The Dark Lord's Handbook Read online

Kurgen gasped for breath and blood oozed from his mouth. Edwin was suddenly worried he had gone too far and the orc was going to die before he had told him what he wanted to know. He pulled his fingers free.

  “Water,” he shouted at a clump of knights who were standing watching proceedings. “Quickly.” He waved his free hand urgently as the knights floundered around looking for a water skin.

  One was finally looted from a dead orc. Edwin propped Kurgen’s head and dribbled water between the orc’s lips.

  “Tell me,” said Edwin softly, trying hard to gain some calm. “What do you know of Griselda?”

  With some effort the orc drew breath and looked Edwin in the eye.

  “She’s got quite a tongue on her,” said Kurgen. The orc laughed again, and spluttered and coughed, spraying blood all over Edwin.

  Edwin stood. This was useless. He was being taunted. He put both hands to the hilt of his sword and held it high. Time to serve up justice. Kurgen looked up at him and smiled. The orc’s teeth were sharp. Edwin tensed to strike and the orc spoke his last words:

  “She loves Morden.”

  Rage filled Edwin.

  Suddenly he was not on a dockside in Bostokov but on a dark stair. Griselda was cowering in front of him. Behind her was the fallen body of her dark lover, Morden. She raised a hand as if she could ward off the sword that plunged down to take off her head.

  The orc’s head rolled from its body and hit the wooden pier with a thunk. The mouth was still grinning. Edwin kicked at it and it rolled off and into the water.

  *****

  That night Edwin had trouble sleeping. One reason was that not only was Rosemary Cathcart a vocal and vociferous hater of Morden (or so she said) but she also snored loudly in her sleep. He should have been able to fall dead asleep, like she had, after their energetic love making; after all, it had been a long day killing orcs. But he could not.

  At least she wasn’t a chatterer like some girls he had known; they would lie there and ask stupid questions like: did he love them? There was only one woman that he loved and that was Griselda. That he had to sate his manly needs with these young temptresses instead of his love was bad enough without having to engage in bolster talk afterwards.

  He felt nothing for Rosemary, and could even forgive her when she called out Morden’s name at the height of passion, for it was not her that Edwin had on his mind. Barely a moment went by, except perhaps in the midst of battle, when Griselda was not foremost in his thoughts. He strained every sinew to get her back but she was getting further away from him.

  Armies were too slow, too cumbersome. They would be another month in marching, and another in fighting to take the next city, while Morden would have fled even further, coward that he was, taking his Griselda with him. It made his stomach knot itself into a ball of frustration thinking about it.

  It was no good. Sleep would not be coming that night.

  He slid out from under Rosemary’s quilt, made himself decent as was necessary with underclothes before gathering up the rest of his gear and slipping out of the room, leaving Rosemary snuffling like a pig.

  Making good the rest of his attire, Edwin decided to walk the city. It was quiet, with only the odd patrol on the streets. Martial law had been declared and a curfew so only the criminal would be abroad. Not that Edwin expected to see anyone after the demonstration of his will when the city had been taken. The few collaborators that had been identified had been dealt with swiftly. Edwin himself executed the sentences, declaring that if he could not deliver the justice that was needed then how could he ask another man?

  There was one head that he wanted to take above all others. Thinking of the day that Morden’s lifeless body would lie at his feet was the one thing, besides the tender caresses from Griselda, that kept him going.

  But when? There were a thousand things to do in this city alone before they would march in pursuit. It was all too slow.

  He was so lost in thought that he did not hear the first challenge. It was the sound of drawn steel that alerted him.

  “I said, Halt and declare yourself!” came the challenge.

  Edwin had walked a wide circle through the city and was back at the barracks that he had commandeered for his remaining knights. It was good to see that they were awake.

  “Stay your weapon, sergeant. It is Sir Edwin.”

  The sergeant snapped to attention as Edwin passed him.

  The barracks and stable were quiet. If only he could share the well earned, deep sleep that his men were enjoying. There was a brazier in one corner of the yard and Edwin went to warm himself. Staring up into the sky he wondered if Griselda was looking at the same stars.

  A shooting star streaked high above out of the west. It was like an arrow into the east where the first hint of dawn was lightening the sky. If only he could be that star, he would be with her in a heartbeat.

  With a jolt, he realised that was it. He had to be that star. He had to streak towards her. He didn’t need an army. All he needed was his armour, his sword and his determination. He would leave this very minute. Let the Count play his war games. He had a Dark Lord to face and a love to rescue.

  “I’m coming, my love,” he whispered to the star as it blinked out of existence on the horizon. “I’m coming.”

  Chapter 39 Dark Lords

  Fairness and hope are the bedfellows of disappointment and despondency.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Zoon’s words rolled around inside Morden’s head. The game was up. He had been found out. He could feel the strength of compulsion that was being exerted and it took every bit of his will not to immediately toss off the robe, get naked, and hand over the Handbook.

  “No,” said Morden. “I am Morden. This is my robe and my book. You had your chance and you blew it.”

  If it were possible, Morden would have sworn that Zoon’s lidless eye sockets widened.

  “You dare challenge me, boy?” said Zoon, stepping forward.

  The stench was terrible and Morden could feel waves of compulsion beat against him, a cascading whispering in his head telling him to submit and to bow before his master. But he would not. He had come this far and it was his destiny to rule.

  Morden took a deep breath, took a step forward and drew on his own considerable will. “I am the only Dark Lord here.”

  They were eye to eye now and Morden had to fight hard not to gag from the putrescent smell that came off Zoon. This close, Morden could see that Zoon’s flesh was alive with maggots and insects that crawled and slid over the damp skin and bone.

  “I am the Dark Lord,” hissed Zoon.

  “Says who?” rebuked Morden. He could feel his own strength build and the two wills pushed against each other. The air crackled around them and they stared eye to eye socket.

  “Give me the book,” said Zoon.

  Morden was unsure, but it looked like Zoon was beginning to strain. Given Zoon’s lipless mouth it was hard to tell if he was gritting his teeth or not.

  “Take it from me,” whispered Morden. “If you want to lose your other hand.”

  This time Zoon’s grin definitely widened. He raised his left arm and clicked his bony fingers. Orcs appeared from alcoves and passageways around the vault. They were not like the ones outside. These were like the one standing behind Zoon: big, well armed and, on close inspection, suspiciously dead looking. It did make some sense, a lich having an undead retinue.

  “Take him,” said Zoon.

  Morden took a step back. “Stop!” But they kept shuffling towards him. He had no power over these orcs. He was doomed. “Now, Zoon, let’s be reasonable. I’m sure I can find a place for you in my organisation. A lich of your talents would be a great asset. Can’t we work something out?”

  A gurgling laugh came from Zoon. “I do like it when they beg. But you grow tiresome. Silence him.”

  Morden took another step back. The undead orcs and their vicious two handed swords were a few paces away. This was it.

  “Wait
. You can’t kill me,” said Morden. “I’m a Dark Lord.”

  Zoon’s laugh grew louder and echoed around the chamber. “Kill you? Who said anything about killing? Besides, you are mostly dead already.”

  The ring of zombie orcs was tightening. Some raised their arms to grab him as they shuffled towards him. He slapped away dead flesh and bits fell off.

  “Stop!” ordered Morden. “Hang on a second.”

  Zoon clicked his fingers and the orcs stopped.

  “Mostly dead? What’s that supposed to mean? Mostly?”

  The lich was silent for a moment, as though considering the question.

  “The greater part? Not quite completely? You’ll work it out, I’m sure,” Zoon shrugged and clicked his fingers again.

  Clammy hands grabbed Morden and, though he struggled, he knew it was useless. He had never been that strong despite his size. He wasn’t going to fight his way out of this one so, after token resistance, he went limp.

  The orcs raised him above their heads and fell in behind Zoon as he stalked from the chamber. The passage they went into was dark and wet. Stuff that wasn’t water, and smelled gross, dripped from the ceiling onto his upturned face. He couldn’t see where they were going but could see the ceiling turn and dip. They were going down and soon they were in what seemed to be a labyrinth of tunnels. Morden recognised the design from the Handbook. A hero could get lost for an age in tunnels such as these. The wet walls made them hard to mark, and the subtle turns and dips made it impossible to tell what level you were on or what direction you were facing. In no time, Morden had lost all sense of where they were and, even if he could have struggled free, he had no idea which way was out.

  Eventually he heard a heavy grating sound as a door was pulled open. He was unceremoniously dumped onto the floor which, like everything else, was cold, slime covered and hard. Soon after he was naked except for a loin cloth and the pendant round his neck. The latter surprised him. Surely they would have taken that as well? But when fingers had grasped it they had recoiled and left it hanging. Morden hoped Zoon wasn’t watching, but it seemed the lich had left his minions to do the stripping.

  When they left and dragged the door shut, he was left alone in total darkness. There was no sound except the dripping from the ceiling. After a what seemed an age, but was more likely a minute or so, faint specks on the ceiling provided the dimmest of light. All that did was confirm to him the dire situation he was in: trapped in an admittedly spacious cell, one devoid of furniture or company, in a maze under a temple that was meant to be his, usurped by a Dark Lich he had assumed was dead and buried centuries ago. Well, buried; Zoon was clearly dead in a weird way.

  And yet he was still here. Zoon could have had him ripped limb from limb. It was the only comfort he could hang on to as all else lay in ruin in his mind. His dreams of conquest, domination and getting the girl were nothing now. No one knew where he was, and even if they did it wasn’t as though they would be straining to come and rescue him. Maybe Stonearm, but no one else. Certainly not Griselda.

  How could it all have gone wrong so fast? The Handbook had promised him that he was going to be a Dark Lord. He was going to build a fortress, raise an army and lay ruin the world. He would have dominion over everything and bend all to his will, and yet here he was, naked in a dungeon.

  Then he had a thought, one he recognised immediately as ridiculous, which was that it wasn’t fair. It was ridiculous because of the many things he had learnt from the Handbook one was that nothing was fair. Indeed, the sense of fairness was one to be avoided and exploited. A sense of fairness made people do the stupidest things. The mistake he had made was believing everything he had read. He’d obviously been taken as a sap by the Handbook and was the means to get it back to Zoon.

  But that didn’t make sense either. If the Handbook had wanted to find Zoon, then why hadn’t Grimtooth come here? He could have delivered the lich his robe at the same time. And his hand for that matter. It was far too convoluted a road to take.

  Luckily Zoon was making mistakes. Leaving him alive was the biggest. It was grim now, but while he was alive there was possibility. Though he could feel the word ‘hope’ practically begging to be used, as a Dark Lord he knew that hope, like fairness, was a crutch for the weak minded. Faith and hope wouldn’t get him out of this.

  Then another odd thought struck him. Zoon had been a Dark Lord. He had read the Handbook and presumably learnt something from it. There was one lesson that came to mind that would explain Zoon’s curious behaviour. What if he thought Morden was a hero?

  Morden’s laugh echoed off the walls.

  Him a hero? Now that was funny. It did make some sense though. Zoon would know, much as Morden did, that killing a hero was nigh on impossible. Could it be that Zoon didn’t even want to try to in case he incurred some unbelievable consequence? There may have been an earthquake, or something, and Morden could have escaped in the chaos. Rather, wouldn’t it be better to make sure he was alive and well, and safe somewhere? Like a dungeon cell in a labyrinth?

  Except Zoon didn’t seem to think he was alive and well. Mostly dead, he had said. It was a curious thing to say. Thinking back, had the strain he had seen in Zoon been him trying to fight the urge to monologue? The Handbook had warned about waxing lyrical and giving everything away. If Zoon thought he had a hero in front of him, the urge to monologue must have been tremendous. But he had let slip this one thing. What did it mean?

  If only he hadn’t flown off from the fleet then none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t have got shot, stranded and ended up here.

  Was that it? If he hadn’t got shot. Morden’s hand drifted to his side where the bolt had hit him in the ribs. It had healed over now but was still tender. The scar was more a welt and quite raw and sore. Thinking about it, he had lost a lot of blood lying on that beech. When he had come round the sand had been soaked. A normal man may have bled to death.

  Then there was the way that everything seemed to shrivel and die around him when he walked through the jungle. And the fish. And the birds for that matter. And the orcs kept a good distance as well. In fact, the only things that had got close to him without obvious ill effects were Zoon and his minions, and they were already dead, or undead, or more dead, or whatever it was they were.

  So he was undead? Or more dead?

  That couldn’t be it. Zoon had said, mostly dead. There must be something left alive inside him. He didn’t feel like a zombie. He had no urge to stagger around, arms outstretched, searching for warm brains to eat.

  So part of him had died? What did that leave? What if it was the dragon in him that had died? That would explain why he couldn’t change any longer. But then the amulet still seemed to have some power in it. His hand went to his amulet; it felt cool. He’d had it all his life and he had never taken it off. The only time it had been removed had been by that captain at the ambush when he had discovered for the first time he was more than a man. He was also a dragon. He was a Deathwing. Surely a single bolt could not kill a dragon?

  It was all very confusing. Whatever had happened, what was fact was that he was stuck here in a dungeon with a Dark Lord upstairs pretending to be him, which was somewhat ironic as Morden had to admit to himself that he had been pretending to be Zoon.

  For the first time in what had been a sleepless few days, Morden felt suddenly tired. Though the floor was hard and covered in goo, it was all there was so he scraped clear an area of stones that looked less bumpy than elsewhere and lay down. Perhaps if he slept he would wake up back on his ship and all this would have been a bad dream. As the thought occurred, he gave himself a mental slap. He had to banish such weak thinking. It was stupid hope trying to disguise harsh reality. He slid into an uncomfortable sleep knowing that when he woke it would not be in a cabin but in a dungeon. That was all right, though, because he was still Morden Deathwing, Dark Lord.

  Chapter 40 Boxes of Stuff

  Just remember: they are all morons.

 
; The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Chancellor Penbury’s study was normally a place of meticulous order. The Chancellor liked to think it was a reflection of his own mind. The centrepiece was a vast polished mahogany desk with an ink well and pen holder to one side, and one of the very latest and most accurate time pieces on the other. The walls were laden with books ordered by subject and author according to his own classification system; most were Only Editions, being the work of the world’s greatest minds. Several he had penned himself, principally on economic power and political systems, covering such topics as ‘Interest rates and their use in regime change’ and ‘The price of bananas? Who would have thought it?’

  Today though, the Chancellor surveyed a desk and floor strewn with boxes. The boxes (some were closer to being small trunks) were mostly still closed and secured with padlocks. Each had a slit in the top through which papers could be pushed and a small notebook attached by a thin chain to the lid. They looked like ballot boxes that were emerging in some of the newer democracies.

  (Democracy: a brilliant invention, that Penbury wished he had thought of, whereby citizens could voice their political will on pieces of paper, that actually gave them little or no choice, that were then deposited in a sealed box which, when opened elsewhere, were emptied onto the nearest fire and ignored while the politicians brokered real power between themselves. Genius.)

  On each box, written on a slate embedded into the lid, was written a big number. In the general population most could count as far as their digits, or the sheep in their flock. Penbury only knew a handful of people who knew the correct word for the size of the values written here, and they were all bankers and Council members.

  Several of the boxes had been opened; one on the desk in front of the Chancellor, the others to either side of his chair. The keys had been lost and so the padlocks lay broken having succumbed to Penbury’s efforts with a crowbar he normally used to open cases of wine.