The Dark Lord's Handbook Read online

  “Hey! Shitheads!” Morden’s guide called out.

  He was mostly ignored but some looked over. In seconds, a transformation occurred. Women scooped up children, men drew weapons and before Morden had even a chance to say hello he was surrounded by a bristling group of orcs, all of them with bared teeth, guttural growls and snarls in abundance. Spears poked forward but didn’t make contact.

  “What the fuck is going on?” came a loud voice from the back of the pack and a huge orc muscled his way through.

  When he saw Morden, he stopped and frowned. He glanced sideways at the orc who had led Morden to the village and then turned his back on them.

  “Kill him,” he said over his shoulder and strode off.

  The thicket of spears closed behind the orc as he left.

  Morden’s hand went instinctively to his chest where the dragon pendant lay under his robe. It had always been his talisman. He didn’t understand how, but it always protected him. Expecting it to be roasting hot in the face of an imminent skewering it was in fact quite cool to his touch.

  The orcs seemed to gain confidence from his inaction. One let rip a shout and sprang forward and stabbed at Morden. Though he didn’t feel pain, it was with amazement that Morden looked down and saw the spear sticking into his midriff.

  Then another orc stabbed him, and the orc with the bow shot him. The arrow twisted his shoulder backwards as it hit; again, he felt impact but no pain. The orcs let go of their spears and jumped backwards. They looked at him confused. Morden himself was not entirely clear what was happening beyond he was getting pissed off with being shot and speared.

  He supposed at this point he should be writhing around on the ground in death throes but frankly he was far too annoyed to play along. He was a Dark Lord and he had important Dark Lord business to be getting on with if he could find a way to get back to his fleet and army. Being abused and poked at was not the way he should be treated. Didn’t they know who he was?

  The orcs looked perplexed as well. Another orc jumped forward and stabbed his spear into Morden’s belly and jumped back, as if it was a matter of enough spears to do the trick. All it left was a third spear dangling ineffectually.

  “ENOUGH!” bellowed Morden.

  The orcs shrank back. The one that had led him to the village fell to his belly and started his chanting again; the others looked at him with open amusement. Morden realised he’d probably been rescued by the village idiot.

  Bracing himself for pain that so far had not come, Morden tugged the arrow free from his shoulder and tossed it aside. He gripped one of the spears close to his body and pulled hard. It came free with a horrible slurp and a few gobbets of flesh came out as well. In short order, Morden removed the other two spears. Looking at his robe, he should have been drenched in blood but, apart from rather disgusting wounds, there was none.

  Instead there was a gurgling sound and Morden’s stomach heaved. It took him by surprise. The last time he’d felt like this was when he had inadvisedly eaten the cook’s lamb special at his Bindelburg school (special in that it was plainly raw). He retched again and couldn’t keep back the bile. He bent over and a stream of white sick spewed onto the ground. The surrounding orcs leapt even further back to avoid the splash with cries of disgust.

  And it kept coming until Morden was forced to his knees, his stomach knotting itself trying to empty its contents. At last all he could manage was dry retching.

  That about did it for Morden. He’d had enough of being shot at, stabbed, puking, being laughed at and generally not taken seriously.

  He forced himself up and straightened.

  “I said enough!” roared Morden.

  It was as if his voice was a blast of wind. It blew out from him and knocked the orcs off their feet. They screamed as they fell, many grabbing at their faces. The bushes blew backwards, blackened and shrivelled. The huts bent and creaked; bits of wood and roof flew off into the jungle.

  Morden had to some extent got used to the strange and gratifyingly powerful things that he had been able to do, but this was different.

  He strode forward to see what had happened to the orcs as they were still writhing in pain and screaming. He was angry but he didn’t mean to hurt them. He liked orcs. As he walked something caught his eye, and looking down he was once again surprised to see that where his feet fell the ground blackened and what greenery there was withered into black ash in seconds. As he got to within a yard or so of the nearest orc, the screams grew and it scrambled away from him as best it could. Morden could see its face and it was as though it had been pickled.

  The one orc that seemed unaffected was the one who had first found him. He was knelt as he had always been and was now staring at Morden with a look of adoration. He looked completely unaffected by Morden.

  The entire village was gathered now around the big orc, who Morden surmised must be the chief. There seemed to be a heated debate going on.

  Morden wasn’t inclined to wait and see what decision they came to regarding him. There was a single track that ran through the village which, given the direction they had come from, ran parallel to the coast. Morden decided to go left.

  The orcs parted like a flock of sheep at the approach of a rabid dog.

  As Morden headed north the jungle withered. From the village behind him, drums started beating. A short while later, they were answered by drums that seemed a good distance ahead of him. So they knew he was coming. That was good. Let them know and let them be afraid.

  Somewhere above him a bird called and a parrot fell dead at his feet.

  Chapter 36 A New Hope

  Power corrupts. But isn’t that the point?

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  From his command tent on the hill a mile from the city, Count Vladovitch had a clear view of the army spread around the walls. It had been a month since the Betrayal at Bostokov, as Edwin had named it, and this great injustice had rallied even more to the banner. Edwin’s lost knights had been replaced, this time with fewer romantics and more grizzled veterans and zealots. Trebuchets had been built, ladders made, armour and swords forged, countryside raped and men exhorted until, this day, all was ready.

  Knowing as he did what had actually happened, it left a bitter taste in the Count’s mouth to watch Edwin riding the length of the centre, sword raised, spewing some nonsense about death and glory. There was going to be plenty of the former and precious little of the latter today. The orcs would make a good fight of it, but there was little hope for them against such numbers. The war had captured the imagination of the Western Reaches and men had flocked in to see the evil overthrown. And Sir Edwin, Knight Resplendent, was their hero. He was the sole survivor (overlooking the Count himself) of the dark treachery of the loathsome green skins.

  “We may as well get this over with,” said the Count to no one in particular. “Make the signal for the attack to begin.”

  The mood was grim among the generals gathered there. They all knew the Count, and most shared his dislike for the way events had turned out. Nevertheless, word was passed and the signaller raised his flag and waved it in the still air. It was greeted by a roar from the assembled army as the tension of waiting was released. It was something the Count knew well. There had been a time when he too had been eager for the fray, but it had taken only a battle or two, seeing men cut like meat at the butcher, to understand that there was nothing to be eager about, nor glory in the work that he performed.

  From below, the trebuchets groaned into action, hurling their rocks in graceful arcs. Where they hit the wall there was an explosion of rock and dust. Where they sailed over the wall the Count didn’t have to imagine what it would do to a house it hit, he had seen it. It would be matchwood.

  After the second salvo, the front line started forward; the sound of thousands of hobnailed feet drowned out the creaks from the trebuchets as they were wound back. A few answering rocks came from behind the city walls, but were largely ineffectual. The Count had the best arti
llery men in the Western Marches; the orc defenders were rather newer to the art.

  The city walls proved to be next to no obstacle; they had been built mainly to keep slum dwellers out, not well formed armies. There hadn’t been an army like this for hundreds of years.

  When there was a clear breach, Edwin led his knights forward. Though cavalry was not normally suited to city assaults, it was clear there would be little resistance and the Count felt sorry for anyone, man or orc, that those knights came across. Their steel shone brightly even in the dim sunlight of the day, pennants snapping as they galloped the last hundred yards to the city. Edwin himself was at their head, standing in his stirrups, his sword raised. In an age long past, the Count may have found the scene uplifting but now it just scared him. What had he unleashed?

  By the time the army had got into the city and the first plumes of smoke were rising from the burning and looting, there was a stack of unused ladders at the breaches that the artillery had made.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, would you go and make sure he doesn’t get too carried away,” said the Count to Baron Fanfaron on his left. The Baron had proven his worth in culinary matters and become a close friend. He too seemed to share the Count’s distaste with affairs but was always willing in his duties.

  “Of course,” said the Baron, nodding, and he called for his mount.

  “Sir Romquist,” said the Count, turning to his siege commander, “secure the artillery. Good work.”

  Sir Romquist bowed and headed down to the trebuchets and ballistae (which had not been needed). Surveying the field for the last time, and seeing no need to remain present a moment longer, the Count addressed the remainder of the staff and generals standing around. “Gentlemen, I think I shall retire for lunch. Call me when he is done.”

  To mutters of congratulations, and shaking the hands of his senior staff, the Count made his way to his tent. He needed a drink to get the bitter taste from his mouth. He waved away his aide who followed him and ducked into his tent. It was dark and cool, and the heavy sides dampened the sound from outside so that it was quiet. A pitcher of wine sat next to his mug on his writing desk. He filled the mug and emptied it, filled it again and then collapsed onto his field cot.

  His thoughts turned to his wife. It would be months before he could return to her. Even after Bostokov had been captured there were the other cities that Morden had taken along the seaboard to retake. They would be lucky if they were done before winter set in. He had hoped that if all went well, and it certainly looked as if it would, that he could be released and the mopping up be left to Edwin, but Black Orchid had been clear that she expected him to be there to the end, and she was not to be argued with. She still made him terrified to the core of his being when she was around.

  A polite cough from behind him interrupted his thoughts.

  “Don’t get up,” said a voice with such calm assurance that to do so would be extraordinarily unwise that the Count froze in position.

  “We are going to have a conversation but you are not going to see who I am. All you need to know is who I represent, and that is Chancellor Penbury, and what he wants me to communicate to you. Do you understand?”

  “Are you a lawyer?” asked the Count.

  “I see you do understand. Excellent. You should also understand that I am not here to execute any estates. My client would like to enter into negotiations, the end result of which would be the cessation of hostilities by all parties.”

  The Count had to let what he was hearing sink in. It was everything he could possibly have hoped for; almost too good to be true.

  “You’ll have my full cooperation,” said the Count. “I wish for nothing other than the end to this madness.”

  “A good start,” observed the voice. “Very well. So what are the barriers to this, as you see them? What is it that you want?”

  “Personally? Nothing. I’d like nothing more than to go home.”

  There was a scratching sound from behind the Count before the voice spoke again. “If you want nothing then why do you lead this army in this war? My client seems somewhat confused.”

  It was the Count’s turn to be at a loss for words. Where to start?

  “How long do you have?” he asked.

  “Time enough,” said the voice. “Though brevity is a virtue.”

  Conciseness and accuracy were two qualities that the Count admired in commanders and strove for in everything he did. It took little time, therefore, for the Count to explain how the entire charade was the work of Black Orchid. She was none other than a Deathwing, and her plan was to reclaim the rightful position of aristocracy, freeing themselves from the merchant middle classes, by allowing Morden to lay ruin across the world and to step in and save everyone.

  When described so succinctly, the Count could hardly believe he ever signed up to such insanity. While he wanted nothing but the best for his wife, and hated the idea that they should be paupers, the deaths of thousands to pay for his later life comforts did, in hindsight, seem like an unreasonable price.

  There was another pause as the Count finished, the scratching being the only noise bar the distant sound of battle.

  “My client asks if all it would take to put an end to this would be a large cash injection into the upper classes to provide fiscal relief?”

  “Yes,” said the Count, but then a thought struck. “And no. My greatest fear is that we have unleashed a terror on the world.”

  “Edwin?”

  “Yes, Edwin. He will not rest until Morden is dead and he has recovered from him the love of his life.”

  “And that would be Griselda?”

  This voice was well informed, thought the Count. “Yes, Griselda. And I think after today there will be many more who will have acquired a taste for blood. I’m not sure we could stop it, even if we wanted to.”

  “I see,” said the voice. There was some more scratching. “Thank you, Count. You have been most helpful. We’ll be in touch.”

  The Count lay still and listened for any sound of an exit, but there was none. After what he judged was a safe period of time, the Count sat up to look at where the voice had come from. It was no surprise to see no one there.

  Chapter 37 Reclamation

  Dead last is better than dead first.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Morden walked all day, and into the night. He didn’t know quite where he was going, only that he needed to find something bigger than the villages that straddled his path northwards. He swept through them like a Dark Lord, which was good as that was what he was supposed to be. The orcs who were around to see what was happening fell by the side as his aura hit them. The jungle itself shrivelled as he painted a dark line through it.

  As the sun dipped in the west and the moon rose over the jungle, it occurred to Morden that he should feel tired, or hungry, but he was neither. In fact, after being sick in the first village, he felt fantastic. He tried changing again but could not. It was the same each time. He could sense the power was there but there was something else as well, something different that seemed to be preventing him assuming his dragon form.

  At the pace he was going, he was not too concerned. It couldn’t be long before he came across somewhere substantial and from there could get back to his fleet. He hoped that Stonearm continued on course eastward. The lumbering orc had proven to have brain as well as brawn so it wasn’t too much to hope for. What was more worrying was what effect his absence would have on the fleet itself. He was, after all, the one thing that kept it together. It was his dark vision, and more specifically his dark presence, to which his minions were drawn.

  The path he had been on was now a road, which Morden took as a good sign. Roads meant civilisation, even if in this case the road was a wider path with deeper ruts. The half moon was high in the sky when Morden crested a rise and was met by the sight of a river across his path. It wasn’t particularly wide but there was no bridge in evidence. Swimming was out of the question so he had to c
onsider the alternatives.

  Looking west to where the river had to meet the ocean, Morden could see a glow in the sky. It must be a city. With renewed urgency, Morden headed west along the road that hugged the river on a raised bank.

  It was not long before he came across an orc. He was asleep under a tree surrounded by clutter: a pack, what looked like fishing spears, and a net with dead fish in it. The orc was snoring loudly.

  Tethered to a log was the orc’s canoe. It had been hewn from a single trunk and a paddle lay in the back. It took a mere moment of consideration before Morden got in the canoe, tugged the tether loose and pushed off with the paddle. Though he couldn’t swim, and so if he was tipped over he would be in trouble, the obvious advantage of boating down the river as opposed to walking far outweighed the risk. Besides, how hard could it be? He was going with the current so barely had to paddle. It was more a question of steering.

  Morden left the snoring orc in his wake.

  It proved to be so easy that Morden thought he may as well take a nap and let the canoe take him down river. He lay back and shut his eyes. By rights, he should have been exhausted, but strangely he wasn’t tired at all. All the same, he lay full length, closed his eyes and relaxed. He let the sounds of the river and the jungle fill him. The splashes of fish, animal cries and bird calls was at first a cacophony but after a while blended into a discordant masterpiece.