The Dark Lord's Handbook: Conquest Read online

  Lunch was a disappointingly lacklustre affair, despite an excellent pâté on crisp bread, washed down with a white Polonese as dry as the parched earth outside. Soon after lunch had been dispatched they were off again, and not too long after that descending. A whiff of salty air and a cooling breeze brought welcome relief from the heat. Penbury would be glad to be done with the journey and would be happy to risk days of retching rather than face the overland return journey. Before that, though, they had the Helena to launch. She was going to be the largest warship ever built and Paolo had promised him a surprise when it came to her weapons. He would have to play along, as he already knew they had been experimenting with gunpowder and his sources had reported a rudimentary weapon. Penbury, although no military man, and certainly no sailor, considered himself a man of extreme common sense, and the idea of a weapon that needed to explode to work being used on a wooden ship, with highly flammable sails, seemed like a bad idea. He hoped he would be proven wrong. Black powder had been known about, but little used, for at least a decade. It had found no serious applications to date, beyond use in small quantities as an amusement, and in larger quantities by the less risky averse parts of the mining industry, because it was hard to make, and even harder to use safely. To him, to use it in a weapon seemed foolhardy at best. Penbury’s fears were lessened when he considered Paolo was one of the more astute council members. Would he take such a risk, on such a big day, if he was not assured there was no chance for deep embarrassment? They’d find out soon enough.

  The cry of gulls could be clearly heard now.

  “We’re nearly there now, sir,” said Chidwick.

  “Excellent.”

  *****

  The walled city of Xanthos, capital and ruling seat of the Kingdom of Volosa, commanded a natural bay ten miles across. Forts on the headlands at the mouth of the bay protected the narrow entrance. If you were an admiral, and wanted a safe place to moor your fleet, this bay could hardly be bettered. The harbour was protected from the fierce storms that swept the region and gave the seas their treacherous reputation. The bay managed a heavy chop at best. Coming around the southwest side of the bay, Penbury could see a wide range of vessels either moored within the city’s packed harbour at the docks, or in the bay, waiting their turn. Smaller fishing vessels bobbed around the bay with clouds of sea birds in attendance, their hungry screeches clear on the wind blowing up the coast.

  It was Penbury’s first visit to the city and he was surprised by its size, it being smaller than he had imagined. Inside its outer wall there were subdividing walls that, at a distance, gave the city a patchwork look. The thick walls were a sun-baked, tan-coloured stone. Terracotta tiles blanketed the roofs, as was common throughout the region. Unusually for a city, Penbury could not see any obvious slum, though he was sure there was bound to be a less salubrious area, likely by the dock, that catered to baser tastes.

  They entered the city by its main gate, above which was the motif for the city and kingdom: a galley with a single bank of oars and two sails. Ships like this had been plying the seas for trade and engaging in warfare for centuries. Passing into the city, the narrow streets gave welcome shade from the sun. Shortly after, they arrived at Paolo de Luca’s residence. It would normally have been called a palace but the actual ruler of Xanthos, King Telem, was a touchy ruler and a basic tenet of the council was not to tread on political toes unnecessarily. None of the council had any political titles, only titles of position, such as chancellor, that Penbury enjoyed. Paolo’s head steward used his master’s formal name in welcoming Penbury and his party in the entrance courtyard.

  “Chancellor Penbury, Master of the Fleet Paolo de Luca welcomes you. He would be here in person but has been called away by the king on important matters. You must be tired after such a trying journey. If you follow me, I will take you to the guest suite.”

  If Penbury had been visiting royalty, he may have taken affront at not being personally welcomed but, in fact, he was relieved. He was not one for formal ceremony and wanted nothing more than to collapse somewhere comfortable and rest. And have a drink. He was hot and parched. Maybe a nibble to go with it.

  “Cadmus, isn’t it?” asked Penbury. The steward looked startled. He shouldn’t have, as Penbury had a good memory for all things. In this case, it was made easier by the partially withered left arm that hung at Cadmus’s side. “What I would like more than anything is ice. Do you have any? And some of that salty cheese. And grapes.” Now that his mind was on it, the whole affair with the dead orc had ruined his lunch and he was peckish.

  “Of course,” said Cadmus. He turned to a hovering servant. “Bring ice to the chancellor’s rooms.” He clapped his hands sharply to hurry the man on. “This way, if you please. My men will bring your luggage.”

  As they were led to their rooms, Penbury had a chance to appreciate de Luca’s residence and felt a twinge of jealousy, as a connoisseur of the fine things in life might expect when discovering a pleasure that had been missed. He hadn’t realised de Luca was a man of such delicate taste. There was a level of restraint in the scale and decoration that managed to impress with fine detail, and exquisite craftsmanship, without crossing the boundary of ostentation normally found with ruling aristocracy. The frescoes depicting ships at sea were sensational. The vibrancy of the blues used in both sea and sky were stunning.

  “Chidwick, get the name of the man who painted these and have him come and see me in Firena. Better yet, he can travel back with us.”

  Their refreshments were waiting in the rooms when they got there. In hindsight, when Cadmus had stopped briefly to describe a particular detail in a fresco, Penbury realised he had been buying time so his men could get ahead of them. De Luca had done well. The iced water was delicious. While he expected a man of de Luca’s resources to be able to afford ice, it was in some places reserved for the ruling classes as a status symbol in climates as hot as this.

  “Is there anything else I can get you to make your stay more comfortable?” asked Cadmus, hovering at the door to the suite.

  Penbury was already eyeing the four poster with the sheer silk insect screen and thinking of a nap after his nibbles. “That will be all. Thank you, Cadmus. You are most efficient.”

  The compliment had the intended effect and, while it did not bring a flush to the stoic Cadmus, the ever-so-slight stiffening of his frame and twitch of the lips made it clear he was pleased. And so was Penbury; it was always good to have men such as Cadmus on good terms. It made things that much smoother.

  Soon after, with nibbles and Chidwick dispensed with, Penbury kicked off his shoes, sank back on the bed, loosened his belt and relished the comfort of the bed’s plump pillows. A gentle, cooling breeze came in through the open windows—the wooden shutters having been latched back. The shutters were an exquisitely crafted latticework, made from what Penbury thought was sandalwood, given the faint hint of perfume. Appreciation of his surroundings aside, and with all being quiet, he lay back and allowed himself a snooze. The matters he was here to deal with could wait.

  His thoughts turned, as they often did, to food. That he would be well-catered for on the visit was without question. Instead, he went over in his mind the delights he may expect. The crumbly, salty cheese of the region was a particular favourite of his and it went very well in something he ate rarely, namely salad. Given the choice, he was a meat man. Or fish. Or invertebrate. Anything that had been killed, basically. Salad was all right, but generally unsatisfying. The one exception was here in Volosa where the salad was a refreshing delight. The tomatoes had a succulence unmatched elsewhere, and the chefs prepared the most piquant of dressings. He didn’t think it possible but he was looking forward to a slice of the local bread, baked so it had a good crust and a light, airy interior, and salad.

  Penbury’s ruminations were interrupted by a commotion at the window. Penbury opened one eye to see a large bird had perched on the windowsill. At first he thought it was a crow, but quickly realised it was too l
arge—the beak was longer on the top and the tail was wedged. It was a raven. While a familiar bird in the west, he was surprised to see one here in the hot east. When the bird cawed it confirmed Penbury’s identification; the bird sat still as it made its cry, unlike the crow, which would bob forward.

  “You’re a magnificent specimen,” said Penbury, sitting up slowly. He didn’t want to frighten it off.

  “Caw,” replied the raven.

  It looked at Penbury sideways in a manner that reminded him of how he had been assessed as a trainee accountant by his first mentor, Mr. Hoon. While ravens had the reputation of being smart, they were still only birds; smart meant dropping a small rock on a snail shell. This one, though, seemed like it could have a good stab at finishing a harder pamphlet puzzle, or hold its own in a game of chess. It had that look about it.

  “What are you doing here, I wonder?” mused Penbury. “A long way from home, aren’t you?”

  “Caw, caw,” said the raven. It shuffled two steps along the windowsill and turned its head to look at Penbury with its other eye.

  Its scrutiny was starting to make Penbury uncomfortable. The bird had to weigh three or four pounds. It would go well in a pie, or perhaps its seared breasts in a salad. Casting around, Penbury spotted a small stone ornament on the bedside table. It was finely painted with small holes across its surface for the scented sticks that were burnt in the evenings to keep the insects away. With deliberation, Penbury reached out a hand. His movements did not go unnoticed.

  “Caw!” said the raven, and it squared up on its perch. “Caw!”

  “There, there,” said Penbury, inching his hands towards the ornament. In his time, Penbury had been a dab hand at pitching a ball. If he could manage a grab and throw, he may be enjoying fresh raven to go with the evening’s other culinary delights. His fingers wrapped around the weight of the stone. Penbury was quick, but not quick enough.

  “Caw!” said the raven. It leapt from the sill, easily dodging Penbury’s toss, and with a beat of its wings it was gone.

  From outside the window came a cry, this time human, followed by a shout. Excited jabbering in the local tongue ensued and moments later there was banging on the door. Chidwick’s raised voice calmed the commotion and moments later his PPS entered, preceded by his familiar knock.

  “Is everything in order, sir?” asked Chidwick, his eyes flicking around the room.

  “Just a raven,” said Penbury. “Everything is fine.”

  Chidwick went to the window and looked out. “Shall I close the shutters?”

  “No, Chidwick. It’s far too hot for that. It was only a bird.”

  “Very well. Paolo de Luca has returned and sends his apologies for not being here to greet you. Dinner will be in an hour.”

  “Very good. I’ll take a bath and dress.”

  In no time, Penbury was covered in scented oil and luxuriating in a marble bath inset into the floor. The dinner would be doubtless palatable, though he couldn’t help thinking how raven’s breast would have added a special something.

  Chapter 5 Black Dragon Flight

  A Dark Lord has enough problems without having children as well.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Soaring over the blistering Great Desert, Lord Deathwing was hunting the rare, but tasty, umbawa. A beast the size of a small pony, the umbawa was highly adapted to the dry conditions, and was itself a top predator, feeding on the shrewish mammals that scuttled around the desert. It may have been top predator in this habitat, but Lord Deathwing was the top predator everywhere and he had a hankering for umbawa. It was also a rare opportunity for him to assume his true form without being seen by humans. While there were a few nomads who plied the sands between the oases, and a terrifying black dragon was part of their folklore, there were few, if any, who had survived laying eyes on him. He had walked among them in human form and made sure those with a tale to tell met a sudden end. He was a survivor, after all, one of the last dragons who lived in a world that had once known them as an incontrovertible fact of life, rather than the stuff of legend. But that was the past and he was hungry.

  Far below a movement caught his eye. Some would say he had eagle eyes, but that wouldn’t be fair. Eagles were short-sighted bats compared to him. He could see the grains of sand the umbawa crept over, half a mile below. It was small for its species but it would do. It filled Lord Deathwing’s vision as he rolled over on one wing and went into a tucked dive. At one hundred feet, he breathed in and, a second later, exhaled a jet of fire that roasted the umbawa and turned the shrew it had pounced on to ash. Lord Deathwing settled on the sand and gobbled his prey. It was delicious and made a real change from the poor fare laid on at his son’s fortress. Catering was never a priority for a Dark Lord, which was a shame. The Lich Lord, Zoon the Reviled, had never eaten, and since Morden had gone the same way, he didn’t eat either. Lord Deathwing wished he would bear in mind that others did. He wasn’t alone in that thought either as Morden’s queen, Griselda, was always moaning about a diet that consisted of unidentifiable vegetables and worn-out beasts of burden. There wasn’t a green vegetable leaf to be found within Morden’s domain, not that Lord Deathwing ate his greens. He hated them. Some variation on the meat front wouldn’t have gone amiss though. Orc tasted foul, and their sharp teeth tended to stick in the throat.

  He wished he could spend more time at his own palace, a modest thirty-room affair on the coast, but that was a continent away, and it wasn’t the same without his wife there to chide him. He missed the old witch. Hard to believe but nevertheless true. After five hundred years of being together, he would have thought it may have taken a decade or two for him to wish she were around, not the three years it had been since she had gone missing. His infidelities weren’t nearly as exciting with the knowledge that Lady Deathwing wouldn’t be able to catch the smell of his latest tryst about his person. There wasn’t much he found more enjoyable than seeing his wife in full tirade. Her jealousy was all the reward he needed. That and sex. Such a shame she was only ever in the mood every twenty years or so.

  Regardless, he was far too busy with Morden anyway. It was hard work keeping his son on course. The Griselda woman didn’t help. She had a hold over Morden that was not right for a Dark Lord who would, if things went to plan, be issuing forth and starting his conquest of the world in the coming months. While he and Lady Deathwing enjoyed a relationship of mutual antagonism, it seemed to be one-way between Griselda and Morden. She annoyed the hell out of him and he pandered to her tantrums. Not right at all.

  It was probably time he got back. One of Morden’s plans was coming to fruition and he wanted to see the first demonstration of the new device the orc, Huang, had devised. Being shot by that fisherman’s harpoon had borne much fruit: a mostly dead Dark Lord and the idea for a weapon. It would be fun to watch from a safe distance; there was a tendency with the orcs to get things horribly wrong before they got them right, and they didn’t often manage to get it right. Their talents lay in more martial areas. Death, dismemberment, and throat ripping was their thing, not the devising of cunning weapons of mass destruction. He had better get going if he didn’t want to miss it. It would, without doubt, be entertaining enough.

  He made good time and soon enough the mountains that formed the backdrop to Morden’s fortress loomed large on the horizon. Below was the Great Swamp, as it was known on the unimaginative maps in the west, and the Stinking Bog by the few who had to live in it. Half orc, half inbred human, the inhabitants were known as the Stinkers. They scraped a living from the steaming mass that was the swamp, living off the crocodiles, fresh water turtles, and fish which lived in the veins of water criss-crossing the area. Cunning rather than bright, Lord Deathwing had little to do with them, even for sport—they were not runners, as he liked, but hiders, being able to blend into the thick vegetation and mud as though they were part of it. Not fun.

  It was with some surprise, therefore, that on the far edge, where the swamp petered out and the
foothills to the mountains dragged themselves up, a glint of sunshine from metal caught Lord Deathwing’s eye. Far below there was an open fire and a small group who were not Stinkers. An orc, a man, and a woman were breaking camp. Now this was interesting. They were a long way from civilisation and had somehow made it through the swamp without having been caught by the Stinkers. It bore investigation and so he began a gentle spiral down, using the scattered cloud as cover for his descent. Between breaks in the cloud, he picked out details of the trio. The woman was slight, as was the orc. They were moving around the camp getting things together. The man was tall and gangly, and had a sword strapped to his side. It was peculiar that humans would be travelling with an orc, and to be found here of all places. His curiosity was well and truly piqued.

  Lord Deathwing was about to make his final approach when the shockwave hit him. While in no danger of being brought down, the sudden burst of wind from the east upset his glide downwards. With the wind came a rumble of sound. Looking east, it was immediately evident what had happened. Firerock Mountain had blown its top. A plume of volcanic ash rose above the mountain and, even at this distance, Lord Deathwing could see a rain of rock and fire.

  The group below was quickly forgotten. This was cataclysmic. At the sight of the eruption he was hit by a rare feeling: concern. It wasn’t concern for the fortress, or the orcs who would be killed, or Morden (he was a Dark Lord and not so easily killed). No, the thing he felt concern for was the cave at the base of Firerock where his good wife had laid her eggs. They had been safe there for hundreds of years, being kept warm for the day when the Deathwings would assume their rightful place in the world, albeit Lady Deathwing’s dream more than his. She’d had a plan, one that had looked like it would come to fruition until she had disappeared. He wasn’t unduly concerned with her disappearance, and less so once he suspected Penbury had her. She was more than capable of looking after herself. Her project had been of little interest to him; he preferred instead to lead his dilettante lifestyle and leave the scheming to his wife. He was happy enough to perform the odd errand as recompense for his dalliance that had produced Morden. He was a reluctant father; Morden was more than enough. He would settle for Morden Deathwing, the Dark Lord, holding dominion over the world. He didn’t think he wanted more children.