The Dark Lord's Handbook: Conquest Page 45

  “This weapon is not for me. Edwin, claim what is yours.”

  Ga’brel’s words were distant in Edwin’s mind, the death of his sister drowning out all sense and feeling. His sister’s eyes were wide with astonishment. He ran his fingers down over her eyelids to bring her peace. He felt so empty he could not cry. He expected fury and rage. All these years, he had come from madness to be at her side and now that he was here, she was dead, crushed in body and spirit.

  “Can you not help her?” he asked, turning to Namu. “You heal people. You fixed Ga’brel’s nose. There must be something in the Book of the Dead. There must be. Perhaps she only sleeps, and has not yet passed over.”

  “I’m sorry, Edwin. She is beyond all help.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Namu leant over Edwin to look at Griselda’s crushed chest. “I’m fairly sure.”

  There was a crackle and a scream. Another orc, more brave than was common amongst his fellows, toppled to the ground, black smoke coiling from its corpse.

  “Edwin, there is nothing more you can do for her except avenge her memory,” said Ga’brel. “You have a Dark Lord to slay.”

  Ga’brel was right. When all was lost, and there was nothing else worth living for, then all that remained was to take the bastard responsible with you. Edwin stood and grasped the sword by the hilt. It flared at his touch and its familiar voice filled his head.

  “Where is this Dark Lord?” asked Edwin.

  “I think Morden must be over that way,” indicated Ga’brel, “where Kezef has gone. Kezef is likely trying to buy us time.”

  Edwin looked to where Kezef hovered in the air. He could feel Morden’s presence. He was close. He had nothing more to say and so he strode in the direction of his adversary, cutting down any orcs stupid enough not to let him pass, his elf companions in tow. Above, the remaining Fae were battling the black dragons. It had descended into a furious melee as the black dragons lost their discipline. A ball of light and dark swirled in the sky, blue and orange fire lighting the battle, the cries of dragons filling the air both in triumph and pain.

  Edwin made quick progress and judged he must be only yards from Morden when another dragon appeared in front of Kezef, unlike any of the others. For a start, it was bigger. Much bigger. It dwarfed the Fae in front of it, its shadow almost extinguishing the Fae’s light. It reared up on huge, muscled legs, and spread skeletal wings. The body was a mix of putrefying flesh and black dragon scales that covered its chest and belly. Edwin could do no more than stop and stare, as those on the ground came to a halt to witness what was happening. The Dark Lord Morden had revealed himself in his full power and, even in his vengeful state, Edwin was rooted and terrified.

  “Edwin.”

  He could hear his name being called but he could not move.

  “Edwin!”

  In a daze, he turned to look at Namu, who had come to his side. Behind her, Ga’brel was holding orcs at bay. With their master so close, they had found the courage to threaten the three of them.

  “Edwin, you must go. We will hold back the orcs. Avenge your sister.”

  Namu was right. He had his sister to avenge and a Dark Lord to slay. The sword’s voice added to Namu’s plea.

  “MORDEN!”

  His voice was deafening even to his ears and at its sound, the dracolich turned its head his way. Taking advantage of the distraction, Kezef dived in at the Dark Lord, sword thrusting forwards. For the briefest moment, it looked like Edwin would have nothing to do as the Fae’s sword plunged towards the dragon’s exposed chest but, at the last second, Kezef was repelled by a blast of fire. Above the Fae, a huge black dragon dove towards its prey and the Fae rose to meet it. It was down to him now.

  “Morden Deathwing!” shouted Edwin. “I have slain your mother, and now I will slay you.”

  But first he would have to get to the beast, and the orcs between him and his adversary had other ideas. It mattered not as he chopped his way through them, the sword howling its pleasure as it drank their blood. Ten orc corpses later and there was nothing between him and the Dark Lord who loomed large above him.

  “I’m going to gut you like I gutted your mother, Dark Lord,” growled Edwin.

  With a beat of its wings, the dragon took to the air and hovered above Edwin.

  “I don’t think so,” said Morden. “Dark Lords don’t do single combat. Not this one, anyway.”

  All around him orcs turned towards Edwin, suddenly interested in the man who threatened their master. An arrow shot his way but burst into flame. And then Namu and Ga’brel were there, one on either side. The orcs hesitated at the sight of the two elves. Edwin turned his attention back to the hovering Dark Lord. He had to do something to get him out of the sky. He had to force the dragon to come within his sword’s reach.

  “When I killed your mother, she cursed your name. And she died slowly. Painfully.”

  If he could anger the Dark Lord enough, he may make a mistake, like coming too close. But the dragon held its position with slow beats of its wings.

  “Goading won’t work, you heroic dunce. Besides, I may have lost my mother, but you’ve lost a father. My father killed your father. Threw him out of a window. Some hero you turned out to be. Too late and useless. I honestly expected more. Pathetic.”

  Despite the fact that Edwin understood what the Dark Lord was trying to do, he couldn’t stop the rage that welled up inside him. In the past months, he had worked hard to become a different man, a man of control and peace, one who did not let his emotions get the better of him, and it was all for nothing. It was a lie. He let his rage consume him, fuelled by the sword. He felt it burning inside him.

  Then inexplicably, the Dark Lord was distracted by something above Edwin. Hope blazed inside Edwin. The dragon was out of sword reach, but only if he held onto the sword. He had one chance. He had to make it count. Hitting his target shouldn’t be a problem: the dragon was huge. Instinctively, he knew the sword would only have to hit the Dark Lord to kill him. He pulled back his arm. One chance. One throw.

  “Time to die, Dark Lord.”

  Dimly he heard someone cry a warning. Namu? As he brought his arm over to throw his sword, he looked up. Above him a black body was falling out of the sky, ripped and torn, blue fire burning one wing. Blood splattered on his face. In the split second before his sword met the beast as it fell on him, he thought of Griselda. Now, at last, they would be together.

  *****

  “I didn’t expect that to happen,” said Ga’brel, coming to fight at Namu’s back.

  An orc lunged at Namu and she caught it in the throat with her spear.

  “Nor I. I tried to warn him but I only saw the dragon at the last second.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance he survived that? He is a hero.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so. It landed right on top of him and that’s a big dragon. Adult female, I’d say. And look, you can just see the tip of the sword sticking through the carcass. Edwin’s under that. Too much, even for a hero.”

  “You’re right, no chance.”

  Above them, the Dark Lord had turned its attention to Kezef, who was lunging at him with his flaming sword.

  “What do we do now then?” asked Namu.

  Before Ga’brel could answer there came a deafening roar from the dracolich. It breathed a torrent of fire at the oncoming Fae. Kezef disappeared in a puff of smoke like a moth that had strayed into a torch. Pandemonium broke out as those on the ground near Kezef got caught by the fire and were incinerated. Orcs, men and elves scattered, Namu and Ga’brel amongst them.

  Chapter 53 New Order

  You can have too much of a good thing, but never enough of a bad.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Penbury had ridden out with the army with reluctance; reluctance which strengthened when the army crossed the bridge onto the plains, which seemed foolhardy even to his less-than-expert appreciation of military matters. Instead, he stayed with his small
retinue, Chidwick at his side to serve him drinks and canapés, to watch from a small hillock, upon which a lone tree afforded shade. Once Chidwick had set up his telescope, Penbury was able to watch the battle from relative comfort and safety while being able to take in some of the finer details.

  It had all begun in the standard way as the two armies lined up opposite each other, even if the Dark Lord’s army stretched away under a dark cloud almost as far as he could see, and Griselda’s army was but a silver stain in its way. The first real excitement was when Griselda had ridden out and, much to Penbury’s surprise, Morden had ridden out to meet her. For a few minutes he wondered if the impossible was possible, but it didn’t last long. Morden had waved his mace in the air and in reply the line of cannon behind him had fired. It was a risky action and Penbury did wonder whether it was intentional or if there was a traitor in Morden’s ranks. It looked like more by luck than judgement that Morden had not been hit but Griselda had. Her diminutive frame had been knocked suddenly from her white charger in a silver streak of light. Morden had continued to wave his mace around like a mad man, and then, incredibly, led a headlong charge at the enemy. Penbury was flabbergasted.

  Then to complicate matters, his attention had been called to the northwest flank and an army of elves had appeared, above which, and there was no better way to describe them as they so closely matched the religious writings of the long past, angels had risen into the sky. An aerial battle ensued above while armies clashed below. It didn’t look like it could possibly last long given its ferocity and the huge mismatch in numbers. The angels were doing well, sending dragons crashing to earth, but the Firena army, less well. Already, casualties were streaming back across the bridge and towards the city.

  As if the spectacle were not enough (and Penbury hated to admit it but it was extremely exciting), a massive undead dragon had appeared in the middle of the battlefield. It leapt into the air, and in one breath melted an angel, who had attacked it having just defeated a black dragon, before torching the rest of the angelic combatants. He counted four more die, which was odd as he could have sworn there were six in all, and if there was one thing he was good at, it was counting. Perhaps one had fallen before the undead dragon had appeared and he missed it.

  As for the armies, the Firena army—what was left of it—disintegrated. The Dark Lord’s army, while largely intact, scattered away from this new, but terrifying, presence. The remaining black dragons swooped and swirled around the undead dragon, performing celebratory aerobatics.

  Penbury had seen enough. Morden had revealed himself in his full splendour and Penbury had no wish to stick around for any finale.

  “Leave everything, Chidwick, and let’s go. To the harbour.”

  Penbury was nothing if not a forward planner. There was a fast ship waiting for him, on which he would make his escape. Much as he disliked going to sea, the alternative was worse. Firena was in chaos as they passed through to the harbour, and the Dark Lord’s army had not even arrived yet. It looked like the more enterprising citizens had decided if there was looting and burning to be done then, as residents of Firena, it was their right to get it in first before the Dark Lord’s troops set about it. Penbury had to admire their initiative but thought it likely they were conveniently gathering together all the city’s valuables for Morden’s troops. Pre-looting, if you like. It mattered not to Penbury. His most prized possessions had been shipped out weeks ago, disguised as various export commodities Firena was famous for, and would be waiting for him in his secluded retirement home.

  Penbury had not been the only one to make such arrangements in the harbour. It was an obvious avenue of escape, given Morden’s forces roamed far and wide by land—not to mention the stories of bandits, and other ne’er-do-wells, who were abroad in the countryside to take advantage of the breakdown in law and order. It was a fine plan, to escape by sea, with two major flaws. The first was the dragons that could fly faster than any ship, and the second was Morden’s fleet that heaved into view around the headland as ships streamed from the harbour. It only took one of the escaping ships to be set alight by a strafing dragon for the others to turn about, Penbury’s included.

  Once back on dry land, there was little for it other than to make himself comfortable at his residence and await the pleasure of the Dark Lord Morden. While much of the city was now under a pall of smoke, his residence had escaped the attentions of the robbers and looters. Perhaps it was his reputation, or perhaps it was the armed guards who had remained, that had left his estate intact. Either way, soon enough Penbury was back in his study with nothing to do. The pile of correspondence was not so urgent, now the world he knew was under the dominion of a Dark Lord.

  While he waited, enjoying a glass of sherry as he did, he wondered what Morden would be like. It had to be said, Dark Lords did not have a good reputation. They lacked any kind of social grace or manners, nor were they known for their magnanimity in victory. If Morden were like the Dark Lords of old, then Penbury could expect his head to be on a spike by sundown, whenever that may be. The Dark Lord was getting close to the city and his shadow had stretched over it, bringing an early night.

  In many ways, it mattered not what Morden was like; he would find out soon enough whether he was to live or die. Contemplating his mortality, Penbury was surprised at how unaffected he felt. He wouldn’t say he had led a good life, in the sense of having done a lot of good (he had done some), but he had led a productive one, an enjoyable one, one that certainly had not lacked excitement and pleasure. He wondered if he would be offered a last meal. If he were, he would ask for spriggle and this time he would give the chef one extra-special instruction. All it would take would be to leave in one of the many lethal elements of the spriggle and he could die doing what he enjoyed most: eating. In the meantime, he would get drunk.

  Chapter 54 Love Lost

  Mistakes were made.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Morden didn’t want to stop flying once he had dealt with the Fae. It had been in a disembodied way he had watched the Fae taken by his flame, burning with a brief, ferocious intensity. They had winked out of existence, leaving nothing behind. The other casualties of the aerial battle were plainer to see; the battlefield was littered with the corpses of fallen dragons. At least half of the Black Dragon Flight had died, Lady Deathwing being the last to fall to the Fae before Morden had interceded. She lay in a heap with a curious glint sticking through her body. Of Griselda, there was no immediate sign. Silver clad bodies littered the battlefield; she could be one of them. With the chaos of the battlefield, he couldn’t tell what had happened to her. He suspected the worst and part of his heart was heavy with the loss, but only part.

  To be free to assume his dragon form, and to fly once more, filled him with joy and exuberance he could not contain. He swooped and dove, not bothering to engage what remained of the enemy army, taking pleasure only in the freedom. And it was not only the flying. He could feel again. Whatever had held him since his near death, while still there to an extent (made clear by his slightly worrying physical form) was no longer in full control. He could feel the wind on his skin, feel hunger in his belly, and delight in his heart that the world was once more alive to him. Around him, the surviving dragons flew around their master. They too appeared to revel in flying for the sake of it, even if their brothers, sisters, and mother lay beneath, dead on the ground. He could feel their vital energy as they wheeled around him, performing complex manoeuvres and shooting flame into the sky.

  As he performed a loop, flipping over to level flight at the apex, he took in first the battlefield and then the city beyond. That the day was won was not in doubt. Victory was total, the enemy army destroyed and scattered. His own army was starting to reform after the confusion of battle and the shock of his appearance. On one edge of the field, glints of light caught his eye. With his restored dragon-sight, he could see groups of riders fleeing the battle. It didn’t matter. What mattered more was the sight of ships pu
lling away from the harbour in Firena. He had given orders for his own fleet to come down the coast, and he could see them a distance away, but he was worried his remaining quarry may be trying to make an escape on one of those ships. He had an appointment with Chancellor Penbury he meant to keep. He ordered a flight of dragons to cut off the ships. He was sure the ships’ captains would see the futility of trying to get to sea when a dragon was overhead, breathing fire.

  It was a reminder he had a job to do. He could have spent the rest of the day flying around, taking in the wind and enjoying himself, but a Dark Lord’s work is never done. And there was the matter of that initial volley from his cannon. He had not seen his father take to the skies, which was no surprise given his unsurpassed streak of cowardice, and assumed he was more than likely where he had left him, at the battery.

  Morden swooped down, alighting near the cannon and assuming a more human form once more, cowled in his black robe. He clenched his fist and stretched out his fingers. He had almost forgotten what it was like to touch and feel. Even more gratifying, the flesh had returned to his bones and he was able to control it as before, flicking between pale human flesh and black dragon scale. It was true, the human flesh did have a corpse-like look to it, but that was an improvement over decomposing flesh which had a habit of falling off at embarrassing times.

  He looked up to see a familiar orc stomping his way. Stonearm. The massive orc was beaming from one mangled ear to the next, his impressive set of canines hung with battle chains. While an enemy would have had plenty to fear at the sight, Morden had none and was glad his old friend had survived, especially given the way bodies had been dropping left, right, and centre in recent months. He had been surrounded by sudden and inexplicable death ever since his father had tossed Kristoff out of his own bedroom window. And where was his father? That question would have to wait a few minutes more as Field Marshal Stonearm drew himself up in front of his Dark Lord and then went to bended knee.