that he was destined for greatness and power. This was not altogether disagreeable. From the moment he had broken Billard’s finger and bent his first lackeys to his will, he knew that he was different. There were things he understood that others did not. They were so consumed with the little things in their lives that they completely failed to see the greater opportunities that life could a
fford a smart person with a will to get what he wanted.

  Then there was the whole business of who ran everything. Morden knew unswervingly that he was born to rule. He suspected that only Chancellor Penbury was of a similar mind. So it would be his will against that of the Chancellor and the world would be their battleground. Morden knew he couldn’t hope to compete with the Chancellor financially, economically or politically, but he did have things the Chancellor did not have. He had the orcs and he had himself.

  The lessons that Morden had learnt when he had broken Billard’s finger were that not many understood the real nature of pain, and even fewer understood that true power does not come from indiscriminate acts but calculated demonstrations of will. Bostokov would be another broken finger and the world would see his will.

  That was the theory anyway.

  The clammy fear that lurked at the back of Morden’s mind was that he had never pillaged a city before and had no idea how to go about it. With Grimtooth gone, and Stonearm more of a weapon than a confidant, there was only one place to turn to, and that was the Handbook.

  Morden pulled the Handbook out and laid it on his lap.

  He could feel it, like a living thing. At the back of his mind he could hear it whispering. It wanted to be read. It was another of the great mysteries that had entered his life in recent months. The time would come when he would have to find out what the Handbook really was, but now was not that time. He felt out of his depth and needed advice.

  For a Dark Lord there is little more satisfying than his first pillage. There’s nothing quite like the smell of a burning city first thing in the morning. To stand upon a battlement and watch cleansing fire burn away the refuse that a city has collected over the years is a moment to be cherished.