The Dark Lord's Handbook Read online

  Morden tried to keep track of the route they took but it was impossible; there were far too many turns, rises and dips. After a while they reached a stair that spiralled up. The steps were worn and slippery. Griselda nearly lost her footing and Morden grabbed her to stop her falling. She shrugged off his hand.

  The stair proved to be long and soon Griselda and Kristoff were both panting. Stonearm seemed fine, and Morden didn’t feel out of breath. In fact, he didn’t feel much at all. Hardly surprising, he thought, seeing as I am mostly dead.

  At last they came into a small chamber with a bench carved into one wall. The sides of the room were sloped and from that, and the noise that Morden could hear from outside, they had to be near the top of Zoon’s temple.

  The zombie orcs were in two ranks close in front and forced them onto the stone bench. Morden didn’t have long to wonder what was going to happen next because he felt Zoon approaching. The lich came up the same stair they had used. The smell of death preceded him. He was wearing Morden’s robe. The single tear where he had been shot by the fisherman’s spear had been sewn up but was visible. In his one good hand, Zoon clutched the Handbook. The zombies parted to allow him to stand in front of the four.

  “Excellent,” said the lich with what Morden thought was a rather smug tone for a lich who had difficulties speaking clearly through rows of rotten and broken teeth.

  “You’d better let us go,” said Morden.

  Zoon’s now familiar wheezing laugh greeted Morden’s warning. “Don’t worry, boy. You won’t have to endure much longer. Soon you and your friends will have joined my ranks of undead slaves, except for Griselda here. She will be my obedient wife. A Dark Queen at my side.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said Morden. He wasn’t sure what he was doing but any bluff was better than none at all. Anything that could buy them time. Not that he was sure that more time helped, but something nagged at him. Whatever was happening to him was finally coming to an end. Something inside was starting to burn. It was so so small but it was there. It was like the feeling he had when he could assume his dragon form, but it was different.

  Zoon raised the Handbook. “You seem to forget, young Morden Deathwing, we have read the same book. Your bravado can’t fool me.”

  “And you must have a head full of maggots if you think I’m going to marry you,” said Griselda, standing.

  “Actually I do,” said Zoon. “On both counts. Now sit.”

  Griselda’s mouth opened as though to say something but it seemed she couldn’t. Morden could see her struggling against some invisible force that pressed her back down onto the stone.

  “That’s better,” said Zoon. “Now, this is how it’s going to be. I’m going to go up there and work my army of orcs up to the cusp of a slavering climax. Then I’m going to bring you lot up, marry Griselda, and seal it with an old school sacrifice. Don’t worry, Morden, it’s not that bad. Soon you’ll stop being mostly dead and instead join the ranks of my undead as a slave. I shall lay waste the world and you shall be there to witness it, and eat brains along the way. Not quite how you imagined it, but then life, or death, is not fair. You of all people know that.”

  Chapter 48 Repartee

  If you do indulge a last meal, make it a single course only.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  The table was immaculately laid. Penbury could have been at home rather than in the field with a ten thousand strong army arrayed around in tented lines. All the other preparations had been made; Baron Fanfaron had assumed the position of head chef to ensure everything was perfection. Chidwick had exerted his customary attention to detail and was standing attentively on hand to serve the table.

  Penbury swilled the pale golden kotch around in the tumbler and composed himself. It had been decades since he had felt anything approaching nerves when it came to a business dinner.

  At five to eight their guest for the evening was led in by Count Vladovitch. The Count looked as though he had aged several years in a few hours. There was a harrowed look about the veteran. Perhaps it was because their guest had dispensed with any subterfuge regarding who she was as made evident by her appearance.

  “Lady Deathwing,” said the Count, “may I present to you Chancellor Penbury.”

  Lady Deathwing was tall, slim and elegantly dressed in a dark burgundy dress that hugged her figure. A pale bosom heaving in a low cut neckline would have been in keeping but her skin was as dark as night and had a serpentine sheen to it. (The bosom was ample enough – though Penbury rarely concerned himself with such things, he was still a man.) A ferocious red flame licked around in her eyes. When she smiled to greet him and offer her hand, her teeth were needle sharp and white, and her nails were curved talons.

  “Chancellor,” said Lady Deathwing.

  “Lady Deathwing,” said Penbury, kissing her hand. It was smooth to his touch, but hot on his lips.

  Chidwick had slid behind Lady Deathwing and pulled back a chair for her.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” said the Count, hovering.

  “Thank you, Count,” said Penbury, and his host made a rapid exit. “A good man,” observed Penbury.

  “If you like that kind of thing,” said Lady Deathwing. Her hand went to a wine glass and Chidwick filled it. It was a hundred year old red that he had brought with him from his own cellar.

  “A Bellagrino red,” said Penbury.

  A flicker of amusement crossed Lady Deathwing’s face before she tasted the wine. “A seventy four,” she said, arching an eyebrow as though to challenge Penbury to tell her she was wrong.

  She wasn’t and he nodded his appreciation of her palate. It was a shame she was a dragon intent on ripping civilisation apart as otherwise he was sure they shared many tastes and would have got on famously. Chidwick assisted Penbury in seating himself opposite Lady Deathwing and then went to fetch a taper to light the candles on the table, but a thin jet of flame from Lady Deathwing took care of the matter. It was a point well taken by the Chancellor.

  “I think we’ll take the first course, Chidwick,” said Penbury.

  While they waited, Penbury snapped off a bread stick and drank more of the wine. Lady Deathwing seemed happy to sit and wait. Small talk, or the lack of need for it, seemed to be something else they had in common.

  In short order, Chidwick appeared with a terrine of eels and asparagus, accompanied by salted wholemeal snaps. Cutting slices for both, Chidwick served first Lady Deathwing and then Penbury. The Chancellor hoped that his message was clear. They would be eating off the same plate. His instructions for serving were that everything was to be brought in and served from the same dish.

  “I’m hungrier than I thought,” said Lady Deathwing, not waiting for the Chancellor. She took a sliver of the terrine on the snap and took a bite. An appreciative grunt followed swiftly. “I shall have to borrow your chef. Quit exquisite.”

  Penbury had to agree. It was indeed delicious. The contrasting texture of eel, asparagus and snap was perfect, while the asparagus also lent a solid back note to the subtle eel flavouring.

  “So how do you want to do this?” said Lady Deathwing between mouthfuls. “We could joust around for a while, or we could get right to the point.”

  “I was never one for jousting,” said Penbury. In fact, nothing annoyed him more than a meeting where those present were ill prepared and discussion quickly spiralled into a repetition of the same points.

  “I didn’t think you were,” said Lady Deathwing. “So what is troubling you, Chancellor?”

  “Aside from a Dark Lord rising and this army running amok across the land?”

  “Yes, apart from that.”

  “It seems to me that this whole situation is littered with a slew of odd coincidences and contradictions that suggest that what we are seeing is not a natural course of affairs.”

  Lady Deathwing popped the last part of her terrine in her mouth and pushed her plate aside. Chidwick swept in and whisked it away. The fish course w
ould be a few minutes so they could talk uninterrupted.

  “Go on,” said the dragon.

  “It is odd,” continued Penbury, “that Morden Deathwing is that Dark Lord, and yet I find that Lady Deathwing is the person behind this army that opposes him, and is in fact directly responsible for finding and arming a hero.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Lady Deathwing. She held up her wine glass that was nearing empty for Chidwick to refill. “Odd perhaps, but perfectly understandable. You see, this Morden is a bastard mistake. He is not a pure blood but an error of judgement made by my randy husband. Lord Deathwing may be a dragon but he has a man’s appetite when it comes to women.”

  Penbury couldn’t help but smile. While it put light on the situation, there was obviously more. “So you are a wounded spouse trying to set things right and do the world a public service at the same time? I’m touched, Lady Deathwing.”

  Lady Deathwing laughed. It was high pitched and could have cracked crystal, and would have done if Penbury had been willing to bring his rather than make do with the cheaper glass they were drinking from.

  “Indeed not, Chancellor. My fool of a husband merely played into my hands. This Morden is nothing. A boy playing in a game he is unaware of and even if he were, he is out of his depth.”

  “And yet he is useful,” said Penbury. It was a genuine pleasure to have an adversary worthy of the title. “As is Edwin.”

  “Ah, Edwin,” said Lady Deathwing. “A lovely boy, if a little headstrong.”

  “Headstrong? Blood crazed maniac, no?”

  “But he’s in love,” said Lady Deathwing. “Don’t you find that sweet? No? Nor do I. But again, it makes life easier.”

  “Until he runs off?”

  At last Penbury seemed to have hit a nerve and a brief look of annoyance was evident.

  Lady Deathwing shrugged it off with another laugh. “It seems we are jousting after all.”

  For the first time there was an air of tension, but luckily it was relieved by the arrival of the fish course. A full salmon was laid on a bed of fresh green leaves. It had been poached and been given the lightest of dressings so that it remained the star of the course. Chidwick served them both and melted away into the background.

  For the next minute Penbury was happy to enjoy the fish and gather his thoughts. So far everything was going as planned. As long as he could live as far as dessert then all would be well. Letting salmon melt away in his mouth not only bought him more time but was an exquisite pleasure. It was obviously as fresh as the dew that had been on the ground that morning.

  “I don’t think I have had fish as good as this,” pronounced Lady Deathwing.

  “Agreed,” said Penbury.

  “So where were we?”

  “Edwin?” suggested the Chancellor. “I can only assume you know how dangerous a hero can be for us all. So I am puzzled why you would unleash one.”

  “I was there when Uther cut down Zoon. Of course I know about heroes. How do you suppose I got the sword? It is Uther’s, the damned thing. Edwin is necessary. People need a hero.”

  “And you need a diversion.”

  Lady Deathwing took another mouthful from her plate and stared at Penbury. He could feel her will lightly touching his mind. What do you know?

  “This play acting at war is not what this is all about, is it?”

  “On the contrary,” said Lady Deathwing, “I want war. I want the world to burn. I want a clean slate. And I shall have it. You can’t stop a good war.”

  “Interesting choice of adjective,” observed Penbury. “Good.”

  Lady Deathwing was obviously finding this all very amusing as she laughed once more. That suited Penbury. As long as she assumed she was here in a position of power then they may have a chance.

  “Let’s not do the whole good and evil thing, Chancellor,” said Lady Deathwing. “We both know better than that; it is my interests, and Edwin’s, and Morden’s, and yours that count.”

  The fish was done and Chidwick serviced the plates away leaving a folded note with the Chancellor as he did so. Penbury recognised the paper; it was from a Snort pad. Trying to maintain a level of composure while his heart pounded in his chest, Penbury flipped the note open in one hand, fished out his reading glasses with his other, and read:

  Gathering clouds, outlook stormy. Advise: Severe weather imminent.

  The serendipity of events in two places coming to a climax at the same time was not lost on the Chancellor. But rather than good fortune, accident, or luck, he preferred the notion of good planning.

  “Not bad news I hope,” said Lady Deathwing.

  “Touch of bad weather,” said Penbury smoothly. “It’s touch and go at this time of year with the Tempranillo grape.”

  “Of course it is,” said Lady Deathwing.

  Penbury took the second sheet that backed the message and scratched a reply. He hoped he was not too late.

  Offer every assistance to avoid disaster.

  Chidwick, ever efficient, wheeled in a large silver covered platter on a trolley. Chidwick positioned the trolley mid table and removed the hood with a flourish. On the platter was a cage fashioned from pork ribs dripping with a velouté sauce.

  Inside, flopping around in a sea of purée, were two spriggles. Penbury’s gourmet eye could tell immediately they were the highest quality. Not quite adult, their eye stalks were not too full of length which would make their eating easier, because to eat spriggle properly they had to be swallowed whole. If they were too young, however, they would not have developed the slightly crusty skin across their back which not only gave textural contrast to their scallop-like flesh but, through some extraordinary contrivance of nature, added a seasoned, crispy bacon flavouring. It was this skin that also was one of the eight deadly elements of the little critter. It was commonly thought that there were only seven ways to die eating a spriggle but that was not so. The skill that the chef had to employ was to lightly brush the back with a perfectly balanced sauce that acted to neutralise the burning acid that no poison antidote could counter while leaving the base flavours intact.

  “Ah, spriggle,” said the Chancellor. “A particular favourite of mine. Have you ever had the pleasure?”

  “Live food,” said Lady Deathwing. “How interesting.” Lady Deathwing fixed Penbury with her eyes and smiled to reveal her full set of razor teeth. “You wouldn’t be trying to poison me now, would you, Chancellor?”

  Chapter 49 Wedding

  It’s a nice day for a Dark Lord’s wedding.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook (Idol edition.)

  Edwin was woken by someone stepping on him where he lay. It was night again, though bright with a full moon. He had only lain down for a minute to gather his strength but he must have slept all day. How he had fallen asleep with the riotous party that was going on around him was a mystery. The square around the base of the temple was heaving with revelling orcs, with a smattering of humans (mostly pirates) mixed in. There was a heavy driving beat of drums that had the mass moving as one in a rhythmic bounce.

  Edwin got up slowly. He was sore and stiff from sleeping in his armour. He must have been exhausted. At least he would be well rested for the butchery that was soon to follow. Under his rough shawl he could feel the comforting presence of his sword. Already he could sense its anticipation and excitement. It would drink heavily this night.

  Edwin looked around to regain his bearings. He had found cover under bushes on the left front side of the square close to the bottom of the ziggurat stairs that climbed into the night. Columns of torches lit either side of the stair. Massive orcs, bare to the waist and muscled like rhinos, beat huge drums positioned either side at the bottom.

  The throng had been allowed part way up the stair but then there was a line of orcs that looked different from the rest. They were armoured and carried large axes, but there was something else that set them apart from the others. They barely moved and, in the flickering flame, what little skin was exposed seemed to glisten as
though oiled. They seemed to exert a repulsion over the revellers below them because instead of being pushed up against the line of guards the partying orcs maintained a distance of several yards.

  There was no sign of Morden at the top of the ziggurat. Preparations were being made, centred on a stone altar that ran sideways across the top of the stair. At this distance, it was hard to see clearly so Edwin started forward. It would take a while to press through the crowd.

  At first, Edwin tried to slip between the bodies that were thrashing around to the music, falling over drunk, and singing strangled orc ballads, but it was taking too long. The moon was creeping higher and Edwin had a strong sense that something was going to happen soon. He barged his way through, throwing friendly punches to knock belligerent orcs to the ground as he went. His armour helped him tank his way through much faster.

  He was nearing the line of hulking orcs when Morden appeared from the back of the platform at the top and raised his arms. A wave of silence swept across the square and suddenly everyone was still and staring up at the robed figure. It took Edwin every ounce of will to force his legs into moving again but he began to climb. He had no time to lose.

  He put his head down and started to push upward. He had taken only a few steps when there was a roar from around him that stopped him in his tracks and he looked up.

  Morden stood, his left arm outstretched and holding the hand of a woman.

  “I present to you my Dread Queen, Griselda!”

  The words came from the grave, laden with death and decay. They shrivelled Edwin’s heart. It was his love as he had seen her a thousand times in his dreams. She was terrifying and beautiful, her body stiff, her smile a rictus.

  “Griselda!” he shouted and pushed forward.

  His cry was taken up by those around him and soon there were thousands of voices calling her name. He pushed through the last revellers but hesitated at the line of armoured orcs. They were much bigger up close. Four of them were arrayed across the width of the stair, blocking it. They were more than twice the size of a normal orc and had heavy plated armour. Dead eyes stared out from their helms. There was no mistaking the work of the Dark Lord. There was no other choice but to fight his way through. Edwin reached for his sword.