The Dark Lord's Handbook: Conquest Page 16

  He remembered lying in the snow and then being lifted up, feeling light as he rose. It had to be angels lifting him to the heavens, taking him up to his just reward. And he remembered a face. He had forced his eyes open to gaze on the divine. It had been Kezef. Ancient beyond years and yet youthful in strength.

  “You found me,” said Edwin. “In the snow. You came and brought me here.”

  Kezef had tucked his hands into his sleeves and stepped out onto a balcony lit with a flickering light. Beyond was darkness. As Edwin’s eyes adjusted, he was sure there were mountains out there.

  Kezef stopped and turned. “What? Yes. Of course. We can talk about this later. Now come along before we let too much cold in.”

  Edwin joined Kezef and the old man closed the door behind them. The door’s fit was so snug that only a change in material gave away its presence in the face of the stone. The balcony they were on stretched in either direction, open to the outside on one side, a number of doors inset into the rock both to the left and right. Edwin thought it odd they had not enclosed the balcony, or joined the rooms on the inside. It was one more curiosity among many.

  Kezef led Edwin along, stopping at the second door. He gave it a gentle push and it opened into the same small corridor arrangement they had just left. Edwin was ushered in and Kezef closed the door behind. Instantly, the cold was gone.

  “I must say, I’m a little hungry myself now,” said Kezef. “Let’s go and see what we can rustle up.”

  Kezef pushed the inner door open and Edwin expected a mirror of the corridor where his room had been. He was mistaken. The door opened immediately onto a wide stair that went down into a hall, at the far end of which was a raised dais. The entire hall was once more carved from rock and polished, made translucent by the now-familiar soft light that came from shaded lamps around the walls. There was a faint perfume in the air that reminded Edwin of the tied bunch of wildflowers Griselda had kept in her undergarments drawer. On the dais, instead of a king’s throne or a lord’s chair, as befitted a ruler’s hall, there was instead a lectern upon which was a closed, heavy tome. Arrayed in front of the dais were heavy rugs and on each sat a robed figure in the same colours Edwin and Kezef wore.

  Is this a monastery? thought Edwin. There was an assuredly monastic air about the frugality of both decoration and attire, not to mention its isolation. Edwin shrugged inwardly. It may not be the divine afterlife but it promised tranquillity and the opportunity to find peace.

  “This way,” said Kezef, indicating a door off to one side. “I’ll make introductions later. Let’s get you some food.”

  A minute later, Edwin was sitting in a kitchen that boasted the same frugality of decoration as the rest of the halls, spooning a thin soup. If Kezef’s indulgent smile was anything to go by, he could have imagined he had been served a dish that would have graced Chancellor Penbury’s table. Edwin couldn’t imagine Penbury being impressed with the pale grey soup and hard biscuits he’d been given, if indeed they were biscuits and not a coaster for the cup of water Kezef handed him. Edwin’s thoughts went to Nuriel.

  “I don’t suppose you have any bacon, do you?” asked Edwin.

  “Bacon? Here? No, I’m sorry. We don’t keep pigs.”

  “It’s only, Nuriel had some, and he came from here didn’t he?”

  “Ah, so you met Nuriel,” Kezef said. “Bacon, you say? That’s just like him. He must have bought it somewhere. You’re not enjoying the food?”

  “I’ve never had anything like these … biscuits before. What are they made from?”

  “Mushrooms.”

  “And the soup?”

  “Mushroom, though a different variety. I can offer you some cake if you like?”

  “Made from …”

  “Mushrooms, yes. Not much grows this far north. But you’d be amazed at the versatility of the mushroom.”

  “Nuriel did say he was vegetarian,” said Edwin. This place did seem like an idyllic haven, but it hadn’t taken him long to wonder how he could live on such simple food.

  “Not through choice,” Kezef said. “More circumstance. It may seem frugal, but in time you’ll find such bodily needs lessen.”

  “In time?”

  Kezef smiled in a way that made Edwin want to punch him in the face, as though he were a small boy being indulged for his ignorance. Kezef’s smugness hinted at knowledge Edwin could not guess at or understand.

  “Is this a monastery?” asked Edwin, dribbling the soup off his spoon.

  Kezef’s smile widened and Edwin had to remind himself he was trying to leave his life of violence behind him.

  “A monastery? No. But I can see where you might get that from. This is a place of contemplation; there is no worship here. We are free to think and do as we like, with no divine law. Nuriel, for example, decided to leave, and did so. You have come here through choice and, by that same choice, may leave as you wish. I sense, however, you are troubled and may do well to spend time here and learn.”

  “Learn?”

  Kezef did not answer immediately. Instead, Edwin felt like he was being weighed up and measured.

  “What was that tome on the plinth?” asked Edwin, feeling uncomfortable under Kezef’s eye.

  The question seemed to interrupt whatever train of thought Kezef was in.

  “The tome? Why, it’s the Book of the Dead.”

  Chapter 20 Separation

  Bluffing is for those who lack conviction in their strength.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Lord Deathwing hurried through the fortress looking for Griselda, stopping orcs as he went to ask where their dread queen might be found. Her chambers had been destroyed by the eruption, and she wasn’t in her temporary quarters, so she had to be out and about. This was a problem given the size of the fortress. It could take days to search and Griselda was well-known for shaking her guards. He headed to a battlement from which he could take to the air and do an aerial survey. If she was outside, he would find her quickly from above. Soon enough, he was carving swathing arcs through the air, trying to catch sight of the queen.

  Being able to show himself so freely and fly like this was one of the greatest pleasures he enjoyed. In the west, he had been forced to live a life of secrecy. If there had ever been reliable reports of a black dragon flying around then in no time there would have been a dragon slayer after him, like in the bad old days, and he didn’t want that. They were a real pain, and surprisingly adept at their job considering what they were up against. They didn’t fight fair—not that he expected them to take a dragon head-on—but even so, they seemed to have a knack when it came to killing dragons that was worrying. A lucky arrow, a baited sheep, a stealthy incursion into a lair with a stupidly sharp axe, and, before you had a chance to realise what was happening, your head was on a spike in the town square, and the dragon slayer was on the shoulders of the townsfolk, maidens swooning all around. And so the smarter dragons had adapted and hidden themselves. Hundreds of years had passed and dragons had entered the stuff of myth, which suited the Deathwings just fine.

  Now, though, things were about to change. Morden had risen and was about to issue forth as an all-conquering Dark Lord and the Deathwings would once more be the terror of the skies. Dragon slayers, like dragons, were now only the stuff of legend, and Lord Deathwing slept peacefully in that knowledge. But first things first. He had a Dark Queen to find so he could set Morden and the Deathwings on their way.

  It had been unfortunate that Morden had stumbled upon his plan. When Morden caught him leaving Kristoff’s chamber, he thought his efforts would be stillborn. Morden would be less than pleased and he thought he would be undone. He’d tried to bluff it out and it had worked. It hadn’t even been much of a bluff. Lord Deathwing was happy to see Morden had taken the decision any good Dark Lord should and put his own quest for power ahead of anything else, like inconsequential personal relationships. The ballads and tales may be full of dashing men who gave all for the love of their life but f
ortunately Morden would not be one of them. A good thing too, as Griselda would like nothing more than to have Morden place her at the centre of his world over his own ambitions. Now that was not going to happen. But where was she? She wasn’t outside. Perhaps if she had been found, and told of her father’s death, she had gone to Kristoff’s room. He could imagine she would want to soak up the misery where her father had committed suicide. If he got there quickly enough, he could be before her.

  Lord Deathwing alighted on Morden’s broken tower. The orcs who were working scattered as he landed and headed down the remains of the staircase. He paid them no heed. They were minions to be ignored. He hurried to Kristoff’s room, mentally admonishing himself for not thinking of this first. As he drew close, a caterwaul told him she had arrived before him. Perhaps that was best. If she had found him there, her suspicions may have been aroused.

  He came upon her standing next to her father’s desk, the suicide note in hand, and an orc guard trying his best to sidle out of the door. Lord Deathwing’s first instincts were to turn right around and give her a few minutes to get over the crying. He couldn’t stand all that blubbering. Instead, he gritted his teeth and stepped into the room. He waved the orc out and swung the door closed. At the sound, Griselda caught herself mid-sob to see who had come in. From her surprise, he surmised she had expected to see Morden, not his father. Her face was streaked, her eyes red, hair dishevelled. Nevertheless, he could see why his son was attracted to her. He was suddenly at a loss for words. Comforting words for a beautiful woman in distress at the loss of a close relative were not something that came easily to him.

  The transformation from grief to rage was so fast it took Lord Deathwing by surprise. Instead of the vitriolic invective he may have expected, she launched herself physically at him, snarling as she did. The first blow hurt as it caught his midriff, but then he flicked into adamant dragon skin and the subsequent blows were as hail on a fastened shutter—furious and loud but harmless. And these were no haphazard, windmilling punches, but serious attempts to hit vital areas: rabbit punches, blows to the groin and side of the head. Griselda knew her stuff. And all the while, she screamed her rage with an intensity that would have been a credit to any berserker on the battlefield.

  It didn’t take long before she wore herself out and he caught her as she suddenly sagged, sobbing as she did.

  “You bastard,” she managed between gulps of air. “You started this.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Lord Deathwing, ignoring the accusation. “I was told what happened and came to see for myself. I could hardly believe it. He was so full of life. I can’t imagine the loss you are feeling.”

  As platitudes went, it was the best he could manage. These first few minutes were vital. He had to convince her, without using his ability to twist her mind, he had nothing to do with her father’s death, and she had no other recourse than to leave, with him, before Morden stopped her. Comfort was the first step. The trouble was, it wasn’t something he’d ever had to do before. Making others feel better was quite alien. He tried an experimental pat on the shoulder. Griselda at first tensed at the touch, then let herself go. The tears flowed.

  “There, there,” said Lord Deathwing, stroking her hair and patting her some more. He hoped she’d regain her normal combative self quickly. This frail and vulnerable Griselda was too much to handle. “It’s a shock to us all. No one could have seen it coming.”

  “He had so much to live for,” sobbed Griselda.

  “Of course, he did,” said Deathwing. Kristoff was a morbidly obsessed poet, trapped in a Dark Lord’s fortress, who was his son-in-law, and surrounded by death and destruction. He had everything to live for. Really. If Lord Deathwing hadn’t thrown him out of the window, it could only have been a matter of time before he did it himself. Only Deathwing hadn’t had the time to wait. All he’d done was hurry the matter along. You might even say it was a mercy killing. “He had you. He had his poetry. He had a son-in-law who’s about to conquer the world. There was everything to look forward to.”

  At the mention of Morden, Griselda stiffened. She pushed away with her arms, forcing Deathwing to release her, and stepped back to look at him, iron in her eyes.

  “His son-in-law? His son-in-law? Morden? It’s that bastard’s fault my father is dead. He may as well have come in here and thrown him out the window himself. In fact, I bet he did and then faked the suicide note.”

  “Suicide note?” asked Lord Deathwing, as innocently as he could manage without seeming overly surprised.

  Griselda picked up the note from the floor where it had dropped and handed to Lord Deathwing. He considered reading it out loud but thought it perhaps a step too far. Instead, he made the pretence of careful study before handing it back. “I’m so sorry.”

  Griselda flicked an angry glare at him. “When have you ever been sorry for anything, Deathwing? You’re the most morally bankrupt thing I know. The only reason I believe you didn’t have anything to do with this is because I don’t see how there is a shag in it for you. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t tried to comfort shag me.” Griselda grinned at him wickedly and looked down at her bosom. “Don’t say the thought hasn’t occurred to you.”

  Lord Deathwing was bordering on shocked at her suggestion. Not at the depravity of what she was suggesting, but that it hadn’t occurred to him a revenge fuck with Morden’s father was in her arsenal. If she wanted to hurt Morden, he honestly couldn’t think of anything better. It was tempting …

  Griselda stepped up close, cupped his groin in one hand, and leaned in close. “Right here, right now. On my dead father’s bed. What do you say?”

  Lord Deathwing could feel her breasts pressed against him in a way he had been oblivious to a moment ago, when the charade of comfort had been on his mind. He knew he had many weaknesses, but his libido outstripped them all by a godly amount. He was immediately aroused and Griselda couldn’t help but feel it.

  “It’s been so long since I’ve been satisfied,” she purred in his ear.

  In a monumental act of will, Lord Deathwing uttered words he thought he never would: “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  Griselda let him go and turned her back on him. “See, I thought you couldn’t have had anything to do with this. No shag.”

  Lord Deathwing was staggered. It had been a deceit. A trap, he had nearly fallen into. He was shocked. He would have to be more careful; she was a tricky one. His carefully laid plan had almost been ended before it had got going. The closeness to disaster left him at a loss for words … momentarily. “Perhaps I’m not as bad as you think I am.”

  “Yes, you are,” said Griselda. “Now why are you really here? You never gave a crap about Kristoff, or me. I haven’t forgotten what you did to us both.”

  “I seem to remember rescuing you from Edwin’s clutches and saving Kristoff’s life at the same time,” said Deathwing. “But you’re right. In truth, I don’t like the effect you have on Morden. I know it’s my own doing, but I thought he was made of stronger stuff. You’re a distraction. He has more important things to be getting on with, like holding dominion over the nations of the world, and you keep him tied up in knots. I had heard Kristoff wanted to go and look for his son, and I came here to see if I could take him away, under the proviso you went with him. Now he’s dead, but the offer stands. You want out? I’m it.”

  “You see how much easier it is if you’re honest? No need to pretend to care. Yes, I want out. I don’t want to spend a minute longer than I have to in this hellhole. I’ve given that bastard every chance. My father couldn’t bear it here, and nor can I. Do you know where my brother is? I have something I would like to return to him.”

  “I have no idea,” said Lord Deathwing, “but I know a man who could probably find out. And return what?”

  “Never mind that. Meet me at the top of the Tower of Pain in thirty minutes. I need to go and get a few things. Don’t be late.”

  And she was gone. She disappeared out of the d
oor, leaving a faint hint of her perfume behind her. Lord Deathwing let his sharpened senses drink it in. If only she were a dragon.

  Anyway, so far, so good. His plan was intact and proceeding apace. Tower of Pain, thirty minutes. It hadn’t gone exactly as planned, but the result had been the intended one. Feeling more than pleased with himself, Lord Deathwing headed to the rendezvous.

  *****

  From a window high up in the Tower of Misery, Morden watched his father take to the air with Griselda grasped in one of his massive talons, his other clutching what looked like a small trunk. A few of her things, thought Morden. He’d like to have seen his father’s reaction when she’d turned up for their swift escape with that in tow. Any argument would have been futile. Without seeing, Morden knew pretty much what would be in the trunk: three of her favourite dresses (all black), five pairs of her favourite shoes (all black), and her brushes and combs that kept her hair like the mane of a well-bred mare. She would have scavenged what she could for her writing: quills, paper, ink, whatever books she could find.

  Morden watched them rapidly dwindle into a distant speck against an angry sky until he could see them no more. It was strange. He felt both loss and relief. The loss was peculiar because it lacked the emotion he thought it might have. He remembered the feelings he used to have but, in the last year in particular, he had begun to feel as dead inside as the flesh that covered his increasingly skeletal figure. He supposed it was hard to be heartbroken if he had no heart.

  There would be many things he would miss—not least of which was her beauty—and many more he would not. No longer would he have to manage the pretence of what he had become. The illusion was gone. When he had first met Zoon, he had been repulsed to the point of nausea and now he was that same Dark Lich, perhaps a few hundred years less decayed but at a level of decrepitude that was undeniably the wrong side of dead. Life was overrated anyway. All that eating and sleeping was a waste of valuable time. He had a world to bring under his shadow and, with Griselda gone, he could concentrate on that sole task. No distractions. No diversions. No temper tantrums. From now on, he had only one thing to do: conquer the world. Nothing else. Yes, indeed. He would be a Dark Lord on a mission from now on. He would not rest until his mighty endeavour was done. Nothing would hold him back. He would be the most focused Dark Lord the world had ever seen. Hell bent on the single goal of making the world his to rule.