The Dark Lord's Handbook: Conquest Page 20

  “We have been careful,” said Zara.

  “We need to be more careful. They’ll be sending the H-Squad after us.”

  “The H-Squad?” asked Hal. It wasn’t a particularly intimidating name, but he still didn’t like the idea of any kind of specialist squad being after him.

  “The Hero Squad. It’s one of Morden’s ideas. He made it clear there could be heroes coming to upset his plans and he wanted to be prepared, so he had all sorts of things set up.”

  “Like death trap filled sewers.”

  “Yes, and much more. He’s a smart one for a Dark Lord. It’s not normal.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Zara.

  “Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, Dark Lords aren’t the smartest. They’re great at doing evil things and threatening to bring the world under their dominion, but they never succeed. They always make a fatal mistake. Zoon came close, but even he messed up … twice. Morden’s different. I can’t see him falling to a hero.”

  “Well that’s all right,” said Zara. Ferg looked at her quizzically. “Isn’t it obvious? Hal’s clearly no hero. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. Look at Edwin. Horrible man.”

  “I could be a hero,” said Hal. “How do you know I’m not one? Heroes come from the most unlikely places.”

  “Granted,” said Zara. “Blacksmith’s sons, orphans, woodcutters, shepherds. But a baker? Really? I’ve never heard of a baker being a hero.”

  “So why are you here then? Why come all this way, since you obviously think I’m useless?”

  Zara didn’t answer him immediately. Instead, she reached out and took his hand in hers and looked him in the eye in a way that reminded him of his mother when she had told him his cat was dead.

  “It’s because—”

  “I’m going to be sick,” Ferg said, and turned his back.

  “I was going to say, it’s because …”

  “Yes?” asked Hal. His heart was pounding, and his loins were stirring.

  “Because I… and it’s not easy for me to say this …”

  “Yes?”

  “Because … I think you might be a dragon slayer. All right? There. I’ve said it.”

  “Thank fuck for that,” said Ferg, letting loose a big breath. “For a moment, I thought you were going to say you …” The orc seemed to catch Zara’s glare and his words were left hanging.

  Like Ferg, Hal had thought Zara was about to profess her feelings for him. But the two of them had been wrong. “Might be a dragon slayer? Of course, I’m a dragon slayer. It’s my heritage. It’s why we’re here. To kill a dragon. Possibly two, if chance permits. You doubted me?”

  “Don’t look so hurt,” said Zara. “It’s not like you have a track record for dragon slaying. I came along to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid, and because that Chidwick bloke is one of the scariest men I’ve ever met. And he said he’d pay me a lot of money, besides.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Hal. “Now it’s all coming out. I’m your meal ticket. That’s it then. You were only ever nice to me because you were after my buns. And now it’s Chidwick’s money. You’re a hired thug.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Zara.

  “So I’m stupid as well? Maybe we should all just go home. Forget this dragon slaying.”

  “I wish you would shut up,” said Ferg. “I’ve had it with you two. Hal, you may be no hero, but this confirms to me you’re a dragon slayer. Not that I doubted you.”

  “Thank you, Ferg,” said Hal. He was glad Ferg seemed to have some faith. Hal had never doubted his name, but in truth he had doubted his feelings, which had told him he was a dragon slayer, being entirely based on a deeply rooted conviction. Zara’s words hurt so much because they were true. He was a baker. And a damned good one. He wasn’t a hero. And, deep down, he knew there was precious little evidence he was much of a dragon slayer either. But he did regret what he had just said. Zara had been his friend for as long as he could remember. She’d always had his back and never asked for anything. As well as annoyed, she looked hurt by his words. They were unfair. But so were hers. It was stupid they did this to each other when they had more important things to worry about. There was a Dark Lord and his Hero Squad after them.

  “I had my doubts,” said Ferg, “but if you can get that close to a Dark Lord and get away, unseen, either you are the luckiest man alive or there is something about you. Maybe you’re his blind spot.”

  “Let’s just go,” said Zara. “We’ve been in this sewer far too long. It would be good to have somewhere dry to sleep.”

  This time, Ferg was the one to go up the ladder. Hal and Zara followed when he gave the all clear. It was night outside, with a faint glow on the horizon marking the recent setting of the sun. They had spent the best part of day in the sewers and Hal was as relieved as Zara to be out of them.

  “Where are we?” asked Zara, as the three crouched in an alley between buildings.

  Hal thought they could be in any city in the Western Reaches from what he could see. It was a quiet street, with buildings split by alleyways. The only real difference was the buildings seemed to be made from black stone, and a distant, rumbling volcano that lit the sky. There was a film of ash over most things, thicker in places where it had not been cleared, like the thin ledges that ran between the floors of the buildings. Awnings along the street suggested this may well be some kind of market quarter in daytime and explained why perhaps it was so quiet. The only sign of life was light that squeezed out from shuttered windows and muffled sounds of drunken singing from what must be a drinking den.

  “This is all new to me,” said Ferg. “Morden’s been busy since I left. This place has become vast. Which is good. We should be hard to find.”

  “What next?” asked Hal.

  “Sleep,” said Zara.

  “We should be safe enough,” said Ferg. “As long as we’re up before dawn. Then I’ll go scout while you two keep a low profile.”

  The three of them made themselves as comfortable as they could in the alley. While Hal waited for sleep, his thoughts turned to Zara. As soon as he’d done his dragon slaying, he would tell her how he felt.

  *****

  Hal dreamt he was being tortured on a rack. With each turn of the ratchet the pain became worse. He could feel every muscle stretched to the point of tearing, his joints one turn away from popping from their sockets. He knew it was a dream and yet could not escape the pain. He couldn’t see, but he could feel the malevolent presence of the Dark Lord leaning over him.

  “Who sent you?” whispered the voice. “Tell me, and the pain will stop. Tell me and you will be rewarded. Tell me.”

  Hal so wanted to tell him. The ratchet turned. His hip popped in shooting pain and he couldn’t hold back the scream.

  “Hal?”

  Chidwick’s name was forming on his lips. He would tell them what they wanted and the pain would stop. He wasn’t strong enough to resist. He wasn’t a hero. He was a baker’s son.

  “Hal!”

  His eyes snapped open to a pre-dawn sky, an excruciating pain in his back, and Zara shaking him. The alley they had dossed down in was piled with ash where it had been swept off the main street. It had felt soft enough when they had relaxed into it, but over the course of the night his weight had pressed it hard and small rocks had dug into him.

  “Bad dream?” asked Zara. She was grey from the ash, her face smeared where she had instinctively tried to wipe it away.

  “Do I look as bad as you?” he asked. He didn’t want to say anything about the dream. He was sure that was all it was.

  “Worse.”

  “Where’s Ferg?”

  “He was gone when I woke. Off doing whatever. He’ll be back.”

  “You trust him?” Hal was surprised by Zara’s lack of concern. While Hal had grown to trust the orc—he’d had so many opportunities to betray them and he hadn’t—Zara had always given the impression of mistrust. It was something that came to her naturally as a member of th
e watch back home.

  “Don’t you ever tell him, but yes. I’ve been lied to enough in my life to know an honest man—or orc—when I meet one. Either that, or he’s the best liar I’ve ever met.”

  “Your secret is safe. And I’m glad you do. We’d never have got this far without him. He may not be fond of humans but he’s less fond of dragons. And he’s funny.”

  “Aww. You’re making me blush. Group hug?”

  Hal hadn’t heard the orc approaching and now he was standing a few feet away with outstretched arms and a mischievous grin that showed off his yellowed, over-large teeth. Why not? thought Hal. He spread his arms and stepped towards Ferg.

  The orc dropped his arms quickly. “I was kidding … orcs don’t do group hugs. Ever. Sheesh.”

  “Well,” said Hal, quickly stretching his arms back as though he were stiff from sleeping, “nor do I.” He stretched some more as if to prove his point. “Where have you been, anyway?”

  “You know. Checking things out. Seeing what’s what. Getting the lay of the land.”

  “And?” asked Zara.

  “I looked up an old friend and we’ve got a place to stay. It’s not much. Somewhere we won’t be bothered. Come on, before it gets busy around here.”

  Ferg led them through a maze of streets that were coming awake. It was much like any other city in the west at this time of day. Shutters opened, the first few inhabitants trickled onto the streets to go about their business, and the noise rose as greetings and insults were swapped between familiar faces. A few men were mixed in amongst the orcs, so the three of them didn’t look too out of place.

  It was hard to imagine they were in a Dark Lord’s fortress, apart from the black stone turned grey by the recent eruption of a volcano that continued to belch smoke into the sky. That and the fortress wall that was so high it kept a good section of the city in shade. And the towers that struck skyward, sharp edged with arches of darkness, which concealed all-seeing eyes looking down at them. Not to mention a Dark Lord in residence, who was actively seeking them out so he may end their pitiful lives. Apart from that, it was pretty much like home.

  Ferg took them down a street that was filling quickly. They passed a butcher and then a bakery. Homesickness churned Hal’s stomach at the smell of bread. He had half a mind to stop and chat with the baker. They could discuss the intricacies of yeast, the use of different flours, and secret additives that made the different loaves.

  A short way farther down the street, next to a smithy, Ferg stopped at a door wedged between two larger buildings. A dishevelled orc staggered out of the building on the left, almost running into Zara. He excused himself and then stopped to look up at an orc woman hanging out of an upper window in a state of undress, her pendulous breasts hanging over the windowsill.

  “See again soon, my lover,” she crooned down at him.

  The orc pulled at his crotch as though he had an itch and hurried off. Hal looked up at the woman. He’d never seen a naked orc before. She was more muscular than he had imagined a woman should be, and hairy, but not entirely unattractive. Her breasts were well-formed.

  “You fancy some, handsome? Never too early in the day.”

  The orc cupped one of her breasts and flicked a surprisingly long tongue out towards it.

  Hal quickly averted his eyes. “Is this it?” he asked Ferg, who had pushed the door next to the brothel open.

  “Yes,” said Ferg, “but if you’d prefer a softer bed I’m sure I could lend you some coin to go next door.”

  Zara snorted and pushed past Ferg. Hal followed her in. Once inside, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and his nose. It smelt like something had died.

  “It’s not much, but better than nothing,” said Ferg.

  Ferg opened the one shutter on the left side of the door and let the morning in. A rat scurried across the floor as the light spilt across it. The smell was likely one of its dead fellows. They were in a single narrow room, with a stone stair at the back of it, furnished with a dust-covered table, three chairs arranged around it, and a small hearth. Cupboards lined one wall. Zara sneezed and headed up the stair. Shortly after, a mattress sailed down, followed by a second.

  “I’ll be sleeping upstairs then,” said Ferg, nudging Hal.

  “A bit of a dust and this will do,” Hal said, ignoring Ferg’s insinuation. He wiped a hand across the tabletop, sending more dust into the air.

  “We’re not here to make house,” said Zara, stomping down the stair. “It will do for what we need. It’s not like we’re staying long.”

  Ferg drew out a chair and took a seat. “I wouldn’t be so sure. What exactly do you think we’re going to do next? Swan into the Dark Lord’s tower, ask to see him, and then do him in? It’s not going to be that easy. We need to take time to see the lay of the land. Work out a plan of attack. It’s not going to be easy to get past Morden’s security, let alone kill him. How are we going to do it? Poison? Stealth and assassination? Suicide attack? A staged accident? We’ve got to study our target. Learn his weaknesses and then strike. This will all take time. So you may as well pull up a chair and take a load of your feet before you start the cleaning.”

  “You what? I don’t do cleaning,” growled Zara.

  “Well, someone’s got to do it, and I’ll be out gathering intelligence. And we need money, so dragon slayer there is going to get a job at that bakery we passed.”

  Hal could see Zara clench her teeth but also recognise the orc was right. They’d come this far with no plan beyond getting inside the fortress, and that was the easy part. They now faced an evil that threatened the world. Dark Lords and dragons were not going to be an easy proposition to deal with. Hal still had no idea how exactly he was supposed to kill a dragon. The stories of dragons from his childhood had sounded good at the time, but in the harsh light of day, in this dingy, two room squat in the heart of Morden’s fortress, they seemed like fairy tales. The dragons in those tales slept on piles of gold. A plucky hero would steal in and stab them in the vitals through a weak spot they’d learnt about from a talking mouse. Or a knight in armour, with a tame wizard on hand who had imbued the knight’s sword with mighty magic, would bait out the dragon with a damsel tied to a post (why their hands were always tied above their head and not just behind their back was a mystery to Hal until he had reached puberty) and then slay it, deflecting the fiery breath with a shield made from a meteorite. Hal couldn’t see Zara going for that one. Not that he’d want to risk her. Besides, she was far more capable. If anyone was to be tied helpless to a post, it should be him. Or maybe he could tempt out the tyrant with the smell of freshly baked bread.

  “What are you smiling at, dragon slayer?” asked Zara.

  “I’ll help you clean up,” said Hal. “Ferg, you go and do what you have to do, and some food would be good. I think we need to rest up for a day or so and settle in. Not draw any attention and take it from there.”

  “Exactly,” said Ferg. “I’ll be back in a bit. And don’t go talking to anyone. If you do, you’re mercenaries from Kron. Second thought. You,” Ferg pointed at Zara, “are a mercenary from Kron and you, Hal, are her bitch. That’s far more believable.”

  With that, and looking pleased with himself, Ferg was gone, leaving Hal with Zara. Alone.

  “I’m no one’s bitch,” said Hal.

  “No?”

  “And what are you doing?” asked Hal, as Zara headed back upstairs.

  “If you get bored of cleaning you should come up here and I’ll show you.”

  The look Zara gave Hal was less a suggestion and more an open invitation. Ferg was gone. They were alone. They may die at the hands of a Dark Lord at any time. Sod it. She may be his childhood friend but she was also a woman, and an attractive one at that. And he was a man and no one’s ‘bitch’. Hal followed Zara upstairs.

  Chapter 24 Hostage

  A hostage’s value is nothing if held against those with a strong will.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

&
nbsp; As arrangements went, preparations for the arrival of a Dark Lord’s queen were not ones Penbury, or Chidwick, had made before. Penbury wasn’t sure exactly how Lord Deathwing was going to arrive. Part of him dreaded that he would turn up in full dragon-form, land in the gardens (ruining the lawn) dump Griselda unceremoniously in a flowerbed, demand his wife be brought out and leave, belching fire and destruction as he went. He had to admonish himself for such fanciful thoughts. For a creature of myth, and undoubtedly without morals, or concern for anyone other than himself, or his wife, Lord Deathwing struck Penbury as a dragon of intelligence and discretion. He was sure, if he so desired, Lord Deathwing could rain down fire, but he thought it unlikely. Still, it was a compelling image and, even though it included the destruction of his hibiscus border, it was not without some thrill. The events of the last three years had been all-in-all invigorating. Penbury wondered if it was the uncertainty that did it. He was so used to being in control. There was a strange kind of pleasure in not knowing what was going to happen next. He’d always tried his hardest, and succeeded more often than not, to make sure events followed a path he had determined.

  Today was different. Lord Deathwing had been the first to show trust, or supreme confidence that Penbury would not pull a fast one, by proposing the simplest of switches. He would bring Griselda to Penbury’s Firena estate, where Lady Deathwing would be handed over. Lord Deathwing had indicated he would not be staying long and so nothing too elaborate should be laid on. Perhaps nibbles. A good wine. Nothing more. The more Penbury had learnt of Deathwing, the more he found they had in common. While he enjoyed a sit-down meal of ten or so courses, being the gastronome that he was, he probably enjoyed the soiree more, nibbling from an assortment of amuse-bouche. Sparkling explosions of taste, with a wide selection of wines to match, were a delight.

  There was a knock at his study door and Chidwick let himself in. “They are here, sir.”