The Dark Lord's Handbook: Conquest Page 28

  “Ask Lord Deathwing to have a chat with them, Ironfist. And then report back to me.”

  Ironfist took his leave and Morden went back to his brooding. This business with a potential hero was problematic, but to be expected. He was a Dark Lord. He would attract heroes like bears to honey, like flies to a corpse, like his father to pert breasts. He was irresistible. If this man was a hero, his father would be sure to unearth any potential shenanigans. Given how his father was around women, then surely this hero would be unable to resist some kind of heroic gesture. If he did, he was in for a surprise. Morden thought his father more than capable of looking after himself. It would be interesting to see what happened.

  *****

  Hal woke with a sore head, and not the good kind that came from a night out and too much beer. Then the rest of his body caught up with the complaints. He rolled onto his back and groaned with the pain. He could feel a pronounced lump where an orc had hit him with a baton. Having checked he hadn’t broken anything, he took in his predicament. Black stone enclosed him on three sides with closely spaced bars on the fourth, at the centre of which was a gate with a heavy lock and dead bolts high up, out of reach. At the back of the cell was a small wooden chest bolted to the ground. An ensconced torch hung from the centre of the octagonal room beyond his cell, around which were more cells. A drainage channel ran from each cell to a cover in the centre of the room.

  And now he was imprisoned. Betrayed. Ferg had taken them for fools all along. Why he had taken so long to betray them was baffling, but the end result was the same. Zara had been right.

  “Zara?”

  Hal called her name through dry lips. The last he had seen of her was in their hovel fighting as only a member of the watch can fight: dirty. She had been ducking and diving, punching and kicking, gouging at eyes, digging at throats, biting hands. She was an even more ferocious wildcat in a fight than she had proven to be in bed, as Hal’s back could testify.

  “Zara?”

  A horrible sinking feeling hit him, like his stomach was torn from him. She couldn’t be dead, could she? He dared to raise his voice.

  “Zara!”

  This time he screamed her name.

  “Will you stop that shouting,” hissed a familiar voice.

  Hal leapt to the front of his cell. She was alive. He stretched an arm through the bars and quested left to see if he could reach her.

  “Zara. I thought you were dead. I’m here.”

  He wiggled his fingers, hoping they would meet hers, but they did not. Looking across the prison to the other cells, he could see the width of stone between each cell was too wide.

  “I’m going to kill that orc,” hissed Zara. “Then I’m going to kill you. Didn’t I say we couldn’t trust that scumbag? I’m so stupid. I knew it. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  Hal had no answer. She was right, of course. He’d thought her mistrust was because she always thought the worst of people—a side effect of being in the watch. Ferg had been sarcastic, rude, sneaky, and underhanded. All traits Hal had expected of an orc with the tale he’d had to tell. But Ferg had led them well and never let them down. Until now. Now they were buggered. If they were lucky, they wouldn’t be tortured too much before they were executed. Then he thought of what they might do to Zara and he retched.

  “Are you all right?”

  Hal coughed and spat bile. “Fine. Don’t worry about me. I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you.”

  Hal wiped a hand across his mouth.

  “It’s not your fault,” said Zara, with a sigh. “You can’t help being trusting. It’s why I like you. You’re a good man, Hal.”

  She wasn’t making it any easier for him—his guilt got stronger with every word. And his heart leapt when she said she liked him. Even though they had enjoyed carnal pleasures, there had been no pillow talk from her. No soft, loving words. He’d had to bite back the words ‘I love you’ knowing she would have laughed at him. He’d settle for ‘I like you’. It was as much of an expression of feeling as she had ever displayed. Their coming together had been closer to fornication than lovemaking, or so it seemed for her. As for himself, he was not so sure.

  “Zara. I just want you to know …”

  “Hal. Don’t. Please.”

  “It’s all right. I was going to say you’re not bad yourself. I like you too.”

  What Hal thought of as a tender moment was broken by the grating of iron against stone as bolts were drawn across the gate into the cells. Through the bars, Hal could see two orcs: one large and turning a wheel that controlled the bolts, and the other recognisable from his lackadaisical stance. It was Ferg. At the sight of their betrayer, Hal felt anger rise and he gripped the bars, straining against them in a futile hope they may bend or break. From the cell next door, Zara shrieked.

  “Bastard,” she screamed.

  The inner gate swung open and Ferg came in alone, the gate swinging shut behind him. He sauntered over to their cells and stopped at a distance which suggested he knew what arm’s reach was and the peril it represented.

  “Enjoying your new accommodation, scum?” said the orc more loudly than Hal thought necessary. “No? Well, no matter. Your suffering has not even begun.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” screeched Zara. “One step. One step closer, you coward.”

  Ferg laughed, tilting his head back.

  Hal’s fury was making his body shake and every muscle in his body strain. His anger was as much with himself as it was with Ferg. It had been a foolhardy quest from the moment Chidwick had come in the door. He had no business, a baker of plaited loaves and iced finger-buns, traipsing across continents to sneak into a Dark Lord’s fortress in a vain attempt to slay dragons. Equally perverse was Ferg’s part in all this. It seemed so … needless.

  “Why, Ferg?” was all he could manage. “Why?”

  For a second Hal thought Ferg had not heard him above Zara’s continued abuse, but the orc shot him a look ridden with guilt that showed he had.

  “It was the only way,” hissed Ferg. “We haven’t got much time.” Then more loudly, “Lord Deathwing will be here shortly to attend to you personally. Make peace with the world, you wretched creatures.”

  Ferg took something from his pocket and, with a flick of his wrist, threw something first into Hal’s cell, and then Zara’s. “Block your ears and get ready. It’s your only chance,” whispered the orc through a wide grin like a poor ventriloquist. “I look forward to your screams,” he announced more loudly, and spat at Hal. The spittle hit the bars and spread, catching Hal in the face. The gaoler laughed. Ferg spun round and headed for the gate. “I’m done here. Gaoler!”

  Hal was confused. The orc was up to something. Gripping the bars, he shook them as vigorously as he could manage.

  “Scumbag!”

  As the bolts grated back into place, Hal cast around for whatever Ferg had tossed into his cell. There was a deal of muck on the floor, but he found two small balls of tightly packed lint. Hal wondered whether Zara had caught on to what had happened or been too tied up in her abuse. He pocketed the lint balls and went to the front of the cell. “Zara? You there?”

  “Scumbag?” came the reply. “Is that the best you could do?”

  “Never mind that,” said Hal. Now was not the time for banter. “Did you hear what he said? Did you get the lint?”

  “Of course. I don’t know what that miserable orc is up to but I have an idea. Lord Deathwing is a dragon; you’re a dragon slayer. Looks like you’re up. I reckon you kill the dragon and then we make our escape down that sewer. We’d better be ready.”

  “But why block our ears?” asked Hal.

  “How the hell should I know? But what have we got to lose?”

  Chapter 32 House Guests

  The thing to look forward to with a house guest is their leaving.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  It was with great joy Penbury received the news from Chidwick that Baron Pierre de Fanfaron would be payin
g a visit. Greater joy even than seeing the two duck eggs perfectly capped to reveal a runny yolk—so golden the sun was as nothing to their radiance—and ranks of squared-off soldiers parading along one side of the plate. It was Sunday morning and Penbury was taking breakfast in bed. Chidwick delivered the tray before going to the curtains and letting in late autumn sunshine.

  “Be sure to have the kitchens in good order and well-stocked, Chidwick. We’ll need fresh oysters, lobster and langoustine. You know how the baron likes his seafood. If we’re lucky, he’ll cook it himself.”

  “I will have them on ice in the cellars and waiting,” said Chidwick. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “No, thank you, Chidwick.”

  Chidwick left Penbury to dwell on the thought of a seafood dinner prepared by one of the world’s greatest chefs. It sent a thrill of anticipation through Penbury’s ample stomach. The baron did not visit as often as he would have liked, especially as he always made it clear how welcome the baron would be. Pierre was one of the few aristocrats Penbury not only liked, but genuinely took pleasure in his company. He’d even hinted after one of Pierre’s crème brûlée, which had almost made him faint, that he could take up residence should he so wish. As the private man the chancellor was known to be, this was an honour that did not go unrecognised but was politely refused. Pierre was a man of the world, always in search of new recipes and a duel, and was not to be tied down in Firena, even if Firena led the world in both counts. (The fatalities among the bravos in spring, when the new season’s debutantes were introduced, was getting increasingly out of hand.)

  While he dunked the toasted infantrymen with one hand, Penbury read the pamphlets with the other, though they could hardly be called pamphlets these days. The last few years had seen fierce competition, eliminating the old-fashioned single-sheeters, and the older etched ones, with more comprehensive booklets. Even the crude cartoons were on the decline, being marginalised in the comic papers, while a more sophisticated readership got behind those that addressed wider and more serious concerns. One, the self-styled Voce di Firena, even had an editorial.

  It was today’s editorial that caught Penbury’s eye. In the southern regions, where Firena nestled on the coast like a jewel in a broach, small kingdoms and city-states prevailed. This patchwork had been in place for centuries as each count and king jealously guarded their particular demesne, resisting any thought of unification. There had been attempts at unification in the past but they had failed as any alliances that were forged fell apart.

  It was impossible for a noble of these parts to keep his manhood in his trousers when there was a pretty woman around (though, in all fairness, some ladies were equally notorious, and generous in their favours). A wife, daughter, or grandmother would be dishonoured, blood would be spilt, and that would be that. There were other reasons, such as betrayal, bribery, and gross military incompetence. Often the machinations were so complex and twisted that everyone gave up and went home rather than unravel who was actually on whose side.

  But these were all symptoms rather than cause. Penbury likened the political map to a fragmented market where there was no clear leader. Each city, or kingdom, had its own offering and peculiarities, and a populace that, for whatever reason, was fiercely loyal to their brand. This brand strength and loyalty, tied to general contentment from a relatively easy-going lifestyle which afforded plenty of afternoon naps when it got too hot, meant there was little drive for a market unification.

  The threat of a Dark Lord, and an upsetting of the status quo, changed all that. In Penbury’s mind, political stupidity knew no bounds, but even the least astute of the region’s rulers recognised the need to do something. And that was pretty much as far as matters had got as the very next question was who would lead? And that’s where it fell apart again as all the old rivalries resurfaced. There was no ruler strong enough to command the needed respect. Therefore, the thunderclouds grew dark on the horizon, and everyone agreed it was going to rain soon …

  The metaphor ran dry and Penbury sighed. The point was: they were not ready for what was coming. And nor was he. The best he had done so far was to inject capital into areas he thought may help, like the fleet, but suspected would not, while diversifying his risk by seeding capital across a wide range of investments and projects that may, or may not, survive the doom that approached.

  The Editore of the Firena pamphlet Penbury was reading was of a like mind when it came to the impending doom and the lack of preparation. It bemoaned the aristocracy and called for a leader to rise from the population to confront Morden’s threat. Time was running short. Winter was coming. And after that, spring. Summer would follow, and without doubt a Dark Lord would arrive with it. It was a fine sentiment but Penbury thought it unlikely such a person could be found. They would have to have an amazing range of ability to pull it off. Not only would they need the backing of the people to start with, but political acumen that would rival Penbury’s own, as well as unrivalled military talent. They would need to rally and unify the region, and then go on and do the same with the surrounding regions, who were in similar disarray, each making their own preparations and intent upon sitting behind their own straw castles.

  It was an impossible brief. Penbury could spend a lifetime sifting résumés and never find such a person. They would have to be the greatest hero the world had seen for … well, ever.

  They were doomed. The best he could do was ride the storm and try to come out of the other side as intact as possible, and in the meantime enjoy what life he had to the fullest, which in the short term meant a seafood dinner with the inestimable Pierre de Fanfaron, raconteur, chef, lover, duellist. A man of many talents who commanded respect where he went. He had head-turning charisma, genuine military prowess, and a turn of phrase that poets envied. Incorruptible, incorrigible, he was a man who could be an adjective. He’s a real Fanfaron, they would say, in centuries to come.

  Now, there was an idea. Pierre de Fanfaron. Penbury made a mental note to ask him if he would be interested in saving the civilised world from the ravages of a Dark Lord. After dinner, of course. He didn’t want to spoil the evening should his suggestion be met with the rebuff that was likely.

  *****

  The rest of the morning passed swiftly, going over correspondence, settling a trade dispute, and continuing to make provision for an army to oppose Morden that did not, as yet, exist. Still, better ready that not. After lunch, he enjoyed an afternoon nap and then decided to indulge himself with a spot of weeding in the garden. It was something he had always found relaxing even if these days, with advancing years, his lower back did suffer. But a quiet hour digging out weeds and errant grass was not to be for when he made his way to the garden, he was greeted with a sight that was at once bewildering and amusing. Griselda was dressed in men’s clothes and slashing wildly around with a wooden sword at one of the younger guards while his guard captain shouted instruction.

  When Penbury looked at himself in a mirror, he would see the man he had become, overweight and sagging in all the wrong places, and lament the man he had once been, slight of build, rapier quick, especially with an actual rapier. For young men of a certain class in the southern city-states, the duel was the means of delivering prima facie evidence of right in any dispute, the subject typically being whether said youth had any right to court a damsel. Penbury had been as keen as any on damsels in those days. As a result, he had become more than adept at the Bolognese swordsmanship (his love of Spaghetti Bolognese coming at a later date). And so, as with many things, Penbury considered himself somewhat of an expert in the matter of one-on-one combat with a sword, even if he knew in his heart he was at best above average. What he was certain of, even thirty years after his prime, was that Griselda was less than average. She was awful. Though, if he were to be generous, what she lacked in skill, she made up for in an abundance of enthusiasm.

  “Hold a guard. Watch your feet. Balance. Balance.”

  The instructions came thic
k and fast, and none of them being reflected in Griselda’s actions. It was a good job the sword she swung was wooden and not the terrible thing she had presented in Penbury’s chamber. With a howl she jumped forward, like some screaming barbarian banshee, and swung the sword in a wide arc that was easily dodged. Her momentum carried her around in a circle, and she caught her unfortunate opponent in the side of the head as he righted himself after ducking. The poor lad dropped faster than house prices in a city that had the plague. A triumphant Griselda placed her boot on his chest and her sword to his throat.

  “Yield,” she instructed, though it was moot given her opponent was out cold.

  Shaking his head in disbelief, her instructor cast around as though seeking either inspiration or escape and found instead his employer, trowel in hand, looking less than happy.

  “Chancellor! I’m sorry, only she said it would be all right, and you did say to treat her as an honoured guest. We’ll continue at another time.”

  “Don’t worry yourself, Captain. Griselda?”

  At mention of her name, Griselda turned to face the chancellor, taking care to keep her foot on the chest of her fallen foe in case he came round. “Chancellor. What do you think? Not bad, eh? This will be Morden soon enough.”

  “You should take your boot off him and see that he’s all right.”

  With a hint of reluctance, Griselda did as she was told. She stuffed her play sword into her belt and prodded the body next to her with her boot. A groan confirmed he was not, in fact, dead. Swaggering as she came, she joined the chancellor.