The Dark Lord's Handbook Read online

  Yes, yes, thought Morden, but how does a Dark Lord go about the actual pillaging? Is it the random free for all loot and burn that it looks like or is there more to it than that?

  The answer to that is, of course, both. To the citizens of the city, and the world at large, it will look like the Dark Lord has randomly run amok in the city, his horde taking what they please, burning indiscriminately and leaving a trail of corpses in their wake. And all of this may well happen, but a Dark Lord who acts without volition is nothing more than a Warlord.

  I sense, Morden, that you have already learnt several of the characteristics of real power. To blindly thrash around for the sheer sake of inflicting suffering is not one of them.

  When you pillage a city there are many beneficial things that can happen besides the gaining of loot. For a start, it’s good for morale. Your troops will love you as they are given license to run amok. The trick is to let them have a good time, but to direct them expertly. A city that is completely burned to the ground is not much use to you. You need to carefully pluck and prune. The slums can go. A cleansing fire that burns away disease will actually be welcomed by the larger populace. Slums are also easy to rebuild.

  Don’t be fooled by beauty, it is fleeting. Nor be fooled by age, as all decays in time. Do not spare a building because it is beautiful or old. Think of what it can do for you, and if the answer is that it can demonstrate your will then it must be pulled down to its foundations.

  Be an iconoclast.

  You’re doing these people a favour. They may realise that life is more than stone and sculpture and that the gods don’t give a damn.

  This was more like it. It was like having a light shone in the dark and seeing properly for the first time. While it was true that he had grasped the basic understanding of inflicting pain for purpose, never had he considered it on such a scale. To bend a person to your will was one thing, but to do the same with an entire city’s population was quite another. But then he was going to rule the world so it shouldn’t really be such a surprise.

  There have been those that would advocate total destruction of the first few cities that you pillage so that future cities will just open their gates on your approach, and this strategy has had success, but it’s been done. The smarter city leaders know that a city of rubble is no good to anyone.

  Most city leaders are also corrupt, thieving tyrants in their own right and will happily see rivals destroyed to better their own end. It will never be difficult to find those that will turn over their fellow citizens for their own gain. Seek them out and make good use of them, and when you’re done, dispose of them discreetly; after all, they can’t be trusted. But do be discreet. Tell people they’ve retired into luxury somewhere pleasant. You’ll want these people wherever you go and if word got out that their life expectancy was poor then they’ll be less willing.

  It was all fitting into place. Let the orcs have their fun, but point them at targets that served a greater good, like at the houses of unpopular politicians rather than the pubs, which should be looted but not burned. Destroy, burn and steal in such a way as to put fear into people’s hearts by the seeming randomness of it all but in fact be precise and calculated. Take what was needed. Destroy that which spoke the loudest. Find allies in the cancerous leadership of the city itself.

  Morden set the Handbook down and thought a while. He had originally considered standing at the gate, a horde of disgruntled orcs at his back, storming the city and having an epic battle. But he saw now that this was his romantic side coming to the fore.

  He needed to be a touch more selective. What he needed from Bostokov was a means of transporting his orcish army, supplies and cash. He also needed to send out a strong message to the Chancellor.

  All of this he now realized could be done at the docks. That is where he would strike. It wasn’t yet midday so he still had time but there was a lot to do. He had plans to make and orders to give. This was it.

  “Stonearm!”

  *****

  It was early evening and time to set the plan in motion. It had been a busy day. He’d spent most of it poring over maps of the city identifying targets. Fortunately the city was soft; the only military was a small but decently armed guard whose main duty was to man the gates and look pretty on ceremonial days. Certainly they should bear little challenge to the sheer number of orcs, even less so to orcs set free from their poverty.

  Morden racked his mind for anything he had overlooked. It seemed straightforward enough but he was still nervous.

  “Time to go,” he said to Stonearm, who had proven to be a more than able right hand man. His sheer size commanded a deal of respect among the orcs, and this was compounded by Morden’s own obvious trust in him.

  His lieutenant held the leather awning aside and Morden ducked into the gloom of dusk. Straightening, he was momentarily surprised by the sight that greeted him. The square was packed solid with orcs, silently standing. Looking closer he could see that some had rudimentary armour, and that all had weapons of one kind or another: knives, axes, clubs, hammers, poles with blades strapped on, and forks.

  “I thought you’d like to address the men,” whispered Stonearm from behind him, and a crate was produced.

  Morden set one foot on the crate and hesitated. It was one small step for him onto that crate, but one big step for a Dark Lord. The pendant at his neck grew hot against his skin. If he botched this they’d rip him apart.

  He took the second step and gazed out over the sea of raised heads from under his cowl. A feeling of power rushed into him like five of those cider spirit shots he’d done back in Bindelburg for a bet.

  There was a rumble of impatience from the gathered horde.

  Morden spread his arms but then a sudden panic hit him. How should he address them? ‘Fellow orcs’ was inappropriate. ‘Comrades’ was too familiar, after all he was a Dark Lord. ‘Men’ was inaccurate.

  Then it came to him.

  “MINIONS! OUR TIME HAS COME!”

  The first few rows of orcs staggered back with the force of his words. A few looked puzzled. Morden glanced to his right to see Stonearm’s reaction. The big orc was grinning, his teeth, which he had resharpened, showing in two terrible rows. He’d found himself a huge club into which he had hammered a dozen iron nails. He raised the club one handed above his head.

  “Gaaarrrrrgggghhhh,” shouted the orc.

  A host of weapons were raised, teeth were bared and a cry went up from the assembled horde.

  “MORDEN!”

  It was like he had been struck by lightning. He felt like he was growing, towering above his minions – for that is what they were; his disciples, his followers, his army to do his bidding because he was their master. As the adoration continued, a primal fury seemed to be let loose in the orcs. It was as if they had rediscovered a voice that had long been lost.

  Morden gathered himself and spoke, using his normal voice as he noticed that the orcs in the front row had blood streaming from their ears and noses.

  “Five hundred years ago orcs were taken into servitude. A proud race, you have had your teeth blunted and your pride taken. I tell you now, you deserve more!”

  A roar of approval greeted his words.

  “Many of you knew Grimtooth.”

  There were nods and a grumble rippled through the crowd.

  “He was a great orc! He was a wise orc! He spoke of a time that would come when orcs would once more take their rightful place. He spoke of Prophecy and a Dark Lord rising. A Dark Lord who would lead his nation to the greatness that is their destiny.”

  Morden let the words sink in. He had their attention now.

  “He spoke the truth. I am that Dark Lord and I will set you free as he asked me to. You will fulfil your destiny.”

  Morden paused for dramatic effect and for a split second thought that perhaps he had not been heard, but then a cheer exploded from the mass of orcs that sent pulses of excitement through him. Then he was taken by the strongest of com
pulsions and he reached into his robe, clutched the Handbook, and held it aloft like a trophy.

  “It starts here! It starts now!”

  The sheer power of his voice silenced the orcs, not that they would have been heard above him. His words were like a summer storm.

  “Orcs, throw aside your shackles and join me, Morden the Dark Lord, and you will reclaim the pride that was taken from you. Sharpen your weapons, and sharpen your teeth, for tonight, Bostokov burns!”

  The orcs went into a frenzy. They shouted and jumped as one solid mass of furious muscle and teeth. Until now he had been intoxicated by what he thought was power, but now he had a taste of what real power was, and he wanted more. This was a few thousand slum orcs that were more a rabble than an army. He couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to stand in front of a host with the world at their mercy. Just thinking about it made his flesh burn in anticipation.

  For now though, there was a city to sack.

  He got off the crate and cut a path through the mob.

  “How did I do?” he asked Stonearm, who was close to his right elbow, ever alert for danger.

  “Not bad, boss,” said the orc. “A bit short, but not too shabby for your first monologue.”

  Morden looked sideways at Stonearm, who returned the look and winked.

  *****

  Gaining entrance to the city was straightforward. Word had been sent to the host of orcs that worked as servants and menials in the posh houses inside the walls, and they slipped out at the appropriate time, overpowered the half asleep gate guard and greeted their fellows with broad smiles.

  Morden strode through the gate at the head of his rabble and past the row of pikes bearing the first trophies of the night. The guards had been hung by their undergarments while still wearing them. The wedgie, as the orcs called it, was apparently not only deeply humiliating but painful, and by the contorted face of the guard captain it indeed seemed less than a pleasant way to be suspended.

  From there the orcs spread through the city on a burning and looting spree. The fact that Bostokov was largely built from stone helped them be particular and prevented the city becoming one big fire pit.

  Morden, in the meantime, headed with a hand chosen band to the Hall of Justice. The lofty hall was adorned with humorous gargoyles and stained glass depicting rich people dispensing largess. At one end, on a raised dais, was a mahogany throne that was used by the Head Justice in pronouncing his rulings. Morden found it comfortable with good back support.

  It took little time for the orcs to round up the city’s finest. They had been rather rudely turned from their feather beds and now stood shivering (in fear; it was quite a warm night, what with all the fires) in their night shifts. If their indignant expressions were anything to go by, they were wondering what the hell was going on.

  “I expect you’re wondering what is going on,” said Morden once the last few had been brought in and feeling the need to voice their thoughts.

  Grunts of consternation came from the assembled gentry. Chuckles came from the surrounding orcs. Some beat nasty looking clubs into ham sized fists.

  A man with a large bushy white moustache, and wearing a finely embroidered night shift, stepped forward. “Now look here, what’s the meaning of all this? I demand you tell us who you are and what is going on. What gives you the right…”

  Morden stood. “The right?” He laughed. The sound echoed around the hall and within it was amusement tinged with menace. He drew himself up and took a step forward. The man took a step back. “I am Morden.” The man’s hair noticeably raised an inch off his scalp. “That is what gives me the right. Your city has what I need and so I am taking it. If you want to live I suggest you are both civil and accommodating.”

  There was a commotion and a scuffle from the back of the group. A woman was pushing her way forward, shaking free the clinging arms that tried to restrain her.

  “Let me go!” she commanded, thrusting an elbow to loosen the last restraining hand. She stepped forward of the group and glowered at Morden. The woman was young, in fact more a girl. Morden guessed she was barely a few years older than himself. She was dressed in fine silks that hinted at delights that lay beneath. “Do you know who I am?” she demanded. Morden couldn’t help but notice the little dimples in her cheeks that twitched with fury. She was without doubt the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. “I’m Rosemary Cathcart and I demand that you release us.”

  He was about to say something charming when he caught himself. He was a Dark Lord pillaging a city. Now was not the time to let his attentions wander to other pleasures.

  “Stonearm.” He motioned the orc forward. “Take her. I’ll deal with her later. Personally.” He laughed in a way he hoped would suggest that whatever he had in mind involved sharp, and possibly red hot, implements of torture.

  The big orc advanced on the girl who looked at Morden with disbelief. “You can’t. You’re meant to ask me who I am. Well, I’m important. My father will hear of this. You wait. Get off me, you brute.”

  As Stonearm got close, the girl began to thrash and scream. The noise was piercing and set Morden’s teeth on edge.

  “For gods’ sake, shut her up,” said Morden, trying hard not to cover his ears; after all, it would not be Dark Lord-like to do so.

  Stonearm cuffed the girl and she collapsed in a heap. Morden hoped the orc hadn’t broken anything; he didn’t seem to realise how strong he was. Stonearm picked the girl up and threw her over his shoulder like she was nothing and stomped off. The assembled nobility watched in horror.

  “If you wish to avoid her fate,” said Morden, “I suggest you stop wailing and complaining, and start cooperating. Now, who is the city treasurer? I’d like to open an account and make a withdrawal.”

  The old man with the bushy moustache stepped forward. “I am the chancellor. I think you’ll find we have the most agreeable rates if it’s a loan you want?”

  Morden laughed. “Oh, I am sure they are, Mr Treasurer. Now be a good man and show these orcs the treasury.”

  “And what about the rest of us?” piped up a voice. “What are you going to do to us?”

  The orcs chuckled in a way that for many of the cowering dignitaries answered the question without the need for Morden to say a word.

  “We’re very rich, you know? Can’t we come to some kind of arrangement?” said the same voice and there were assenting mutters all around.

  “Yes, rich.”

  “We can pay you anything.”

  “I have five daughters, and they’re all quite orcish.”

  Morden raised a hand to silence them and, apart from the odd sob, it had the desired effect.

  “Take them back to their houses.”

  A sigh of relief escaped the crowd.

  “Wedgie them on their front gates and take everything of value.”

  The sigh turned to wails of despair. “You can’t just kill us!” complained one voice as the orcs dragged them off.

  Though being suspended on their gate posts by their undergarments was unlikely to prove fatal, Morden didn’t feel the need to disabuse them of their dread thoughts and sat back down in the Seat of Justice. He was going to enjoy this Dark Lord business.

  The hall had emptied now and Morden settled for a few minutes of personal brooding time. It had been a while since he had had the opportunity to sit and think and the throne reminded him of Bindelburg. It seemed a long way away now, and an even longer time ago. He was a Dark Lord rising and he had a host of orc minions out on the town. All around him a city was burning as an army of disenfranchised orcs emancipated themselves, or more accurately burned and pillaged. All in all, assassination attempts and the death of Grimtooth aside, life was not bad.

  Morden took time to soak in his surroundings. The flickering light from the burning city cast eerie shadows through the stained glass windows. It combined well with the noise of the city being pillaged and the strong smell of smoke to create an apocalyptic atmosphere that Morden
found entrancing. He was so caught up in the dancing shapes that he almost missed the large hardwood doors opening at the far end of the hall.

  A man entered and strode purposefully towards Morden. Behind him trailed a man and woman who seemed to be tugged reluctantly along. The confidence with which the man approached a throne upon which sat a black cowled figure with a city burning all around struck Morden as unusual. As the man got closer, the pendant at Morden’s throat began to grow warm. Given its track record for alerting him to potential danger, Morden stood.

  The man’s boots beat on the stone floor. He was tall; a little taller than himself, judged Morden. His face was narrow, dark, and disturbingly draconian. Morden wasn’t sure where the latter thought came from but it made his heart beat that bit faster.

  “You must be Morden,” said the man, coming to a stop, his two companions standing heads downcast behind him. “Let me take a good look at you.”

  Morden was curiously at a loss as what to say.

  “Do you think you could pull that cowl back?” said the man. He took a step onto the dais.

  Morden pulled his hood back and met the eyes of this strange man and as he did so he saw both darkness and fire.

  “Do I know you?” asked Morden. The pendant was burning painfully and his skin was itching.

  The man looked genuinely surprised. “You don’t recognise me?”

  “Should I?”

  The man smiled to reveal a perfect row of razor sharp white teeth. He spread his arms. “Morden, I am your father.”

  As soon as he heard the words, without doubt he knew this was indeed his true father. Despite this, part of him recoiled in denial. “My father? You can’t be. My father is Harold Thrumpty. How can you be?”

  The man laughed. “Son. You honestly think poor old Harold could make you? A Dark Lord? I am your father. Look at your heart. You know it’s true.”