The Dark Lord's Handbook: Conquest Page 32

  The chaotic arrangement of the fishermen’s shore gave way to an organised series of piers and docks that had sprung up to surround the rest of the island, creating a halo of craft around the island city. The majority of the piers were firmly in the grip of the military and had ocean-going vessels tied up to be fitted for the crossing to come. The vessels were, to Zara’s inexpert eye, split between those designed to fight and those designed to carry. Ferg led her to a pier with a third type of ship. These were sleek and shark-like. The rectangular sails were not the same seen elsewhere, and the wood they were built from was darker. The arrangement of the masts was different, the bow cut in smoother lines, and the stern less square. If she were to guess, she would have said these ships were not built by eastern orcs. They were also unlike anything she had seen in the west; a few of those lumbering shapes could be seen bobbing in the lagoon’s gentle swell, like aristocratic women with big bottoms and ballooning dresses.

  Men worked this wharf, not orcs. Most had a sailor’s tan, or were olive skinned, but there were also men whose skin was naturally dark. They had thick noses, much like an orc, but lacked the teeth. Powerfully built, their hair was tightly curled and close cut.

  “From the southern continent,” said Ferg when he caught her eye. “Don’t stare. And let me do the talking. Also, try not to be too offended.”

  “By what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  There were four boats on the quay they walked down. As they made towards the one on the end, Zara began to catch the eyes of the sailors who were busy about their tasks. Some merely cast a glance in her direction. Others openly stopped and ogled her in the way she was familiar with from bars back home. She was used to a certain amount of attention; she knew she was not a bad-looking woman. A scowl was normally sufficient deterrent to those who showed more interest than she was happy with, and a smack on the knuckles with her nightstick would remind those with wandering hands they should keep them wrapped around their beers mugs and not stray to her behind as she passed. Walking down this pier, being openly stared at by men practically naked, so she could see how muscled and strong they were, she felt uncharacteristically vulnerable. She eyed the water as an avenue of escape if it looked like it was going to turn nasty, but staring was as far as it went.

  Ferg stopped at the side of a gangplank. Men were carrying sacks onto the deck and then below. They were being overseen by a man who was set aside from those around him in several ways. While he shared the same black skin, his tightly curled hair had been shaved at the sides. Gold hung from his ears, and his nose was pierced with a gold ring. Every finger had a jewelled ring and a golden chain hung around his neck. Unlike the scantily dressed who worked hard around him, he was fully clothed in light silks—a range of brilliant and off-whites—that contrasted powerfully with his skin and hid an ample midriff for a sailor. This must be the captain they were here to see.

  “Move, you dogs,” bellowed the man in a voice so deep Zara winced. “I don’t pay you to be lazy.”

  “You don’t pay us at all,” shouted a man, who was heaving a sack onto the ship.

  “No, I don’t. And you should pay me!” came a shouted retort.

  “What for?” said the man, stopping at the top of the plank and facing his captain.

  “For the buggering I’ll give you if you don’t get this ship loaded before the tide. I want to be across the reef and gone from this hellhole.”

  The captain threw his head back and laughed. The crew joined him in his laughter, leaving the man with the sack to get onto the boat and dump it in a pile in the centre of the deck.

  “We’re here to see him?” hissed Zara.

  “Remember what I said,” said Ferg. “Let me do the talking and we’ll be fine. Ho, Captain! Permission to come aboard?”

  Ferg’s call was just about loud enough to be heard above the captain’s continued rumblings. He looked in their direction, his brief puzzlement as to who would interrupt his fun being replaced with recognition.

  “Ferg, you tosspot. Come aboard and let me split you from arse to elbow unless that’s a present you’ve brought me, in which case the crew can have your scrawny bones.”

  The captain laughed again. As first impressions went, Zara was not impressed. He obviously thought himself funnier than he was, and she was no man’s present to be given or received.

  “Now, now,” whispered Ferg. “He’s not that bad.” Ferg started up the plank and Zara followed, somewhat reluctantly. She couldn’t imagine having to spend any time with this man, let alone the weeks it would take to cross the ocean. “Farouk, you peacock, what could any orc bring a man who has everything except good looks and a flat stomach?”

  Farouk scowled as his men roared around him. “Work, you scum. I don’t pay you to laugh unless I make the joke.”

  “But captain, you don’t—”

  “Silence!”

  They had reached the top of the plank and Farouk stepped forward, his arms spread. Zara could see Ferg brace himself as he was engulfed and lifted off the deck in a hug that would surely break his ribs.

  “Let me look at you,” said Farouk, dropping the orc and stepping back. “Still ugly, I see. Unlike this pretty thing. Where did you find her? Is she for me?”

  That was it. She was going to punch him in the face, but Ferg’s hand snapped out and grabbed Zara’s wrist as it rose. “This is Zara. She’s my … companion. Very protective.”

  “Hmm. I have to say I’m disappointed. I didn’t think you orcs liked this sort of thing. Preferred your women with more teeth about them.”

  “Oh, she can bite,” said Ferg, smiling.

  “I bet she can. Come, let’s get out of this sun and strike a bargain. Your companion can wait over there in the shade and scowl at my men. They’ll like that.” Farouk spun and headed for a doorway into the stern of the ship. “And you bastards better have this ship loaded and ready to leave within the hour.”

  “Yes, Captain!” rang out from the crew.

  If it wasn’t for the fact they needed this ship, Zara would have left. As it was, she sat herself on a crate in the shade and tried to ignore the leery looks that came her way from the crew as they went about their work. The last of the provisions came off the quayside and attention turned to the rigging and seemingly endless ropes that needed to be wound, or let out, or both.

  “Storm’s coming,” shouted one sailor from his position at the top of the tall central mast, pointing east.

  “Shit,” came the reply from another who was in charge in the captain’s absence. “Let’s move it!”

  Efforts redoubled and the lieutenant ducked inside, presumably to give Farouk the bad news. Zara stood and looked east to see if she could see the storm. Sure enough, a line of clouds darkened the horizon above the jungle that rimmed the lagoon. For one who spent a lot of time walking the streets and being subject to the weather, she knew storms. They could come on quickly and this one was to be no exception. The first few gusts of wind tugged at her hair, bringing the tell-tale smell of the storm which followed. All the while, the clouds didn’t so much roll towards the city as thunder towards it like an avalanche, billowing high into the sky. There were flashes, followed a minute or so later by the bass rumble of thunder. It was still quite far off, but the next rumble came quicker than the first. Too fast for them to make an escape today, she suspected.

  Farouk and Ferg, with the chief mate in tow, came back onto deck. She was ignored as Farouk took one look at the approaching storm and started to bark orders.

  “Make fast bow, stern, and amidships. Put out the buffers. Rain covers over that lot, now. And tie down everything that might move. Get to it, you bastards. Move.”

  Men scampered, undoing their work to ready for sail and instead getting the ship as prepared as they could for the storm about to batter them. Stuffed sacks were thrown over the quay side of the ship at the level where it may hit the dock.

  Farouk surveyed his ship and his men. Turning her way, she cau
ght his eye. “No need to worry, my lovely. We’ll be safe enough. This is a lagoon. It will get choppy but no worse. And you’ll have the pleasure of my company in my cabin to sit out the worst of it. Now, that’s not so bad, is it? Do you like rum? Of course you do. Everyone likes rum.”

  Another day in Deathcropolis was bad enough. That she was going to have to spend it with this insufferable man made it worse. She looked to Ferg for help but all he could manage was a shrug and weak smile. He mouthed something but whatever he said was drowned out by a deafening crash of thunder.

  The storm was racing towards the city. Even as she watched, the storm front crossed the edge of the lagoon a mile away and boiled towards them. She’d never seen a storm like this before. And then she saw why.

  Out of the clouds came a dragon. Its black body was almost lost in the darkness, the flapping of its wings nearly invisible against the maelstrom of cloud that boiled behind it. It was huge, growing larger as it rose and she could see the full spread of its wings. Then behind it, she could see a second dragon, not quite as large, emerge from the cloud, followed by more. Five, six, seven. More and more coming out of the cloud.

  Pandemonium broke out all around her. Some ran and hid. Others stood, transfixed. Others shouted and cheered. At what, she had no idea. Doom was coming at them. She was horrified. They had killed the dragon lord. She had heard his skull crack; she had seen his blood. And yet, her eyes could not lie. There was a dragon here. No, not a dragon but dragons. All they had done had been in vain. Hal’s death had been in vain. They had come to slay a dragon and now fate taunted her with the truth of the matter.

  Night came as the storm blotted out the sun. Rain lashed down, stinging her flesh. The lead dragon loomed large over the city and hovered above the statue of the Dark Lord, lowering to perch astride the statue’s shoulders. Lightning flashed and in it she could see a figure sitting astride the shoulders of the dragon, a figure in a black-hooded robe, one hand grasping the beast, the other holding aloft a book.

  After the lightning’s thunder came the thunder of cheers as a city greeted their master. The Dark Lord, Morden Deathwing, had arrived.

  Chapter 37 Handbook: Making an Entrance

  Black is not back. It never went away.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  In past lessons you have been taught, Morden, about the importance of image; what you look like and how you conduct yourself is of utmost importance. You must command in all you do: how you dress, how you speak, how you walk. All of this comes together when you, the Dark Lord, make an entrance. First impressions count for so much, and even more so when it comes to making an entrance that will be talked about for generations and pass into legend. Whether it be your emergence from your fortress, your arrival at a city, or your stepping onto a battle field, your entrance has to be one that will curdle milk, make hair turn white, have women scream and tear at their clothes, and men soil themselves. Even those who adore you, who would die for you, who shout your name and call upon you as their saviour, should feel insignificant in your presence.

  Making an entrance starts with the approach. Foreshadowing is perhaps the most powerful of weapons. Impending doom is somehow so much more terrifying than actual doom. Before they have even laid eyes on you, your audience should have it fixed in their imaginations that something of unbelievable power is about to make an appearance. There are the classics, of course, like the roiling storm that builds on the horizon, or the plagues of insects, or flocks of black birds, perhaps an earthquake. Whichever is chosen, the sound and visuals should tap the primeval fear that lives in all things. Flocks of birds, herds of animals, shoals of fish, all fleeing some unseen threat has to get people wondering what is coming their way, and it is this imagination that works powerfully for you. Nothing induces fear more than a person’s own mind. What you need to do, Morden, is get it going in the right direction. And don’t forget smell: an impending storm; the smell of carrion brought in on the wind; the acidic taste of ammonia in the nostril as bladders void themselves. Let them smell fear.

  Then there are the specifics of the types of entrance that will be made: in particular, the entrance onto a battlefield. Using the principles outlined, those who face you across the plain of battle should be worked on bit by bit until they are ready to flee without even a sword being raised. First comes the cloud of dust pushed up by an impossible number. It rises into the sky, darkening it and blotting out the sun. How many must it take to raise such a cloud? Then there is the sound, quiet at first, as a gentle rumble like some far-off avalanche, but building and building until it is a constant pounding as feet march, as beasts stamp, and machines of war rumble. It would be better for them to drop their weapons and clasp their ears than to bear the sound of their own doom approaching, so loud it makes their armour rattle and pains their chest.

  And then they see the vanguard. It’s not so bad. A few dark shadows across the plain approaching in ranks. But as they watch, the thin line spreads and deepens. It grows wide until it has spread as far as they can see, and behind that line is a darkness that covers the land, blotting out all life. It is a carpet of death creeping towards them. If they could each kill a hundred of the foe it would leave hundreds more to follow. They could fight tirelessly all day and still be left with more to kill. And they know they will tire. Battle is hard. A single fight against one foe, when it is life or death, is enough to drain all energy. It is a hopeless cause that faces them, the few who stand against the might of the Dark Lord’s army.

  The Dark Lord. His army is here, but where is he? Perhaps all is not lost. They have a hero, a valiant man in bright armour, who will sweep all before him with his ranks of shining knights in their burnished armour. Their valour and goodness will cleave the foe and drive them in terror of all that is good from the field of battle. Numbers cannot stand before that which is righteous and good.

  This then, Morden, is when you make your entrance and with it, extinguish all hope. Whatever spark remains, which hopes the day will bring anything other than death and defeat, is snuffed out. When the Dark Lord appears, there is no doubt as to what the outcome will be. His army parts before him as he strides through it. None may stand before him.

  Or, if striding is not your thing, or perhaps you are not so physically imposing, you could always arrive on the back of a dragon, with the Black Dragon Flight in tow. That works just as well.

  Finally, ensure that you have a suitable epithet prepared with which to greet your foe. The last thing you want is to be caught short of a few words with which to ram home all that has gone before. Keep it simple. Keep it to the point and try not to be too clever. Plays on words, any form of rhyme, alliteration, and most especially puns (they are for heroes), should be avoided at all cost. ‘Prepare to die’, ‘Your doom is here’, ‘Bow before your master’, ‘Resistance is futile’ (a personal favourite), while lacking imagination, are the kind of thing you are looking for. If possible, these choice words should be accompanied by a demonstration of power to reinforce the notion that to oppose you is wasted effort.

  As ever, Morden, heed these words and practice them when you can. Make preparations and plan ahead. Make sure when you make an entrance, none will forget it.

  Chapter 38 Book of the Undead

  Never let any doubt your strength or will.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Morden was rather pleased with his arrival at Deathcropolis. Riding in on a storm on the back of a dragon, to alight on the shoulders of a statue of himself that towered over the city, had all the drama he could expect. And from the cheers, he’d managed to announce not only his arrival but also his unrivalled power in the newly revealed Black Dragon Flight. It couldn’t fail to inspire all who saw it to set sail and meet the enemy in what would be the opening clash of the Great War to come. (He had started to refer to the impending conflict as the ‘Great War’ the previous week and it had caught on quickly; if you were going to be in a war, then a Great One was the best one to be in. An
d it pre-empted the damned historians and their unreliable names.)

  Having posed for what he considered sufficient time for the pamphlet sketchers to get their rough drawings, and to oversee the arrival of the full flight, Morden climbed off Lady Deathwing’s back onto the top of the ziggurat. She, in turn, assumed her humanoid form, though retaining draconian skin and her favoured crest that ran over the top of her head. Morden had thought it would have taken some effort to persuade her to carry him but it turned out Lady Deathwing was fast returning to her normal self, and that included being right behind her Dark Lord in his pursuit of world domination. Since the attack on her husband, and Morden’s sudden decisiveness, her doubts concerning him had vanished and she was back to her bloodthirsty and ruthless self.

  From where they stood on the top of the ziggurat, they could see the last of the flight alight on the stepped sides. A quick count confirmed all her children were here. The only one missing was Lord Deathwing himself, who had been left in charge of the army as it made its way to the city. It would still be a few weeks before it arrived. That was no matter, as it would not be needed for the first part of Morden’s plan.

  “You should see to your children,” ordered Morden.

  Lady Deathwing made the smallest of bows, barely a nod. “My lord.”

  Lady Deathwing went to attend the rest of the dragon flight and Morden cast his eye over the top of the ziggurat. He hadn’t been here for three years. The sacrificial altar, with its carved channel for the spilt blood, was as he remembered it. It was his blood that had been intended to be spilt all those years ago. Funny how things turned out. It had been right here that he had been brought with Griselda, Kristoff, and Stonearm to be sacrificed by Zoon. Then the nutcase Edwin has rampaged up here with his accursed sword and things had got out of hand very quickly. All that mattered was Zoon had fallen, Edwin had run off screaming with insanity, and he had claimed his rightful place as Dark Lord and master of Deathcropolis. It had been here that his true reign as a Dark Lord had begun and it was from here the next big step to gain dominion of the world would be taken.