The Dark Lord's Handbook: Empire Page 3

  Aside from keeping a constant eye out for those who would depose you, there is other work to be done. Being an emperor is not one long holiday. Far from it. You need to decide what kind of empire you are going to have and how you are going to shape it. The options here are almost limitless. One is to follow the traditional path of the Dark Lord and lay waste to the world. Desecrate everything for your personal gratification, bring misery and suffering to all. Turn the world into the embodiment of hell and enjoy the cries of the tormented souls you reign over.

  That’s one option, but given how you’ve not been one for callous and arbitrary cruelty, I suspect that’s not for you.

  Certainly not, thought Morden. There’s no point in conquering the known world, only to set it on fire. I’m no pyromaniac, or sadist for that matter. I must admit, though, I’ve been so busy I haven’t put much thought into what to do next. Some time off would be good.

  Which brings me neatly to a second option, which is to delegate the running of the empire to others and live a life of pure hedonism, indulging your whims in every depraved way possible. Hold orgies that last weeks, games that last months, a year-long festival to yourself. Gorge yourself on fine food and drink yourself into a stupor. Gather a harem of women who live for no other reason than to pleasure you in ways you cannot imagine. Pile riches in mounds to lie on, as any self-respecting dragon would. Bleed the rich of their wealth and take it for yourself. Require every ounce of gold in the empire be brought to you. Indulge any and all passions, letting the years pass by in a blissful haze. Whatever you want, you can have.

  Tempting, thought Morden. I’m sure I’ll get some of that done, but it sounds more like the thing my father would do, and I know what he’s like. It’s not me. And there is no way I could keep that up for a thousand years. My father probably could. He’s been at it for over five hundred now, and shows no sign of flagging.

  I’m glad to hear it, Morden, as there is no quicker way to lose an empire than to fall into decadence, self-indulgence and sloth. You wouldn’t stay emperor for long if you rule with your manhood. There’s a good reason you are the Dark Lord Emperor and not your father: you have ambition to rule, which means you get things done. Now you are emperor, you can mould your empire into anything you want. In doing so there are a few things worth considering.

  The foundation upon which your rule should stand is the law, or code, by which your empire is run. There should be fundamental principles underpinning the society you create that are understood by all and followed as a matter of course. This covers both matters of general policy and the rules by which people live. Consistency is important. While laws based on whim can be amusing, like decreeing everyone should wear only black, they are not the basis of a lasting empire, nor do they reflect well on you.

  Popular principles are things like liberty, fraternity and equality. We can dispense with these. If these held, then you wouldn’t be in charge. They are also fine ideals promising much but frequently failing to deliver. Better to be the pragmatist and develop a code which better reflects how things are going to be when you are the one calling the shots. Not that there is any harm in creating an illusion of these ideas. You should talk to Penbury about these matters as he has years of experience when it comes to hoodwinking the general populace regarding their perceived freedoms. As it is, as long as you remain unequivocally the emperor, and the one who is in charge, it doesn’t necessarily matter too much what goes on. It’s up to you to decide how you want men and orcs to live.

  Especially as I made promises to the orcs from the outset. Not that I am bound by promises. Still, I see no reason not to honour Grimtooth and do what I said I would and put orcs on an equal footing with men. It’s the least they deserve, having died in the thousands for me.

  Your sense of obligation is somewhat disturbing, Morden. But you are still relatively new to this Dark Lord business. I am sure it will pass.

  These are the fundamentals of being emperor and running an empire but there is much more. You can build what you want, where you want. You can encourage the arts, or persecute anyone caught singing in the bath. You can embark on empire-spanning public works, like roads (strongly recommended for moving your armies, and good for trade), or sanitation so you don’t have to put up with the stink. It’s your empire, Morden. Think about what you are going to do with it. You’ve done well so far, so don’t cock it up.

  Chapter 5 Coronation

  Elves are scheming bastards. Never forget it.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  The day of Morden’s coronation was ferociously hot. The ceremony was to be held at the scene of his greatest triumph, outside Firena. The slight rise where he had deployed his cannon in the battle was where the crowning would take place, which afforded a view for everyone gathered on the plain. The only break in the assemblage was a statue of Griselda. Morden had approved a design which showed her as in life, both beautiful and terrifying, proud but scornful. When it had been first erected it had been a popular romantic rendezvous, and ‘Griselda’s children’ were conceived in the statue’s shadow. In recent years, however, it had gained the reputation of being the place to bring a lover if you wanted to start divorce proceedings. The first case had been a young wife, who was being cheated on, who lured her husband there with the promise of ex-marital shenanigans with a third party, only to have a lurking lawyer serve him with papers.

  That there had been a falling-out between Morden and Griselda was not part of the official account of the war, it being dismissed as a temporary separation while they sorted out a few minor problems. That she had called him a ‘limp dick’ was strongly denied. Despite this there was still plenty of gossip after she had fallen, and time had blurred the edges of truth in favour of a good story. Not that anyone knew exactly what had happened, especially when it came to the chaos of the battle itself. Angelic beings had appeared from nowhere and done battle with the Black Dragon Flight, and an army of brightly armoured elves had thundered in to join battle with the orc horde. Many a pint had been drunk debating where they had come from, what had become of them, whether there had been five or six of the so-called Fae, and whether Morden had killed them all with his dragon-fire.

  It was a topic of conversation among those standing in the sun, waiting for proceedings to get underway. Many remarked it felt as if there were dragons breathing down on them now. Behind the mass of official attendees, a line of orcs held back the public who had poured from the city to witness the historic event. From where they were standing at the front of the crowd, Ga’brel and Namu could hear the occasional clatter and thump as some unfortunate orc in full dress armour collapsed in the heat. Hawkers wandered through the unwashed masses, touting water at an outrageous price.

  “It’s damn hot,” said Ga’brel, taking a swig from the waterskin they’d had the foresight to bring. “Like fireball hot.”

  “I like it,” said Namu, her head turned to the sun, eyes closed. “I like the sun on my skin.”

  “Careful, you’ll get a tan,” observed Ga’brel. It was an old elf joke, but the old ones were always the best. The two of them had applied cheap ointment to protect their alabaster skin. That it also disguised them was a bonus; they didn’t want to stand out in the crowd. Elves were still regarded as persona non grata. For good measure, they had silk scarves tied around their heads to hide the pointy ears. Combined with their rustic dress, they looked like a couple of hick farmers who were trying too hard to be cosmopolitan, a fact attested to by the looks they got from even the lowest of Firena’s city dwellers.

  “Coming through. Make way!”

  A woman’s voice rose above the chatter of the crowd behind them, accompanied by grumbles and complaints. Namu turned to see who was causing the fuss. An old woman, bent over and supporting herself with a stick, elbowed her way to the front. She smacked one reluctant man in the shins and he skipped on one leg.

  “Respect your elders, young man!”

  “You old bat. What’d you do that
for?”

  Ignoring him, she pressed on towards where Namu and Ga’brel were standing, finally coming to a halt when she had pressed between the two. She trod on Ga’brel’s foot as she did.

  “That’s better,” she crooned in high falsetto. “Now, where’s this Dark Lord then? Did I miss it? I can hardly see.”

  “Will someone shut that hag up?” called a man from farther back.

  “Put a sock in it, granny,” called another.

  The old woman turned back to face the crowd. “Be quiet, the lot of you!” she screamed.

  A wave of silence spread from her, and even though Namu could see mouths moving, there was no sound. She frowned at the old woman as she turned back to them. There was something not quite right about her.

  “Not you two. I like you,” she said, hitching up her dress and wriggling.

  “Uncomfortable, are we, Nuriel?” asked Ga’brel.

  Namu wondered how she hadn’t seen it. The Fae wore a worse disguise than their own, with his false padding for breasts and a beard.

  “Damned dress has fleas in it,” replied the ‘old woman’, her voice dropping an octave.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” said Ga’brel. “It’s insanely dangerous. He might sense you.”

  “I could say the same for you,” countered Nuriel. “But I’m sure he’ll have other things on his mind. Besides, I came to see you two as much as him.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait until later for the reunion?” hissed Namu. “It’s not exactly the best place to talk.”

  “Oh, they can’t hear us,” said Nuriel, waving a hand.

  “And using your power here. Not the smartest,” said Ga’brel. He cast an eye around to see if they were drawing any attention, which it seemed they were not. The fuss the old woman had made seemed to have been forgotten.

  “You’re such a worrywart,” scolded Nuriel. “We’ll watch Morden’s coronation as emperor and then talk.”

  “And I think our wait for that is over,” said Namu.

  An orcish band arrayed on one side of the coronation dais brought their instruments to bear.

  Da da da duh-da da duh-da daa, da da da duh-da da duh-da daa. DA DA DA DA-Duh DA DA-Duh DAA…

  The noise they made was impressive. Namu and Ga’brel exchanged glances.

  “Not bad,” conceded Ga’brel.

  “It does kind of work,” admitted Namu. “Look.”

  To those from the conquered nations of the world, the sight of dragons flying in formation was all too familiar. After the Battle of Firena, with no Fae to oppose them, they had grown strong and suffered no more losses. Four flights of three formed a diamond of draconic power, and in its wake came Morden. He dwarfed the largest of the dragons. The black dragon at his side had to be Lord Deathwing, his father, the philanderer of Firena. Cheers rose from the orcs as the dragons flew their complex patterns and breathed fire, while Morden made his way with lazy strokes of his impossible wings to where his crown awaited. He came to a halt above the dais and spread his wings. Black scales covered a heavily muscled body. Decayed, leathery wings hung from almost skeletal bone.

  It was an impressive display which Namu understood perfectly. As an immortal elf, who had seen horror beyond imagining and always held the light as a beacon of hope, in witnessing Morden she knew many would feel no such hope. He was making it clear there was one power in the world, and he was it.

  With a roar, he belched white-hot flame. A wave of coercion rippled through the crowd with it, forcing them to their knees. Even the orcs were cowed by Morden’s will, though with rapture on their faces. All around Namu people dropped to their knees, or passed out, as Morden’s will came to bear. Only the three of them remained standing, keen interest on Nuriel’s and Ga’brel’s faces as they witnessed Morden’s power. Namu took one more look around, saw they were the only ones left standing, and bent her knee, tugging at Ga’brel as she did.

  “Get down, you fools,” she urged.

  She tugged at Nuriel, who turned and glanced at her. White heat burned in his eyes, a mixture of anger and sadness. His brothers had been taken from him by this dragonlich. For a terrible moment, Namu thought Nuriel would shed his human form and reveal himself, and a part of her leapt at the thought. One last, but futile, stand. One final flame to be extinguished in a world brought into darkness by the Dark Lord Morden.

  “Not today,” said Nuriel softly, and sank to a knee. “Our time will come, but not today.”

  Tears came to Namu’s eyes as she knelt next to her friends. Cries of joy and anguish came from all around. Some hailed Morden and others cursed him. And then he was gone from the sky, but she could still feel him. She joined the rest of the packed masses in getting to her feet to try to see what was happening. Her elvish sight made it clear Morden had assumed his equally dreaded form of black-robed Dark Lord, standing next to a plinth covered in a black cloth.

  “Let all the peoples of the world witness this day…the beginning of a new era.”

  Morden’s voice was surprisingly quiet but clear, another manifestation of his power. Namu did not doubt everyone, no matter how far away, heard every word.

  “From this day, there is no war. I have defeated all who opposed me, and in doing so have brought peace that will last a thousand years.”

  Ga’brel guffawed and Namu gave him a sharp dig in the ribs. The rhetoric may well have been amusing but now was not the time to laugh at a Dark Lord. He might hear.

  “I do not promise you a better life. In fact, the only promise I make is the one I made to the orc nation: to set all as equals, under me. Let none be under any illusion: my rule is absolute. My word is final. And today, as a symbol of this, I become your emperor.”

  Though all could hear, Namu was sure only she and her two companions could see Morden pull the cloth aside to reveal a crown of white gold on a purple cushion. Morden took the crown, raised it above his head, and turned to each side, as if he were showing a trophy. Then, facing his armies and those they had conquered, he lowered it onto his head. Namu half-expected something to happen, perhaps some last-ditch assassination attempt, but there was nothing.

  “I am the Dark Lord Emperor Morden Deathwing, and you are all subject to my will.”

  Whereas his speech so far had been delivered in controlled and clear tones, this final pronouncement came like a hurricane, blasting out with a force that staggered even the elves and Fae. It was followed by a cheer that almost equalled its volume as Morden’s orcs called his name. Above, the Black Dragon Flight came sweeping in low, breathing fire and smoke. The orcs cheered them for good measure. They were joined by a goodly section of the humans in the crowd, seemingly carried away by the spectacle, but Namu couldn’t help but see others wept.

  Ga’brel looked on with contempt. To her side, Nuriel was more inscrutable. What thoughts he had, she did not know. What she did know was the war may be over but the struggle would continue. While there was a Fae in the world, no Dark Lord could hold complete dominion. It may take years, decades, even centuries, but their time would come. It always did.

  “I think we’ve seen enough,” said Nuriel. He turned his back on the emperor and began to elbow his way back out of the crowd. “Excuse me. Make way. I need to pee!”

  Namu followed in Nuriel’s wake, the crowd parting before an old woman and her threatened incontinence.

  ***

  Firena was a wealthy city, and had become even wealthier since Morden had taken up semi-permanent residence, spreading beyond the original city walls. Townhouses sprouted in confusion alongside newly paved roads into the city. Passing through the main gate, with barely an acknowledgement from the orcish guard, the three of them made their way along empty streets, everyone presumably at the coronation. Namu liked Firena, which for an elf said something as they had never lived in cities, even at the height of their power. Even towns had been rare. Namu couldn’t help but compare Firena to Elderan, the small community she had grown up in. Maybe it was the light that was the same. There w
as a golden hue about Firena similar to the light she remembered filtering through the leaves in Elderan.

  The streets narrowed into alleys, and the buildings around them became increasingly less well-maintained. Namu had to sidestep unpleasantness on the cobbles; there was no longer a culvert along which filth could be swept.

  At one point Nuriel nipped into a narrow space between two buildings and emerged moments later restored to manly attire. “That’s better,” he said. “This way.”

  “Where are you taking us?” asked Ga’brel, following Nuriel.

  “Nearly there.”

  The three of them popped out of an alley into a small piazza. A fountain burbled in the centre of the small square, an old man sitting at its edge, seemingly asleep. Namu blinked in the sunshine. Across the piazza, with two tables outside but no customers at them, was a tavern. The Tired Man appeared well-named; paint peeled from its sign and mottled walls.

  “You’re staying here?” asked Ga’brel.

  In the years they had wandered the lands, finding out how the world had changed since they had last been a part of it, Namu and Ga’brel had not seen the need to slum it when it came to accommodation. Elvish silver went a long way, and they still had plenty about themselves. The two of them had many, many differences of opinion, but the need for comfortable living was not one of them.