The Dark Lord's Handbook: Conquest Page 22

  “How can you tell?” replied Griselda, spitting the words. “You planned this, didn’t you? If you had a point to make, you could have said. You didn’t need to take me to the theatre to make it. It was so embarrassing. Everyone was looking at me. Well, it won’t work. I shan’t stop being who I am whether you like it or not. I had expected better of you, Chancellor. I should have known, it’s not just Dark Lords who are scheming bastards.”

  While he found it hard to argue with the fact he was probably one of the most adept schemers alive, Penbury was rather taken aback by Griselda’s outburst. Language aside, she seemed to be a pleasant and sensitive young lady, and he had assumed he had been nothing other than the perfect host, a role he was well practised in. Even with his legendary foresight, when it came to business and politics, he had not seen this coming. Then again, it wasn’t often he’d had to anticipate the emotional responses of a young woman. Those days had long gone, and he hadn’t been particularly successful on the few occasions when he had tried courting. His skills lay in other areas. Diplomacy was one such area and, by taking a moment to digest her accusation and gather his thoughts, his diplomatic skills were kicking in. He was going to have her as his guest for some time, and he was sure it would be better if she was on his side, rather than against him. If she were to be used as leverage against Morden, it was imperative she toe the line.

  “My dear, I assure you there was no plan in this evening other than to amuse you and show you this beautiful city.”

  “Don’t you ‘my dear’ me. I’m not stupid. A play about a headstrong woman being tamed and made demure. Subservient, even. I didn’t bow to a Dark Lord, and I won’t bow to you.”

  “Griselda. Think what you will, there is no agenda here. It is pure happenstance the subject of the play was what it was. A cruel twist of fate. Nothing more. I am no Dark Lord to bend your will, or anyone’s, to my own.”

  It wasn’t entirely true. He wasn’t a Dark Lord, but bending wills to his own was what he did most days. Instead of an imposing fortress, black robes, and armies of blood-crazed orcs, he used financial institutions, hordes of lawyers (the non-lethal kind), and accountants in well-cut suits. None of which he thought likely to have any effect on young Griselda. She was obviously upset. It was to be expected, having just left a difficult relationship. A bit like when business partners fall out and fight over the business. One wins and keeps everything, the other is left with nothing. The end of her relationship with Morden wasn’t clear, but from what Lord Deathwing had said, it was Griselda who had wanted out after an unfortunate incident with her father. Suicide apparently. Anyway, in a short space of time, Griselda had gone from Dark Queen to heartbroken poet. Sad, really.

  “Easy for you to say.” She folded her arms and turned away from him.

  Penbury was familiar with this kind of behaviour in business. Business partners would often act offended, or slighted, when in fact they were trying to improve their negotiating position. He wasn’t sure Griselda was that hurt; she seemed tough. It was more likely she was exploring his boundaries to see how far he would go to accommodate her. She hoped he would try to soothe her with kind words, tell her she was right, and that life wasn’t fair, or ask how he could prove his sincerity. To do so would to succumb to her wiles. Or so she thought. She could play him, but equally he could play her. A winning tactic in business was to indicate perhaps it was a deal that could not be done and he should look elsewhere for a partner. When he was in a position of strength, and he generally was, then threatening to walk away often had them stopping him at the door. If Griselda was looking for purely emotional support in this difficult time then he was an unlikely person to lean on. If, as he thought more likely, she was used to having a powerful man under her thumb—and it didn’t get more powerful than him—then this was a genuine power struggle. That was fine. He had plenty of experience with those.

  “I imagine life with Morden was not easy.” Deflect away from himself, and back to the Dark Lord, the real source of her ire. Morden was the basis of any real deal here. It was why he had agreed to the entire exchange. He needed leverage on his adversary and Griselda may well be it if Morden still treasured her.

  “No shit. He’s a pig. All men are pigs. He wasn’t interested in me, or my art. I was a trophy at his side.”

  Penbury let the implied slight slide. He was not so easily ruffled. Besides, the pig was a fine animal that brought him great pleasure when eaten. The world would be a worse place if not for the humble pig. Even the offal was good.

  “But he will pay,” continued Griselda. “You wait and see.”

  “You seek revenge?” A theme she was keen on, it seemed. Penbury could work with that. He did wonder what form of revenge she might manage. She was up against a Dark Lord and his armies; a scathing poem wasn’t going to cut it.

  “I told you. Wait until you see what I got in my trunk.” Griselda laughed.

  There was a terrible glee that tweaked Penbury’s interest. What was it she had planned?

  Griselda settled back and returned to watching the city, now lit with street lanterns, slide by. It wasn’t long before they had arrived at the estate and Chidwick had delivered his master’s bedtime hot chocolate—he thought it never too warm for a bitter chocolate drink. Propped up in bed, Penbury read the day’s pamphlets for news—mostly news, and a few of the humorous sketches (Bonehead was bedding and beheading, as always). He had reached the bottom of his mug and the last of the pamphlets when there was a knock at his bedroom door, but not Chidwick’s familiar knock.

  It was Griselda.

  She was wearing a white cotton bed shift which was suitably light and airy for the time of year, and consequently more revealing than Penbury liked. While she was not unattractive, he hoped seduction was not on her mind. He thought it unlikely and credence was lent to that thought by the long wrapped bundle she was carrying in her arms. Barefoot, and unusually silent, she padded to the end of the bed, lay the leather wrap down, and pulled at the strings that tied it. Penbury watched, fascinated, as she pulled the package apart to reveal the gleaming steel of a sword.

  Penbury’s heart skipped a beat. Where was Chidwick? How could he let this woman into his room with a sword? As if to answer his question, Chidwick slid into the room.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I’d didn’t realise you had company,” said his PPS and made to leave.

  “Chidwick!” The last thing Penbury wanted was his PPS to go and leave him with this woman.

  “Don’t worry, Chancellor, I’m not here to kill you. Or seduce him, Chidwick. What do you think I am? Assassin? Harlot? Men. Dumb as planks.”

  Griselda grasped the hilt of the sword and stepped back. She held it in front of her and a pale blue fire ran along its length. Her shift billowed out and her hair crackled, lifting off her head in a pale corona.

  “This, gentlemen,” said Griselda, her voice lowering and booming with significance, “is Dark Lord’s Bane. My brother, Edwin, killed Zoon the Reviled with this sword, and with it, I will kill Morden, my ex-husband.”

  Chapter 25 Rehabilitation

  The worst torture is self-inflicted.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  The screams of a tortured soul ought not to be out of place in a Dark Lord’s fortress. Expected even. They lent ambiance to the towering spires, crenellated walls, and looming gates. Morden could appreciate their worth but didn’t have to enjoy them. They were depressing. And they were affecting his minions. Not exactly the most cheerful lot at the best of times, his orcs visibly winced and shuddered as the howls of pain and suffering resonated around the fortress. The screams came not from the dungeon, where some hapless prisoner was being turned slowly inside out, as might be expected, but from the Tower of Despair. The tower was right next to the Tower of Pain and was one of Morden’s favourites. Its sharp edges and spiralling outer stair, with its precipitous drop that promised death at the slightest slip, was inspiring in its maudlin thrust into the dark clouds that were ever
present at its spire.

  The screams sounded like none mortal man could make, and there was a good reason for that: they didn’t come from mortal man. They came from a long-lived dragon who had recently come off a three year drug habit—and not just any drug. Headfucker was well-named, not only for its effects while used, but because it so warped reality for the user that if they ever stopped taking it, actual reality was too much to take. There were very few recovering addicts. They didn’t live long enough. It wasn’t even necessarily due to suicide. More often it was as though their minds could not accept the cold, hard truth of real life and opted to switch everything off instead.

  Morden was finding it hard to concentrate on his brooding with the wails that resonated around his temporary throne room. He found himself clutching the ends of the slabs of stone that made up his new throne, his bony fingers audibly cracking. While he was pleased the exchange of Lady Deathwing for Griselda had seemingly gone off without a hitch, he had not been prepared for the state Lady Deathwing was in when she had arrived. He had never seen his father so pissed off, either. Penbury had offered to provide a good supply of God’s Dust but Lord Deathwing had refused. She was of no use while still on the drug. And so she had been confined to the Tower of Despair and her withdrawal had begun. That had been three weeks ago. Morden hoped it would be over soon. He wasn’t getting anything done with her soul-tearing howls reverberating around the fortress.

  Until she was back to herself, and able once more to assume her true dragon form, the hatching of her offspring was on hold. All the while, his army trained for the upcoming issuing forth and laying waste, performing daily manoeuvres across the training grounds. For an orc army, it was starting to resemble an impressive weapon of war. Siege tactics had been perfected, artillery practice was a daily affair, archers delivered volleys that blackened the sky, and cavalry feints and charges were executed with aplomb. All Morden needed were the dragons to round the army off. They were his big weapon. The army would pin his opponents in place by means of a traditional battle, and his dragons would swoop in and roast them. Hammer and anvil were terms he had become familiar with as his generals had tried to educate him in military matters. It was a good plan. The dragons were also a crucial part of his plan to get his army across the ocean. They would ruin any fleet that opposed him, black powder or not. In fact, the black powder would make it easier to destroy the enemy fleet if it caught fire, which it was bound to do. In his mind’s eye, he envisioned a flight of dragons swooping down and incinerating a fleet of ships bobbing on the sea swell like toys in a bath. They wouldn’t have a chance.

  There was another scream that spoke of anguish Morden hoped he would never feel. It was so deep and resonating he wished it on his worst enemy—how anything was ever too bad not to be wished on any enemy, let alone his worst, was beyond him. It didn’t make sense. He tried to blank it out and bring his brooding mind to another outstanding matter of concern, the possibility there was a hero loose in the fortress. The first reports from the sewers confirmed his suspicions there were three in the group that had been skulking down there. The H-Squad, however, had drawn a blank in their pursuit. They were now operating on a watching brief. Security around Morden was as tight as it could be. No one got past Ironfist. Personal audiences were limited to his general staff and his father.

  That the three had disappeared was not too surprising, especially if one was a hero. There were tens of thousands of orcs, men, and other things in his fortress. It was impossible to account for all of them. He just about knew the make-up and designations of his army. When it came to everyone else—the smiths, the bakers, the armourers and cleaners, the stable boys, masons, fletchers and hangers-on—there were far too many to keep track of. A hero and his companions could lose themselves easily enough amongst the masses that thronged the fortress.

  Morden knew they would try to blend in and wait for an opportunity to strike. And this opportunity was the one thing he may be able to control. He needed to bait the hero out somehow. It was a high risk strategy, but if he were to face a hero then he preferred it on his own terms. He didn’t want to have to spend his entire time wondering if this guard or that was really an orc or in fact a hero, ready to leap and strike. He was paranoid enough as it was without having that to bother him as well. As far as setting the trap went, he figured it was unlikely the hero would wiggle his way into the military side of things. He would be too easy to spot. He thought it far more likely they would blend into the masses that supported the fortress and the army it trained. An inspection tour might do it. They were always chaotic. A good hero would jump at the chance to strike. If they had come this far and infiltrated the Dark Lord’s fortress, they clearly had little intention of getting away. They were here to assassinate or die trying. Morden was sure he could arrange the latter with careful planning.

  “Lord Deathwing,” announced a guard, and his father strode into the room.

  Morden remembered the first time his father had approached him in Bostokov. Approaching a throne upon which a Dark Lord sat, he had been confident. In that sense, nothing had changed, but there were other changes. Morden was used to his father being feckless, a half-smile almost permanently on his lips. Now, though, there was a grimness about his demeanour Morden found disturbing. It was a reminder that his father was as cold as he was.

  “Father,” said Morden from his throne.

  Most who were granted an audience with Morden abased themselves before his throne out of fear and respect for his dark presence. There were exceptions. Griselda had been one. Stonearm, when he was around, was another, and his father a third. Two orcs heaved a chair from the side of the chamber into position to one side of Morden’s throne and his father threw himself onto it.

  “Fuck Penbury, and fuck his fucking Headfucker.”

  Morden was rather taken aback by his father’s outburst. Griselda had pretty much had a monopoly on swearing like this. His father had always had a touch more class. His father’s annoyance, however, was understandable. In capturing Lady Deathwing, Penbury had shown great ingenuity. Lady Deathwing’s addiction had come as a surprise to Morden. He hadn’t thought it was possible, and his father was equally disbelieving. But she was addicted. Her withdrawal was taking longer than either had anticipated and, while her anguish and screams lent a certain ambiance to the fortress, it had become grating for everyone. Morden had noted grumbling among his minions. The fact she was able to withdraw from the drug and survive, after the amount she must have been taking, was a minor miracle. A human would surely have died.

  “You have to give him credit,” said Morden. “It was a stroke of genius.”

  “Fuck him.” Lord Deathwing slumped like a sullen child, glowering at no one in particular.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  From the flick of his father’s eyes, there was something, but also a reluctance to ask. Curious.

  “Is she still addicted to the drug?”

  Lord Deathwing pulled himself up in his chair, straightening his jacket as he did. “Bring me some wine,” he ordered loudly, waving a hand in the vague direction of the guards who lined the walls. One scurried off to meet the order. “No, she’s not addicted to the drug anymore. It’s been two weeks since she seduced that orc guard so he would bring her some.”

  “Ah, yes.” The seduction had not been as successful as she had hoped. The guard in question had demanded payment up front, which had proven fatal when Lord Deathwing had come across them mid-coitus. His father had been crushed by her infidelity. Morden thought that ripe considering his father’s history of philandering, and he’d had to spend some time convincing his father that it was the drugs. It wasn’t her fault.

  “She hasn’t had any since Penbury handed her over,” said Lord Deathwing. “That’s not the problem.”

  Morden decided to say nothing and let the silence draw out whatever his father had on his mind. He could see it was taking an effort for his father to speak. They had never been close, an
d certainly never, ever, discussed anything this personal. And that suited Morden. No child ever wanted to know the details of their parents’ relationship.

  The guards returned with wine, a small table, and a glass, which were set to one side of Lord Deathwing’s chair. A glass of wine was poured and the orcs backed off hurriedly. Lord Deathwing distractedly reached out, took the glass, and drained it.

  “The problem is, she doesn’t believe anything anymore. She thinks she’s in a nightmare from which she cannot wake. She’s trapped in a tower, in a Dark Lord’s fortress, with a rumbling volcano outside the window. A few weeks ago, she spent most days on a bench in Penbury’s garden watching butterflies. Then, out of the blue, she finds herself being flown across the world by a black dragon, who tells her he’s her husband, and she is in fact a dragon as well. It didn’t go down well.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s not that she doesn’t know me, she just thinks I’m something from her nightmares. She remembers her previous life, in parts, but thinks that too was a dream.”

  Morden nodded in what he hoped was a sympathetic manner. In essence, Lady Deathwing was nuts and in all likelihood as useful to them as an orc with a toothache.

  His father filled his glass, drained it again, then refilled it. Morden could see this spiralling out of control quickly.

  “What can I do?” asked Morden, while his father had some semblance of sobriety.

  While he had been talking and drinking, Lord Deathwing had kept his attention on anything but his son, the Dark Lord. The ceiling, the guards, his fingernails, were all far more interesting. But now he met his son’s eye and Morden was taken by the fire in them.

  “I want you to fix her head,” said Lord Deathwing.

  “Fix her head?”

  “Yes. I want you take control of her mind and straighten it out. Use your power, your dark will. Make her believe. It’s the only way.”