The Dark Lord's Handbook Page 34

  It was time to take control. Morden raised his arms. There was a hush.

  “I am Morden Deathwing. I am your Lord and Master.”

  It took a second for the words to sink in, and then from behind him came the start of a chant. Morden recognised Stonearm’s dulcet tones.

  “Morden. Morden. Morden!”

  The surviving priests took up the chant and it spread like fire down the temple and into the crowd. Soon there was a single orcish voice chanting his name.

  “MORDEN!”

  Morden let it wash over and into him. Zoon had been right. He had been a boy but that was behind him now. Until he had seen Zoon he had not realised what it had meant to assume his destiny and truly embrace what he was. He was a Dark Lord. There was no room for niceness or consideration. There was no room for weak sentiments like love. There was only pain and suffering in the world, and you were either on the receiving end, as he had been, or you were dishing it out, like he was going to be doing.

  “Morden.”

  The voice was quiet but it cut through the noise and struck him like the bolt that had shot him out of the sky.

  “Morden,” said Griselda insistently. “Don’t just stand there. Help me up, you idiot.”

  She was alive. Kristoff was helping her stand but she was obviously still shaky. Her dress was torn and there was blood coming from her ears. But she was alive. He helped Kristoff by taking her other arm and she stood, grabbing his arm so hard he could feel her nails digging in through the robe.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Eh?” she said.

  “Are you all right?”

  She let go of Kristoff and put a hand to her ear and came away with blood. “Oh crap.”

  “ARE YOU DEAF?” shouted Morden, without thinking.

  Griselda looked at him like he was a moron. “No need to shout. Of course I’m not deaf, you fat head. You’re not that bright, are you? You think I can’t hear that lot?”

  It was true. The orc chant hadn’t let up, and the drums had joined in. Looking down, there was one big party on the go. They must have thought the show was over with the big bang and Morden’s proclamation. Probably a good thing they had no idea what had really happened. From their point of view they must have seen the knight attack, a big bang and then Morden rise.

  “I’m glad you’re not dead,” said Morden.

  “So am I,” said Griselda. She let go of him and steadied herself.

  “Thanks,” said Morden. So she really did care. “I thought I was going to be sacrificed for sure.”

  “I meant me, idiot,” said Griselda. “I’m glad I’m not dead.”

  Morden looked to Kristoff for sympathy but all he could manage was a shrug.

  “Griselda?”

  It was the knight who had been blubbering away at their feet. He was struggling to his feet, using the hilt of his sword as a crutch.

  Griselda looked at him with astonishment. “Edwin?! What are you doing here?”

  But the knight ignored her. He was standing now and glowering at Morden. “Stand away from her,” said the knight, raising his sword.

  “You know this man?” asked Morden.

  The knight had raised his sword high over his head, ready to strike.

  “Prepare to meet your doom, foul creature” said Edwin. “Stand clear, Griselda.”

  “Foul creature?” said Morden. The notion that he was a foul creature made him laugh. It was a deep laugh that made the ground shake. The surrounding orcs covered their ears and cowered; even Stonearm took a step back and winced.

  The knight roared as Morden laughed.

  The sword swung in an arc. Morden was paralysed by its beauty as it cut through the air. To his right, there was a blur of movement as someone jumped in front of him.

  “Edwin! Stop!” said Griselda.

  There was a scream as the sword cut the air. Blue fire licked along its length. Griselda stood her ground and the sword came to a halt a fraction above her head.

  “He has bewitched you, Griselda,” said Edwin. “Step aside.” The knight raised the sword one handed and made to grab her but she stepped back to stand so close in front of Morden that he could smell her.

  “I don’t love you,” said Griselda.

  The knight froze. His rage was clear. The sword began to keen as the knight took a single step back and resumed his executioners guard. “You are bewitched,” said Edwin. “You will die with your master, witch.”

  This time the sword had not begun its arc before someone jumped in front of Griselda.

  “Edwin! Stop!” commanded Kristoff.

  Morden was not the only one to be taken completely by surprise in a day of many surprises. It wasn’t often people queued up to save him.

  Edwin hesitated.

  “Do I know you? Stand aside, or die.” Edwin’s guard tightened but it was clear he was struggling with something. “We have met. I am sure.”

  “I was at the bridge with the bandits, when you cut them down and then the dragon snatched us,” offered Kristoff.

  “Yes,” said Edwin slowly, “I remember now. You are the one who kidnapped Griselda. You shall die first.”

  It occurred to Morden he ought to try to do something but he seemed unable to move. It was as though the insane drama that was playing itself out had him rooted in place. For a second time the sword cut down. Griselda screamed as Morden watched in helpless fascination as the sword once more transfixed him.

  “Edwin, stop!” shouted Kristoff, “I’m your father!”

  The sword quivered in the air and a trickle of blood oozed out from where it had touched Kristoff’s skull.

  Isn’t that my line? thought Morden. This was getting stranger by the second.

  “You’re what?” demanded Edwin.

  “I’m your father,” insisted Kristoff.

  Edwin seemed to consider what he was being told. “Impossible,” he declared, drawing his sword back.

  “Wait! I can prove it,” said Kristoff. “Please.”

  Edwin frowned. The sword was balanced high in the air and it looked as if Edwin was having to use some considerable force to keep it from slicing Kristoff in two. “Go on.”

  “You like poetry,” declared Kristoff.

  Edwin’s frown deepened. “Poetry is for weak minded fools.”

  “You know that’s not true,” said Kristoff. “There is still poetry in you. I can sense it. Do you not see the setting sun and unbidden similes come to mind? Do you not see a swan and it not stir something deep inside? Or a beggar in rags? Or a beautiful woman? The lake at Wellow…”

  Edwin blinked sharply. Turmoil was clear in his face. “…is mercurial,” he whispered.

  Morden was flabbergasted. He hadn’t seen this coming at all. He had imagined a showdown with him and a hero, but not for a long while until after he had conquered half the world. And even then, it should have been between him and the hero. This was all about face. Wasn’t he meant to be the one racked with deep psychological wounds of family and abandonment. It was quite annoying all in all. Who was the Dark Lord around here anyway?

  “Excuse me,” said Morden, “but what is going on here?”

  “Shut it,” said Griselda, elbowing him hard in the ribs.

  Kristoff took a step forward. “Edwin, Edwin, Edwin. I am so sorry. I have not been the father I should have been.”

  Edwin was poised, the sword still hovering in a high guard, ready to strike. “It’s a lie. You cannot be my father. My mother was a virgin. Everyone said so.”

  The surprises keep coming, thought Morden.

  “Prepare to die,” said Edwin, and he tensed.

  “No!” shouted Kristoff, raising his hands to ward the blow. “She said that to protect me. I was young and scared. I couldn’t be a father to you. I was an artist…”

  If Morden didn’t have the heart of a Dark Lord he may have been touched by such heartfelt pain but as it was he thought it rather pathetic. But it suited him. He couldn’t have do
ne a better job of scrambling Edwin’s brain if he had tried.

  “Very well, father,” said Edwin, “if that is who you are, step aside. I have work to do. There is a witch and her master to lay to rest.”

  “Griselda is your sister,” said Kristoff, so quietly that at first Morden thought he had misheard.

  “I’m his what?!” shouted Griselda, grabbing at Kristoff’s arm and spinning him around. Kristoff stumbled backwards, half turned to face Griselda and Edwin, now side by side.

  “NOOOOOOO,” screamed Edwin.

  “Kristoff!” said Morden, with open admiration. “You dirty old dog.”

  “This can’t be,” said Griselda. “We were…We…We…”

  It took a second for Morden to work out what Griselda was trying to say.

  “You slept with him?” said Morden, realising the truth. “But if he’s your brother…”

  “Shut the FUCK up,” shouted Griselda. “Stay out of this.”

  “You lie,” said Edwin.

  “Edwin, my son,” said Kristoff. “What was it that brought you and Griselda together? Poetry runs deeps in my family. My father was a poet, I am a poet, Griselda loves poetry, and there is a poet in you. Look and you will see it.”

  Edwin’s entire frame seemed to be struggling with what he was hearing. To Morden it looked like he was having to fight to hold the sword in place. It was as though the sword was trying its hardest to chop everything within range into small pieces.

  Seeing the three standing close together, Morden had to admit there was more than a passing resemblance between the three. Even allowing for the kind of likenesses that were often present in small villages where everyone was related to everyone else, the similarities were striking: the same high cheekbones, intense eyes, feminine lips and straggled blonde hair (though Kristoff was short in this department). Now it had been made plain, it was obvious that this was indeed a family reunion. The weirdness of the situation had almost made him forget what Griselda had said, but it came flashing back to mind.

  “Wait a second. If you love poetry so much, how come you ran off with Kristoff?” said Morden, reaching out to touch Griselda’s arm.

  But she didn’t hear him, or ignored what he said. She stepped up to Edwin, who was now visibly shaking, to bring her hand to his cheek. The sword quivered above her.

  “Brother,” she said, “I will always love you…as your sister.”

  When Edwin screamed it was a howl of pain that Morden hoped he would only hear from his worst enemies. It was a howl rich with agony, but not the shriek of a stubbed toe, or even a hacked limb, but pain that came from the inner being – the kind of desolate, hopeless, alone, terrified, angst ridden, existentialist howl that comes when the world is empty of joy or meaning. It was the scream from a mind unhinged. There was madness in its denial.

  Edwin threw the sword to one side. It traced a graceful arc and took the arm off an onlooking orc. The orc’s scream was a silent shout against the noise that Edwin was making as he began to run, brushing aside Griselda and Kristoff. He ran past Morden and down the stairs of the ziggurat. The orcs that were on the stair parted to let him through. It was as though some primal instinct told them that to get in his way would be the last thing they did.

  Morden watched his progress across the square, the anguish still clearly audible. He was dimly aware of figures coming to stand at his side and behind him.

  Somewhere close by a crow cawed.

  He glanced to one side. Griselda was standing next to him, and beyond her on a balustrade at the head of the stair perched a huge crow. Griselda was ignoring him, her attention entirely on her fleeing brother.

  “He has gone mad,” she said.

  The crow cawed again and hopped down toward the floor. As it did so, it changed in a fluid movement so that by the time its feet touched the ground, a man was standing there in the crow’s place. He was tall, thin, and his skin was blacker than slate. Fire burned in his eyes.

  “Morden,” said the man, smiling.

  Although Morden, unlike Edwin, knew exactly who his father was, he was still surprised to see him there. He hadn’t exactly been the hands-on parent. But more shocking was the transformation from the crow. Memories flashed through his mind of all the times, ever since he could remember, when a crow had cawed nearby. Many of those times he had been in deep trouble and all the while that crow had been his father and he had done nothing.

  “Father,” said Morden. “You bastard.”

  “What?” said his father. “What did I do?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. What are you here for?”

  “Why, for the wedding,” said Lord Deathwing.

  “You missed it,” said Morden. “And Zoon is dead.”

  “Oh, I know,” said Lord Deathwing, “I was watching. I meant your wedding.”

  At the mention of wedding, Griselda’s head snapped round.

  “You,” she said, laying eyes on Morden’s father. “What are you doing here?”

  “To see you marry my son, of course.”

  “I’ve been married once today and it’s not happening again,” said Griselda. “I’d rather die.”

  “Will you stop that,” said Morden.

  “You don’t believe me?” said Griselda. “If you were the last man in the world I wouldn’t marry you, you half-dead freak.”

  “You can stop now,” said Morden. “It’s over. It’s all right to fall in love with me.”

  “Are you deaf? Hello? You disgust me.”

  Morden looked over to his father. He didn’t have to be a mind reader to see what he thought of the situation, and he was right. Who was she to treat him like this? He was the Dark Lord here. If he wanted a Dread Queen to stand at his side then that is what he was going to get. She couldn’t speak to him like that, not in front of Stonearm and the other orcs. His minions, and her, needed to see who was boss here. It was time to be a Dark Lord

  “Silence,” said Morden, exerting his Will.

  Griselda froze. He could see the anger in her eyes but she was unable to move, let alone continue her insults.

  “Come here,” he said, holding out his hand. Griselda seemed to struggle for a second, but then stepped forward.

  “What are you doing?” said Kristoff. “Morden? Stop.”

  With a wave of his hand, Morden rooted Kristoff in place. He wouldn’t harm his old friend, but nor would he let him get in the way.

  “Son,” said Lord Deathwing, “I’m so proud.”

  As Morden turned to face the army of orcs that was arrayed beneath him, his new Queen at his side, Morden’s father leapt into the air and, with more grace than Morden had ever managed, transformed into his dragon form. His father beat his wings once and rose to hover above them. Morden raised his arms, the Handbook in one hand, Griselda’s hand in the other.

  “Your Queen lives,” said Morden.

  Morden could hear whispers in his head. They spoke of conquest.

  Chapter 54 Epilogue

  A Dark Lord’s work is never done.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  The trouble with spriggle was that it took a while for the digestion to get back to normal. Although Chancellor Penbury was otherwise well, in as much as the spriggle had not killed him, his stomach was feeling delicate. As a consequence the breakfast that Chidwick was serving consisted of the blandest food: dry toast, tea, poached egg with no hint of Benedict about it, and junket.

  “Ah, the pamphlets,” said Penbury, as Chidwick set a pile down on the table. “Anything interesting?”

  “You might like to start with this one, sir,” said Chidwick.

  Penbury picked up the indicated pamphlet. He read the front page and grunted. “It’s a knob joke, Chidwick. About the King of Phrenia admittedly, but still a knob joke.”

  “The other side, sir,” said Chidwick.

  Penbury flipped the pamphlet over. “A chicken with two heads?”

  “Below that, sir,” said Chidwick. He cleared away a plate with
eggy remains on it.

  “Ah, I see. The fire.”

  A warehouse had burned down, which in itself was not too unusual, but it had spread and about a quarter of Klopt had burned down. Not quite the collateral damage Penbury had imagined when he’d ordered the warehouses and the boxes of debt burned to the ground.

  With Lady Deathwing spending her days off her trolley and waiting for her next dose of Headfucker, all that had remained was to deal with the financial mess that she had left behind. Foreclosure was not an option. To do so would have meant opening all the boxes and Penbury suspected that the fledgling financial system that he had overseen for the last decades would come crashing down. It had been Lady Deathwing’s plan after all, and it had been a good one. How better to defeat the richest man in the world than by reducing him to poverty?

  No, it was better instead to take an accounting hit across the board and pretend it never happened. The world would never know. In fact, only himself and Birkenfeldt would ever know how close to the brink they had come. A good chunk of the aristocracy would also be more than happy to be told their loans were wiped clean and their estates safe. While the bankers would be outraged, Penbury was confident that it would only be a short term loss. Royalty could always be relied upon to be profligate.

  Chidwick had finished his clear up and was hovering.

  Penbury put a finger to his lips. Breakfast had been fair enough but he wanted something more. Something to pep things up a touch. “Coffee, Chidwick.”

  “Are you sure, Sir?”

  His personal private secretary’s worry was touching. He knew this soon after spriggle that coffee was not wise, but life would be dull if there wasn’t risk.

  “Yes, Chidwick. Coffee. Strong. Black.”

  Penbury read more pamphlets. After the fuss of Morden’s foray across the land, Count Vladovitch had concluded a successful summer campaign, returning the cities to their rightful rulers. He was being hailed as the greatest living commander whom any army would follow, to which he had apparently replied that an army marches on its stomach and any army would follow a good field kitchen.