The Dark Lord's Handbook: Empire Page 4

  “We may as well sit in the sun,” said Nuriel, taking a seat at one of the tables.

  In short order they were attended by the landlord, an unremarkable man except for his extravagant body odour. Namu had the urge to tell him cologne used in quantity was not attractive, but held her tongue when she swatted a fly and noticed they kept well clear of him.

  “Three red wines,” ordered Nuriel. “Olives and bread as well? Yes?”

  The landlord grunted assent and disappeared back into the tavern, shouting an order.

  “Since when do you drink wine?” asked Ga’brel. “I thought you kept yourself free of contaminants.”

  “Yes, well, things have changed,” said Nuriel. “And, as I have discovered, all that purity was nothing but pure nonsense. I am no different now.”

  The landlord reappeared and served them their wine, olives, and bread before returning inside.

  “To a long life and good health,” said Nuriel, raising his glass.

  “Good health,” said Namu, taking her glass.

  “Good health. Long life,” said Ga’brel, raising his. “It’s the two things we have left to us, after all.” Ga’brel swirled the wine in his mouth and grimaced. “Smooth.”

  Namu took an olive to clear her palette; it proved to be much better than the unusually poor wine. Until now, this area of the world had seemed incapable of providing a bad wine.

  Even Nuriel was pulling a face. “Sorry about that,” he said, following Namu’s lead and breaking off a hunk of bread for good measure. “I must have upset the landlord. Now onto business. What have you two been up to?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Ga’brel, taking several olives in quick succession. “Hmm. These are good.” He took another drink of wine. “And they make this swill bearable.”

  “Not much,” said Namu. “Once everything died down, we’ve been wandering around, here and there, seeing what’s what. You know.”

  Nuriel looked from one elf to the other. “That’s it?”

  “Well, what have you been doing, apart from developing a taste for booze?” asked Namu. Thinking about it, they hadn’t done much at all for several years, but then again, several years wasn’t long in the grand scheme of things. Time was not in short supply.

  “Fair enough,” said Nuriel. “Granted, the whole Morden thing was a bit of a disaster. I confess it took some time to get my head around it. We never lose.”

  It was true. In the aftermath of the battle of Firena, and having witnessed the annihilation of the Fae, Namu had gone into a waking shock for several months. Many elves, good friends among them, had fallen. Disaster didn’t seem sufficient for the catastrophe. Even now, it seemed inconceivable they had been bested. As Nuriel said, they had been in tight spots before but never lost. The Dark Lord had always been defeated. But the facts spoke for themselves. Today they had witnessed Morden’s final triumph as he assumed the mantle of Emperor of the Known World.

  “However, it’s not over yet,” continued Nuriel. “We lost the battle but the war is not over, not while there are those who would oppose the Dark Lord.”

  “Really?” said Ga’brel. “And how do you think we’re going to do that? In case you hadn’t noticed we were not just beaten, we were almost completely destroyed. Morden is no ordinary Dark Lord. He doesn’t make mistakes. And he’s a dragonlich, a creature we have never faced before. I can’t imagine the extent of his powers. Even the Fae were nothing before him. No offence, but I think the war is well and truly over.”

  Namu sighed. Their defeat had taken years to come to terms with, mostly because of the manner of it. Even in the darkest days before the Long Sleep, when all had seemed stacked against them, they had found a way to snatch victory. A hero always emerged to face the darkness and cast it down. This time had been no different. They’d had not just one hero, but two, and a sword, and the Fae, and an elvish host to sweep down in the nick of time, and they had still been beaten. Morden had proven too strong for them. It wasn’t meant to be like that; they were meant to win. Namu sighed again. Ga’brel was right. She couldn’t see any way they could defeat a Dark Lord of Morden’s power.

  Nuriel reached over the table and placed his hand over Namu’s. “I understand your despondency. I do. Everything Ga’brel says is true. We cannot take on Morden, not the three of us, and not using the old ways. We have no army. We have no hero. What we do have is time, and plenty of it. These are the dark years but they will get better. It will take time, but light will return and we will help bring it back.”

  “But how?” asked Namu. She could hear her voice cracking with the despair. The sun warmed her skin but it felt like the depths of winter in her heart.

  “We can’t take him face-on, so we don’t,” said Nuriel. “We work around the edges. We attack his vulnerabilities.”

  “He’s invulnerable,” countered Namu. “We saw what he can do.”

  “Physically, yes,” Nuriel said, “but not invulnerable when it comes to his greatest weakness: his ego, his desire for order and control, his desire to be both feared and adored. Morden Deathwing may not have thought through what it means to be a Dark Lord Emperor. And there are a few other things we could use.”

  “What things?” asked Ga’brel, raising an eyebrow.

  Nuriel smiled, and in that smile Namu saw hope. “What have you found?”

  “Not so much found as remembered. Penbury has the Staff of Command. He uses it to light his secret library beneath his residence. And then there is the Book of the Dead.”

  “The Staff of Command? You’ve got to be joking.” Ga’brel shook his head and emptied his glass of wine, pulling a face as though he had chewed a lemon. “That useless piece of junk. Only a dragonslayer can use it to its full potential, and there haven’t been any of those for centuries. Not to mention, you don’t hide your true name like a dragon does. It makes you as vulnerable. The staff’s power works as well against Fae as it does dragons. And it’s not as if all dragonslayers were good.”

  “I hate to agree with him,” Namu said, “but Gab’s right. The staff is a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands, and only of real use in the hands of someone we can trust. If it’s to be used against Morden, it will take more power than any of us have. It was made for mortal hands to wield.”

  “I never did understand that,” Ga’brel said with a frown.

  “Right,” said Namu. “It’s not as if you couldn’t use even more power than you already have to cause mayhem on a grand scale.”

  “See, you understand,” said Ga’brel brightly.

  Nuriel looked between the two elves. “It was made for mortal hands for those precise reasons. I’m sure you both remember the wanton destruction that took place at the hands of immortals. The staff was made to keep us in check if we couldn’t do it ourselves. We’ll have to be careful. We’ll make sure we can fully trust any dragonslayer we may find before we hand it over.”

  Namu found it hard to resist Nuriel’s optimism. The Fae did have a good track record for muddling through. From the look on Gab’s face, he was less sure.

  “Okay,” Ga’brel said. “Assuming we can find a dragonslayer we can trust, and get the staff back, I don’t see how the Book of the Dead is going to help. And didn’t we leave it in Solitude?”

  “We did,” answered Nuriel, “but we can always go and get it. It’s safe enough where it is. I’m not entirely sure how it will help, but given Morden seems to be partly dead, it’s better than nothing. And yes, we need a dragonslayer, and although there don’t seem to be any around it doesn’t mean there aren’t any out there. We need to start looking.”

  “That could take decades. Centuries,” complained Namu.

  “Like I said, time is the one thing we have in abundance. Especially if we seek out the scattered and get them looking as well. We are not the only ones who fled the field that day. I may be the only Fae left, but there are more of your kindred.”

  “We know,” said Ga’brel. “They’ve gone back to the forests, mainly in the north. They were hunted for years and have withdrawn. We’ve not seen any others for ages. What makes you think they’ll help?”

  “Because unless they want to live under the shadow of a Dark Lord Emperor for the rest of their immortal lives, they have to.”

  “That’s what we said,” sighed Namu. “Many don’t seem to think Morden is so bad, as Dark Lords go. They could have a point. It’s not like he’s done anything terrible.”

  “Not yet,” Nuriel said. “But he will. It’s in his nature. Time will work for us. He’ll get bored and complacent. He’ll be moved to excess, they always are, and the passage of time will numb him. We’ll be waiting to undermine his rule at every turn. We’ll spread dissatisfaction and dissent. Given time, there is no one more unpopular than the person in charge, no matter what good is done, and in this case the person in charge is a Dark Lord. His own people will turn against him, with a little help from us.”

  The three sat in silence, lost in their thoughts. Namu had not been expecting this. As she went over what Nuriel had said, the more sense it made. She allowed herself a twinge of hope. Maybe, just maybe, it was not all over. They had lived countless years, and barring accident or foul play, would live countless more. Any number of things could happen in the decades and centuries to follow. Morden could not play the perfect game forever. Dark Lords always screwed up sooner or later, and Morden would be no different.

  “It’s a plan,” said Ga’brel, giving voice to Namu’s thoughts. “What’s the first step? Should we try to get the staff?”

  “No,” Nuriel said. “Until we find a dragonslayer, we can leave it where it is. It’s useless to us, except as a portable lamp. We can get the search going. Try to entice some of your brethren out of hiding and see what we can find. Other than that, we wait for Morden’s rule to unravel as it surely must. We can help. Wherever you go, spread rumour and gossip. A cow gives birth to a calf with two heads: it’s Morden’s fault. There’s an earthquake: it’s Morden’s fault. The wife’s left you: it’s Morden’s fault.”

  “We get the idea,” said Ga’brel.

  “It’s a better plan than the one we had,” Namu said cheerily.

  “And what was that?” asked Nuriel.

  “To get drunk and stay that way for a decade or so.”

  “We still could,” suggested Ga’brel. “It’s not like we don’t have the time for it.”

  Namu joined Nuriel in frowning at her good friend. He was joking, of course, but there was a time and place for everything.

  “And what of you?” asked Namu, now convinced Nuriel’s plan had merit.

  “When the time comes, I’ll find you,” said Nuriel. “Right. No time like the present. I’ll be off. Good luck and I’ll be seeing you. You’ve got this?” Nuriel waved at the table.

  “And so it begins,” intoned Ga’brel, watching Nuriel go.

  Namu watched Nuriel disappear down an alley, bent over like an old man rather than an immortal Fae. She then turned to Ga’brel, who was filling his glass. She gave him a hard stare.

  “What?” he asked. “We may as well drink what we’ve paid for.”

  “‘And so it begins’?”

  “Oh, that.” Ga’brel shrugged. “It’s traditional.”

  He reached out with the wine to fill her glass. Well, why not? It had been quite a day. Morden had become the world’s first Dark Lord Emperor, and unbeknownst to him the conspiracies had already started. They could get drunk on cheap wine today and start on saving the world tomorrow.

  Chapter 6 Rebellion

  Rebel scum. Part of the Dark Lord’s lexicon.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Morden would have been happy to forgo the coronation after-party, but Penbury had been clear sometimes a ruler had to do things they didn’t enjoy—even Dark Lords. Morden hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come. Besides, Stonearm had gone to a huge effort and it would be a waste of a tonne of canapes if he ducked out now.

  Morden waited outside the throne room, a set of solid gold doors shut in front of him. On the other side, the empire’s elite was gathered in the throne room, ready to greet their Dark Lord Emperor. Carefully choreographed, his cue was a fanfare. To his left, Stonearm was standing tall, his bejewelled club at his side, a mixture of sparkling gems and lethal spikes. To his right, his father waited with a thin smile on his lips. From the smell, he’d started celebrating already. Morden’s jealous eyes ran up and down his father’s slick attire. There were times, increasingly so, when he thought the black robe had seen its best days, especially now he’d learnt children were turning up to fancy dress birthday parties dressed as him. He should be flattered but he thought it rather lessened the whole image. Perhaps an edict was in order.

  His thoughts on child impersonators were interrupted by a clarion call.

  Dit deeeee, dit deeeee, DIT deeeee, dit-dit-deeeee.

  As the shrill trumpets blared, the doors swung open and Morden strode forward. Ahead, a red carpet stretched the length of the high-ceilinged throne room, flanked by his orcish Black Guard, sporting their ceremonial teeth chains. The nobles of the empire, along with stars of the stage and crooners of note, packed behind the guard, craning to catch sight of their new emperor up close. Down one side of the room, ceiling-high windows were open and floor-length, white silk curtains billowed gently in a light breeze.

  Morden strode forward, his trademark book in hand, his imperial crown weighing heavily on his head. He let a fraction of his power wash over the assembly, who rippled like wheat in a field as he passed.

  Dit deeeee, dit deeeee, DIT deeeee, dit-dit-deeeee.

  The orc trumpeters were giving it a lungful. Morden felt a surge of well-being and power. All the years of hard work, the endless campaigns, the practising in front of the mirror, had been worth it. The coronation had been a spectacle for the masses. This was for him. In a room filled with kings, queens, tyrants, despots, the super-rich and famous, he stamped his authority with every footfall on the red carpet. He left burning footprints in his wake—it was worth spoiling the new carpet for the effect. He was wearing his heaviest boots, and under the carpet he’d had wooden boards laid rather than stone. As a result, his every step sounded like the beat of a muffled timpani, adding weight to his progress to his throne.

  His father and Stonearm stopped at the foot of the dais, turning to face the assemblage. Morden stomped up the steps to take his seat. He turned to face a room of upturned faces. The line of orcs lowered their horns. He took a moment to cast his eyes around. Few could meet his hooded gaze.

  “Today history has been made. You have witnessed the birth of an empire, the like of which the world has never seen. Under my rule, you have nothing to fear as long as you remember this day, who I am, and how I got here. My rule, my will, is absolute. The count of years will start from this year, One Anno Deathwing. Furthermore, this month will now be known as the month of Morden, or Mordenuary. In addition, this day of the week is to be known as Darkday. If employers afford days off, it will be today, and I encourage them to do so. In the meantime, you are my guests. Eat, drink, don’t embarrass yourselves, and be merry. With me in charge, the world has become a better place.”

  Morden lowered himself onto his throne and grasped the ends of the throne’s arms, lowering his chin slightly to strike the correct Dark Lord pose. Nervous chatter broke out around the room while waiters with trays of drinks and nibbles wove their way around the room. Until he had arrived on their respective doorsteps, his guests had reigned supreme. Now, they were all subject to his rule.

  The Black Guard took up position around the edge of the room, freeing up the guests to mingle. They were an eclectic mass, each dressed according to the fashion of their respective kingdoms, city states, and empires, from fur-clad chieftains from the northern tundras—they had to be warm in Firena’s heat—to the more appropriately attired Assanids in their head-to-toe light robes. The array of colour in the clothing was matched by his guests’ skin, from the alabaster white of the Northern Marches to the black skins from his most southerly conquests, with every hue in between.

  At first there was reluctance to mingle, each group staying among their own kind, but as the booze flowed, the music played, and it was clear Morden was not going to have them all murdered (despite the red carpet and ominous music), they relaxed into the proceedings.

  Morden had taken little part in the minutiae of the festivities, leaving it largely to Stonearm. He’d had little time to worry about mime acts and clowns, much less acrobats, magicians, and dancing dogs. As one act followed the next, Morden became increasingly bored. Even if he’d not had to maintain his aloof presence sitting on his throne, this was not his kind of thing. Even his father looked bored, probably because it was far too tame for his normal goings-on—reviewing the final itinerary, Morden had drawn the line at erotic dancers.

  Below the dais, off to one side, Penbury was holding court of his own. Morden recognised one of the wealthy men who surrounded the chancellor. The sparrow-like man wearing spectacles—an invention which had sprung out of Firena itself—was the banker, Birkenfeldt (the man who had discovered the great box scandal, according to Penbury). Morden guessed the others were also bankers and industrialists. Not one to waste an opportunity, he was sure Penbury was pressing the flesh to further his, and hence Morden’s, best interests. Chidwick hovered at Penbury’s shoulder, the ever-present and faithful Personal Private Secretary.

  Morden took a deep breath and blinked, letting his eyes remain closed for a second. His chin dropped.

  “My lord.”

  Morden jerked upright. Ironfist was standing on the step beneath the throne.

  “Ah, Ironfist. Everything going well, I trust?”

  “We have a problem, my lord.”

  Morden quickly scanned the room, looking for Stonearm. He was relieved to see his Field Marshal still fully clothed and seemingly sober.