The Dark Lord's Handbook Read online

  It was half way out of its sheath when a blur swept across the stair behind the orc guard. There was a flash of silver from behind each as it passed and a thin line appeared across the thick necks just below the helmet line and above the pauldrons. The first orc toppled slowly forward, its head parting company with its body as it did so; the others followed in a macabre line. Edwin had to sidestep the heads and bodies as they clattered past him and into the orcs behind. An avalanche of orcs rolled down the steep ziggurat and swept into the crowd, flattening all before it.

  Edwin looked up the stair. This was his chance. Pulling his sword free, he bounded up the stair. He almost didn’t see the figure in black, a sword in each hand, flipping nimbly over the stone balustrade.

  He took the stairs two at a time. He was ablaze with energy and fury. At first, it seemed his assault would go unanswered but then from either side of Morden orcs poured forward and down. They were not brutish guards in plate but were wearing vestments adorned in skulls and strange sigils. They waved wickedly curved knives in slashing arcs. He cut through them. Their corpses rained down the ziggurat as he hacked a bloody path up.

  He could hear a woman’s laughter. Sparing a glance from the slaughter he could see Griselda laughing hysterically. Next to her, Morden’s cowled figure had let her hand drop and was moving to meet him.

  Edwin brushed aside the last of the orcs and raised his sword into a guard. The Dark Lord was a mere few paces away.

  “Griselda!” shouted Edwin.

  Then the Dark Lord spoke. It was as though Edwin had been physically hit. Darkness and fear filled Edwin’s mind. Despair gripped him. Griselda was pointing at him and laughing. He was covered in blood and the stench of death surrounded him. He was too late. She was lost. The Dark Lord had his Queen and her hatred and derision washed over him, mixed in with the contempt of his rival’s words:

  “You are too late. She is mine.”

  Chapter 50 Poison

  It’s not a question of Good and Evil. It’s a matter of self interest.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  If there was one thing that spriggle did not taste like it was chicken. It didn’t taste like anything else for that matter. It was spriggle. It was an exquisite ensemble of texture and flavours so powerful that it needed a host of ways to kill you to avoid total extinction; for surely once tasted no man could do anything else other than go out and hunt spriggle until there were no more.

  To prevent it struggling too much, Penbury liked to wrap his in a thin pancake. Many could not stomach the notion of eating a spriggle alive. To Penbury it was no different than eating an oyster. In fact, eating anything alive was to him the ultimate test of any gastronome. If you could not eat a creature alive then you may as well just eat vegetables. The only reason he did not eat more things alive was because it was often too inconvenient and did not taste nearly as good as having been sealed, slow roasted and served with greens.

  It had been a while since he had had spriggle but as soon as he popped the little critter in his mouth and crunched into it he was transported on a wave of gastronomic pleasure to the first time he had risked the treat. Now, as then, a complex series of high and low notes created a symphony of flavour that played out in his mouth. And just as he thought it was over and had swallowed, the inevitable belch as spriggle hit his stomach was a welcome encore.

  When Lady Deathwing belched she set fire to the tablecloth and Chidwick had to hurriedly beat the flames out.

  “Delicious,” said Lady Deathwing. “I can see what all the fuss is about now. Quite extraordinary.”

  “Indeed,” said Penbury, trying to ladle as much disappointment into his voice as possible without being melodramatic. Penbury hadn’t expected the spriggle to prove fatal to the dragon. If it had that would have been a bonus. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”

  Lady Deathwing smiled again. “Any more? I seem to have quite the stomach for it.”

  “Regrettably not,” said Penbury.

  He reached for one of the ribs that had caged the spriggles. The savoury ribs with their sticky sweet sauce were just the ticket after such a complex taste experience. Lady Deathwing took a rib and picked her teeth with it.

  “So where were we?” she asked.

  “We were talking about war,” said Penbury. “You must know that a war is of no consequence to me and those I represent.”

  “There’s profit in war,” said Lady Deathwing.

  “Indeed,” said Penbury. “But there is more profit in peace. We prefer the latter but if a war cannot be avoided then we do not meddle. Can this be avoided?”

  Lady Deathwing looked thoughtful.

  “I think not,” she said at last. “Now, don’t look so disappointed. I shall have my war, the world will be ruined and then I shall save it.”

  “But only after it has burned and we, and by that I mean me in particular, have been ruined with it?”

  “Collateral damage,” said Lady Deathwing. “Is there dessert?”

  “Chidwick!” said Penbury. “We’ll take dessert now.”

  The Chancellor could feel the smugness that emanated from the other end of the table. That was good. He hoped his silence while Chidwick brought in cream filled meringues, strawberries (out of season to all but himself) and cream, with crystallised basil twills, would reinforce her triumphant air. She had come to gloat. His pathetic attempt to poison her had failed and there was nothing he could do.

  Chidwick served them both and filled their glasses with a syrupy sweet dessert wine before retiring.

  “To war and all that it brings,” said Lady Deathwing, raising her glass in a toast.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me if I lack your enthusiasm,” said Penbury.

  “Suit yourself. These meringues look delicious. I must say, Chancellor, your reputation after this meal can only be enhanced.”

  Chapter 51 A Dark Lord Dies – Again

  Bad guys finish first.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  If they were going to escape then time was running out. Zoon had been true to his word and they were on the top of the temple ziggurat. The statue of Zoon towered above them and straddled the ceremonial altar. There were chains, grooves in the stone that waited for their blood, priests with wickedly sharp knives, smoking oil lamps, and more priests with more knives.

  “This doesn’t look good, boss,” said Stonearm.

  Morden could barely hear his faithful minion above the noise of the crowd and drums; it was a party he wished he hadn’t been invited to. Kristoff had become a gibbering wreck and Griselda seemed to have become a kind of living dead that had her mechanically moving at Zoon’s behest with a terrible fixed grin. Whatever Zoon had done to her, the real Griselda was still in there. Morden could see it in her eyes. They were screaming at him to do something but he was powerless. There were far too many orcs to fight their way out. Stonearm could probably have taken a few before they were skewered but Morden’s own talents were more at the strategic level. He tried exerting his will but it seemed to slide off the orc priests. Zoon’s power held them in thrall.

  The three of them were held by priests while Zoon led Griselda to the head of steep steps that went down the front of the ziggurat. He held her hand high and presented her to his minions:

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

  There was pandemonium. Thousands of voices were suddenly calling her name. Zoon was revelling in the moment.

  But then something below Zoon caught his attention. He took a step back and the priests that surrounded Morden, Kristoff and Stonearm leapt forward. Griselda started to laugh hysterically and point at something. Gouts of blood and body parts flew into the air from beneath the lip of the sacrificial area from somewhere down the stair.

  “That’s fighting,” said Stonearm.

  Morden could see the orc tense but there were still orc priests around them. Now was not the time. Then from the stair rose an armoured figure with a sword that had blue fire runn
ing its length. The man was covered in blood and gore and was screaming his lungs out.

  “Griselda!” shouted the knight.

  Morden could sense Zoon’s power building and then he spoke:

  “You are too late. She is mine.”

  The knight staggered back as though struck. Morden didn’t know what to make of it. He held a hand out to restrain Stonearm. “Wait. Let’s see what happens.”

  “You sad, pathetic fool,” said Zoon, taking a step towards the man. “All this for love? She doesn’t love you.”

  The knight sank to his knees. He was shaking and had to rest on his sword to stop himself falling over. Morden could feel the waves of hatred and loathing sweep out from Zoon. Morden realised that when he had bent others to his will it was but a fraction of the power that Zoon exerted.

  “Grovel, you worm,” said Zoon, towering over the knight.

  Zoon’s acolytes now circled the knight in a tight ring. There was no escape. It was going to be another demonstration of Zoon’s power as a true Dark Lord.

  “Kill him,” said Zoon dismissively, and turned his back on the stricken knight.

  Morden’s heart leapt. Now! Now! Now! he screamed inside. It was unbelievable that Zoon would make such a basic error. Could he not see who he had in front of him? It was one of the Golden Rules from the Handbook: Never turn your back on a hero.

  Morden watched in delighted fascination as the knight rose, roaring his defiance and hatred, swinging his sword in a wide arc as he did. The circle of priests toppled backwards, blood geysering, as they were split in two across the middle.

  Zoon turned when he heard the screams but all that did was allow the Knight to plunge his sword into the Lich Lord’s chest. There was an eruption of blue flame that jetted out from Zoon’s sleeves and cowl. It transfixed the Dark Lord in a shuddering pillar of flame. The knight was wide eyed and screaming as he struggled to hold the sword in Zoon’s chest. Zoon thrashed and burned from within and dropped the Handbook, which looked singed but intact.

  Then Zoon collapsed, the robe falling in a heap. There was a detonation, like the biggest firework Morden had ever seen going off. Those near Zoon were knocked back so that only the knight and his sword were left standing.

  Morden expected the undead orcs to recover and rush the knight but he should have known better. Zoon’s power was gone. The undead orcs in their armour collapsed in heaps of rapidly decaying flesh.

  The knight in the meantime had stopped screaming. He rushed over to a heap of black wedding dress that was Griselda collapsed next to Zoon’s remains. There was a small pool of blood around her head. The knight threw his sword to the floor and knelt.

  “Griselda?” said the knight, taking a pale hand in his own. “Griselda?”

  There was growing despair in the knight’s voice. He sank back on his haunches and let his head hang back.

  “GRISELDA!” bellowed the knight.

  Was she dead? That wasn’t possible was it? Not now. Not after everything that had happened. He stepped forward.

  “Griselda?” he said quietly, kneeling at her side, but there was no answer, no sign of life.

  Anger burned inside Morden. And hatred. This knight had killed the one person he had ever loved. In a non-platonic way. He had loved Grimtooth, but that was different. This knight had killed the only person he had ever wanted to make love to. With the thought of her gone, something inside died and in its place was revealed the knowledge of what he must do.

  He went over and picked up the robe. Whatever Zoon had been, he was no more. There was nothing left. Not even ash or goo. As the robe slid over his head he could feel it moulding to him like it had before.

  Somewhere close by a crow cawed. It sounded pleased. Which was odd.

  Kristoff seemed to have pulled himself together enough to come over to where Griselda lay. He knelt at her side and stroked her hair. Tears streamed down his face. He took her hand and buried his head in her neck.

  The knight was a catatonic wreck sat back on his heels and could be safely ignored. Morden stretched over and took the Handbook from where it lay. An electric jolt went up his arm and a familiar voice was back in his head.

  Something stirred inside Morden.

  Make them pay, it said. Make them all pay.

  His hand went to the dragon pendant. It was cool under his touch. He ripped it loose and threw it on the floor. He didn’t need that any more. His death was complete. He was reborn a Dark Lord.

  Chapter 52 Hubris

  There is no such thing as a mercy killing.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Lady Deathwing sampled the meringues and washed them down with the dessert wine. She looked very pleased with herself.

  “Shouldn’t I be?” asked Lady Deathwing.

  “So you can see my thoughts,” said Penbury.

  Lady Deathwing laughed. “You silly man, of course I can. You are quite transparent to me.”

  “I had suspected as much,” said Penbury. Was the borrowing your idea? he thought.

  “It was indeed. But please. I do prefer talking. Besides, you can’t read my mind, now can you?”

  “So not happy with seeing the world thrown into a war, of which you fanned the flames, you saw fit to bankrupt everyone at the same time,” said Penbury.

  “Well, not everyone,” said Lady Deathwing. “What did you think this was all about anyway? You of all people should appreciate how detestable poverty is.”

  “But that’s not all, is it?”

  Lady Deathwing sat forward, emptied her glass and helped herself to more from the bottle. “This is good wine,” she remarked. “No, that was not all. Being poor was bad enough, but being in penury to those horrid bankers…” she shuddered. “They had to be ruined, and you had to be brought down with them. How could I tolerate one as powerful as you? Me? Lady Deathwing? I was there when we had proper wars, you know? With proper Dark Lords, not this, this, Morden. A boy. How ridiculous. Now Zoon. He was a Dark Lord. He knew how to do things right.” Lady Deathwing giggled. “Zoon do things right. How drôle. What I should say was that he knew how to do things wrong in the right way, if you get what I mean.” She stopped talking and seemed to be going over what she was trying to say in her head. “Yes, I’m right. He was good at being bad. There. Now where were we?”

  “You were rambling,” suggested Penbury.

  Lady Deathwing looked surprised. “I was, wasn’t I.” She took another sip of the wine to wash down the meringue she was nibbling at. “Did I say how good these meringues were? They are very nice. Very nice indeed. Who made them? I’m going to have to borrow your chef.”

  “Baron Fanfaron has been chef this evening. I think he’s the best in the world.”

  Lady Deathwing’s eyes widened. “Baron Fanfaron and his battalions of chefs? I am honoured. To the chef!” She raised her glass and drained it.

  Penbury did not join her in the toast. It wasn’t the fact that he found the toast undeserved, nor that the dessert wine itself was anything but spectacularly good, but more that the wine was heavily laden with Headfucker. Cornering that market had been good for one thing and that was ensuring access to the highest quality product; no mixing it with baking powder. It was pure, concentrated Headfucker of the best quality known to man.

  It had been hard work playing the part that he had, the one of frustrated would be spriggle poisoner, when in fact he had no doubt that Lady Deathwing would make short work of the delicacy with little or no bad side effects. He had counted on it as it made the actual poisoning so much easier. Her guard would be down. All he had to do was keep it from his mind that she had been slipped enough Headfucker in her dessert wine to addle the brains of several elephants.

  “You what?” said Lady Deathwing, looking at her glass.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Chancellor Penbury. “No don’t get up. Oh dear.”

  Lady Deathwing collapsed back into her chair. The glass fell to the floor; its spilled contents burned a hole in the fine
rug that the Count had laid in the tent. Such a waste.

  “You poisoned me? You can’t poison me, it’s impossible.” Lady Deathwing tried to lift an arm at Penbury to emphasise the point but it seemed too much effort and instead something on the ceiling of the tent became interesting. “What’s that?” she said, and giggled. There was a small spider crawling its way across the roof of the tent. “It’s an itsy bitsy spider!”

  Chidwick had appeared and picked up the glass.

  “Would you like some more wine?” asked Penbury.

  Chidwick reset the glass in reach of the dragon.

  “Oh yes! This is good. More.”

  Chidwick filled the glass as instructed. “Will there be anything else?” he asked Penbury.

  “No thank you, Chidwick. I can take it from here.”

  His secretary left and Penbury helped himself to a meringue while he gathered his thoughts. It was perfect; a crisp shell full of sweet, gooey, slightly chewy goodness. He took a moment to savour not only the fine dessert but the success of the meal overall. It had not only been cuisine of the highest standard but it had been produced in difficult conditions and to a ferocious timetable. And he had bagged himself a dragon.

  Chapter 53 Morden

  Never be cruel to be kind. Being cruel is what you do.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Morden looked down the ziggurat stair to the sea of orcs that filled the square below. All celebrations and drumming had stopped. There was an air of puzzlement. None of them seemed to be sure what had happened. They had seen Zoon attacked and explode. They had been knocked off their feet by the blast and yet here he was, and his attacker a blubbering wreck at his feet. The remaining priests at the top of the ziggurat were cowering to one side. The Queen lay at his feet being tended by a man. Was she dead?