The Dark Lord's Handbook Page 30

  The Count pushed a slip of paper across the table to his friend. “My visitor left this. It is the menu. The guest list is at the bottom.”

  The Baron took the list and ran his eye down it. After sniffing dismissively, he tossed it on the table. “Impossible,” he said, waving the list away. “These things cannot be found unless…”

  “Unless you are the Chancellor,” said the Count. “He will be sending the harder to find things in advance of his arrival. They should be here today.”

  Pierre snatched the list back. The Count had never seen him so absorbed. As his friend read he started to mutter to himself.

  “Yes, yes. We could do that, but then even if I started now, it will be close, but perhaps, yes, I can do this.”

  The Count went back to his breakfast. The eggs were especially good. Pierre had taught him to appreciate food in a way that he had never done before.

  The muttering had stopped. The Count looked up to see Pierre watching him eat.

  “And what is the meaning of this?” asked his friend. The Baron slid the paper back over to the Count and jabbed first at one spot, and then another further down. “I am not an assassin, you know.”

  The Count had been waiting for him to get to this part. “The spriggle?”

  “Yes, the spriggle! And this, this, this, woman who is coming as well. You think I don’t know what is going on here?”

  “Neither you, nor I, are assassins,” said the Count. “But am I not correct in thinking that the Chancellor has in fact eaten spriggle and lived? Perhaps it is only for him.”

  “It says, two portions,” said Pierre. “Two!”

  While Pierre had become a close confidant, there were some things that the Count had not told him, and revealing the truth behind the mysterious Black Orchid was one of them. While he was not sure what Penbury was up to, he had no doubts that Lady Deathwing could look after herself.

  “What can we do, my friend?” asked the Count. “I am too old for plots and talk of assassins. I do what I am asked and hope that I will see my wife again. It’s a meal.”

  “A dinner.”

  “A dinner. It’s a dinner for two special guests. I assume they are meeting to settle certain issues, of which I do not know nor wish to, and that we will be their gracious hosts. That is all. We will not be assassinating anyone.”

  Though he did not look completely happy, Pierre did look mollified.

  “Very well. But you must excuse me. There are preparations to be made. There is barely enough time as it is.” Pierre dabbed his mouth on his serviette, got to his feet and bowed. “Count.”

  “Thank you, Pierre. You are a good friend.”

  The Baron left, leaving the Count to contemplate black pudding and wondering what would kill him first: the pudding or the dinner that he was to host between an ancient evil dragon queen and the most powerful man in the world.

  Chapter 44 Rock Bottom

  There are good reasons a Dark Lord often stays single.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Morden had preferred it when he was alone in captivity. At least then he didn’t have to suffer the incessant nagging along with the deprivations and humiliation of being held by his rival Dark Lord. It wasn’t made easier by the lack of privacy. There were certain things that none of them was happy doing with others present, except Stonearm, who seemed devoid of shame.

  Morden had tried to use the time to learn more about Griselda from Kristoff, while she played Stonearm at a simple board game they had etched onto the slime covered floor. But Kristoff had not been forthcoming. He was left knowing only that Kristoff and Griselda were not together in anything other than a platonic sense (and Kristoff physically shuddered when Morden had suggested otherwise) based on shared interests. Equally, he had little to say about her ex-boyfriend, Edwin, and why he was stalking them half way across the Western Marches. It was all muddy waters. So they ate, argued, played a stupid game invented by an orc, and slept as best they could.

  The sonorous drone from Griselda told him she was still asleep. He wished that he could enjoy sleep as he remembered it, in that it brought welcome relief from consciousness, whereas now the sleep he enjoyed was more a thoughtful doze. He lay there on his patch of cell floor, listening to Griselda’s breath rise, like a bellows sucking air, and fall, like a bear clearing its throat. He was amazed the other two could sleep at all.

  It had been three days since Zoon had dumped his new cell mates and he had not reappeared. The only source of news was Stonearm as he had managed to strike up chat with the orcs that brought them food (the undead variety made good guards; they were not so good at tasks which required more tactile skill, like carrying plates of slop).

  From all accounts, the city was alive, and undead, with activity. Preparations were being made for some big event, though Zoon had not yet announced what it was to be. Morden could guess. If the Handbook was anything to go by, Zoon would hold a huge rally prior to setting out to conquer the world. He would hold it at night so he could use massed flaming torches to best effect. The flickering light would make the shadows dance and lend an ominous tone to the proceedings. There would be drums and chanting, and a procession of rank upon rank of elite, death dealing, orc zombies. He would work them up into a frenzy of blood lust, exhorting them to go forth and claim what was rightfully theirs (which technically it wasn’t but that wouldn’t fit the rhetoric).

  It was what Morden would do, if he were the Dark Lord preparing to come forth before laying waste the world. All the time he had spent reading the Handbook had not been wasted. The problem was that he was in a cell and Zoon was upstairs with his army, and he was no closer to making an escape, as Griselda liked to point out continually.

  For now, Morden had nothing better to do than lie there and listen to the avalanche-like snores from Griselda. They were so loud that he almost missed the scratching sound. It was probably a rat. A brave one at that, seeing as Stonearm had decimated the population in short order. If Stonearm woke he’d soon be joining his brothers as an orcish dietary supplement.

  Morden raised his head to see if he could spot the little bugger. He was not prepared for what he saw. It was a rat, but rather than chewing on some cell detritus it was chewing on his foot.

  “Aaaaaaarh!” Morden screamed and kicked out.

  Griselda jerked awake and sat up just in time to get a rat in her lap.

  “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” she screamed, grabbing the rat and throwing it.

  Stonearm sat up and the rat hit him in the face. It tried to scurry away but the orc was too fast and he grabbed it. “Breakfast!” said the big orc, grinning.

  “What the hell was that?” shrieked Griselda, looking at Morden.

  Inwardly he sighed. If anything was upsetting, uncomfortable, smelly, itchy, unfair or inconvenient, it was his fault.

  “Eh?” said Kristoff sitting up. Of them all, he was the heaviest sleeper by far. “What’s going on?”

  “Nice bit of rat, this,” said Stonearm, proffering the rodent to the others.

  Given that most small birds and mammals that came anywhere near Morden seemed to die in short order, Morden imagined it was a rather tough rat.

  “Disgusting,” said Griselda, turning her nose up.

  It was both an infuriating and cute habit she had. Though he could happily watch Griselda all day, the state of his toes was of more concern. It couldn’t be that bad as he’d felt nothing, but he’d better check. Sitting up, he pulled his foot up onto his thigh so he could examine it.

  Two toes were missing gobbets of flesh. He could even see the bone with little teeth marks on the big toe. Strangely, there was no blood. Given the damage done he should be bleeding profusely but he wasn’t. He should also be in pain but he couldn’t feel a thing.

  “Ow,” he said experimentally. Maybe he was in shock and had to acknowledge the injury before he could feel the pain.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Griselda. “Ratty bite your toe? Wuss.”

&n
bsp; Kristoff came over to have a look. If his expression was anything to go by the wounds were as disgusting to him as they were to Morden. “That must hurt,” he said.

  “Actually, no,” replied Morden. “In fact, I can’t feel a thing.”

  Griselda’s curiosity got the better of her and she came over to have a look as well.

  “That’s disgusting,” she pronounced.

  “Yes it is,” said Morden. “Thank you.”

  Stonearm had made short work of the offender and, tossing the remains into a corner, came to complete the group gathered around Morden’s foot.

  “You’ll want to put something on that,” he said helpfully. “Those bites could go bad.”

  “Oh really?” said Morden. “Maybe if I ask nicely they’ll let me see an apothecary.”

  Morden prodded at the wounds and the surrounding toes. Nothing. The flesh looked pale and felt rubbery. For that matter, the rest of his foot looked the same. He jabbed himself and still nothing. The same up his leg. He couldn’t feel anything anywhere.

  He lifted up the rags he was wearing to look at the wound in his left side where the spear, or whatever it was, had hit him in the ribs. The wound, though closed, was still livid on the flesh.

  “What’s that?” said Griselda.

  Was that genuine concern in her voice? thought Morden. “I was shot,” he said, probing the wound gently. It should still hurt but didn’t. Then Zoon’s words came crashing down on him and his hand recoiled from the wound.

  “Mostly dead,” said Morden. “He said I was mostly dead.”

  “Mostly dead?” said Kristoff. “Who said?”

  “Zoon. He told me I was mostly dead.”

  “I’ve been saying that for ages,” suggested Griselda, and she laughed at her own joke.

  “What’s that mean?” asked Stonearm. “Mostly? Nearly dead I get. Dead I get. Not dead is fairly obvious. What’s mostly dead?”

  Morden poked his leg. “This. This is dead. I’m a walking corpse.”

  The thought was horrifying but made so much sense. It explained everything and yet, if he was mostly dead, how was he still not all dead? Or undead for that matter? Had he actually died on that beach or was he still dying?

  “You can’t feel anything?” asked Griselda, and this time the concern was clear. “Anything at all?” Her eyes darted to his nether region.

  It was true. He’d spent the last few days near the woman who used to boil his blood but now there was nothing. He’d caught more glimpses of womanly flesh in the last few days, both unintentional and completely intentional, to satisfy his wildest imaginations, but thinking about it, while mentally he had been excited, physically it had produced no reaction. His sword had lost its steel. That was not good. How could he answer? Griselda couldn’t possibly be with someone who was incapable of satisfying her physical needs. It was a disaster.

  Left floundering for something to say, Morden was saved by the grate on the cell door being pushed open. Something that wasn’t food was pushed through and slapped onto the ground. With palpable collective relief that here was something to distract them, the four rushed over to see what it was.

  Stonearm got there first and picked up a sheet of vellum with something written on it. Stonearm held it in one hand while running a thick finger along the words and mouthing to himself.

  “What does it say, you big oaf?” demanded Griselda.

  Stonearm was frowning, as though he were having some difficulty with what he was reading, but when he looked up at Griselda he smiled (a good smile, not one of those ‘I’m going to kill you’ smiles).

  “Congratulations,” said the orc.

  “Congratulations?” said Morden, Griselda, and Kristoff as one.

  “This is an invitation,” said Stonearm, waving the vellum at Griselda. “To her wedding.”

  “What?”

  “Wedding?”

  “Here, give that to me,” said Morden, putting a hand out. He scanned it once and then read out loud as though he had to hear it to believe it.

  ‘To Prisoners it may concern, You are cordially invited to the Ziggurat of Death on the happy occasion of the wedding of Lord Zoon and Griselda at midnight of the full moon, and at which you will be sacrificed. RSVP. (Formal attire.)’

  Morden flipped the vellum to see if there was anything else but all it had was an address, ‘Lord Zoon, The Ziggurat of Death, Deathcropolis.’

  The grate on the door opened again and several packages were thrust through. Each was a bound bundle with a tag.

  Kristoff picked up one and tossed it at Stonearm. “That’s yours.”

  There was one for each of them.

  “He’s a funny man,” said Stonearm, ripping his package open. Inside was a black shift. The orc put it on quickly. It was floor length and plain. He did a little spin. “Least it fits.”

  Morden held his package and tried to work out how he could turn this to his advantage. While he was initially shocked by the invitation he quickly realised that this was the opportunity they needed. They couldn’t possibly escape from the cell, but maybe they could escape getting sacrificed and stop Zoon at his wedding. He wasn’t sure quite how he might do it but he was sure something would come to him.

  Meanwhile, Griselda had opened her package and held up a dress. It was beautiful. Unsurprisingly, it was black, covered in jet stones and embroidered with roses and skulls in a silk thread. Low cut, it would without doubt contrast well with Griselda’s pale skin. Morden’s first thought was that he couldn’t wait to see her in it, but then he remembered the reason she was expected to wear it and was not so keen.

  “Well, I’m not marrying anyone,” said Griselda. She threw the dress on the ground and glared at Morden. “So what are you going to do about it, Mr ‘I’ve got everything under control’?”

  “I don’t particularly want to be sacrificed, either,” said Kristoff. “Anyone know when the full moon is?”

  “In about 16 hours,” said Stonearm with certainty.

  “How do you know that?” said Morden.

  “Just do,” shrugged Stonearm. “It’s an orc thing.”

  “Well?” demanded Griselda.

  “This isn’t as bad as it looks,” said Morden.

  Griselda’s eyebrows raised as though to say ‘oh really?’. “Well I’d like to be fucking told when it’s going to get worse than marrying a fucking lich,” she screamed.

  Kristoff and Stonearm winced.

  “Calm down,” said Morden. “Everything will be fine.”

  “Fine? Fine? I’ll give you fucking fine,” screamed Griselda.

  Then something snapped inside Morden. He’d had about enough of this. “Well, it’s not you who’s going to be sacrificed, you selfish bitch,” he shouted back. “At least you’ll still be alive.”

  He expected her to recoil at his outburst, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.

  “Alive? What, to have little undead babies? You fucking moron, I’d rather be dead.”

  “I wish you were,” shouted Morden, and then clamped his mouth shut.

  Griselda quivered in front of him.

  “You bastard,” she whispered. She stooped and grabbed the package. “You fucking bastard.” She went to the far side of the cell and hunched down. Her shoulders started to shake and Morden was sure she was crying.

  “I’ll talk to her,” said Kristoff, putting a hand on Morden’s arm.

  “You’ll think of something,” said Stonearm.

  “I will?” asked Morden.

  “Of course,” said Stonearm. “You’re Dark Lord Morden Deathwing.”

  Chapter 45 Gastronomy

  Pain is the seasoning of life.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  It had been a number of years since Chancellor Penbury had seen such a large and well organised army. It was pitched in rolling fields that had been commandeered from local farmers. Lines of tents made neat ranks. On a rough parade square, soldiers drilled. It spoke volumes of its leader, Count Ser
gei Vladovitch, who was standing with an honour guard ready to welcome their guest. Penbury had travelled light, with only Chidwick and a handful of men, making the best speed they could. Their only stop had been for some special ingredients for the banquet that was being planned for that evening.

  As Penbury got out of his carriage, an order was barked and the honour guard snapped to attention. An elderly man in a general’s finery was standing with some officers. The man’s gaze was steady and rested comfortably on the Chancellor. There was an intelligence and steel in the man’s eyes.

  “Count Vladovitch,” said Penbury, offering a handshake. “Good to meet you at last.” The Count’s grip was firm and Penbury could feel the man assessing him in the shake, both with grip and eye. Penbury turned to the slightly nervous looking man to the Count’s right. “Baron Fanfaron, a pleasure after all these years. I am so looking forward to this evening.”

  “Msr. Chancellor,” replied the Baron, nodding in acknowledgement. “The honour is mine to cook for a palate such as yours.”

  “I take it you received all the items I sent ahead?” asked the Chancellor. The last thing he needed now was to find out that his special ingredients had gone astray. So much depended on them.

  “They arrived safely last night,” the Count assured him. “You must be tired. If you would follow me I will show you to your quarters.”

  “If you will excuse me,” said the Baron, “but I have many preparations to make.”

  The Baron scurried off in the direction of a set of tents which were a hive of activity. Open sided, they contained benches and stoves around which a small battalion of chefs manoeuvred. It looked like they were cooking to feed an army (which the Chancellor realised they probably were) rather than just for two.

  The Count led him through the camp. As they passed by men, without fail, they gave a salute and it was clear the Count commanded a deal of genuine respect from his men. The Count stopped occasionally for a word with an officer, or an NCO, to deal with matters as minor as a correctly fastened tent to receiving a scout report. The army seemed to be run in a way that Penbury himself would have been proud.