The Dark Lord's Handbook Page 4

  The effect on the orcs was dramatic. Brief astonishment was replaced by a curious mixture of joy and terror. They threw their weapons and themselves onto the matting – in one case causing a nasty gash – and pressed themselves as hard and as flat as they could manage to the ground.

  Behind him, Morden was aware that Grimtooth had entered.

  “I see no introductions are necessary,” said Grimtooth, pushing his bulk past Morden. “Brothers, please. Get up and sit.”

  Grovelling in the dirt, the orcs seemed torn between what Grimtooth said and fear of Morden. Grimtooth tugged one by the arm and Morden tried a reassuring smile.

  It had the opposite effect.

  “When an orc shows his teeth it means he is ready to use them,” said Grimtooth, observing the effect of Morden’s smile.

  “But I’m not an orc,” protested Morden. “And when we met you smiled at me when I told you to lead on.” Morden took a second to think on the realisation. “Oh.”

  Grimtooth looked at him steadily. “I am not used to allowing anyone to speak to me like that, and no, you’re not an orc. You’re something a lot worse. Come sit. Set my brothers at peace.” Grimtooth snatched a hard leather cushion from the floor and tossed it into a gap in the ring of orcs. “Sit there.”

  Morden took his place and kept his teeth firmly behind his lips.

  Grimtooth spoke sternly to the orcs in their tongue and with some cajoling they regained their positions, with a noticeable gap either side of Morden.

  None of them seemed to want to hold Morden’s look, finding more interest in the ceiling, wall hangings and the copious amount of dirt under their fingernails. Grimtooth barked something at a dark space beyond the ring and what Morden presumed was a female orc emerged with a tray of mugs. Another followed with an earthen jug. Morden was given a mug first and it was filled with the brown frothy liquid from the jug. Morden hoped it was beer but from the smell he suspected something else. It smelt less of hops and more of urine. Orcish lore represented a huge gap in his education to date so he had no idea whether they drank their own fermented piss or not.

  Trying hard to be nonchalant, Morden took a drink. It was surprisingly good. Refreshing even.

  “It’s good,” he said with some relief. “I’ve not had this before. What is it?” He took another large mouthful and let it rest in his mouth.

  “Fermented goat piss,” said Grimtooth.

  Morden almost doused the fire as he spat his mouthful out. Wiping his lips, all he could see was a ring of grinning orcs. Some had teeth like Grimtooth, though not as large, but some seemed to be filed flat. Regardless, he couldn’t see himself getting out alive.

  Grimtooth was the first to laugh, the rest joining in and mimicking Morden by spitting mouthfuls of drink at each other.

  “I don’t see what’s so funny,” said Morden. “I’m not used to drinking goat piss.”

  Some of the orcs lost control and rolled over on the mats, clutching at their bellies. Grimtooth got up and came to sit next to Morden, slapping him hard on the back. There’s iron in those arms, thought Morden, wincing.

  “It’s not goat piss,” said Grimtooth. “It’s beer with a few special ingredients. Go ahead. Drink.”

  Morden stared dubiously at the mug in his hand. Though it did smell like goat piss, it had tasted like a rather good hoppy beer. He took a large swig and the orcs roared their approval.

  Though no stranger to beer, Morden found himself edging quickly towards being drunk. “This is good stuff he remarked,” emptying his mug, “but you didn’t bring me here to get me drunk.”

  Grimtooth drained his mug and set it aside. “Indeed not, Morden.”

  Grimtooth clapped his hands and said something in Orcish and the mood turned sombre. One of the orcs slipped out and returned with a cloth covered bundle which he handed to Grimtooth before resuming his place. There was a tangible air of expectancy in the gathering now, bordering on excitement. Grimtooth set the bundle down in front of Morden. It was hard to make out what was under the grimy cloth but Morden’s curiosity was soon sated when Grimtooth whipped the cloth away.

  “What the hell is that?” he exclaimed, as much to himself as to the assembled.

  Though in some part it was obvious what had been wrapped – it was a leather covered book – it was what was clasping the book that had Morden confused. “Is that a hand?” More accurately it was a skeletal hand that was gripping the book; a hand that had been severed at the wrist.

  The orcs sat in a ring transfixed, no hint of teeth, no sound, no movement. They were like statues. With a sideways look at Grimtooth first, Morden reached out and picked up whatever was grasping the book to examine it more closely. Without doubt it was a hand, maybe even human. Up close, Morden could see that there were vestigial fingernails. The hand looked as though it had been hacked from its arm and horribly burned. If that was the case, then how was it that the book was in such good condition? It didn’t look like the book could have been forced into the hand’s grasp, it was too tight. The cover resembled hard leather but bore no title. Morden twisted the hand to see if the spine of the book held any mark. It didn’t. Nor the reverse.

  “Interesting curio,” said Morden, holding out the book to Grimtooth.

  “Take the book,” said Grimtooth.

  Morden tried to read something into the way that Grimtooth was looking at him, but could not. He shrugged and looked down at the hand again. It was gripping the book tightly – an exploratory tug confirmed that. Morden pulled harder and the book remained firmly in the grip of the white bone fingers.

  “Doesn’t seem to want to come,” he said, and as he did so he could feel the observing orcs tense. Trying hard not to show fear, Morden turned the book over to examine it again. This was obviously a test. Quite a weird test for sure, but one he felt absolutely certain his life depended on.

  The book was grasped with fingers on one side, a thumb underneath, and so firm it wasn’t going to release the book easily. If it was held by magic then he was doomed to fail, as magic was again, much like orcs, stuff of tales and fiction rather than something taught at a school for prospective brewers.

  “I claim this book,” he said and held the hand at the wrist and pulled the book.

  Nothing.

  The orcs seemed to be getting restless.

  Then it came to him. If there was one thing he had learnt in the last few years, it was how to break a finger. He flipped the book over, gripped the thumb at its knuckle and used the leverage of the thumbs length against the book to push it sharply. There was a snap as the thumb came free in his hand.

  He tossed the hand and its now separate thumb onto the mat and handed the book to Grimtooth.

  “There you go. Interesting puzzle. How did you get the book into the hand like that?”

  Grimtooth was showing his teeth again but this time it was because he had gone slack jawed with seeming amazement. “You broke the hand.”

  “Wasn’t that the point? Like I said, a clever puzzle as there was the inherent idea of preserving hand and book, but in fact all you wanted was the book.”

  Morden was still holding out the book and Grimtooth was making no effort to take it from him.

  “Open the book,” said Grimtooth, his voice a stunned monotone.

  Morden shrugged again. “Sure.” He held the book in the flat of his left hand and reached for the cover to open it. There was an audible intake of breath. He flipped open the cover onto the first page. There was a whistle as breath escaped between teeth.

  “What does it say?” asked Grimtooth.

  The paper was unlike anything that Morden had seen before; though of a similar texture to normal paper, it was thick, almost skin-like, and light seemed to skate over its surface. It was also blank.

  “It doesn’t say anything,” said Morden, looking up at Grimtooth.

  “Nothing?”

  “Not a word. It’s blank. See?” He held the book up.

  Slowly, Grimtooth’s face brok
e into a wide smile. The kind of smile that Morden knew was the one where the teeth were going to get used.

  Then a thought occurred to him and he flipped the book over. With some relief he could see spidery writing.

  “Oops. Wrong way up.”

  Grimtooth’s smile froze and Morden hurriedly read the title page:

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  A Guide

  Words appeared on the page, filling it as Morden read,

  Know this young Morden: it is your destiny to rule. You will be the greatest Dark Lord this world has ever seen. You will cast your shadow across all the lands and your name will be whispered in every corner of every city, town and hovel. You will have great wealth and be successful with women (or men if you prefer). Do not doubt this. It will come to pass.

  Along the way you will doubtless need help; after all, you are still young in years, so there are two things you must do:

  Listen to Grimtooth. He is older than he looks and will be the rock on which you build your empire.

  Read this guide whenever you have a problem. By all means seek the advice of others but ignore it. They are all fools. Instead, take heed of Grimtooth and the words you read herein above all.

  As Morden read it was as though everything slipped into place and, when he dragged his eyes from the text to look at the still grinning Grimtooth, he was no longer Morden the boy, entrepreneur and criminal genius but Morden the soon-to-be Dark Lord. It was exciting.

  It was also odd.

  “It says I am going to rule the world,” said Morden.

  The smile vanished from Grimtooth’s face. “You can read the book?”

  Morden read the first line out loud, and as he did the orcs behind Grimtooth flattened themselves on the straw mats and started a throaty chant. Even Grimtooth lowered his gaze.

  “Is this some kind of jest?” asked Morden. “Are you trying some kind of scam? It says you will be the rock on which I build my empire. How could this possibly have your name written in it? For that matter, how could my name be in it unless written by someone who knows us both?”

  “My name is written?”

  “Strange, isn’t it? Look.” Morden turned the book around so Grimtooth could see the text. Behind Grimtooth, the other orcs were straining to catch a surreptitious glance. A glare from Morden and they resumed their prostrate positions.

  Grimtooth’s eyes glanced down and then back to Morden. “Only a Dark Lord can read this book. The words mean nothing to me.”

  “Well it’s right here,” said Morden, spinning the book back around. “It says you are older than you look and that I should seek council from you.” Morden snapped the book shut. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Five hundred and twenty-three,” said Grimtooth.

  Behind him there was a cough, and what Morden swore was a giggle. Grimtooth spun round and glared. “Okay, okay. Five hundred and fifty,” he mumbled.

  Morden was almost dumbstruck. “Wow, that is old.”

  “Thank you for reminding me,” said Grimtooth. He glared over his shoulder at his fellows. “Happy now?”

  “You don’t look it,” said Morden. “Though I have to say I haven’t met anyone who claims to be as old as you before. You don’t look bad. No, really. You must work out.”

  Grimtooth seemed to brighten a little. “It shows?”

  “Oh, yes. Definitely.”

  There was an embarrassed silence. “Do you think we could talk more privately?” whispered Morden, suddenly aware that there were twenty pairs of ears hanging on his every word.

  “Scram,” barked Grimtooth, and the other orcs disappeared in a frenzied scramble.

  Morden was relieved to be alone with Grimtooth. He had a thousand questions, but first he needed to get warm. He’d been sitting next to the door-flap for the last ten minutes and there was quite a chill running up under the hem of his coat. He edged himself around out of the draught and warmed his hands. Grimtooth remained standing, head bowed.

  “Come sit,” said Morden, realising that the orc was waiting for his command. Though the orc could have ripped him limb from limb and used his sinews to floss, somehow Morden knew that Grimtooth would now only ever do Morden’s bidding even if it cost him his life. At this realisation, a surge of energy swept through his body. So this is what real power felt like.

  “I have so many questions,” said Morden when he was comfortable. “Where did you get this book?”

  Grimtooth was staring into the flames and began to speak:

  “The last Dark Lord was Zoon the Reviled. He had a mighty army and his power covered the land like a bad rash, one that itches and causes extreme discomfort. But he was thrown down, for the salve to his rash bore a righteous weapon and Zoon’s hand was hewn from his body and he fell. A young orc bore witness, and unseen this orc took the hand that was hewn and the book that it clutched and kept it.”

  “And that young orc was you?” Morden was quite incredulous at the idea that Grimtooth had witnessed the stuff of legend.

  “No, that was my cousin, Nimblefinger. He was always nicking stuff. I got the hand when we were sorting through his belongings after his accident.”

  Grimtooth shuddered and Morden decided that any accident that made a savage orc such as Grimtooth shake at its memory was probably one best left unexplained.

  “But how did you know to find me? And how is it that our names are written in it?”

  “I am as puzzled as you, young Morden, as to how our names are written, but they are. We are bound to this book somehow. I have dreams, and those of late had me come here to visit my brethren. I know not why, but I knew you would pass by me; I had been given the name Deathwing in the dreams, and when I first set eyes on you I was sure.”

  “But we’ve never met.”

  “It was the robe. I was looking for a Dark Lord and there you were, striding into the square in an ankle length black robe, hooded, and with your hands plunged into your sleeves.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Grimtooth gave Morden a sidelong look. “Well, what else did I have to go on? Anyhow, when you got close I could smell something different about you.”

  “Ah, well. That could be the lotion that matron gave me. I’ve been getting this rash you see.”

  “A rash?”

  “Yes. And no, it’s not what you’re thinking. My skin sometimes goes a bit…scaly.” Morden couldn’t believe he was telling Grimtooth about his rash. When he’d first gone to matron she’d told him to wear boxing gloves to bed and not to fiddle with himself. When he insisted she take a look at his chest and the rash he had there she was as mystified as he had been. His skin had blackened and become scaled in a small patch over his heart. She’d given him a cream and told him to come back in a week if it didn’t go away.

  “It was no lotion I smelt,” said Grimtooth. “It was the smell of ambition and power, a scent the world has not had waft around it for five hundred years. It was the smell of a Dark Lord.”

  Again, Morden felt a thrill run through him and deep down he knew there was some truth to the orc’s words. He had no idea what it meant to be a Dark Lord, but the very words, Dark Lord, made his spine tingle and his teeth itch.

  “You will set us free, Morden,” said Grimtooth. “For five hundred years we have lived as slaves, a forgotten race, our teeth filed flat, bred like animals to be docile and do the most menial jobs. We have passed into legend but we are still here, a few of us unbent in spirit, waiting. And now my burden is passed to you and you shall lead us. We shall throw off our shackles at last.”

  Morden was quite taken aback by the fire in Grimtooth’s words. He was doubtless a proud orc.

  “What burden?”

  “I have been the bearer of the book all this time. While those around me grow old and die, I remain, destined to forever walk the world, searching for the one that can take the book from the hand and set me free.”

  Morden looked at the book and weighed it in his hand. It was without que
stion magic. No other book could write itself as he read, nor include the reader in its words. And to have kept Grimtooth alive so long was further testimony.

  “What should I do?” said Morden, suddenly aware of the huge burden that he had taken on. He was to be a Dark Lord and he didn’t have the faintest idea where to start. How could he, a teenage boy, one who had only recently discovered beer, women and a good pipe of weed, be anything in the world, let alone a Dark Lord? Though it thrilled him, it also scared him. His life was more than comfortable. His operation pretty much ran itself. There was no hurry.

  “You should go. Return to the monks and read. I shall leave and start to spread the word. A Dark Lord will be rising. Preparations need to be made. Leave it to me.”

  “Preparations?”

  “We’ve no time to waste. Go. Read. I will return in the coming months.”

  “But you haven’t even told me who I am; what I am.”

  “There will be time enough, Morden. Go now.”

  And with that, Morden found himself being ushered out into the cold and shooed down the street back the way he had come. As he trudged back towards the school, the book clasped firmly under his robe, Morden brooded. Grimtooth was right. He had a lot to learn and he had better be a quick study.

  His feet had carried him back to the main square which was now lit with torches to push back the night. Across the square he could hear music and laughter coming from the Slap and Tickle. The school and his bed were in the other direction, but what harm in a pint and pipe before bed? Pulling his hood down over his head to shield it from the bitter wind that came out of the north, he headed to the inn where he knew he could find a dark corner and brood some more, and maybe steal a kiss from Trudy.

  Chapter 7 Food and Beer

  There is no limit to your genius. Be sure this is well known.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook