The Dark Lord's Handbook: Empire Page 2

  A man dressed plainly compared to those around him, a simple pale brown robe and open-toed sandals, rose. He held Morden’s gaze with no hint of defiance or fear. If anything, it reminded him of how Penbury looked at people when he met them for the first time, as if a person’s character could be discovered by how they carried themselves. In Morden’s case, PendeKut shouldn’t have too much of a problem. He was about six feet tall, wore a black, hooded robe, and exuded an aura which killed small animals, shrivelled plant life, and left blackened footprints where he walked (which played hell with carpets if he didn’t rein it in). He was a Dark Lord and he meant business.

  As for PendeKut, if that’s who he was—although Morden had to admit the likeness to the face on the coins really was quite good—he had the complexion of a man who enjoyed a good life, a long, straight nose, hair which followed the Assanid fashion (bouffant with lots of oil to fix it), and keen eyes accentuated with kohl (although he may just have had little sleep). He, too, looked like he meant business and Morden couldn’t help but like what he saw.

  “I am PendeKut.”

  “In the future, do not try my patience. Now, follow me,” ordered Morden.

  He spun away from the crowd and stalked to his tent in the most Dark Lordly fashion he could manage. The tent was marginally cooler than outside. His Dragon Guard, who lined the walls of the tent in their heavy black plate, had to be roasting. Stonearm certainly was. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead and formed rivulets to run down his nose.

  PendeKut had followed Morden into the tent and was taking a look around in an interested manner.

  Morden indicated a stool off to one side. “Sit.”

  Three-legged and too short for a grown man to sit on without squatting, Stonearm called it the naughty seat. It was for those unfortunate enough to have done something wrong and needed to be dealt with by either himself or Morden. Apparently the threat of being sent to it was sufficient to keep even the most unruly orcs in line.

  PendeKut squatted on it, a hint of a smile coming to his lips.

  This man is not stupid, thought Morden. He understands what the stool is for and how it is designed to make him feel. And yet, he also has the sense to do as he is told. He knows he is beaten. Defiance now can only make things worse for himself and his people. Now comes submission and he hopes under the best terms possible. Good.

  “You look uncomfortable,” observed Morden.

  PendeKut shrugged. “You speak our tongue well for someone so new to it.”

  “A talent I have,” said Morden. “And hopefully well enough so there is no misunderstanding.”

  PendeKut looked down at the stool between his legs. “I understand perfectly. As one who has spoken from a position of power for most of his life, as emperor of the greatest civilisation in the world, I understand. All I ask is you do not destroy something which is so great. It would be a loss to the world.”

  Morden couldn’t help but chuckle. Which was unfortunate. His amused laugh sounded as if he were disembowelling someone and enjoying it. PendeKut visibly blanched, fell forward onto his knees, and prostrated himself.

  “I beg you, my lord. Do to me whatever you will, but spare my people torment.”

  Morden was used to this reaction. Instilling fear was as natural to him as breathing. He couldn’t help himself, it was an essential part of who he was.

  “I would rather burn down any city in the Western Reaches than see the Assanid Empire be ruined,” said Morden. It wasn’t true but it was a fitting placation. It seemed to have the intended effect as PendeKut looked up from his position on the ground with a mixture of relief and puzzlement. “Not to say there won’t be a certain amount of looting going on. You can’t expect me to bring my army all this way and for them not to have some fun. They’ve earned it. It’s only fair they get drunk and nick stuff. There’s also a few things I’ve seen I’ll be having away; the Assanid marbles will look great over the mantelpiece back home. Aside from that, I see no reason things can’t be much as they were before. But with one small change.”

  PendeKut was on his knees now, frowning. “But…you’re a Dark Lord. You’re meant to lay waste. Conquer and lay waste. That’s how it’s meant to be.”

  “If everything were the way it was meant to be, I’d be in serious trouble,” said Morden. “It would be only a matter of time before a Hero rose up to bring me down.”

  “Exactly,” said PendeKut, brightening.

  “Not going to happen,” said Morden. “And as for the small change. You will continue to rule the Assanid Empire, but in my name. Tomorrow you will stand before what is left of your army and kneel before me and pledge fealty.”

  As he spoke, Morden exerted the full weight of his coercion. Only the strongest minds could take his full attention and not be driven mad. Morden was hopeful PendeKut was such a man. It would be more convenient if the succession was smooth. This way, the Assanids would follow their leader and bow before him without the need for razing cities and making examples. He didn’t have time for all that messing about. He’d been away from home a long time and he wanted to put his feet up and relax without having to worry about bringing an empire under his boot.

  PendeKut’s jaw locked in rigour.

  “Nod if you understand,” said Morden. There was an almost imperceptible twitch of PendeKut’s head. “Excellent. I’m sure once you get to know me, you’ll find that, for a Dark Lord, I’m not all bad.”

  Chapter 3 Theme Tune

  A Dark Lord always carries a good tune.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Having dealt with PendeKut, Morden left Stonearm in charge of the pillaging and flew home with his father and a few of his siblings. The rest of his half-brothers and -sisters stayed behind to do a tour of the Assanid Empire. They had been ordered to show the Assanids what a Black Dragon Flight was and what it could do, as well as partake in thieving of their own. Morale was good. His father had been upset to miss out on sampling PendeKut’s harem, but he’d come around when Morden ordered Stonearm to bring it back to Firena.

  On the way home, a niggle started in his mind. It had something to do with him being a Dark Lord and PendeKut. By the time he got home, the niggle had become an itch he couldn’t scratch.

  As with many things these days, he decided a chat with Chancellor Penbury was in order. His friend always had a way of getting to the heart of things.

  “I can’t see anything more to conquer,” Morden said, twirling Penbury’s globe.

  “It is, without doubt, the biggest empire the world has seen. I doubt it will be surpassed,” Penbury replied.

  “Hmm,” mused Morden, the kernel of an idea forming.

  Until now, Morden had enjoyed one title: Dark Lord. It was perfect in most respects. It encapsulated all he was and all he represented. There was no mistaking the intent or purpose of one who went by the title Dark Lord. He thought it more than sufficient, and it meant introductions were brief. He did not share the aristocracy’s infatuation with lists of titles and accomplishments before their names, as a measure of their self-perceived importance. If the Dark Lord Morden was announced, everyone knew who to expect. There was nowhere he was not known. If there was a corner of the world his armies had not visited and brought under his sway then it was not worth visiting. From cold wastes to burning deserts, mountain tops to lowland swamp, his dragons had heralded his arrival.

  As a result, he had an empire, and by simple extension, he was an emperor. It occurred to him he deserved recognition of the fact.

  ***

  Once Morden had decided a promotion was in order, it had taken an extraordinary amount of work to arrange. But in Stonearm, Penbury, and Penbury’s Personal Private Secretary, Chidwick, Morden had three of the best to get things done a Dark Lord could hope for. As a result, six months later, summoned representatives and retinues from every corner of his domain had gathered outside Firena to witness his crowning tomorrow.

  What remained were the fine details of the cor
onation ceremony. Chidwick had found an account of the coronation of Emperor Belwich, a petty duke who had the notion to crown himself two hundred years ago. It hadn’t worked out as he’d intended; he’d been smacked down by the rest of the nobility and made to wear a dunce crown for the rest of his days. Nevertheless, Belwich had gone as far as establishing a protocol for the declaration of an emperor, and as there had been no others of note in the Reaches, it was all they had to go by.

  “The crown shall be presented to the emperor on a cushion, from which the emperor will take it and place it on his head,” read Chidwick for the fifth time.

  “Sounds clear enough to me,” said Lord Deathwing who, though not counted amongst the competent when it came to managing affairs, was present as Morden found it hard to counter the argument ‘But I’m your father’. “Morden takes the crown and puts it on his head. Job done.”

  “Seems fair,” said Stonearm. “He is the boss.”

  Penbury pulled a variation of the face: ‘Yes, but’. “I’m not one to go around in circles but you seem to be missing the point. Cushion, crown, taking of crown are not in question. What needs to be decided is who is going to present the crown on the cushion.”

  The group was standing around a chair upon which was a purple velvet cushion, with the crown sitting atop. For an emperor’s crown, it was a simple design: a thickish circlet with a central shard of brilliant white gold at the front, flanked to either side by increasingly smaller shards shrinking to nothing at the back. There had been a suggestion to encrust gems and jewels but Morden had thought the idea vulgar, and Penbury had concurred. Stonearm’s disappointment was short-lived when Morden had said his Field Marshal ought to have a ceremonial rod for the coronation and he could bejewel the hell out of it.

  “In ancient days,” continued Penbury, “royalty was bestowed by divinity and the highest ranking member of whichever religion was pertinent would place the crown, as a symbol of the deity’s approval.”

  “So you have said several times already,” said Lord Deathwing. “Well, screw that. There is no higher authority. Morden is emperor by right of conquest.”

  “And because he’s a Dark Lord,” interjected Stonearm. “And a dragonlich.”

  “Thank you, Field Marshal,” said Morden. “But we still have the issue of the cushion carrier. Whoever carries the cushion will be seen as bestowing, even if I take the crown.”

  “Exactly,” said Penbury. “We need to consider the political message. Lord Morden is undisputed in his dominion, but it doesn’t hurt to have it backed by the right person.”

  “I can see where this is going now,” said Lord Deathwing. “You want to carry the cushion, don’t you? The richest, most powerful man prior to Morden gives his seal of approval, and at the same time makes it clear you are number two. Well, that’s not going to happen. Morden, tell him. I’m your father. I should carry the cushion.”

  “That’s not my style and you know it,” said Penbury, bristling in a way Morden had not often seen from the normally calm chancellor.

  “I can do it,” said Stonearm. “I’m the boss’s highest ranking commander.”

  “You can’t, Stonearm,” said Morden, placing a hand on his old friend’s arm. “You’ll be at my right side, keeping an eye on things. That’s where you belong. And Father, you’ll be on my left. Penbury, you’ll be with the council members. We’ll have the crown placed, prior to the ceremony, on a plinth, covered in a black cloth. I’ll step forward, pull the cloth away and take the crown. And that’s the end of it. Now, is there anything else we’ve forgotten?”

  “We need to decide what music to play,” said Penbury, reaching for a stack of manuscripts and handing them out. “Here are a few ideas I’ve had prepared.”

  “I don’t read music,” Stonearm said, laying the script to one side.

  “You don’t read at all,” countered Lord Deathwing.

  “I quite like this one,” said Penbury, ignoring the other two.

  “How does it go?” asked Morden.

  “I’m sure you know it. Pierre is always humming it,” said Penbury. “Du dum-du da da da daa da-da, du dum-du daa da da-da.”

  “Far too cheerful,” said Lord Deathwing. “Morden’s a Dark Lord. Besides, there’s a hint of revolution about it I don’t like.”

  “I know,” said Stonearm, “How about da dum…da dum…da dum…da dum, da dum, da dum, da dum….”

  “Better,” said Lord Deathwing. “It does have the sense of impending doom. It could work. Builds tension as Morden approaches. What do you think, Morden?”

  Morden wasn’t taken with either option so far. In truth, he hadn’t thought about the musical side of things at all, but it struck him that whatever was chosen was going to stick with him for as long as he was emperor, which, all being well, was going to be a long time. The tune had to be right for a Dark Lord Emperor, but more importantly something he liked, as he was going to hear it for the rest of his days. “Any other options?” he asked.

  “There is this one,” offered Penbury. “Daa da-duh da daa, daa…daa…daa, daa da-duh da daa, DAD da-daa…”

  “I like it!” exclaimed Stonearm. “It makes da boss sound like…like…he’s a super—”

  “No. Too heroic,” said Lord Deathwing. “We need something befitting a Dark Lord. Something that says a bad-ass is coming. How about…Dit deeeee, dit deeeee, DIT deeeee, dit-dit-deeeee…. See? Now there’s something which instills a sense of dread.”

  “It’s okay, if Morden was a mere underling about to kick butt,” said Penbury, “but it lacks gravitas. An emperor requires something more universal. Something an army can get behind. Let me see…. Here. It’s a new one I had commissioned.” Penbury shuffled a script to the top of his pile and cleared his throat. “Da da da duh-da da duh-da daa, da da da duh-da da duh-da daa. Da Da Da Da-duh da da-duh daa….You get the gist. I know it sounds a bit like a marching tune but if anything says Dark Emperor—”

  “I like it,” said Morden. In his mind’s eye, Morden could see himself standing at the head of a massive orc army, rank upon rank of troops lined up ready for battle. “That’s settled. Make sure the band is well-practised. I want no bum notes for my coronation. You all have plenty to do…”

  The room emptied, leaving Morden with the crown. It was magnificent. And heavy. He could see how it sank into the purple velvet. That could be a problem. Maybe he should practice. It would not look good if he fumbled it and dropped the thing. With a deep breath, Morden grasped the crown on either side and lifted it. He needn’t have worried about the weight; his dragon strength was more than sufficient to take the load, though it was even heavier than he had imagined. Then a thought struck. Now it was off the cushion, he may as well try it for size. He had been carefully measured when the crown had been commissioned but it would look silly if it was too large and came down too far over his head, or even became an outrageously large necklace. He lifted it smoothly and placed it on his head. The fit was perfect, snug over his short, black hair. He paced to a mirror to take a look.

  The Dark Lord Emperor Morden Deathwing stared at himself and was pleased. He had not been sure about the idea of a crown, letting himself get talked into it largely by Stonearm, whose mission in life seemed to be Morden’s aggrandisement. Any lingering doubts fled when he saw it in all its glory, like all hope his enemies might have had before he was crowned.

  There was a polite knock from behind him.

  “My lord—” began Chidwick as he entered, stopping when he saw Morden.

  Morden had got to know Chidwick quite well, as well as anyone could when it came to the inscrutable PPS. He was a man of few expressions. He had seen awe on many faces, but not Chidwick’s. He was hard to impress. So as Chidwick’s eyes widened, his eyebrows raised a fraction, and his upper lip twitched, Morden took it positively even if it could equally have been disdain.

  “My lord, we await you at your convenience,” said Chidwick.

  “Very good, Chidwick. Here, you’d better
take this and ensure they are in place as I instructed.” Morden took off the crown and placed it back on its cushion. “And make sure the front is facing away from me. I don’t want to have to juggle it when I lift it up.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Alone once more, Morden tried to settle his mind. Although his ambition had always been grand, his desire absolute, now it was about to be fully realised. He felt like giggling. He had to get a grip on himself. By all means, he could savour every moment of his triumph, but he had to be calm. Tomorrow he would become emperor of the world, and if he were to be anything, he would be the coolest Dark Emperor this world would ever see.

  Chapter 4 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Empire

  When it comes to a Dark Lord’s empire,

  the trick is to avoid the fall after the rise.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  You have come far, Morden. Assuming the mantle of Dark Lord was the first step. Proclaiming yourself emperor is a fine follow-up. There have been many who have styled themselves Dark Lord but none who have carved out an empire and been crowned emperor. It is a wise move, as nothing cements absolute political power more than the title Emperor. Without it, you would be a mere tyrant, or dictator, both of which are petty in comparison. They are two-a-penny compared to the few who can rightly call themselves emperor.

  Empires last. Empires form a wedge in history and define ages, and it is the emperor who is remembered as the one who has ruled. It is your chance to leave an indelible mark on the world none can erase. Your empire will last a thousand years (the traditional minimum span of years for an empire) or more. And the good news is, being an immortal dragonlich, you will be in charge the entire time. Your legacy is safe in your hands. You do not have to risk it all by having a succession of idiot sons and their descendants.

  It all sounds fantastic but you need to avoid complacency. Now that you are emperor, there may be a temptation to let your guard down. This would be a bad thing. The crown sitting on your head can easily topple and fall, to be snatched up by a usurper. On your rise to being a Dark Lord, we talked much about the threats you faced. Now that you have established your rule, there are new challenges to face. You must be aware of the world and all around you, as there will always be those who seek to depose you. They will come in all guises. You have to be ready to act if you sense any challenge to your rule. You can’t please everyone, and nor should you. It’s your empire and you should do whatever pleases you when you run it. This will naturally annoy a number of those who fall under your dominion. Trust no one. Not even those who you consider most loyal. In fact, trust them the least, as many attempts to overthrow you will come from them rather than from more obvious external threats.