The Dark Lord's Handbook Page 18

Then he was awake. His lungs were screaming with agony but he could not cry out or draw breath. There was a pillow over his mouth and a great weight holding it down. It was night but there was moonlight. He could make out a man above him. He was trying to smother him.

  With all his might and fury, Edwin swung a fist round and felt it connect with a satisfying smack. The man fell sideways and hit the ground with a thud. The pillow was released and Edwin gasped in a huge breath. He rolled to one side and savoured the taste of the cold night air. The burning in his lungs became an ache.

  With painful slowness, his head thick and his leg still sore, Edwin leaned over the edge of the cot to see who his attacker had been, but there was no one there. The pillow lay by itself, scrunched up on either side where it had been held, an impression of Edwin’s face pressed into it visible in the low moonlight.

  Around him the other men slept and snored, oblivious to what had happened. Someone had tried to kill him.

  No. Not someone. Edwin knew who had tried to kill him, if not in person then by dispatching an assassin: the man in black from his dreams, who had summoned the foulest of creatures to steal away his love. He had done this. Edwin knew he could tarry no longer. He would bear the pain for what was that next to the suffering of Griselda? It was nothing. A test of his love. It was pain he could bear.

  He sat up.

  He steadied himself, and then, grimacing with the pain from his leg, he swung himself out of the cot and stood. At least his leg was good. It hurt but could bear his weight; the arrow had not shattered bone. He took a step. And then another. He stumbled and as he did so he felt something brush his face and then there was a thud from the tent post to his side. His hand went up to his face automatically. It came away wet and then came the sting. Without thinking he rolled to the ground and there was another thud. The body on the cot that he had fallen next to jerked. There was a sickening gurgle from the man and the body twitched around in death throes. Edwin rolled under the cot and tried to work out where the assassin was firing from, but he could not see much from where he was. He instinctively rolled sideways. A bolt hit the earth where he had been a second before. He was a dead man unless he did something. There was only one thing he could do.

  He filled his lungs and roared. As he did so, he burst to his feet and turned over the next cot, tumbling the man out onto the floor. Another bolt swished past him but his roar had woken people. Within seconds there was a general commotion as Edwin continued to bellow and everyone woke up.

  Then the dead man was found, a bolt through his neck, and Edwin was seized.

  “It wasn’t me!” he bellowed. He was held by four men, and they were having a tough time of it. He struggled as hard as he could. “Let me go. Let me go!”

  Struggling like this he wasn’t going to break free so he relaxed, going limp in their hands. He felt their grip loosen in response. He took a deep breath and exploded outwards with his arms and sent his captors flying in all directions.

  Then there was a blow to the back of his head. He fell face forward to the floor and the world went black.

  This time when he woke and tried to move his arms, he couldn’t. He was bound into the cot. Then the pain came flooding in. His head felt like the time when he had been running in the smithy as a boy and had slipped and smacked it on the anvil.

  “He’s awake,” said a man’s voice. It was an old voice that had a touch of weariness about it.

  Edwin kept his eyes closed and tried to feign sleep. What was going on? It all made no sense. Why was he still alive? Who had tried to kill him and why was he being kept alive now? Did they mean to torture him further? Perhaps the Dark Lord wanted to gloat over him before he was dispatched.

  “So he is. Edwin?”

  The voice was a woman’s. Not Griselda though. This voice was sibilant but also hard. There was something in it that chilled his heart. Whoever they were, they obviously knew he was awake. He opened his eyes.

  Peering down at him were an old man with a bearded and scarred face, and a woman who was both beautiful and terrible. It was her eyes. They were like ovals of fire as they burned into him. She had a slender face and high cheekbones. Her hair was black and straight. She reached for his forehead to rest the back of her hand against it. Her touch was like cold stone. She pinched his cheek; her nails were like talons.

  “He’s got a fever,” she said. “But he’ll live.”

  She whispered something in his ear and sleep rushed in on him.

  When he woke it felt like he had slept for a week. He couldn’t remember dreaming at all and it took a moment to remember where he was and what had happened. His head should be hurting but it wasn’t. He could feel where he had been shot but the wound itched like it had healed and caused no pain.

  He was still bound though, so he was a prisoner. Rage welled up and he fought to keep it down. He needed to save it for when he could make his escape and punish those who had done this.

  Looking around, another thing that had changed were his surroundings. He was in a much smaller tent and alone. There was a plain wood table and chair. Clothes were draped over the chair and his sword was leant against it in its scabbard. On the table was a stoup and bowl. Through an open awning he could see two guards.

  A head dipped in through the awning, a young woman with a plain but warm face. She smiled when she saw him look up at her and immediately disappeared.

  Edwin heard the sound of leather heels snapping together and the awning was thrown back; the old man and woman swept in.

  “Bring me two chairs,” said the man over his shoulder.

  The two looked at him impassively. He in return examined each in more detail.

  The man was obviously military and, from his scars and attire, experienced. Edwin was not sure how he knew, but there were little things, like how he wore his dagger there, across his front rather than at his side, and how his attire was tied and strapped, that only came from seasons of campaigning and represented years of hard won victory. Edwin couldn’t help but feel respect for what this man represented. He may be his enemy but he gave every impression of being a solid, grim, determined foe who would neither give nor expect quarter. That was fine with Edwin for mercy encouraged only weakness. Strength was what he respected and this man was strong.

  The woman was entirely different. Her clothes were not quite right, as though from a bygone era. She wore a mixture of leather and cloth, that served to both show off a feminine figure and yet was subtly functional in a practical way. She could ride a horse or even fight with those clothes. Certainly she was no soft noblewoman, but there was an air of aristocracy about her. She held her nose slightly up, as though offended by the smell (which had to be said was a ripe mixture of horse, mud and men).

  Her straight black hair framed a slender face with thin lips and oval eyes that still had fire in them. As he scrutinized her, she held his stare, cupped her chin and tapped her talon-like fingernails against her cheek.

  “He’s not all brawn then,” she said. “Good.”

  Two soldiers with chairs for his captors appeared and were then dismissed. It seemed they didn’t need guards, especially given he was bound.

  “You are wondering who we are and why you are bound,” said the woman. “I am required to be a woman of discretion so who I am must remain my secret but you may call me Black Orchid. This is Count Vladovitch. Together, we represent a group that is most worried about certain things and we would like you to help us.”

  Edwin was puzzled. He wasn’t sure what he had expected – he should be dead – but conspiratorial introductions was not what had sprung to mind.

  “There is a darkness rising,” continued Black Orchid, “that will bring ruin to the world and it must be stopped. The Count here has been building an army to that end.”

  “The Dark Lord,” said Edwin. So they knew of him but he was their enemy? It made no sense. They were playing with him like some fool. This time he could not keep the fury down. From across the room he could h
ear his sword whispering. It wanted blood.

  “You must forgive me, madam,” he started quietly, “but what in all that is sacred is happening here?” His voice rose as he spoke, his anger getting the better of him. “Why am I bound? Where is Griselda? Where are you keeping HER?”

  He strained against his bonds but they were thick and well tied. His shout brought in the guards but the Count, if that was indeed what he was, waved them away.

  Black Orchid was shaking her head. “Edwin, Edwin. I’m so sorry. Of course, I should have said. Morden, the Dark Lord, has Griselda. Even as we speak he takes her east.”

  Edwin listened with disbelief.

  “Bastards!” he spat at them.

  Then the rage took him again. He shook and strained, managing to topple the cot. It took four men to set him straight. All the while, Black Orchid watched with amusement that made him angrier. He wanted to smash that smile from those lips. And yet, her beauty was terrible and roused him in ways that made him hate himself. He wanted to taste her lips, to feel that body.

  He shook his head to force the images out and focussed on Griselda. She was his love and he hers. He would be with no other woman. This he swore to himself and to her.

  Black Orchid laughed and blew him a kiss. Could she read his mind?

  Eventually he had no more energy. They had moved him to a chair and bound his legs to it so he could not kick, and hitched his arms behind him.

  “You say you want my help and yet you bind me like an animal,” said Edwin, glaring at them.

  Black Orchid laughed again. “It’s for your own good, my dear boy. We can’t have you tearing this place up and getting hurt. What good would you be to Griselda if you did that? Or to us, for that matter. If you would calm down and listen, then perhaps you might realise that we are here to help you.”

  Part of him wanted to believe but there were so many things that told him not to. “So who tried to kill me?” said Edwin.

  “Morden’s assassins,” said Black Orchid. “Now, are you ready to listen? We have a lot to go through, and the Count here is a busy man.”

  What she said made sense. If they had wanted him dead, he would be. And although he was bound, he did see that maybe it was for their safety. He had to admit that had he not been tied he would have hacked them into chunks and fed them to swine. Maybe they were telling the truth. If they were and this Morden had Griselda, and was taking her away east, then he would need a new horse at the very least. If the Count had an army he could use, then that would be even better.

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  “Good,” said Black Orchid smiling. “If you’re willing to lend us that strapping sword arm of yours then here’s what we can do for you.”

  For the first time in months, Edwin felt his spirits rise. If it was his sword arm they wanted then he was sure he could oblige them.

  “There’s going to be a war, Edwin,” continued Black Orchid. “Morden is a Dark Lord and he seeks dominion over the world. As I speak, he raises an army and heads east to his fortress. From there he will gather to him all the evil in the world before coming forth in an apocalyptic fashion. It’s going to be messy.”

  She paused and Edwin let her words sink in. His dreams made sense now. Morden had his Griselda and meant to make her his Dark Queen. But that wasn’t going to happen. He wouldn’t let it happen. Every Dark Lord had a nemesis and Edwin knew his love for Griselda and his sword were Morden’s.

  “The Count here,” said Black Orchid, indicating the grizzled veteran, “is raising and training an army that will oppose Morden and his host. It will be a small army, hopelessly outnumbered, but well trained.”

  “And well fed,” said the Count brightly. “We have the best chefs.”

  Black Orchid gave him a withering stare. “And well fed.”

  “I will lead your army,” said Edwin. It was as he had dreamt. He would ride into battle, a glorious host of knights in his train and they would break the Dark Host.

  Black Orchid coughed. “Yes, well. In a figurative sense that will be excellent, but perhaps you ought to let the Count do the tactical thinking, yes? We were hoping you would handle the inspirational side of things.”

  Edwin barely heard her. He was not concerned with the details. He was running over the things he’d need to rescue his Griselda. “Give me a horse, armour and my sword. That’s all I want. And a regiment of the bravest knights. Yes, that should do it. Now where can I find this Dark Lord?”

  Chapter 29 Machinations

  With great power comes the greater responsibility to wield it.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  The Handbook was pleased. The vessel for its plans, that is to say, Morden, was following the advice he was reading from the book as though it were Canon Law. The sacking of Bostokov had been the first big test of Morden’s will to bring destruction to the world and he had passed; though if he was to be marked down it would have to be for the astonishingly low body count. The streets had not run red from the blood of Bostokov’s residents but from the broken casks of red wine in the warehouses. (Apparently it had not been to the taste of Morden’s orcs.)

  But no matter. Morden had a fledgling army, a fleet, and was ready to set sail eastward where he could make his way to his spiritual home of the Great Fortress, gathering his army as he went. Once there, he could raise the fortress back to its formidable former glory and soon after that issue forth with his black army and lay waste the world.

  Yes. All seemed well enough. Although there were a few strange things happening that the Handbook had not seen happen before, at least not to a Dark Lord. The sudden appearance of Morden’s father was one. It was well known that paternal issues were in the demesne of the opposition, and often a device used by a Dark Lord to inflict crippling psychological scars. In Morden’s case, however, there was little of great concern. In fact, Morden’s father had quite conveniently educated Morden in several key areas, not least of which was this whole thing about him being a dragon and having unimagined magical powers. Being able to transform into a huge black dragon, breathe fire hot enough to vaporize stone, and fly, would almost certainly prove useful. It also impressed the minions.

  What was more, Morden’s father showed no interest at all in crashing his son’s party, or become any kind of paternal burden by hanging around. On the contrary, after a few days bringing Morden up to speed on his heritage and abilities (and he did bang on a lot about how persuasive he could be when it came to humans, especially women), he was off. Had to be somewhere else rather urgently, which suited the Handbook just fine.

  The other oddity that the Handbook had not seen before was Morden’s apparent infatuation with the Griselda woman. While Dark Lords often had involvements with women they tended to be non-consensual, or twisted and kinky, or both. Any emotions were always primal, mainly lust driven, and easily understood. Dark Lords had needs much like the next man, except Zoon, who being More Dead didn’t have a single lustful bone in his otherwise complete skeletal frame, and necrophilia had surprisingly not been his thing.

  But Morden was behaving oddly. Instead of taking what he wanted and then discarding it once used, as any Dark Lord should, he was being charming. What was even more astonishing was that when Morden was rebuffed with scorn and foul language, the like of which Bostokov’s orcish sailors would have been proud, instead of dominating her with his iron will, or rendering her helpless with desire using his dragon powers, he instead sulked and moped around. Morden’s father had been equally disgusted with his son’s behaviour, saying a Deathwing never had to ask for anything, least of all the attentions of a woman.

  But Morden was adamant. He would not take her against her will and violate her. It was a serious character flaw that the Handbook would have to keep a close eye on.

  Fortunately there were many other concerns that Morden had to keep him busy, and he consulted the book frequently to ensure he was getting them right. He’d plundered Bostokov, gathering an ample supply of hard
currency and supplies for his modest orcish army. He’d established ranks, officers and the discipline that was necessary to manage such an army. The orcs had taken to it extremely well, especially when Morden had unveiled his Social Partnership. The Handbook was not completely clear what it meant but it had something to do with Morden being in charge and the orcs doing what he said, and in return he guaranteed them freedom from crappy jobs, decent living conditions, the right to sharp teeth, conquest and plundering. As far as the Handbook was concerned, Morden could dress up dictatorship anyway he liked as long as he was the absolute ruler and everyone did exactly as they were told.

  Though there was still a long way to go, both figuratively and literally (the Great Fortress was a long way away), the Handbook was happy enough that Morden the Dark Lord was rising and that, given time, he would indeed be the one that would finally realise the Handbook’s vision of a world that had been laid waste by war and had every drop of hope wrung from it. Morden would sit on his Dark Throne in kingship over it all, and the Handbook would be in his hand.

  Chapter 30 A New Order

  Be wary love’s guile for it is merely lust in romantic guise.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  The preparations were complete and Morden’s fleet was ready to sail. All that remained was to make a dramatic exit. Morden gave Kurgen, the orc Captain he was leaving in charge of Mordengrad (as Bostokov had been renamed), his final instructions and then proceeded to the docks where his fleet was waiting for the tide. He rode through the streets on a black stallion and exuded The Fear as his father had taught him. Mordengrad’s population had been encouraged to line the streets to see him off but any exuberance they managed was dampened as they were gripped with terror as he passed. Morden hoped that when he was gone they would remember the feeling and pray that it never returned. It would do so only if he had cause to come back, and he made it clear that he would return if they did not embrace the New Order of things that Kurgen would be enacting.