The Dark Lord's Handbook Page 21

  But not he. She had remained faithful, and he to her. They’d had two sons, both tragically lost – one in battle, the other in a freak fishing accident (even now he did not know how the pole managed to get where it had) – who had been as like to him as his reflection.

  He had thought that this time it would be different, that he would be glad to get away from the gentle scolding and nagging, but he was mistaken. That one harmless question pulled hard on his heart and he questioned if he was doing the right thing. He probably wasn’t, but what choice did he have? His earlier enthusiasm for battle had long since gone and now he was embroiled in a venture he could only see ending badly.

  Black Orchid, however, left him little choice. As much as he loved his wife and would rather now see out his days spoiled rotten by his wife, he would not see her a pauper, and that was the fact of it. They were broke. Then there was the abject fear he had of Black Orchid herself. His imagination was not sufficient when it came to thinking about what she may do to him, and more importantly his wife, should he let her down.

  No, he had little choice, and so he had best make the best of it.

  “Right here,” said the Count, producing the kerchief she had given him just yesterday, his monogram on one corner.

  He could see her eyes were full and ready to burst. He felt a sharp tug inside and he had to affect a cough to prevent tears of his own. That would never do, especially not with his guard drawn up and ready to leave with him.

  “I best be off,” he said. “I should not keep the men waiting.”

  Leaning forward, he pecked his wife on the check.

  “I love you,” she whispered, so only he would hear.

  He drew back an inch so that she could see him and what his eyes were saying before kissing her again, this time full on the mouth.

  “I’ll be back before you know it,” he said softly.

  He turned to address his men. Eyes snapped to the front as he did so but not fast enough for him not to notice a fullness in the eye among his older and most loyal guards.

  “Can’t a man kiss his wife without you horrible lot staring?” bellowed the Count.

  It was his good natured bellow that they all knew and more than a few were smirking.

  “Three cheers for the Count,” commanded his Guard Captain.

  “Huzzah! Huzzah! HUZZAH!” cheered the guard.

  As he rode down the hill from the castle, the Count tried hard not to look back; he never had in the past, believing that if you went anywhere with regret then your heart was not ready for battle. But this time, he turned to look at his wife; she was at the gate, watching them leave. She must have seen him look as she raised her scarf. He raised his arm in reply and swore to himself that he would be back to retrieve the lady’s favour.

  Taking a deep breath, he brought himself back to the matter in hand. He had a campaign to run, a battle to fight, and city to save. There was no room for sentiment when his and his men’s lives were on the line.

  “At the trot!” he ordered, and spurred his horse on down to the waiting troops.

  Baron Fanfaron and Sir Edwin were mounted and waiting.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said the Count.

  The Baron inclined his head.

  “All present and ready for inspection,” barked Sir Edwin.

  The lad was keen, but an inspection was the last thing the Count needed. “They look magnificent, Sir Edwin,” said the Count. “But let’s not tarry, shall we?”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” said Edwin.

  The young knight had become quite the horseman in a short time, and turned his mount on a shilling to face the men. Sir Edwin drew his sword and held it high.

  “To Bostokov!” shouted Edwin. “And to glory!”

  A ragged cheer went up from the men.

  It took two hours to get the army moving. Apart from the fighting men, there were the supplies and camp followers, all of whom needed to move off down the one rutted road. Baron Fanfaron’s men brought up the rear, close to their much loved cooking utensils and supplies, doubling as a rear guard on the march.

  The Count was glad for the early onset of spring in as much as it promised fairer weather, though the rain may muddy the roads. If he was to sleep in a field tent for the next months then at least it would be temperate. He was definitely of the Old School that believed the campaign season should be spring to late summer, that autumn should see armies heading home, and winter should be spent next to a roaring fire with hounds at one’s side.

  *****

  It took three weeks to march to within a day of Bostokov, which was where the Count called a halt. The army had swollen, especially as they drew closer to Bostokov and the provincial nobles contributed handfuls of men. The halt gave the Count an opportunity to call a council of war where he would weigh up whom he could rely on should the going get tough.

  There was a familiar buzz of excitement in the tent when the Count and Baron Fanfaron entered – there hadn’t been a major engagement, of the military kind, for years. It was an opportunity for the Western Marches nobility to send their sons off to learn a man’s work, and for a few to dust off their own gear and meet up with old friends.

  Count Vladovitch was relieved to see grizzled veterans among the youthful faces that could barely manage a single beard between them. There was Baron Haldoron, stern looking, battle scarred and still a gleam in his grey eyes. Next to him was Sir Romquist, a keen tactician and a master of siege warfare (handy given Bostokov’s walls). There were others that nodded respectfully as his gaze passed over the assembly. There were also many pansy eyed fops barely out of baby linen but they could be given menial jobs.

  “Gentlemen,” said the Count, his voice clear and commanding above the general babble.

  A mock up of the area had been constructed on a large table. It was impressively detailed, with miniature woods, streams and even sheep and cows. Little men stood on the wall that surrounded Bostokov and its narrow streets with their slate roofs and chimneys. There were tufts of grey cotton for smoke. Outside the walls, beyond the carefully crafted slum area, with what looked like real mud, was arrayed an army that was equally detailed. Little figurines carried pikes and bows, and even the flags were accurately painted with the heraldry of those present.

  The Count took in all the details, not so much the little men and women who had been placed in the town square, but the terrain, the walls and the slum that skirted them, the availability of fresh water and wood. There was a small hill a mile from the edge of the slums that commanded a good view.

  “I’ll establish my headquarters here,” said the Count, stabbing at the hill with a handy stick that had been provided for him. “Sir Romquist, your thoughts?”

  Sir Romquist nodded at the acknowledgement and coughed. “We’ll have to clear this,” he said waving at the slums. “It will get in the way of the siege engines. We can establish road blocks here, and here, and here, and screen the areas between. There seems to be no good sally point so I don’t anticipate a problem there.”

  “How long?” asked the Count.

  Sir Romquist twitched his nose and stroked his short beard. “Well, we can’t starve them out, they have the sea and we have no fleet. So it will have to be assault. Say, three weeks to clear and build the machinery, a week for probes and feints to determine weakness. I’d say, in a month we could be in.”

  The Count couldn’t help but notice Sir Edwin punch his fist into his palm at this. It seemed bloody assault was right up Sir Edwin’s alley. Though siege by starvation would cost fewer men and would have been the Count’s preference, regrettably he had to agree with Sir Romquist’s assessment.

  “Very well. It all seems straightforward enough. I’ll put together a parley to give them the opportunity to surrender…” the Count paused for polite guffaws that greeted this notion. “…and then we can start the clearance and siege. Shall we say, day after tomorrow?”

  There seemed to be a general assent, except for one person.
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  Sir Edwin.

  Though his lips were tight shut, the Count could see the muscles in his neck were taut with anger and there was a rising flush. Then what little control he had evaporated:

  “This is NOT what we should be doing,” exploded Edwin, banging his fist down on the table. “We should go immediately to the gates.” With a sweep of his hand he brushed away the carefully crafted slum houses and sprayed them across the room. “We break them down,” he continued, jabbing a finger at the finely detailed gates, pushing them in and a good section of the wall. “Defeat this so-called Dark Lord Morden and his foul creatures, and rescue Griselda. We don’t need any siege, and certainly no parley. Anyone left alive in there is obviously a traitor as it would be better to kill yourself than live under scum like this Morden.” He pounded the city, where a miniature figure in a black robe had been stood in the middle of the city square, flattening it. “This is what I think of this Dark Lord.” Sir Edwin picked up the squashed figure and ripped its head off. “So let’s not have any of this namby pamby parleys and siege and niceness. Let’s get in there, kill these evil orcs and be done with it. Who’s with me?”

  In his time, Count Vladovitch had seen many outbursts by zealous or pissed off commanders, and this was right up there with the best of them. Among his assembled officers and nobles there was open mouthed amazement. Sir Romquist even went as far as rubbing his eyes, perhaps in disbelief at what he had just witnessed. Sir Reginald Pother, a young lad with a bookish air, was close to tears at the sight of his carefully created model beaten to a pulp. The Count knew he had been up all night working on it and now it was just so much smashed up board and lead.

  The Count himself was at a loss for words. Sir Edwin was standing there, fists planted on the table, glaring, defying anyone present to better his military judgement. Though the plan was total excrement with obvious flaws, the Count was not inclined to be so blunt. After Black Orchid, Sir Edwin and his cursed sword were the two things he feared most.

  “An interesting alternative, Sir Edwin,” said the Count. “It’s been a long march, so shall we adjourn for now, and you and I can go over the details of this idea. In the meantime, as a precaution, Sir Romquist, could you look into the siege engine situation? Good. Right, I think that’s all for now. Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us.”

  The nobility filed out, muttering as they went. Several references to Edwin’s humble birth rose above the general grumbles. Fortunately, Edwin did not seem to hear. He was standing as he had been, staring at the smashed city and fuming. The Count could see Edwin’s neck pulse with anger.

  The tent was empty before Sir Edwin let rip again. “They are all fools. Every second we delay is a second longer that Griselda spends in suffering. What do they know of war? Have they stood on the Desolate Plains and faced the innumerable armies of Evil? Have they plunged their swords into the hearts of dragons, or wrested victory from many tentacled Bog Lords of Crenzo? We should act now.”

  Count Vladovitch was at a loss for a reply. It was a strange thing to say for the son of a blacksmith barely into adulthood who, until a few months ago, had never gone further than the local provincial town. The hairs on his neck told him something dangerous was at work here. As if to confirm it, the awning to the tent was swept aside as a familiar figure made an entrance.

  Black Orchid had been quiet in the last few weeks, coming and going as she pleased and happy to let the Count and Edwin do their thing. The Count was pleased that she at least had faith in his military prowess. He hated meddlers who thought they knew everything because they held the purse strings or, as in Black Orchid’s case, had him by the nuts.

  “Ah, my two favourite men,” said Black Orchid. She walked to the table to stand between the two of them. She ran a long fingernail under Edwin’s chin. “And how are you, my sweet? You seem agitated.”

  The Count could see Edwin blushing. Black Orchid did have a terrible beauty about her. Or was it anger rising once more? Either way, the lad was dumbstruck, as he often was in her presence.

  “We were going over the military alternatives, my Lady,” said the Count. “Edwin here was proposing a direct approach, while the more seasoned among us were more inclined to give them a chance to surrender with little loss of life.”

  The Count wasn’t sure that Black Orchid had heard him as her attention was still completely on Edwin. “You want to kill those evil kidnappers, don’t you? Poor Griselda must be suffering so terribly.”

  Edwin’s eyes were burning into Black Orchid and the Count felt like he might as well not be there.

  “I don’t think you should worry so much about how many people get killed, Count” said Black Orchid, all the while caressing Edwin’s face with her nails. “We are at war, after all.”

  “Well,” said the Count, “strictly speaking, we aren’t at war yet.”

  “We aren’t?” said Black Orchid. “Well, if that’s the case, I suggest we remedy that immediately. Arrange a meeting for tomorrow morning with whoever is in charge in Bostokov, and let’s see what they have to say for themselves. And take Edwin.”

  The Count was relieved. There was always hope if he could convince them to hand over the city. Having Edwin on hand may even expedite matters when they saw him and realised they were deadly serious.

  “Very good, my Lady,” said the Count.

  “And be sure to negotiate aggressively, won’t you, Edwin?” said Black Orchid. She was staring, unblinking, into Edwin’s eyes.

  “Certainly,” said Edwin, breaking his silence and holding Black Orchid’s gaze. “I will ensure we get what we want.”

  Suddenly the Count was less than sure that this was a good idea after all. The gleam in Edwin’s eye was disconcerting.

  “I’ll leave you two boys to it then,” said Black Orchid, and with a swish of her black silk dress, she was gone.

  “I’d better prepare my men,” said Edwin. He followed her out with a definite spring in his step.

  Count Vladovitch found himself alone in the tent. He picked up one of the figurines from the tabletop. It was a pikeman and his pike was bent over where Edwin had smashed it. The little man’s comrades lay spread over the table, mixed in with the broken remains of the city. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen tomorrow but he was certain it wouldn’t be pleasant. A guilty part of him hoped it would be every bit as swift and bloody as he feared and then at least he would be home with the wife before the harvest festival.

  He laid the broken pikeman back on the table. In the following weeks he would be putting real men into the earth. That was the price of war and one that in years past he had happily paid. Perhaps it was because he had always imagined that he would fight hard and die young. Having avoided that fate and seeing the bright young men that made up his army, he hoped that they too would enjoy his luck and see out their days.

  It was a naïve thought and he gave himself a mental slap. War was never pretty, never clean and nice, like many imagined, and always had a price to be paid. He had better get over this melancholy and get his head clear. The lives of his men depended upon it.

  *****

  Edwin was happy to see the morning after the pathetic council of war was a grey and misty affair. It would help him in what was clear he must do. The Count was weak and did not have the will to face evil on its own terms. It was his age. Edwin was sure that Count Vladovitch had been a great leader in his time but now he was old and obviously would have preferred to be at home with his twittering wife.

  Though he was still unclear where Black Orchid fitted into things, it was more than clear that she was the one who was really in command, and that she appreciated Edwin in ways that the Count never could. You could not pander to evil. You had to be strong and have the will to do what was necessary. The only negotiation that would be had today would be at lance tip and sword point.

  The meeting was to take place at a crossroads a mile from the slum that skirted the city walls. A single tree marked the crossing so in theory there
was no opportunity for hiding troops for ambush. It had been well chosen, but fortune had smiled upon Edwin and he had been able to make the needed arrangements for his men. The thickening mist would serve him well.

  The delegation from Bostokov was waiting for them at the crossroads. A large orc sat astride what looked like a work horse. Behind him there was a small guard standing twenty yards back; they were all orcs, unmounted, and armed with an array of pikes and vicious looking bill hooks. The weapons were intended as defence against knights, and Edwin wondered if he had been betrayed. If he had, he would deal with the betrayer after the orcs had been cut down.

  As they drew near the orcs opened their mouths in a rictus of sharpened teeth. Edwin had done his research in training and knew those lines of teeth for what they were, a challenge. There was no peace to be had here today. All this parley was pretence, a sham to justify the notion of war conducted by rules. Edwin laughed inside. He knew that there was only total war, with no quarter asked or given. There were no civilians or rules or niceties. War was conducted for one purpose alone, and that was victory. Any army that fought otherwise had lost already. But if the Count wanted to play his games then Edwin would let him. He, however, would not be fooled by polite chit chat.

  Edwin nudged his horse forward to a few paces behind Count Vladovitch. The orc was waiting patiently on his mount. Close up, he looked older than Edwin had first presumed. He had thick, ugly features that suggested a lifetime of outdoor hard labour. The silver ring in his ear marked him as a dock worker. His uniform, if that’s what it was, was an assortment of chain and leather, with a curved blade hung at his side.