The Dark Lord's Handbook Read online

  “You don’t know what I’m capable of,” he said, trying hard not to rise to her goads.

  “Maybe. But from a woman’s view I’m pretty clear what you’re incapable of being.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Being a man.”

  Every part of him was on fire. His desire for her was barely in check. He could hear his father’s voice urging him to take her and be done with it. And why shouldn’t he? She was right wasn’t she? Was he a Dark Lord or was he a boy playing games? If he were to rule the world and be feared across continents, how could he let this woman talk to him like this?

  He took a step towards her. He grabbed her arm and he could feel her tremble under his grip. All he had to do was tear the flimsy shift and she would be his. She took a step back but he held her arm firmly. She could back away all she wanted; there was nowhere she could go. Was that fear in her eyes? Now who’s scared? Now who’s the little girl playing at being a woman?

  Something inside gave way. He threw her back against the bulwark.

  “Please don’t,” she whimpered.

  “I was never going to,” he said and he leaped into the air. As he did, he changed into his dragon form in a single fluid movement. A beat of his wings and he rose and let himself grow. He roared and flame burst from inside him lighting up the night.

  He didn’t look down but rather up. With powerful strokes he rose and circled until he could see the whole fleet below him. He circled twice, sent another shot of fire into the sky and then headed east to see what destiny awaited him there. Let Griselda play her games. He may want her but he didn’t need her. There were far more important things than her seductive charms.

  It was good to be airborne. The rush of cold wind was exhilarating. He headed east and climbed until he hit a current of air that swept him along even faster. Soon the fleet was out of sight, even to his keen dragon vision. It was hard to judge being so high, but he seemed to be moving fast. After an hour or so the touch of dawn came to the far horizon. The sunrise that followed revealed just how big the Great Land was.

  He was still over the ocean but the sun was coming up behind distant peaks. They cast a long shadow across a desert that looked as big as the Western Reaches. On the near side of the desert was another mountain range, albeit smaller than the far range.

  Off to the south there were vast glistening swamps, and closer to him, on the shore that he was fast approaching, was a jungle. He could see areas of it had been cleared and cultivated, and thin ribbons wound their way through it between what were, he realised, huge cities. There were several rivers, but one was far wider than the rest and gathered up the others as it made its way to the ocean.

  Closer now, he could see boats on the ocean close to the land – strange looking vessels with angular sails that bobbed in the swell. They were operating in small fleets. Morden decided to take a closer look and began to lose height. The sun had risen enough to clear the far mountains and the cloud over them brought a pink light.

  The boats had slowed in their progress and, now that he was lower, Morden could see nets being thrown over the sides. It was a fishing fleet. Morden had never seen anything like it, at least not on this scale. In the west a few boats may sail together but this spoke of much more organisation. There must be thirty boats in this one fleet and when he had been higher he had seen other fleets up and down the coast.

  That many boats must be catching a lot of fish and a lot of fish meant a lot of mouths to feed. Morden had imagined that they would be landing in a sparsely populated land that was still wild and yet, although the jungle was dense, it was clear that there was a major civilisation down there; one that was organised enough to have cleared jungle, built roads, cultivated land and organised fishing fleets.

  Morden decided to get a closer look at the boats and their occupants. There was low cloud that he used to mask his approach, not that he thought they would be looking skyward. He dived down through the cloud and skimmed across the sea letting his wing tips splash on the wave tops. He was travelling fast and coming up on the boats. The fishermen were busy about their work though and had not seen him. At the last moment he pulled up and soared over the first one, a few feet above the sails. His wing beats buffeted the boat and it rocked heavily. The fisherman looked up at him so he was able to see them clearly. He hung in the air above them hardly able to believe what he was seeing.

  They were orcs.

  Not quite the same orcs he knew but there was no doubt. They had yellowish skin instead of green tinged, and their eyes were thinner and slanted, but they had the same fat, rugged features and he was low enough to see their teeth. Unlike his orcs, they were so long they overhung the lips and when they shouted and pointed he could see they had both an upper and lower set of sharp canines.

  Suddenly from below there was an explosion and a second later he felt a sharp pain in his side.

  A bolt was lodged in his side, ballista sized and with rope dangling from it. There was a shout from the ship and the rope went taught. His side flared in pain and he was tugged downwards. He clawed at the rope but missed. He could see a group of orc fishermen had the rope in hand and it had been tied off next to a strange looking weapon on the prow of the ship. One of the orcs shouted and brought his arm down. The others pulled hard on the rope and Morden was drawn closer to them.

  Another orc was doing something to the weapon. There was a second bolt in it and it was being pointed up at him. There was another crack and the bolt came shooting up at him.

  In an instant, Morden breathed.

  A great gout of flame shot out and met the oncoming bolt, incinerating it. The flame shot down the length of the rope attached to the bolt in his side, burning it and the orcs on the end of it. The flame flattened as it hit the boat and engulfed it. A moment later the boat was an inferno. Burning orcs made hissing sounds as their bodies hit the water.

  Morden beat his wings and rose to get height. Other boats in the fleet were coming towards him from the windward side and there was a puff from the front of the first one. He easily dodged the bolt. Having seen what he had just done to the boat below he had to admit they were a fearless lot.

  He could roast more of the boats but he didn’t want to risk getting hit again. Every beat of his wings was agony as the muscle twisted around the bolt. He climbed higher leaving the boats behind. Looking at his side, he could see that he was bleeding badly. If he tried to fly back to his fleet he might pass out and if he was over water when that happened it would not be good. His only choice was to make land and try to get the bolt out and take it from there.

  As he flew towards land, he could see that some of the boats were bobbing around the burning wreck while others had abandoned their fishing and were headed back to land. They would have a fine story to tell once they made port.

  Morden pushed on towards the land. He could feel himself weakening and he sank lower in the air. Ahead waves crashed on a clear beach with no sign of habitation in either direction. That would have to do. He couldn’t go any further.

  He barely made land before he passed out. The sole comfort he had was in the last thing he heard: somewhere above him, a crow cawed.

  Chapter 34 The Council

  Attachment is the cause of suffering. So are red hot pokers.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  The news from the Snort brothers was not good. Count Vladovitch and a growing ensemble of nobility were laying siege to Bostokov, or Mordengrad as the new rulers insisted upon calling it, and getting nowhere. Meanwhile, the self-styled Lord Morden Deathwing had sailed east, dipping onto the coast to sack cities at will. Both the name, Deathwing, and his orcish army had sent a wave of terror across the western civilised world. The pamphlets were full of it, proclaiming Morden as the first serious Dark Lord in over five hundred years.

  The economic effects had been varied. The loss of the cities had hit hard but there had been a rush on
gold and arms, both of which were profitable markets. While peace and economic stability were certainly the preferred state of affairs, there was an old Chancellor’s saying, no one went broke in war. Certainly no Chancellor.

  Nevertheless, these were concerning times and Chancellor Penbury had succumbed to pressure and called together the Council. While seemingly a rich man’s club with a common interest in the best food and wine the world had to offer, they were in fact the eight most powerful men in the world sat in committee with the Chancellor as the Chair. They met infrequently but events had overtaken them and nerves needed to be calmed.

  Penbury’s own nerves needed calming but not for any of these reasons. His concern was that the chef who would be laying on the dinner was as competent as he claimed. When it came to these matters, Penbury took a hands on approach and his initial impressions of the man were good. He seemed to understand the nineteen ways to cook a steak and the secret of good custard. Precious knowledge indeed, but now that the first guests were coming down from their rooms to gather and enjoy an aperitif the Chancellor was having his first qualms. The hors d’oeuvres were as they should be, like the wink of a young temptress that promised pleasures to come, and the menu looked like it would deliver those promises. But still, the Chancellor was suffering anticipatory anxiety that he hoped would be mollified well before the end of the fish course.

  If there was one thing that the Chancellor had no worries about it was the smooth running of the evening itself. Chidwick was orchestrating affairs with his customary efficiency while remaining practically invisible. The guests were seated and nibbling on fresh bread rolls without being able to remember quite how they had got there so adept was Chidwick’s ushering.

  For the first few courses, talk was confined to appreciative comments regarding the food and wine. As well as being obscenely rich and powerful, seven of the eight of them shared a common interest in gastronomic affairs. It was only Karoof who ate modestly regardless of the fare, and drank equally sparingly. It was as though his legendary thrift in waste management and associated systems extended to every part of his life. Penbury thought that there may be more to it than that and in fact the man had no sense of taste after all these years. How anyone could put his nose to a glass of Riola wine and not pass out with the heady pleasure it brought was beyond the Chancellor, unless that person was without a sense of smell.

  With the main course served, gravy having been suitably drizzled and glasses refilled, Penbury decided now was the time to address the reason they had gathered.

  “You are all probably wondering why I called this meeting,” he said, addressing the table in general.

  Jesper Konovova poked at the innards of a roast potato and, finding it fluffy under its crisp exterior, smiled. “Not at all Chancellor. We’re not fools, you know.”

  Penbury slapped himself mentally. It was indeed a failing he had in assuming that all but himself, and probably Chidwick, were not that quick on the uptake. Still, he had face to save. “Forgive me, gentlemen. Of course, you are right. For we are none of us fools to find ourselves in this position?”

  “Touché,” said Jesper, raising his glass.

  Murmurs of concern and harrumphs rolled around the table.

  “In short, gentlemen,” said Penbury, “we have a situation. One that demands our attention and I thought it prudent that we as a group came to a consensus on the matter.”

  Furrowed brows and grunts of agreement made it clear that Penbury’s summation was accurate.

  “Should we not clarify exactly the issue on hand?” suggested Hans Birkenfeldt from the other end of the table. Penbury knew him as a precise man in all matters, from the perfect angle of the kerchief in his top pocket to the cut of his hair, and the legendary legalese of his business contracts. If he had a touch more imagination he may well have been Chancellor after Penbury as he was still relatively young.

  “Very well,” said Penbury. “On one hand we have one Morden Deathwing declaring himself a Dark Lord and saviour to the orc nation, and on the other we have a suddenly energised aristocracy that seem intent upon stopping him. Now, we all know the Deathwing name and the implication that has, and we have all seen the pamphlets with first hand accounts of this Morden becoming a dragon and doing dragon-like things, breathing fire and so on and so forth; so I think we can safely take it as a point of fact that, although he may not as yet be a Dark Lord, he is certainly well on his way. And that can’t be good.”

  A silence followed as those present digested what the Chancellor had said. It was broken by Pierre Hautville:

  “Wars have never concerned us particularly?”

  “Indeed not,” conceded Penbury, “when those wars have been limited and executed according to well known rules. But I fear in this case it may not be the same.”

  “Do enlighten us, dear Chancellor,” said Pierre, leaning back in his chair with an insouciant smile.

  “Very well,” said Penbury. He took a sip of wine and let it wash around his mouth while he gathered his thoughts. “As I am sure you know, war has been traditionally fought between the ruling classes, with the working classes as their implements of war, and the merchant classes as their suppliers, whether it be food, weapons or what have you. It is a system that works well, at least for two of the three parties concerned.” Penbury paused for effect and was rewarded with polite guffaws. “The other common element of war, as we have known it for centuries, has been that it has been waged over things, like national boundaries, lines of succession and marital infidelities. In other words, nothing that a good battle couldn’t settle. But Morden is different. His war is one of conquest, and more disturbingly, one of ideas.”

  Penbury paused again to let his last point sink in. The mood at the table had gone quite sober as his guests digested what they had heard and their dinners.

  “You make a good point,” said Hautville. “I had not considered this thing about ideas. It explains much.”

  “Indeed,” said Sven Trondheim, a bullish man with extravagant facial hair. “This thing with the orcs is most disturbing. My human workers have started talking in the same way.”

  “Forgive me, Sven,” said Birkenfeldt, “I am a man of numbers, not workers, what is it that you talk about?”

  “You know,” said Sven, waving his fork, “this talk of workers’ rights and conditions.”

  “Old hat,” said Pierre, sniffing.

  “Yes, yes,” said Sven, “We have all heard this when it is localised to a mine or a mill, but now they are talking in wider circles. They are organising.”

  “Bah,” said Pierre, “We have had guilds for centuries.”

  “True again, my friend,” said Sven. Penbury could see the big man was trying to contain his temper by the way his beard was positively bristling. “But these are not guilds. These are not a loose collection of tradesmen but workers: loggers, miners, herders, dockers, even foot soldiers. They are getting together and talking about withholding labour. Strikes they call it. They demand better pay, better conditions and holidays.”

  “Again,” said Pierre, “this is not new. Send in your boys and break some bones and it will go away. It always does. Or sack them and get someone else. There are a hundred people ready to do any man’s work.”

  “I thought that too,” said Sven. “But things have changed. They are organised and they fight back. They blockade my wood mills and they have this thing called scabs.”

  “A pox?” asked Pierre, screwing his face up.

  “No. They use shame and big sticks to stop the men I get to replace them working. They call those that would break the strike scabs. An effective taunt as it turns out. Soon my mills stop and I am forced to talk to them. It’s not right. And this Morden is to blame. His orcs started it all and it’s catching on, I tell you.”

  Everything that Sven said confirmed to Penbury what he had been reading in the Snort reports. What was worrying was that it was spreading beyond the cities that Morden had sacked.

  “
And where is Morden now?” asked Paolo de Luca, the olive oil baron whose interests included most of the shipping that they all used to move goods. “He has much of my fleet and I would like it back.”

  “He has sailed east,” said Penbury. “Beyond the Great Sea.”

  A ripple of surprised grunts ran around the table.

  “But this is good news is it not?” said Sven. “If he has sailed that far then surely that is the last of him?”

  Penbury wished that were so. “I am afraid not, Sven. If only he were a common pirate, but he is not. He is a Deathwing and worse, a Dark Lord rising. He heads east to gather his power. If I am right, he is going to the Great Fortress of Zoon the Reviled.”

  “Fairy tales!” said Pierre. “If that is the case then he will be gone forever and we are rid of him.”

  “Zoon the Reviled was no fairy tale,” said Penbury. “He is clearly described in the archives.”

  Though available only to the Chancellor, the existence of the archives and the reliability of them was well known among those present. The Chancellor’s words caused great consternation.

  “If you are correct, Chancellor,” said Birkenfeldt once the muttering had subsided, “and you expect Morden to return in full power and with a host that befits a Dark Lord, the question before us is, what should we do?”

  “It seems to me,” said Karoof, entering the conversation, “that there are two sides and it is a matter of choosing the winning side. With the resources we have then surely whomever we back will win through?”

  “Do these nobles have a chance even with our backing?” asked Pierre. “They are full of huff and puff but let’s be honest, with the odd exception, there is hardly a brain between them.”

  Penbury let the laughter die down before replying. The discussion was going as he had expected but he had one more tit bit to throw into the mix. “They have a hero.”